Threaded for Trouble (6 page)

Safe from my machines, yes, but safe from being accused of murder by people like Felicity Ranquels? My breakfast weighed even more. Hoping that my anxiety wouldn’t force me to his office for treatment, I thanked Dr. Wrinklesides and let him get back to his patients.

A thread holding one of the banners celebrating Darlene’s win had snapped, leaving the banner dangling by one corner in my front window. How could the poor woman have died, and what, if anything, had her sewing machine done to harm her? I put the banners away. Would I ever need them again, and if I did, would they bring back this sense of uncomprehending loss and grief?

I didn’t want to be alone. Although it was almost time to open In Stitches, I ran across the street to The Stash.

Haylee’s door was open. “Haylee!” I called.

She peered around a display of fabrics. “Hey, Willow, look at this shipment of tartans that just arrived from Scotland.” She must have noticed the goose bumps on my
bare arms, like zillions of tiny needles trying to work themselves out through my skin. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Darlene Coddlefield is dead, and the sewing machine she collected from In Stitches yesterday is being blamed.” I couldn’t help sounding hysterical.

“That’s impossible.” She ran a hand through her long blond hair. “I mean not impossible that someone would
blame
a machine, only that a sewing machine could kill someone.”

I thought about Darlene’s son’s joyriding through the streets last night. “Unless someone clobbered her with it. It weighed a ton, but her oldest son, Russ, managed to lift it.”

Haylee closed her eyes as if looking into the future. She opened her eyes wide. The future must have been shocking. “My mothers were already worried because some of the Coddlefield children seemed miserable yesterday. If those children have lost
their
mother,
my
mothers will end up raising the little terrors in their apartments.”

“They wouldn’t go that far,” I protested.

“You know them.”

“Yes, but Darlene’s children still have a father.”

“They’re going to want to do
some
thing, probably inappropriate.” As if to distract us both from the death of a woman we’d met the day before, Haylee stroked the bolt of wool beside her. “Check out the gorgeous winter fabrics I’m unpacking.”

The tartans were tightly woven, the plaids precise, in colors that would make anyone claim Scottish heritage. I touched luminous corduroys, too. Unlike cords from only a few years ago, these were soft and would drape beautifully. Many of them had a little stretch woven in, making them easy to wear. And fleece seemed to improve every autumn. I couldn’t stick around to admire it all, though. The Threadville tour bus rumbled into the village.

I rushed across the street to In Stitches. I was incredibly lucky to own this dream of a shop and live where every needlework supply I might need was either right here or across the street. I reminded myself that Darlene Coddlefield had
been lucky, too, but her good fortune had ended suddenly and tragically.

Saddened, I ran inside to the dog pen. Sally and Tally stretched, wagged their tails, and looked up at me adoringly. I knelt and buried my face in their fur.

Most mornings, Threadville tourists dashed inside, chattered about their homework, and thrust it at me. This morning, they dragged in behind Rosemary, two by two, almost as if they were mimicking yesterday’s procession of Coddlefield offspring. I’d never seen Rosemary so solemn. Her mouth was one thin line, and her smile wrinkles were shadows. She held her bag close to her side and walked hesitantly. “Willow,” she said, “we heard something terrible about that woman who won the sewing machine. It was on the radio. They said her new machine killed her.”

I reassured them with what Dr. Wrinklesides had told me. “She probably died from an accident.”

Georgina and Mimi had followed the tourists in. Georgina shook her head as if to dispel grim horror. “She died doing what she loved.”

Mimi cried, “But she had such young children!”

Rosemary suggested that some of the big siblings could help their father look after the little ones. Imagining Darlene’s rambunctious teenagers taking charge of the little ones, I shuddered.

Had Russ gone on his wild ride after his mother died? Grief could do strange things. He was, his mother had said, sixteen. Hardly more than a child.

To show that the Chandler Champion for sale in my store was not a killer, I connected it to my computer and used it for the morning lesson. The Champion worked well enough, though I preferred models from my trusted manufacturers, maybe because those sewing machines were solid and reliable. Besides, as far as I knew, none of them had ever been accused of killing anyone.

I’d begun using computers, software, and embroidery machines to create thread art when I lived and worked in New York City. People had not only bought the designs I’d
offered on my website, they had commissioned me to create new ones. I had been quite happy to switch from working in New York to living in Threadville and owning a machine embroidery boutique, where my enthusiastic students inspired and encouraged me. In addition, customers from all over the world e-mailed me photos of their pets, homes, and in one case, a broken baseball bat that had been instrumental in winning a Little League semifinal, all to be immortalized in thread. Customers who owned their own embroidery machines downloaded my designs and stitched them in colors they chose. Others bought finished products. The baseball bat motif had embellished a wall hanging.

I demonstrated how different brands of software turned photographs into embroidery designs. We all loved the way the software showed how the designs should look when stitched. Rosemary and Georgina, who owned their own digitizing software, attempted it first and were pleased with the computerized depictions of their designs.

Mimi, still battling a dry cough, tried next, and had great luck, but the next woman’s groans of dismay gave me the teaching opportunity I’d wanted. “Experiment with the number of colors,” I suggested. “Sometimes more colors will help, but often, simpler is better. Try fewer colors.”

“It means fewer thread changes,” Rosemary added, “unless you own a commercial embroidery machine.” None of us did. Our embroidery machines were accessories that went with amazing sewing machines like the Chandler Champion. We could sew with our machines or connect our embroidery attachments and stitch professional-looking designs. Our machines were versatile, and scads of fun.

Everyone gathered around and offered suggestions until the woman was satisfied with her design. After that, most of the students figured it out on their own. We saved the designs to stitch another day.

The afternoon class, composed of women who had spent the morning shopping or attending lessons at other Threadville shops, was similar, except that no one got it right the first time. They were good-natured about it,
though. It helped that a few hours had passed since we’d found out about Darlene. Seeing a woman alive, right here, the day before, and hearing that she was dead less than twenty-four hours later had shocked all of us.

I looked forward to a quiet dinner with my dogs and an evening of working on my candlewicking project. However, the minute the Threadville tour bus disappeared up Lake Street, my phone rang. “Willow, it’s Edna.” I knew from the lowered tones of her usually chirpy little voice that she wanted something.

That could mean trouble…

M
Y HAND TIGHTENED ON THE PHONE. What did Edna want, and how could I keep her out of mischief?

“I made an extra lasagna,” Edna said.

My breathing steadied. How much difficulty could Edna get into with a lasagna?

Plenty, apparently. She went on, “I’m going to take it to the Coddlefield children, since they just lost their mother and may not have anything to eat…” She stopped as if waiting for me to finish for her.

I managed, “Mmm-hmm.”

“And I was wondering if you’d come along with me to drop it off, since you know the family better than I do.”

Well, hardly, but Edna’s proposal was a nice one, and the thought of eight motherless children dragged at my heart. Besides, Felicity had accused me of rigging a sewing machine to kill Darlene. Maybe we could get a look at that sewing machine.

I took a deep breath. “I’ll bring cookies.” I baked cookies every Monday, the one day of the week that none of the
Threadville stores were open. It was only Thursday, and I still had lots of cookies in my freezer.

“Your molasses cookies, Willow? Yum, those are soooo good. Shall we drive out to the Coddlefields’ after your dogs have their outing? You probably haven’t had time to give them one since your customers left.”

“Okay.” Although Opal and I were the only Threadville proprietors to own—or be owned by—pets, all of Haylee’s mothers were thoughtful about what others had to do for their pets. And for their kids.

I let Sally and Tally play outside, then settled them in our apartment and grabbed a tin of cookies—molasses, as Edna had suggested. What could I possibly say to children whose mother had just died? I patted the dogs good-bye, then dawdled across the street to Buttons and Bows.

Edna’s store, as always, cheered me. I walked past the gleaming array of buttons, ribbons, and trims. Edna’s back room overflowed with more notions and gadgets than anyone could ever use. Well, maybe. We could
try
. I called toward an open door at the back of the shop, “Edna?”

She pattered down the stairs from her apartment and popped through the doorway. I smelled tomatoes, garlic, oregano, and cheese.

Mouth watering, I pointed at the elaborate quilted casserole carrier. “Did Naomi quilt that for you?”

“I made it.” She lifted her chin. A dimple showed in one cheek.

“I should have known.” Pastel satin bows decorated each quilt square. If the ribbons hadn’t tipped me off, the sequins and rhinestones should have. “It matches your blouse.” Edna had created a top by sewing satin ribbons together by their edges, then adding sequins and rhinestones.

Edna cocked her head. “Too much? I thought it would show that the casserole carrier wasn’t part of the gift.”

“Maybe you should leave the carrier in the car when we get there? But people usually return casserole dishes, don’t they? So maybe they’ll return the carrier, too.”

She raised her shoulders in a just-between-us-girls gesture. “They won’t return these. I used two disposable aluminum pans, one inside the other, so I wouldn’t have another disaster.”

“Disaster?”

“Well, it didn’t actually
wreck
my dinner party. The restaurant we went to was fine. These pans simply do
not
hold up to heavy lasagna with loads of cheese and tomato sauce. I had quite a mess to clean up after I got home.” She pointed with her chin. “My car’s out back.”

Her sedan was small, but big enough for her and her best friends. They’d scrimped and saved while living together during their school years, sometimes doing without a car, sometimes sharing an old beater. Now, in addition to owning shops and apartments, they each had a vehicle, and none of them believed that Haylee needed one. Haylee, however, loved her new cherry red pickup truck. And her independence. Her shop was the largest in Threadville.

If birds could drive, they might drive like Edna did. Wobbling to whichever side of the lane caught her attention, she headed south, out of Elderberry Bay. “It’s not far,” she said.

Nodding her head toward fields on my side of the car, she drifted dangerously close to them. “Those soybeans are gone. Shriveled up. Hardly any rain all summer.” Pointing at fields to our left, she nearly crossed the center line. Fortunately, a cornfield on the right came into view. “Those cornstalks shouldn’t be so brown in the end of August.” A mailbox threatened my window. I flinched.

We couldn’t tell what crop had been beyond the line of trees on the left. That field was black, flattened, and acrid with the smell of burned vegetation. Edna crossed the center line. “Maybe that’s where the fire was last night. Did you hear the siren?” Turning her head toward me, she nearly plowed into the ditch on my side.

I gripped the edge of my seat. “I heard it.”

She shook her head, which had nearly catastrophic results for the car. And for us. “Everything’s so dry, all it
takes is one cigarette carelessly tossed out a car window. Ah, here we are.” Beside a mailbox that said Coddlefield, a gravel driveway wound between trees to a clearing. A lawn dotted with colorful children’s toys surrounded a three-story Victorian farmhouse.

The fire chief’s SUV was parked in the driveway beside the maroon and white pickup truck I’d seen Russ driving. My earlier guess was confirmed. Plug must be Darlene’s husband. I hadn’t known our fire chief’s last name. People just called him Plug. He said it was because he’d wanted to be a fireman all his life. His buddies joked that they’d given him the nickname in grade school because he was plug ugly, and built like a fireplug, besides. Both were believable.

We got out of the car. After driving around with the windows open, Edna’s bleached and broken-off hair stood up all over her head. That and the glitter glue she’d added gave her a rakish look of good cheer. She lifted the aromatic lasagna from her casserole carrier. Although she held the foil pan-within-a-pan with care, her lips thinned as if she were being burned.

I thrust my tin toward her. “Let’s balance your lasagna on this. Maybe it will help thaw the cookies.”

Together, we stacked the lasagna in its nestled pans on the tin. To keep our unwieldy donations steady, we walked sideways, facing each other with our hands under the tin and the hot edges of the disposable pans grazing our bare arms.

The front door banged open. “What are you doing here?”

I looked up into the red and angry eyes of Russ Coddlefield. “Russ, I’m sorry…”

He bounded down the porch steps and raced past us. “Leave me alone. Leave all of us alone.”

He slammed himself into his truck, backed up, nearly hit Edna’s car, then tore off, spewing gravel.

I don’t think I moved during that entire time, except for a shudder.