Authors: Amanda Lee
Thread Reckoning
Table of Contents
PRAISE FOR THE EMBROIDERY MYSTERY SERIES
Stitch Me Deadly
“The writing is lively.... This book should appeal not only to embroidery enthusiasts, antique-hunters, and dog lovers, but to anyone who likes a smartly written cozy.”
—Fresh Fiction
The Quick and the Thread
“Lee kicks off a cozy, promising mystery series . . . a fast, pleasant read with prose full of pop culture references and, of course, sharp needlework puns.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“In her debut novel,
The Quick and the Thread
, author Amanda Lee gives her Embroidery Mystery series a rousing start with a fast-paced, intriguing who-done-it that will delight fans of the cozy mystery genre.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Stands out with its likable characters and polished plot.”
—The Mystery Reader
“If her debut here is any indication, Lee’s new series is going to be fun, spunky, and educational. She smoothly interweaves plot with her [main] character ’s personality and charm, while dropping tantalizing hints of stitching projects and their history. Marcy Singer is young, fun, sharp, and likable. Readers will be looking forward to her future adventures.”
—
Romantic Times
Also by Amanda Lee
The Quick and the Thread
Stitch Me Deadly
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, September 2011
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ISBN : 978-1-101-54400-6
For Caleb, Carlie, Nicholas, Jennica, Andrew, Faith, Nathan, Lexi, Daniel, Grace, Jake, Lindsey, Rachel, and Logan
Special thanks to my 2010 Teach Blountville creative writing class—you guys rock! In addition, I’d like to thank the incomparable Jessica Wade, Robert Gottlieb, Kim Lionetti, and Kaitlyn Kennedy. As always, thanks so much to Tim, Lianna, and Nicholas for your love and support.
Chapter One
It was your typical Tuesday at the Seven-Year Stitch, insofar as there’s ever
anything
typical about Tallulah Falls. Since February is both Black History Month and the month when nearby Lincoln City hosts its weeklong antiques festival, I was sitting in my favorite red chair in the sit-and-stitch square working on a quilt in the tradition of the Congolese Kuba cloth that I was hoping to display at the festival. My quilt was a camel color, with a design of intertwining diamonds.
Funny that I was stitching diamonds at that particular moment. The bells over the door jingled, and I looked up to see a stunning young woman entering the shop with a clear garment bag over her shoulder. The garment bag contained an ivory wedding dress. Thus, the coincidence about my embroidering diamonds, see?
Angus, my lanky Irish wolfhound, loped over to greet the woman. The horror in her eyes, combined with the fact that she was backing up as fast as her long, lean legs would carry her, led me to believe she might not be a dog person.
“Angus,” I called, laying aside my Kuba cloth carefully. Kuba cloths are believed to have originated in the Congo sometime before the beginning of the sixteenth century. I loved the version I was working on.
Angus immediately trotted to my side. I instructed him to sit and to stay. Those obedience classes I’d enrolled him in when he was still only a few months old were paying off big-time right now.
“Sorry about that,” I said to the customer. “I’m Marcy Singer. How can I help you today?”
“Well, I was going to ask you to do some embroidery work for me,” the woman said, her hazel eyes still watching Angus warily. “But this is a very delicate gown—it was my mother’s—and I can’t leave it here. I’m afraid that . . . that dog . . . will ruin it.”
“I can assure you I’ll take excellent care of the dress.” I stepped behind the counter and got Angus’ leash. “In fact, let me put him in the back while we discuss the work you’d like done.”
Although he hates it, Angus’ private little room at the shop is the bathroom. I put him there when there’s someone in the store who is nervous around him or who has a delicate condition—particularly frail, elderly people, toddlers, and pregnant women come to mind. He has a water bowl and a couple toys in there, but he’s never a happy camper when he’s sent to “his room.”
“It’ll only be for a few minutes,” I whispered as I ushered the whining dog inside and closed the door.
When I returned to the shop area, the woman—who appeared to be in her midtwenties—was sweeping her brown curls off her forehead. Her hair had been professionally highlighted with blond streaks, and these streaks caught the sun that was peeping through the clouds and through the window.
“Is he here all the time?” she asked.
“Most of the time,” I said. “Although I do let him stay home on pretty days.”
“We don’t get many of those on the coast in February.”
I laughed. “Nope. Of the four days we’ve had this month, it’s rained three.” I nodded toward the garment bag. “What sort of embroidery did you have in mind for the dress?”
“Is he shedding?” she asked, eyes darting to the navy sofa behind me.
“Not at the moment, but I’ll be happy to get a lint brush and go over the sofa if you’d like me to.”
“Yes, please.”
Smiling but gritting my teeth, I retrieved the lint brush from beneath the counter and went over both the navy sofas and the two red chairs that form the square seating area. After I’d finished delinting the furniture, I followed her gaze around the shop. She eyed the black-and-white-checkered tile that covered the floor to the right of the seating area, the maple bins containing yarn and embroidery flosses, and the examples of my work displayed on the walls and shelves.
“What’s with the dummy?” she asked as I returned the lint brush to the counter.
I explained that Jill—the mannequin who bears a striking resemblance to Marilyn Monroe and who stands near the cash register, and who today was wearing a jaunty red hat and scarf upon which I’d cross-stitched snowmen—was sort of the shop mascot.
“The Seven-Year Stitch . . . a takeoff on the movie
The Seven-Year Itch
,” I said. “Get it?”
“I thought the dog was the mascot.”
“Well, you can’t ever have too many mascots, can you?”
She shrugged and at last opened the garment bag and spread the wedding gown across the sofa facing away from the window. Once it was outside the bag, I could see that the gown wasn’t the gasp-inducing creation I’d hoped it was. Apparently, it wasn’t too pleasing to the bride-to-be, either, or else she wouldn’t be here, wanting me to embellish it.