Dire Threads (30 page)

“Black walnut for firewood?” Irv’s voice was full of scorn. “It’s worth too much as fine lumber for furniture and such. No one would burn it up.” Again, that wordless challenge aimed at Smythe.

I felt worse. Was selling lavender honey, plus a field of corn one year and soy the next, and maybe a few giant pumpkins, a reliable way of making a living? Maybe Smythe needed cash. If forced to choose between killing a tree or selling the farm to a stranger who might chop the trees down anyway, who wouldn’t opt to save his farm?

Smythe twisted toward Haylee and cradled the tops of young shrubs between his work gloves. The shrubs had rooted themselves in a crumbling log. I was close enough to hear him murmur, “Forests regenerate themselves. Dead trees provide fertilizer for new plants.”

The woman who had been with Irv at the roast beef dinner lifted a spray of bright pink and mauve plastic orchids to her nose as if enjoying their fragrance. Obviously, I didn’t understand the finer details of nature hikes.

Hiding her face behind the artificial flowers, she drifted off the pathway, slipped between the lower branches of two massive pine trees, and disappeared.

Irv made an abrupt turn. Clenching his jaw and placing his feet carefully between twigs on the frozen ground, he dodged silently into the woods after her.

Edna and I looked at each other in dismay. Irv had been one of Mike’s gang. We’d been focusing on Herb, but, like almost everyone on this hike, Irv could be a murderer.

30

W
ITH UNNERVING STEALTH, IRV DISAPPEARED into the woods behind the woman with the plastic orchids. Whoever she was, she could be in danger.

Edna nudged me. We ducked under pine branches. Aunt Betty and Rhonda stayed with me like I had them on leashes.

In a clearing, Irv and the woman he’d pursued stood side by side, holding hands and gazing downward. Her garish pink orchids stuck out of a rotting log, an incongruous sight in February. A candle burned next to the log. Quietly, the rest of the hikers filed into the frozen glade. Irv raised his head and launched into another eulogy about what a fine man Mike had been.

Another memorial service? What had we gotten ourselves into?

I’d become good at understanding my friends’ wordless communication. Haylee, Opal, Naomi, and Edna were as thrilled about being tricked into yet another service for Mike as I was.

“My wife and I thought we should include a little tribute to Mike as part of this morning’s events,” Irv intoned. “In Mike’s woods.”

I thought we were in Smythe’s woods. Smythe had drawn grapes on the lower corner of his map—to indicate Mike’s vineyard? I didn’t want to make crinkling sounds, so I didn’t haul my map out of my pocket to check. Haylee had directed me to a different part of Mike’s farm in the dark, and we’d made several false turns. Suddenly, part of the geography south of Elderberry Bay fell into place for me. Mike’s house had to be near the south boundary of his farm, or vineyard, as he’d preferred to call it, and these woods had to be on the north boundary.

Irv corroborated it. “Mike’s woodlot was next to the vineyard where he toiled so many years, trying to make an honest living for himself. And now he has been
mowed down
.” Irv glared at me. “Unmercifully, at a terribly young age.”

My heart beat so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it. Had Mike’s buddies conspired to bring the village’s newcomers to this lonely spot in Mike’s woodlot so they could exact revenge for his death? I tensed, ready to grab my friends and flee. I felt their resolve to do the same thing shimmer through the air between us.

Mike’s buddies did come precariously close to slaying us.

With their singing.

The hymn’s first verse dove catastrophically into a minor key. The second shattered into dissonant wails with no recognizable tune. Where was Dr. Wrinklesides when we needed him?

Giggles were hard to control. Not only because of the singing, but because of the array of outerwear in that clearing—Aunt Betty in her reprehensible snowmobile suit, Rhonda in that ratty parka, Haylee and her mothers in their perfectly handcrafted coats, Mona in her foxtrimmed parka, Irv in a navy blue jacket with the plastic tie that had once held the price tag still sticking out of a seam, his wife in cashmere, Jacoba and Luther in bulky down-filled coats, and last but not least, Smythe in his bright yellow parka and bee-stinger stocking cap.

Fortunately, no one seemed to remember the words to the third verse, and they pulled their scarves up over their mouths like a bunch of bandits trying to figure out which bank to rob.

Or who to chase through Mike’s forest.

I edged backward. Edna did, too.

So did Rhonda and Aunt Betty.

Mona and Pete charged past us toward the trail. Most of the group followed, but Haylee and Smythe hung back. Without even the smallest signal passing between us, Edna and I waited.

Haylee bent over and blew out the candle. Standing, she gave Smythe a defiant look. “I wouldn’t want a fire in Mike’s woods to spread to yours.”

He thanked her and gave her shoulders a squeeze. Seeing Edna and me watching like old-timey chaperones, Haylee blushed, though she had to understand that we were only guarding each other as we’d promised.

Throwing the pair a bland smile, I offered an excuse, mainly for Smythe’s benefit. “We were going to put that candle out if Haylee didn’t.” The snuffed wax smell lingered like an unwanted memory. After a last glance at the shrine with its dismal fake orchids, I followed Haylee, Smythe, and Edna out of Mike’s woodlot and into Smythe’s. Mona waited impatiently, as if we couldn’t find our way back to Smythe’s house, even with him along.

Leading us along the wide trail, Mona made sporadic comments about flora and fauna. “In the spring,” she announced, shaking her head ominously, “these woods will be full of songbirds.”

Maybe by spring, someone could coax me to go on another nature hike. Maybe, but I sincerely doubted it.

Walking beside my loyal protector, Edna, I pictured the antique black walnut floors in my shop and in The Ironmonger, the buttons Mike must have crafted from thin walnut branches, and the carved treasure chest that the flood had left behind. Who was I to criticize someone else for wanting to enjoy the beauty of black walnut? I hadn’t meant to criticize Smythe, and had probably hurt his feelings.

Edna pulled at my sleeve. Haylee and Smythe had gone ahead, out of view, and Opal and Naomi were trying to forge past Mona and Pete, who were very neatly blocking their path.

I stopped. Rhonda crashed into my back. Ignoring her shrill swearing, I grabbed a pine bough. “Mona,” I called. “Can you tell what kind of tree this is?” It looked exactly like every other pine tree around us.

My ploy worked. Mona and Pete came shaking and nodding back to us, allowing Opal and Naomi to rush off after Haylee and Smythe. “How many needles in a cluster?” Mona asked.

With Aunt Betty wheezing alarmingly close to my shoulder, I took time counting to give Opal and Naomi a chance to catch up with Haylee.

“Five needles,” Edna answered for me.

“W-H-I-T-E,” Mona spelled, shaking her head. “Five letters and five needles. It’s a white pine.”

I thanked her, and she rushed to the head of the line again, at least to the head of the line that we could see. Opal, Naomi, Haylee, and Smythe had to be way out in front.

Edna and I stuck to Herb and Karen along the trail through the woods, across a corner of the field, through a natural windbreak of bushy evergreens, and into Smythe’s farmyard. We passed his barn and outbuildings, all recently painted and very neat. Padlocked, too, maybe to keep the latest generation of teen gangs out.

Irv positioned himself beside the straggling line of hikers and collected Smythe’s maps. With an innocent smile, I kept my map hidden in my pocket. I would find out when Smythe’s birthday was and I’d embroider a version of his map on a fabric card for him.

Aunt Betty and Rhonda straggled behind. They may have decided they didn’t have to continue playing detective. Or they couldn’t keep up.

We climbed onto Smythe’s screened porch. He opened a door, showing off a spotless, warm, and inviting kitchen. He’d taken off the yellow parka and bee-stinger cap, and had donned a yellow and black striped apron. Behind him Haylee, Opal, and Naomi wore aprons identical to his. They all looked extremely proud of themselves.

“Come on in, everybody,” Smythe called. “Coffee’s on, and we’ll have toast and honey.”

He had rushed ahead to prepare breakfast. Apparently, Haylee, Opal, and Naomi had volunteered to help.

I hesitated. Smythe’s breakfast sounded delicious.

“Are you coming in?” Edna asked me.

I shoved my coat sleeve back to catch a glimpse of my watch. It was nearly eight. “I need to get back to take my dogs out again before I open the shop so the poor babies won’t have to wait until noon. You stay.”

She made a show of eyeing the black pickup trucks parked along both sides of the winding driveway. I got the message. Anyone could be hiding behind or in one of them. “I’ll walk you to your car,” she muttered.

I whispered, “And who will escort you back to Smythe’s house? The others are inside helping him.”

She raised her chin. “I’ll be fine.”

I suggested in a quiet mumble, “Just watch from here until I get to my car.”

She agreed.

I ran down Smythe’s porch steps and jogged past Jacoba and Luther, who were sitting in one of the black pickups with its engine running. I got into my car and negotiated the driveway’s curves.

Smythe’s farm had to be about halfway between Shore Road and the next road, farther south, the one I thought passed Mike’s driveway. I chose the way I knew.

I turned the corner onto Shore Road. A black pickup truck was behind me. I thought it might be Herb’s, but it passed his place. Smoke drifted from the chimney on Dawn’s barn.

I stepped on the gas. The truck sped up. I slowed down. It did, too. It never came close enough for me to see who was in it.

Was someone following me? Mike’s murderer?

I told myself to calm down. Nearly everyone in this morning’s group had arrived in black pickups. It stood to reason that at least one other hiker besides me couldn’t stay for Smythe’s breakfast and would return to Elderberry Bay along Shore Road. Herb could be on his way to work. Or it could be Luther and Jacoba on their way back to open up the General Store.

The truck dropped back before I made the turn onto Lake Street. Nevertheless, I parked in front of In Stitches, ran inside, and locked the door.

In the apartment, Sally and Tally attempted to kiss my face without putting their paws on me. “Sorry I didn’t take you along,” I told them. “Mona wouldn’t have liked you interfering with the wildlife, though you might have been more interested in coyote scat than the rest of us were.” I opened the back door. Forgiving as always, the pups raced around until I called them in so I could make certain that In Stitches was ready for the Threadville tour bus and the day’s lessons.

I’d swept the night before. My shop was spotless, but some of my smaller embroidery hoops were hidden behind larger ones again. I rearranged them on the counter. Nestled together, the laminated oak hoops made concentric circles like the rings of that stump this morning. My pun about being stumped had gone over like a . . . like a downed tree. Clay might have laughed.

Smythe was usually happy to joke around, but something had been bothering him. Probably Mona and her discouraging head shaking.

I booted up my computer to work on my next stumpwork project. I planned to puff up the ice fishing hut, the smoke coming out of its chimney, and the ATV parked on the lake. I would add several layers of foam to the foreground, too, and I would embroider copies of twisty, bare sumac trunks growing on the edge of the bluff above the lake, then wire them to bend forward from the picture. When it was done, I would display it where it might encourage my students to try new things. And to buy new sewing and embroidery machines.

As I hooped fabric and stabilizer and placed pieces of foam in the right places, all I could see was Smythe’s distressed face when I blurted my feelings about killing an old tree.

Later, in his kitchen, he’d appeared happy and proud of his place. His farm was amazingly neat, and he obviously tried to keep it perfect. I saw again his recently painted barn and the sturdy outbuildings surrounding his farmyard.

I flung the back of my hand across my mouth.

All of his outbuildings had been padlocked. One of those locks had been shiny and new.

Wasn’t that lock similar to the ones I’d bought the night before Mike died?

According to Sam the ironmonger, the old-timers had seen Mike pocket something that could have been a package containing one of those locks with a key matching mine. Where had that padlock ended up?

Smythe’s farm?

31

I
’D RULED SMYTHE OUT AS MIKE’S MURDERER for three reasons. One, he was too sweet. Two, I hadn’t figured out a motive for him. Three, he’d been in Erie when Mike was attacked.

Murderers could appear sweet, I knew.

Other people had stronger motives.

Herb was my prime suspect. Mike had caused him injury and pain. Herb had loved driving big rigs. Now all he could do was putt around in a cute post office vehicle.

Pete DeGlazier’s motive was a little more nebulous. Maybe Mike had stolen Pete’s fishing hut and everything in it.

Irv had been Mike’s friend when they were boys, committing minor crimes together, maybe. Had Mike threatened to reveal things about Irv’s past that could cause Irv to lose his job as mayor of Elderberry Bay?

If Smythe had been a regular in Mike’s gang, his motive could be similar to Irv’s. Was it worth killing over, many years later?

Those huge amounts going into Mike’s bank account—had Mike been successfully blackmailing someone? Smythe?

Smythe had seemed uncomfortable about the black walnut stump on his property, right next to Mike’s woods. And Irv had goaded him about it. Smythe’s face had become red, and he’d turned away. So we couldn’t see his expression? Was it anger? At Irv or at Mike?