Threaded for Trouble Page 8

  Naomi patted Haylee’s arm. “You never had them. You were perfect.”

  Opal put down her knitting. “Or we refused to see any problems.”

  Haylee giggled. “I was perfect.”

  Edna bobbed her head up and down. “Perfect for us, and you still are.”

  Naomi looked dreamily toward the vase of showy dahlias eclipsing Opal’s fireplace. “What could we do to help Darlene’s children cope?”

  Haylee obviously didn’t want them coming up with one of their impulsive schemes. She asked, “What did you all think of the sewing machine company rep, especially her sewing skills?”

  Petal, Karen, and Jane hadn’t seen Felicity, but by the time we described her personality and lack of sewing skills, they were laughing as hard as the rest of us.

  It felt good to laugh at something, even if it was at Felicity’s expense. With any luck, none of us would ever see the poor woman again, and I had no plans to order more Chandler sewing machines anytime soon. Everyone roared when I told them I’d seen proof that Felicity had interfaced her jacket with corrugated cardboard. Even Susannah smiled, and her stitches looked even again.

  When I got home, my scarf had grown by almost another row.

  TALLY WOKE ME UP IN THE WEE HOURS WITH a prolonged and mournful howl. I hopped out of bed to comfort him. He snored and twitched as if chasing something.

  I went back to bed and the next thing I knew, it was light. None of the three of us had any more sad dreams, and if the seemingly nightly fire siren had sounded, we’d all slept through it.

  The day was supposed to be hot. I put on a blue linen top and a matching miniskirt that I’d made and sprinkled with embroidered daisies. I pinned my long hair up off my neck.

  Upstairs, feet thumped on the floorboards of the front porch.

  Sally and Tally yelped out a warning and dashed up the stairs toward the shop. Heart beating, I charged after them. Still barking, the dogs pawed at the door at the top of the stairs. The minute I unlatched it, they dashed, yipping, into the shop. I ran after them. They put their front feet up on the glass door and barked with even more urgency.

  A cardboard carton was on my porch, just beyond the door. I’d last seen it, or one like it, on Wednesday. Big green letters across it said, Another Fine Chandler Champion.

  12

  WHO HAD LEFT A CHANDLER CHAMPION carton on my porch? I looked up and down Lake Street. No one was out there.

  I maneuvered the two excited dogs into their pen in the back of the store, shut the gate, then ran back to the porch.

  A note was taped to the box. Please look after me.

  Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.

  What could be inside? This had to be the carton from Darlene’s prize sewing machine. Who in her household was fond of dangerous mischief?

  Her oldest son, Russ.

  If I opened the carton, would something explode in my face?

  Please look after me.

  Me.

  Like something inside the carton was alive? If I didn’t open it, would a tiny, helpless animal suffocate?

  Pressing my hand against my mouth so hard that it hurt, I shifted from foot to foot. In Stitches was scheduled to open in a half hour. I had to find out what was in this carton.

  I could call Elderberry Bay’s one and only police officer. Chief Smallwood had taken over after our previous chief left. Unfortunately, Smallwood had two personalities. On the phone, she was sometimes friendly and helpful, but in person, she could be cold and accusing. Besides, her previous career as a state trooper might have trained her to blow up the parcel.

  Please look after me.

  What if the carton contained a sleeping puppy, kitten, or—I didn’t want to think about another possibility—a baby? I didn’t dare phone Chief Smallwood.

  The village was silent except for waves breaking on the beach at the foot of Lake Street.

  I clenched my fist and exhaled into it. Unless I failed the written or physical exam, I was about to become a firefighter. I had to think like one. I should call in the experts. Not Plug. I didn’t trust him.

  Isaac was deputy chief, and his card was in my apartment with the manual he’d given me.

  I left the carton on the porch. As if locks could prevent damage from an explosion, I locked the front door.

  I took the dogs downstairs, through my apartment, and outside. I shut them in Blueberry Cottage, far from any possible blast. Back in my apartment, I phoned Isaac and explained that I’d found a mysterious parcel on my front porch and was afraid it might explode.

  “We’ll be right there!” He banged the receiver down.

  Did he have to sound so enthusiastic?

  We?

  With visions of fire trucks barricading each end of the block, I ran upstairs and looked out my front windows.

  Plug’s SUV rocketed up the street and stopped, lights flashing, in front of my shop.

  Plug and Isaac started up my walk. Maybe it was a good sign that Plug wasn’t afraid of the carton. I went out to the porch. What should I say? Hi, Chief, can you make certain that no one planted a bomb in the carton that once contained your late wife’s sewing machine? If he had brought me a bomb, he wasn’t likely to tell me.

  His face was as red as his truck. He stopped at the base of my steps. “What’s wrong now?” As if I called him every day.

  I gestured at the carton at my feet. “This parcel showed up outside my door and…aren’t we supposed to report suspicious parcels?”

  Isaac nodded encouragingly. His hair stuck out as if my call had gotten him out of bed. Then again, he’d looked like that the only other time I’d seen him, too.

  Plug planted his fists at the sides of his more-than-ample waist. “Ma’am, you sell sewing machines. Are you planning to call the fire department each time one’s delivered?” In a gesture reminiscent of his son, he flicked a lock of hair out of his eyes.

  Up on my porch, I towered over both men. “Not if I expect a delivery. This was a surprise. And I don’t know what’s in this box. It could be a bomb.”

  My warning didn’t faze Isaac. He jogged up the steps and stared at the box. “Chief!”

  The excitement in his voice made me edge back toward my door.

  “What?” Plug thundered, the threads of his temper clearly fraying.

  Isaac pointed at the note taped to the box. “This looks like your printing.”

  Plug folded his arms across his chest and slid his feet farther apart. “All printing looks alike.”

  Isaac shook his head. “Yours is different. See, here, the way…”

  Swearing, Plug marched up the steps, ripped the tape off the carton, and pushed the flaps back.

  The carton contained exactly what it said. A sewing machine.

  Not just any sewing machine, either. A Chandler Champion.

  Plug swatted at one of the flaps and turned on Isaac. “Listen, dolt. This woman”—he pointed at me—“gave this sewing machine to my wife. My late wife. This woman can have the machine back. She can give it to someone else. She can sell it. She can bury it in her backyard. I don’t give a flamin’ fireplug what she does with it. But I don’t want it. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want it in my house. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to be reminded of it. I don’t want to know it exists. Ya got that, dolt?”

  Isaac’s mouth had gaped open the first time Plug called him a dolt, and I wasn’t sure he comprehended anything else until Plug repeated it. Veins in Isaac’s neck bulged like piping. If anything was flamin’, it was his eyes. He stood tall, making it obvious how short Plug was.

  Plug stormed down the steps. He called over his shoulder, “Carry the thing into her store for her.” He got into his SUV and roared away.

  Muttering, “I guess I’m walking back,” Isaac stooped to pick up the carton.

  “I can take it inside,” I said. “I have a dolly.”

  He hefted it easily to his shoulder, something I would never, no matter how many bolts of cloth
I hauled around, be able to do. “I’m in no hurry to join him at the fire station.” His voice came out flatter than usual, as if he were trying to tamp down his anger, or at least hide it. “Where do you want it?”

  I unlocked the storage room. “Here, until I figure out what to do with it.”

  He set it on a shelf. “How much do these things cost?” He swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He was beginning to look genial again.

  I told him the list price for a fully loaded Chandler Champion.

  “That much? You could buy a used pickup for that.”

  I led him out of the storeroom. “Pickup trucks don’t sew.”

  He laughed. “True. But they haul more than a sewing machine could.” He pivoted and waved his hand at my tidy row of sewing machines. “The rest of these machines, are they that expensive, too?”

  “That’s the most expensive one. They do more than just sew.” The one we just put away killed someone. I hoped the thought didn’t show on my face. “They embroider, too.”

  He whistled. “Whoa. You’ve got a fortune in here. You got it all properly insured?”

  Where was he heading with that? “Of course.” It was true.

  He cocked his head and rubbed his chin. “So the chief could’ve sold that sewing machine and made a lot of money.”

  “Yes.” I pictured the little girl’s face, tear-streaked from crying about missing her mother. And wanting her dwess back. I could sell the machine and start a fund for Darlene’s kids.

  Isaac gazed into the distance beyond my shop’s front porch. “I always thought Plug was missing a gallon from his water tank. Now I know it.” With a grim smile, he shambled out of In Stitches.

  I had a feeling that the conflict I’d witnessed between the two men wasn’t their first and wouldn’t be their last.

  I ran down the hill to Blueberry Cottage and released Sally-Forth and Tally-Ho from their temporary prison. They were, as always, overjoyed to see me and happy to be taken upstairs to their pen where they could “help” in the shop. I wanted to go tell Haylee about the morning’s surprising events, but the Threadville tour bus had already arrived, and women were marching up my sidewalk.

  Georgina, dressed all in shell pink, wanted to embroider a design all over gleaming white satin for her daughter’s wedding gown, but she sensibly didn’t want to start on the satin without practicing first. I gave the class pointers on hooping and rehooping fabric to make a design continuous without gaps or overlaps. Larger hoops and the latest software made it easier, but not everyone owned such luxurious machines, so we practiced with more basic machines, too.

  Rosemary had great luck making various sizes of dots appear random. Mimi’s cough must have been bothering her more than she let on. She kept clearing her throat, and no matter how many times she placed her embroidery in the hoop, her stitching ended up off center.

  Georgina liked Rosemary’s dots, but her daughter had requested the sorts of curlicues that might appear in a medieval manuscript.

  Rosemary picked up the candlewicking I’d dreamed up while drifting off to sleep. I had fastened thick, soft piping cord to the fabric, then had satin stitched over short sections of it in white, leaving alternate sections puffy. “What about putting this all over a wedding gown?” she asked.

  Lucky thing I wasn’t taking a sip of iced tea. I’d have spewed it over everyone. “I don’t think brides want to look poufy. Besides, once it’s washed, it will probably resemble drenched wooly caterpillars.”

  Everybody laughed. “I don’t know about you,” Rosemary said, “but I don’t wash my wedding gowns. I take them to the cleaners.”

  “Husbands, too?” Georgina teased.

  Rosemary smiled happily. “Them, too.” I’d met Rosemary’s husband. They’d been married for almost twenty years and obviously adored each other. If another husband had predated him, she’d been a child bride.

  It was Saturday, so Susannah wasn’t in my shop, which was just as well, since I didn’t think she was quite ready to joke about ex-husbands. She was helping Edna in Buttons and Bows all day, except for giving the rest of us our midday breaks. When it was my turn, I enjoyed a quick sandwich in the warm, dappled sunshine in my backyard while the dogs romped around me.

  After lunch, we went up to the shop, and the dogs promptly curled up on each other’s beds. Apparently, the monograms I’d embroidered for them had failed to impress them.

  Susannah could use overtime pay to help her hang on to her house. Accompanying her to the front door, I told her that Darlene’s machine had returned to In Stitches. “Can you help me check it for damage tonight after the Threadville shops close?” I asked.

  “Sure. Just don’t ask me to join the fire department.”

  I grinned. “Don’t worry. Also, could you come in tomorrow afternoon?” Susannah usually had Sundays off. “A couple of customers have dropped off their machines for routine maintenance, and you know how we all get when our machines aren’t available.”

  She managed a tiny smile. “We suddenly have fifteen projects we absolutely have to work on that very minute. I’ll come tonight, and tomorrow afternoon, too.

  “In time for my lunch break?”

  “Okay.” She ran down the porch steps and across the street to Buttons and Bows.

  13

  IT OCCURRED TO ME, BELATEDLY, THAT I should ask Chief Smallwood before I messed around with Darlene Coddlefield’s sewing machine. As soon as I finished teaching the afternoon class, I called her.

  “What’s up, Willow?” As always on the phone, she sounded pleasant and helpful.

  “Plug Coddlefield left his wife’s…his late wife’s sewing machine on my front porch.”

  There was a long pause. “So?”

  I twisted the fingers of my free hand behind my back. “Dr. Wrinklesides told me that it fell on her.”

  “Busybody.”

  I had to defend him. “He wanted to know what the thing in her arm was, and why it was shaped like that.”

  “What was it, and why did he ask you?”

  “He guessed I might recognize it. I did. It was part of a sewing machine needle.”

  Naturally, Chief Smallwood had to go on the offensive. “You’re not trying to find the reason for a mysterious death on your own, are you, or accusing anyone of murder? Because this appears to be an accident.”

  Appears to be. She had doubts. I was curious about what could have gone wrong with the machine, but I gave Smallwood another good reason for examining it. “I would like to make certain it’s in perfect working order again before we…I thought the proceeds of selling it could go to the Coddlefield family.”

  “I notice you didn’t say to Plug Coddlefield.” She sounded amused.

  “You’re right.” Feeling like a tattletale, I blurted out that I’d seen him and his nanny in a clinch the day after Darlene died.

  “People can act out of character under grief and stress. It’s natural to offer consolation when someone’s bereaved.”

  “I suppose so,” I agreed. “But this was above and beyond consolation.”

  “Things happen. Why are you asking me if you can fix the killer sewing machine?”

  “It arrived so quickly I thought you might not have had time to investigate it.” Not a very subtle hint.

  “We had a forensics team on the scene right away. They were thorough. You’re not trying to tell me I should take the sewing machine as evidence, are you? I understand those things are programmable. Can you program them to slide off tables?”

  Very funny, Chief. “Not last I knew. It was much heavier than other machines, though, so if someone who was extra strong picked it up and dropped it on her, it could have done a lot of damage.”

  “Where’d you get the idea that someone could have dropped it on her?” Her voice held an odd note, like she wanted me to tell her more.

  “That machine is heavy, but her son lifted it. So did Isaac, the deputy fire chief. I can carry it, but only if I groan and make horrible faces.
” I figured I should get a turn to ask questions. “Did Darlene Coddlefield have life insurance? Who was the beneficiary?”

  “All that’s being checked.” Her nails tapped the receiver. “You know what? I think that having sewing experts look at that machine is a good idea.” It was probably the first time she’d ever approved one of my suggestions. “And I should be there when you take it apart.”

  Great. In person, she was usually impossible. Not like Felicity, but close. I told her we were planning to check out the machine after In Stitches closed at five. She promised to join us.

  Threadville tourists, notorious for stretching their time in our stores, were still shopping when Susannah returned to In Stitches. She lent a hand with ringing up last-minute sales.

  Chief Smallwood arrived but stayed near the front door, feet apart, hands on hips, staring at the cheerful crowd of Threadville tourists. Looking tough was difficult for her, despite the bulletproof vest she always wore over her navy blue uniform. Her blond ponytail and flawless skin made her appear girlish, but she had to be at least in her late twenties. No matter how much she scowled, she looked feminine and pretty.

  Susannah sidled up to me. “Shall we postpone our investigations until after she”—Susannah pursed her lips to one side in an apparent attempt to keep Chief Smallwood from knowing who we were discussing—“after she goes? Or shall we look at that machine tomorrow, instead?”

  “She wants to help us.”

  Susannah gave me an astounded look. Apparently, she harbored doubts about the ex–state trooper’s knowledge of sewing machines. Avoiding looking at me or at Chief Smallwood, Susannah went back to waiting on customers.

  Chief Smallwood’s presence didn’t seem to encourage our customers to go home. Maybe they hoped she’d let them embroider her bulletproof vest with sparkling metallic threads. If so, they were disappointed. Rosemary rounded them all up for the trip back to Erie on the bus.

  Detective Gartener came in. He had been Chief Smallwood’s partner when they were both Pennsylvania state troopers. He was still a state trooper, and had been promoted to detective. I suspected that losing him as a partner had made Smallwood apply to become Elderberry Bay’s police chief.