Crewel Intentions (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery)

by Lois Winston

  And yet, here I am. I tried to reason with her. “You’re in danger. What on earth do you expect me to do?”

  “I need you to figure out who’s stalking me. No one has threatened me. The situation may have nothing to do with my past.”

  “If no one has threatened you, how do you know you have a stalker? Do you sense someone following you? Have you seen anyone lurking around outside?”

  She shook her head. “No and no. But unsigned notes keep showing up. Slipped under my door. On my car windshield. On my desk at work. And gifts sometimes. Left on my porch or at my back door.”

  “What kind of gifts?”

  Erica rose and walked over to the pantry. “I’ll show you. I’ve saved them.” She opened the pantry door, pulled down a large box from the top shelf, and returned to the table. I moved the platter of croissants to the kitchen counter to make room for the box that Erica placed on the table between us. She opened the lid and began removing the contents—dozens of pastel envelopes and various small items, all wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with pink satin ribbons.

  I unwrapped one of the packages to find a lace edged, white cotton handkerchief embroidered in silk thread with pink tea roses at each corner. I marveled at the museum quality workmanship. “This is quite old,” I said. “And definitely handmade.”

  “There are more.” Erica unwrapped a second package. This one contained a set of crewel-embroidered white linen tea towels, also with a pink rose motif. A third package revealed a pair of ivory gloves, embroidered at the cuffs with rows of tiny pink rosebuds.

  “I’m beginning to see a pattern here. Are all the gifts embroidered?”

  “Yes, and all the embroideries contain pink roses.”

  “Are pink roses your favorite flower?”

  She nodded.

  “Who knows that?”

  “Dicky knew, but he probably forgot. He never brought me flowers.”

  Dicky. AKA Ricardo. I doubt that slime bag forgot anything, but if he’d escaped from prison, the authorities would have notified us. Besides, Ricardo wouldn’t send Erica antique embroideries. Such gifts didn’t seem like her father’s style, either. “What do the cards say?”

  Erica opened one of the envelopes and removed the contents, a perforated paper card. Not surprisingly, the cross-stitched design was of a pink rose. I opened the card and read the note written in a flowing script: My darling, I will be yours forever. Under that, a hand-drawn rose. No signature, of course. That would be too easy.

  “I’ve received more than two dozen cards so far,” said Erica, indicating the stack on the table. “All with different pink rose designs, a flowery sentiment, and no signature, just the drawing.”

  “When did the notes and gifts start arriving?”

  “The first card showed up about three weeks ago, but the frequency is increasing. At first they arrived every few days. Then I began receiving cards once a day at different times of the day. The gifts began arriving the end of last week. Now sometimes I’ll discover more than one card a day and at least one package.”

  “And you have no idea who might be sending them?”

  “None. I thought Darren sent the first card, but when I called to thank him, he denied having sent me a card. Then I realized the handwriting didn’t match.”

  “I’m not surprised. The handwriting is far too feminine for a man.”

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely.” However, Erica’s not noticing the feminine style of the handwriting didn’t surprise me. Her generation used keyboards and keypads to communicate, not pens and paper.

  “Your boyfriend wasn’t concerned that someone else had sent you a romantic card?”

  “He laughed, said I must have a secret admirer, but he wasn’t worried because he knew how I felt about him. Since he hadn’t sent the first card, I haven’t mentioned the subsequent ones or the gifts.”

  “If you were anyone else, I’d agree with him. There’s nothing menacing about these gifts or the cards other than the gift giver chooses to remain anonymous at this point. And that’s more mysterious and romantic than menacing.”

  But Erica wasn’t just anyone. She had every right to feel threatened, given that both Ricardo and her father wanted her dead—although I couldn’t fathom why either would send her such non-threatening cards and gifts. If Joey Milano knew his daughter’s hiding place, she’d be dead by now.

  I opened the remaining two packages, a Victorian style needlepoint brooch and a needlepoint eyeglass case, both containing pink rose designs. Then I removed the rest of the cards from their envelopes and spread everything out across the table. “These are all quite old.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “From the fabric discoloration and fading and the brittleness of the paper. Are there any shops around here that sell antiques?”

  “There’s a store on Main Street that sells second-hand furniture. I suppose some might be antiques. The stuff just looks decrepit to me. There’s also an outdoor farmer’s market at the high school every Saturday morning. Some people sell crafts and flea market type goods. Do you think whoever is leaving these purchased them from one of those places?”

  I stood up. “Only one way to find out. Let’s go.”

  ***

  As we walked over to the high school, I learned more about Erica’s new life. “Do you like living here?”

  “I do. At first this new lifestyle took some getting used to. I’ve never lived in a small town before, and Oakmont is a really small town by my standards. The population hovers shy of sixty-five hundred. I grew up in The Bronx, surrounded by well over a million neighbors, not to mention an additional seven million in the four other New York City boroughs.”

  “Do people accept outsiders here?” Erica—at least the old Erica—possessed such low self-esteem. I wondered how her Bronx accent and New York attitude fit into what looked like a town right out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

  “The people are wonderful. Everyone is very friendly. The day I moved in, a stream of casserole-carrying neighbors kept showing up at my door. The big problem is returning their friendship. Since I can’t talk about my real past, conversation often becomes awkward.”

  “Don’t you have a fictitious background to draw on?”

  “I do, but the new me is still so unfamiliar to me that the words don’t always flow naturally. I’m no actress. Talking about a made-up past is hard work.”

  “How do you handle those situations when people ask you about your life before you came here?”

  “I try as best as I can to turn conversations around to them. I’ve become a great listener.”

  “Exactly what have you told people about your past?”

  “Not much. Only that I grew up in New Jersey. I figured no one here would know the difference between a Bronx accent and a Jersey accent.”

  “What about family?”

  “I’m an only child whose parents died several years ago, my father from a heart attack, my mother from cancer. I settled in Oakmont because I wanted a slower pace of life.”

  “And who am I? In case we bump into any of those friendly neighbors of yours.”

  “You’re my Aunt Anna. Anna Miller. You own an art gallery in Manhattan.”

  I stopped walking and turned to confront her. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Erica threw her arms up in the air. “I had to make up something, Anastasia. I couldn’t say we worked together at a magazine in New Jersey. With your background, I figured you’d know something about art. At least I didn’t make you an accountant.”

  “Have you forgotten that American Woman is sold at supermarket check-out lines all across the country? What if someone recognizes me from my editorial photo?”

  “Oh. Damn.” Her forehead creased with worry lines. “I didn’t think about that.”

  I shook my head, then continued down the sidewalk. Erica fell in step alongside me. “You better hope none of the women of Oakmont read American Woman. Or if they do,
they’re not interested in the crafts section.”

  “Actually, they do a lot of crafts around here,” she mumbled.

  “Great.”

  A few blocks later we arrived at the outdoor market. About three dozen vendor tables set up around the perimeter of the parking lot sold everything from locally grown produce to canned goods to freshly baked pies. Knickknacks and doodads, most likely scavenged from attics and basements, covered about a third of the tables. Of those selling handcrafts, I spied one table of handmade American Girl and Barbie doll clothes, another with personalized pet accessories, and a third with crocheted toilet tissue covers.

  We wandered along the aisles, searching for anything embroidered. Finally at one table covered with an assortment of junk, I spied a chicken-scratch-embellished gingham hand towel and several knitted dishrags.

  “May I help you find something?” A rotund woman with tight bleached pin curls and a ruddy complexion nearly pounced across the table in her eagerness to part me from my money.

  “I collect fabrics embroidered with roses. Do you have any?”

  She grabbed a set of salt and pepper shakers from the table and thrust them at me. “How about these? They have roses on them.”

  “No, thanks. I’m only interested in embroidery.”

  “This here’s red like roses,” she said, grabbing the gingham hand towel.”

  Her face pleaded with me to buy something. I caved. “How much?”

  “A dollar?”

  I reached for my wallet. Anastasia to the rescue. When I handed her the bill, she seemed relieved I didn’t want to haggle her down and expect change.

  “That was nice of you,” said Erica who had hovered in the background during the transaction.

  “What’s the unemployment rate around here?”

  “High.”

  “Not surprising.” I didn’t see any other tables with embroidery, so we decided to walk over to the used furniture shop.

  As we left the school parking lot and headed down the sidewalk, a tall, gawky man wearing a Batman T-shirt approached us from the opposite direction.

  THREE

  When the man lifted his head and spied Erica, his face lit up like a lovesick puppy. His skin flushed pink from his neck to the tips of his ears. He stopped in front of us and tipped the brim of his Pittsburgh Steelers cap. “H…he…hello, M…m…miss M…m…miller.”

  “Hello, Eldon.” Erica turned to me. “This is my Aunt Anna. She’s here for a short visit.”

  Eldon extended both his hands, clasping mine in a limp, sweaty handshake. “M…m…ma’am.”

  “Nice to meet you, Eldon.”

  “Eldon and I work together,” said Erica.

  Erica hadn’t told me where she works. Luckily, Eldon seemed in a hurry. After stammering an excuse under his breath, he rushed off without engaging in further conversation.

  “Eldon is extremely shy because of his stutter,” said Erica.

  “He has a crush on you.”

  “Don’t be silly. That’s the way Eldon behaves around everyone.”

  “Trust me, Erica. Eldon could be your mysterious suitor.”

  “Oh dear!”

  “I thought you’d be happy. If Eldon’s leaving you gifts, you don’t have to worry about someone connected to Ricardo or the family business.”

  “True. Only I’d hate to hurt Eldon’s feelings.” She worried her lower lip. “You really think Eldon is behind the cards and gifts?”

  “It’s a theory. We’d have to catch him in the act to know for sure.”

  ***

  Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe sat in the middle of the block in the Oakmont shopping district, a half-mile stretch of Main Street that ran parallel to the railroad tracks. I wondered how the shop owner paid her rent. The amount of dust coating every horizontal surface led me to believe the store did little business.

  Like her flea market counterpart, the proprietor nearly tackled us the moment we entered the shop. “How may I help you ladies today?” Then she recognized Erica. “Hello, dear. And who is this you’ve brought with you?”

  Erica made introductions. “My aunt, Anna Miller. Aunt Anna, this is Tilly Braunfelter. Tilly lives two houses down the street from me.”

  We exchanged a few pleasantries before Tilly once again eagerly asked if she could assist us.

  “I’m looking for rose-embroidered fabrics,” I said.

  “I once knew a woman who stitched the most magnificent embroideries,” said Tilly. “Mostly florals, especially roses.”

  “Do you have any of her work here?”

  “Unfortunately, no. She died over a decade ago.” Tilly addressed Erica. “You probably know her husband. Horace Buckwalter? Such a dear man, and such a shame what’s happened to him.”

  Erica offered me an explanation. “Alzheimer’s. He often comes into the library and leafs through travel books and old issues of National Geographic.”

  Did this mean Erica worked at the library? I decided to play it safe by nodding and said, “I see.”

  Tilly explained further. “Doc says he’s probably struggling to hold onto the past by looking at pictures of places where he and his wife once traveled. They worked as missionaries in Africa and Micronesia.”

  “Doc is Tilly’s husband,” said Erica, “and the local family physician.”

  Which explained how Tilly could run a store that did little business. Unlike her desperate counterpart in the high school parking lot, Tilly didn’t need to depend on sales of junk for her next meal.

  As we were about to leave Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe, Tilly said, “You might want to try Pins ‘n Needles.”

  “Is that a local needlework shop?” I asked.

  “Sort of. Maureen Grover is a seamstress, but she carries some knitting and needlework supplies. More importantly, she and Mrs. Buckwalter were friends. She may have some pieces she’d be willing to sell to you.”

  ***

  “You work at the library?” I asked as Erica and I followed Tilly’s directions to Pins ‘n Needles.

  “Did I forget to mention that?”

  “You did.”

  “I took a dual major in college, library science and fashion.”

  “Strange combination.”

  “Not really.” Erica sighed. “I had dreams of working at the Smithsonian as a fashion conservator and researcher. Maybe someday writing books on the history of fashion.”

  “I’ll bet in your wildest dreams you never expected to wind up as a small town librarian.”

  “No, but that library science major keeps Erica Miller from having to ask, ‘Do you want fries with that?’”

  “I’m surprised WitSec allowed you to take a job at a library.” Again, all my knowledge about WitSec came from television, but in that cancelled show, none of the people in the program were allowed to work in anything remotely similar to the jobs they held prior to entering the program. Logic told me that would extend to college majors.

  She shrugged. “They didn’t put up much of an argument. I never worked as a librarian. I started at American Woman right out of college.”

  “You don’t think your father will have his goons canvassing libraries?”

  “If my father even remembers I studied library science, he’d send those goons to search for me at college and university libraries or research institutions. He’d never think to look for me in a small-town library in Western Pennsylvania.”

  For her sake, I hoped she was right. From what I heard, Joey Milano wasn’t the forgiving and forgetting type. The man popped kneecaps for fun and profit. If he wanted his daughter dead, he wouldn’t stop looking until he found and killed her.

  ***

  Tilly must have alerted Maureen Grover to our imminent arrival because we found her waiting for us on her front porch when we arrived. “Welcome,” she said, holding out her chubby arms and offering us a huge smile. “I understand you ladies are interested in purchasing some embroidery pieces.”

  “I am,” I said. Erica and I
introduced ourselves as Maureen led us into her small front parlor, which also served as her shop. Shelves of fabrics and yarn, display cases of embellishments and buttons, and racks of knitting, crochet, and cross stitch pattern books filled the small room.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any needlework for sale at the moment,” said Maureen, “but I’d be happy to design and stitch a commissioned piece for you. My rates are quite reasonable.”

  “I’m actually interested in older pieces,” I said. “Tilly mentioned that you might have some stitched by a Mrs. Buckwalter.”

  “Oh, I’d never sell any of those! Mrs. Buckwalter taught me everything I know about sewing and needlecrafts.” She motioned to a framed sampler hanging on the wall behind her cash register. “She stitched this as a wedding present when my husband and I were married.”

  “The workmanship is exquisite,” I said, stepping closer to inspect the embroidery, a counted cross stitch excerpt from First Corinthians, along with the bride’s and groom’s names and wedding date. A border of silk ribbon embroidered daisies surrounded the words. The fabric, a creamy linen, showed signs of acid damage. The framer obviously hadn’t used archival quality mounting supplies.

  More importantly, the wedding sampler didn’t look anything like the gifts Erica had received. Not an embroidered rose in sight.

  “She also stitched crewel-embroidered baby samplers for each of my three children,” said Maureen, “and cutwork baptism caps.”

  “I’d love to see them,” I said.

  “Unfortunately, I no longer have them,” said Maureen. “I gave them to my children when they married and started their own families.”

  “Do you know of anyone in the area who might have antique embroideries to sell?” I asked.

  “Let me think.” Maureen tapped an index finger against her lower lip and stared at the ceiling for several seconds before finally answering, “Sorry. I can’t think of anyone.”

  ***

  We left Pins ‘n Needles and headed back to Erica’s house for lunch. On the way, we passed an elderly man dressed in a threadbare black wool suit, far too warm for the balmy last weekend in June, and a navy tie, the bottom point of which stopped several inches above his waist. A scraggly gray beard covered the lower half of his face, and a black fedora sat atop his head. He stopped when Erica addressed him. “Hello, Mr. Buckwalter. Are you going to the library?”