Crewel and Unusual Page 5

  “You didn’t call her,” one of them said—I flipped a mental coin and decided she’d be Mercy.

  “You didn’t either,” Shirley retorted.

  “We got a call from Angie,” Mercy said, “and our good sense went right out the window.”

  Shirley threw her hands in the air to demonstrate their missing good sense.

  “She’s dealing with a difficult relative,” Mercy said. “Looking for motherly advice.”

  “Mel said now’s not a good time, though,” Shirley said. “Lunch rush.”

  Knowing Mel’s opinion of the twins, she would never think it was a good time for them to interrupt Angie at work, with or without advice.

  “You saw the table runner, though?” Mercy asked. “What did you think?”

  “She thinks it’s fabulous,” Shirley said. “You can see it in her eyes.”

  We didn’t hear of any fallout from the fuss at the Vault over the next day and a half. Joe said no one mentioned it when he stopped in to put up more shelves for a potter and for Martha the enamelist. I’d decided to stay away until the opening on Saturday so there would be no more stirring—not even a soupçon—from me. When I told Ardis that, she said soupçons only measured ingredients, not actions. I told her that just showed how little stirring there’d be.

  Joe still had finishing touches to put on his shop. Stock to transport and display, too. He didn’t need my help with any of it. His bartered “smallest space” really was.

  That gave me unexpected free time over a couple of evenings. I used it to contact former museum colleagues who might know about discoveries or sales of American textiles dating to the turn of the last century—or missing textiles, specifically pieces noted as missing but not reported to the police for one reason or another. My questions were stitched with delicate, vague details, asking for any slender tendril of information.

  The shop’s landline rang Friday morning while I was helping a customer choose between two crewel pillow kits. Ardis answered. After listening for a moment, she handed the phone to me. She took over with the customer, rubbing her ear. I understood why when I heard the high voice on the other end.

  “I am ashamed,” Belinda said. “And while I can’t speak for Nervie, I speak entirely from my own heart when I say that she and I should both be ashamed for how we behaved the other day. Will you accept my apology?”

  “Sure, I—”

  “I spoke with Sierra and Martha, and I was appalled when I realized they both thought you were to blame for our fireworks display. I want you to know that I have tried to set them straight. And then Sierra set me straight about your background. You do hide your light under a bushel, don’t you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “I had no idea. But I’m not surprised, either. I keep a few secrets of my own. Like my beautiful tablecloth. Won’t it make a splash at the grand opening?”

  “It’s gorgeous. The table runner, too. I’m really impressed. How—”

  “How was I lucky enough to find them?”

  “I was going to ask how you’re going to display them, but sure, I’d love to know where you found them.”

  “Ah, ah, ah. That’s one of my secrets. And it’ll stay that way because of that terrible word, the big C.”

  Oh my gosh. Cancer? Belinda had cancer?

  “With all the competition out there, a girl has to be careful to protect her sources. I know you understand.”

  “Oh, right. I—”

  “I am glad we had this chance to clear the air. I feel so much better, and I hope you do, too. And I hope I’ll see you tomorrow at the opening. Bring all your friends, hear?”

  “Wait!” I might have sounded desperate. “How are you going to display the tablecloth? You said you were going to hang it. It’s just that it might be more fragile than you realize. You might—”

  “You might want to give me some credit.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “And I didn’t call to be lectured. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be obliged if you trust me to know my own business.”

  “Ooh, burn.”

  She didn’t hear that because she’d already disconnected. I wondered if Belinda still felt better about calling to apologize. She might feel more like she’d picked a scab. I felt better, though. My stress level had risen, but my curiosity—that invigorating C word—had skyrocketed. Belinda said she had to protect her sources. Did that mean there were more exquisite textiles where the tablecloth and runner came from?

  “Who was that?” Ardis asked. “You’re bouncing on your toes.”

  “Belinda of the beautiful embroidery. Something tells me we aren’t going to be best friends.”

  “Which isn’t upsetting you.”

  “Because I’m fickle and care more for her textiles.”

  The electronic chime on the Cat’s back door said baa as I finished my lunch, and Debbie Keith came in. She baaed politely in return, sounding more realistic than the electronic sheep. She baaed to me, too, when she saw me at the table.

  Debbie worked weekends and a few weekday afternoons for us at the Cat. She called it her hobby job. It let her wear the long jumpers and skirts she liked to sew and embellish that made her look like a model for the Swedish painter Carl Larsson. The job also helped with her cash flow. For her serious, day-to-day job, she wore jeans and steel-toed boots and raised Cotswolds—sheep that made Saint Bernards look wispy.

  “Very expressive baaing today,” I said.

  “That’s my ‘Hey, how’s it going, mm-mmm, I smell grilled cheese’ baa. So, how’s it going?”

  “Going well, and you know what I just remembered? Carl Larsson was an Art Nouveau guy. Arts and Crafts.”

  Debbie hadn’t purposely set out to look as though she’d stepped out of a Larsson painting. She hadn’t heard of him until Granny showed her pictures, and then she’d been tickled by the occasional reference. Today she looked blank, though, so I filled her in on my new love in life—Belinda’s Arts and Crafts tablecloth. When I had Debbie saying “aww” over my description of the squirrels’ tufted ears, the door said baa again.

  “Oh, hey, Nervie.”

  Debbie echoed my “hey,” and when it wasn’t returned, she nodded toward the hall. “I’d better get. Baa.”

  I chuckled. Nervie didn’t. That was Nervie’s way, though, and nothing wrong with it. That someone chuckled easily or not wasn’t a tick mark on my gauge for likability. She usually dashed in and straight up the back stairs to the workroom where she taught her crewel class. Dashing was also her way, and why we often didn’t exchange more than a few words. She didn’t dash, though, so I started over with a smile I hoped was warm and relaxed.

  “I want to apologize,” she said. “For the scene with Belinda on Wednesday and for the impression Sierra got.”

  Apologize for the scene, but not for calling Belinda a fraud and a thief? I let that thought dash away and went with something safer. “Kind people think alike, Nervie; Belinda called to apologize this morning.”

  Nervie’s right eye twitched, and she didn’t go for the stairs. Ardis planned to pounce on her after the class. Maybe I could smooth the way toward the topic of classes and soothe Nervie’s twitch.

  “We feel lucky to have you teaching at the Cat, Nervie. Not everyone who stitches can teach, much less design patterns. How long have you been doing embroidery?”

  “My grandmother taught me.” Twitch subsiding, good.

  “Really? I learned from my grandmother, too.”

  “Are you questioning my memory?”

  Oops. “No—”

  “The first word out of your mouth was ‘really.’”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right.” Her eye stopped, but her shoulder gave an irritated twitch. “I just get tired of people doubting me.”

  “What else do they doubt?”

  “You’re doubting that they doubt?”

  “No—”

  “That’s fine, then. Now I need to get re
ady for my class.” She walked—didn’t dash—up the stairs.

  A familiar tsk came from the top of the refrigerator. “Have you noticed how often you annoy people when you ask questions?” Geneva asked.

  I went over so I could whisper and not be overheard by wandering customers. Or Nervie. “I only meant to point out we have something in common.”

  “You’re like Deputy Dunbar that way.”

  “I absolutely am not!” Being horrified and keeping to a whisper didn’t quite work. Joe’s brother, Cole, was unimaginative, starched, and officious. He and I operated under a truce, for the most part, but in my mind he would always be Deputy Clod.

  “I mean it only in the nicest possible way,” she said.

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “He is a top-notch law enforcement officer,” Geneva said. “He gets people to react and say things they might wish they hadn’t. Much like the sheriff.”

  “When have you heard Sheriff Haynes question someone?”

  “I meant Sheriff Andy Taylor of Mayberry. I studied many of his cases. He would be proud of the way your question hit a nerve in Nervie.”

  Nervie dashed away again after teaching her class. We assumed she did, anyway, because after the last members of her class trailed through the shop, buying hanks of jewel-colored wool for their next projects, she was gone.

  “And I missed my chance to pounce,” Ardis said.

  “I tried buttering her up for you, beforehand, but I kind of muffed it.”

  “And you haven’t asked Joe?”

  “No, because you were going to ask her.”

  “Tsk.”

  “Did you borrow that lovely noise from Geneva, or did she borrow it from you? Think about it, though, Ardis. The students bought more materials, right? So we know there’s at least one more class here.”

  “Unless that class is going to be held at the Vault. And you know if they don’t have to walk through the shop on the way in or out, they’re more likely to shop somewhere else or online.”

  “Tsk.”

  Late Friday afternoons were a special time at the Weaver’s Cat. That’s when a subgroup of Thank Goodness It’s Fiber (TGIF) met in the second-floor workroom. TGIF was the fiber and needle arts group Granny had started soon after she opened the Cat. The full membership of TGIF came together for short business meetings and programs on the second Tuesday evening of each month. Smaller special interest groups met at other times throughout the month. There were groups for weavers, spinners, and dyers. The crochet group always drew a good number. Lace makers had the smallest group—two.

  On Fridays, the workroom rang with the clicking of knitting needles and whatever sound a speeding crochet hook makes. The members of Fast and Furious Fridays dedicated themselves to producing a thousand tiny hats for newborn babies by the end of each year. Since I’d been at the Cat, we’d discovered we had a talent for solving crimes as well as for speed-knitting, and Ardis dubbed us “the posse.” Although only Ardis and I knew, Geneva was an enthusiastic member of the posse, too. I didn’t and probably never would knit as fast as the others in the group. They were all kind about my efforts and said our goal was really more about friendship and service. They also didn’t let me forget how few hats I contributed when we tallied them at the start of our meetings each week.

  “Look at those precious striped beanies.” Ernestine O’Dell patted the two hats I dropped on the table at the center of our circle of comfy chairs. Short, stout, and seventy, Ernestine was one of the sweetest people I knew. “You put a lot of effort in this week. Good for you, dear.” She couldn’t see much better than a nearsighted mole. She no doubt gave me credit for more of the hats in the pile than I deserved.

  Thea Green, the director of the public library, set her straight. “That’s two more than you did last week. Red-letter day. I’ll make the two extra big.”

  Attendance at Fast and Furious was hit or miss due to busy lives and busy jobs. Five of the seven comfy chairs in our circle were filled that afternoon. In addition to Ardis, Ernestine, Thea, and me, the other regulars were Mel, Joe, and octogenarian John Berry. John had retired back to his family homeplace sometime in the past few years, after a career in the navy and then more years as a vagabond sailor. He knitted baby hats as precise and shipshape as he kept himself. Mel hadn’t sat down yet. She was setting up refreshments on one of the Welsh dressers that lined two of the walls in the workroom. Her spiked hair was back to mustard yellow from the previous week’s unsuccessful attempt at bittersweet orange. We valued Mel’s membership because she knitted many and a startling variety of hats, mostly in food-related hues. She’d worked through a lovely range of melon and spice colors over the summer.

  “Scones and coffee on the dresser.” She took her seat, took up her needles, and started on the final rows of her hat du jour. We also valued her membership because she brought refreshments from the café.

  “So, Mel,” I said, “did Shirley and Mercy ever find a good time to spread their advice around the café?”

  “Not in my café, Red, not on my time,” Mel said. Only she called me Red. She said everyone else wanted to, but they weren’t brave enough to be so obvious. My hair being less red than auburn, I’d decided she just liked the name and needed someone to pin it on. “The only advice Angie needs is to never let a stray relative carrying a pillow and toothbrush through her front door. It isn’t her relative, anyway. It’s one of Aaron’s cousins. She followed a heartthrob up here from Gatlinburg. Much drama.”

  “There’s some interesting shading going on in that hat, Mel,” Ardis said.

  “I’m way into pears this month. This is my attempt at ‘ripening Bartlett.’ Next up will be ‘red Anjou.’ I might take a stab at Comice after that and get that whole half-scarlet, half-golden green thing going.” She looked around the circle of chairs. “Is this it? Is Joe going to be here?”

  “Pears?” I ignored her question about Joe and put down my needles. Even if Joe had returned an engraved RSVP we knew he still might get waylaid by one thing or another. “Did you bring your pear-and-ginger scones?”

  If I’d looked over at the Welsh dresser first, I wouldn’t have asked. Geneva floated above the plate of scones in a haze of ginger vapor bliss. I went to join her. The scones were still warm. Bliss.

  But before I took one, my phone buzzed with a text from Joe. I read the text. Stood there. Read it again.

  Vandalism incident at Vault.

  Belinda’s tablecloth in shreds.

  “You look like a ghost,” Geneva said. “Try breathing.”

  Not breathing seemed better than sobbing.

  FIVE

  Rather than ping Joe back and get the details in a spare, emotionless text, I called. Our conversation ended up being just as spare over the phone.

  “Tell me.”

  “She came in to hang it,” Joe said. “Found it in shreds. Everyone in the building heard her scream.”

  “Have you seen it? Do you think there’s any hope?”

  “I haven’t, and it’s hard to know. She’s kind of . . . incoherent.”

  Joe was probably kind to put it that way. I hardly felt coherent; I could hardly imagine how Belinda felt. He said he’d text or call again if he heard anything more. I disconnected and closed my eyes, picturing the tablecloth, wishing I’d snapped photos even without Belinda’s permission. It’s gone forever?

  “Breathing is one of the more interesting differences between a ghost and a living woman,” Geneva said. “Take several more of them, please, so that we can maintain our life-and-death equilibrium. Living women, some of them, also keep their eyes open and on what’s important.”

  I opened my eyes. Our noses almost touched.

  “Me,” she said. “Your eyes are beginning to cross, but you’re looking at me. It’s nice to know that I’m so important in your life.”

  I shivered.

  “Shivering is another difference between ghosts and living people,” she said. “Altho
ugh I occasionally shiver, it’s because of a different kind of cold. Did you just hear bad news? Bad news is something we all share. Curiosity, too. Here she comes.”

  Ardis came up beside me and put her hand on my shoulder. “Trouble, hon?” She kept her voice low. “I don’t mean to pry, but Mel got concerned when you didn’t immediately take one of the scones.”

  “The clue of the rejected ginger,” Geneva said. “Mel is an excellent detective, even if her hair looks perpetually surprised by its whereabouts.”

  I went back to the group and told them about the tablecloth and what had happened. None of them had seen it, but like the good artists they were, they were appalled at its destruction. And like the bright, good friends they also were, they started asking questions. Most of my answers were shakes of my head.

  “Did he, she, they damage anything else?” Mel asked.

  “Do they know who did it?” Thea asked.

  “I wonder what kind of person takes the time to ruin a thing so that no one can ever enjoy it again,” Ernestine said. “I don’t condone stealing, but if something’s stolen, at least it still exists. But taking it away from everyone forever?” She shook her head and fussed at her knitting. It had uncharacteristically gone awry and needed frogging.

  “Was this someone who wandered into the building?” John asked. “What kind of security do they have at the Vault?”

  “I don’t know. Joe probably does.”

  “I bet he does,” Geneva, lurking behind my shoulder, whispered in my ear. She liked to call Joe my burglar beau, a name that exaggerated the circumstances under which she and I had met him at the caretaker’s cottage. I was never sure if she believed the nickname. I hadn’t seen or heard anything since then to make me think she should, and his brother the deputy seemed to trust him. But apparently it only took finding someone coming through a window once to raise questions.

  “You talked to Belinda this morning,” Ardis said. “So it must have happened after that.”

  “She had it in a box. In a box inside a trunk. Maybe she only just discovered it.”