by Janet Bolin
He turned and shambled toward the door.
“When can I use my backyard again?”
Pushing my door open, he called over his shoulder, “I’ll let you know.”
Seething at Uncle Allen’s stubborn belief that I had to be a killer, I hung my embroidered Closed sign in the door, then called Haylee and asked her to come for a walk with me and the dogs. She came out and took Sally’s leash from me. As we strolled together through Threadville, it was apparent that her mothers had not yet begun their supper. Opal was inside Tell a Yarn, stocking her shelves—diamond-shaped niches—with yarns in spring colors. The pine shelving, walls, and ceiling gave the shop a warm glow. Next door, Edna was vacuuming. Buttons and Bows was mostly white inside, a background for Edna’s sparkling, floor-to-ceiling displays of buttons and trims. The front room of Naomi’s shop, Batty About Quilts, was an art gallery showcasing gorgeous quilts. We caught glimpses of Naomi bustling around in the brightly lit shop behind the gallery.
Although all different, the shops shared a fresh, clean style. “Did Clay renovate all of the Threadville shops?” I asked Haylee.
“Yep. He did a great job, didn’t he?”
I let Tally pull me down the hill toward the beach. “He said you told him what I wanted.”
“Did he?”
“Haylee, when you called me to come see the shop and apartment below it, they were already finished.”
“I was right, then. He did renovate it perfectly for you.”
“Yes, but—” I spluttered. “You tricked me.”
We ventured onto the sandy beach. “I wanted to do you a favor. You’d been dreaming of leaving that stressful job in Manhattan and opening your own shop where you could play with embroidery to your heart’s content, right?”
“Right.” And I did love living and working in Threadville. How could I not? Waves thundering onto the beach, adorable dogs that I would not have subjected to apartment life in Manhattan, a wonderfully warm and fun set of friends and customers, and fabrics, fabrics, fabrics. And embroidery.
“How do you like Clay?” she asked, with a teasing lilt.
“He’s very nice.”
“Is that all you can say? I practically throw you two together, and . . .”
“Um, Haylee, don’t you have first dibs on the guy?”
“Clay? I like him. Really like him. He’s a friend. But he would be perfect for you.” Sally pulled Haylee away from the breaking waves.
Tally, of course, pulled me toward them, so I had to shout. “If he’s perfect for me, why wouldn’t he be perfect for you?” Maybe she had her eye on someone else. Hauling Tally back to Haylee and Sally-Forth, I hinted, “Your mothers seem to adore Smythe Castor.”
The wind whipped her hair over her face. She pulled the hair away. “Everyone says he’s as sweet as the honey his bees make. But . . . right now, I’m only looking.”
“Me, too,” I said firmly, turning Tally toward home.
Behind me, Haylee snickered.
We all jogged up the hill. In the street between our shops, I took Sally’s leash from Haylee. “You’re right about only window shopping for now, Haylee. Until Mike’s murderer is behind bars, both of us need to be cautious about all of the bachelors around Elderberry Bay.”
She retorted, “You sound like my mothers. But I’ll be careful.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. I saw Uncle Allen at your place a while ago. How’s his investigation going?”
I groaned. “He’s still ignoring any evidence that doesn’t point to me as Mike’s murderer.”
“Maybe we should drive out to Mike’s place and see if Uncle Allen has put police tape around it.”
“And if he has?”
“We’ll respect it and stay out.”
“And if he hasn’t?”
9
HAYLEE LOOKED OFF INTO THE DISTANCE. “Someone needs to keep an eye on Mike’s place.” “Maybe we should head out there now.”
She shook her head. “Too many people up and around.”
“How about midnight? Meet you at my car.”
“Done. See you then.” She crossed the street toward The Stash.
I took the dogs inside and gave them treats. Before Haylee and I involved ourselves in something we knew we shouldn’t, I would give law enforcement one more chance. I dialed the Erie detachment of the Pennsylvania State Police.
A woman with a soft voice introduced herself as Trooper Smallwood. I explained that a suspicious death had occurred in Elderberry Bay. “And we only have one policeman. He needs help solving the murder.”
Trooper Smallwood sounded very nice and caring. “If he needs help, he’ll ask us.”
I wasn’t so sure. “I don’t think he should be the only investigator.” The line became quiet. “Are you still there?” I tried not to whine.
“I’m here,” she reassured me. “And I understand your concerns. I don’t believe Elderberry Bay has requested our assistance recently. I’ll check.”
Before she could hang up, I blurted, “I called 911 last night when I found the victim. He was still alive. The dispatcher sent Unc . . . er, Officer DeGlazier. If he hadn’t been available, wouldn’t the dispatcher have contacted you? It would have been your case from the beginning.”
“It’s not that simple. I’m sorry. I know this must be very difficult for you. Frustrating. I’ll see what I can do.” She clicked off.
I was relieved at finding a sympathetic listener. Maybe she would pack a posse of investigators into a van and bring them to Elderberry Bay. Tonight.
Meanwhile, there were other people I should talk to before Haylee and I snuck off to Mike’s. I called Dr. Wrinklesides.
The woman who answered told me his evening walk-in clinic would stay open for me.
“I don’t want to keep him late. I just want to speak to him. It’s not about my health.” Well, in a way it was, if his answers could keep me out of jail.
“He stays late every night. He doesn’t do phone consultations.”
I locked up and stepped off my front porch. A couple with three children, all of them singing, climbed out of a minivan and filed into the General Store. Lights were on in Naomi’s apartment, where Opal, Edna, and Naomi were having supper. The Ironmonger had its usual lamp-lit ambience, with men talking around the potbellied stove near the back of the store. Pickup trucks, most of them black, were parked all up and down Lake Street. I walked around the corner from Lake Street to Cayuga. Calling cheerful greetings to each other, diners converged on Pier 42 and opened the door. Chatter and laughter spilled from the restaurant. The library, bakery, bank, and post office were closed for the night, and the hamburger and ice cream stands wouldn’t open again until spring.
Dr. Wrinklesides’s street, Jefferson Avenue, was mainly residential, lined with Victorian houses, Arts and Crafts–style bungalows, and newer ranch homes. Lights were on inside and drapes were not yet closed. Living rooms looked inviting with art on the walls, books on the shelves, and children nestled together in overstuffed sofas. Susannah was setting a table in what must be her home. Next door to her, a family ate supper by candlelight. I looked for Georgina in other houses on the street, but didn’t see her. Aromas of wood smoke and cooking seemed to warm the evening.
Dr. Wrinklesides’s office was in a converted ranch home. The waiting room was warm, which was nice, and full of patients, which wasn’t so nice, since they all probably had communicable diseases. A young woman behind the reception desk gave me a friendly smile. Her nametag read Dr. Eaversleigh. It was reassuring that the elderly Dr. Wrinklesides had a colleague. She looked about to say something, but a printer behind her spewed paper and squeaked, drowning out whatever she might have wanted to say. Eejee weejee, eejee weejee, eejee weejee. With a goodhumored shrug, she gestured toward chairs lining the waiting-room walls.
I sat down and picked up a magazine about quilting.
In the next room, Dr. Wrinklesides boomed, “Open your mouth! Wider. I want to look
right through you to your shoes.” His young patient wailed.
Fluorescent tubes flickered, buzzed, and gave off a greenish light that made everyone in the waiting room look sick. Eejee weejee, eejee weejee, eejee weejee. I flipped a page, from Drunkard’s Path to Monkey Wrench. The foremothers who named these quilt patterns had interesting senses of whimsy.
Apparently, Dr. Wrinklesides had more than one examination room. A man yelled, “I was hurt—”
Eejee weejee, eejee weejee, eejee weejee.
Was interference from that screeching printer Dr. Wrinklesides’s version of patient-doctor confidentiality?
Uncle Allen had claimed that no one had gone to the hospital with wounds that Mike might have inflicted. What if Mike’s attacker hadn’t needed a hospital but went to Dr. Wrinklesides instead? Had the man consulting Dr. Wrinklesides been hurt fighting with Mike?
Bent over a gnarled walking stick, the injured patient limped out of the building. I didn’t catch a glimpse of his downturned face.
An aria burst from one of the examination rooms. Knowing very little about opera, and even less about Italian, I didn’t know what Dr. Wrinklesides was singing, but it brimmed with heartfelt pathos. The singing broke off. Sounding quite jolly, Dr. Wrinklesides bellowed at his next patient, “You’re still alive?”
Maybe Dr. Eaversleigh could be my doctor if I ever needed one. All professional competence, she ushered me into an examination room and left me alone to wait for Dr. Wrinklesides.
I heard the outer door open and the low murmur of new arrivals.
Dr. Wrinklesides bounced into my room. He looked smaller without the long coat, earflapped fedora, and enormous hand-knit muffler, but he was still a huge man, and his face was red, as if he’d suffered an extreme case of frostbite early that morning in my backyard. His white lab coat barely met over his wide middle. He flipped a folder open to reveal a blank sheet of paper. “Okay, young lady,” he yelled. “What seems to be your problem?”
I could almost hear the patients in the waiting room next door creaking forward in their seats to listen to my answer.
Where was that printer when I needed it?
I reminded Dr. Wrinklesides, “You were at my place last night—”
“Sure,” he hollered. “I remember last night. We didn’t have the best time of it, did we?”
What did the other patients think of that?
“Well,” he went on, “I suppose you expect counseling.”
“No, I—”
He didn’t seem to notice that I’d shaken my head. He thundered, “The counseling I give people like you who believe they’ve endured trauma is, ‘Time heals all hurts.’ You just wait, young lady, and you’ll discover I’m right.” He unlooped his stethoscope from his neck.
I warded him off with upraised palms. “I’m fine. I just wanted to ask you a question.”
He cupped his hand behind his ear. “What’s that?”
The last thing I wanted to do was shout the question. Hoping that printer would magically start its eejee weejeeing, I said loudly, “You were with . . . um . . . that man when he spoke last night.”
It took several repetitions for him to get the gist of that. “Uncle Allen DeGlazier?” he asked. “The cop?”
“No. The other one.”
“Oh!” he shouted. “Mike Krawbach!”
The printer remained stubbornly silent.
I enunciated carefully, “What did he say?”
“Something about a woman doing something?” Dr. Wrinklesides’s eyes shined with cheer.
“Do you remember his exact words?” Having given up on both the printer and any sort of discretion, I was now yelling, too.
“Uncle Allen’s?”
“No! The other man’s.”
“Mike’s? Nah. He mumbled something, but I couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. My hearing’s not what it used to be.” Benevolence beamed from his faded blue eyes.
His revelation stunned me into silence. Maybe if I’d gotten enough sleep last night, I’d have figured out that Dr. Wrinklesides shouted so much because he didn’t hear well.
The implications hit me.
Only Uncle Allen and Dr. Wrinklesides had been close enough to make sense of Mike’s mumbling. Uncle Allen had to know about the doctor’s hearing problems and could have invented Mike’s last words.
He would have done that for only one reason—to hide the real murderer by throwing suspicion on someone else. Unfortunately, I happened to be the most convenient scapegoat. Was Uncle Allen protecting himself? Or someone else?
While all this flitted through my mind, Dr. Wrinklesides watched me as if he were considering which vile medications to prescribe for me. I squirmed out of my chair. He grabbed my hands and turned them over as if he couldn’t help checking for diseases. “How’d you get that bruise?” he hollered.
Bruise? The slight, purplish stain on the heel of my hand looked more like a smudge. Rubbing at it only made it more noticeable. “I fell.” I didn’t want to admit that I’d hit the pavement after being frightened by ice cracking on Lake Erie. Dr. Wrinklesides would decide I was undergoing several types of trauma.
He peered into my eyes for long, uncomfortable moments, and I couldn’t help worrying that he was planning to report the bruise, maybe exaggerating it in the process, to Uncle Allen.
I must have appeared as distressed as Dr. Wrinklesides believed I was. He gave me an encouraging smile. “Time heals,” he boomed.
I wanted to skulk away with my face hidden, but I had to see who might have been eavesdropping on my conversation with Dr. Wrinklesides.
Three men sat in the waiting room. They could have been among the group who had witnessed my argument with Mike the day before, but they were unrecognizable, bundled in dark winter clothes with baseball caps pulled low over their eyes.
I fled out onto the streets of Elderberry Bay. In homes on both sides of the street, drapes had been pulled, keeping family warmth and light inside.
Behind me, a door slammed. Footsteps resounded on concrete. Someone was running from the doctor’s office.
Toward me.
10
FOR WHAT SEEMED LIKE A LIFETIME, BUT couldn’t have been more than a second, I froze. Maybe I could beat my pursuer to the nearest house, but I wouldn’t blame the homeowners if they kept their doors closed against impetuous strangers in the dark. I’d seen Susannah in a home down the block, too far away to reach before the person chasing me caught up.
Maybe I could dodge whoever it was and return to Dr. Wrinklesides’s office. Fists clenched inside my mittens, I whirled to face my pursuer.
It was Dr. Eaversleigh.
I must have looked very fierce. She stopped running, well beyond my reach. I casually stuck my hands in my pockets.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
I caught my breath. “Sure.”
Despite her wild sprint, she didn’t seem the least bit winded. “You looked unhappy when you left,” she hinted. “And you’re not registered with us as a patient. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “If this is the way you’re going to run your practice, you won’t be able to spend much time in your office.”
She grinned. “Run would be the word for it, wouldn’t it? Listen, don’t be worried. Dr. Wrinklesides might not seem like any doctor you’ve ever met, but he’s a legend, always high on lists of the best doctors in Pennsylvania. Everyone sang his praises in med school. He knows what he’s doing. I’m really excited about being the first doctor ever invited into his practice.”
“How long have you worked with him?”
“Since Monday. I’ll be here whenever you need me. Dr. Wrinklesides will be, too.
“Isn’t he a little . . . past retirement age?”
She hugged her coat around her. “Retirement is not in his vocabulary. Being a doctor is his whole life. That and opera.” She cocked her head as if she could hear him singing. “I’d better get back.” With a cheer
y wave, she ran toward the clinic.
On Cayuga Avenue, Pier 42 was filled with light and laughter. At the foot of Lake Street, lake and sky merged at the horizon, a vast and awesome space that rested my eyes and calmed some of my anxieties. I turned toward home. The new restaurant and the papered-over store beside it were dark. Lights were still on in Naomi’s apartment above Batty About Quilts.
A couple of black pickup trucks were parked in front of The Ironmonger. Could one of them have been the one Uncle Allen and I had seen last night? Between advertisements in Sam’s windows, I made out old-timers clustered around the stove.
Had Sam heard anything that had gone on in my backyard last night or early this morning? As far as I could tell, he lived above the hardware store. When I first moved in, I had peeked through my cedar hedges into his backyard and had not seen a door to his basement, so I didn’t think his apartment was below his shop like mine was, and Mike’s attacker could not have come from or fled to Sam’s basement.
Beyond In Stitches, the General Store was similar to The Ironmonger, with an apartment above it, and as far as I’d seen through my hedges, no basement apartment or exit, either. I didn’t know anything about the store’s young owners except their names, Luther and Jacoba, and that they had opened their store only days before I moved to Elderberry Bay. I still had the big-city habit of shopping for groceries in larger municipalities, a habit I had to change.
Immediately.
The store was still open. I went in.
Jacoba wore a long, old-fashioned dress in a pale blue geometric print. With her straight blond hair and clear complexion, she looked about sixteen. Someone was hammering in the apartment upstairs.
I plunked a newspaper on the counter. “I hope my dogs don’t make too much noise.”
Her smile was shy but sweet. “I hardly ever hear them.”