Dire Threads (28 page)

Edging around the crowded room, I stumbled over a love seat upholstered in tapestry featuring roosters and hens.
Fowl furniture
, I said to myself, rubbing my bruised shin and wishing I could have shared the dopey pun with someone.

A coat was thrown over the loveseat. Not thrown, actually, neatly tucked inside out so that any spills would fall on the satin lining instead of on the fur.

The only mark on the lining, so far, was a monogram, the type woven into ribbon squares, with a large initial in the middle and two smaller initials flanking the large one. The first initial was M, for Mona. The large initial was an F, not a D, and the third initial was a B. Mona must have bought—or been given—the coat before she married Pete DeGlazier, which gave credence to Dawn’s theory that Pete, too lazy to farm, had married money. Too lazy to retrieve his fishing hut from the lake, too, no doubt.

I made it to the buffet and filled a plate. Herb, Haylee, and Smythe joined me. We made small talk about food until Haylee glanced toward the door. Opal and Edna were leaving, and Naomi wasn’t far behind. Haylee and I made our excuses, too.

“See you tomorrow morning at my place,” Smythe said, sending Haylee a smile that should have warmed her to the toes.

“I’ll be there, too,” Herb reminded us.

Great. But I would heed Clay’s warning and not be alone. Haylee and her guardian mothers were coming, too. We would protect each other.

“Stop in often,” Mona said with a phony smile and a shake of her head when Haylee and I put on our coats.

It was dark outside. Haylee ran across the street toward The Stash. I hurried to my side yard, reached over my gate, unlocked it, and made my way down the hill to the back door. The wheelbarrows the men had used yesterday to transport sandbags had made grooves that were, for now, immortalized in frozen mud.

Not bothering to change out of my dressy outfit, I let the dogs race around while I checked on the river. It had definitely gone down, depositing debris on the trail outside my fence. But one of those branches was too boxy. I unlocked the gate, made certain the dogs stayed in the yard, tiptoed onto the icy trail, and grabbed the rectangular thing.

It was a small wooden chest, banded in brass and in excellent condition as far as I could tell. I coaxed the dogs inside and gave the box a shower to wash off some of the mud it had gained on its voyage down the river. The wood grain varied from very dark to very light, exactly like the black walnut of the floor in my shop. I turned the chest over. On the bottom, someone had carved a message, very neatly.

TO SKIPPY WITH ALL MY LOVE MK

Rhonda and her friend had sighed over the beautiful jewelry boxes that Mike had made. MK had to be Mike Krawbach, but who was Skippy?

“Do you know?” I asked my dogs. They barely opened their eyes.

The box wasn’t hard to open. It was empty. If I scrubbed the rest of the mud from it, I would probably discover it was new. It wasn’t banged-up or dented.

How had it ended up in the river?

Leaving it to dry, I filled a tin with cookies and went upstairs through In Stitches and out to the street.

Apparently, the gala was winding down. A group of men had migrated from Country Chic to the sidewalk in front of The Ironmonger.

I stopped walking with one foot on the curb and the other on the street.

Irv, Smythe, and Herb, all possibly members of Mike’s gang when they were teenagers, were among the large group of men outside Sam’s. Mike’s old buddies. Had Mike threatened to expose one of them for something they did years ago?

The men’s laughter grated, like they were having a laugh at someone’s expense. They turned and stared at me.

Smythe was the only one smiling.

28

D
R. WRINKLESIDES DROVE PAST IN A black SUV. Apparently, he recognized me underneath the streetlight. He tooted his horn, lowered his window, and called out, “The fat man sang!”

I made an exaggeratedly sad face to show I was sorry I’d missed it, then ran across the street to Buttons and Bows. Haylee met me at the door. The lights inside Edna’s notions boutique had been dimmed, but ribbons and buttons glimmered in stray beams from Mona’s brightly lit shop kitty-corner across the street. Haylee preceded me through Edna’s back room and up the stairs. At the top, Haylee turned around, obviously to see my face. Her eyes danced with mischief.

My tin of cookies nearly slid out of my hands. Entering Edna’s living room was like walking into a lemon. Pale yellow was everywhere. Floors, walls, furniture, and window coverings. And Edna had been creative with her notions. Cording, braid, and fringes embellished upholstery and cushions. Grommets and tiny silver medallions decorated blinds and matching drapes. The rug was bound with tape in shades of lemon and lime. Even the picture frames were covered in crystals, gilt, and sequins. As I took it all in, I realized I shouldn’t have termed them picture frames. There was no artwork, only mirrors in the frames. Beveled mirrors, convex mirrors, small mirrors, huge mirrors. Blinding mirrors.

Naomi, Edna, and Opal rushed into the living room. Opal hugged me. I couldn’t see the stitches in the caftan she’d knit because the yarn was so fuzzy, but my fingers accidentally poked through holes. She must have used very large needles. “You look like you’ve solved Mike’s murder, Willow,” she said.

Actually, I was in awe of my surroundings, so maybe it was just as well that she misread my expression. I told them about the jewelry box I’d found and the inscription carved on it. They were disappointed that it hadn’t been filled with jewels. On the other hand, if it had, it might have sunk and I never would have found it.

Haylee laughed. “Mike made furniture for his dog?”

Naomi asked, “Did he have a dog?”

Haylee shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Who lives upriver from you, Willow?” Opal asked.

I hadn’t lived in the area long enough to know. “Pete and Mona DeGlazier. And Clay’s building new houses.” I frowned at the sheer number of possibilities.

“Lots of people,” Haylee said

“How about Mike Krawbach?” Opal prodded.

Haylee shook her head. “His vineyard is . . . wasn’t near the river.”

I could have attested to that, but I said nothing.

Edna’s dining room matched the living room, all pale yellow, except that the table was covered by a deep green tablecloth edged in green and gold. Linen napkins, rolled up and tied in satin ribbons, matched the tablecloth. The plates were lemon yellow, and so were the wine glasses. Two bottles of red wine were open and breathing.

Edna’s kitchen was also pale yellow. She had even found drawer and door pulls made of yellow porcelain. Below the counter, they were shaped like bows. Above the counter, they were shaped like buttons, complete with porcelain thread.

I peeked out between pastel yellow curtains. Aunt Betty had joined the group in front of The Ironmonger. I told the others about the investment she and Rhonda had made, buying low from me and selling high to Mona and Pete.

Edna lifted the cover from her slow cooker. Boeuf bourguignon? She sniffed. With a satisfied smile, she concluded, “Aunt Betty even looks like a murderer.”

Haylee tamed a grin. “And how does a murderer look?”

Edna lowered her eyebrows, wrinkled her nose, and showed her teeth. “Evil.”

I giggled. No matter how hard she tried, birdlike little Edna could never look ferocious.

Still attempting to snarl, she added, “Aunt Betty got that look from her years of evil deeds.” She drained homemade noodles. Where had she found time to make all this?

Haylee tossed shredded red cabbage with a dressing containing aromatic, freshly toasted sesame seeds. “And her motive for murder was?”

Opal dished up roasted eggplant, onions, and peppers. “We don’t know her motive, but why has she been helping her husband collect evidence against Willow?” Without waiting for us to answer, she continued, “She can’t let Uncle Allen guess that
she
committed the murder.”

Edna picked up a bowl of stew. “Don’t forget Rhonda and her fleck of aqua paint. And her threats against Willow in the ladies’ room.” She jingled into the dining room in orange felt slippers that she must have crafted herself. She’d sewn tiny bells all over them.

We followed, all bringing dishes of food. I laughed off Rhonda’s and her friend’s threats, even though they had frightened me at the time. I reminded everyone, “Rhonda also tried to sneak into my apartment.”

Edna dimmed lights and lit candles. “I’m guessing that after Mike gave Rhonda one of those jewelry boxes, he spurned her. Who could blame him? Now she regrets killing him, since she lost her only shot at capturing a man. And Aunt Betty guesses the truth and is trying to protect her. Maybe Uncle Allen is trying to protect her, too. These people! Banding together against outsiders. Against us.”

I could only hope that the state police weren’t about to join that band.

We sat at Edna’s dining table and toasted each other with the wine. Edna flapped her napkin into her lap. “I noticed the pretty white placemats in your apartment Wednesday morning, Willow, when Uncle Allen interrogated us. I hope you have some dark linens.”

I loved new projects. “I’ll make some.” Or I’d embroider Dawn’s. I mentally kicked myself. No. I would not destroy the simplicity of Dawn’s hand-woven placemats. I’d make new ones, using the nice, heavy linen I carried in my shop or the scrumptious cottons Haylee offered in The Stash. “Why should I have dark linens?” My apartment was mostly white, with coral and sage accents, nothing dark. Branching out into other colors wouldn’t exactly hurt me, though, especially if it meant creating and embroidering new soft furnishings.

Naomi poured burgundy into our glasses. “We all love red wine. And we spill.”

Maybe I would make my new placemats and napkins from a synthetic that might release red wine stains more easily than cotton or linen, and I’d embroider them with dark red thread.

Watching my face, Naomi giggled. Was she already tipsy, or had my thoughts been transparent, and funny, besides?

Haylee rolled her eyes. “These three sometimes forget they’re no longer eight years old.”

Naomi raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Forever young,” Opal said, clinking her glass against Naomi’s.

Sort of like Mike Krawbach, I thought, with an involuntary pang of sympathy for a man I hadn’t liked, a man who would never have the chance to grow old. Who had wanted him to cease to exist?

Edna took a bite of her stew, then jumped up, raced to a pale yellow side table, grabbed her notebook, and rejoined us. “Uncle Allen wants to solve the case quickly, so he’s fallen into the trap of believing his friends and relatives but not us.”

Haylee suggested, “His brother, Pete DeGlazier, could be the Pete in Karen’s story about the lazy fisherman.”

I tasted Edna’s delicious boeuf bourguignon. “Dawn said that Pete DeGlazier was a lazy farmer—”

Edna bobbed her head up and down. “Goes with being a lazy fisherman!”

I finished, “And lost his first farm and his first wife due to his laziness. And maybe drinking. Now, he’s married to Mona, who has opened a shop and also wears a full-length mink coat.”

Opal turned her yellow goblet around, as if studying the way it gave her wine those brassy orange tones. “A mink coat? And she’s president of the nature club?”

Edna stabbed a finger down onto one page. “Irv,” she announced. “I don’t trust Irv. He gave sandbags to Pete DeGlazier when he should have given them to Willow.”

“And Pete is Uncle Allen’s brother,” I added. “Irv could have been trying to get on the good side of the law after all those years of lawlessness in Mike’s gang.”

“Irv has a short fuse,” Haylee contributed. “Remember Mike’s memorial service, when the sound system kept giving him problems, and people yelled at him to move back?”

Opal answered, “He got really annoyed, really fast.”

“I learned more about another former gang member today—Herb,” I told them. “Petal, our postmistress, seems afraid of him. She told me that Herb believes that, for a prank, Mike caused the tractor Herb was driving in Mike’s vineyard to roll over. Mike deflated the tires on one side of his tractor and then ordered Herb to drive the tractor across a slope.”

“Awful,” said Opal.

“Despicable,” Naomi added.

Haylee scowled. “Some prank. Not funny. But I can easily believe Mike would do something like that.”

Edna hopped up. “That’s it! Herb has to be the one who killed Mike. We discounted him because we didn’t think he was strong enough, but the way he heaved those sandbags around . . .” She plopped into her seat and paged through her notebook. “Herb could have been
killed
when Mike’s tractor toppled over on him. His anger probably simmered and simmered.”

Naomi covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes for a second. “I’d hate to think of Herb as a murderer. I’d hate to think of anyone . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes became shiny like she was about to cry. She whispered, “But someone is a murderer. Very likely someone we know.”

Naomi was usually the one who patted arms. This time, I patted hers. “At the gala, Herb didn’t seem to care where Karen was, though he took her to the dinner dance.”

Haylee giggled. “Maybe the evening didn’t go well for him.”

Her mothers studied her face, probably wondering how her evening had gone with Smythe.

I quickly brought the subject back to suspects. Specifically Herb. “He was avoiding Dr. Wrinklesides, like maybe he was hiding a new injury from him. Or a lack of an old one. He asked me what Petal said about him at the post office—naturally I didn’t tell him about her accusations—and he doesn’t like Dawn, either. He claimed she kept calling the police on him and his friends.”

“Not surprising,” Haylee commented. “If they did all the things she said they did.”

I held up a cautionary finger. “However, Dawn reported to Uncle Allen that Herb’s truck was in his driveway all night when Mike died. So although Dawn and Herb don’t like each other, Dawn gave Herb an alibi.”

Opal asked sensibly, “What was Dawn doing up all night watching Herb’s driveway?”