Wicked Stitch (18 page)

A
fter lunch, I went back to working on the shirt I’d been embellishing with blackwork. My customer would be here later this afternoon, and I wanted to have the shirt ready for her. Besides, I didn’t need to keep obsessing over Nellie’s attack and Clara’s strangulation and the murder of Joe Palmer—someone I’d never even met.

I worked steadily and finished the shirt sooner than I’d thought I would. I folded it neatly and placed it in a Seven-Year Stitch bag. I was quite productive when I wasn’t trying to solve murders.

In anticipation of finishing this shirt, I’d brought another. I was just getting ready to start on it when a text came in from Ted.

Clara’s husband died of a heart attack.

I texted back:
Did he have a history of heart disease?

I felt like Michael Corleone from one of the
Godfather
movies. “Just when I think I’m out, they keep pulling me back in!” Now here I was thinking about the murders again.

Ted answered my text with
No
.

I called him. “Is it a good time for you to talk?”

“I have a minute,” he said carefully. “But, Marce, lots of people with no prior history of heart disease suffer heart attacks and die every day.”

“But this is all too coincidental, don’t you think?” I asked.

“It is, but coincidences
do
happen,” he said.

“Did you look at the autopsy report?”

“Yes. The cause of death was myocardial infarction.”

I blew out a breath. “Did the coroner check for toxins?”

“Of course. Babe, I think you’re looking for something that isn’t there to find,” he said.

“Maybe I am,” I said. “But I can’t help feeling all of this is connected somehow. And it all leads back to”—I shifted to a whisper—“you know who. Come to think of it, what if the dad was poisoned but
you know who
had intended to kill Clara? That makes more sense, don’t you think?”

“I really do think you’re stretching, Inch-High, but I’ll call the coroner of record and get his opinion on all of this. Deal?”

“That’s all I ask,” I said. “I learned from the very best, you know. And you taught me not to leave a single stone unturned.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he said. “On the off chance you’re right about this, I’ll never hear the end of it, will I?”

“Eventually.” I laughed. “I hope I’m wrong. But I just . . . I’ve got a feeling . . . you know?”

“Yes . . . I know.”

He sounded exasperated, but I also thought he seemed pleased with me at the same time.

After ending the call, I returned to my blackwork, content to embroider and wait on customers the rest of the day.

*   *   *

It was nearly closing time—for me, anyway, because I had class to teach at the Stitch. Since I’d canceled yesterday evening’s class, I’d scheduled that class and this one together. The joint class would still be smaller than the blackwork class, and most of the stitchers in both classes were experienced enough that they didn’t need a great deal of help at this point.

I was tidying up my booth when Amelia arrived. Herodias was perched on her left arm.

“Hi,” I said. “I see Miss Herodias is back where she belongs.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Amelia. “Are you getting ready to leave?”

“In a few minutes,” I said. “I have a class to teach tonight at the Seven-Year Stitch, but I don’t have to leave yet.”

“I’ve decided I don’t want to wait,” she said. “How long does it take you to make one of those shirts with the blackwork on the collar and cuffs?”

“Only a few hours.”

“Well, put me down for one. Do you think you can have it ready by next Sunday?” she asked. “I want to wear it when I go onstage with Herodias. We’re doing a show before the play performance.”

“No problem,” I said. “I’ll put a rush on it and have it for you by
this
Sunday.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate that. Herodias, tell Marcy good-bye.”

Herodias pierced me with a stare.

“Bye, Herodias! See you tomorrow!”

After Amelia and Herodias had left the merchants’ building, Sister Mary Alice popped her head around the side of the booth.

“That little falcon girl is crazy about that bird, isn’t she?” she asked.

“She is,” I agreed. “I guess we all get kinda silly over our pets. Do you have any?”

She shook her head. “Not currently. The older I get, the more I realize I’m doing well to take care of myself. Have a good evening.”

“You, too.”

I gave the booth one last look, and then I left. I’d been so excited about this Renaissance Faire. Now every day I dreaded coming to it, and every day I was thrilled to be leaving. I’d be happy when the whole affair was over.

When I got home, I fed Angus and then changed out of my Ren Faire costume into jeans and a red, long-sleeved T-shirt. I was about to call Ted to ask whether he’d be here for dinner when he pulled into the driveway.

I kissed him hello and asked if toast, eggs, and bacon were all right for dinner.

“Sounds terrific to me.”

“It’s quick, and I need to hurry and get back to the Stitch for tonight’s class,” I said.

“That’s right, you have the double class tonight,” he said. “You should’ve called and had me pick up something.”

“This will be even better.”

“Then at least let me do the cooking.” He took off his suit jacket and tie and hung them on a hook in the foyer. He rolled his sleeves up to his forearms as we went into the kitchen.

“We’ll do it together,” I said. “I don’t want bacon grease popping out onto your good clothes.”

“I could take them off.”

I laughed. “Even worse! That could be horribly painful!”

“So I talked to the coroner.” He got out a nonstick frying pan and the eggs. “How many eggs do you want?”

“Two, please,” I said. “Did you find out anything good?”

“He did a routine toxicology screen; but given Clara’s husband’s advanced age, he only tested for the usual stuff.” He cracked five eggs into the pan. “Fried or scrambled?”

“Whichever you prefer. Two slices of toast?”

“Please. I’m going with scrambled because I’m not great at flipping fried eggs,” he said.

I kissed his cheek. “You’re great at everything.” I put the bread into the toaster. “So the coroner tested for what? Stuff like arsenic and . . .?”

“And old lace.”

“Ha, ha, Mr. Sarcasm. So you’re saying he didn’t check for anything . . . I don’t know . . . like insulin or something?”

“No, but an insulin spike would’ve shown up,” he said, stirring the eggs with a silicone spatula. “He didn’t rule out the fact that Clara’s husband could’ve been poisoned, either on purpose or accidentally. But the cause of death was a heart attack. He didn’t feel the attack had been induced, given the evidence he had at hand.”

“Well, thanks for looking into it.” I got out another frying pan. “When you’re finished with the eggs, step aside and I’ll fry the bacon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I like it when you’re authoritative.”

“But not
investigative
, right?”

“I like that, too.” He winked. “I just worry that you’ll get in over your head.”

“I know.”

*   *   *

Class went well, but I was really tired when it was over. I wasn’t sure if my fatigue was more mental or physical, but either way I was ready to curl up in bed with Angus by my side and watch some goofy sitcom until we fell asleep.

I quickly tidied up the shop and was about to step outside when Sister Mary Alice came through the front door. She’d ditched her habit for black pants and a maroon sweater.

“Hi,” I said. “You’re too late for the class.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” She looked around the shop. “Your place really is charming.”

“Thank you.” I frowned. “Is there a specific reason you stopped by?”

“I was in the neighborhood, saw that you were
here, and I thought I’d get a tour of the place since you were in the midst of a party the last time I dropped in.” She nodded toward the hallway. “What’s back there?”

“Just the storeroom, bathroom, and my office.”

“Show me,” she said.

“Not tonight,” I said. “I’m really beat, and I need to get home. I’ll be glad to show you around some other time.” I was starting to wish desperately that I’d brought Angus with me.

She smiled, although it was more a thin, malicious line than anything remotely expressing kindness. “You meddle where you shouldn’t, you know. Didn’t you tell your boyfriend that even the fortune-tellers warned you about sticking your nose into other people’s business?”

“I did,” I said. “You have excellent hearing. And speaking of my boyfriend, I wonder what’s keeping him? He should be here by now.”

“Should he? Or are you merely hoping?”

I wanted to spin around and run out the back door, but I was afraid to turn my back on her. What if she had a gun? She’d shoot me before I could take two steps.

“No, he should be here,” I said. “My Jeep was making a funny sound when I got here, and he promised to come follow me home.”

“Why did you keep pushing for answers about Clara and her husband and Marcus West and things that shouldn’t concern you in the least?” she asked. “I tried to frighten you into leaving well enough alone.”

“You? You tried to frighten me?” I frowned. “Did you destroy my booth?”

“Yes. And yet you didn’t have enough sense to heed the warning,” said Mary Alice.

“Why did Nellie confess, then?” I asked.

“Because I told her to. That day that she came by her booth. I saw that the vandalism wasn’t going to keep you away from the festival. So I told Nellie that if she didn’t want to end up like her sister, she’d confess to trashing your booth.” She scoffed. “And then she got that lawyer, and I became concerned about what she’d tell him.”

“So you”—I gulped—“you hit her?”

She nodded. “Dressing up like Marcus was a diversionary tactic, although I’m pretty sure she knew it was me.”

“Are you Lacey Palmer’s sister?” I asked softly.

“Ding, ding, ding! Score one for the meddlesome miss!”

“Your father’s death was an accident, wasn’t it? Whatever happened to him . . . that was supposed to have been Clara,” I said.

“Hon, I’m not confessing
all
my sins to you,” she said. “I’m the nun, remember?”

“Why are you here, Mary Alice?” I asked.

“You know.”

My eyes widened at the sight of the young rookie Officer Moore on the sidewalk. If only I could get his attention!

“You don’t think I’m dumb enough to fall for the old
someone’s behind you
ploy, do you?” asked Mary Alice.

Officer Moore walked into the shop.

The jingling bells alerted Mary Alice, and she whirled around. She went to take something from her purse, and Officer Moore drew his gun and ordered her to drop the bag.

She did as she was told.

“You don’t know how happy I am to see you!” I exclaimed to him. “What are you doing here?”

“Security detail,” he said. “Someone has been watching over you ever since your booth got messed up.”

“Well, thank you,” I said.

“Glad I could help.” He cuffed Mary Alice and began reading her her Miranda rights.

My trembling legs finally gave out and I collapsed onto the sofa.

I
didn’t gloat to Ted over being right about Lacey Palmer’s sibling being behind the murders—at least, I didn’t gloat for long. Although she hadn’t admitted it to me, Mary Alice told Manu that her father’s death had indeed been an accident. She knew from Lacey that Clara was in the habit of taking two aspirin every day for her heart, so during a visit to see her father while Clara was out getting groceries, Mary Alice had emptied the bottle and put two of her pills for hypertension into the aspirin bottle. They looked enough alike that she didn’t think Clara would notice the difference. Of course, that
would
have to be the day that her father got a headache and took the “aspirin” himself.

She, Lacey, and their two brothers had suffered a horrible childhood with parents who were alternately abusive and neglectful. The brothers were older, and they both got out of the home as soon as they could. Mary Alice took it upon herself to care for her sister. She’d spent her life trying to pave a smoother way for Lacey.

She’d poisoned Joe Palmer with antifreeze. Then she’d cast suspicion on Marcus West for that crime. She’d accidentally killed their father, who’d tried to reform and be decent to his children in his old age. And she’d killed Clara.

Whether Lacey Palmer was complicit in any of her sister’s actions remained to be seen. That would be up to a grand jury to decide.

Officer Moore got his photo in the paper and a glowing write-up by Paul Samms hailing him as a hero.

Nellie stopped by the Seven-Year Stitch the other day to say she was glad I was okay. I nearly fainted. I don’t think we’ll ever be besties, but maybe we’ll be able to act civilly—dare I say kindly?—toward each other from now on. . . .

Yeah . . . I’m not holding my breath.

I
 reached down and patted the head of my Irish wolfhound, Angus. At only two years old, he still had a lot of puppy in him, but he was mannerly and well-behaved. The patrons of my embroidery shop, the Seven-Year Stitch, loved him.

“Can you believe we’ve been here in Tallulah Falls for almost a year?” I asked him. I jerked my head in the direction of Jill, the mannequin-slash–Marilyn Monroe lookalike that stood by the cash register. “Jill says she can’t.” I looked at her as if she’d actually said something. “What’s that, Jill? That what you can’t believe is how I haven’t dressed you in a beautiful new dress befitting the occasion?” I blew out a breath. “All in good time, Jill. All in good time.”

Okay, so maybe having a mom who was a Hollywood costume designer led me to do more than my fair share of play-pretend as a child, and maybe . . . just
maybe
 . . . that trait had followed me over into adulthood. But I got lonely when I was the only person in the store. And when the only “people” around to talk with were Angus and Jill, I made do. Besides, I was pretty sure that Angus not only understood every word I said but that he communicated with me, too. He had such expressive eyes. And that smile! With Jill, you just had to make it all up as you went and hope she wasn’t one of those cursed paranormal items that would come to life and try to kill you one day.

So on
that
creepy thought, I gazed around the store and firmly directed my thoughts back to my upcoming anniversary open house. Since it was October 1, Jill was wearing a witch costume. She wasn’t scary—she was more of a Samantha from
Bewitched
type. Before the open house, I planned to change her into either a white or pink dress—more Marilyn than Sam.

Everything else in the store would probably be all right as is, other than tidying up and borrowing a few folding chairs from the library. Since I was good friends with the librarian, Rajani “Reggie” Singh, I didn’t think that would be a problem. Under normal circumstances, I had plenty of seating in my sit-and-stitch square—two navy sofas that faced each other across an oval maple coffee table, a red club chair at either end of the table, and ottomans matching the chairs. I wondered briefly whether I should
shampoo the red and blue braided rug that lay beneath the table, but I decided a thorough vacuuming would be fine.

I turned to the merchandise part of the store, where I’d been marking down prices and placing specials on the shelf nearest the door. I looked with a critical eye over the embroidery projects that lined the walls. Should I add more? Take a few down? There was the redwork swan, the Celtic cross, the sampler I’d made from Louisa Ralston’s original, the bunny done in crewelwork, the Bollywood-inspired elephant, the pirate map tapestry, the cross-stitched bride. . . . With a slight smile, I decided to leave them all. I didn’t think it was necessary to add another one—yet—but there weren’t any I wanted to take down.

I went over to the sit-and-stitch square, moved aside one of the candlewick pillows, and plopped down on the navy sofa facing the storefront window. I’d come a long way in the past year, professionally and personally. Just before I moved here, I’d adopted Angus, and we were living in an apartment in San Francisco, where I worked in an accounting office. Then Sadie MacKenzie had called and urged me to come to Tallulah Falls and open my own embroidery shop. Sadie had been my best friend and roommate in college. She and her husband, Blake, had a coffee shop called MacKenzies’ Mochas right down the street from the Stitch. She hadn’t had to twist my arm, and despite my ups and downs in Tallulah Falls, I was happier here than I’d ever been.

I’d barely sat down when Vera Langhorne came through the door.

“Good morning, Marcy,” she said.

“Hi,” I said as Angus trotted over to greet Vera.

She scratched his head and cooed to him for a minute before joining me on the sofa. Vera had also come a long way in the year I’d known her. She was no longer the mousy brunette in baggy clothes whom I’d met when I had first arrived in Tallulah Falls. Now she wore her hair blond with subtle highlights, and she always dressed with style and class. Today she wore gray slacks, black pumps, and a royal blue short-sleeved sweater twinset.

“You’ll never believe what’s coming in next door to you,” she said.

“Please tell me that whatever it is won’t be operated by a relative of Nellie Davis,” I said, with a groan.

Nellie Davis owned the aromatherapy shop down the street, and she and I had never been friends. Heck, we’d hardly been civil. I’d tried over the past year to warm up our relationship, but Nellie was convinced that all the mishaps that had befallen Tallulah Falls had coincided with my arrival and that either me or my shop—or both—was cursed. She’d been so antagonistic toward me that she’d recently talked her sister, Clara, into renting the space next to the Seven-Year Stitch—a knitting shop, no less, where she’d also planned to sell embroidery supplies! Unfortunately, Clara had met with a bad end, and the shop was once again for lease. Well, not anymore, it seemed.

“It’s gonna be a haunted house!” Vera clapped her hands in excitement. “Won’t that be fun? They’re only here for the month of October, but from what they told Paul, they plan to do it up right.”

Vera was dating Paul Samms, a reporter for the
Tallulah Falls Chronicle
.

“They’re going to take the first few days of the month to decorate and move in all their creepy crawly stuff, and the actual haunted house is going to open the following weekend,” she continued.

I frowned. “Are they going to be open only during the weekends? If so, how will they make enough to justify renting the building?”

“According to Paul, after that opening weekend, they’re going to be open every night,” said Vera. “So they believe—and so do I—that they’ll make their rent back many times over. They’ll have special events throughout the month to draw repeat business, like themed costume contests, local celebrities—news anchors and people like that. Paul might even be one.
And
they’re having concessions!”

“They’re having concessions at a haunted house? That seems a little odd.”

“I’m surprised Sadie hasn’t mentioned it to you. She and Blake are in charge of the food.”

“Neither of them has said a word to me,” I said. “How will that work? I can’t imagine where they’ll find the time to run a concession stand on top of operating a busy coffee shop.”

“Paul says they’re going to do fairly simple
stuff—caramel apples, popcorn and kettle corn, cookies, some hot chocolate and a couple of other beverages, maybe—and the patrons have to eat outside the actual haunted house,” said Vera. “The haunted house operators don’t want to wind up with a colossal mess. And one of the MacKenzies’ Mochas waitresses will work the haunted house each night. So it really shouldn’t interfere with Sadie and Blake’s schedules all that much.”

“Cool.”

“You don’t look like you really feel that it’s all that cool,” Vera said. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just concerned about how it will affect my evening classes,” I told her. “Some of my students are a little older—like Muriel—and I wouldn’t want her to be frightened or put it off if she hears a ton of screaming going on next door.”

Vera laughed. “Sweetie, you know Muriel can’t hear herself think. And I don’t know that it’ll be
that
disruptive. Maybe you could put on some music or something.”

Oh, sure, I thought. That would be great—blaring music to drown out the screaming teenagers next door.

“Besides, you might enjoy going to the haunted house with Ted.” Vera winked.

“I’m not saying it won’t be fun,” I said. “I guess I’m just being selfish. How will this affect me . . . Angus . . . my students . . . my open house?”

“That’s right! Your anniversary’s coming up!” Vera clasped her hands together. “What are we doing for that?”

“I thought I’d have special sales and markdowns for the two weeks leading up to the open house. And I want to have gift bags for open house attendees.” I leaned forward. “But I’m struggling with what to put in the bags. Any suggestions?”

Vera looked up at the ceiling. “Well . . . you could put something different into every bag—like a coupon. Each coupon would be for a different amount off a particular item or the customer’s entire purchase. And you could have
one
coupon for a free item within a particular price range.”

“That’s a fantastic idea,” I said.

She smiled at me. “Don’t sound so surprised, darling.”

“I’m not surprised.” I laughed. “Honest. I’ve simply been pondering over what I can give out that will appeal to everyone and not break the bank. The coupons are a wonderful idea.”

“Sure,” she said. “And you can put candies . . . teeny little sewing kits . . . maybe those braided friendship bracelets the kids like. . . .”

“You have a ton of fantastic ideas, Vera Langhorne! You should be an event planner.”

Vera laughed. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Just then, Reggie hurried into the shop. Although she was beautifully dressed in an Indian-style coral tunic with matching slacks, Reggie’s normally elegantly coifed short gray hair looked as if she’d barely taken time to brush it that morning.

“Have you heard?” she asked us. “Somebody’s doing a haunted house next to your shop, Marcy!”

“That’s what Vera was telling me,” I said, my smile fading. “I’m getting the feeling you’re not in favor of haunted houses?”

She dropped onto the sofa across from Vera and me. Angus came and placed his head on the arm of the sofa closest to Reggie. She patted his head absently.

“I’m in favor of the
library’s
haunted house,” she said. “It’s one of our biggest annual fund-raisers. And now this fancy group is going to come in and ruin it for us.”

“No, they won’t,” Vera said. “Their haunted house isn’t geared toward small children. It’s more for teens and adults. Paul interviewed the event organizers, and they told him all about it. Your haunted house is supposed to be funny and sweet. Theirs is supposed to be scary as heck!”

“You truly don’t think their haunted house will have an impact on our fund-raiser?” Reggie asked.

“I know it won’t,” Vera said. “In fact, I’ll insist that Paul give the library equal time. I’ll see when he can drop in at the library and do a story on
your
haunted house. I’ll make sure he emphasizes the importance of the fund-raiser for the library’s annual budget. How does that sound?”

“That sounds terrific, Vera. Thank you.” Reggie smoothed her hair. “I’m sorry that I allowed the news of the new haunted house to upset me so badly. It isn’t like me at all.” She turned toward me. “How do you feel about having a funhouse right next door, Marcy?”

“I’m not terribly happy about it,” I said. “I’m afraid it’ll drive Angus and my students crazy.”

“She was particularly concerned about the effect all the screaming might have on poor Muriel,” Vera said. “I told her that Muriel probably wouldn’t notice any more than she can hear.”

“True, but I see Marcy’s point,” said Reggie. “At least they won’t be disturbing your business during daylight hours.”

“That’s true,” I said. “And it’s only for a month. What real harm can it do?”

When would I ever learn to stop asking that
question?