Night of the Living Thread (A Threadville Mystery) (6 page)

Opal agreed. To someone who didn’t know them, they probably sounded completely sincere.

Clay told Dare, “I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes. I want to see Edna’s face when she catches sight of this.”

Dare scowled at him. “Meet you at your truck.”

“It’s unlocked,” Clay told his departing back. I threw Clay a sympathetic look. Frowning, he watched his cousin stroll up the grassy hill toward the sidewalk.

Naomi threaded a white ribbon through loops on a quilted satin label and tied the ribbon around the top of the skirt. She made a pretty bow and adjusted the label so that anyone coming down the sloping lawn from Lake Street could read the words that my machines had embroidered in pewter-colored metallic embroidery thread:
Edna’s Wedding Skirt
.

Opal pulled a phone from her pocket, fingered its screen, and said, “Okay, Gord. We’re ready. Bring her to the bandstand.”

F
rom our perch in the bandstand, Naomi squinted down toward the river. Wisps of mist inched toward us. She shivered. “I don’t know why people think fog is romantic. They even create it with machines at wedding receptions! Fog is cold and wet. Anything could be hiding in it.”

Opal stuck her right thumb up. It wasn’t noticeably bleeding. “Let’s hope it rises this far. From up on Lake Street, Edna won’t know what she’s seeing.”

Haylee arrived first, in a black suit she’d tailored for herself. She shortened her strides to accommodate the tiny woman by her side. “This is Mrs. Battersby,” she told Clay and me. “She’s Edna’s mother.” Haylee had always called all three of her mothers by their first names. Opal and Naomi, who must have known Edna’s mother since the Three Weird Mothers were little girls, greeted Mrs. Battersby warmly, but, it seemed to me, cautiously.

Mrs. Battersby’s eyes were dark and alert, reminding me strongly of Edna’s. She darted glances behind Naomi, Opal, Clay, and me. We were doing our best to block the overskirt from view until Edna arrived.

Opal got her wish about the rising mist. Fog enveloped us. Two forms walked carefully down from the street. Gord was in a suit. Edna wore a long silver gown trimmed with gold spangles.

Clay plugged in the enormous hoopskirt. The twenty-watt lightbulbs came on. He flicked a switch at the back of the waist, and Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” began playing. The skirt’s lights flashed, appearing to dance over the skirt in time to the music

Edna let out peal after peal of laughter. The rest of us joined her.

But not Mrs. Battersby. Her voice cut through our merriment. “No wonder she wouldn’t let me see her gown. That thing is atrocious.” If Mrs. Battersby was always this critical, I understood why Opal and Naomi had been cautious when greeting her.

I almost giggled. Mrs. Battersby’s fashion sense might not be as acute as she seemed to think. Her beige pantsuit was vintage, possibly an outfit she’d inherited from her own mother, and the elastic knit into the polyester fabric known as “double knit” had given out here and there, making the suit strangely warty.

Edna said softly to her mother, “I’m wearing a less elaborate gown to the ceremony, but this is perfect for me to put on over my gown for the reception.”

Mrs. Battersby argued, “You wouldn’t.”

Now I also understood why Haylee had insisted that Edna’s mother had to stay with her instead of with Edna during the week leading up to Edna’s big day.

Gord put an arm around Edna and pulled her closer. “Everyone, come back to my place to toast my little bride and all of her wedding gowns.” He kissed the top of her head.

I’d given Brianna a key to my patio door, but wasn’t happy about leaving my animals alone in the apartment with her. “I’d better walk my dogs.”

Smiling into my eyes, Clay started to say something. That he’d come with me?

I imagined a stroll along the dark riverside trail with him, and maybe a long walk with my two dogs. My heart rate sped up.

However, about a block away, a horn started honking, taps and blasts likely to awaken the zombies a mile away at the Elderberry Bay Lodge. Clay jumped off the bandstand steps and loped up the hill. He called over his shoulder, “I’ll make him stop.” He turned around and added more genially, “I’ll lock the fire station while I’m at it.”

Gord asked me, “You’re sure you won’t come with us?”

Although disappointed that Clay couldn’t stick around, I smiled at Gord. “I’m sure. Another time.”

Edna gazed dreamily at the white overskirt. “I guess it’s all right to leave that fantastic creation here.”

I pointed above it to the banner strung between the bandstand’s pillars.
Threadville Get Ready for Halloween Craft Fair
. “It’s advertising. The police chief said she’d keep an eye on the overskirt during her regular patrols.”

Mrs. Battersby suggested, “Maybe she could use it as target practice. She could shoot that car horn while she’s at it.” She sniffed. “I hope she arrests whoever’s making that racket.”

Maybe she had, or Clay had caught up with whoever had been pounding on the horn. The noise stopped.

Mrs. Battersby placed a hand on her forehead. “That thing gave me a headache. Haylee, take me back to your place so I can lie down.”

“I’d love to come with you, Gord,” Opal said, “but Naomi and I have to go to the classroom in Haylee’s shop. Haylee’s helping us with our bridesmaids’ dresses.” They started up the hill. Gord and Edna followed. Haylee straggled behind them with Mrs. Battersby, who was grousing about people who didn’t know enough not to wake the dead.

I jogged down the hill to the riverside trail.

Mist parted near the river, showing a petite woman in a long white gown. Isis? She reached up among branches drooping from a weeping willow. Something silver glinted in her hand. The woman had chosen an odd time to prune willow trees.

Fog shrouded her again and I shrugged. I suspected that I could try for years to understand Isis, but never succeed.

I felt my way along the dark trail until my backyard appeared out of the mist. Opening the gate, I winced at the cold, dewy metal.

I ran up the hill. Blueberry Cottage was dark, but my apartment was brightly lit. I unlocked the sliding glass door and let my pets out of my bedroom suite. Again, music crashed behind Brianna’s closed door, but between drumbeats, I heard her voice. A light on the phone showed that she was using the cordless receiver I kept in the guest suite.

It was nearly nine thirty. I encouraged the dogs and kittens outside. Mustache and Bow-Tie dug in my flower garden, then puffed themselves up and skittered sideways through the open door and into my apartment. I shut them into the master suite and let the dogs play in my fenced backyard.

Watching Sally-Forth and Tally-Ho, I almost missed the blur sneaking toward the lake along the mist-covered riverside trail. It was a tall person, walking softly as if he or she didn’t want to be seen or heard, and wearing dark slacks and jacket.

It couldn’t have been Haylee. She wouldn’t have avoided the dogs and me. I was almost certain the person was a man, maybe Floyd the zombie or Dare the thriller author.

Fog closed around him. Staring at where he’d been, my dogs raised their noses to test the air. Who had that been, and why had he been creeping around? I dashed up the hill to my patio, opened the sliding door, and grabbed a flashlight and the dogs’ leashes. Brianna’s music blared. The light on my phone showed she was still on the line. I didn’t hear her voice.

I went outside. Unnerved by that furtive person in the mist, I locked the door. My usually adventurous dogs had, for once, followed me up the hill. Had the person inching along the trail alarmed them? I snapped leashes onto their collars.

Pulling my strangely unwilling dogs behind me, I ran down the hill and out the gate to the trail. I couldn’t see anyone in the thick fog.

The river made eerie noises like monsters gulping and swallowing. My flashlight was almost useless in the white air, but when I aimed it down the middle of the trail, something near my fence caught my eye—a greenish strand undulating as if it were alive. The world’s longest glowworm? The dogs ignored the thing, but I went closer. I shined my light on it, and it went gray, but when I took the light away, the thing glowed again.

Glow-in-the-dark thread.

Slowly, I turned around. I caught glimpses of it near the fence going both up the river and down, the direction the slinking person had taken. I hadn’t noticed the thread ten minutes earlier when I’d been on my way home, but maybe its glow had worn out, and I’d regenerated it just now with my flashlight.

A scream pierced the fog.

A woman? I started downstream toward the sound, but my dogs were reluctant to do anything besides weave their leashes around my legs.

The woman screamed again.

With some confusion and not much help from Sally and Tally, I sorted us all out and we trotted down the trail toward the park.

In the fog ahead, a wavering glow separated itself from a larger, steadier glow on the hill and wobbled down the slope toward the river.

Sally and Tally became determined to investigate the steep riverbank. Pulling me with them, they veered off the trail and into the mud.

I planted my feet on the slippery slope and whispered their names. They charged up the bank. Tails down, they tried to lead me home.

Again, I untangled their leashes and forced them toward the park.

The smaller glow had gained speed on the downward slope. Metal wheels like casters clattered on concrete. The boat launch and the road to it were the only pavement in that part of the park.

Again, the dogs tried to take me home, but I gave them the hand signal for “stay.” Panting nervously, they leaned against my legs.

What was I seeing? The glowing thing on casters would have to be Edna’s wedding skirt. Could it be traveling downhill by itself? I ran, pulling my reluctant dogs with me.

The woman shrieked again. “Don’t push me! Don’t—”

The scream was bitten off.

The dogs instantly straightened their legs, an effective way of putting on their brakes, and mine, also. Whimpering, Tally-Ho again tried to lead us all home. “Sh,” I cautioned. Holding my breath, I listened.

Metal casters rattled. I heard Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” tinny and distorted by distance, and then a splash and a series of pops.

Both the large glow on the hill and the one that had been heading toward the river dissolved into darkness. The music stopped, also.

The dogs and I were alone in swirling fog.

My flashlight accomplished little besides making the fog appear denser. I crept forward.

It seemed like hours, but was probably only a minute, before I managed to bring my dogs out of the shelter of trees and into the grassy park. I turned off my light. The strand of thread led up the hill toward the now-dark bandstand.

The screams and splashing had been ahead of me.

The dogs’ leashes firmly in one hand and my flashlight in the other, I eased past willows lining the riverbank. My toes found the edge of the boardwalk, and I stepped up onto it. The dogs’ claws clicked on planks.

I called out, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

The dogs panted. Ripples lapped at the riverbank.

Hard soles slapped against pavement up the hill near Lake Street. I yelled, “Come back and help!” The person was quickly putting distance between himself and me.

I couldn’t take time to chase him or her. A woman had screamed, and then I’d heard a splash.

If the woman had fallen into the river, someone needed to rescue her.

Now that the screaming had ended, the dogs were braver. Sniffing, they pulled me to the concrete boat ramp. I turned on my flashlight and swept its beam in front of me.

Clay’s orange extension cord led up the hill toward the bandstand, but at the foot of the hill where the dogs and I were, the cord went to the base of the boat launch and disappeared underwater.

The unsewn end of a frill trimmed with lace floated next to the cord. I snapped off my flashlight. Bits of glow-in-the-dark thread showed up. I turned the light on again and aimed it farther out.

A whitish blur rolled downriver in sluggish underwater currents.

T
he extravagant overskirt we had constructed for Edna was now near the bottom of the river, and it couldn’t have gotten there by itself.

Someone must have pushed it out of the bandstand and started it down the ramp. And the wheeled skirt couldn’t have zigzagged down the switchbacking ramp to the boardwalk and from there to the boat launch by itself, either. It would have scooted off the ramp and tipped over.

Someone had guided it down the hill at least as far as the straight, sloping concrete boat launch.

I wanted to believe that pranksters had shoved the skirt into the water, and that no one had been hurt, but the terrified scream kept echoing through my mind.
Don’t push me!
A woman’s voice, but panic had reshaped it, and I hadn’t recognized it.

Had Edna returned and tried on the huge overskirt? Had someone pushed it, with her inside it, down the slope and into the river? If so, had she scrambled out before the skirt sank?

Remembering how the woman’s voice had carried through the damp air, I again called, “Is anyone there? Help!” I shined my flashlight on the misty river. Bubbles broke on the surface above the white blur, still rolling downriver.

I stooped and yanked at Clay’s extension cord. I managed to lift it a couple of inches from the water, and I seemed to pull it toward me, but its reel had turned easily earlier in the evening, and I was probably merely unwinding the extension cord, not hauling the heavy skirt in.

Tally-Ho and Sally-Forth sniffed the boat ramp. I shined my light on partial footprints. Had someone run away from the river and up the hill, perhaps on tiptoe?

Tally raised his head, stared toward the dark bandstand, and whimpered.

Was someone up there? The woman who had screamed?

Hoping she was, I again shouted for help.

No answer.

Taking shortcuts by leaping over parts of the switchbacking plank ramp, I rocketed up the hill. The dogs ran as fast as their leashes would let them. They arrived at the now-dark bandstand a second before I did.

The bandstand was empty except for a half-full spool of glow-in-the-dark thread, the quilted label that said
Edna’s Wedding Skirt
, and a handful of ten-inch-long willow wands, lined up as if someone had placed them there carefully.

And Clay’s extension cord, still plugged in.

I’d seen a flash and heard the popping and tinkling of glass, and I was almost positive that the hot bulbs would have exploded when they hit the cold water, which would probably have caused the electrical circuit to short out. The bandstand’s fairy lights were dark, but I unplugged the cord anyway, in case a circuit might still be live.

Knowing I was calling in a possibly false alarm, I dialed 911 and babbled to the dispatcher that someone might have fallen into the river. She told me to stay on the line.

“I . . . I have to call someone.” I wanted to be certain that Edna had
not
been inside that skirt when it rolled—or was pushed—into the river.

Sternly, she contradicted me. “I need you to stay on the line. I’m sending police, fire, and ambulance. Don’t go into the water by yourself, and let me know of any developments.”

I agreed. The dogs and I ran down the hill to the foot of the boat launch.

The siren on the fire station’s roof wailed. Haylee would have to leave Mrs. Battersby and run to the fire station. Maybe Clay, driving his cousin home, would hear the alarm and turn back. Others among our firefighting colleagues would be here soon. I wouldn’t have to cope with this situation—whatever it was—alone.

Impatient for the emergency workers to arrive, I squeezed my hand more tightly around my phone.

I needed to call Edna.
Was she all right?

Tally-Ho growled low in his throat at someone approaching from the direction of the lake.

With his arms angled out in front of his body, Floyd, the zombie in the torn 1930s suit, clomped toward us. In the fire station, Isis had said that Floyd had accused her of casting spells on him, and he hadn’t denied it. I wasn’t frightened, either speakably or unspeakably, but I was glad that I still had the dispatcher on the line.

When Floyd was close, he shouted over the siren, “What’s wrong?”

I shined my light at the river. I could no longer see the white blur and the end of the frill, but the extension cord was still heading underwater. “Someone may have fallen in.”

The dispatcher asked, “Who are you talking to, Willow?”

“A . . .” I stopped myself from telling her I was talking to a zombie. She’d be certain I’d made a crank call. “A passerby.”

“Don’t go into the water even with one other person there,” she ordered.

Floyd grabbed the flashlight from my hand. “Maybe they swam to shore.” He shined the beam up and down the river. He probably didn’t notice that he licked his lips.

I couldn’t see anyone on the opposite bank, and the near one was steep and hidden by weeping willows.

Floyd handed me the light. “No one’s there, but go ahead and dive in for a better look. I’ll hold your dogs for you.”

Until that moment, I’d found the zombies around Threadville amusing, but with his dripping blood, shot-up suit, hungry smacking of lips, and cold eyes, Floyd was beginning to give me a fright. I hadn’t appreciated the way he’d grabbed my flashlight, and I didn’t trust him with my pets or anything else. Besides, his hard-soled dress shoes could have been the ones I’d heard pounding up Lake Street. He could have circled down to the beach in hopes that I wouldn’t guess that he had run away from this spot only minutes ago, after he pushed that giant skirt—with someone in it—into the river.

Usually, I felt safer when my dogs were with me, but they were obviously wary of Floyd and were again trying to tug me home. I desperately wanted to let them do it.

But I couldn’t leave until I was certain that no one was in trouble in the river. Behind my back, I made the hand signal for “speak.” Sally let out a volley of barks so loud and abrupt that Floyd stepped back. Maybe Sally’s bark was worse than Floyd’s bite. How reassuring.

The siren continued blaring. Tally-Ho let out that one woof that said someone else was coming.

Lenny, the surfer zombie, sprinted up from the beach. I told him that someone may have tumbled into the river. He threw his towel down on the concrete ramp and stepped out of his flip-flops. The frayed rope tied around his ankle seemed realistically hideous in the foggy darkness. He waded into the river and grabbed the extension cord.

I yelled, “Wait. Help is coming.”

Naturally, the dispatcher wanted to know what was going on.

“Another passerby,” I said.

In the dim light, Lenny’s whitewashed face looked both wan and determined. “I’m a lifeguard. I know what I’m doing. There’s a life ring on a post right behind you. Toss it to me?”

Holding one end of the rope attached to the life ring, I tossed the ring to Lenny.

He clamped it under one arm. With his other hand on the extension cord, he walked down the ramp and then floated, kicking his feet, out onto the river. I was not going to let Lenny out of my sight. Or the rope out of my hands.

Floyd called to him, “You’ll ruin your makeup!” To me, he muttered, “That guy can’t stay in character.”

I snapped, “It’s an emergency.”

Floyd’s voice sounded almost as lifeless as the zombie he was portraying. “You told me someone
may
have fallen in. So you don’t know if it’s an emergency or not.”

“We have to treat it like it is.”

I let my flashlight’s beam rake the top of Floyd’s black leather shoes before aiming it down the ramp and, from there, across the mist-covered water to Lenny.

During the fleeting moment I’d looked away from Lenny, I’d made out water droplets dotting the streaks of fake blood on the toes of Floyd’s polished black leather shoes. If he had pushed the wedding skirt into the river, water could have splashed his shoes. And was all of that red stuff smeared on Floyd fake, or could some of it have been real blood, acquired only minutes ago?

But Floyd might not be the only one with wet toes . . .

I slipped my phone into a pocket and the dogs’ leashes over my wrist. Holding my flashlight and the rope attached to the life ring in one hand, I casually stooped and felt around with my other hand for Lenny’s flip-flops.

The toes felt wet.

Without glancing away from Lenny, I straightened his flip-flops beside his towel. Maybe Floyd wouldn’t catch on that I was snooping. He might merely think that I liked order.

Either of the zombies could have left damp spots on the concrete. Both of them had come from near the lake, though, which could have explained why their shoes were wet. I straightened and placed my phone against my ear again.

Where was Edna, and was she all right?