Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (13 page)

“We all did. Turns out she was good at raising money, but maybe not so good at managing it.”

We glanced toward the kitchen, where Ruth was taking great gulps of air. “Of course, I’ll have to lay off my cleaning service,” we heard her sob. “Kathleen won’t be happy, but what can I do? I’m not even sure where she keeps the vacuum!”

Eleanor rolled her eyes at me. “And now we don’t have the resources to hire another photographer, or get the calendar printed.
Damn
it.”

“Come on,” I said, taking hold of her arm. “No use crying over spilt milk.”

“Can we think of some other ideas to make money?” Debby was asking the group as we walked back into the kitchen.

Eleanor sighed. “We’ve been through this before. The calendar was the best idea we ever came up with.”

“And I already tried to reason with Beau Cassell,” I said. “That was a complete dead end.”

Eleanor folded her arms across her chest. “There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger.”

“How about the farmer who owns the land?” Debby handed Ruth another tissue. “Can we appeal to him?”

“Old man Yerkel hates Cassell, which is why he’s been stalling on selling him the farm,” Martha said. “However, he doesn’t give a hoot about historical preservation. Mrs. Yerkel did, but she’s gone. They moved to the Outer Banks for her health, but she died this summer, and he now needs the money for her massive medical bills.”

“Why did they leave all that stuff in the house?” I remembered peeking inside the kitchen and seeing the table, dishes, and paintings on the walls.

“She was too sick to pack it up, and he didn’t care.”

“It’s all rotting away in there,” I said. “It’s criminal.”

“Yes, it’s a shame,” Debby said. “My sister said Mrs. Yerkel had some beautiful samplers.”

My ears pricked up. “Samplers?”

“Oh, no, those she donated to the Historical Society,” Martha said. “In fact, Althea Gunn restored some of them for us.”

“It looks as though Cassell will win the farm after all. There’s no hope now.” I felt sick.

“That’s assuming he gets the zoning change. It’s not a done deal yet.” Eleanor turned to Ruth. “The more immediate problem is that you have no money. Was everything tied up in this fund?”

Ruth ran a hand through her hair, leaving it sticking up at a new angle. “We never kept much in our checking account—only a couple of thousand—the rest was in the money market fund, and we moved it over when we needed it. All I really have left is this house.”

“How about an estate sale?” I suggested. “Do you have any items you could get rid of for some ready cash?”

Ruth brightened. “Oh, yes. There are so many books, Stanley’s clothes, his skis . . .”

“I’ll help,” Martha said.

I smiled at her. Martha was great at organizing large-scale events, and a project like this would be good to keep her busy and take her mind off her troubles.

“Me too,” Eleanor said.

“Don’t you
ever
work at your store?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Only when I feel like it. Which isn’t very often.”

Ruth jumped up to consult the calendar on the wall. “We can hold it this weekend. The following weekend is Thanksgiving, which is no good, and then people will be rushing around for Christmas. I think the weather forecast is good for Saturday.”

“Is that enough time to get ready?” I asked.

“I know what to get rid of,” Ruth said, a firm note in her voice.

The conversation swirled around me as I struggled to get my thoughts together. Stanley was gone. There was nothing more I could do for him.

Let go of the green banana, Daisy.
I pictured pulling my hand out of the hole and found myself rubbing my wrist. Cyril was another story, however. I’d never give up on him.

*   *   *

W
hen I got home, I found Joe in his favorite place, the kitchen. He was cooking a spinach frittata, and the toasty smell of eggs and cheese bubbling together suddenly made me realize how hungry I was.

“I figured you might not have had a chance to eat, so thought I’d whip up some comfort food.”

“Did I ever tell you I love you, Joe?”

He frowned, spatula in hand, gazing up at the ceiling as if pondering a difficult question. “Hmm, once or twice? I dunno. Maybe you need to tell me again.”

I threw my arms around him and hugged him. When he would have normally pulled back, I held on, unwilling to let go. “I love you,” I whispered against his faded denim shirt, drinking in the comfort of his familiar body against mine.

Joe tipped my chin up and kissed me. “Love you more. Now, come, sit. Tell me what’s going on.”

He handed me a well-deserved glass of wine, and I sank down at the butcher block table while he put the pan under the broiler for a minute to finish the frittata.

The story of the night’s events poured out of me, and Joe let me talk without interruption. One of the reasons he’d been so good at his job as a negotiator for the electricians’ union was that he was a great listener.

Joe set a plate in front of me, and I dug in to the meal, murmuring in delight. Once I’d taken the edge off my hunger and sat back in the chair, exhausted, he smiled at me. A strange smile, as if drinking in every detail.

“What is it?”

“You’re so beautiful.”

“Me? This gray-haired old lady?” I laughed. “Have some more wine, Joe.”

“No, I mean it.”

I blinked against the prick of tears. God, what would I do without him? I tried to count my blessings every day, but sometimes it didn’t feel like enough. One of my favorite Winnie-the-Pooh quotes ran through my mind.
If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.

Jasper laid his head on my knee as if sensing my mood, and I stroked his silky head. One of the cruel realities of being human is that we are aware of our mortality. We know how long we are expected to live, but dogs have no concept of days ticking by. They get up in the morning, ready to enjoy whatever today has to offer. I wished I could be more like Jasper, instead of worrying about things that I couldn’t control.

On the table was a grouping of the latest models off Joe’s production line of miniature dollhouse furniture. One of his best-selling items was a replica of an old steamer trunk, much like the one that had inspired me to open my store.

Customers loved the story of that trunk, as well as Joe’s exquisite handiwork, and I filled the finished chests with tiny strips of lace and ribbon. It was a popular giveaway to people who signed up for the mailing list as well as a door prize at open houses.

How would I know if my dear love was going down the same road as Ruth’s husband?

I decided that the miniatures would be my clue. As long as he could do this kind of intricate, challenging work, he must be okay.

Joe ducked his head to meet my gaze. “Earth to Daisy? What’s going on? I can see the smoke coming out of your ears.”

I pushed my worries away and smiled at him. “I’m just glad we have our health and each other.”

“Amen.” Joe clinked his glass against mine.

And in the quiet of the kitchen, gazing into the eyes of the man I loved, with our beloved dog dozing at our ankles, it was as good a prayer as any I’d ever heard.

M
y morning routine used to be that I would stop by the diner, pick up some coffee, and go to the salvage yard to see Cyril before work. But Patsy wasn’t waitressing at the diner anymore. And Cyril was gone.

Now, after I fed Cyril’s cat, I drove to Sheepville, stopping at Jumpin’ Java Mama, checking every table for the newspaper and inspecting the crossword puzzle, but there were no more clues. Maybe it hadn’t been him after all.

When I headed down to Sometimes a Great Notion, carrying a bag from the bakery, I saw Eleanor sweeping the sidewalk in front of her shop.

“Hey, did you get a new car?” I called, gesturing at the broom.

“Very funny, Daisy.” She spotted the bag full of pastries. “It’s come to this, has it?”

“Sadly, yes.”

Eleanor stomped the broom on the sidewalk. “This is ridiculous. We’re grown women. We should be able to bake our own treats without expecting Martha to do it all the time. How hard can it be?”

I shrugged and waved good-bye and opened the door to Sometimes a Great Notion. The vigorous holiday sales meant that I had to restock the displays more than usual, and I needed to get to work. I’d decided to expand on my dinner table theme and was setting up a new display using a classic Provençal tablecloth of yellow and blue when the owner of the cheese shop next door came in.

“I’ve brought you a bribe,” she said. “Some Humboldt Fog for some of your delicious coffee.”

I eagerly accepted the wrapped package of mold-ripened goat cheese. “Deal, although I think I’m getting the better end of it.”

“Ooh, how much is that tablecloth?” she asked.

I smiled, refolded it, and sold it to her at cost. After she left, I put the cheese in the fridge and started over. I discovered I had a good collection of scissors, including one with its bows fashioned to look like pheasants and the shanks like roosters. I added a Victorian brass butterfly that held two needle packets under each wing, some W. Avery & Son brass needle cases from the late nineteenth century, and a wooden machine bobbin.

I’d just stepped back to assess the arrangement when the doorbell jangled again and Serrano strode in.

I glared at him. “Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”

Serrano raised his arms in bewilderment. “How come it’s colder in this fricking shop than outside?”

“How come
you
expect me to tell you everything I know, and you don’t bother to return the
favor
?”

“Daisy.” He sighed, and I gritted my teeth as I saw the patient look spread across his face. “Relax. Remember I’m the detective in this scenario, okay?”

I was about to tell him to take a long hike off a short pier when he grinned.

“In fact, I did come to give you some news.”

He looked hopefully at the counter where I’d set out some chocolate croissants from the bakery.

“Bribery will get you everywhere, Detective.” I poured him a cup of coffee and put a croissant on a plate.

“Autopsy results came back on Alex Roos,” he said. “You know, the way that guy was killed—being spray-foamed in the mouth—sounds a lot to me like a message for a traitor to shut up.”

“How awful.” I pressed a hand to my own mouth, images of how Alex Roos must have suffered coloring my mind red. “Can forensics estimate the time of death?”

“Tricky one. You should see what fifteen-hundred-degree heat does to a human body.”

“Okay, okay. I know I asked for information, but maybe not that much.”

Serrano licked some of the chocolate out of the flaky pastry. “There were rope fibers on the corpse. He was probably tied up for a while before they killed him.”

“They?”

“Could be. To manhandle a guy into an attic and spray-foam him into the rafters would take a strong man, possibly two.”

“There’s something else,” I said. “One of the neighbors in the Cassell development saw a flash of light out of the window of the vacant house that night. The McIntires’ house is directly across from it. Jim McIntire might have gone storming over there if he thought the photographer was taking pictures of his wife.”

Serrano was focused on savoring the last piece of croissant. I wasn’t sure he’d even heard what I said. I almost felt like snapping my fingers to get his attention.

“I don’t suppose you found a camera near the body?”

He shook his head. “No. Why?”

“I gave Roos a vintage camera that he said he planned to use for the shoot with Cyril. If he had it with him that night, where is it now? If we can find that camera, it might hold the clue to the murder.”

“He coulda left it in Cyril’s truck while they went in the pub.”

“Oh, you’re probably right.” I sighed, feeling deflated. Now that I thought about it, Alex wouldn’t have schlepped his stuff into the bar, because he would have assumed that Cyril was giving him a ride home. “Speaking of Cyril, though . . .”

I told Serrano about the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, but before I was even halfway through the story, it sounded like a stretch, even to me.

He placed his mug and napkin neatly on top of the plate. “Daisy, you need to keep a clear head on this one. You can’t let your emotions and panic about Cyril cloud your thinking. As a matter of fact, I’d rather you stay far away from this case. Whoever did that to Roos is a ruthless bastard. If Cyril Mackey
did
see what happened that night, he’s lying low for a good reason.”

After he left, I logged on to the Internet and did some research on Beau Cassell, looking for news articles. Not surprisingly, he’d had run-ins with residents of other townships. I found plenty of angry bloggers who’d purchased Cassell homes complaining about the quality of the build. In fact, one group was involved in a lawsuit against him about a mold issue and how he’d failed to properly remediate the problem.

I sucked in a breath as I saw a name and face I recognized. Terri Jones. The woman with the bad cough from the sampler group. I might have to stop by another class and have a chat. Had Roos reverted to his photojournalist roots and that’s what triggered his demise?

I stood and stretched my back. And what had Cyril meant by the canary clue?

“Come on, Cyril,” I said out loud. “I need more of the story. Why don’t you show yourself? Why not come home and let Serrano protect you from whatever’s going on?”

So not only did I talk to mannequins, but now I was talking to a guy who wasn’t there and could quite possibly be dead.

Stop it. Don’t talk like that.
Alice was glaring at me.

“You’re right.” Even if this was a psychotic episode, there was no sense thinking that way. I had to cling to the belief that Cyril was out there, somewhere.

“Who are you talking to?”

I’d been so wrapped up in my thoughts that I hadn’t heard the front door open again. Eleanor stood there, staring at me.

Oh, the hell with it.
“I was talking to Alice,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster.

To my surprise, Eleanor didn’t snicker. “Bet she’s a good listener.” She walked past me toward the kitchen in the back. She was carrying a bulging grocery bag.

I scurried after her.

“I thought we should try to make some cookies,” she said. “They may not be as good as Martha’s, but what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Isn’t that what the victim always says before she enters the dark house alone in those B movies with a serial killer waiting in the basement?”

Eleanor smirked as she pulled out a bag of flour and some sticks of butter and smoothed a crumpled piece of paper onto the counter. “All we have to do is follow this recipe and we’ll be fine.”

“What are we making?”

“I call them Kitchen Sink Cookies.”

We set to work. Eleanor measured out the ingredients while I mixed. Rolled oats, walnuts, sugar, and three eggs went in after the flour and butter.

“Wait—there’s no coconut in this recipe,” I demurred as Eleanor dumped in half a bag of shredded coconut.

“I know, I like it, though.” She followed up with a mountain of chocolate chips, popping a handful into her mouth.

I peered at the paper again. “And no chocolate chips, either.”

“Details, details.” Eleanor waved a hand in the air. “Everyone knows that chocolate makes everything better.”

The batter was so heavy by this point that we had to take turns mixing it by hand because it was too dense for the beaters.

Eleanor peered at the recipe again. “Ah, rats! I knew I’d forget something. The vanilla! Never mind, I have bourbon. Should work just as well.” She pulled a flask out of the back pocket of her jeans and sloshed a glug into the bowl.

We dropped it by huge clumps onto baking sheets and slid them into the oven. Soon a wonderful aroma wafted through the store.

“This should entice the customers,” I said, breathing in deeply. “Even if they don’t taste good, they smell great.”

I was just taking the first batch out of the oven when the doorbell jangled and Martha swept in.

“Uh-oh, caught in the act,” Eleanor muttered.

“What on earth are you two doing?” Martha took a small piece off one cookie and bit into it gingerly while we held our breath. “Amazingly good. I think you two should make
all
the treats from now on.”

“Now look what you’ve done,” I said to Eleanor. “This is why I pretend not to know how to fix the garbage disposal at home.”

Eleanor didn’t answer. She was too busy finishing her first cookie and reaching for another. She drank like a fiend and ate whatever she wanted, but her body was lithe and fit, and the energy fairly sparkled from her. There were laugh lines around her eyes, her hair was completely white, but her skin was luminous with hardly a wrinkle.

Martha shook her head sorrowfully. “There’s no justice in this world. Look at her, Daisy. And she never goes to the doctor either.”

Martha’s physician saw her more often than he did his own mother.

“If I’m going to take my clothes off in front of a man, I need more of a payoff than a chit to pick up some pills.” Eleanor licked melted chocolate off her lips. “My arteries are all clear, anyway. Those lipid thingys don’t stand a chance against high-octane vodka. And I run five miles every day.”

I nodded. I knew she did yoga, too. “I walk Jasper a lot and I think the crossword puzzles help keep my brain active. How about you, Martha?”

Eleanor snorted. “The only running she ever does is to the shoe sale at Macy’s.”

Martha tossed her mane of vibrant red hair. “Oh, and by the way, Ms. Reid, did you hear that your little barber friend had a date with Ronnie the psychic the other night?”

“What?” Eleanor paled.

“You heard me. Took her to the Bridgewater Inn and wined and dined her all night long. Bet she’s a happy medium now.”

Martha and I laughed uproariously, until Eleanor started banging the used beaters and bowls into the sink.

“What are you so upset about?” I asked. “You didn’t want him, anyway.”

Martha placed her hands on her hips. “Yes, if you’ve finally decided you like him, why not ask him out? Forgive me for saying this, but you’re too old to be subtle.”

Eleanor scowled. “I’ve got two words for you, and they’re not
Happy Birthday
.”

*   *   *

T
he next day, I drove over to Sheepville to catch the Thursday morning sampler class. On the passenger seat next to me, in one of my signature shopping bags, was the emery I planned to give to Althea, along with some vintage needle cases.

I’d already sold two of the samplers to a collector from Maryland for a great price. The profit would cover the store’s rent for the next couple of months. I was debating keeping my favorite for myself, the one with the house like Claire’s painting.

When I arrived, the class was about to start. I slipped the bag under Althea’s nose and mouthed the words “thank you.” PJ and Liz were already there, and I found a seat next to them.

Althea peered over the tops of her bifocals at me as she pulled the items out of the bag. She held up one of the needle cases. There was the merest breath of a smile on her face.

“Remember, class. You need to choose the right size needle to make a hole in the fabric just large enough for the yarn to pass through. If the hole is too small, it will spoil the thread. Too large and it will show on the finished work.” She mumbled something else to herself as she put the things back in the bag.

“I think she said ‘thanks,’” PJ whispered to me.

“Consider the natural properties of the stitches and use these to achieve the effects you want. Do
not
force cross-stitches into elaborate curves, for example, but rather exploit their intrinsic zigzag quality.”

“Then you won’t come undone,” I snickered. Althea fixed me with a stern gaze.

What was I doing? I should know enough about being a teacher not to be the difficult student sitting in the back with the bad kids.

“Today, class, we’re going to learn fancy herringbone,” Althea boomed. “At first sight, it might look complicated, but it’s quite easy.”

“Easy for her to say,” Liz muttered.

“Using a foundation of ordinary herringbone, space your stitches widely apart. Next, work Saint George cross stitches over the top and bottom crosses of the herringbone row. On the third journey, run a thread through the horizontal bars of the previous stitches without picking up any ground fabric.”