Dire Threads (20 page)

That figured. I wouldn’t have been surprised, though, if she’d told me it was yellow and black striped.

I followed her inside. She turned on a bank of lights. Our boots lay where we’d kicked them off.

Beside them, two very wet spots showed where slush had melted from someone’s boots while he or she stood in the darkened yarn shop.

Listening, no doubt, to our every word.

19

W
HO HAD BEEN EAVESDROPPING ON us? Trooper Gartener? One of Uncle Allen’s many amateur sleuths?

A dark pickup truck.
I shuddered. Mike’s murderer? We had mentioned Uncle Allen’s belief that I might be guilty of Mike’s murder, but we hadn’t said anything that would make a murderer want to silence us, had we?

I followed Haylee past all those lovely yarns to the dining room.

The mothers waggled their eyebrows, and I could have sworn that Edna wiggled her ears. Even the cat’s green eyes broadcast hints and suggestions.

Haylee only shrugged. “No one was there.”

Karen transferred her questioning gaze from Haylee’s face to mine.

I attempted to look innocent.

Haylee must have given her mothers wordless signals about waiting for Karen to leave before discussing what we’d discovered. Naomi yawned. Edna yawned. Opal made a show of hiding a yawn.

Karen yawned, commented that she was pooped, and left.

Edna asked, “What was it you and Willow didn’t want Karen to know, Haylee?”

Haylee told them, “When we heard the door close, someone was leaving, not arriving. Someone had been hanging around, listening to us.”

Edna put her fists on her hips. “Aunt Betty or Rhonda must have stayed behind after they dragged Smythe out. Nasty, nasty women!”

“Or they let someone in,” Haylee suggested. “Whoever it was drove off in a black pickup truck. Didn’t you and Uncle Allen see one shortly after Mike was attacked, Willow?”

“Yes.”

Edna wailed, “Almost everyone around here drives black pickups. They probably buy identical trucks so they can commit crimes and be mistaken for someone else.”

Opal said, “The murderer might have come here tonight to find out how much we know.”

Edna retorted, “We don’t know anything.”

Haylee giggled.

Edna corrected herself. “Anything about the
murder
.”

“Maybe we’ll learn more tomorrow night,” Opal said. “At the roast beef dinner. I’ll drive. Meet at the parking lot at quarter to six?”

“How about in my shop,” Edna said. “We can cut through it to the parking lot.”

We all agreed, but I noticed that Edna seemed too excited about the opportunity to question Mike’s buddies from the ATV club.

I reminded her, “Anyone who has murdered once may murder again, especially if he senses we’re closing in on him. If he was spying on us this evening, he may have decided we know something incriminating about him, even though we don’t.”

Opal, Naomi, and Edna nodded, but they didn’t make any verbal promises, and they avoided meeting either Haylee’s or my gaze. Their studied lack of expression probably meant they were planning to delve into a dangerous murder investigation, no matter what Haylee and I said.

Haylee and I traded concerned looks. We would have to keep close track of The Three Weird Mothers.

The rest of us left Opal to close her shop. I waved to the others and crossed the icy street. Unfortunately, what looked like ice was nearly frozen water, higher than the tops of my boots. I sloshed down to my apartment and let the dogs out.

The dark van and brace of lights were gone, and plywood covered part of my porch and the doorway leading out to it. On the river, ice chunks ground ominously against each other.

I locked Blueberry cottage, brought the dogs inside, dried them, and went upstairs to work on my prototype stumpwork cornstalks and branches. The dogs curled up underneath the sewing machine while I worked. I burrowed my frozen feet underneath Sally. Her fur was damp, but she was a great little heater, anyway.

Since the cornstalks and branches would be three dimensional and would bend forward from the rest of the wall hanging, parts of the embroidery would show on both sides of the fabric. So, instead of using lingerie thread for the back of my machine embroidery, I filled bobbins with the colors of thread I was using for the top stitching: tan for the cornstalks, and gray for the trees. By the time I finished stitching the cornstalks and trees, it was late, even considering that, on Saturdays, the Threadville boutiques didn’t open until ten. The dogs and I clumped downstairs to bed.

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

S
OMEONE 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.