Wicked Stitch (4 page)

J
ust before I left for work the next morning, I got a call from Sadie telling me there was going to be a meeting of the Ren Faire merchants at MacKenzies’ Mochas at lunchtime. I called Ted and told him I was planning to attend the meeting.

“Would you want to join me?” I asked, well aware of the hopeful note I couldn’t keep out of my voice.

“I’d love to, babe, but I’m going over the details of the fire with the arson investigator at eleven thirty this morning. I was going to call you in a little while to tell you I might be running late.”

“Oh . . . Well, that works out, then.”

“Don’t worry about this meeting,” he said. “You’ll have a lot of friends there.”

“Plus two enemies,” I said.

“You have way more friends than enemies. Look, I’ll stop by after my conference to see how everything went, all right?”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m only kidding.” I laughed. “You don’t really think I’m worried about two little old ladies, do you?”

“Good try,” he said. “I
know
you are. You want everyone to like you, and it drives you up the wall when someone doesn’t.”

“True. But those two are a lost cause. I hope your meeting with the arson investigator is productive.”

“That makes two of us, Inch-High. I love you, and I’ll touch base with you soon.”

After talking with Ted, Angus and I went to the Seven-Year Stitch. On the way, I reflected on what Ted had told me: I
would
have a lot of friends at the Ren Faire merchants’ meeting. I was looking forward to seeing Captain Moe, Todd, and, of course, Sadie and Blake. And, surely, Clara and Nellie wouldn’t choose such a public forum to air their complaints against me . . . would they? Of course not. This lunch would be fun.

Oh, how I ate those words with my Caesar salad a mere two hours later.

When I first walked in, my optimism was in full bloom. There were hugs from Todd and Captain Moe. One of Blake and Sadie’s waitresses told me she’d heard about some of the things I was making for the Ren Faire and that she could hardly wait to visit my booth. One of my blackwork students was there, and she started talking with me about how much she was enjoying the class. Yep, it was all sunshine, flowers, and rainbows—a virtual Marcy Singer lovefest.

And then
they
walked in.

Had we been starring in an old B movie Western, I’d have been wearing a white hat, while the
sisters would’ve been in black. Tumbleweeds would have blown across the coffee shop’s polished hardwood floor between us.

Crazy Clara would’ve moved her piece of dirty yellow straw from one corner of her mouth to the other before telling me that Tallulah Falls wasn’t big enough for the both of us.

Her cohort, Neurotic Nellie, would have spit on the floor as a sign of disgust and disrespect.

Then, since it was high noon, we’d have gone out into the street. Doves would have cooed and a child would’ve asked, “What’s going on, Mama?” as we took ten paces in opposite directions, turned, and drew our guns.

I’d have been quicker on the draw, but Crazy Clara would have left nothing to chance. She was ruthless—she’d never fight fair.

Before I could fire off a round from my six-shooter, Neurotic Nellie would take me down with a shot to the back from behind a barrel in front of the saloon—in this case, the Brew Crew.

The townspeople would gather around and mourn my unjust passing. They’d turn on Crazy Clara and Neurotic Nellie, but those two hooligans would threaten the good folks of Tallulah Falls with gunfire and maybe even dynamite until they could make their escape.

My dying words would be, “Well . . . at least, they won’t hurt y’all anymore.”

No, actually, my last words would be, “Take care of Angus . . . and make sure Ted grieves for
me and doesn’t find another woman to take my place too soon.”

Okay, that last part sounded selfish, so I deleted it from the script.

Of course, none of that happened. It was just part of the elaborate daydreams that are a product of growing up with a Hollywood costumer for a mom.

What
really
happened was that I merely stopped and stared at the two women when they walked into MacKenzies’ Mochas—spurs a-jangling. All right . . . there were no spurs, except in my imagination. I hadn’t quite kicked the Old West scenario out of my head yet.

“What’re you looking at?” asked Neurotic Nellie . . . er, Nellie.

Determined to put my best boot forward, I drew myself up to my full five feet no inches, pasted on a broad smile, and said, “Hello, Nellie. Hello, Clara. Isn’t this meeting going to be exciting?”

“I don’t know what’s so exciting about it,” said Clara. “It’s just a lunch where we all fight over who gets the best spots at the fair.”

“I feel it’s more than that,” I said. “I think it’s an opportunity for us to come together as a community and help each other succeed.”

Captain Moe put his beefy arm around me and turned me away from the sisters. “Let’s find us a seat, Tinkerbell.”

I loved Captain Moe. He was a big guy with
white hair, a fluffy beard, and a fatherly disposition. And he made the best burgers and fries around.

I smiled up at him. “What will you be cooking up at the Ren Faire?”

“I’ll be serving steaks on stakes, turkey legs, Scotch eggs, and barbecued ribs.” He winked. “And I might be talked into making cheeseburgers for a certain wee merchant and her faithful hound.”

I giggled. “I’m so looking forward to this. It’s too bad Mom’s on location in Arizona. She’d be in her element at a Renaissance festival.”

“She would at that,” he agreed. “And I believe you will be as well.”

“I will . . . if I can see any peace while I’m there.” My eyes strayed to Clara and Nellie.

“Pay them no mind. They can only bother you if you allow them to do so.”

“Wise words,” I said.

“But hard to put into practice.” He grinned. “I know. I’ve been there. All of us have at one time or another. You’ll emerge stronger because of this trial.”

We sat down at a table in the designated part of the coffee shop, and Sadie called our meeting to order. She then introduced us to Nancy Walters, chairperson of the merchants’ society.

Nancy was a small woman with a stiff helmet of brown hair. She wore sensible black shoes and a brown tweed suit. She stood on her chair in order to be heard and to command our attention.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “I imagine many of you are surprised to learn that there is a chairperson and/or a merchants’ society.”

I know I was.

“I’m on the board of the Tallulah Falls Fairgrounds Committee,” she continued. “As such, I was elected to oversee the merchants during the two-week festival. My job is to assign booths and tables to registered vendors. I have a map drawn up indicating where each of you has been placed. Sadie, dear, would you pass those out, please?”

“Of course.” Sadie began passing out the maps.

“While the map isn’t written in stone, I do have things the way I want them,” Nancy said. “I’m not saying I won’t budge on the arrangements, but it would have to be for a darn good reason.”

I got my map and looked down at it. It was organized as I’d have expected. There was a food court where all the food vendors would be located: Captain Moe, the Brew Crew, MacKenzies’ Mochas, and some I didn’t recognize but would look forward to investigating, such as the Cheesecake Consortium, Festive Fudge, and Carol’s Cake Creations.

I quickly spotted Ye Olde Seven-Year Stitch nestled right in between Nellie’s booth, Scentsibilities, and Clara’s Knitted and Needled. My heart sank. It was going to be a long two weeks.

“If anyone has any requests to change the arrangements, now is the time to speak up,” said Nancy. “After today, no requests will be entertained.”

Clara stood. “I’d like to request a change. I don’t want Marcy Singer’s booth beside mine.”

“Why not?” Nancy asked.

“The woman has been an aggravation to my poor sister, Nellie, and her thriving business ever since she came here to Tallulah Falls,” said Clara. “People have died in Marcy Singer’s shop, and she’s caused all manner of upset in the community. Neither Nellie nor I want anything to do with her.”

“Request denied,” Nancy said. “Perhaps you, your sister, and Ms. Singer will find common ground during those long hours working near each other at the festival.”

Captain Moe patted my hand. I wanted to bury my face in his barrel chest and cry, but I didn’t. I held it together . . . at least until I got back to the Stitch.

*   *   *

I was in the sit-and-stitch square working on my blackwork border when Todd came into the shop. Sadie and Blake had hoped Todd and I would be a love match when I’d first moved to Tallulah Falls. That hadn’t worked out, but we’d become fast friends. And, like just about everybody else in town, he loved Angus.

He sat down on the sofa beside me and gave me a one-armed, brotherly hug. “How’re you holding up?”

“I had a little cry when I got back here, but I’m all right now.”

“Don’t let those old crones get to you,” he said.

I arched my brow.

“I know, I know. That’s easier said than done.” He grinned. “I don’t have a problem with them. They think I’m adorable.”

“You
are
adorable.” And he was. He had curly brown hair, chocolate eyes, and a smile that could melt even the icy hearts of Nellie and Clara.

“You’re pretty cute, too. I mean, you’re no Todd Calloway, but—”

I playfully slapped his arm.

He laughed. “I’ll keep you in apricot ale during the Ren Faire. Maybe that’ll help you tolerate your neighbors.”

“I just don’t get it, Todd. What did I ever do to those women?”

“Who knows? You moved in, your shop is successful, you’re young, you’re beautiful, you have the love of a good man, and you have your whole life ahead of you.” He shrugged. “There’s plenty of reasons for two dried-up old prunes to hate you.”

“Thank you so much.” I giggled. “You say the sweetest things.”

“I do, don’t I? That’s another reason the old broads like me,” he said. “Pay attention. I’ll let you use some of my lines.”

“Gee, thanks.”

I noticed something out of the corner of my eye and turned to look out the window. “Oh, no,” I said.

Todd turned, too. “What is it?”

“It’s Clover, Clara’s rabbit. It got out the other
day, and I brought it inside. I didn’t know it was hers.”

“Bet that went over well,” he said.

“Oh, you wouldn’t
believe
.” I sighed. “And now what? If I don’t go out there and get the little thing, it could hop out into the road and get hit by a car.”

“And if you
do
go out there and get it, you’ll be accused of bunny-napping.”

We watched as Clover came over to our window and stood up against the glass. Angus hurried over, bent down with his wagging tail stuck up in the air, and “woofed” at his friend.

“To heck with it,” I said. “I’m going to get Clover.” I got up off the sofa and went to open the front door. “Come on, Clover.”

The bunny raced into the shop and happily reunited with Angus.

“Todd, do you mind holding down the fort while I go next door and tell Clara that Clover is here?” I asked.

“I can go,” he said.

“No, that would make it seem like I’d stolen the bunny and you were coming to its rescue.”

“I’ll tell her you sent me.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I’ll do it myself. I’d simply take the rabbit back, but they enjoy playing together so much. . . .”

Todd grinned at Angus and Clover chasing each other back and forth around the sit-and-stitch square. “It’s funny that a dog that big would have so much fun with such a little creature.”

“True. Ted asked if we should get Angus his own pet.” I laughed. “I don’t think I’m
that
far gone yet.”

“It might not be a bad idea,” Todd said. “They are having a blast. Walk and talk slowly when you go next door.”

“If I’m not back in ten minutes, send in a few Navy SEALs, please.”

I took Todd’s advice and walked slowly toward Knitted and Needled. The door was open slightly, so I saw how Clover had gotten out. I examined the doorframe and saw that the latch wasn’t working properly.

“Hey! What’re you doing there?” Clara called.

Thankfully, she didn’t have any customers at the moment, and there wasn’t anyone on the street.

“I’m examining your door,” I said. “You need to have someone take a look at this latch. I don’t think it’s working properly.”

“I believe it’s fine, thank you very much.”

“If it’s fine, then how is Clover getting out so often?” I asked.

Her beady eyes widened. Then she began looking around the shop. “Clover! Clover! Where are you? You’d better get here right now!”

“She’s at the Stitch,” I said.

Clara gasped. “You left her alone with that mongrel?”

I clenched my fists. “First of all, Angus is not a mongrel. And, second, they are not alone. I left Todd Calloway in charge of the shop.”

“That beer maker? He’s no better than you are!”

So much for Todd being adorable . . . at least as far as Clara was concerned.

Clara stormed past me and out the door. Only then did I get an adequate look at her shop. She had a seating area to the right that was directly copied from my sit-and-stitch square—from the navy sofas to the braided rug on the floor beneath the coffee table. Her furnishings weren’t exact replicas of mine, but they were close enough that there was no doubting her intentions. The other side of her shop was set up like the Seven-Year Stitch as well.

I’m well aware of the old saying that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but I was far from flattered. I was livid.

I whirled around and left the shop with every intention of confronting Clara at the Stitch. I burst through the door just in time to see her chasing the bunny around the red club chair. Todd was bent double laughing, and he wasn’t doing a thing to help Clara. Angus apparently thought Clara had simply joined in his and Clover’s game, and he was barking happily.

My anger died at the utter ridiculousness of the situation, and I joined in Todd’s laughter.