Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (8 page)

But Martha’s plate was barely touched. Her stress-o-meter must be through the roof, yet she wasn’t eating a thing.

I set down my fork and glanced at Joe, reading the same concern in his eyes.

“How about another cosmo, Martha?” he said. “You look like you could use one.” He got up and fixed her another drink without waiting for an answer. Joe was a very attentive host, sometimes overly so, but we all lived within walking distance of one another.

After Joe and I had finished eating and Jasper had inhaled his portion of pot roast, Joe said, “I’ll do the dishes tonight. Why don’t you girls go and relax?”

Martha and I took our drinks into the study and set them on the steamer trunk that served as a coffee table. The color was coming back to her pale cheeks. Joe had been right. She needed this tonight.

Flames leapt in the fireplace, and for a while there was no sound except for the crackling of the logs and the hiss of fresh wood succumbing to the heat. Martha sipped her cocktail and stared into the fire. There were stress lines around her mouth evidencing the toll that the past couple of sleepless nights had wreaked on her freckled skin.

I couldn’t bear this sad Martha. She was always my warm comfort and stalwart refuge from the storms of life, ebullient and fearless, large and in charge, as she liked to say. My heart ached for my best friend, helpless to give her any guarantees that Cyril would ever come back.

“Hey, Martha,” I whispered. “You remember when we were at Cyril’s trailer? Did you happen to notice that weather vane propped up against the living room wall?”

If Cyril
was
alive, he’d be mad that I spoiled the surprise, but I couldn’t worry about that right now. If this disappearing act was just about the fact that he craved some personal space, then too bad. He shouldn’t be putting her through this stress.

She nodded slowly. “It was beautiful.”

“He’s going to give it to you for Christmas. You should have seen it when he first bought it, all blackened and dented. He spent hours, I mean
hours
, on restoration. You don’t spend that much time on a present for someone you don’t care for. Deeply.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. “I fancy that the weather vane is trying to point me in the right direction to find him, Daisy. That little guy has wangled his way into my heart like no one else. I mean, I loved Teddy very much, don’t get me wrong, but it’s as if Cyril
needs
me more.”

I nodded, my throat tight. I handed her a tissue, and she patted at the dark shadows under her eyes.

I racked my brain for something to cheer her up. “Oh, Martha, here’s a tidbit I forgot to tell you before. I saw Ruth Bornstein in town today.” Here I paused for dramatic effect. “With a
very
good-looking man in his forties. He had his arm around her
waist
.”

Martha gasped, and I saw a hint of a sparkle in her eyes from the injection of some life-giving gossip. “Good God! Isn’t she supposed to be sitting shivah all week? What do you suppose is going on there?”

I sat back, gratified by this properly impressed reaction to the news that I hadn’t received from Serrano or Angus.

“You know, according to my sources, Ruth had a prenup,” she said. “Stanley made a fortune with his pharmaceutical research and those patents of his, and she had to be married a certain number of years before he died to collect. I would expect that the time period is up by now, but if she divorced him, she got nothing.”

“Did she kill him to get the money?” I mused. “He would have died soon anyway. Why not wait? Was she getting impatient?” My mind was racing now. “They didn’t have any children. Do you know if Stanley had any other heirs?”

“I don’t know.” She stood up and swayed a little, whether from weariness with my questions or the cosmos, I wasn’t sure. “Daisy, I’d better go. Suddenly I’m very tired.”

“I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m fine.”

I put an arm around her. “Jasper needs a walk, anyway. Come on.”

Joe hugged Martha good-bye and handed her a bag with a Tupperware container. “Take some pot roast home with you. Maybe you’ll be hungry later.”

“Darling, Joe.” She looked at me sadly. “Daisy, you have no idea how lucky you are.”

O
n Saturday, it turned even colder, and the wind kicked up as I hopped out of the car at the salvage yard, hoping to see my irascible friend standing on the stoop of the trailer in his sweatpants, his long gray hair brushing the shoulders of his white T-shirt, ready to give me an earful.

But the trailer was empty, except for the tiny black cat curled up on the recliner. He jumped down and came into the kitchen at the sight of me. After I filled up his bowl, he even let me brush my hand briefly against his fur before he bent his head to eat.

Progress.

At some point I might try to pick him up and take him home with me, but I wasn’t sure how that would work out with Jasper. Besides, he seemed fairly content here.

“But I’m sure you miss Cyril, too. Right, buddy?”

He surveyed me with dark yellow eyes before he bent down again and lapped at the water.

I sat on the floor next to him, closed my eyes, and fancied I could almost smell the familiar scent of slightly burnt toast in the air. I squeezed my eyes tightly, and it was as if Cyril was at the stove, making his usual cups of tea. He’d hand me a cup of the strong, sweet, delicious brew that he called “builder’s grade” and say, “There, lass. That’ll put hairs on yer chest.”

Whenever something was bothering me, or I wanted an unvarnished opinion, or just a fresh view on the world, I came down to this rusty paradise, counting on Cyril to give it to me straight.

Well, now I had a real problem, but the problem was, the problem was
him
.

I got up with some effort. “Well, ah’d better get cracking,” I said to the cat, in what I hoped was a reasonable imitation of Cyril’s accent.

The cat didn’t deign to favor me with a backward glance as he turned away and sprang back into his position in the recliner.

“Okay, okay. Give me a break. I’m trying.”

Before I headed over to open Sometimes a Great Notion, I had another errand to run. During most of the year, the store was open from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. during the week and Saturdays only by appointment. In the winter, with slower traffic, I modified the hours from noon to 5 p.m., but included Saturdays, when some brave souls ventured out for a drive in the country.

I’d heard that Dottie Brown held a needlework class in her yarn store on Thursday and Saturday mornings, and I wanted to ask her advice on some samplers I’d recently purchased at an estate sale. I had a rough idea of their value from my own experience and the research I’d done on the Internet, but it would be nice to have confirmation.

Dottie was ringing up a customer, and I waited until she was free, smiling as I saw the stack of my business cards on her counter. We attracted some of the same clientele, and we were each other’s best cheerleaders.

“Hi, Dottie. I was wondering if I could pick your brain to price these antique samplers I bought last week.” I held up the tote bag I carried.

“Oh, you should talk to Althea, over there, teaching the class.” Dottie nodded her head toward the back of the store where I saw a group of women. “She’s the real expert.”

I sighed. It was common knowledge that the formidable and deeply religious Althea Gunn vehemently disapproved of the Men of Millbury calendar. She wasn’t my favorite person, but hey, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Go on. The class hasn’t started yet. They’re still waiting for a few more. Unless—wait, don’t tell me . . . You’re
scared
of our church secretary?”

I shook my head at her. “Very funny. Everybody’s a comedian.”

Dottie grinned as I sucked in a breath, straightened my shoulders, and walked to where Althea sat, ramrod straight, at a large frame, while several other women were unpacking their embroidery hoops. She was wearing a gray serge dress that was almost nunlike, secured with a wide leather belt around her narrow waist. Her snow-white hair was cropped short, but in an uneven fringe, as if she’d cut it herself.

Althea ran the operations of the church with an iron fist and had most of the flock cowed and completely in awe. She edited the weekly bulletin, maintained the calendar, answered the phones, and was the first point of contact for anyone inquiring about our community. She also kept the database of parishioners and probably knew more than most people where the bodies were buried. Literally and figuratively.

“Good morning, Althea.” I gave her the brightest smile I could muster.

“Daisy Buchanan.” Her voice was a low alto. She peered over the rims of her bifocals at me. “I heard that your fancy-pants photographer came to a very unfortunate end. Just as well. It’s immoral that those men were taking their clothes off for money.”

I gritted my teeth.
Just as well?
Where was her respect for the dead?

“The profits from the calendar would go to a good cause, Althea. To save Millbury!”

“I heard that someone ransacked the carriage house where he was staying.” Grace Vreeland, the local tax collector, didn’t look up from where she was sorting pearl cotton threads. “I bet he was involved in marijuana or something like that.” She pronounced it
marry-jee-wahna
.

Althea made the sign of the cross over her chest. “It’s the wrath of God.”

I quickly took the first sampler out of the bag, hoping it was enticing enough to overcome her disapproval of the activities of the Historical Society.

“And that Cyril Mackey? I hear he’s gone, too,” Grace said as she paired a skein of ecru with a darker shade of beige. Her milky blue eyes went round with excitement. “Do you think he—you know—he was murdered, too?”

I could feel my blood pressure rise and I wondered if an antiques appraisal was really worth all this aggravation. “I sincerely hope not.”

Althea nodded at me in agreement. “He must have figured it was a good excuse to disappear. You know what a loner he was. Martha Bristol and her big plans were enough to scare the devil out of any man. That woman paraded him around to every social event under the sun like a pet Chihuahua. He probably tired of the pressure.”

In desperation, I shoved the sampler under her nose. “Althea, I was wondering if you have a moment to take a look at these items that I plan to sell in my shop. I have some idea of what they’re worth, but I’d really value your input.”

Althea’s mouth was still set in a scowl, but her eyes brightened at the sight of the pretty antique needlework, and she took the frame out of my hands.

“Hmm. This one is likely early nineteenth century. See the pair of bird-in-branch designs, the floating swans, the floral sprigs? All classic Quaker motifs.” She peered at it closely. “This could possibly have been worked at the Quaker Westtown School in Chester County. Somewhat plain, but distinctive. Some of the best school samplers in that time period were made in Pennsylvania.”

Over her shoulder I admired again the peaceful scene of a humble house near a pasture with a sheep and a cow, surrounded by a decorative border.

Althea tapped on the glass. “Originally samplers served as a way for women to store their personal repertoire of stitches and patterns. But at the beginning of the eighteenth century, their purpose gradually changed to become a teaching tool for young girls. Not just for needlework, but also to learn their alphabet and numerals.”

Even though Althea was quite thin, she must be heavy-boned, as my mother liked to say. Her hands were large enough to be a man’s hands, and I wondered how she managed such fine work with those big, blunt fingers.

“Let’s see. Silk on open mesh cotton. A wide range of stitches—the usual satin, cross, chain, and eyelet, but here’s some upright Gobelin. And Queen stitch for these.” Althea pointed to a crop of strawberries. “The linen has some slight overall discoloration, but that’s consistent with its age, and the colors of the silks are good. Nice condition. I would think this should reach in the twenty-five hundred to three thousand dollar range.”

Pleased that her estimate of value and mine were in sync, I handed her another. This one was signed by Eliza Franks, who was nine years old in 1846. The top section of the sampler was decorated with an elaborate urn, stags, butterflies, and a honeysuckle border. The central section had this verse:

Hide me, O my Savior, hide till the storm of life is past

Safe into the haven guide, Oh receive my soul at last

Other refuge have I none, hangs my helpless soul on thee

Leave oh leave me not alone, still support and comfort me

“I can’t believe this fine work was done by someone so young,” I said, marveling at the tiny stitches.

“A young woman needed needle skills to be suitable for marriage. One of her primary responsibilities was to mark and mend the household linens,” Althea said. “Again, very good condition. Same price range. Where on earth did you get these?”

“At a local estate sale.” I was on a roll now, so I handed her a third, dated 1830. This time the needlewoman was only seven years old.

It looked almost like Claire Elliot’s painting of her ideal home—a large house surrounded by fields and trees with birds flying overhead and a floral border, done in numerous colors, with a section of letters of the alphabet. A bird nearly the size of a dog sat in a tree, and flowers reached halfway up the side of the house.

Althea frowned. “The
Y
is stitched backward, and it lacks proportion.”

I gritted my teeth. Again. “I was a teacher for most of my life, so I did notice that, yes. But personally, I think those little irregularities give it charm.”

Althea peered over the top of her glasses at me. “You were a teacher, were you? Well, teachers played a significant part in the rise of popularity of needlework. Speaking of which, it’s time to start this class. Sit down, Daisy Buchanan. You might learn something. I shall inspect the rest of your samplers later.”

“Thank you, Althea.” Obediently, I sat.

A couple more ladies hurried in. I smiled at Liz Gallagher, a young farmer’s wife. She had five children, taught spinning classes, was the president of the PTA, and had enough energy to run the Northeast power grid if they hooked her up to it.

Liz sat next to me and pulled out a Christmas sampler. It was a manger scene with the words
Come let us adore him, Christ the Lord
on cream linen, with a pretty combination of greens and terra cotta threads.

“That looks great, Liz,” I said. “I don’t think I could do this, even though I think samplers are beautiful and I love the finished product.” One of the necessary qualities I’d unfortunately lacked as a teacher was a sufficient supply of patience. “My grandmother was a milliner, and I loved to watch her work on projects.”

Liz laughed. “Oh, I stick to the simple, easy designs. Drives Althea crazy, but I let it roll right off. When you have as many kids as I do, you can’t sweat the small stuff. Seems like I constantly have friends who are getting married or having babies. I have a huge family, too, so there’s always something going on with birthdays or anniversaries. I can make a nice, personalized gift for them this way.”

“Abigail Weller!”

We jumped as Althea’s voice thundered across the table. “You’re supposed to be doing
marking
cross-stitch. It should be reversible, so each stitch forms a cross on the front and a square of straight stitches on the back. All of you: Make sure the back of your work is as immaculate as the front.”

Liz took a quick look at the back of her hoop, grimaced, and then grinned at me. “This is my weekly ordeal, but I don’t dare quit,” she whispered. “I’d kill for a cup of coffee right now, too, but Althea won’t allow any food or drink in class. Our hands have to be spotless.”

“Sounds like Eleanor.” I said, with a chuckle. Eleanor made everyone take their shoes off at the door to her shop and don pristine white gloves before they came anywhere near the exquisite wedding gowns.

Althea cleared her throat, fixed me with an eagle eye, and Liz and I subsided into silence. She pointed at Grace. “Look at what Grace is doing, everyone.”

Grace flushed.

“She is quite
right
to decide on a color
scheme
and select all the threads she will require at the
same
time for the most
harmonious
combination of colors.” Althea emphasized every third word or so in her delivery in a voice that carried clear to the other end of the store. I wondered how many of her students zoned out after a while from this bombastic technique. Sort of like someone e-mailing in capital letters.

“Also remember to choose a nonshrink fabric and
do not wash it
. You can work more easily on fabric that still contains dressing. Remember, don’t make a knot at the end of the thread when you start. Leave about two inches loose. You can darn in later.”

A slight figure with spiky black hair slunk into the chair next to me. She wore a vintage motorcycle jacket, black jeans, and a T-shirt that looked like it had been dug out of the bottom of a laundry basket. I caught a whiff of the cigarette that must have been hastily stubbed out before she entered the shop.

“PJ! What the heck are you doing here?”

PJ Avery was a reporter for the
Sheepville Times
, and the last person in the world I would have ever thought to see.