Authors: Amanda Lee

The Quick and the Thread (28 page)

BOOK: The Quick and the Thread

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I opened the bathroom door, and Angus jumped up onto his hind legs to give me a hug. When he does that, he’s a foot taller than I am. I hugged him and told him what a good boy he was.

He dropped back onto all fours, retrieved his chew toy, and trotted into the shop. Before he could discover the open container of chamomile tea and spill it all over my braided rug, I hurried to the sitting area and got the cup and Ms. Ralston’s sampler. I placed the sampler on the counter and went to the bathroom to pour the remainder of the tea down the sink before tossing the cup in the garbage.

I returned to the counter and sat down on a stool. Standing near the cash register was Jill, who’s a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe.

I sighed. “Rough morning, eh, Jill?”

She simply smiled like she didn’t have a care in the world. That’s because she doesn’t. She’s a mannequin, and she’d smile even if the building were burning down around her.

Maybe I should paint a permanent smile on my face.

Batman’s archvillain the Joker sprang to mind.

Er, maybe not.

I picked up the phone and called Sadie. After explaining the situation, I asked if she’d mind watching the store and Angus for just a few minutes while I went to the hospital to check on Ms. Ralston and return her sampler. Sadie said she’d be over as soon as she helped Blake get some tables cleaned up.

As I waited, I studied the sampler. It had an alphabet in Victorian-style letters—both upper and lowercase—at the top, followed by the numbers one through ten. In the center of the sampler was a primitive house and trees, the kind of artwork you might find on a child’s stencil.

The sides were little squares made to look like quilt blocks, and at the bottom was a verse:
His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object.

I realized I’d love to make a pattern for it, and make a copy to display in the shop.

I looked around at the pieces currently on display, all of which I’d made myself. The candlewick pillows on the sofa, dolls wearing dresses I’d sewn and embroidered, finished cross-stitch and needlework projects for every holiday and every season. . . . One more sampler couldn’t hurt.

Besides, a copy of this sampler would not only be beautiful; it would also have historical significance. I could put a plaque with the finished piece giving a brief history of embroidery samplers in general and an account of this particular sampler. Maybe Ms. Ralston would let me do that in memory of her great-grandmother. I planned on asking her when I visited her at the hospital.

I gently folded the sampler back into the tissue paper, taking care because the threads were faded and the cloth was delicate. I realized this beautiful piece of history should be framed and hanging in a museum somewhere. I made a mental note to suggest that to Ms. Ralston . . . after I asked permission to copy the pattern.

Sadie strode through the door with a tall cup in her hand. “Your tea,” she said, pushing back her hood to reveal her dark hair. “Since you gave yours to the sick customer.”

I accepted the steaming cup gratefully. “Thank you so much.”

“Besides, you’ll need it to knock off the chill. The rain is coming down fairly hard again.”

“Thank you,” I repeated. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

“Take your time. Things are slow at the shop this morning. I’ll have much more fun over here playing with Angus.”

At the sound of his name, Angus dropped his chew toy and loped over to Sadie. She vigorously scratched his head.

“By the way,” Sadie said as I started out the door, “your tea came from the same pot as your customer’ s. So if you start feeling queasy, call me, would you?”

“Yeah . . . and thanks for that shot of paranoia.” I hadn’t even thought that the tea could have had anything to do with Ms. Ralston’s collapse.

“Well, hey, I’m just trying to be on the safe side.”

“The safe side would’ve poured out the tea if there were any concerns about it,” I said, “not given it to the safe side’s best friend.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I tasted yours, and it seems fine. Besides, you did say the old gal was sickly, which is why you gave her your tea in the first place.”

“Good point. I’m sure everything is fine . . . with the tea and with Ms. Ralston.”

That statement would come back to bite me—and to remind me that one is seldom sure of anything. Upon my arrival at the Tallulah Falls Medical Center, I learned Ms. Ralston was dead.