Paper-Thin Alibi

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  Praise for the Craft Corner Mysteries

  “A warm and clever heroine… Filled with unexpected twists, peopled with entertaining characters, and sprinkled with touches of humor.” Maddy Hunter, author of the Passport to Peril mystery series.

  “Mary Ellen Hughes has a designer’s touch when it comes to murder! Her book has characters you’ll really like and crafts you’ll want to make. Get cozy and enjoy this terrific author.”—Laura Childs, author of the bestselling Tea Shop Mysteries.

  “Mary Ellen Hughes stitches together a charming mystery filled with crafty plot twists and a fun cast of characters. Read and enjoy this clever novel!” --- Monica Ferris, author of the Betsy Devonshire Needlecraft Mysteries.

  PAPER-THIN ALIBI

  by

  Mary Ellen Hughes

  For Suzanne and Stephen

  No mystery why

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2013 Mary Ellen Hughes

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 1

  Jo was making good time, driving smoothly through light traffic along Route 30, just outside Abbotsville, Maryland, when a black SUV suddenly swerved in front of her. She hit the brake and immediately heard her boxes of jewelry shift behind her. Swallowing several explosive comments that sprang to mind, in consideration for herfiend Carrie sitting next to her, Jo braced for the sound of spillage in the back seat area, but heard, to her relief, only internal rattles.

  “All I need is a car accident along the way because of an idiot like that,” she grumbled as she resumed speed. She threw a quick glance behind her, but saw that her precious cargo, though shifted, appeared intact. “There all my handcrafted jewelry would be, spread across the highway, tires mashing them right and left.”

  “Not to mention us,” Carrie pointed out mildly, adding a sudden, “Ah-choo!”

  “Bless you. We have seat belts and air bags to protect us. My jewelry has only flimsy boxes. Allergies pretty bad today, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.” Carrie wiped her nose with a tissue and rubbed at her itchy eyes.

  “What is it this time of year?”

  “Tree pollen. In April the trees around here are pumping out their progeny like there’s no tomorrow. This morning our car was covered with the yellow stuff. Just looking at it made my eyes tear up.”

  “Maybe it’s time for shots?”

  “Nuh-uh. No shots. Maybe a trip to the doctor’s, for a prescription. I hate to, though. Our deductible is high and it’ll cost us.”

  “Think about all those cases of tissues you won’t have to buy. Or,” Jo said, knowing Carrie’s weak spot, “consider the delectable meals you’ll feel more like cooking for Dan and the kids because you had a decent night’s sleep.” Carrie might skimp on care for herself, but she’d think twice about shortchanging her family. Carrie’s response was another sneeze.

  An overhead sign told Jo her exit was coming up, so she turned her focus back to the road and, unlike “idiot-driver”, carefully checked the adjoining lanes before moving her Toyota into the right lane. Exiting the highway, she headed up Bell’s Mill Road toward the Hammond County Fair Grounds. The Michicomi Craft Festival had set up there, one of several three-day stops in its annual cross-country tour, and Jo had managed to snag a booth to show her jewelry, a feat that pleased her immensely after sending in color slides of her work to the judges and waiting anxiously to hear their ruling.

  Michicomi, she knew, was particular about which crafters were allowed to participate. Those who made it in were professionals – potters, leather-workers, artists of all kinds. The prices on their wares corresponded to their skill level, but the crowds who flocked to the festivals were usually happy to pay them, as well as the price of the ticket that allowed them the privilege of doing so. Jo was excited to be a part of it all.

  But she would need plenty of browsers to buy from her booth. Participating in Michicomi was a significant investment, a huge chunk from her tiny budget, with the cost of renting a booth running into the hundreds. Jo would need to sell a hefty amount of jewelry to cover that, as well as the costs of her supplies, and come out ahead.

  “Thank goodness the weather’s looking good for the next few days,” she said as she pulled through the gateway to the fairgrounds. The road leading in was paved only with crushed gravel, and the parking areas, as far as she could see, were mostly dirt with a sparse covering of tamped down weeds. “Imagine the sea of mud this would churn into with heavy rain.”

  “I don’t have to imagine it,” Carrie said, pulling out another tissue. “I saw it last August when we brought the kids here for the county fair.”

  “Really? That was just before I moved to Abbotsville. A mess, huh?” Jo saw a sign directing her to vendor parking, and drove on.

  Carrie groaned, remembering that county fair outing. “There had been thunderstorms for several nights before. Let’s just say they could have used some shuttle buses to get people around – pulled by water buffalo. Anyone selling hip boots that weekend would have made a killing. Ah-choo!”

  “Gesundheit. Well, here we are!” Jo said, coming up to groupings of windowless, rectangular buildings, with several plastic tented stands set up near them. She pulled her Toyota into an empty space between two cars that were hitched to small trailers, the license plates indicating one had driven from Vermont and the other from Georgia. Rows of similar trailers, along with campers and vans stretched out on either side, each with different colored plates. Transporting one’s creations to a festival like this often involved much effort. Jo was grateful the festival had come within commuting distance of her adopted town, and that her wares – necklaces, bracelets, earrings and pins – were compact.

  “Thanks so much for helping me set up, Carrie, especially since you’re not feeling that great.”

  Carrie flapped a hand dismissively. “We’re all so excited you got into Michicomi. Most of your Craft Corner customers have never seen your jewelry designs.”

  “That’s true.” Jo had needed to temporarily suspend her beloved jewelry making with the busy-ness of setting up Jo’s Craft Corner, a venture that sprang from Carrie’s suggestion. Jo needed to pull her life together after her husband Mike’s fatal accident at their New York artist’s loft. Carrie, a long-time friend who had settled in Abbotsville with her husband Dan, saw an opportunity there for Jo to use her artist’s background to make a living on her own, something her
jewelry work, much as Jo loved it, wouldn’t do.

  So Jo had invested Mike’s meager life insurance into the shop and shifted her life from big-city to small town, an adjustment that hadn’t always been smooth but had proven satisfying, especially in the new friends she had made who had been extremely supportive at critical times.

  Many of these friends had participated in her craft workshops, where Jo demonstrated the ins and outs of crafts like scrapbooking, wreath-making, and beading. But few were familiar with the fine jewelry Jo could put together. This would be her first chance to display it all, and it would be like introducing her new friends to a beloved relative, an important part of her life they had heard about but never met. She was happily looking forward to it.

  “Okay,” Jo said, pulling out the letter of acceptance she’d received from the Michicomi organizers, along with her identification badge. “My booth is number 188 in building 10. I hope Dan found it all right this morning when he came to set up the display cases. Building 10 is that one over there.”

  Carrie studied it thoughtfully. “I think that might be where the hog pens were during the county fair.”

  Jo rolled her eyes. “Let’s hope it’s been thoroughly deodorized since then, particularly the area around booth 188. Grab a box from the back, and let’s find out.”

  Jo and Carrie reached into the disarranged boxes in her back seat and loaded up with as much as they could carry. As Jo led the way along the row of parked cars, she noticed a black SUV. Surely it couldn’t be the one that had raised her blood pressure out on Route 30? Then the car’s vanity license plate caught her eye: LW-GEMS.

  LW? With New York plates? Could that be…? No, no way, she thought again, shaking the whole idea off and continuing on to the building. She stopped to have her credentials checked by the security guard stationed near the entrance, then pushed along with Carrie through the clear plastic curtain that served as a door in the open air, unheated structure. The place was a beehive of activity as other vendors worked at setting up their wares in the few remaining hours before the festival opened. They walked past one man carefully hanging panes of stained glass from hooks, and a middle-aged couple arranging their shelves with hand tooled leather bags and wallets. Jo breathed deeply of their rich scent, and if she’d had a spare hand would have loved to touch as well. A collection of beautiful handmade sweaters and vests caused Carrie to slow, while passing a booth of unique metal sculptures brought sad-sweet flashes of Mike to Jo’s mind, although his work had been much larger in scale.

  Jo checked overhead numbers as they progressed and saw they were getting close. She came to a booth filled with colorfully-painted wooden toys with a 187 above it, and just beyond was hers - number 188.

  “Here we are!”

  Jo had contracted, because of cost considerations, for the smallest size booth available - ten feet wide and eight feet deep. She’d then asked Carrie’s husband Dan, a professional home remodeler, to build display cases for that space. There they were, deftly fitted into place.

  “Wow, Dan did a great job!” she said, setting her load down carefully on a Plexiglas surface. Made in sections that fit together in an L shape, the cases, she saw, provided the greatest amount of display area while allowing her customers to step out of the crowded aisle and partially into the booth to examine and try on their selections. “I’m so glad Dan suggested this arrangement. I owe him big time.”

  “Dan feels we still owe you, you know,” Carrie said, sliding her own box next to Jo’s, “as do I. If it weren’t for you, who knows how his business would have survived that Parker Holt situation in January.”

  Carrie and Dan had been in real danger of losing their income when a client of Dan’s was murdered and Dan’s reputation – and worse – was jeopardized. They, on the other hand, had helped Jo so much after Mike’s death, first in just getting through it, then by helping her set up her new situation in Abbotsville, that she felt the scale tilted sharply in that direction.

  “We won’t get into that argument again about who owes whom,” Jo said. “We’re friends, and friends try to help each other. Let’s just bring in the rest of the stuff so I can get into the fun of arranging it all. And so you can go check out that knitting booth.”

  “I did happen to notice some beautiful sweaters,” Carrie said, grinning. Knitting was her specialty, and she generously gave her time and skills to handle that section of Jo’s Craft Corner. “I’d love to ask how one particular piece was done. But first things first.”

  Since Jo’s booth turned out to be at the far end of the building, next to that end’s doorway, they exited there to make their way back to Jo’s car by way of the less obstructed alley-way between buildings, rather than wind through the building’s busy aisle again. Two more trips transferred the rest of the cargo, and when she’d set down her final load, Carrie stood back to take it all in.

  “When ever did you manage to make all this?”

  “Some are things I made in New York and withdrew from consignments before coming here. But I’ve been working hard since I first applied for Michicomi.”

  “Please tell me you managed to sleep occasionally.”

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t run myself ragged – yet. But you know how I love working at my jewelry. What better way to relax than by doing what you love?”

  “Hmm.” Carrie gave her a skeptical look. As the mother of a teen and pre-teen, Carrie recognized side-stepping explanations when she heard them. “Well, you certainly haven’t been over to our place much, lately. The kids have missed you.”

  Jo was godmother to Carrie’s fifteen-year-old, Charlie, and therefore had a soft spot for him. But she was inordinately fond of eleven-year-old Amanda as well.

  “I’ve missed them too, and I promise to make up for all the lost time. If Charlie comes tomorrow to help me out, I’ll at least see him then. Is that still going to work out?”

  “Absolutely. And I’ll handle the craft shop, of course, while you’re tied up here. Amanda will come there after school, and Ina Mae promised to pitch in now and then during the busier times.”

  “You guys are so great,” Jo said, struggling with the lump that threatened to form in her throat. Jo remembered how retired schoolteacher and dynamo Ina Mae Kepner had shown up unannounced at the shop to help out when Carrie had been briefly unable to work at the shop several weeks ago. Jo always felt she and Mike had some good friends up in New York, but nothing topped the people she’d encountered in Abbotsville. Most of them, anyway.

  “Speaking of the shop,” Carrie said, glancing at her watch, “Dan should be coming by soon to pick me up and take me there. He went to meet with a prospective client not too far from here after he set up your display cases, so this worked out great. I said I’d meet him at the ticket stand. And I think I have just enough time to stop at that knitting booth. Unless, that is, you need me to help set things up?” Carrie pulled out a Kleenex and rubbed at her nose, looking questioningly at Jo over the scrunched up tissue.

  “Go,” Jo urged. “I have a plan in my head for where I want everything to be, so it’s best I do it alone. Really. And when you get to the shop, call the doctor’s office for an appointment. Okay?”

  Carrie smiled. “Maybe.” She took off, and Jo saw her stopping to chat with the proprietor of the knitting booth, both reaching up to the sweater Carrie had spotted earlier, all thoughts, Jo was sure, of pollen and sneezes flown out of mind.

  Jo turned to her own concerns. Where to start, she wondered as she gazed at the pile. She decided to first arrange her meticulously labeled boxes in the order that she would empty them, then got to work, putting her silvers with the silver, gold with gold, her most expensive pieces inside Plexiglas-covered viewing cases, and her less costly ones on top where customers could touch and try.

  It was time-consuming and tedious, but Jo still took a special pleasure in it. Handling each carefully-wrought item meant briefly revisiting the creativity that had gone into it and the joy she had felt as it
progressed. The time flew by, and so absorbed was she that Jo barely noticed the controlled pandemonium going on about her. Until, as she crouched over a final box searching for the twin of an opal earring that had separated from its mate, a piercing voice floated over her front display case.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Jo McAllister. I thought you were dead.”

  Jo froze, not wanting to believe that voice belonged to who she thought it did. Then the vanity plates she had seen on the black SUV came to mind. Had the erratic driver on Route 30 been blonde? Jo suppressed a heart-sinking wince and slowly rose.

  “Linda Weeks,” she said as she turned and faced her visitor. “What a surprise. It’s been a while.”

  “Yes indeed. I hadn’t heard a thing about you so I naturally assumed you had perished as well in that explosion.”

  “At our loft? No, I had been away at a gallery when it happened.” Jo maintained a stony smile. “There was a hugely comforting turn-out for Mike’s funeral, though. I guess you didn’t hear about it in time to come.”

  “No. And what a shame. It would have been wonderful to see some of the old gang.”

  Jo managed not to choke. She didn’t believe for a minute that Linda had thought Jo had perished or hadn’t got the word about Mike’s funeral arrangements. More likely she simply didn’t have the strength of character to show up and face Jo, as well as the many good people erroneously referred to by Linda as her old gang.

  “Well, what brings you to these parts?” Jo asked, hoping against hope that Linda was just passing through, maybe taking in the cherry blossoms in D.C. But her worst fears were confirmed when Linda’s smile turned shark-like.

  “Why, I’ve been a regular at Michicomi for ages now. They’re fairly consistent, you know, about only allowing the best. And you can imagine how my jaw dropped when I looked over from my own booth and saw you here. It’s amazing, isn’t it? After all those years in the Big Apple, sharing suppliers and buyers, not to mention design ideas – then going our separate ways only to end up right across the aisle from each other for the next three days.”