Crewel Intentions (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery) (3 page)

“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?”

He thought for a moment, scratching his cheek, then shook his head. “Ghana. For a year.”

Erica patted his arm. “Have a nice trip.”

“We do missionary work, me and the missus.”

“Yes, I know.”

“He’ll wind up at the library,” said Erica after Mr. Buckwalter continued down the street. “He always does.”

“He wanders around town on his own? Doesn’t anyone take care of him?”

“His daughters stop by several times a day, bringing meals, doing his laundry, cleaning the house, driving him to doctor appointments. Beyond that, the entire town watches out for him, seeing that he gets home when he becomes confused and forgets where he lives. Since he no longer owns a car, he can’t go too far. His family doesn’t worry that he’ll wind up in Cleveland or Philadelphia.”

We had arrived back at Erica’s house. At the edge of her walkway we both stopped short. A large white porcelain cache pot filled with pink tea roses sat on her top step.

FOUR

“He’s never left anything besides embroidery before,” said Erica, her voice barely audible.

“Eldon might have dropped the flowers off earlier. When we saw him, he was coming from the direction of your house.”