Threaded for Trouble (15 page)

I crammed the scrap of pink fabric into my bag and walked, head high, to The Sunroom to meet Jeremy.

The maître d’ ushered me into the glassed-in balcony. I took one look around and nearly burst out laughing.

The room was almost full. Of people I knew.

H
AYLEE AND CLAY WAVED AT ME FROM one table. I’d never seen Clay in a suit before. He looked, not surprisingly, gorgeous. And so did Haylee in a retro black linen sheath. As I came closer, I could make out a dried drop of white paint on Clay’s ear. He’d cleaned up but probably didn’t know he’d missed a fleck. It was endearing, and my smile had to be bigger than any I’d given him during the past few months.

At another table, Naomi and Opal raised their glasses and nodded at me. Naomi wore a long skirt and a jacket she’d quilted from patches of hand-dyed, jewel-toned silks. Opal was in one of her crocheted ensembles, this one a long skirt and top in coral.

In another corner of the glassed-in balcony, Edna, in her beribboned gown, didn’t appear to notice my entrance. Her attention was locked on her dining companion, Dr. Wrinklesides. He could have worn that black suit on a concert stage. Was he about to burst into song?

Jeremy Chandler must have thought my ever-growing smile was for him. He beamed at me from a corner table overlooking the park, the beaches, the lake, and the river,
then stood and pulled out my chair for me. For a heart-rending second, I caught a heel, but managed to extricate it without ending up under the table—tablecloth, silver, crystal, china, and all.

Jeremy seemed pleasantly surprised by the menu. Consulting with our attentive waiter, he chose expensive wines to go with each course. Good thing I wasn’t going to have to wobble very far on my stiletto heels to get myself home.

After we ordered, I excused myself, found the maître d’, gave him my charge card, and arranged to pay for Jeremy’s and my meals and the meals of all my friends—Haylee and Clay, Opal and Naomi, and Edna and Dr. Wrinklesides. They were giving up an evening to guard me and shouldn’t have to pay for it. Besides, I didn’t want to owe Jeremy anything. Except maybe a sewing machine. If he gave me one, though, it would be to replace Darlene’s, which he and his company may have constructed so poorly that it ended up killing her.

Exchanging smiles and greetings with my friends, and trying to hide that I’d rather dine with them than with Jeremy and his pre-programmed smile, I returned to his corner table.

Discussing scraps of used fabric probably wouldn’t be done in any of the superlative restaurants Jeremy undoubtedly frequented in New York City. However, I pulled the pink square out of my bag and unfolded it on the table between us. We needed something to talk about, and as far as I knew, our only common interest was sewing machines.

“What do you make of this?” I asked, all innocence. A straight stitch had been sewn in a line down the left side of the fabric. Next to it was a stretch stitch, then a series of zigzag stitches, and finally fancier and fancier stitches—flowers, hearts, quilting stitches, heritage stitches, all of them sewn neatly in rows about a quarter inch apart.

He glanced at it, then looked deep into my eyes. “Very nice,” he murmured.

I smoothed the cloth. “Recognize the stitches?” Now he would definitely decide I was a country bumpkin. Fine, as long as he gave me answers.

He picked up the cloth and examined it by the light of the candle on our table. “Did you do this?” Again, he gazed at me instead of at the fabric.

Was Clay noticing Jeremy’s apparent enchantment, and if so, would he become just a teensy bit jealous?

I managed a coy shrug and tilt of the head. A sane voice inside my head reminded me that Clay would undoubtedly recognize Jeremy as a fake. But maybe Clay would at least think I looked okay in my curve-hugging black outfit.

“Very nice, straight stitching,” Jeremy began. Finally, he became interested in the stitching. “This was done with a Chandler Champion! I should have recognized our trademark stitches right away.”

The rows near the middle of the fabric were various types of stitches known as entredeux, a sort of lacy stitch usually inserted between two panels, like the hemstitches I had discussed with Dr. Wrinklesides when he showed me the X-ray of the wing needle. The person trying out the machine’s stitches had obviously switched to a wing needle for these rows, and it had punctured the fabric exactly the way it was supposed to. I pointed at the neat rows of tiny holes. “Wing needle.” How very articulate. My attempt at a friendly smile came out more like a simper.

Jeremy must have liked simpers. He leaned closer. “You were following the manual, trying each stitch in sequence, weren’t you? You did it just right. You even remembered to turn on the wing needle override. Good thing, too, or you might have broken a needle.”

He really did think I knew almost nothing about sewing machines. Maybe my dunce act had been too good.

Beyond the hemstitches, the stitches became fancier and wider, with no tiny holes decorating them. Someone had replaced the wing needle with a universal needle. For the stitches to be this wide, the seamstress had to have turned off the wing needle override. Had she switched it off the correct way, or had she messed up the computer’s memory?

I admitted that I hadn’t done the stitching, then asked,
“Does Chandler pack samplers like this with their machines to show what can be done?”

He shook his head. “We wouldn’t want to discourage people who might not sew as straight a line as our technicians.”

I prompted, “Maybe Felicity Ranquels packed it into the carton before I got the machine.”

“We shipped the Chandler Champion straight to you.”

I slapped my forehead. “Silly me, of course you did.”

Frowning his nonwrinkled frown, he accepted his garlicky-smelling escargots from the waiter. “I met Felicity for the first time yesterday, and I’m afraid I was disappointed. Judging by the outfit she wore, complete with a Chandler Champion motif embroidered on it, the woman can barely sew and would probably tug and pull at the fabric as it was being stitched, and would prevent the Champion from sewing its faultless straight lines.” He had obviously memorized speeches extolling his namesake’s features. “Felicity could not have sewn these sample stitches. And her people skills are almost nonexistent, even though she was trying to make a good impression on
me
, her boss.” He gave me an attempt at a self-deprecating smile, to be certain, no doubt, that I recognized his exalted position. “Did she project the correct sort of image on potential Chandler customers at the presentation ceremony in your shop?”

I hedged, “Would it matter? What sewing enthusiast would pay attention to a company representative when a Chandler Champion was present?”

The approving smile Jeremy gave me verged on adoring.

It was as good a time as any to bring up my idea. “Jeremy, today Darlene Coddlefield’s…”

“Who’s she?”

This could prove to be tougher than I’d expected. “The woman who won the Chandler Champion and died using it.”

“Oh, her. Of course. I didn’t catch her name before.” Teeth glimmering in candlelight—did the man have to smile
all
the time?—he nodded encouragingly.

“Her nanny wants the sewing machine back for Darlene’s four daughters.”

“That makes sense.” Melted butter dripped from a snail—an escargot—as he lifted his fork to his mouth. “But when I was in your shop, you said the police appropriated the machine.”

I tasted my appetizer, fusilli diabolico. “Yes,” I managed around spices searing my tongue.

“Maybe the police can deliver it to the nanny when they’re done with it.”

“That could take months.” The heat in my pasta was perfect. My sinuses nearly burst into flames.

“Or days.”

I doubted that. “Anyway, the Champion that malfunctioned should go back to your company when the police are done with it. As you said earlier today, you’ll want to overhaul it and make certain nothing’s wrong with it.” My hinting was becoming almost unconscionable.

“It was in perfect condition when it left the factory. You’ve said it was fine when you had it.”

Oho, we were being defensive, were we? Interesting…

“I thought I’d give them the one in my store.”

He chewed. Closed his eyes and chewed some more.

“This,” I said, “is delicious.” It was. And the full-bodied red wine he’d chosen went with my spices perfectly.

He swallowed. “Tell you what. You give the family the machine you have, and I’ll ship a new one to you.”

I made a pretense of being surprised, but my gratitude was genuine. “That would be great. I’ll make certain that the old one comes back to you when the police are done with it.” If they ever would be.

He waved his fork dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.” He flashed me what he probably fancied was a sexy look from underneath his eyelashes. I was really glad I’d made certain that I was paying for the meal.

We took our time through several courses. So did my friends at neighboring tables. What did Jeremy think about
the way they all seemed to watch us? Probably that they were admiring the man from the big city.

I asked him why Chandler Champions were so much heavier than other sewing machines.

“Quality materials. We use a high grade of steel.” The blazing smile might have torched through that steel.

“What about the plastics you use?”

“All first class. Those machines are designed to last.”

“And they’re tested thoroughly?”

He shook his head earnestly in a way that reminded me of Mona when she was agreeing with someone. “Every single one of them.”

“Power switches, too?”

He glanced toward the lake. Looking for an escape? “Everything. Why do you ask?”

“The on-off switch on the machine we presented to the winner broke.”

To give him credit, his amazement seemed real. “Broke? It couldn’t have, not by itself. Someone must have tampered with it. Those switches are strong.”

“If you wanted to break one, how would you do it?”

That brought his smile back. Sort of. “A sledgehammer.”

A
SLEDGEHAMMER? JEREMY WAS UNDOUBTEDLY exaggerating, boasting about his company’s machines, possibly trying to avoid lawsuits. But if breaking the Chandler Champion’s power switch would require any sort of tool, I had another clue, along with the gumming up of the foot pedal, that someone had actually intended to harm Darlene.

Jeremy didn’t seem aware of my preoccupation with solving a mystery. He was happy to linger over after-dinner brandies. My friends departed in groups, Clay and Haylee first. “See you later, Willow!” Naomi called. I recognized the hidden subtext in her one raised eyebrow.
Don’t worry. You won’t be alone with him unless you want to be.

Dr. Wrinklesides gave me a disapproving look, leaned over, and sang quietly, close to my ear. Although I knew very little about opera, and couldn’t have understood Italian, the words of his song seemed to threaten a deep, dark revenge. I couldn’t help laughing. His message was as obvious as Naomi’s had been. He would get me back for buying his dinner.

Threats from him were particularly scary, and would most likely take the form of a dinner invitation. He and Edna left.

Jeremy and I sipped our brandy. He bent forward with his back straight, which made him seem unnaturally stiff. It also put his face closer to mine. Fortunately, the table was between us. “Before I hired Felicity, I should have flown her to New York for a personal interview. She impressed me over the phone with her encyclopedic knowledge of embroidery competitions. She knows them all, including who won them, going back years! But as I mentioned before, her people and sewing skills are, I fear, lacking.” He placed a hand, palm up, on the tablecloth with his fingertips just stretching onto my side of the table. Such a subtle invitation.

I swirled my brandy while leaving my free hand resolutely in my lap.

His voice became smoother and lower. “I feel I know
you
much better than I did her when I made the mistake of offering her the job. You can sew, you obviously love sewing machines, you understand why our Chandler Champion is the best machine for the money.”

I did?

He smiled and added his clincher, “And people like you.”

I saw where this was going, and gave my head a little shake.

“They do! Most of the people in this restaurant seemed to know and like you.”

There was a reason for that. They all came here to spy on you.
I didn’t say it aloud.

We finished our coffee and Jeremy asked for the bill. The maître d’ said what I’d rehearsed with him. “It’s all been paid for, sir.”

Jeremy asked who had paid for our meals.

“Another gentleman did, sir.”

Jeremy seemed to color under his painted-on tan. “Who, that old man who came to our table
singing
?” He didn’t need to speak in derogatory tones about my friends.

“I’m not at liberty to say, sir. The lady has, should we say…many admirers.” The maître d’ nodded and headed back to his post.

Muttering about restaurants in Cleveland undoubtedly being superior to this one, Jeremy shoved back his chair.

I quickly stood before he could help me out of my chair and maybe, if I caught my heel again, onto the floor. Not that I was very good at standing after that meal and the accompanying drinks, anyway.

Taking my arm as if I were delicate china, Jeremy steadied me.

As soon as we were out on the sidewalk, he went on with the pitch that had been interrupted by his discussion with the waiter. “The job of Midwest representative is yours if you want it.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “I love my shop and I love living in Threadville.”

“You could continue to run your shop, at least for a while, until Chandler becomes really big. Of course, we’d expect you to discontinue representing other lines of sewing machines right away.”

I might have been teetery on my feet, but my mind wasn’t
that
badly affected. “I have contracts.”

“Break ’em! It would be worth it to you.”