Dyeing Wishes (8 page)

She sighed and drooped. “I’m sorry you are so poor.”

“I’m better off than many people, but thank you. So are you interested in fashion?”

She didn’t answer.

“I know you like all the colors and textures in the shop. What’s your favorite color?”

She shrugged.

“Do you know that I can’t see you clearly? For instance, I can’t really tell what you’re wearing.”

At that she looked at me and cocked her head. Then she rose from her nest of Icelandic wool and spread the skirt of whatever she wore. It rippled but didn’t catch or reflect any of the sunlight streaming in through the window behind her. There was no shimmer of color or glimmer of life to it. It didn’t cast a shadow.

She floated several feet closer and the shelves I could half see through her seemed to undulate as though I saw them through rising heat waves. The clothing hung on her without much shape of its own and obscured what shape she had, though she didn’t appear to have been a big woman, either overall or in any strategic places. The garment was long, down past her ankles, and I realized I didn’t know what she wore on her feet, if anything.

“Will you come closer?” I asked.

“Oh, pshaw, what do you want to see this old thing for?”

“It interests me. It’s what I do. Or what I did. I guess
it’s what I still could do if I found another job. Didn’t I ever tell you what my job was? I’m a textile conservationist. I study and take care of materials made of fibers. Everything from tapestries to rags. Coverlets, crinolines, long johns, ball gowns, you name it. Very old stuff, usually.”

“Well, la-di-da,” she said. She gave me a mock curtsy, but then she sashayed another few feet closer and held still for a few moments.

It made no difference, though. Looking at her made me want to blink my eyes or squint to focus them better, and proximity didn’t help. The details of the fabric weren’t clear enough to see a pattern or weave. It could have been a knit, for all I could tell, although it didn’t seem to drape or move like one. Then again, she didn’t move like any person I knew in this world, so maybe the way the fabric moved didn’t mean anything. But whether it was a nightgown or a dress or a shroud, I still couldn’t say. I only knew there were no hoopskirts or voluminous petticoats involved.

“I wish you would describe what you’re wearing for me,” I said. My fingers itched to get hold of whatever it was so I could examine the construction, the seams, the actual material.

“Why? What good would it do either of us?”

“I could write an article for
Preservation
magazine about it,” I said answering what I considered to be a silly question with a silly answer. “I’d call it ‘My Ghost Predates Polyester: A Paradigm for Unraveling the Preservation of Paranormal Textiles.’”

“Would I be famous?”

“Oh, I’m quite sure the preservation world would be talking about both of us for a long time. What do you think? Should we go for it?”

While she appeared to be seriously considering that,
another thought struck me. What would happen if I
could
get hold of her dress? Would I find the patterns of wear I looked for when studying textiles? The sort of day-to-day stains I found on some pieces of clothing? And when I touched it, would I “feel” her emotions? Which emotions would they be? Would I get a clearer sense of her current state of mind or would I suddenly be plugged into the emotions she felt when she died? That notion sent a shiver down my spine.

“No,” she said, twitching her skirt and turning her back on me. “I’ve decided we should not go for it and I won’t describe anything for you. You should not write that article. Think how unpleasant my existence will be if I am hounded day and night by paparazzi.”

“You’re probably right about the article and the paparazzi, but how could it hurt for you to tell me—”

“I know I’m right about those gadflies. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Oprah or Prince William what it’s like to have the media constantly on one’s doorstep. I’m sure they know exactly what I’m talking about. I do think I would handle fame better than Elvis Presley does, though.”

“Did.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Than Elvis did. He’s, um, well, he’s dead. He died quite a few years ago. The press can’t hound him anymore.”

“Shows how much you know.”

This was turning into a conversation I never in my wildest imagination pictured being a part of. But why did that surprise me? Daily dialogue with a ghost was my new norm. I wished I could shake my head until my brain settled back into the old norm.

“Well, anyway, you’re probably right that you would handle the press better than Elvis.”

“Yes, I’ve grown very wise over the years. Television has done that for me,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure. And how many years are we talking about?”

“I don’t like the doubting tone of your voice and I don’t like your insistence on asking personal questions this morning. Why don’t we return to our original topic? Your subconscious reason for wearing that skirt, which is a tad too tight across the beam. I find that far more interesting.”

“We won’t return to the topic of my skirt for two reasons. First, the only decision it indicates is the conscious choice I made between showing my knees and pulling on yesterday’s blue jeans. And second, I can sidestep personal discussions as easily as you. The difference is that I’m aware of sidestepping them and know why I do.” I almost bit my tongue in half to keep from adding that I owed that awareness to critical thinking skills and a memory, neither of them saturated with ten thousand hours of television psychobabble. I wasn’t above letting my own hurt feelings show, though. “Also, I’ll thank you not to make comments about my beam, which is not too broad and which my skirt fits perfectly. Far from being too tight, there is even room for my phone, my favorite pen, and a tissue in the pocket. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to unlock the door, because it’s time to open the shop.”

I snapped the dead bolt open, picturing how many times Granny’s fingers had turned it more calmly. Part of her morning ritual, no matter the weather, no matter her mood, had been to push the door open, take a deep breath, and look up and down the street.
Even if no one else is out and about and ready to shop, I’ll invite the morning in,
she’d say.

So I flipped her old needlepoint sign to its “open” side
and pushed the door open to continue her tradition and restore some equilibrium to my haunted existence. I closed my eyes and took in the deep breath, but when I opened my eyes and looked left, it was all I could do not to yelp. Geneva’s face hovered inches from mine, staring at me. A bone-deep chill traveled across my back, left to right, and, there, out of the corner of my right eye, I saw her misty hand come to rest on my shoulder.

“The differences between us,” she whispered, “are smaller than you like to think. Those four dead people need us.”

G
eneva ruined her exit when she failed to enunciate the word “poor,” making it sound as though she’d said “four” dead people. Or maybe that was just my ice-cold ears; I was having trouble getting past her sinister whisper and ghostly embrace. I felt as though I’d spent the last half hour underdressed in a haunted subzero freezer. Debbie bustled in, ready for her usual Tuesday-morning shift, while I was still shivering.

“You’re not coming down with anything, are you?” she asked, stopping short when she saw me with my shoulders hunched and rubbing my hands to rewarm them. “I’m still waiting on a couple of the girls to lamb, and I don’t have time to catch a breath, much less a cold.”

I shook my hands out and squared my shoulders. “Nope, I’m healthy as a cosseted Cotswold.”

“Good.” She turned abruptly and went to put her jacket and purse away.

Even though Debbie had told Ardis she would be in, I’d half hoped she would call and say she’d changed her mind. I wasn’t entirely adept at running the shop by myself yet, but by midmorning there were usually two or three TGIF members knitting and gossiping in the comfy chairs grouped here and there around the shop. Almost any one of them could set me straight or at least help me muddle through until Ardis came in at noon.

“You know, Debbie,” I said when she came back out front, “if you wanted to skip today, no one would blame you.”

“My bank account would. Tuesdays are my half days, anyway. It won’t be a big deal. By the way, good morning. I didn’t say that when I saw you shivering. You freaked me out for a minute.”

“Just a sudden chill. Nothing to worry about. You aren’t worried about being away from the farm, though? About reporters trampling all over or disturbing the sheep? What if they leave a gate open?”

“The press is more interested in a handsome fugitive and a beautiful woman dead in each other’s arms. Saying it happened under a tree east of Knoxville is about as close as they’ve come to pinpointing the location. But the sheriff said he’ll have someone out there all day, anyway, and it turns out it’s my cousin Darla. She’s a little green at being a deputy, but she’s had a few sheep of her own ever since she was in 4-H, so the girls will be in good hands. Besides, if UPS and even GPS have trouble finding the farm, I’m not too worried about CBS.”

“Good point. And you’ve got the dog. Bill, right?”

“Yeah, he’s my boy. He’ll nip at any stray newsmen’s heels and keep them in line if Darla can’t.”

“Did he bark Sunday night or yesterday morning when, er…”

“No, his crate’s in my bedroom and he slept like a baby. The house is a hundred and sixty years old and the walls are solid brick. We don’t hear much when the windows are shut. But you don’t think if he
had
heard something I could have done something, do you? That I could have stopped or saved or…”

“No, no, really, I don’t.” Rats. This was one of the hard parts of investigating—asking what seemed like a small droplet of a question and then watching as the
implications of it sizzled and upset or horrified someone. Pest-infested textiles were so much easier to deal with than people. Especially people—or ghosts—I cared about. “No, Debbie, I’m just glad you’ve got him out there with you. So how are
you
doing?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Mabel dropped twins last night.” She looked more frazzled than fine, despite her twin avowals. Her usually neatly braided hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Blond wisps were beginning to escape. “Mabel’s a sheep,” she said.

“Yeah, I thought she probably was. Did you get
any
sleep last night?”

The string of camel bells on the door jingled, interrupting Debbie’s yawned answer, and two women came in, one older, one younger. I didn’t recognize either of them, and by the way they looked around, exclaiming over the burst of colors that met their eyes and getting their bearings, it was clear they were newcomers to the shop.

“Let us know if we can help you find anything,” I said.

“Needlepoint supplies?” the older woman asked.

“Sure, follow me.”

It would have been easy enough to tell them “upstairs, front room on the right,” but it was better customer service to take them there. That also gave me a chance to glance around for Geneva. She sometimes liked to sit on the stairs or perch on the newel-post. I didn’t see her, though, until I returned to the front room. She was hovering by the two comfy chairs near the front window. When she saw me, she motioned me over.

“Oh dear.” I sighed. Debbie was nestled in one of the chairs, the cat curled into a skein of ginger fur in her lap, both of them sound asleep.

“Did you know Debbie used to entertain Will Embree out at her place?” Geneva asked.

“Where did you—”

“Wait, wait, don’t answer,” Geneva said. “We have incoming from two directions. Two from behind and three more at the door. Oh goody. Look who it is.”

The bells jingled as the door opened, and at the same time I heard the first two women coming back from upstairs. One of them was describing an antique loom, a customer after Granny’s own heart.

I turned to greet the new arrivals and saw why Geneva was so pleased. Shirley and Mercy came through the door flanking a younger woman who could only be Mercy’s daughter, Angela. Geneva found the twins endlessly fascinating. They fascinated me, too, but more in the way an itching, red rash does. Even though we’d parted on semifriendly terms the previous afternoon, I had trouble following through with the warm greeting I’d started. Still, I was able to muster a plausible smile.

It was wasted. The twins were arguing and didn’t return my greeting. Geneva circled them a few times, empty eye sockets wide. I didn’t really care that the Spiveys didn’t seem to notice me standing there, but I was very glad they weren’t aware of Geneva’s attentions.

The other two women cut short their loom discussion when they came back into the room. Their hands were empty; no needlepoint supplies. A pity. The younger one gave me the kind of wave that indicated they were happy browsing and they started leafing through the pattern binders near the sales counter. I would have been happier helping them leaf, but I turned back to the Spiveys.

To my surprise, the twins weren’t togged out in identical outfits. They also weren’t wearing their usual sweat suits. Taking a chance on making a snap psychobabble fashion judgment, I decided that could be a good sign. They both wore pressed khakis, but one’s blazer was lemon yellow and the other more of an orange sherbet.
The upgrade from garage-sale casual was almost encouraging and certainly interesting.

What wasn’t surprising was the fact that I’d never met Mercy’s daughter, Angela. True, the twins were Granny’s cousins, but they were a dozen or so years younger than Granny, and they’d never been close. Patchy images of Shirley and Mercy appeared throughout memories from my childhood. But whenever I tried to envision a girl with either of the twins or even trailing behind them, probably looking agonized or embarrassed, I got nothing. Any memories or awareness of Angela’s existence, if they’d ever been there, were gone as though eaten away by a moth.

Vanity made me want to say that Angela was in her early forties rather than her late thirties. The only evidence I was going on for that assumption, though, was her mother’s estimated age, the lines creasing Angela’s low forehead, and her cheeks, which were probably once round and rosy but were heading toward jowly. According to Ardis, Angela had a tattoo. That wasn’t so unusual, but the only detail Ardis revealed was that the tattoo was on a part of Angela’s anatomy she didn’t ever want to see any closer. That didn’t really tell me much. I could think of a lot of places on a lot of people I didn’t want to see any closer.