Dire Threads (16 page)

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “You look like a dish of swirly citrus sherbet.”

Edna’s dark brown eyes glowed.

“Complete with a cherry on top,” Haylee teased.

Edna patted her curls. “I just love this shade of red. So cheery in the middle of winter.”

It was that. And exactly the color of maraschino cherries.

Naomi wore a navy and burgundy quilted vest with flower-bedecked unicorns appliquéd over it. “You looked worried when you came in, Willow.”

“Mainly puzzled. A wooden button appeared in the sink at Blueberry Cottage about the time Mike was beaten up.” I described it and asked Edna if she remembered selling any like it.

She led me to one end of her floor-to-ceiling button display. “Did it match any of these?”

None of her many wooden buttons were quite like the one I’d found.

She suggested, “Maybe seeing it would jog my memory.”

I agreed to take her to it when we finished restocking Buttons and Bows. Although Haylee already knew most of what I’d discovered in the past two days, I related Dawn’s allegations about Mike’s friends and fellow gang-members, Irv, Herb, and possibly Smythe and Clay. I told them about the trail of paint and yesterday’s interview with Dr. Wrinklesides. “Everyone around here except us probably knows about his hearing. Uncle Allen could have made up Mike’s so-called last words.”

Haylee frowned down at me from the top of her ladder.

I gave her a reassuring smile. Telling her mothers about our midnight jaunt last night would only worry them, and we hadn’t found much besides evidence that someone had searched Mike’s house.

Lovingly, Edna unfolded tissue paper to reveal ecru lace. “Uncle Allen is giving himself poetic license with Mike’s last words.”

Haylee’s ladder shook.

Rushing to the ladder, Opal stumbled over the hems of her trousers.

I steadied her. Either she hadn’t measured the pants she’d crocheted, navy blue to match half the stripes in her poncho, or the pants had an unfortunate tendency to grow. The scallops around the hems tangled with her crocheted slippers.

Edna dove behind her sales counter. “We should write this down.” She emerged with a pen and a small black notebook. “We’ll be scientific about suspects in Mike’s murder. Who are they?”

“Besides us,” Naomi said quickly, “since we know that none of us did it.”

Opal moaned. “None of us has an alibi. We were all home alone, sleeping.”

“I seem to be Uncle Allen’s favorite suspect,” I reminded them. “And the state trooper who came today seemed to agree with him.”

Naomi clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, Willow, how could they?”

Haylee cast me a worried look. “Everyone in town knows I hated Mike.”

Naomi reproved her. “Hate is a strong word, dear.”

Haylee shrugged. “Not when applied to Mike Krawbach.”

Maybe I’d been wrong about being the prime suspect. Maybe Uncle Allen and the state police were stewing about whether to arrest Haylee or me, while letting the real murderer remain free. I couldn’t let Haylee go to prison, either.

I told them about my original theory about the padlocks, and that Sam had dispelled it. Edna insisted that we still had to suspect all the younger men who were in the store at the time, since they may have been members of Mike’s gang. She handed the notebook to me. She had written
Clay Fraser
at the top of her notebook’s first page “You jot down our notes about our suspects, Willow. The rest of us know where all these trims go.”

We didn’t have any evidence against Clay, Herb, Irv, or Smythe, but I gave them each a page and wrote that they been members of Mike’s gang of kids.

They clucked in dismay about Rhonda, Aunt Betty, and their friends snooping in my store. I started pages for Rhonda and Aunt Betty. I had no evidence that they had attacked Mike, either, except for their strange behavior earlier that day.

“And this Rhonda?” Haylee asked. “You said she acted like she could have been one of Mike’s girlfriends. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe she chased him to your backyard and lost her temper.”

Edna arranged satin ribbon in rainbow order. “Willow said Rhonda looked mean.” Edna wasn’t done fingering suspects. “Dr. Wrinklesides was closest to Mike when he died. Maybe the good doctor slipped a syringe into Mike’s veins. Something that shut down his heart.”

Haylee asked, “Why would Dr. Wrinklesides beat Mike up, lock him in Willow’s yard, and then murder him? That doesn’t make sense.”

Edna fixed Haylee with a stern glare. “The one life lesson we’ve tried to instill in you, Haylee, is that men often do
not
make sense.”

“And Uncle Allen makes the least sense of all,” I said. I told them about his reluctance to investigate the button and the trail of paint.

Edna crowed, “Aha! Uncle Allen was the attacker who tracked paint into your cottage and lost a button.”

“I never noticed buttons like that on him,” I said.

“Of course not,” Edna said. “He lost it. Next time you see him, check to see if he’s missing a button.”

Haylee giggled. “He’s missing lots of things.”

Naomi defended him. “Don’t underestimate him. That bumbling could be an act.”

Edna’s eyes sparked with excitement. “Aha! He’s trying to fool us into thinking he couldn’t plan and carry out a murder. Start a page for him, Willow.”

I already had. She dictated, “May have made up Mike’s last words to throw suspicion from himself to us . . .”

Someone pounded on the door. I jumped. Edna’s little “Buttons and Beaux” tune jingled.

15

U
NCLE ALLEN STOMPED INTO BUTTONS and Bows. Snow covered his coat as if he’d sewn it himself from white fleece.

I was about to drop Edna’s notebook casually into the carton of satin ribbons. In one fluid movement, she grabbed the notebook from me, stretched the neck of her sweater, and shoved the notebook down her front. Her lack of subtlety, Opal’s and Naomi’s horrified expressions, and Haylee’s stifled giggle should have been enough to make Uncle Allen subpoena the notebook.

Instead, he came toward me. “You said you would let me have the key of your cottage again. You weren’t in your store. I can’t get into your yard, either, unless I climb fences. Your gates are locked.”

“Come on in out of the storm and warm up,” Edna offered, staring pointedly at his coat bulging over his belly. The middle buttonhole showed through the snow. Was he missing a button, or had he simply not buttoned it? His other coat buttons were navy blue plastic, which didn’t rule out the middle one having been wooden. I thought back to Tuesday afternoon, when Mike called Uncle Allen to my shop. If he’d sported a mismatched button, one of us or the Threadville tourists would have noticed.

Edna wiggled and pushed at the top of the notebook until her hand-woven vest helped hide the notebook’s sharp corners and spiral binding.

Probably hoping to distract Uncle Allen from Edna’s gyrations, Opal launched into an interrogation. “What’s going on with that vacant store between The Ironmonger and the new restaurant?”

Uncle Allen appeared to avoid looking at our faces and the challenge he might see on them. Or maybe he was dazed by the variety of buttons beside him. “I don’t know.” He unbuttoned his coat. Slush slid to Edna’s shiny floor.

He was definitely missing a button.

Opal raised one eyebrow, but went on smoothly with the subject she’d started. “Someone appears to be renovating that store. Trucks came and went all day yesterday and today.”

“Men carried in lumber and tools,” Naomi added. “And light fixtures.”

Edna’s eyes opened wide, as if two million volts of electricity had zinged through her. Or maybe the notebook had poked her. “It’s a marijuana grow-op! Did anyone notice a building permit?”

None of us had.

“I’ll find out.” Uncle Allen’s grumble was not very convincing.

Edna crossed her arms over her strangely angular bodice. “You’d better investigate. It’s got to be a grow-op or a meth lab.”

Opal enunciated over the howling wind, “You should look into Mike’s dealings with the drug underworld.”

Uncle Allen tucked his thumbs into his belt like someone about to draw six-shooters from hip holsters. “Mike was the victim. Don’t go blaming him.”

Naomi wiggled her eyebrows toward Opal in a quelling manner. “She meant that Mike may have stumbled upon information, and those drug dealers had to prevent him from telling you.”

Unappeased, Uncle Allen grunted and turned to me. “I’ll have those keys now.”

I strode toward the door. “I’ll take you.”

“I can let myself in and bring the keys back.”

I wanted to make certain he found the button and saw the paint spots. “It’s okay,” I said.

Haylee climbed down the clanking aluminum ladder. “I’ll come, too.”

Uncle Allen hitched up his pants. “I don’t want anyone disturbing the evidence.”

Edna must have realized it was her last chance to see the button before Uncle Allen took it away. She tugged on boots. “We won’t do that.”

Uncle Allen, Edna, Haylee, and I trooped out. Snow blinded us. Wind pushed us back toward Buttons and Bows. Leaning forward, choking to breathe, we struggled across the street to my relatively sheltered yard. Tally-Ho and Sally-Forth voiced their indignation inside my apartment while we sidestepped past it, down the snow-covered hill to Blueberry Cottage.

I unlocked the door and turned on the light. Uncle Allen backhanded the space between him and us with one gloved hand. “You ladies stay outside while I do a sweep.” His flashlight hardly gave off any light, but it did show up cobwebs in corners, and I was tempted to offer him a broom for his sweep. I managed to restrain myself and was careful not to look at Haylee. It wouldn’t take much to set both of us off into giggles.

Edna stepped over the threshold. “This is lovely, Willow. It doesn’t need anything except a little cleaning.”

Haylee let out a few fake coughs.

“Allergic to cobwebs?” I asked with overdone politeness.

Haylee coughed harder. “Some
sweeping
would help.”

I suffered from an instantaneous coughing fit, too.

Edna cast both of us a stern look. “And some twig furniture,” she added brightly. “With its bark on. And you could whip up pretty cushions and curtains, Willow, and trim them with bows. It would be very cozy. With your views of the river, you could charge a good rent.”

Uncle Allen disappeared into the kitchen. I clamped my lips together, and Haylee did an admirable job of laughing silently. Edna shook a finger at us, which set us off again. Finally more or less in control of ourselves and of each other, the three of us tiptoed through the great room and positioned ourselves behind the line where carpeting met linoleum.

I couldn’t simply stand still, however. I strode into the kitchen and pointed down at the trail of aqua blotches. “When we’re done in here, I’ll show you similar spots outside on the front porch and door.”

Edna squealed, “The aqua spots lead from the door to the sink! Look, Detective DeGlazier. Here’s the button.”

He aimed his light into the sink. “I see it.” He cleared his throat and harrumphed as if trying to supply the plumbing noises that had been missing ever since the cottage’s water was turned off.

“What a charming kitchen,” Edna cooed. “All you have to do is paint the walls and install new appliances, and you’ll be ready for tenants.”

With a quick shake of her head, Haylee nudged her.

Uncle Allen untangled a plastic bag from a jacket pocket.

Raising and lowering her eyebrows, Edna asked me, “Do you have a
paper
bag or envelope?”

Uncle Allen used the plastic bag like a glove to pick up the button, then sealed it in the bag.

Edna peered into the bag. “I haven’t ever sold any like that at Buttons and Bows, but it looks familiar. The murderer must have lost it here.”

Uncle Allen focused on me. “Are you sure it didn’t pop off your coat? After you unlocked your gate and let Mike into your yard so you could beat him up?”

It was all I could do not to stamp my boot down onto his. “I didn’t let him in and I didn’t beat him up! And you took the parka I wore that night. Check, and you’ll see that it zips. It never had any buttons. And tonight, Sam told me that Mike might have stolen a padlock from the hardware store after I bought mine. Mike’s key may have opened my gate. He could have let himself and his killer in. Did Mike have a key to my gate when he was found?”

Uncle Allen pointed at me. “Aha! You caught him trespassing and attacked him. And no, he didn’t have your key. You’re the one who has your keys.”

“When I found him,” I reminded the policeman, “he had already been attacked. I didn’t touch him.” I pointed at the gaping door. “Somebody broke in here, probably after attacking Mike, because he heard my dogs coming.” I gestured at the sink. “He watched us and didn’t notice losing a button.” I tried not to stare at the spot on Uncle Allen’s coat where a button should be.

Edna must have had the same problem. Her head bobbed around as if she were looking for a new subject. She pointed at the closed bathroom door. “What’s in there, Willow?”

Uncle Allen opened the door and stuck his head around the jamb. “Oh.”

Haylee took one look at the steep angle of the toilet, and the dam burst on her giggles.

For once, Edna seemed to be at a loss for words. Finally, she concluded, with a great show of confidence, “All this room needs is a new toilet. You never needed a building permit, Willow. You were only trying to be nice to Mike by asking him for one.”

Behind Uncle Allen’s back, Haylee conquered her giggles and elbowed Edna.

Uncle Allen turned around and frowned at us. “It’s not the toilet. It’s the floor. This whole building needs shoring up. She would need a permit for that. And she was being nice? Nearly everyone in Elderberry Bay heard her threaten to
kill
Mike. You call that nice?”

Edna reminded him, “Dust that button for fingerprints. And maybe there’s DNA on it.” She made a pouty face. “Except if the button is damp, it will decompose in that plastic bag.”

Uncle Allen scoffed, “You watch too much TV.”