The Stitching Hour (24 page)

“Are
you
afraid she won't get another job?” Ted asked.

“No. I'm fairly certain that she will. I just don't think she's in a good place to be making serious decisions about her life right now. I don't want her to decide in a week or two that embarking upon a romance with Alfred was a mistake and break his heart.”

He leaned over and kissed my forehead. “I love you. And it's sweet how you worry so much about other people. But sometimes you need to let them worry about themselves . . . especially when they're two grown people who've known each other since before you were born.”

“Good point. But you know me well enough to realize that that's easier said than done.”

A
fter Ted left, but before Mom and Alfred returned, I logged on to my laptop. Since last night, I'd been wanting to find out where Priscilla's father was living. I'd caught a glimpse of Priscilla earlier, but she'd been leaving the Horror Emporium. I thought that while I had a few minutes I'd do some poking around online to see what I could discover on my own.

First I did a search to find out the difference in an assisted-living facility and a nursing home. I learned that assisted-living facilities are more along the lines of supervised communities and that nursing homes are for people who require constant medical care. So if Jim Morris didn't require round-the-clock medical care, why had his phone been disconnected and why was Priscilla reluctant to provide Captain Moe with her dad's phone number?

Then I did a search for James “Jim” Morris with his last-known location—Lincoln City—and I added
Priscilla
to the keywords as a second thought. Maybe if the assisted-living facility had thrown Mr. Morris a birthday party or something recently, it would have been in the local newspaper given the fact that he'd been a successful restaurateur. If by some stroke of fate, I could uncover Mr. Morris's location on my own, then I wouldn't have to bother Priscilla.

The first item in the search engine was an obituary from a Seattle newspaper from June of this year. I thought it
had
to have been another James Morris. If her father was dead, why would Priscilla lie to Captain Moe?

Still, I clicked the link and read the obit:

James “Jim” Morris, 68, of Lincoln City, Oregon, died Thursday of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Mr. Morris had been the proprietor of the once-popular Jim's Lobster Shack. Mr. Morris is survived by his daughter Priscilla Morris Atwood, son Frederick Morris, and daughter Penelope Morris.

I stopped reading. That
was
the right Jim Morris. Captain Moe's friend had killed himself. How did Captain Moe not know that? And why hadn't Priscilla been honest with him?

Mom and Alfred returned from lunch while I was still staring gobsmacked at the computer screen. I hadn't even paid attention to the bells when they'd opened the door.

Mom hurried over to me. “Darling, are you all right?”

I quickly explained the whole situation with Jim Morris, Priscilla, and Captain Moe. “Why wouldn't Priscilla simply tell Captain Moe the truth?”

“Perhaps she's ashamed or feels guilty,” Alfred said. “Survivors of suicide victims often blame themselves. Of course, it's an unreasonable and false accusation, but it appears to be a common feeling among survivors.”

“Oh, no. Poor Priscilla. I never even thought of that.” I briefly closed my eyes. “I guess it's natural, especially given her childhood, that she'd feel that she could've done something to prevent her father's death. Captain Moe told Ted and me that she had to take on the role of mother to her siblings when she was only seven years old.”

“That's sad,” Mom agreed.

“Still, Captain Moe should know the truth,” I said. “I'd have thought he'd have heard—but maybe not, since he's in Depoe Bay and Mr. Morris was staying at an assisted-living facility in Washington at the time.”

Mom inclined her head. “I think maybe you should talk with Priscilla before saying anything to Captain Moe.”

“Your mother's right, sweetheart. At least, let this woman know you're planning on telling Captain Moe what became of his friend. And, who knows? Maybe she'll confide in you, and you can convince her there was nothing she could've done to prevent her father's death.”

“You're right. I'll talk with Priscilla the first chance I get.”

•   •   •

I closed the shop at five with a note saying I'd be back by five forty-five p.m. for the party. I'd given Sadie my key to the back door in case she and Blake needed it to start setting up the buffet before I returned. I was hoping to make better time, but one never knows what might go wrong.

Mom and Alfred had left for my house at around four thirty. Mom had said she wanted to freshen up for the party. Maybe she or Alfred could feed Angus so I could get dressed quicker.

I drove home with Angus licking the side of my face the entire way. He could tell I was on edge about something, so he hung his wiry head over the divider keeping him in the backseat and gave me kisses to make me feel better. It did make me laugh. And it made me glad I was already planning to redo my makeup.

I parked, got out, and opened the back door of the Jeep. Before Angus could jump out, I attached his leash to his collar. I let him inside before returning to the passenger side of the Jeep and retrieving the gorgeous blouse Reggie had made for me.

When I went into the house, Alfred had already taken Angus into the kitchen.

“I'm taking care of Mr. O'Ruff,” he called to me. “Go on upstairs. Your mother is waiting for you.”

Mom was standing in front of the closet in my bedroom with both doors flung open. “I thought you could wear this beautiful yellow A-line skirt with your new blouse and these navy platform pumps. What do you think?”

So that was the real reason Mom had left the shop half an hour ahead of me. She'd wanted to get here and pull my outfit together.

“I think that's perfect,” I said with a smile. I'd actually been going to wear a white skirt with the blouse, but the yellow one gave the whole look a bolder, more energetic vibe.

“Good. I'll leave you to get ready then. If there's anything you need, give me a yell.”

I hurried into the bathroom and started my bathwater. While the tub was filling, I washed my face so I could start my makeup with a clean slate.

By five twenty-five, I was sprinting down the stairs on my way out the door.

“No running in those shoes!” Mom shouted. “You'll break your neck!”

“Okay.” I didn't slow down. “See you and Alfred in a few.”

“Be careful!”

I closed the door on her parting words, got into the Jeep, and rushed back to the Seven-Year Stitch.

I parked at the rear of the building this time to give my patrons more space to park in front of the shop. As I was pulling in, I saw Blake carrying a container of food into the Stitch. His back was to me, so I didn't wave or anything. But I was happy to see him. It let me know that he and Sadie had everything under control.

Figuring I'd only be in their way if I went on into the shop before they finished getting set up, I went over to the Horror Emporium and knocked on the back door.

Priscilla answered my knock. “Marcy! What're you doing here? I thought you'd be next door getting ready for your party.”

“Blake and Sadie are busy setting up the food, and I've been wanting to talk with you all day. May I come inside?”

“Of course.” She moved aside to let me in, and then directed me a few steps down the hall into the office. “Have a seat.”

Priscilla sat behind a scarred-up oak desk, and I gingerly sat on one of the metal folding chairs in front of the desk. I looked around the room. It was cluttered, with knickknacks on every available spot of shelf space and folders, books, and magazines all over everything else—the desk, a couple of chairs, the floor. Priscilla reminded me of a peacock in her bright turquoise-colored blouse as she sat amid the mess.

“What did you want to talk with me about?” she asked.

“Your father.”

Her face became a stony mask. “What about him?”

“I was trying to help Captain Moe get in touch with him, so I did an Internet search,” I said. “I found his obituary.”

“So you know Daddy killed himself.”

“I do. But, Priscilla, it wasn't your fault.”

“Damn right it wasn't my fault. It was Ken Sherman's fault.”

“Captain Moe told me how Mr. Sherman ruined your father's business,” I said. “Of course, that was before I knew Mr. Morris was your father. Captain Moe was simply telling me so I could warn Blake and Sadie not to get involved with Mr. Sherman.”

“I only wish someone would've warned Daddy.”

“Why don't you want Captain Moe to know the truth?” I asked.

“If he cared as much about Daddy as he'd pretended to, he'd have already known, wouldn't he?”

I debated on how to answer that. How
could
Captain Moe have known? Mr. Morris had been living in Seattle. On the other hand, I understood Priscilla's anger that her father's friends hadn't been able to help prevent his death.

As I thought about how to answer Priscilla's question, I gazed around the room again. My eyes came to rest on something that resembled a gun. It was black and yellow and had X26C printed on the side.

My mouth dropped open. “Is that . . . a Taser?”

“Yes. Why?”

“No reason. I just don't think I've seen one in person before.” I stood and so did Priscilla.

“I really need to get back,” I said. “I'm sure you've got perfectly good reasons for not telling Captain Moe about your dad. It isn't any of my business. I just thought I could help, that's all.”

Priscilla made a lunge for the Taser as I tried to get to the door.

“You aren't going to your party, Marcy.” She was pointing the Taser at me now. “You're right. You were messing around where you had no business, and now it's gonna cost you.”

“I honestly don't care if Captain Moe finds out the truth about your dad or not. He certainly won't hear it from me.”

“This isn't about my dad or Captain Moe anymore, so drop the pretense.”

“Fine.” I took a step backward. I didn't know how far of a reach that Taser had, but I didn't want to be shocked. “Why Keira? Why not go after Ken himself?”

“What would be the point of that?” she asked. “I wanted him to suffer the way I had suffered.”

“I'm truly sorry for your loss. I am. But, again, I won't tell anyone anything. Just, please, let me leave.”

“You know I can't. But, hey, at least I'll give you a fighting chance.” She nodded toward the door. “Move.”

“How do I know you aren't going to shoot me in the back with that thing as soon as I get in front of you?”

“You don't. I guess you'll have to trust me. My advice is to keep moving and to heed the directions I give you.”

“Someone is bound to come looking for me. I should've already been there, and my Jeep is parked out back.”

“Walk.”

I did as she instructed and walked forward. As I did so, I caught a glimpse of one of the Seven-Year Stitch key rings at the corner of the desk.

Priscilla told me to turn to the left. She was going to lock me in their storage room.

“I imagine
everyone
will be looking for you, dear. But they'd never dream of looking for you in here.” She flipped on the light and pushed me forward over another threshold.

I realized too late that the Horror Emporium's storage room had been transformed into the Lair of the Serpent.

“I'd be quiet and still if I were you.” She shut and locked the door that led into the enclosure. “That way, you'll at least last long enough to say your prayers.”

“But you have a tour coming through soon!”

“Not for an hour,” she said. “And when the group
does
come in, I'll be as surprised as everyone else to see you lying in there.” She shut the door and left.

I looked at all the snakes slithering nearby and tried to recall any advice that would bring me through this ordeal alive . . . not that I suffered any delusions that Priscilla intended to allow me to live should the snakes fail at killing me. I remembered the time Mom had worked on a movie set in the jungle. I'd become friends with the herpetologist and her son, and they both had taught me a lot about snakes. I could picture the herpetologist and her son in my mind. She'd been tall with an athletic build, and she wore large round glasses. Her son, Steve, had been a few years older than me. He had been thin, with shoulder-length brown hair and green eyes. I'd had a massive crush on him.

I willed myself to be calm. I wasn't planning to move, but if I did, I needed to do so smoothly. Abrupt, jerky movements would stress or frighten the snakes. The only snake that appeared to be venomous was the rattlesnake.

During those few months on set, Steve had taken me under his wing and impressed me with his knowledge of reptiles. My brain was scrambling to come up with information I could actually use.

Steve had taught me that rattlesnakes were usually docile and shy when left undisturbed and would only strike in self-defense. I looked at the rattlesnake. It appeared to be watching me warily, its tongue darting out every couple of seconds. So it was smelling me . . . trying, I imagined, to figure out what I was doing there.

I'm wondering the same thing, buddy.

I recalled Steve's mom saying that rattlesnakes could strike a distance of two-thirds their total body length. I was terrible at measuring lengths by sight—I'd have thought I'd have gotten better at that after measuring fabric so much over the years—and I had no idea how long this snake was. Furthermore, if it decided to strike, I had very little space in which to retreat. And any sudden movement would frighten the other snakes, and while they might not be venomous, no snake bite—or attack by multiple snakes—would be a pleasant experience.

There had to be another way out. Or, if not, maybe I could get someone's attention and be let out before Priscilla returned. I knew better than to beat on the glass. Even though the sound wouldn't bother them—snakes have no external ears and are essentially deaf—I knew they were very sensitive to vibrations. The pounding would certainly agitate them.

Maybe the door hadn't locked. Maybe I'd only
thought
Priscilla had locked it. I slowly stepped forward. After a few seconds, I raised my hand to the doorknob and turned. Nope. It was locked all right.