Dire Threads (19 page)

“You are. I’ll wait for the techs.”

I didn’t want to give him the key to Blueberry Cottage. I told him I’d lock it later tonight after the techs were done, then tramped up the hill.

The first thing I did when I went inside was examine the dogs’ collars. Sure enough, Sally didn’t have her rabies tag. I should have checked more carefully around Mike’s clothes pole before we fled his yard Wednesday night. Had we left any other evidence of our presence at Mike’s?

The second thing I did was fill a mug with cider, heat it in the microwave, and carry it and a plate of cookies back down the hill.

Maybe Trooper Gartener’s long johns weren’t bulletproof, but they must have been waterproof. Or his uniform trousers were. He had brushed some of the slush off my porch stairs and was sitting, his chin in his hands and his elbows on the knees, on a wet step. He leaped up when I came around the corner of Blueberry Cottage. I had probably startled him.

I thrust the cider and cookies at him. “I thought you might get cold and hungry.”

He took them from me and set them on the step. “The team should be here soon.”

Why had I bothered? He would probably have the forensics lab test the cider and cookies for every toxin known to man before he tried them.

I went back to the apartment, locked the door, called Haylee, and told her the police had found Sally’s rabies tag and signs of the dogs’ wrestling match at Mike’s, and that I hoped Gartener believed my story that Mike had stolen the dogs and they got away.

“Maybe he did.”

I pictured the unbending state trooper. “I doubt it. Anyway, last I knew, investigators are at Mike’s place.”

“I guess we’d better not go back there.” She sounded disappointed, then perked up. “Until after the police are done, some time when there’s no snow.”

“And no mud,” I added.

“The police may miss something. Like where Mike hid his key.”

And, assuming we weren’t locked in some dark dungeon somewhere, we could go back and find more clues to the identity of Mike’s killer. “I like the way you think. See you at Opal’s!”

While the dogs and I ate supper, a dark van appeared on the trail beside Blueberry Cottage. Someone set up a brace of temporary outdoor lighting. In the end, Mike might get his way. The tech guys looked about to dismantle Blueberry Cottage bit by bit.

I wasn’t going to depress myself by watching them. Opal’s storytelling event should cheer me up.

18

L
IGHTS WERE TURNED DOWN TO ONLY a glimmer inside Tell a Yarn. The door was unlocked. I tiptoed inside and kicked off my boots. Opal’s store was a treasure chest of jewel hues. Yarns of every shade were arranged in niches along both side walls. Opal had fat yarns, thin yarns, soft yarns, wools, acrylics, nylons, cottons. She also sold tapestry yarns for needlepoint and crewel work, and crochet cottons for bedspreads, lace, and tablecloths. She even sold small hanks of embroidery floss for those patient enough to embroider by hand.

Racks displayed knitting needles and crochet hooks in every size. She had oodles of pattern books for fabulous knitting and crocheting projects. Completed sweaters and blankets hung from the ceiling.

An urge to learn how to knit and crochet flared in my brain.

Touching yarn, I followed the sound of voices to the back room, which doubled as Opal’s dining room and her classroom, where her students knit, crocheted, and, I’d been told, gossiped around a gleaming mahogany dining table. Logs burning in the fireplace and an assortment of pillar candles provided the only lighting in the room, making it eerie with a campfire-like atmosphere.

Opal sat in one of her chairs at the table. “Come sit down, Willow. Sorry I can’t get up.” Lucy, a gray tabby cat, was draped around Opal’s neck like a purring fur collar. Opal’s knitting needles flashed and clacked around a mound of dark gray wool.

Naomi was between Opal and a woman who was about Haylee’s and my age. Naomi stopped knitting and patted the woman’s arm. “Willow, have you met Karen? She’s Elderberry Bay’s librarian.”

“I’ve been meaning to drop in at the library,” I admitted, “and get a library card.”

Humor glinted from her dark eyes. “Let me guess. Every time you tried, we were closed.”

I hung my head like a naughty schoolgirl. “I haven’t tried often.”

Karen’s laugh reminded me of bells ringing. “I’m the librarian for five small libraries, each open about one day a week. You can find me at the Elderberry Bay Library Wednesday evenings and Saturday afternoons.”

“It’s like a bookmobile,” Opal quipped, “except that the books stay and the librarian is mobile.”

Karen picked up a crochet hook and began working at a mint green baby sweater. “Some folks around here remember when Elderberry Bay was served by a bookmobile.”

Edna bustled in from Opal’s kitchen bearing a tray holding a teapot, mugs, a sugar bowl, and a creamer. “It’s herbal,” she said. “And won’t keep us awake.” The electric blue of her hair and the shiny silver sequins attached to her creamy vest might, however.

Haylee, in another of her classically tailored suits, this one navy, followed Edna with a plate of date and walnut bread, sliced and generously buttered.

Naomi carefully removed her jacket, allowing us to admire the way she’d made it by cutting a sweatshirt up the front and decorating it with quilt patches and appliqués. “Karen’s a wonderful storyteller,” she said.

Karen smiled at the cat, who was meowing and rubbing her face against Opal’s. “I love telling stories, but I wouldn’t foist them on the group every week. I like to hear the others.”

Opal lowered her knitting away from Lucy’s paw. “Tonight’s storyteller hasn’t phoned. She should be here by now.”

Bells near the front door rang. Boots landed on the floor.

Seconds later, Smythe Castor, beaming in his bee-stinger stocking cap, matching yellow and black striped socks, black jeans and turtleneck, and his bright yellow parka, carried a large cardboard box into the room. “Here, ladies. On a night like this, you might like a little bottled summer.”

He presented each of us with a glass jar shaped like an old-fashioned domed beehive. “Lavender honey,” he explained. “From my bees and my lavender.”

“Lovely,” Opal murmured, holding her jar up to the firelight.

“I bottled too much for the Honey Makers’ Conference.” He really was sweeter than his honey. Some folks might have pretended they’d made the treats just for us.

Haylee looked as worried as I felt. Did Smythe know about his cousin’s death?

He removed his cap. “Sorry I’m late.” His curly blond hair added to his angelic appearance. “The road from Erie is pretty bad.”

Naomi’s face lengthened with sympathy. “Smythe, I’m so sorry—”

He waved her condolences aside. “Not a problem. My pickup has winter tires and four-wheel drive. I didn’t land in the ditch, but lots of other vehicles spun out.”

Hoping the Threadville tour bus had made it home, I crossed my fingers and slid my hands under my thighs.

“No,” Naomi began again, only to be interrupted by the jingling doorbell and more thumping feet.

In her snowmobile suit, Aunt Betty burst in. “Smythe Castor! Don’t you ever answer your phone messages?” Rhonda, her hood tied around her face, hovered in the shadows behind Aunt Betty.

Smythe held his hands out, offering the newcomers jars of honey. “I haven’t been home yet. I just got back to town in time for tonight’s Tell a Yarn party.”

They paid no attention to his hands. They stared at his face. Rhonda wore her usual vinegary expression, but Aunt Betty appeared to be struggling with emotion. Horror, maybe.

Opal stood up without disturbing the languid cat around her neck. “Welcome, ladies, to storytelling. We have it every Friday night at eight.” She was adept at not quite pointing out that it was now about eight fifteen. “It was good of you to come out on a night like this. Grab a seat and a mug of chamomile tea and—”

Aunt Betty interrupted her. “We need to talk to Smythe.” She pointed toward the front door. “Come outside where we can speak privately, Smythe.”

His brow lowered and his lips thinned, but apparently he was used to having Aunt Betty order him around. He replaced the annoyed expression with a neutral one, put the honey that Rhonda and Aunt Betty had rejected into the carton, and shoved the carton toward Opal.

Aunt Betty marched him out of Opal’s dining room and into the front sales area of Tell a Yarn.

Behind them, Rhonda whined, “We recognized your truck outside, Smythe. We’ve been trying for days to reach you.”

We heard him shuffle into his boots. The front door slammed and everything became quiet except for Lucy’s purring and the ticking of the antique clock on Opal’s mantle.

Naomi covered her mouth. “The poor boy.” She sighed between her fingers. “He doesn’t know yet. About his cousin.”

Edna raked her fingers through her sapphire blue curls. “Those two women wouldn’t be my first choice for bringing bad news.”

Opal stroked Lucy. “They did seem eager to impart it, didn’t they?”

Karen twisted a ring on her right hand. “I hope he takes it okay.”

“Who are those women?” Haylee asked, staring at me like she’d already guessed.

“They’re the two women I told you about who were”—I didn’t want to say snooping—“
shopping
at In Stitches yesterday. They came back today. Have they visited you, too?”

“I’ve never seen them before,” Edna stated categorically, and the others said they hadn’t, either.

Apparently, Rhonda’s and Aunt Betty’s sleuthing for Uncle Allen only involved checking up on me. Interesting. Alarming, too.

Karen took a measuring tape from her bag and straightened it against a tiny sleeve. “The older one comes to the library. She’s Betty DeGlazier. Ever since she married Uncle Allen, she’s been called Aunt Betty.”

So it
was
her I’d talked to on the phone.

Edna had strung substantial glass beads onto her yarn and was knitting a bead into nearly every stitch, which would make the resulting garment weigh a ton. Beads trailed down her yarn, clinking together. She turned to Karen. “Who’s that other woman who was in here with Aunt Betty?” She drew her lips down in an excellent imitation of Rhonda’s snarl. “You know, Smiley.” She must have hoped to hear Karen laugh again.

It worked. Karen’s laugh really did sound like bells. “I don’t know who Smiley was.”

“Her charge card says Rhonda Dunkle,” I contributed.

“Dunkle,” Karen repeated. “She doesn’t have a library card.”

Opal jockeyed a slice of buttered nut bread around dangling kitty paws. “Then she’s definitely beyond the pale.” Ignoring Lucy’s vigorous licking of a buttery paw, she turned serious. “Locals, including Uncle Allen, seem to think Willow did Mike in.”

Karen flashed me a look of sympathy from under her lashes. “Don’t let Uncle Allen frighten you.”

I waved my hand in front of my face. “He doesn’t. I’ve already decided that if he succeeds in sending me to prison, I’ll do my time embroidering flowers on my fellow prisoners’ uniforms.”

Naomi gasped. “Don’t even think that way, Willow!”

“He can’t believe you’re a murderer,” Karen agreed. “That’s preposterous. There can’t be many people around here who are nutty enough to believe that.”

Only the entire DeGlazier family, who had run Elderberry Bay for generations, and their friends. And, although I didn’t want to admit it, possibly at least one state trooper.

Edna beamed expectant brown eyes at Karen and smiled encouragingly. “Do you have any idea who might have killed Mike? You must know nearly everyone around here.” Any minute now, she’d bring out her notebook of clues.

“Karen knows everyone who
reads
,” Opal commented darkly. “She won’t know murderers and nutty locals. Did Mike visit the library often?”

Karen shook her curls. “Never, while I’ve been librarian. I’ve heard about him. He had lots of enemies,” Karen said. “Since it looks like our storyteller’s not going to make it, shall I tell you a story?”

We all said yes.

“Once upon a time . . .” She pitched her voice to a spooky octave that made me shiver. “Like about last winter, there was a fisherman we’ll call Pete.”

If my ears could have swiveled toward Karen, they would have. Clay had said that Uncle Allen’s brother, Pete DeGlazier, had obtained a permit from Mike Krawbach to erect a gazebo on the flood plain.

Karen looked at each of us in turn, an experienced storyteller making eye contact with her audience. “He had a fishing hut out on the ice. He filled it with all the latest fish-finding technology and stocked it with food and beer and a heater to keep them from freezing. He put in a generator and a ginormous flat-screen TV. The lumber in that hut would have been enough to build a garage. Pete and his buddies had a great time out there in that ice mansion. Last winter was long and cold, and it seemed it could never end. But as April neared, other fishermen hauled their huts off the ice. Not Pete. He hired an enterprising young man we’ll call Mike—”

Edna clapped a hand over her mouth. “Uh-oh.”

Karen flashed her a smile. “It’s only a story, remember.”

Edna nodded obediently. Haylee’s and Opal’s mouths developed identical twitches.

Karen continued, “Mike had a brand-new, powerful snowmobile. He offered to drag the hut and all of its contents ashore. The lazy fisherman agreed. Now here’s the strange part. Mike and his snowmobile were seen on the ice near that fishing palace, but Pete never received his belongings. The ice melted almost overnight. Some folks swore that the hut was gone several hours before the ice broke up. No one could prove it.”

Bells jingled faintly in the front room. Smythe returning after hearing about his cousin?

“Come in,” Opal called. No answer.

Haylee and I raced to the front of the store. Nobody.

I opened the door. Boot prints, sloppy wet in the slush, led from the front door to a dark pickup truck pulling away from the curb. The truck roared away into the night.

“Smythe’s?” I guessed.

Haylee backed into the store. “No. His is the color of honey.”