Hanging by a Thread

Table of Contents

 

 

“A delightful cozy ... Monica Ferris is a talented writer who knows how to keep the attention of her fans.”

 

 

 

“A comfortable fit for mystery readers who want to spend an enjoyable time with interesting characters.”

 

 

 

“A fun read that baffles the reader with mystery and delights with ... romance.”
—Romantic Times

 

 

“An enjoyable, classy tale. Betsy is everyone’s favorite grandma, who proves life begins after fifty.... Engaging.... A fun-to-read story.”
—Midwest Book Review

 

 

“Filled with great small town characters.... A great time.”

—
Rendezvous

 

 

“Fans of Margaret Yorke will relate to Betsy’s growth and eventual maturity.... You need not be a needlecrafter to enjoy this delightful series debut.”
—Mystery Time

CREWEL WORLD
FRAMED IN LACE
A STITCH IN TIME
UNRAVELED SLEEVE
A MURDEROUS YARN
HANGING BY A THREAD
CUTWORK
CREWEL YULE
EMBROIDERED TRUTHS
SINS AND NEEDLES

 

 

 

 

 

 

PATTERNS OF MURDER

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for auhtor or third-party websites or their content.

 

 

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2003

Copyright © 2003 by Mary Monica Kuhfeld.

 

All rights reserved.

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eISBN : 978-1-440-67314-6

 

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
PRIME CRIME Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some of the ghost stories told here are at least based on actual accounts made by real people. A Thursday knitting group is helping me improve my knitting skills or at least talk a better game. Mia McDavid read an early version of this novel and made some very helpful suggestions. And, of course, the Internet newsgroup rctn continues to be a valuable resource.

I
t was just after one on a dreary late-October day. Betsy had enjoyed September with its crisp, apple-scented air, and early October when the trees formed immense bouquets of bright autumn colors. She even liked it now, when her little town of Excelsior was seen through a waving crosshatch of bare tree limbs, as a strong wind ripped low-hanging clouds to tatters. It made her feel daring to go out in it, and grateful to come into a dry, heated place of her own.

Though Halloween was still a week away, last night it had snowed. The snow had turned to sleet and then rain. Autumn, stripped of its gaudy garments, was being hustled off the stage as Puritan winter entered stage north.

Today was Monday, and the Monday Bunch was in session around the library table in the middle of the floor of Betsy’s needlework shop, Crewel World. An informal club of stitchers and gossips, there were five present this afternoon: Alice Skoglund, Martha Winters, young Emily Hame, newcomer Bershada Reynolds, and Comfort Leckie.

Chief clerk Godwin was presiding and shamelessly encouraging the gossip. He was a slender, handsome young man with bright blond hair cropped short and a carefully nurtured golden tan. “Arne Thorson should be ashamed of himself,” he said. “That girl is young enough to be his
granddaughter!”

Comfort, a widow in her late seventies who didn’t look a day over sixty, said, “She seems happy enough.” She peered closer at her work, a cross-stitch pattern of flowers. “Doggone, it takes me about three tries to get a really nice French knot.” She began picking apart the one she’d just done.

Bershada offered, “On high-count linen like what you’re using, I just put the needle through an adjoining space instead of back through the same hole.” Bershada was a slim black woman, a freshly retired librarian who wore magnifying glasses halfway down her nose.

Betsy yearned to join them; she had a very fancy needlepoint Christmas stocking under way that she hoped to have finished in time to display in the shop. But there was a shipment of the new DMC colors to sort and put out, a phone call to be made to her supplier to find out why her order of padded-board easels hadn’t come, and a reservation form to be filled out and check written for the Nashville Market next March.

She was nearly finished comparing the shipment of floss to the packing slip and her original order form when the front door went Bing! She looked up as it opened to admit a man in a yellow rain slicker. It was Foster Johns, her general contractor. He was tall and well built, in his late thirties, not handsome but with a pleasant face.

“Hello, Mr. Johns,” she said with a smile, and then noticed with surprise the chilly silence that had fallen on the group around the table.

When the patch Joe Mickles had put on her building’s roof just before signing the title over to her proved even less than temporary, she did what she should have done in the first place: hired an independent inspector. He told her she needed not a better patch but a whole new roof. She had tried and failed to get Joe to share in the expense. “It’s your building now, kid,” he’d said.

It was then she discovered there were roofs and roofs. What kind of insulation, and how much? Tar or membrane sealer? Local roofer or national chain? She didn’t have time for all this!

So she got out her phone book and found a general contractor right here in Excelsior. She’d made an appointment and found a quiet man in an orderly office who had listened carefully to her description of her building and asked what sounded like intelligent questions. His last three clients spoke highly of his work. Relieved, she’d hired him to find the people it would take to get the work done.

And his early promise had been fulfilled; he’d been businesslike but not distant, knowledgeable without being overbearing, friendly but never familiar, always perfectly correct.

As the stink of tar finally faded from the neighborhood, he’d hired the same independent inspector to ensure the job was well finished before she wrote that final check. He said he’d bring him over sometime today.

Now she was surprised at the unfriendly silence that fell at his entry. The group at the table turned with almost military precision to follow his walk across the room. It was impossible he was unaware of the stony faces, but he ignored them. It was as if he were used to such a reception.

“The inspector is here to take a look at the roof, Ms. Devonshire,” he said in his usual polite voice, stopping at the desk. “I’m sure he’ll find everything in good order.”

“I sure hope so,” said Betsy. “How long will it take?”

“About an hour, unless he discovers a problem. I don’t think he will; I’ve never had trouble with this roofer before. But I assume you want to wait for his report before making that final payment?”

“I think I should, don’t you? Do you want to wait here while he does his thing?”

He turned briefly toward the people at the table. Alice Skoglund, her expression that of someone about to do something brave, nodded at him almost imperceptibly. He didn’t return her tiny sign of recognition, but turned back to Betsy. “No, I’ve got some errands to run.” He checked his watch. “I’ll be back in ninety minutes, all right?”

“I hope to have that check waiting for you.”

A look of pain crossed his face so swiftly, it was gone almost before she recognized it. “Me, too.”

After he left, Betsy walked to the library table and asked, “Okay, what is it? I am about to give that man a large check. If you know of any reason why I shouldn’t, please say so now.”

Godwin said, “Oh, no, I’m
sure
he did a good job for you!” He glanced at the women. “We all are! But honestly, Betsy, I wish you’d told me you were thinking of hiring him before you did.”

“You know I ask you about anything to do with the shop. I didn’t think that extended all the way to the roof,” she said sharply. “Besides, you didn’t leave the phone number of your hotel in Cancun.”

Godwin blushed and said, “All the same, I wish you’d said something to me.”

“Or to any of us,” said Martha angrily. She was a short, plump woman in her mid-seventies, normally laughing and pleasant. Seeing her indignant like this was a warning Betsy didn’t like.

Betsy frowned at her. “Why? If he isn’t a crook, what’s the problem?”

“Foster Johns is a murderer.”

“I don’t believe it!”