Thread on Arrival

PRAISE FOR AMANDA LEE’S

EMBROIDERY MYSTERIES

The Long Stitch Good Night

“Lee’s fourth Embroidery Mystery is well planned and executed. . . . Marcy’s keen sleuthing and tenacious personality allow her to solve this solid mystery with smart thinking and style.”

—
Romantic Times

“This series is smart and interesting, well patterned and deftly sewn together.”

—Once Upon a Romance

Thread Reckoning

“Lee’s latest Embroidery Mystery will hook readers with its charming setting and appealing characters. Plenty of spunk and attitude follow Marcy as she solves this well-crafted mystery in a close-knit town full of colorful characters.”

—
Romantic Times

Stitch Me Deadly

“The writing is lively, and the pop culture references abundant. . . . This book should appeal not only to embroidery enthusiasts, antique hunters, and dog lovers, but to anyone who likes a smartly written cozy that neatly ties up all the loose ends surrounding the murder but leaves the reader wanting to know more about the amateur detective, her friends, her life, and her future.”

—Fresh Fiction

“A well thought-out, free-flowing story that captures your attention and keeps you interested from beginning to end. The comfort of being in a craft store seeps through the pages as Marcy shows her sleuthing side to figure out the town’s newest murders.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“There are plenty of threads for readers to pick up, and those who pick up the right thread will have the mystery sewn up in short order.”

—
The Mystery Reader

The Quick and the Thread

“Lee kicks off a cozy, promising mystery series . . . a fast, pleasant read with prose full of pop culture references and, of course, sharp needlework puns.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“In her debut novel,
The Quick and the Thread
, author Amanda Lee gives her Embroidery Mystery series a rousing start with a fast-paced, intriguing who-done-it that will delight fans of the cozy mystery genre.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Stands out with its likable characters and polished plot.”

—The Mystery Reader

“If her debut here is any indication, Lee’s new series is going to be fun, spunky, and educational. She smoothly interweaves plot with her [main] character’s personality and charm, while dropping tantalizing hints of stitching projects and their history. Marcy Singer is young, fun, sharp, and likable. Readers will be looking forward to her future adventures.”

—
Romantic Times

Also by Amanda Lee

The Long Stitch Good Night

Thread Reckoning

Stitch Me Deadly

The Quick and the Thread

OBSIDIAN

Published by New American Library, a division of

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2012

Excerpt from
The Quick and the Thread
copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2010

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OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-101-60684-1

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

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 author or third-party Web sites or their content.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

For Tim, Lianna, and Nicholas

Chapter One

I
t was
a gorgeous spring day, and the sun streaming through the windows warmed the back of my neck as I sat on the navy sofa thumbing through Easter patterns. In particular, I was looking for eggs modeled after the famous Fabergé designs. I wanted to make a couple of those—at least, one to send to Mom in San Francisco. Tallulah Falls, Oregon, wasn’t all
that
far away from San Fran, but sometimes it felt like it. As if to echo my melancholy mood, Angus—the Irish wolfhound currently lying at my feet, chewing on an unbelievably strong plastic bone—lifted his head and sighed.

I reached down and patted his head. “Cheer up, baby. We’ll call Grandma when we get home and see how she’s doing.”

I don’t normally get homesick. I’ve adjusted very well to my life here on the Oregon coast. I have a beautiful embroidery specialty shop, a lovely home with a fenced backyard, terrific friends, and a couple of wonderful guys who are possibly more than friends.

It was just that Easter was coming up at the end of the month.

Mom had always made such a fuss about Easter when I was growing up. It was second only to Christmas. We’d decorate the house and dye eggs, and Mom would make us new outfits (she’s a Hollywood costume designer). And then on the big day, we’d start things off with a scrumptious breakfast before going to church. As soon as we got home from church, she’d hide my Easter eggs and we’d both eat candy from my basket until we were almost sick while I tracked down the eggs. When I was older, we skipped the egg-hiding, but we always had our basket of candy. We’d top the day off by eating a nice dinner and then watching old movies like
Funny Face
,
Gigi
,
Easter Parade
, or
Sabrina
.

The bells over the door jingled. I looked up to see my friend and Tallulah Falls’s librarian, Rajani “Reggie” Singh, coming into the shop. She wore a pale blue tunic over matching pants. Several strands of turquoise beads and a few silver bangles rounded out the outfit.

I smiled. “Morning, Reggie! I’m glad you dropped in. Angus and I were feeling a little homesick for San Fran, and you’re just what we need to cheer us up.”

She raised an index finger. “Hold that thought. I’m getting ready to ask you for a favor.”

Angus got up to greet Reggie, and she scratched behind his ears before dropping a kiss onto the top of his head.

As she sat on the sofa beside me, she looked at the Fabergé eggs. “How pretty. You aren’t giving yourself much time to make something before Easter, though, are you?”

“Hopefully, it won’t be too tough.” I frowned slightly. “You said you’re here to ask a favor?”

“I am. I’ve been asked to help with domestic abuse victim assistance at the sheriff’s department.” Reggie’s husband, Manu, is Tallulah Falls’s sheriff, so that didn’t come as much of a surprise. “Specifically, I’m helping facilitate domestic abuse victims’ group therapy and information meetings.” She sat down beside me. “I know you’ve got a full plate, and you’re free to say no and I won’t be offended in the least. But I’m wondering if you could somehow do an embroidery class for a group of battered women as part of their therapy.”

I answered without hesitation. “I was just getting ready to make out a new spring schedule, so I’ll do the domestic abuse victims’ class in lieu of one of my other weekly classes,” I said. “I’ll be happy to help.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “The sheriff’s department can pay for the materials and give you a small stipend, but it wouldn’t be as much as you’d get from offering a paid class on those nights.”

“That’s fine. I’m honored to be able to help in some way. You say the class is part of their therapy?”

Reggie nodded. “See, most of the victims find it’s easier to open up and talk with the other members of the group if their hands are busy and they aren’t looking at the others’ faces. In the past, group facilitators have used coloring, painting, and working with clay.”

“I imagine we’d need something fairly easy,” I mused. “Something that would allow the conversation to flow while they were working and something a first-timer could do with ease.”

“I agree,” Reggie said. “We don’t want them to get frustrated. Many have been told repeatedly—some, their entire lives—how incapable or worthless they are.”

I shook my head in sympathy. “How about simple stamped cross-stitch and needlepoint projects? That way, the women can work without having to count stitches.”

“Sounds great. Plus, it will boost their self-esteem to be able to make something pretty.” Reggie smiled and patted my arm. “Thanks. I knew I could count on you. So how are things going with you and Ted?”

Since leaving my accounting job in San Francisco to come here and open my own embroidery shop, the Seven-Year Stitch, there had been two camps with regard to my love life. My best friend, Sadie, who with her husband, Blake, owns MacKenzies’ Mochas just down the street, has been pushing me toward a relationship with Todd Calloway, who owns the Brew Crew, a craft brewery and pub across the street. Reggie and Manu, on the other hand, have been encouraging my relationship with Manu’s head detective, Ted Nash. Gun-shy after my ex left me at the altar a year before my move to Oregon, I wasn’t interested in a serious relationship with either man . . . until recently. I’d begun to see that neither one was mere casual dating material, but I was still having trouble choosing between them.

“Things have been going fairly well,” I told Reggie. “Ted and I have been out to dinner a couple times this month, and on Saturday we saw that new thriller with Liam Neeson. It’s really good. You and Manu should see it.”

“Are things getting serious?” she asked.

“In Liam Neeson’s new movie?” I asked, wide-eyed. “Definitely. I’d say things are downright urgent.”

“Marcy . . .”

I laughed. “I’m not sure how to answer that, Reggie. I like Ted very much, and I think he feels the same way. We’re just taking things slowly. I mean, you know about my past with David . . . and I’m sure you know way more about Ted’s past—his divorce, I mean—than I do.”

“And what about Todd? Is he in the picture, or is he still dating that waitress from MacKenzies’ Mochas?” she asked.

As far as I knew, Todd and Keira had been out only a time or two. But in a small town, word got around, and before you knew it, you were an item. “I don’t know about his relationship with Keira,” I said, “but he, Sadie, Blake, and I went whale watching last Sunday afternoon.”

“You know you’re going to have to choose between those two men sooner or later,” she said. “Or else somebody’s going to get hurt.”

“I know.” And I did know. I just didn’t want to think about it. Not today anyway. Maybe tomorrow. So sue me—I was having a Scarlett O’Hara moment. You didn’t have to be in Georgia to have an
I’ll think about it tomorrow
moment.

Reggie stood. “I’d better head on back to the library. How soon can you do the first embroidery class for the domestic abuse victims?”

“How soon do you need me?” I asked.

“Well, the first meeting is tonight, but—”

“Then I’d better hurry and get all the materials together,” I interrupted.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s way too much of an imposition. Just because I got thrown into this last minute doesn’t mean you have to start immediately. We’ll have an introductory meeting tonight, and I’ll tell the group that you’ve agreed to teach them beginner’s cross-stitch and needlepoint and give them an idea of what to expect with regard to the meetings. They’ll be happy to know you’re going to be doing the class.”

“Let’s do this then,” I said. “I’ll try to get everything together. If I can, we’ll go ahead and begin the embroidery class tonight. If I can’t, I’ll bring what I do have, and they can at least get a feel for what they’ll be doing.” I raised my eyes to the ceiling as I did a mental inventory of what I had on the shelves and in the stockroom in the way of stamped patterns. “How many women are you expecting to attend?”

“At least five,” Reggie said. “That’s how many are staying at the women’s shelter. The local free counseling center has put fliers up that we’re forming a support group and will be meeting, so there should be a few more. I’d say to plan on ten to twelve.”

“Will they be coming here to the shop?” I asked. “Will we need to provide security?”

“No, they won’t be meeting here. The women from the shelter will actually be transported to the library by a van driven by one of Manu’s deputies.” She shrugged. “It’s vital that some of the husbands don’t know where their wives are. The other women will come directly to the library.”

I bit my lip.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” she asked.

“Of course.” At least, I
thought
I was.

* * *

After Reggie left, I discovered that I had eight beginner’s stamped cross-stitch kits and seven stamped needlepoint kits, complete with embroidery floss/yarn and needles. I put them in a tote bag to take to the library that evening.

Jill, a mannequin resembling Marilyn Monroe who stands by the cash register at the counter, was wearing fuzzy white bunny ears this morning. No, she didn’t have on the rest of the bunny costume—Playboy or otherwise—just a pink shift dress I’d embellished with ribbon embroidery—tiny white roses around the neck, mainly. Since the shop is called the Seven-Year Stitch, she’s sort of the shop mascot . . . and she’s a good way to display some of my work. I already have embroidery pieces I’ve completed displayed on the walls and on some of the maple shelves. And I have pillows featuring my candlewick handiwork on the two navy sofas that face each other in the sit-and-stitch square that’s set apart from the merchandise part of store. The rest of the square is made up of two red club chairs with matching ottomans that also face each other and an oval-shaped maple coffee table. A red-and-blue braided rug covers the floor under the table. It’s a cozy gathering place.

I started to hang the tote bag on Jill’s arm, but I was afraid some customers might come in and want to buy the kits. I took the bag to my office and ordered a dozen of each of the assorted kits from one of my suppliers because the fifteen kits I was taking to the meeting were all I had.

It was Thursday. I typically teach classes on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings, but I’d taken this week off as all my winter classes came to a close the week prior. I had sign-up sheets on the counter for classes in intermediate needlepoint, crewel embroidery, and candlewick embroidery. Since I’d agreed to do the therapy class on Thursday nights for Reggie, my new plan was to choose the classes that were fullest and offer those on the other two class nights. I’d call the people on the other list and offer them either individual instruction or the option to wait to see if the class would have enough people for the following six-week term after these courses were completed.

I stepped back into the shop and looked over the lists. It appeared that intermediate needlepoint was the one that would have to be put on the back burner. I gently pulled at the tape and removed the flier from the countertop. Then I took the flier, my phone, and a notebook to the sit-and-stitch square.

I was notifying the last person on the list when Ted Nash came into the shop, giving my heart a little flutter. He was wearing a blue dress shirt, a navy sport coat, and khakis. I liked seeing him in blue—the color brought out the brilliance of his eyes. I smiled and held up an index finger to indicate I’d be with him in a second. In the meantime, he picked up Angus’s tennis ball and the two began a game of fetch.

“I’m really sorry there weren’t enough people signed up to warrant a class,” I told the woman on the phone. “I’d be happy to offer you some individual instruction, or you can wait and see if the class makes next time.”

She told me she’d wait and see if the class would be offered during the summer and said that in the meantime she might stop by the shop with some questions for me on a new project she was starting. I thanked her and hung up.

“Are you crushing hopes this morning?” Ted asked, his lips curling into a wry grin as he took the now-sopping ball from Angus and tossed it again.

I smiled. “Hardly. I just didn’t have a lot of interest in one of my classes, so I’m using that night to help out Reggie.”

He nodded. “She told me she was going to ask you to do the therapy workshop. Are you sure you’re up for that?”

“Sure. I like helping people.”

“I know you do,” he said, sitting down beside me. “But when you help people, you usually wind up getting in over your head.” He took my hand. “It’s estimated that over a million women are physically abused by their husbands or partners each year.”

“Okay.” I drew out the word. “But only about ten or twelve of them will be at the workshop.”

He rolled his eyes. “And that’s ten or twelve women you will become emotionally attached to and want to protect from their ten to twelve abusive spouses or boyfriends.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said.

“I don’t want you to get hurt either, and you put your life on the line every day.” I gave him a triumphant little smile.

“It’s my job, and I’m trained for it.” He studied my face for a second. “Be careful. That’s all I ask.”

“I will.”

“And, please, don’t fall in over your head. I mean, your heart is the biggest thing about you, and it’s wonderful that you’re so caring.”

I placed a finger on his lips. “I’ll be fine. I appreciate your concern, but I’m only there to teach the women how to embroider. How much trouble can
that
get me into?”

“Ask me that again next week,” he said. “Are you free for an early dinner before tonight’s meeting?”

“I am.”

“Then would you have dinner with me?”

I smiled. “I’d love to.”

We planned for Ted to pick me up at my house after I dropped off and fed Angus. Before leaving, he threw the ball for Angus one last time. A well-dressed man who will take the time to play fetch with one’s dog is a rare find indeed.

Ted hadn’t been gone but about fifteen minutes when Sadie popped in.