by Janet Bolin
When I woke up, it was nearly fifty degrees outside, and ice seemed to be heaping itself higher and higher on the river. Cleaning Sally and Tally after their mud wrestling match was more fun than ever. They played tug of war with their towels. As soon as they were almost clean and almost calm, I took the day’s cider up to the shop.
Most of the snow was gone from my front yard, and my poor snowman slumped forward, about to lose his head.
A bus rolled into town, and women smiled out at me through its windows. No classes were scheduled, but I didn’t mind new busloads of tourists discovering Threadville. And it turned into a great day. One shopper was so excited by my demonstrations and samples that she pulled out a charge card and purchased a sewing and embroidery machine. By the time the last tour bus rumbled away, I had sold more supplies than I would have thought possible, even for a Saturday.
The evening was slightly above freezing. Instead of letting the dogs play in my muddy backyard, I walked them down the street. Although it was only dusk, lights were on in the vacant store. The windows were still papered over, and a new, darker square had appeared in front of the faded newspaper—a building permit, signed by Irv Oslington, mayor and acting zoning commissioner. Uncle Allen must have relayed Edna’s hints about the lack of a building permit. I skimmed the notice. There was no proprietor’s name.
My two energetic dogs pulled me home. I played with them and their squeaky porcupine until they flopped down for naps, then I changed for the roast beef dinner and teetered in my black high-heeled boots to Buttons and Bows.
As usual, Edna’s display of trims and buttons caused me to mentally design about thirty-five new outfits for myself. None of them would compare to Edna’s rhinestone-bedecked yellow velvet pants suit and the ribbon-trimmed coat that matched her pale green hair, however, which was probably a good thing.
Opal and Naomi arrived together. Turquoise crocheted pants peeked out beneath Opal’s long coat, which, like her hat, was knit in an Aran pattern from thick, off white wool. Naomi’s quilted blue coat flapped open to reveal a pink sashiko-stitched jacket and matching pants, both crafted from heavy raw silk.
When Haylee rushed in, Opal scolded her for dressing too casually in jeans and a sweater.
“Opal, you knit this sweater for me.” It was beautiful, red flecked with autumn colors.
Opal frowned at the sweater as if she’d never seen it before. “That must have been a very long time ago.”
“About three months.” Haylee giggled. “Definitely many sweaters ago, for you.”
“The jeans fit you nicely,” Naomi complimented her.
Edna, the shortest of us all, complained, “She’s all legs.” She led us out through her back display room. I sensed that I wasn’t the only one longing to linger over designer zippers with crystals for teeth, scissors with pretty pastel flowers printed on their handles, and timesaving gadgets like bias tape makers, pocket forms, and loop turners that could transform a tunnel of cloth into a right-side-out strap in seconds.
Opal’s car was in the parking lot behind the boutiques on that side of Lake Street. They had parking. I had a river and a view, a decent trade-off most of the time. “Haylee, Willow, and Naomi, you’re the slimmest,” Opal said. “You three sit in the backseat.”
“I’m not fat,” Edna protested. “They’re too skinny.”
Haylee folded her legs into the seat behind Edna’s. “All five of us are just right.”
“I’ll take the middle,” Naomi offered. “I’m shorter than you two.”
I sat behind Opal. She drove a couple of miles south to the community center. Its vast lot was nearly filled with pickup trucks, SUVs, and vans. Opal had to park far from the building. As we stepped over half-frozen puddles, Haylee counted ATVs. Seventeen.
It wasn’t only the puddles that slowed my steps. A murderer could be in the community hall.
Opal held her palm up as if to catch raindrops. “Mist,” she concluded. “I hope it doesn’t freeze on the windshield while we’re in there.”
Haylee pulled the community hall’s door open. Warmth and chatter spilled out. We climbed a wide set of stairs to a folding table where a pair of scrubbed and smiling teenaged girls took our tickets.
Next to them, Irv Oslington, in jeans, white shirt, bolo tie, and tight black suit jacket reached out to grab our hands and give them a hearty shake. He shoved a piece of paper at me. Mike Krawbach’s charming smile beamed at me from the page.
Above his photo was a headline.
In Memoriam.
20
SOMEONE HAD DRAWN STIFF BLACK curtains on the frame around Mike’s face. Beside me, Edna gasped. “I didn’t dress for a memorial service!”
Haylee muttered, “Look around you.”
Every man in the packed community hall wore jeans. Most wore plaid flannel shirts and baseball caps. A few, like Irv, had dug suit jackets and sports coats out of mothballs and pulled them over muscles made large by farming. Kids in jeans ran, laughed, and played tag between rows of tables and chairs. Most of the women were in jeans, too, making Haylee the most appropriately dressed of the five of us.
We took off our coats and shoved them onto hangers. In their pastels, Opal, Naomi, and Edna blossomed like a flower garden.
“Willow,” Edna demanded, “why didn’t you tell us it was a memorial service?”
“I didn’t know.”
“You dressed for it.”
I’d worn all black—tall boots, tights, short skirt, and a sweater. Not a speck of embroidery, except for the wavy stripes crisscrossing my handbag. “Luck.”
Luck, right. A memorial service for Mike Krawbach, when many of the villagers suspected me of his murder. I wanted to bolt from the community hall.
Edna gripped my elbow so tightly I feared my forearm might pop off. “Courage,” she urged. “We’re sure to learn something.”
Like not to buy tickets from Uncle Allen.
We found seats at one of the tables closest to the door. Haylee sat beside me, with Opal, Naomi, and Edna across from us.
Irv Oslington vaulted onto the stage, tapped the mike, said, “Testing, testing,” and raised both arms, palms toward the crowd, for silence.
Haylee and I and half the people in the hall faced the stage, but the other half sat with their backs to it. Turning their chairs around required untangling chair legs and then retangling them, along with sweater sleeves and purse straps. Gradually, the noises in the hall subsided. Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen, and the aromas of gravy and cooked onions and carrots promised more than a memorial service.
Irv announced, “The loss of a young life is always a sad occasion.” Feedback screeched. Folks closest to the huge speakers covered their ears. Irv fiddled with the mike, then spoke again. “Tonight, we’re celebrating the life of a fine young man.” More feedback.
People yelled, “Move away from the mike!”
Irv’s face became brilliant red, and I saw him as the easily angered teenager he must have been in Mike’s gang. He told us what a perfect man Mike Krawbach had been. Hardworking. Upstanding. Devoted to friends.
That seemed to be the signal for friends to parade to the podium and deliver a similar speech. Even Uncle Allen, in full uniform and policeman’s regalia, including holsters, nightstick, and handcuffs, gave his version of the evening’s stock eulogy. Mike had apparently been a saint.
If we weren’t fed soon, we might all reach sainthood earlier than expected.
Dr. Wrinklesides might not be a saint, but he looked particularly cherubic in a pink shirt and baby blue tie. He switched the mike off and sang. His deep, rich voice easily filled the hall. I wasn’t sure if this dirge was the one he’d sung in my backyard after Mike died, but it sent chills through me. The doctor could really sing. He kept it short, then flicked on the mike for the next man.
This guy looked like a slightly younger version of Uncle Allen, so it didn’t surprise me when he introduced himself as Pete DeGlazier, Uncle Allen’s brother, who had
recently moved with his dear wife Mona to his beloved Elderberry Bay.
People clapped.
Haylee nudged me.
Mike had granted Pete DeGlazier a building permit for a gazebo close to the river. Was this the Pete in the story Karen had related about the lazy fisherman whose fishing palace, generator, TV, and cases of beer could have been stolen by Mike Krawbach?
Nodding his head up and down with every phrase he uttered, like he was encouraging us to agree with him, Pete told us how to buy raffle tickets for a brand-new ATV. We could also—nod, nod—drop pocket change into the humungous pickle jar on the table beside the podium. The night’s proceeds would be donated to Mike’s favorite causes. The crowd broke into loud applause, cheers, whistles. Boots pounded the floor.
I applauded politely even though I suspected Mike’s favorite causes didn’t involve rescuing puppies and hugging trees.
Sure enough, Pete added, “Members of the ATV club will continue to press for changes to the law until the sportsmen of this community can enjoy our beautiful little spot on this planet as much as everyone else can.”
Although he kept nodding, he sounded angry, and I could have sworn he sent a spiteful glare to the back of the room where Opal, Edna, and Naomi glowed in their pastel finery.
“Smile,” Haylee reminded me.
I obliged, but I wasn’t about to contribute more than I already had to anyone’s campaign to bulldoze Blueberry Cottage.
Luckily, Pete’s presentation was the last one before the people nearest the stage were told they could line up at the buffet. Rumbling and squeaking, the corrugated door to the kitchen counter rolled up, miraculously revealing steaming chafing dishes.
When our table could finally join the lineup, I discovered that Karen the librarian had been at the table next to us. We chatted with her in shouts to make ourselves heard over the hall’s clamor. The next thing I knew, Herb was standing beside me.
“Are you back for seconds already?” Karen hollered at him. She was probably thinking the same thing I was. How could we offer to help him carry his plate without insulting him? Or should we offer at all? His left arm was fine.
He said he’d only come over to keep us company. Smythe playfully shouldered him aside, and Edna, Opal, and Naomi backed up, obviously giving the young folks space to talk to each other. Smythe wasn’t wearing his bee-stinger stocking cap and had used mousse or something in an attempt to tame his rowdy blond curls. Fortunately, he hadn’t succeeded.
Karen asked him loudly if he really sang to his bees.
“I dance for them, too.” He demonstrated a wild combination of foot stomping and arm flapping.
We laughed.
Herb leaned close and yelled into my ear, “Save a dance for me at the fish fry dinner dance tomorrow?”
Another dinner?
Herb pointed at flyers taped to the wall. Tomorrow night’s fish fry dinner dance was sponsored by the nature club. Opal, Naomi, and Edna were ogling the flyers and sending Haylee and me pointed messages with their eyes.
“Okay,” I said to Herb, nodding in case he couldn’t hear me.
Probably content that Haylee and I had understood their latest nonverbal hints, Opal and her cohorts attempted to engage several older farmers in conversation. The men leaned away from them.
I couldn’t come up with questions to ask Herb without sounding like I was accusing him of murder. Fortunately, I didn’t have to try for long. Wails and howls burst from the sound system. A man in a western shirt and cowboy hat tamed the speakers, then announced that he was tonight’s disk jockey.
Dance music boomed. Giving up on conversing, Herb and I moved closer to Haylee, Karen, and Smythe. Herb appeared to ask Haylee something. To save him a dance tomorrow night? Smythe crowded between them, shook his head, and took Haylee’s arm. She looked surprised for a second, then nodded.
Herb moved to Karen and whispered in her ear. She smiled, showing her dimples. He gave her one of his big grins, twinkly eyes and all.
Everyone was pairing up with dates for tomorrow night except me. Although telling myself not to, I searched for Clay among seated diners. He would be head and shoulders above most of them. I didn’t see him.
At the buffet counter, apron-garbed men and women teased each other as they filled plates and handed them to us. I hadn’t needed to worry about getting enough to eat.
We said good-bye to Smythe, Herb, and Karen, and returned to our table with our overloaded plates. At least three hundred people were in the large room. Was a killer among them?
Across the table, Edna shouted questions to the woman next to her. The woman shouted back.
I hollered at the elderly man beside me, “How long have you lived in Elderberry Bay?”
He stabbed a fork into his baked potato. “Yes, very good.”
“Is your wife one of the cooks?”
“Love beef and potatoes,” he answered. “Always have.”
Coming tonight had been a mistake. We wouldn’t learn anything.
And tomorrow night’s fish fry dinner dance might be as bad.
Edna caught my eye, mouthed an unintelligible phrase, and focused on something behind me. I turned to look. Ladies’ room. When I faced her again, she was standing up. She covered her ears with her hands for a second, removed them, shook her head, and inched past Opal.
I poked a finger to my chest and mouthed, “Shall I come?”
She, Opal, and Naomi shook their heads. Edna held up one finger and pointed at herself, then at Naomi with two fingers, then at Haylee with three, me with four, and Opal with five.
Haylee translated. “We’ll take turns. Edna first. Then Naomi, then me, then you, then Opal.” Dramatically, she covered her ears and shook her head.
Okay, I got it. The room was too noisy with deafening music and hollering people. We would do our sleuthing, one by one, in the ladies’ room.
What fun.
Edna marched off. The rest of us lined up at the dessert table. Colored lights flashed and strobed.
I centered one largish piece of vanilla fudge on my plate. I liked my sugar in one immense hit. Back at the table, I nibbled at the fudge and sternly told myself not to go back for more, no matter how yummy it was. Naomi and Haylee did their sleuthing stints in the restroom, and then it was my turn.
How was I supposed to find clues in a restroom? I pushed open the swinging door. After the dim lighting in the dining hall, I was blinded by bare fluorescent fixtures on the ceiling and hot pink paint on concrete walls and metal stalls. The door shut behind me, blocking out most of the racket from the dining hall.
No one was at the sinks, but boots showed underneath two of the stall doors. Probably the best way to stay in here long enough to eavesdrop was to take up residence in a stall.
I did, which left only one empty stall. If other women came in and had to wait, I’d give up my post. Actually, there were other reasons I wanted to leave. One was the buzz of the lights. Another was the mothbally room deodorizer.
The silence almost made me want to scream, Please, somebody, confess to killing Mike so I can get back to my friends. I dug around in my bag for pen and paper. If anyone in the ladies’ room was going to confess, I would write it all down.
Finally one of the other women must have been similarly unable to stand the lack of conversation. She cleared her throat.
I held my pen at the ready.
“When’s her baby due?” she asked.
“Not until August.”
End of conversation. Nancy Drew would have had it easier. Someone would have written the murderer’s name on the door.
Many messages had been scratched into the stall’s paint, but none of the limericks, drawings, or phone numbers seemed to have a bearing on Mike’s death.
The other two women washed their hands and left the ladies’ room.
Ready to make my own escape, I stood up and poked my finger through the hole where the knob must have originally been. Just then, the ladies’ room door open
ed. Music crashed into the room.
I backed up, plunked onto the toilet, and fished through my bag for the paper and pen.
The door to the ladies’ room closed. Silence.
My fingers closed on the pen and paper. Was anyone in here with me? I bent forward and peeked out the hole in the latch. I saw only part of a sink. Cautiously, I exhaled my pent-up breath.
It was too soon to feel relief. Someone had entered the ladies’ room. Stiletto heels banged on floor tiles. Toward my hideout.
I yanked the paper and pen out of my bag again.
“They have their nerve, coming to Mike’s wake,” she announced in a thin, snarling whine.
I knew that voice. Rhonda.
21
WAS RHONDA WHINING BECAUSE Haylee, The Three Weird Mothers, and I had bought tickets for what she called “Mike’s wake”?
“Yeah,” another woman sobbed. “I can’t believe we’ll never see him again.” It wasn’t Aunt Betty. This woman had a younger, higher voice.
Rhonda’s turn. “How could they have done this to us?”
“He was so great, so fun, so alive . . .”
“So gorgeous.”
“He loved everything beautiful.”
Mike? He hadn’t loved Blueberry Cottage.
Rhonda sighed and went on, “Remember those jewelry boxes he made?” Her voice took on a gloating tone. “I think he only made those for his really special friends.”
The other woman breathed, “Ahh, yes. Treasure chests, he called them. Mine has the cutest little—” She broke off.
Rhonda didn’t say anything.
The other woman went on, “Remember all his other artwork? His woodcarvings?”
Had he made wooden buttons and given them away to all of his really special friends, too? Rhonda?
The other woman sobbed, “You just know he was about to settle down and make some woman very happy.”
Rhonda paused before answering, “Yeah.”