Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (14 page)

My head was spinning. She’d lost me at
Saint George
.

“Could you repeat that?” Liz asked, her hand in the air, but PJ was already hard at work.

I was amazed at the multitude of different stitches and how Althea could remember them all, let alone the variations on each name. It seemed like each stitch had three or four other monikers. It reminded me of Eleanor, who knew the Latin names for all the flowers in her garden, as well as the common garden varieties.

However, even though this was only my second class, I was actually starting to recognize some of the stitches. At least enough to know that Althea’s sampler featured some incredibly difficult ones, but there were a few of those on PJ’s, too.

“If you paid attention, Mrs. Gallagher, instead of chatting with your
friends
here, you might learn something.”

I slid farther down in my seat. Althea began to make her rounds, and her first stop was at our table.

“Can you teach me the Catherine wheel?” PJ asked.

“That might be a little advanced for now, Ms. Avery.”

PJ’s mouth set in the familiar stubborn line. “I just want to know which are the hardest stitches. Those are the ones I want to use.”

“As I’ve mentioned ad nauseam, you should use the stitch that is appropriate for the
design
, regardless of difficulty.” But even as she chided PJ, I could see a grudging admiration on Althea’s dour face. She showed her protégé how to work a large circle of blanket stitches, work a second row inside and spokes throughout, all the while without picking up the fabric. PJ followed her directions, creating something that looked a bit like a complicated flowery starburst.

I got up and did my usual walkabout. It was interesting what everyone decided to include on their samplers, especially Althea. Hers were all about atoning for past sins. I couldn’t imagine that the grim woman had much of a wild past, with how holier-than-thou she was.

I lingered next to Terri Jones, the woman with the incessant cough. “Hi, Terri, I’m Daisy. That’s a beautiful pillow.”

She coughed again, covering her mouth.

I couldn’t think of a good transition, so I just jumped right in. “I—um—was researching Cassell-built homes for a friend of mine, and I came across the story about the mold in your house.”

Her lips thinned into almost a snarl. “My little girl nearly died from a case of severe asthma, and I’m always sick. I can’t prove the house caused it, and we may never win our case, but you should tell your friend to stay far, far away from anything that man has touched.” The quiet demeanor was gone, and I unconsciously took a step back from the savage anger in her eyes.

Could this woman have gone so far as to try to frame Cassell for murder? I could almost hear Serrano’s voice in my head, mocking my wild suppositions, but I knew the power of motherly love. The most meek and mild of women could turn into demons to protect, or in this case avenge, their children.

“This should interest you, Daisy Buchanan, if you ever have the urge to duplicate an old sampler, like Iona here.” Althea’s booming alto brought me back to reality. “Linen is essential for heirloom pieces. It’s also better to use dark brown than black thread. Most of the colors on antique samplers are faded now, of course, but it’s clear that the shades were delicate from the first.”

I nodded, grateful for the advice, however hard-won. I couldn’t exactly say that I liked Althea, but I loved to watch an expert at work

“It’s sad that so many people today feel that they must rely on another’s design, instead of creating something entirely their own.” Althea thumped on the table for emphasis. “The secret of the old samplers was their individuality, their personal character. That is the only principle you need to remember.”

“Oh, but I like working on the kits,” Abigail Weller said cheerfully.

A hush fell over the room.

Althea took a deep cleansing breath. “With a good command of stitches—and that means not just the ability to produce a stitch, but to know the effect it will have on different fabrics and threads—it becomes possible for the embroiderer to produce truly original designs. Trust me, you will thank me later.”

I could see her point. Give a man a fish and so on. The class could certainly aspire to master the kind of breathtaking work stretched out on the frame at the front of the room.

Although Althea was stilted in normal social interaction, she was a good storyteller, weaving in facts effortlessly. A walking textbook of knowledge about her craft.

Grace Vreeland leaned over to me. “Good teacher, isn’t she? I always said she missed her calling. Should have pursued her dreams, instead of going to work for that no-good builder.”

“What?”

“Oh, yeah, she was Beau’s secretary for ages. She only just retired a couple of years ago. How she put up with that bastard for so long, I’ll never know. It’s not like he paid her well, neither.”

“She’s such a competent, take-charge woman,” I murmured.

Grace snorted. “She had to be. Years of working in a construction office with Cassell and his men. She had to hold her own.”

I moved around the class, deep in thought. I found myself standing behind Iona, the woman who had been working on the embroidered purse in the last class and was now copying an antique sampler, a family record originally sewn by one Catherine March in the nineteenth century. It was a delight to watch Iona’s slim fingers work the threads, so slim that her simple gold wedding ring was slipping off her fingers.

Dottie had also come over to take a look, and we read the poignant verse together in silence:

Peace is the gift I leave with you

My peace to you bequeathe

Peace that shall comfort you through life

And cheer your souls in death

This work in hands my friends may have

When I am silent in the grave

O Jesus, keep me in thy sight

And guard me through the coming night

Let no fond love for earth exact a sigh

No doubts divert my steady steps aside

Nor let me long to live, nor dread to die

Heav’n is my hope and providence my guide

“The verses seem somewhat grim, don’t they, for such a young girl?” Dottie asked Althea.

“Children were much more conscious of death in those days, and how precious life is. Infant mortality was high, and they probably experienced the loss of at least one, if not several, of their siblings. You can see that this poor child lost four small brothers and sisters—all gone in five months.”

“Iona hopes she can finish in time,” Dottie murmured in my ear. “Lung cancer. She’s asked one of the ladies in the class to fill in the date after she’s gone.”

I sucked in a breath. It was rather morbid, but I understood in some strange way. I guess when your days were numbered, you didn’t need to stand on pretense, but I hated to think of this gentle woman gone from the earth.

People always said they would want their doctors to tell them if they had some incurable disease, but was it better not to know? To enjoy your days in blissful ignorance until the end? I shook my head. One of those conundrums that made my head ache and my spirits sink.

After the class was over, I stood at the register with Dottie and watched as Althea Gunn strode off down the street, wearing a long black coat and a man’s trilby hat.

“She lives very frugally. I think she furnishes her wardrobe from the church’s annual jumble sale. And she doesn’t drive anymore,” Dottie said. “Donated her car to charity and walks everywhere. She’s probably fitter than a woman half her age.”

Althea would certainly be familiar with Beau’s underhanded business practices. Was it Beau’s sins she was atoning for? Did she suspect that he’d killed Alex Roos? How blind was her loyalty to her former employer?

Dottie counted some bills out of the register and put them in an envelope. “She told me to give her earnings from teaching these classes to the community garden project. You know, Althea’s a pain in the butt sometimes, but she donates an awful lot to charity, often anonymously, and devotes much of her time to the church, free of charge.”

“Everyone has a saving grace,” I murmured.

Althea’s sanctimonious attitude still got on my nerves, but I thought I understood her a little more. I’d been trying to learn this lesson for fifty-eight years, but I was reminded of it yet one more time.

Never judge a book by its cover.

*   *   *

O
n Friday morning, I drove over to Cyril’s trailer as usual. I’d asked Ronnie the psychic to meet me there. I knew it was a long shot, but I was getting desperate. Everyone else thought she was a little kooky, but I understood the feeling of the connection to the past, to the energy in the universe, to the memories a place could contain, and I was hoping she could give me something, anything, in the way of reassurance.

Ronnie got out of her VW Beetle and teetered through the salvage yard on spiky boots that were laced halfway up her plump legs. She was wearing black skintight leggings, topped off with a short skirt. She also wore a neon-pink down vest, about a dozen necklaces, and gloves that left her fingertips bare. It was an outfit a Goth teenager would love.

Stone the crows!
Cyril’s voice was so clear in my ear that I turned, half expecting to see him there.
Talk about mutton dressed as lamb.

“See a spirit?” Ronnie grinned at me. Her platinum blond hair was stuffed under a Greek fisherman’s cap, the kind John Lennon might have worn.

I smiled shakily. “Something like that, I guess.”

A shadow flitted across the top of a pile of iron radiators, and she nodded wisely. “Signals from the unknown. They’re all around us.”

I didn’t want to tell her it was probably Cyril’s cat.

She surveyed the yard with its mountain of truck tires, old brass bed frames, rusty automotive signs, broken bicycles, and the odd porcelain toilet.

“Sweet suffering Jesus.”

“Don’t worry, he keeps it nice on the inside.” I opened the door to the trailer and we walked in. I was on high alert for anything that was different from the last time I was there and I left Ronnie in the kitchen while I wandered into the living room.

I glanced back and saw her trailing her fingers across the kitchen counter, the plant in the corner, the newspaper recycle bin. I could just picture Serrano’s reaction if he knew I’d brought a psychic here.
You don’t really believe in that crap, do you, Daisy?
He dealt in cold hard truths, but we were both truth seekers in a way. We just went about it differently.

As if reading my mind, Ronnie said, “It’s not always facts, and it’s not always scientific. Sometimes youse just gots to believe, Daisy.”

Finally she stopped pacing and stood stock-still in the center of the kitchen. “Oh, he’s alive, I’m sure of it now.” She sounded so confident, relief flooded through me.

I hurried over to her side. “How can you be sure he’s not passed on?” I whispered.

She closed her eyes for a moment as if channeling his spirit, and then opened them and winked at me. “Just joshing with ya. The stove’s still warm. He probably recently made a cup of tea, or at least someone did.” She nodded toward the Boston fern. “Good to see you’ve been watering this, too.”

“But I haven’t. I forgot. I’ve only been feeding the cat.”

She smiled her enigmatic smile. “Betcha if you go in the bathroom, you’ll find that he zipped home for some fresh clothes, got washed up, and went on his way again.”

I ran into the bathroom. The toilet seat was up now, while I was sure it wasn’t before, and I spotted a few water droplets on the tiled wall.

I went back into the kitchen to find Ronnie taking a newspaper out of the recycle bin. “Today’s date,” she said as she handed it to me. “You know, even if there weren’t all these obvious clues here, there are still vibrations in the universe you can sense if you stay open to them. Like dogs who know when you’re coming home.”

I smarted a little at the word
obvious
. Had there been other signs on my earlier trips and I’d missed them? Also, we were assuming it was Cyril who had been here, but what if it was the killer, toying with us?

I ripped the paper out of her hands and flipped to the crossword puzzle. The clue was
Easter visitor
, and instead of
bunny rabbit
, Cyril had written
bonny castle
.

I knew he’d taken a huge risk by coming home, so it must be important, but I was stumped. What did
bonny castle
mean? Was it a reference to Beau Cassell, perhaps?
Beau
as in
beautiful
or
bonny
?
Cassell
for
castle
? Why the hell did Cyril have to be so cryptic?

“I could do with a little more information here, Cyril,” I muttered, and then I explained to Ronnie about the previous clue in the paper at the café.

“No one else knows about this?” Her kohled eyes were suddenly shrewd.

“I told Serrano, but he really didn’t take me seriously.”

“Good. Now, you need to meditate on what this means.” Ronnie hitched up her bra straps and twitched her short skirt down an inch. “Cyril is obviously depending on you to figure it out.”

I watched, almost mesmerized, as she twirled her necklaces around one finger. I wondered if she and Tony Zappata were getting serious. Martha had lost her true love, and now it looked as though Eleanor might lose a chance at romance, too, if something was going on between Ronnie and the Millbury barber. I was bursting to ask her about it, but couldn’t think of an appropriate segue.

“Ah, Daisy, I wondered when you were going to get around to that.”

I jumped. Had I spoken aloud? I really needed to stop talking to Alice in the shop. I wasn’t even aware of when I was doing it anymore.

Ronnie laughed. Actually it was more of a raucous chuckle. “Eleanor Reid weren’t a bit interested in him before, was she?”

I stared at her.

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing going on with me and my good friend Tony. We go way back to growing up together in Northeast Philly. Just helping out a pal. Jealousy’s a powerful emotion, ain’t it?”