Thread and Buried Page 10

  Birds sang in trees under a sky soft with haze. I loved In Stitches and barely thought of it as work, but it was nice to have time to relax with my morning coffee and the latest machine embroidery magazines while the dogs snoozed beside my comfy chair.

  After breakfast, I swept the porch and washed the shop windows and the glass in the front door. Awake again and energized for new games, the kittens batted at me from the other side. I had to clean their paw prints off, too, but they were so cute and funny they could get away with nearly anything.

  Needing to water the begonias in the urns on my porch, I went inside and filled the watering can. The dogs curled up on their beds in their pen, but Mustache and Bow-Tie were not ready for naps. With both kittens skirmishing around my feet, I carried the sloshing watering can toward the front door.

  I was used to having strangers appear in my store. I shouldn’t have been shocked when a man appeared on my porch and just kept coming until he was inside.

  But it was Monday, the embroidered sign on my door said Closed, and Vicki had discovered Neil’s body in my backyard only a day before.

  I stopped dead, weighing that watering can and its contents as possible defenses. Squealing, the kittens skittered away, heading, from the sounds of things, to Sally-Forth’s comforting presence.

  The man removed his aviator sunglasses. He had to be Vicki’s Norse god. Tall and rangy, he was blue-eyed and firm-jawed. A horned helmet would not have looked out of place on his thick blond hair.

  Instead of a shield and a spear, he carried a camera, an expensive one. A reporter coming to question me about Neil’s death? Just what I did not need.

  I saw a question in his eyes, the look of someone trying to figure out whether or not I recognized him.

  I didn’t, but he looked familiar, maybe because of Vicki’s nickname for him.

  “I’m Max,” he said, holding out a hand.

  Okay, so I would switch the watering can to my left hand and shake the god’s hand with my right, but I wouldn’t be interviewed about a suspicious death in my backyard.

  Tally and Sally got up, stretched, stared intently at the man calling himself Max, and wagged their tails. My guard dogs.

  Of course, I did have attack cats, and they had overcome their bashful moment and were climbing Max’s jeans.

  “Max Brubaugh,” he said, as if I should know the name.

  It didn’t ring a bell.

  I guessed I was supposed to say something. I managed, “I’m Willow,” and pulled my hand from his clasp.

  “What can you tell me about Threadville? That’s what this village is called, right? Unofficially?”

  “Yes, because of the needlecraft shops here.”

  “I hear there was a yarnbombing incident here Saturday evening.”

  He was here to learn about yarnbombing, not mysterious deaths or food poisoning? “Yes, a police cruiser was covered in knitting.”

  He touched his camera. “Could you direct me to it so I can get a picture?”

  I shook my head. “The chief needed her cruiser.”

  “Any idea who did the yarnbombing?”

  I might have shrugged if I hadn’t been burdened by a watering can. “I’m afraid not.”

  He turned and looked out my front window. “Is Tell a Yarn a yarn store?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought maybe it was a bookstore.” So why did he ask if it was a yarn store? He had a really nice smile, but I wasn’t about to be swayed by his many charms, even if he did pluck those kittens gently off his jeans and cradle them in his hands on either side of his camera.

  “The proprietor has storytelling evenings there some Friday nights.”

  “Sounds like fun. Does she knit or crochet?”

  I wasn’t about to let that winning smile trick me into saying too much about my friends. “Yes.”

  “So she could have done the yarnbombing?” Maybe he was a plainclothes detective, and the state police were looking into the possibility that the yarnbomber and the quiltbatbomber were the same person. Maybe the camera was only a prop, and that was why he didn’t seem to notice that the kittens were swatting at each other around the long lens.

  “She could have, but I’m sure she didn’t.”

  He tilted his head and raised one eyebrow in a way that could be endearing, almost doglike, if I trusted him. “Sure?”

  “Positive.” I was not being the most entertaining conversationalist in the world, but I didn’t want to be. I had no idea what information this man was actually after, and I wasn’t about to divulge anything I’d regret later. Besides, it was my day off.

  “Why?”

  I mentally gritted my teeth while giving him my best friendly-but-not-too-friendly look. “She was taking care of a sick friend when it happened.”

  “I was just wondering because we’ve had a spate of yarnbombings in the Pittsburgh area, and some in Slippery Rock and Meadville, and now this. I thought the yarnbomber might have moved here.”

  The only new Threadville shop was Disguise Guys, but Ralph and Duncan had wanted that hand-knit cruiser so they could make it into a costume for four people. If they’d taken time to knit the thing, wouldn’t it have been simpler to keep it in the first place, and not risk having it confiscated by the police? But I merely said, “Opal’s been here a few years. I can’t imagine her playing pranks like that.” Opal would prefer crafting creative outfits for herself. “But you could go ask her.”

  Without moving a muscle, Max had become tense and watchful. “Opal, you say?”

  Oh, no, what had I done? But it would have been easy enough for him to discover her name on his own. He’d only need to look up Tell a Yarn’s website. I nodded.

  That only encouraged him. “Does she have children?”

  What a strange question. My suspicion of the man’s motives must have shown on my face.

  He actually blushed. “Like little ones who might be eating breakfast at the moment so I shouldn’t bother her right now?”

  “Only if you count Lucy,” I said.

  His face softened. Had he met the personable and talkative cat? “Lucy?”

  I’d told him enough. “Here, I’ll take my pests.” Mustache and Bow-Tie were nestled in Max’s arms and purring very loudly. In case he hadn’t understood my hints, I added, “So you can go talk to Opal and meet Lucy.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll talk to her.” He handed me the kittens, who had gone all boneless, warm, and sleepy. Sally-Forth sat up straighter, ready to cuddle them into naptime, no doubt.

  Max left. I carried the kittens into the dogs’ pen. Sally-Forth trotted to her bed and lay down. I placed the kittens next to her, and she gave them a vigorous washing.

  Outside, a silver BMW, with Max at the wheel, eased away from the curb. Why had Max said he was going to talk to Opal, and then driven away?

  He did not, I noticed, have a passenger. He must have left the girlfriend at home.

  I ran across to Tell a Yarn, opened the unlocked door, went in, and called out a greeting. Meowing, Lucy dropped a bedraggled hand-knit catnip mouse at my feet. Eyes going all blissful, she fell shoulder-first onto the mouse, and in a very deliberate and intricate choreography, proceeded to roll around on it.

  Wearing a yellow crocheted dress, Opal came out of her back room. “Willow, good morning! Nice to see you so early.”

  “A man was just in my shop implying that you could have been behind the yarnbombing.”

  “Well, I wasn’t. I have better things to do with my time. And better yarns, too. Who would want to touch that plasticky stuff? Yuck.” She folded her arms.

  “That’s what I told him, though not quite in those words. But the strange thing was that I told him to bring his questions to you, and he said he would, but he drove off without coming over here. I think he may have been a detective or a reporter.”

  Opal became very still in a way that reminded me of Max’s sudden silent watchfulness.

  I added, “He said he wouldn’t both
er you if you were feeding your children breakfast. The name Lucy seemed to ring a bell with him.”

  “What was his name?” She almost flung the words at me.

  “Max, he said. Max Brubaugh. Chief Smallwood must have seen him driving around the village last night. She called him a Norse god and she was ri—”

  I was talking to thin air and to a cat who was only slightly stupefied from the effects of her catnip mouse.

  19

  OPAL HAD FLUNG THE BACK OF HER HAND across her mouth and dashed away, into her dining room, and from there, it appeared, into her kitchen. A door slammed.

  Stunned, I stared at the doorway into Opal’s dining room. I had never before seen Opal run away in the middle of a conversation.

  Haylee’s mothers always treated me kindly, as if I were a member of their family, and I would never upset one of them if I could help it. But now I had, and I wasn’t sure how I’d done it, and wished, too late, that I hadn’t. I took a step toward Opal’s inviting dining room, and then halted. I didn’t want to make things worse.

  I turned toward the front door and stopped again. In Opal’s lovely shop, with morning sun flowing into her front windows and her cat murmuring in catnip-inspired ecstasy at my feet, I began to understand.

  First, Vicki had reported seeing a Haylee lookalike. Then, when I’d met Max, I’d sensed that I might have already encountered him, but I hadn’t been able to figure out where.

  Max resembled Haylee, and Opal, too. A relation?

  Opal never mentioned her family, and Haylee had never met them and didn’t talk about them.

  If I stayed where I was in Tell a Yarn, I could keep one eye on Opal’s shop and the other on In Stitches, which was also unlocked. I pictured my little embroidery boutique being invaded by about a thousand more mysterious strangers, some handsome, some dangerous, and some both.

  As I watched my front porch for these imagined intruders, a door behind me unlatched. I whirled around.

  Head down, Opal stumbled toward me. “Sorry, Willow,” she muttered. “I was a little surprised by what you said.”

  I intended to be gentle. Instead, I blurted, “Do you know Max Brubaugh?” After the words were out, I couldn’t retract them. Miserably, I held my breath. I’d probably made a bad situation worse. Would she dash away again?

  She raised her chin and patted her eyes with a tissue. “Could he be the same Max Brubaugh we sometimes see on the Erie news? On a program originating from their Pittsburgh parent station?”

  That’s why he’d looked familiar, besides resembling Haylee and Opal. “Aha, yes. Is he a relative of yours? He has that Norse god look.”

  “Well I don’t.” She blew her nose.

  “Goddess,” I corrected myself. “Haylee has it, too.”

  “I had a nephew named Max Brubaugh.” Her lips quirked in a tenuous attempt at a smile. “I probably still have one. He was about three the last time I—” She broke off and grabbed another tissue from a box behind her sales counter. “My big sister’s kid. Of all the people in my family, I was most surprised that my sister cut me off. The others, well . . .” She shrugged. “That’s what they were like. If it hadn’t been for Naomi and Edna, I don’t know what I’d have done. They gave me back my confidence and self-esteem, and they have always done everything they could for me. And for Haylee, too, of course. Sisters couldn’t be closer. My real sister wasn’t close, as it turned out.”

  She stood tall and looked out at the street, but I suspected she was seeing into a different world and a different time. “Little Max was adorable. I babysat him often. He didn’t pronounce Opal well and called me ‘Auntie Elbow.’ Not seeing him ever again, not being able to watch him grow up, tore my insides apart.” She half turned from me and dabbed at her eyes.

  I asked, “Did he have a sister?”

  She faced me. Behind her glistening eyes, I saw both fear and hope. “Why do you ask?”

  “Last night when Haylee and I were out with the dogs, Chief Smallwood said she’d seen Haylee with him. Since Haylee had been with me, I guessed that the woman Chief Smallwood saw was Max’s girlfriend, but now, because of the family resemblance, I suspect the other woman could be related to him, like maybe a sister.”

  “I wondered if Pearl might have been pregnant last time I saw her, but I wasn’t sure.” Opal tossed her tissues away. “I’d better go talk to Haylee, Edna, and Naomi, so none of them will be as shocked as I was if he shows up again.”

  Would he? Or had he gathered the information he wanted and driven off with it?

  As we left Opal’s store, I turned around. On the other side of the glass door, Lucy pawed at the catnip mouse until it flew up into the air. Rump high, the gray tabby scooted after it, and probably batted it underneath the counter.

  I jogged across the street to In Stitches, went inside, and looked out my front window at the shops across the street.

  Opal stood stiffly with Haylee at the door of The Stash. Naomi marched toward them. Beside her, Edna took little hops between steps to keep up. They all went into The Stash.

  Would Haylee eat lunch with me at the park, and talk to Mona afterward? Or would her plans change?

  I spent the rest of the morning baking cookies, with disruptions involving two unruly kittens and two importunate dogs. Investigators milled between the crime scene in my backyard and vehicles parked on the hiking trail.

  Shortly before noon, I took all four animals out to the patio and the flower gardens surrounding it, where Sally-Forth supervised the kitties and Tally-Ho pulled at his leash, undoubtedly planning to trot down the hill to meet the investigators.

  Inside again, I put a sandwich, some carrot sticks, and a box of juice into a lunch bag that I’d made and embroidered for myself, then leashed the dogs and walked them to the park.

  Haylee was already sitting on one of the benches lining the knee-high walls of the bandstand. She’d brought a bowl of salad.

  I fastened the dogs’ leashes to the leg of a bench and gave Haylee’s salad a suspicious glance. “No asparagus?”

  “None. And I washed everything thoroughly under briskly running water. That should scare all the germs away.” Although she was joking, strain wrinkled the skin between her eyebrows.

  “Did Opal tell you about the man who came to my shop?” I asked.

  Haylee stabbed at a piece of cucumber. “What nerve. How dare they?”

  Her vehemence startled me. Maybe my report of Max’s visit had disturbed Opal more than I’d realized.

  Haylee pointed the speared cucumber at me. “They kicked Opal out when she needed them, and then when she’s made a nice life for herself, they come waltzing back. What are they going to do, try once more to destroy her?”

  “Max was three years old when it happened,” I reminded her. “And there’s no way they can ruin her life. She’s strong, and she loves what she’s doing. Don’t we all?”

  “Someone put him up to it.” Haylee hunched over her salad. “I refuse to even think of them as my grandparents. Disowning can work both ways.”

  Sally-Forth sat up, rested her chin on Haylee’s knee, and stared with a worried expression up into Haylee’s face.

  I didn’t know what to say. My parents were distant, emotionally as well as geographically, but they loved me in their way and had raised me with care. Besides, I’d spent my summers with doting grandparents, and they’d always made me feel secure.

  Haylee’s father didn’t know she existed, and she didn’t know her grandparents, but the three women who had raised her adored her. Everybody probably had dark little holes in their existence that could have been filled with more love, but neither Haylee nor I had cause for complaint.

  We ate in silence except for the panting of Sally and Tally at our feet. I finished my lunch, then said fiercely, “Opal has us—you, me, Naomi, and Edna. None of us will let anyone hurt her.”

  Haylee stuffed her empty salad bowl into her lunch bag. “Opal has two weird sisters, two weird daughters, and one weir
d doctor who is almost a brother. Gord will rally around any cause of Edna’s. And Opal has got to be one of Edna’s causes.”

  I smiled. “Unless Edna continues to hide from Gord.”

  “Edna says she’s almost ready to let Gord see her again.” Haylee’s love for her three mothers seemed to have fueled her anger at Max Brubaugh and his family. Maybe she was also jealous because Opal had probably never stopped loving Max, or at least her memories of the boy. I was sure that Opal didn’t blame the long-festering pain of rejection on a three-year-old.

  If Haylee had any other inner demons to wrestle, she apparently wasn’t about to tell me about them. She stood up. “Let’s go talk to Mona,” she said.

  20

  CERTAIN THAT MONA WOULDN’T WANT dogs in her shop even on Threadville’s day off, I asked Haylee to help take them to my apartment. We had to greet the kittens properly before Sally-Forth herded them away from the door and toward her inviting embroidered doggie bed.

  Haylee and I went down the street to Country Chic. Mona was alone, and thrilled to show off her latest merchandise. I’d already bought lawn furniture from her and didn’t need more, especially if huge sections of my yard were always going to be barricaded behind police tape. Mona had stocked some very pretty things, including a whole new line of birdhouses, pastel garden urns, and Adirondack chairs painted in floral designs with matching tables and umbrellas.

  She had a way of shaking her head at the end of every phrase, as if everything she said distressed her, even though she was busily praising her merchandise. When she stopped for a breath, I asked her who had provided the salads for the community picnic.

  She stared off into the distance. “Some woman. That little girl from the bakery found her. Such a pity about Neil.”