Dire Threads (15 page)

Clay strode across the room, examined the door, then turned to face me. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Someone forced the door. The wood around the lock is splintered.”

More evidence. I had to get the dogs out of here before they compromised it. We took them out through the great room and up to the apartment and shut them in.

Back at Blueberry Cottage, Clay offered to nail the door shut, but I wanted to check on what else the investigators had missed. Or added. One of them could have lost the button. Another could have tracked paint around.

We checked the front porch, the one facing the river. My flashlight’s beam picked out two more, slightly larger, paint spots between the door and the thick blob of aqua paint that someone had thrown on my porch about twenty-four hours before Mike died. There was also a spot of aqua on the door, down low, where someone had kicked it open. Mike’s murderer, or an investigator?

It was easy to see where the sole of a boot had pulled an Ohio-shaped chunk of paint out of the thickest part of the paint blob. The paint must have been mostly dry when the boot landed on it. I could convince myself that I could detect a faint boot print on the surface of the paint, but I could also convince myself I was imagining it.

I told Clay, “I first noticed this paint on Tuesday. Someone must have thrown it here Monday night. Wouldn’t it have frozen by now?”

“A water-based paint would have.” He squatted down but didn’t touch the paint splash. “Even without the odor, I can tell this is an oil-based paint. They don’t cure or freeze in cold temperatures as quickly as water-based paints.” He stood and tapped my shoulder, his touch so gentle I barely felt it. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re shivering.”

“I’m fine. I don’t look forward to haggling with the state police about evidence they might have missed, though.”

We climbed the hill to the gate near the street. Clay touched the yellow tape. “I guess it’s just as well this stuff’s still here, if the police have to come back. But it can’t be good for business.”

“It attracted crowds. Not the sort of crowds who buy much, though.” I didn’t add that the yellow tape and the rumors flying around the community had brought accusations of murder.

He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, and I had to tamp down the urge to concoct tales of astounding woe. I managed what I hoped passed for a confident smile.

He glanced up at the mottled charcoal sky. “Judging from the way those clouds are rushing east, we may get snow. I hope it doesn’t warm up too fast. Ice could jam the mouth of the river, and cause a flood.”

“It won’t.”

“Hope not.” He went out, waved, and strode to his truck. I locked the gate.

In my apartment, I had to calm the excited dogs before I could phone Trooper Smallwood.

Her voice was more clipped than last time I heard it. “Sorry I didn’t get to talk to you today,” she said.

“I found something you missed—”

She interrupted me. “The team is very thorough.”

I ignored her annoyed tone. “Somebody left a button at the scene. The killer’s fingerprints could be on it.”

“There were no buttons. They’d have noticed.”

But they didn’t.
I let my silence say it for me.

After a few moments, she asked, “Did you touch or move it?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t. Where was it in relationship to where the victim was?”

“Inside my rental cottage, in a sink underneath a window that overlooks where Mike died. The door near the river had been kicked in.”

“That’s strange,” she said. “Both doors were fine when we were there.”

“They looked fine to me, at first. But that one was only sort of wedged shut, not bolted, and wood near the latch was splintered. Also, someone tracked paint into that cottage, from the porch to the sink where I found the button.”

“Tracked paint? In winter?”

“It was very thick.” I repeated what Clay said about oil-based paints not curing in cold temperatures. “The paint’s not dry yet.”

“Could you have been the one who tracked it around?”

“I was careful to step over it.”

I could hear nails clicking on her receiver. “Tell you what—call Detective DeGlazier. He’s the lead investigator, he lives close to you, and he can go to your place and see all this. I’ll check with him to make sure he keeps the button in a safe place, and we’ll swing by tomorrow to collect it and see this paint you say was tracked around.”

After we said our good-byes, I frowned at the phone. When I’d talked to her before, she’d seemed more willing to help. What had happened? Did it have anything to do with the additional evidence that Trooper Gartener had said they’d found against me? How could I get her—or any of them, but she seemed the most reasonable—to tell me what the evidence was so I could refute it?

I phoned Uncle Allen.

A child answered.

I stammered out, “Unc . . . er . . . Detective DeGlazier?”

The child pelted away, shouting “Granddad! Some lady wants to talk to you!”

Several minutes passed before I heard the phone being manhandled again. I half expected the prattle of a three-year-old. Instead, a woman demanded, “Who’s this?”

“I need to speak to Detective DeGlazier—”

“Who’s this?” she repeated. Her caustic voice was familiar.

“Willow Vanderling.”

She must have dropped the phone. The crash it made as it fell on a table, or more likely from the sound of it, on a snare drum, nearly deafened me. It could not have benefited the phone, either. “Aaaaaallen!” she shrieked. “It’s that
murderer
!”

Great. He’d indoctrinated his entire family to believe in my guilt. He had probably spread his suspicions to the entire village and surrounding countryside, too. It was all I could do not to growl into the phone.

But as I replayed her voice, I began to wonder if she could be Aunt Betty, who had come to In Stitches with her friends and accusations.

Finally, Uncle Allen came to the phone. “What d’ya want?” I must have caught him during dinner. Dishes clattered. I could hear him chewing. Maybe I should be glad, after all, that the phone crashing down onto the snare drum had temporarily impaired my hearing.

I said carefully, “The investigators missed some evidence in my cottage.”

Uncle Allen spoke around food in his mouth. “That’s impossible. What evidence?”

“Somebody tracked through wet paint on my porch, left a trace of paint on my door when he kicked it open—”

“Who’d have done that?”

“Whoever beat Mike up.”

A woman shouted, “Aaaaaallen, your dinner’s getting cold!”

“I’ve got to go,” he said.

“Wait,” I commanded. “Somebody lost a button. It fell into the cottage sink. The killer’s fingerprints may be on it. I called the state police. Trooper Smallwood said you should get it and save it for her.”

“We should get your prints, too.” He said it in his gotcha voice, like he was tricking me into something, like confessing to murder.

“Of course, since they’ll be on most of my things.”

“Aaaaaallen!”

Uncle Allen grunted, “Button’s probably been there for years.”

“It wasn’t there on Monday. We’re not talking about a minor crime.” I was getting as hot under the collar as the woman who had cooked his dinner. “And Trooper Smallwood said—”

“If she wants it that badly, tell her to go get it herself.”

Oh, great, now I was going to be in the middle of an argument between two different police forces. “Come get the key from me again, anytime.”

“Aaaaaallen!”

“Yeah, yeah.” I couldn’t tell if he was dismissing me or his wife. He hung up.

The button might have to stay where it was until Trooper Smallwood came.

Maybe Edna would remember if anyone had bought black walnut buttons, either for a new garment or to replace lost buttons. The one in my sink was distinctive, very likely handmade, and should be easily recognizable.

I went upstairs. The boutiques and apartments belonging to Haylee, Opal, and Naomi were dark, but Buttons and Bows was brightly lit. I shut the dogs into the apartment, threw on a coat, and ran outside.

Clay had been right. The night had warmed, marginally, and fine snowflakes haloed streetlights.

“Willow!” A man’s voice. Stores were closed and no pedestrians were in sight. Who was calling me?

14

S
AM LEANED OUT HIS FRONT DOOR AND beckoned with his whole arm, as if he needed help. “Willow!”

I ran to his front porch.

“I checked my inventory against my records,” he said. “A padlock
has
gone missing, package and all.”

Although Sam and I were sheltered by the porch roof, snow billowed like chiffon between us. “Who bought it?” A murderer, most likely.

Sam shook his head. “No one bought it, that’s the thing. I keep records of what comes in and what goes out, and I should have one more padlock.”

He trusted his bookkeeping more than I did. “Do you know when it went missing?”

“Had to be Tuesday. When you and I looked at the heap of packages last evening, it looked too small to me. We’d had them all out the night before, you know. I do remember how heavy things are, and how much space they take.” He tightened his lips around his teeth as if to hold in a secret. “I asked around this evening, and Herb reminded me that Mike Krawbach was in The Ironmonger Tuesday evening while you were.”

“No, he wasn’t.” Mike would have complained when Smythe Castor apologized on his behalf.

“Well, now, not in the store, exactly. He was in my basement, inspecting my electrical panel to see if I could upgrade.”

I admitted, “I did see Mike walk past my store shortly after I left yours. I guessed he’d been snooping around my yard, but maybe he was coming from here.” While in Sam’s basement, had Mike heard and memorized the unique number matching my padlocks? “Did he buy a padlock?”

Sam brushed the toe of one shoe at the snow blowing onto his porch. “Mike came upstairs the moment you all left and was talking to the geezers, right where those packages of padlocks were, and he was playing with the packages, and . . .” Sam heaved a careworn sigh. “One of the fellows thinks Mike might have picked up one of those packages and . . .” He met my gaze. “Just sort of neglected to put it back. But I don’t know . . .”

Sam didn’t want to accuse Mike of stealing, but it seemed exactly like something Mike would do. Mike must have been near the top of the basement stairs when the men were calling out the numbers, and heard them find two alike. He must have seen another package with that number printed on it, and pocketed the package. He could have let himself into my yard.

It still didn’t explain why he’d been beaten with my canoe paddle. Or who had done it.

It also blew apart my theory that his killer had to have been one of the people I’d seen in Sam’s store when I bought my padlocks. If Mike opened the gate, anyone could have followed him into my yard. And he or she wouldn’t have needed a key to snap the padlock shut afterward.

Sam flicked snow from his shoulders. “Mike told me he would issue me a permit to upgrade my electrical service, and he seemed quite proud of himself, y’know, that way he had.”

I did know. Mike had probably been congratulating himself for obtaining a key that would let him come and go from my yard. Had he been planning something in particular, or had he merely enjoyed owning keys to other folk’s places? “You’d better go inside,” I suggested.

“Yep, the snow’s blowin’ all over the place, isn’t it now? Weather’s warming up. Hope the river doesn’t rise too much, but . . .” Shaking his head as if to ward off the future, he backed into his store and closed the door.

I crossed the street. Opening Edna’s door set off a jaunty little tune.

Edna straightened from bending over an open carton. “Like my new doorbell? That’s an old Vaudeville tune, about buttons and bows. You should update those boring chimes you have.”

I should? “I like the frosted sea glass.” The irregularly shaped glass pieces were pastel greens, blues, and turquoises.

Haylee waved at me from the top of a ladder propped against shelves of trims. “Clay made Willow’s chimes, from driftwood and glass he found on the beach.”

I pictured Clay, tan and barefoot on a beach at sunset, picking up pebbles and chunks of glass smoothed by water and sand . . .

An intriguing image, but the sights around me were intriguing, too. To my left, one wall featured buttons in a breathtaking array of color. The opposite wall displayed as large an assortment of ribbons, fringes, and braids as I’d seen anywhere, including those wonderful stores that Haylee and I used to browse through in Manhattan’s Fashion District.

Opal smothered me in a hug. She had crocheted her voluminous poncho in diagonal stripes of navy blue and hunter green. “That Vaudeville tune was actually ‘Buttons and Beaux,’ ” she corrected Edna, spelling it to make sure I understood. “It was rather risqué, more about
un
buttoning than buttoning.” She helped me disengage myself from her poncho.

Haylee grinned down at us. “Think about all those tiny buttons and the clumsy hands of the beaux. You can imagine the lyrics.” Her black wool slacks and burgundy Chanel-style jacket were perfectly tailored. She had to have made them herself.

With a sniff, Edna lifted her chin. “I prefer to think it’s B-O-W-S.” She pointed at the carton at her feet. “We’re rearranging my shelves to add my latest shipment. There’s so much!”

Who wouldn’t be thrilled after receiving several cartons of notions? Colorful lace, fringes, and ribbons spilled out. I wanted to sink my hands into the boxes, fling decorations all over Buttons and Bows, then grab my favorites, which would be most of them, and dash home to start creating . . . I wasn’t sure what, but simply owning the trims while I designed the whatevers would be satisfying. On the other hand, after Edna added them to her color-coded shelves, it would be easy to saunter over here anytime and buy whatever I needed.

Yes,
needed
. Threadville was a great place to live and work.

Edna smoothed her vest. “I finished this today.” She had woven the vest from lime, lemon, and pale orange grosgrain ribbons embellished with matching ribbon rosettes and tiny, sparkly buttons. A yellow turtleneck and slacks completed the outfit.