Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (9 page)

She glared at me. “Is there some kind of law against reporters doing needlework?”

“No, of course not,” I stammered, wondering how on earth the twitchy PJ would sit still long enough for this kind of work. If I didn’t have the patience, how would she?

“Ms. Avery!” Althea’s voice boomed. “Not only are you late, but now you compound your sin by disrupting the class.”

“It’s my fault, Althea. I apologize,” I said before PJ could open her mouth.

The disheveled reporter reminded me of a bantam hen strutting around the barnyard in her abrupt no-nonsense way, but actually she was more fragile than any of us. She’d lost most of her family recently in various tragic ways, and I’d taken on a protective role in her life. It was a different dynamic than the walking-on-eggshells routine I did with my daughter, Sarah. PJ and I could give it to each other straight, but we were okay with it. And as much as she liked to act like she didn’t need anyone, she seemed to relish the time with me, Joe, and my friends. She’d certainly never declined a dinner invitation.

“Now class, today we are going to learn Scottish Cretan stitch.”

I saw a few worried glances pass back and forth between members of the group.

Althea showed us an example of a rich, ornamental stitch. “It is basically blocks of open Cretan stitches that are linked together without picking up the ground fabric. Tension the thread carefully before proceeding to the next block. If the thread is pulled too tightly, the stitches will become distorted.”

Abigail Weller glanced up, simply shook her head of white curls, and continued doggedly with her basic cross-stitch.

I looked over at PJ’s sampler. She was doing some kind of weird abstract design, but her stitches were very neat. It looked a bit like a sea serpent swimming through a montage of flowers and buildings, reminding me of the back of a Chinese silk robe. Different, but good.

Althea came over to inspect, and we both watched PJ’s tattooed fingers with skull rings deftly wield the needle as she slipped it under the base of the stitches in the previous row.

“A closed wave stitch. That’s a useful and economical one because nearly all the thread remains on the surface of the fabric. Good technique, Ms. Avery.”

PJ was working each row in a different color. Like me, she never took the easy road.

“This is a combination of vertical satin and looped stitches.” Althea directed me to pay attention, stubbing her thick finger at PJ’s work. “Satin stitch can be worked in any direction, and encroaching satin is especially useful for shading and blending naturalistic designs.”

Althea patiently showed her pupil how to finish each row. In spite of her off-putting demeanor, she was a good teacher. Even the most annoying people had some redeeming qualities, although sometimes they were only revealed upon the closest inspection.

“However, I don’t expect you to be late for my class again. And that shirt could certainly use a good ironing.”

I sucked in a breath, but PJ just shrugged, like Jasper shaking raindrops off his coat in a wet swirl.

Althea walked around the table, taking one look at Abigail Weller, who was methodically continuing with her wobbly cross-stitch. She simply shuddered and moved on.

I got up to check out everyone’s projects, too. There were a few stitches I recognized. Of course, the basic cross-stitch, which was a great favorite for marking household linen. I’d seen plenty of examples on 1920s table runners in my store.

Not everyone was creating a sampler. One quiet, industrious woman was working on a pillow, adding a sweet nosegay of pink roses with a curling ribbon bow underneath. She gave a soft cough every minute or two.

I was entranced with another woman’s stunning white-
on-white embroidered purse. “Is that for a wedding gift?” I asked, watching her long elegant fingers sew a tiny seed bead in the center of each flower.

She smiled gently at me. “Yes. This is Kingston linen with satin and buttonhole stitch. I’m using Japanese ribbon stitch for the buds and petals.”

“It’s exquisite.”

Althea’s sampler was by far the largest piece in the class. Everyone else was using a hand-held embroidery hoop, which was two circular sections that fit one inside the other, but hers was on a freestanding floor frame. The sides of the fabric were bound with tape, and the top and bottom edges were sewn to webbing that was attached to rollers and tensioned with wooden screws.

The sampler was absolutely magnificent, but the verse it contained was appropriately grim:

Little white house where the road doth bend

Let the wickedness of the wicked end

Hell and destruction are never full

Oh, what will become of my poor soul

When I am dead, laid in my grave

And all my bones gone rotten

When this you see, remember me

That I be not forgotten

True to her word, Althea appraised the rest of the samplers for me after the class. When I thanked her effusively, I even received an invitation to attend the next class if I liked.

I left Dottie’s shop with my head buzzing full of images of Maltese crosses, Sprat’s Heads, and French knots.

E
veryone who came into my store that Saturday seemed to have the same topic on their minds: Cyril and Martha. Like the women in the needlework class, most people thought that Cyril had left because he was tired of the pressure. Not only from having to participate in the calendar shoot, but from the ardent attentions of his new girlfriend.

When there was a break in the action, I took the samplers out of the bag and hung a couple on the wall. I hoped they’d sell quickly, before I got too attached to them, especially the one that had been stitched by Claire’s counterpart in another lifetime. Our modern lives were so different today, with our instant communication, global travel, and career aspirations.

Or maybe not that much. Maybe we all still longed for the same things deep down. A safe, happy home. A loving family.

I was standing there lost in thought when Eleanor slipped into the shop.

“What’s going on, Daisy?”

I sighed. “Oh, it’s just that if I hear one more denigrating comment about Cyril today, I’m going to scream.”

“Well, I wouldn’t blame him if he
had
decided to get out of here and fly south for the winter. God, I hate the cold. And it’s snowing early for this time of year.”

“How do you know something didn’t happen to him? I’m not convinced Cyril would leave Martha without a backward glance. I don’t think he’d be that unkind.”

I picked up a rare Red Wing beehive salt-glazed jug, similar to those I’d glimpsed through the window of the farmhouse, and set it next to a display of vintage dish towels. I’d paid $75 for it at auction, but I thought I could get at least $185. I wrote up a price tag and tied it to the handle.

“Hmm.” Eleanor frowned at the empty surface of the seed counter. “What, no treats
again
?”

“Martha didn’t feel like baking. She’s too upset.”

“Daisy, you have to do something! This is serious. She needs to get a grip. Winter is depressing enough—getting up in the dark, coming home in the dark. I feel like a mushroom. I can see why all those people in Norway drink vodka and kill themselves. A deficiency of chocolate gâteaux and honey madeleines is going to make me want to do the same.”

“Have some coffee in the meantime.” I poured us each a mug. “Then there’s this bad business with Stanley. I wonder if a toxicology report would have shown a slow poisoning.”

Eleanor heaved a sigh. “Oh, you can’t be serious. Come on, you know that Ruth’s not a murderer.”

“I can’t forget Stanley grabbing my hand and saying, ‘She’s trying to kill me!’”

“Are you sure he said ‘she’?”

I stared at her. “You know, now that you mention it, I’m not sure whether it was ‘he’ or ‘she.’ His voice was quite faint. I was just so shocked that he was talking normally. Or seemed to be.” I sipped my coffee. “I wonder if it’s too late to exhume the body.”

“What would that do to Ruth if you stirred things up now?” Eleanor caressed the sides of the mug with her elegant fingers.

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

There was a short silence.

“Well, sometimes you can take things a bit too far.”

While I was staring at Eleanor, openmouthed, Serrano strode into the store. I snatched another mug from the shelf, splashed coffee into it, and thrust it at him.

“How’re you doing, ladies?” he said, looking carefully at each of us.

“Daisy wants to dig up a body,” Eleanor said.

“This again?” He accepted the mug, nodding his thanks as he wiped the drips from the rim. “Daisy, the death certificate states Stanley Bornstein died of pneumonia. Anyway, the testing would have had to be done within forty-eight hours. It’s too late now. Let it go . . .” His voice trailed off. “So. No treats today?”

“Mais non,”
Eleanor muttered.
“Tant pis.”

I didn’t think Eleanor was actually fluent in French. She tossed in a few phrases here and there to impress her bridal clients, but the little she did know was fairly pithy.

“Come again?”

“She said, ‘It’s too bad,’ but don’t worry about that right now,” I said. “Look, did you know that Ruth Bornstein had a prenuptial agreement? If she divorced Stanley, she got nothing. But if he died, it was a different story. Remember how I told you about that guy I saw her with in town?”

I must have had a stubborn look on my face, because Serrano apparently felt compelled to give me a brief lecture.

“Do you know how they catch monkeys in Borneo, Daisy? They make a small hole in a coconut, hollow it out, put a green banana inside, and chain the coconut to a tree. The monkey puts his hand in to get the banana. While he’s clutching the fruit, he can’t pull his hand back through the hole, so he’s stuck. All he has to do to free himself is open his hand, but he can’t bear to let go. He rants and raves until he’s exhausted, and then he’s captured.”

Great, so now I’m a stupid monkey.

Serrano smiled gently at me. “How about you concentrate your crime-solving skills on the actual murder that just took place?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. I wasn’t done yet, not by a long shot, but I’d play his little game for now. “Okay, Detective, maybe the culprit was a jealous spouse from the way the photographer carried on. From what I’m hearing, it sounds like he was down at the pub with a different woman every night.”

Eleanor nodded. “Sounds like he’s boinked just about every woman in this village under the age of forty.”

“But why go to the extreme of killing him?” I mused. “Why not just beat him up? A jealous husband wouldn’t trash all the stuff in the studio either.”

“Maybe he would,” Eleanor said. “Depends what’s on the film.”

Serrano nodded. “Good point, E.”

“Plus, he didn’t just go to the pub.” She took a long swig of her black coffee. “I heard he stopped in at the Raven Lounge a time or two.”

I sucked in a breath. The motorcycle gangs that hung around that biker bar would not appreciate the way Roos strutted around like a bleached-haired peacock, mouthing off his West Coast expressions and liberal ideas. “Yes, someone might have taken exception to a guy like him coming into their place.”

“A guy like him?” Serrano leaned forward, intent on me.

I shook my head. It was true that Alex Roos was almost androgynous, but I didn’t think he was gay.

“Methinks he didst protest too much, though?” Eleanor’s whisper seemed to echo my thoughts as I suddenly had a picture in my mind of watching Roos, hard at work flirting. Had he been trying
too
hard? Had there been a run-in with some real homosexuals, or had he made a pass at someone in the Raven?

I frowned. “The fact that Roos’s cameras were stolen from the carriage house suggests he may have captured something incriminating on film. A bribe, a drug deal, perhaps. Maybe it wasn’t a straightforward robbery after all. What was so inflammatory in his photos that someone, maybe in politics or some other high position in society, would want covered up?” I almost didn’t realize that I’d spoken aloud.

“Good.” Serrano nodded at me in approval. “I like the way you’re thinking now, Daisy. You need to keep your mind open to all possibilities.” He drained his mug and set it on the counter. “Hungry, Eleanor?”

“Yes, ravishing. I mean, ravenous.”

He grinned at her. “Want to grab a bite at the diner?”

Eleanor nodded and bestowed her best cat smile on him. Serrano took her arm, and they turned to leave.

“Wait!” I said. “So, did you manage to get the, um, body out of the attic?”

Serrano raised his eyebrows. “Yup. But as Angus had predicted, it was a helluva job. Not a pretty sight.”

I shuddered as I tried not to imagine the scene.

“One good thing was he was wrapped in a drop cloth before he was spray-foamed, though. We still may be able to get some clues.”

“Do you know if he was dead before he was made part of the attic?” Eleanor asked.

“Not yet.”

Even if Martha had brought some treats, I’d have lost my appetite by now.

“Someone must have driven the truck loaded with drums of the stuff over from the construction site. There’s a limited number of people who would know how to operate that truck and know where the keys were kept. That’s why my number one suspect is our favorite builder.”

“Beau Cassell? But why?” I asked.

“Because he doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder. And because he’s an arrogant bastard. That always gets my attention.”

“So are a lot of people I could name.”

The corner of Serrano’s mouth quirked up slightly.

“But why rush up into the attic and expose a body that you know you just hid up there?” I said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“The arrogance that makes him think he can’t be caught. And apparently if that high-density closed-cell foam is applied too thickly, the way it was, it creates intense heat within its core. It’s like the molten center of a volcano. Cassell
was
right to alert everyone that it was a dangerous situation. The whole thing could have exploded.”

“Is that what someone
wanted
to happen? A massive explosion that burned the house to the ground, taking the evidence with it?”

Serrano glanced at Eleanor. “Ready, Ms. Reid? Where’s your coat?”

“Didn’t wear one.”

He shook his head as he slipped off his jacket and wrapped it around her. I pictured the residual heat of his body in the silk lining warming Eleanor’s slim frame. “See ya, Daisy. Thanks for the coffee.”

They hurried toward the door, his hand against the small of her back.

I threw my hands up in the air.
Great.
Like a dog that loses interest once it knows the bones are gone.

“Is that all they want me for, Alice? Martha’s treats? And without them I am nothing?”

I’d been sitting on the stool behind the counter, and now I slipped to the ground, letting my vertebrae fall back into place before I attempted to move.

I was still grumbling to my mannequin about the total cupboard love on the part of Serrano and Eleanor when I realized I wasn’t alone.

Mary Willis was in the corner, looking through a selection of vintage snaps and fasteners still on their original cards. My signature “new” old stock. She looked up at me, her worn Persian lamb coat hanging haphazardly on her thin frame because she’d missed a button. “Oh, that’s all right, dear, I still talk to my Fred, and he’s been gone almost a year now.”

When Mary’s husband had died, she’d brought in a bunch of exquisite linens to sell. I’d given her a fair price, and it had worked out well for both of us.

I smiled, hoping my face wasn’t as red as it felt. When she came over to the counter, I rang up her purchase of two dollars and slipped one of Laura’s bookmarks into her bag as a treat. “Have a great day, Mary.”

After she left, I held up a hand to Alice. “Don’t say it, okay? No comments from the peanut gallery.”

Alice smirked at me, but stayed blissfully silent, so I set about refreshing the store for the next wave of customers. Merchandise was selling quickly in this holiday season, and I added more linens, glasses, and tableware to the front window.

Even though I didn’t have the patience for needlework, I could spend hours crafting a beautiful display, or hot-gluing pods of star anise over a Styrofoam ball. I took some balls I’d already made, stuck some whole cloves into any empty spaces, and then added them to a platter with pinecones, fresh greens, cinnamon sticks, and a scattering of tiny gold ornaments.

“I think we could put a price tag of at least twenty dollars on this. What do you think, Alice?”

Fabulous.

I lit four candles on a brass Swedish angel chime. As the heat of the candles rose, it made the paper-thin angels spin, gently ringing the Christmas bells.

Who
was
that guy on the street with Ruth? I knew the look of people who had been intimate, their heads a little closer together than normal. How long had this been going on? And had Ruth really killed Stanley to get him out of the picture?

My mind was in a whirl, like the angels wafting in a circle. Trying to ignore my growing conviction that Ruth had something to do with the death of her husband, I focused on what I knew for a fact.

The memories of our years of friendship infused with her glamour and warmth and his intelligence and sense of humor. Stanley and Ruth were one of the nicest couples Joe and I had ever known. They fit together. They were always talking about what they would do when he retired. The trips they would take to South Africa, to Australia, to Greece.

I blew out a heavy breath. I’d bet when Ruth pictured her golden years, it didn’t involve taking care of a terminal patient who didn’t even know who she was.

I was suddenly glad Joe had pushed me to take early retirement. I wasn’t sure how I’d felt about it at the time, leaving the excitement of New York, but our life in Millbury really was a dream come true. I had a business that I adored, and Joe was happy puttering around the yard, or fixing up treasures we discovered at yard sales. Not to mention, his honed cooking skills were to die for. I bet he could enter one of those cooking contests and . . .

Focus, Daisy.

I glanced over at Alice. “Sorry.”