Wicked Stitch (2 page)

O
n a drizzly day exactly one week later, when I took Angus for his midmorning walk, I knew I shouldn’t have walked past Clara’s and Nellie’s shops, but it was a habit. I almost always took Angus up the street to the square. To be perfectly honest, everybody’s dog peed near the base of the large wrought-iron clock. It was a sure bet that Angus would go there, sniff, pee, and be ready to return to the Stitch.

As we were walking back, I saw movers unloading boxes into Clara’s shop. One of them stopped to speak to Angus and to tell me what a handsome dog I had.

I thanked him. “It looks like the proprietor will be setting up shop pretty soon,” I said.

Clara, her meaty arms crossed at her ample bosom, appeared at the door. “That I will, Miss Nosy Pants.”

The movers looked confused and uncomfortable.

“Well . . . good luck,” I said. I was talking more to the movers than I was to Clara.

Angus and I sidestepped the movers and went on back to the Stitch.

We hadn’t been back five minutes when Vera Langhorne stormed into the shop. Fists on her hips, she kept shaking her head and sending her professionally highlighted blond bob flying in all directions.

Angus didn’t know what all the fuss was about, but he sought refuge in his bed beneath the counter.

“I cannot believe this! I can’t believe it!” Vera ranted. “Just who in the world does that Clara think she
is
, setting up a shop called Knitted and Needled? I’d like to needle her right in her big old butt!”

I laughed. “Thank you, Vera. But I’m sure Tallulah Falls can accommodate both an embroidery shop and whatever needlecrafts Clara will be selling.”

She huffed. “I could have Paul do some sort of exposé on Clara. She’s mean as the devil. Surely she’s hiding some deep dark secrets we could use to run her out of town.”

Vera dated Paul Samms, a journalist for the
Tallulah Falls Examiner
.

“That would make us just as bad as she and Nellie are,” I said to Vera. “I appreciate your concern; I really do. But we have more important things to think about. Tell me about your Ren Faire costume.”

Vera’s attitude quickly changed. “Oh, Marcy, it’s incredible. Paul is going as a minstrel, and I’m going as a noble lady. My dress is gold brocade
with a square neckline and rounded shoulder pad thingies with puffy sleeves. And I’m wearing a matching Tudor French hood. I mean, it’s not a hood like you pull up over your head in winter, it’s . . .” She struggled to describe the Renaissance headgear.

“I know exactly what you’re talking about,” I said. “My mom is a costumer, remember?”

“Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I can be dense. Still, it’s a lovely gown, and I just can’t come up with all the words to describe it. You’ll have to see it for yourself.”

“I’m sure it’s beautiful and that you’ll look stunning in it.” I smiled.

“I hope Paul thinks so.” She giggled. “Wait until you see his costume.”

“He’s a minstrel, right?”

She nodded. “But he looks like a little pumpkin in it!”

I joined in her laughter.

“I can’t imagine Paul as a pumpkin,” I said. “He’s too thin.”

“He doesn’t seem to be in that blousy surcoat with the huge white ruffled collar. He’s wearing black tights and black felt shoes with it. Thank goodness he isn’t wearing green tights and that he has nice legs.”

“What instrument is he taking along?”

“A lute,” she said. “And it’s not just for show. He can play the darned thing. I hummed ‘Greensleeves’ all day yesterday after he left the house.”

“I can hardly wait to see the two of you,” I said. “You’ll look wonderful.”

She smiled. “I think it’ll be loads of fun.”

“I started to make Angus one of those huge ruffled collars. I don’t think he’d appreciate it, though.”

“I don’t think he would, either.” She clucked her tongue. “You can come out and see me now, Angus. I’ve calmed down.”

He peeped furtively from behind the counter.

Vera laughed. “Come here, boy. Let me love your sweet head before I leave.”

Angus trotted over and allowed Vera to hug his neck.

“You’re such a good boy,” she said. She pulled back and smoothed the hair out of his big brown eyes. “You’re a good, good boy.”

He rewarded her with a kiss on the nose.

“I forgot to ask. Did you need anything or did you just stop in to rant?” I asked.

“I was mad,” she said. “That’s not to say that I won’t remember something I wanted as soon as I leave, but if I do I’ll be back.”

As Vera stood up to leave, an elderly woman entered the shop. I instinctively took hold of Angus before he could exuberantly greet the newcomer and accidentally knock her down.

“Hello,” I said. “Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch.”

“What a big dog!” the woman exclaimed. “I’ve always loved big dogs. May I pet him?”

“Of course.” I still held Angus. By the looks of
this tiny birdlike woman, a strong breeze would knock her off her feet. A one-hundred-fifty-pound dog could certainly do so.

She came over and patted Angus on the head.

“I’ll talk with you later, Marcy!” Vera called on her way out the door.

“I’ve come to ask if you have any Point de Beauvais embroidery patterns or kits,” the woman said.

“I don’t have either,” I said, “but I’ll be happy to order something for you. Let’s go into my office and see what’s available from my distributors.”

“Thank you.”

I led Angus, and the woman followed us into my office.

“Oh, what a lovely skirt,” she said upon seeing Sadie’s skirt hanging near the ironing board.

“Thank you,” I said. “I made it for a friend to wear at the Renaissance Festival. Are you going?”

“I am. That’s why I’m so interested in Point de Beauvais,” she said. “You see, this form of embroidery came to France via Italy in the late Middle Ages through China’s trade routes.”

I had little knowledge of Point de Beauvais needlework, but I was eager to help my customer find something. According to the Point de Beauvais Embroidery at Bourg-le-Roi Web site, Point de Beauvais is an intricate process all around. The pattern must be traced onto paper. The paper is then pricked with a needle along the tracing lines, and ink is added to the cloth through the holes. The thread is worked with a very fine crochet
hook. The site noted that the best examples of Point de Beauvais resemble paintings.

I was able to find a pattern book, but it was written in French. From a discussion forum on a needlecraft magazine’s Web site, we learned that Point de Beauvais was known as tambour embroidery in English. I found a pattern book that included tambour embroidery and another book on eighteenth-century embroidery techniques that mentioned tambour in the description, but there wasn’t very much specific to this ancient technique.

The woman had me order both books, and I told her they’d be in by Monday. I ordered a few additional copies of the one on eighteenth-century embroidery techniques because I thought it might sell at the Ren Faire.

My customer—whose name was Ms. Fields—gave me her number so I could call her when her books arrived. I walked her to the door and held it open. She truly appeared so frail that I felt particularly protective of her. I thanked her for coming in as she started off down the street.

Clara, who’d apparently been standing in the doorway of her shop, darted out onto the sidewalk to intercept the poor dear.

“Didn’t
she
have what you were looking for?” Clara asked. “Come on in here and I’ll see if I can’t help you out.”

“Now, wait a second,” I said, pulling my door closed so that Angus wouldn’t run out into the street. “I ordered what Ms. Fields needed.”

“That’s all right,” said Ms. Fields. “I might as well browse this shop while I’m in town.”

I managed a stiff smile. “Of course. Good luck.”

“Please excuse the mess,” Clara said. “I’ve just started unpacking boxes. My shop is brand, spanking new, you see.”

I went back into the Stitch.

With a growl of frustration, I retrieved the laptop from my office and carried it to the sit-and-stitch square. Maybe I should beef up my marketing. There might be a
new
shop in town, but shouldn’t customers put their trust in an
experienced
shop?

I pulled up the Seven-Year Stitch Web page. The header featured a photo of Angus lying on the floor near the counter. The embroidery supplies and some of my projects were visible in the background. It was a good picture. I liked it. But was it dynamic enough to draw customers in?

Maybe I needed to have a contest or something using social media. That might work. I could do a giveaway in conjunction with the upcoming Renaissance Faire. But what?

I called Mom for inspiration.

“Hey, Mom,” I said when she answered.

“That was the most lackluster
Hey, Mom
I’ve ever heard,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“You know Nellie Davis?” I asked.

“That nasty little woman who owns the aromatherapy shop? What’s the name of it again? Scentsless?”

“Close,” I said. “It’s Scentsibilities. Anyway, her
sister, Clara, has leased the shop next to the Seven-Year Stitch.”

“Oh, great. So you’ll have two harpies to deal with.”

“That’s not the half of it. Clara’s shop is called Knitted and Needled, and she’s going to be selling knitting, crochet, and quilting supplies.”

“Well, more power to her,” Mom said. “You aren’t afraid of a little competition.”

“Right. I’m not. It’s just that Clara tried to steal one of my new customers away as soon as she left my shop!”

“Did you sell something to the customer?” she asked.

“I ordered two books for her about tambour embroidery,” I said.

“Tambour . . . hmmm . . . I haven’t thought about tambour embroidery in years. It’s rather difficult to do, if I recall correctly.”

“It looked a bit tricky to me. But what do you think about Clara?” I wanted my mom to rant and rave like Vera had. I wanted her to tell me not to let Clara bully me. I wanted her to make me chocolate chip cookies and let me eat them warm from the oven. I wanted her to hug me and say that everything would be all right.

“Oh, I
know
Clara is difficult . . . especially if she’s anything like Nellie,” she said.

“She’s even
worse
than Nellie.”

“My precious darling,” Mom said soothingly. “Let it go. You can’t control what others do—only what you do. Continue providing your customers
the best products and service you can, and everything else will take care of itself.”

“Do you really think so?” I asked.

“I know so. Do you realize how many costumers in Hollywood would love to have my job?” she asked. “Do you know how many costuming jobs that I’d have loved to have gone to someone else? And yet the world keeps turning. There’s room for all of us if we’re dedicated.”

“You’re right.”

“I know. I’m your mother. I’m always right,” she said. “How’s the baby?”

I looked over at Angus, who was sleeping by the window. “He’s fine. He says we need another care package soon. He’s almost out of those bacon treats you make for him.”

“Tell him I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

“I was thinking of running some sort of contest in conjunction with the Ren Faire in order to drum up business,” I said. “What do you think?”

“It would be awfully hard for you to try to keep things running smoothly at the shop, manage a booth at the festival, and execute a contest,” she said. “My advice is to not spread yourself too thin. Don’t panic over Nellie’s sister opening a shop. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and see how it goes for the first few months.”

“Okay. That sounds like a good plan.”

“How are preparations for the festival coming along?” she asked.

“They’re going really well. I’m finished with my
costumes, and I’m working on Sadie’s last one today. She’s been swamped the past few days, but she needs to come by and try on her skirt so I can see where to hem it,” I said. “The blackwork class has been really popular, so I’ve made flyers with free blackwork patterns and I’ll be giving those away.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea. It’s a nice way to reward your current customers and to introduce yourself to potential new ones.”

Later I was ringing up a woman’s purchase of several skeins of embroidery floss when Riley Kendall walked through the door. Riley has black hair, blue eyes, and a mischievous smile. She was carrying her seven-month-old baby, Laura, who was adorable in her pink sweater and matching hat.

As I completed the transaction, my customer fawned over Laura. She was such a pretty baby. Who could help but smile and coo at her?

When the woman left with her periwinkle Seven-Year Stitch bag in hand, I stepped around the counter and held out my arms. Laura reached for me, and Riley handed her over.

Angus came to sit at my feet, looking up adoringly at the little angel.

“I’m glad to see you’re in such good spirits,” Riley said. “After hearing about Clara’s shop opening, I was afraid I’d have to talk you down from a ledge somewhere.”

I laughed. “I was rather upset over the whole thing, and then my mom made me see reason. She reminded me that everybody has competition and
that all I can do is run my shop to the best of my ability and hope my customers appreciate that.”

“Your mom is one smart lady,” said Riley.

“Yes, she is.”

“Still, don’t be a doormat.” Riley held up her index finger. “If Clara is trying to sell something that you know comes from your distributors, she might be in violation of their noncompete clauses. For instance, some companies assert in their contracts that retailers within a certain distance from each other cannot sell the same products. That’s why only one store in the mall carries Crazy Kitty products.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” I promised. “Still, I’m not as concerned about Clara and her shop as I was this morning.” I looked at Laura. “You know, she would make the most incredible faerie baby on the planet. Let’s dress her up for the Faire!”

“I already have the outfit,” Riley said with a grin.

I
was so glad it was Monday and that Angus and I were on our way home. I taught embroidery classes every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evening from six to eight o’clock. But I was thrilled not to be going back to the Stitch this evening. I needed to decompress, figure out how to truly deal with Clara being right next door, drink wine, and eat chocolate.

Mom had absolutely been right on the money when she’d said I couldn’t let a little competition get to me. But it wasn’t the competition that bothered me—it was the fact that Clara and her sister hated my guts and would love to see me run out of town on a rail.

I pulled the Jeep into the driveway of my two-story white home. I grabbed Angus’s leash and snapped it onto his collar before allowing him to get out of the backseat. He stopped to pee en route to the door, probably to let any other dogs wandering around the neighborhood know he was home.

We went into the house, and I dropped my keys
onto a tray on the table in the foyer and hung the leash on a peg. Angus trotted on into the kitchen, knowing very well that it was dinnertime. I plodded after him, kissed him on top of the head, and then filled his bowl with kibble.

I went upstairs and filled the tub with hot water and fragrant bubble bath. I stripped, put my clothes in the hamper, and sank into the tub even before it finished filling. My skin quickly adjusted to the temperature of the water, and I let the flow wash over my toes. I turned off the faucet, lay back in the tub, and closed my eyes.

How I wished I could find a way to make peace with Clara and Nellie. I harbored no illusions that the three of us could ever become bosom buddies—going to lunch, bringing one another coffee, sharing gossip over the proverbial back fence. But surely we could coexist without trying to best or belittle each other on a regular basis. Couldn’t we? I knew neither Clara nor Nellie would ever extend the olive branch to me, but maybe I could come up with a way to show them that I truly believed—and I did . . . for the most part—that Tallulah Falls was big enough for all three of us.

“Hey, babe!”

It was Ted calling to me from the bottom of the stairs.

“I’ll be right down!”

“Take your time,” he shouted. “I’ll let Angus out and start dinner!”

He was absolutely the most wonderful man ever.

I finished my bath, slipped on a fluffy terry robe, and padded downstairs. Ted was at the blue granite counter dicing tomatoes on a wooden cutting board.

I eased up behind him and slid my arms around his waist.

“Mmmm . . . you smell great.” He turned and gave me an appreciative grin. “And I adore this dress you’re wearing.” He used the belt of my robe to pull me even closer for a heart-thumping kiss.

“Could you maybe put the knife down?” I asked. “You’re making me a little nervous with that thing.”

He chuckled. “Of course. I forgot I was still holding it. See? You drive me to distraction.”

“I’m glad,” I said with a smile. “We could both use some distraction tonight.”

“Agreed.”

“But first . . . what’re we having for dinner?”

I noticed he had a couple pots on the stove, and the aromas of oregano, garlic, basil, and rosemary were making me salivate. Or maybe it was Ted standing there with his dress shirt open at the throat and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows—and the way his pants emphasized his trim waist and tight butt—that was making me start to drool. Either way, it was a tantalizing combo—gorgeous man in my kitchen cooking a delicious meal. Heaven on earth.

“We’re having baked Parmesan garlic chicken breasts and new potatoes with herbs,” Ted said. “Sound good?”

“Sounds wonderful.” We’d both been working on our cooking skills lately. Ted seemed to have more of a knack for some things than I did. He was really good with Italian dishes. “What can I do to help?”

“You can relax. You’ve had a rough day.”

“And you probably have, too,” I said. “Going through a five-year-old cold case file can’t be easy. How about I whip up some dessert?”

“Way ahead of you, Inch-High.” He nodded toward my large square table. In the middle of the table was a small box from MacKenzies’ Mochas.

I cocked my head. “Let me guess. Two fudge brownies?”

“And a peanut butter cookie for Angus.” He winked. “Gotta take care of my boy.”

“Have I mentioned how incredible you are?” I asked.

“Not lately. But we can talk about it after dinner. . . . And remember, actions really do speak louder than words.”

*   *   *

Ted and I had enjoyed a really stellar evening, and I was in particularly high spirits when Angus and I arrived at the Seven-Year Stitch Tuesday morning. My buoyancy was short-lived, however.

I’d been at work about half an hour and was busily restocking the embroidery floss bins when Nellie Davis paid me a visit. As always, her short gray hair was sticking out in all directions. Some women used wax on their short hair to give themselves an edgy, piece-y look—I’d done that myself
on occasion—but there was no rhyme or reason to Nellie’s coif. She looked as if she’d rolled out of bed late and hadn’t had time to even run a comb through her hair before coming to work.

She wore her usual black-on-black ensemble, which made her seem even paler and thinner than she could possibly be. The only spot of color Nellie entertained was the red-rimmed glasses perched on her hawkish nose.

Recalling last night’s bathtub resolution, I pasted on a smile and made a desperate attempt at a peace-generating greeting.

“Good morning, Nellie. Thank you for dropping in. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

She eyed me suspiciously. “No . . . er . . . no, thank you.” She scratched her chin. “So what do you think of Clara’s shop?”

“I haven’t had an opportunity to stop in yet and welcome her to the neighborhood,” I said. “Is everything all set up?”

“Almost.” Nellie glanced around the shop and then snorted. “It’s nice that people will have an alternative to
this place
for their sewing notions.”

I refused to take the bait. “I believe it speaks well of needlecrafts and of people’s continued interest in the art that Tallulah Falls will be able to adequately accommodate our two successful shops.”

She sniffed. “I suppose we’ll see about that.”

“I suppose we will.”

At that point, my dear friend Rajani “Reggie” Singh burst into the Stitch. Reggie, Tallulah Falls’s librarian and wife of chief of police Manu Singh,
also has short gray hair. Unlike Nellie’s, however, Reggie’s is always elegantly styled to fit her refined persona. This morning Reggie wore a mint green tunic over matching slacks.

Angus, who’d not acknowledged Nellie’s presence, hurried over to greet Reggie.

She laughed as she rubbed the dog’s head with both hands. “And a good morning to
you
, Angus! Hi, Marcy . . . Nellie.”

“Reggie, it’s so great to see you,” I said.

“I’ll go now so you can wait on your customer,” Nellie told me. She opened her mouth as if there was something else she intended to say, but then she closed it again. With a curt nod, she left.

My body sagged with relief. “I was serious about how glad I am to see you.”

“I know. I was actually on my way to MacKenzies’ Mochas and saw Nellie come into your shop. I found a parking space as quickly as I could and came to rescue you.”

“Thank you. You don’t know how much I appreciate that. It’s certainly not up to MacKenzies’ Mochas’ standards, but I’ll be happy to get you a cup of coffee.”

“That sounds nice,” Reggie said. She went over and took a seat in one of the red club chairs.

I poured us each a cup of coffee and arranged the cups, spoons, packets of sweetener, and individual cream pitchers on a tray and took it out to the sit-and-stitch square. I put the tray on the coffee table and sat on the sofa facing the window.

“I heard about Clara moving in next door,”
Reggie said as she emptied a packet of sweetener into her coffee. “How’s that going?”

“It shouldn’t be such a big deal,” I said. “And I even resolved last night to extend an olive branch to Clara and Nellie. But before I could come up with a way to do that, Nellie went on the offensive and came over here to run down my shop.” I sighed. “I have no idea what I ever did to those women to make them despise me so.”

“With some people, the only thing you have to do to make them dislike you is to be different from them.”

I smiled. “Then, in that case, I’ll take their dislike of me as a compliment.”

Reggie sipped her coffee. “Just don’t let them get to you. When they see that they can’t bully you, they’ll leave you alone.”

“I hope so,” I said.

*   *   *

After Reggie left, I took out my latest embroidery project. I’d ordered white poet’s shirts in several sizes and was adding blackwork to the collars and cuffs. I would be selling the shirts at the Renaissance Faire. I’d already made several ruffs and cuffs to sell to Faire-goers, and I had finished quite a few shirts. I was even teaching an Elizabethan blackwork class on Tuesday nights, and given the interest in the upcoming Ren Faire, it was full.

I used a unique border on as many of the poet’s shirts as possible. On this particular one, I was embroidering a pomegranate border. Traditionally, the pomegranate was the symbol of Spain,
with a crowned pomegranate being the personal insignia of Catherine of Aragon. The pomegranate border would appeal to a buyer who wanted to appear to be of royal or noble birth . . . at least, if the buyer was familiar with Renaissance customs and traditions.

I outlined the pomegranate with thick black floss and then filled in the outline with a lighter-weight thread. I’d completed one pomegranate on the shirt’s right cuff and was filling in the leaves connecting the pomegranate to the next one when Ms. Fields, the customer for whom I ordered the tambour embroidery and the eighteenth-century embroidery books, came into the shop.

“Hi, Ms. Fields,” I said brightly, setting my embroidery aside. “Welcome back to the Seven-Year Stitch. What can I do for you today?”

She twisted her hands together. “I . . . I’m sorry to do this. . . .” She lowered her eyes. “But I need to cancel the order I placed with you yesterday.”

I stood, wiped my hands on the sides of my jeans, and joined her at the counter. “That’s all right. I can’t cancel the order, since it’s already gone through, but I’m sure I can resell the books.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Just out of curiosity, what made you change your mind about the books?”

“The woman next door . . . she ordered them for me free of charge. She said it was a first-time-customer discount,” said Ms. Fields.

“Oh.” My initial surprise and jab of anger subsided enough to allow me to forgo taking my
emotions out on my innocent customer—make that
ex
-customer. I even managed a smile. “How wonderful for you! I do hope you’ll keep the Seven-Year Stitch in mind the next time you need embroidery supplies.”

“Yes . . . yes, of course I will. In fact, I thought I’d get some skeins of floss while I’m here.”

“Thank you,” I said. “If you need help finding anything in particular, please let me know.”

“I will.” She hurried over to the embroidery floss bins and came back momentarily with a double fistful of skeins. “I’ll take these, please.”

I rang up her purchases and placed them in a periwinkle blue Seven-Year Stitch bag. “Thank you again for shopping with me. There’s a flyer in the bag telling you about the embroidery classes taught on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights. I and my students would love to have you drop in one evening. First class is always free.”

“All right. Good-bye.”

Ms. Fields took her bag and rushed out of the store. I noticed that she went in the opposite direction of Clara’s shop. Poor Ms. Fields. I doubted she intended to get caught up in the middle of our retail war—a war that in my opinion didn’t, or
shouldn’t
, exist.

I went back to the sit-and-stitch square to resume my blackwork. But Angus suddenly began barking and nearly scared me out of my skin.

“What in the world . . . ?” I jumped up and ran over to the window to see what had him so excited.

There on the sidewalk was a large brown and white bunny. It was standing on its hind feet and was staring through the glass at Angus. Its little pink nose twitched as it moved its head back and forth. It seemed to be wondering how to get inside.

It was obviously someone’s pet, and it didn’t appear to be frightened of Angus. Worried that it might wander out into the street and get run over by a car, I stepped outside and carefully approached the bunny. To my surprise and delight, it hopped right over to me. I scooped it up and took it inside.

Angus immediately rushed to investigate. He’d been around cats a few times, but I didn’t think he’d ever been near a rabbit. The dog was usually wonderful around new people and animals, but I thought I should handle the situation cautiously.

I sat on the tall stool behind the counter so I would be up high enough to get the bunny out of Angus’s reach should things go badly. I recalled seeing a pet adoption notice once where an adorable Great Pyrenees puppy was asking, “Can you pass this test? Chickens are (a) to be guarded with your life or (b) tasty snacks. I couldn’t pass the test, which is why I’m at the shelter looking for a new forever home.” I’d already adopted Angus by that time, or I might’ve gone right to the shelter and gotten that sweet puppy. He couldn’t help it if he hadn’t understood the deal with the chickens.

I instructed Angus to sit. When he’d obeyed, I
lowered the bunny enough to allow the dog to give the much smaller creature a good snuffle. The rabbit stretched its neck out to sniff Angus’s muzzle. I decided it was either brave or dumb. Angus licked his new buddy’s head.

The bunny, whom I’d christened Harvey in my mind, leapt from my lap and onto the floor. It raced around the shop, with Angus loping after it. At first, I was concerned that Angus might hurt little Harvey, either on purpose or by accident. Then I had to laugh when Angus ran past me with the bunny in pursuit.

The pair took turns chasing each other until the bells over the front door indicated that someone had come in. I turned, smiling, to greet the newcomer. My smile disappeared when I saw Clara’s face glowering at me.