The Quick and the Thread (6 page)

I closed up the shop at five p.m. and placed a sign in the window that I’d be back at seven. I desperately needed a respite from the stress of the past few days, so I took Angus down to the beach so we could walk along the shore. I unhooked the dog’s leash to allow him to run on ahead and play while I strolled. The rhythmic crash of the waves was soothing. I smiled at a black oyster-catcher as it waddled to a tide pool and dug in its orange bill to scrounge for food. Angus turned and ran back for a hug from me before scampering down the beach again. He’s such a good dog.

Back when I worked at the accounting firm, Pat, one of our clients, had been fined and ordered to get rid of some of her dogs or face jail time. I’d heard that Pat was a dog breeder and that she sold Yorkshire terriers. I wanted a little female Yorkie I could name Dahlia and adorn with pink hair bows.

Our boss, Mr. Ely, had sent a few of us over to see what we could do to help. When we arrived at Pat’s palatial home, I was impressed. The place was gorgeous. Surely her kennels must rival those of the Westminster Kennel Club. Pat took us out back, where the true state of the kennels broke my heart. Her operation was little more than a puppy mill.

One scruffy gray puppy cowered in a tiny cage by himself. He was not a Yorkie; he was actually an Irish wolfhound. But he needed me.

“It’s all right,” I’d cooed softly, my eyes filling with tears. I reached into the cage and pulled him out, cuddling him to me. “I’ll take you with me and give you a great home.” The very thought literally warmed my heart, or so I thought, until I realized the puppy had peed all over me.

I did have the best of intentions when I took him home. And I adored this puppy I’d dubbed Sir Angus O’Ruff. But I’d gotten him a year ago—not long after the boyfriend bust-up—and he’d pretty much outgrown my small apartment. Sadie had been right when she’d said the move here would do him good. I was hoping it would do me good, too.

I’d thought David—the boyfriend—and I would be married and on our way to happily ever after by now. Too bad he was a commitment-phobe . . . and
really
too bad he didn’t realize that before the dress was bought, the invitations were sent, and the church was booked. Mom still thought I was moving to Oregon to escape the embarrassment. I kept telling her I was over it, but I have to admit, the thought of getting out of the same state where David and our mutual, pitying friends lived was a comfort.

“Marcy!”

I turned to see a woman wearing jeans rolled to the knees. She was still too far away for me to recognize, so I started walking to meet the woman halfway.

“I don’t want to disturb your walk,” the woman said. “I just want to make sure we’re still on for class this evening.”

When I got closer to the woman, I could see it was Vera Langhorne. I smiled. “Yes, Vera. We’ll be having class at seven.”

“Oh, good. I was worried that with the tragedy and all, you might have decided to cancel.”

I distinctly remembered leaving a message on Vera’s answering machine, but I knew firsthand how fickle electronic devices could be. “Nope. We’re still on.”

Vera smiled. “I’m glad. I’m sorry for what happened to Timothy, of course, but I’ve been looking forward to this class.” She lifted and dropped her shoulders. “I’ve been searching for a creative outlet, if you will.”

“Well, I hope you’ll be pleased with the class and that it gives you the opportunity to tap into your artistic side.”

“I do, too,” Vera said with a girlish giggle. “I signed up for the cross-stitch tote bag project.”

“Oh, that’s great. Since the holidays are coming up in a couple of months, I thought we could make some as gifts. You know, either for ourselves or our friends and relatives, or to give to the women’s shelter or girls’ club.”

“Or all of the above!”

I laughed at Vera’s enthusiasm. “Then I’d better get to the shop early and make sure I have enough supplies.”

 

 

Less than two hours later, I was surveying my eager group. Vera, the most eager, was sitting on the edge of her seat with an open notebook on her lap. Reggie Singh sat beside her, and Mrs. Trelawney sat beside Reggie. On the other navy sofa, the honey-haired girl who’d developed such a rapport with Angus sat beside her mother. Angus sat at the girl’s feet with his head resting on her knee. I later learned the girl’s name was Amber and her mother was Julie. I sat on the red chair with my materials spread out on the ottoman.

“For this project,” I said, “we’re going to cross-stitch a design on a canvas tote bag.” I held up a couple of the bags. “As you can see, these come in a variety of colors, or you can choose the natural color. Either way, our first order of business is to use a fabric marker to create a cross-stitch grid where we’ll be making our design.”

Vera wrote furiously in her notebook, and Mrs. Trelawney asked for directions to the bathroom.

As Mrs. Trelawney ambled off, I said, “You can choose the color of your tote bag based on the pattern you like.” I’d directed the comment to Amber, thinking the girl might want a tote in bright pink or fluorescent green. She merely looked a little blankly at me, but Vera wrote the comment down, making me feel it must’ve been important after all.

Mrs. Trelawney finally wandered back to rejoin the group. She settled onto the sofa and bestowed a smile on everyone—including Angus. In a
Peanuts
-inspired fantasy, I pictured Mrs. Trelawney asking, “Who’s the kid with the dog-biscuit breath, sir? He needs a hair-cut, but he sure can embroider.”

I shook off the image and directed everyone to choose a pattern. “If you haven’t done cross-stitch before, let me know and I’ll be happy to help you find a pattern that won’t be too challenging your first time out.”

Everyone got up and went to look at patterns. Everyone, that is, except Mrs. Trelawney.

“Would you like me to help you pick out a pattern, Mrs. Trelawney?”

“Oh, no, thank you, dear. I’ll just watch and talk . . . and have punch and cookies.”

I slowly bobbed my head and made a mental inventory of what I had in my desk that could conceivably constitute punch and cookies. Where had Mrs. Trelawney gotten the idea there would be refreshments served at this class? With a stiff smile, I excused myself and went to rifle through my desk. I found a box of oatmeal-raisin granola bars. It was a full box, and I could cut the bars into tiny squares. In my mini fridge, there was some mango juice. Since I had plates, napkins, and cups left over from the open house, I could improvise. By the time everyone—everyone but Mrs. Trelawney—had chosen a cross-stitch pattern, I had refreshments spread out on the counter.

As soon as Mrs. Trelawney had sampled the “cookies and punch,” she informed me that “the cookies are a little tough, but the punch tastes just like mango juice. I like it.”

I thanked her and returned to teaching the class. An hour full of happy chatter and flying fingers later, I’d helped four of my students make cross-stitch grids on their tote bags. And Mrs. Trelawney had drunk all the “punch.” All in all, I suppose it was a successful class.

 

 

My first customer the next morning was Vera Langhorne.

“I couldn’t wait to show you what I got done after I went home last night. John had a council meeting, so he didn’t get home until late. That gave me plenty of time to cross-stitch.” She spread her fuchsia tote bag out on the counter. “What do you think?”

Vera’s design was a teapot, cup, and saucer. So far, she had the middle row and the two rows above it completed.

“That’s coming together really nicely, Vera.”

Vera beamed like a child who’d received a giant smiley face on her homework. “Can I stay here and work for a while? That way, if I hit any snags, you’ll be here to help me.”

“Of course,” I said with a smile. “In fact, I’ll join you.” I took my tote bag, pattern, and thread and joined Vera in the sitting area. My pattern was a likeness of Angus’ scruffy head. I’d made the pattern using a photograph of Angus that had been cropped and copied onto graph paper.

“Does it give you the willies to be here alone now?” Vera asked.

“Not really. Besides, I always have Angus here with me.”

“That’s true.”

“The whole ordeal does boggle the mind, though. It was obvious Mr. Enright was drunk at the open house, although everyone who knew him said he never drank a drop. Then his wife shows up at my house, threatening to sue me.” I shook my head. “It’s been a stressful week.”

“That’s an understatement,” Vera said. “But don’t mind Lorraine Enright—she’s just a bag of hot air. She’d been after Timothy for years to move his store to either somewhere in California or at least Portland, but Timothy wouldn’t budge. I’d have thought she’d see his business closing as an opportunity to finally get what she’d been wanting.”

“She didn’t?”

“No. She up and left Timothy high and dry after twenty-five years of marriage.”

“There had to be something else going on there.”

“You never know with Lorraine. As a matter of fact, she might’ve left in order to force Timothy’s hand on whatever it was she wanted this time.”

“You mean she’d left him before?” I asked.

Vera nodded. “That woman probably has a PhD in manipulation.”

She was quiet for a moment, and I could tell she was counting her stitches. Then Vera looked up and grinned. “Like I said, don’t let Lorraine get to you.”

“I’ll try. By the way, do you know what
four square fifth w
could mean?”

“Possibly.” She frowned. “Four Square is—or, rather, was—a development company. The owners went to jail last year.”

“For what?”

“Fraud. They were in cahoots with a real estate appraiser who was giving them inflated property appraisals.”

I sat back in my chair. “Do you think Timothy Enright could’ve known something about that?”

“I’m sure he did. It was the talk of Tallulah Falls for months. It upset John terribly. He’s a banker, you know.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Do you think Mr. Enright might’ve known something that could have implicated someone else?”

Vera raised her brows. “I don’t know. I suppose he could have.”

Vera and I worked in companionable silence until the bell above the shop door signaled the arrival of another customer. I turned and was somewhat surprised to see Ted Nash walk in.

“Hello, Detective. How may I help you?”

“Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

Vera began stuffing her work into a sewing bag. “That’s okay, Ted. I need to get home and start dinner. You can have my spot here on the sofa.”

“I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Mrs. Langhorne.”

“No trouble at all. Marcy, see you later.” Vera gave Angus a pat on the head before she left.

Detective Nash nodded toward the dog. “Can you do something with him? He makes me uncomfortable.”

I bit back a smart-alecky retort and put Angus in the bathroom. When I returned, the detective had indeed taken Vera’s place on the sofa. I remained standing. “I hope this won’t take long. Angus hates being shut in the bathroom.”

“It shouldn’t take but a few minutes. I would like you to sit down, though.”

I took a seat on the edge of the sofa across from Detective Nash. Somehow it made me feel better to have the coffee table between us.

“I understand from Mrs. Trelawney that her husband intended to stop by here yesterday,” the detective said. “Did you see him?”

“Actually, no. I’d taken Angus for a walk and left Sadie MacKenzie in charge. She mentioned that he dropped in but didn’t stay long.”

Detective Nash jotted down some information in his notebook. “I’ll speak with her about his visit. Mrs. Trelawney indicated you’d called Mr. Trelawney the day before yesterday. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Would you care to disclose the nature of your call?”

“I don’t see why not. I called Mr. Trelawney to see if he knew why Mr. Enright closed his business. Mrs. Enright indicated that Mr. Trelawney was seeking more artistic shops in the plaza.”

“And what was Mr. Trelawney’s response?”

I shrugged. “He said that was ridiculous.”

“Is that all?”

“No. I mentioned what Mr. Enright had scratched onto the wall. It seemed to upset him, and that’s when he said he’d be in to take a look at it. It just so happened he came while Sadie was here.”

“And did Mrs. MacKenzie say anything about Mr. Trelawney’s visit?”

“Only that he was freaked-out about the writing on the wall and wanted it painted over as soon as possible.”

“Okay. Thank you for your time, Ms. Singer. I’ll step next door and speak with Mrs. MacKenzie now. If you think of anything else, you have my card. Right?”

“Right. Um . . . why all the questions about Mr. Trelawney?”

Detective Nash hesitated, then sighed. “You’ll hear about it soon enough, anyway. Mr. Trelawney is dead. He was found shot to death in his car about an hour ago.”

I gasped. “Are you serious?”

“No, Ms. Singer, I enjoy joking about such things. Of course I’m serious. Where were you earlier this morning?”

“I’ve been here since ten a.m. Vera has been here the past hour or so.”

He nodded. “You have no plans to leave town, do you?”

“Of course not!”

“Good. See that you don’t.”

I
hurried to the bathroom as soon as Detective Nash left. My intention was to let Angus out. But when I opened the door, I sank to my knees on the floor and pulled the dog to me. I was trembling, and he began licking my neck and chin.

I heard the bell above the door jingle, but I wanted to regain my composure before facing any customers.

“Marcy?”

That voice was unmistakable. It was Todd’s.

“Just a sec.” I stood and smoothed my khakis. When I went back out front, I found Todd casually leaning against the counter in faded jeans and a red V-neck sweater.