Crewel Yule

Table of Contents

 

 

PRAISE FOR MONICA FERRIS’S NEEDLECRAFT MYSTERIES

“Ferris’s characterizations are top-notch, and the action moves along at a crisp pace.”
—Booklist

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

 
“An accurate and amusing portrait of the needlework world and the characters that inhabit it.”
—Rendezvous

 
“Colorful and humorous . . . perfect.”
—BookBrowser

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

 
“Another treat from Monica Ferris.”
—Mysterious Galaxy

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

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

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, 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 author or third-party websites or their content.

 
CREWEL YULE

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

 
Copyright © 2004 by Mary Monica Kuhfeld.

 
All rights reserved.

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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eISBN : 978-0-425-20635-5

 
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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Acknowledgments

When the NMI Company invited me to their Nashville Market, I was thrilled. Every needlework shop-owner goes to the various markets; I’d been told that from the start. But, since my needlework shop is imaginary, I thought I couldn’t go. Not only did I learn a lot about shop-owners there, but I also got the plot for this book. Thank you, especially Emily Castleberry!

And thank you Gail, my editor, who patiently found and plugged countless holes in the story.

Thanks also to Betsy Stinner, Marcia Kulik, Doug Kreinik, Dave Stott, Terrence Nolan, Frank and Judy Bielec, and several designers who kindly gave me permission to use their real names in this story. Everyone else is totally fictional, especially the suspects and the victim.

And thank you International Needlework Retailers Guild, sponsor of the Nashville Market.

One

Godwin, a slender, handsome young man in jeans and white cotton sweater, sipped his tea and looked around the atrium with happy interest. This was not his first trip to Nashville, but his first to the Nashville Needlework Market. As usual, it was being held at the Consulate Hotel; but not at all usual, it was being held in December.

Godwin didn’t care; he adored shopping in any season and here was shopping squared: shopping for a shop. Namely, Crewel World, a sweet little needlework store in Minnesota, owned by his favorite boss, Betsy Devonshire.

Every year the International Needlework Retailers Guild held a cash-and-carry market for member shop-owners, who came to select among the newest and/or most popular designers and manufacturers of needlework material. Not normally an early riser, he had been up and dressed, fed, watered, and ready for action as soon as the doors opened at nine, buying new and favorite counted cross-stitch patterns, new colors in fabrics and floss, new gadgets. Now, after carrying bags of loot out to the U-Haul trailer in the parking lot, he was taking a break to rest his feet and steady his nerves with a cup of tea. And, okay, a big chocolate chip cookie.

On one long side of the atrium were a restaurant—where he got the tea and cookie—and a bar, and on the other there was a swimming pool set up and a gift and notions shop. On the back end of the atrium was a warren of meeting rooms, while at the other, six steps led to a carpeted dais and three big double doors, through which was the lobby with its enormous Christmas tree.

Far overhead, the ceiling was nine stories away, and snow was building up on the glass roof. The snow had started last night and was continuing today. Who would have thought in southern Tennessee?

Surrounding the open air of the atrium, starting at the second floor, were tiers of galleries marked by painted iron railings ornamented with flower boxes from which descended thin cascades of ivy. And behind the galleries were comfortable little suites, each containing a bedroom facing the outdoors and a sitting room that faced the gallery. Starting on the second floor, and on through the sixth floor, every one of those suites was occupied by wholesalers who had packed their sitting rooms with needlework merchandise. Suites on the seventh to the ninth floor were held by those shop-owners who were first to register for the Market—Betsy Devonshire, Godwin’s boss, was among them. Others had to make their slippery way to and from one of the motels down at the bottom of the steep hill on top of which sat the Consulate. That the Consulate was jammed with buyers was a comment on both the popularity of the Market and the tenacity of small business owners. And Godwin was carrying a Crewel World credit card. Heaven!

He took the last bite of his cookie and sipped his tea, which was still very warm and smelled of raspberries. Across the open floor, baby palms and flowering plants were set among small boulders that lined a miniature brook that curved diagonally across the tan tile floor. A little hump-backed bridge crossed the brook halfway along. A pair of white cockatoos fluttered and preened in their cage on the far side, near the foot of the stairs, where the brook ended in a tiny pool.

Godwin sat amid a scatter of wrought-iron chairs and glass-topped tables, most empty since breakfast was long over and it wasn’t time yet for lunch. Godwin could hear a gush of women’s voices from above and could have sworn he also heard a rustle of money or checks changing hands, credit cards being swooshed through little machines, and merchandise being pushed into plastic bags.

He opened the Market guidebook and began to plan his second foray. He’d done the sixth floor, so what was on four? He had the even floors, Betsy the odd. He’d heard Terrence Nolan was here. Sure enough, here was his trade name, Dimples. Suite 448—

A high-pitched sound pierced the cloud of chatter—a scream? A glimpse of something white falling, and the scream was cut off by a big, messy crunch down by the steps to the dais.

One of the birds screeched hard, and then human voices began to shrill and shout. Godwin jumped to his feet, his knuckles hard against his mouth. That couldn’t possibly have been—

But it was.

Betsy read the e-mail again and groaned softly. December was a very busy month. Crewel World would be open extra hours to accommodate last-minute shoppers, and there were preparations for inventory, and taxes, and the non-business tasks of Christmas, the rounds of parties—Betsy threw a big one herself for her friends and employees—all in addition to the usual long hours kept by any small business owner selling to the public, filled with stocking, doing payroll, cleaning, planning, and record keeping.