Night of the Living Thread (A Threadville Mystery) (11 page)

M
aybe I shouldn’t have touched the clog. I might have obliterated someone’s fingerprints. I nudged it and its mate underneath the bench where I usually kept them, then stood and stared at Brianna. “Someone borrowed my gardening clogs.”

Vicki and Detective Neffting didn’t say a thing.

Brianna challenged, “How would you know that?”

“The dirt on the soles is damp,” I answered, “and I haven’t worn those for a week.”

“Or you don’t remember,” Brianna accused.

“I remember.” I sounded almost as menacing as I felt.

Vicki put on plastic gloves. “I’ll remove these for fingerprinting.”

Neffting handed her a large paper bag.

Brianna picked up one of my embroidered pillows from the couch and threw it, hard, back where it had been. “Maybe I did borrow your shoes without asking,” she admitted. “Is that a crime? You weren’t here to ask. I put them back.”

I reminded her, “You said you only stuck your nose out the door.”

“I did.” She pointed at her bare feet. She probably didn’t mean to call attention to her chipped black toenail polish. “I didn’t want to get my feet all muddy and track on your pristine white floors.”

They were tile, easy to clean. When Haylee had designed the place with me in mind, and without telling me what she was up to, she’d foreseen that I would want to adopt dogs within days of moving in.

Our police chief glanced toward the glass doors, but it was dark outside, so she wouldn’t be able to see anything besides our pallid reflections. But she’d spent more time than she probably wanted to remember in my backyard and knew what it was like. “Willow has a stone patio. Where did the mud on the shoes come from?”

Brianna turned the corners of her mouth down in a surly way. “Her patio must not be as pristine as her floors.”

“My patio is not muddy, and neither is my yard.” Ignoring Vicki’s warning glance, I went on, “The first place you’d get into mud would be the trail beside the riverbank.”

Brianna came back with a swift, “Well, in that case, you’re the one who got mud on your shoes. I didn’t even know there
was
a river. Don’t you have flower beds out there? Like, right beside the patio? I must have stepped in one.” She made a grimace that verged on a gloat.

Vicki looked at Neffting. “Can the fingerprint guy look for shoe prints out there in the morning?”

Neffting nodded, putting that top-heavy head and his thin neck at risk. “He sure can.”

Brianna lost the rest of her smug expression and indicated me with a slight tilt of her head. “I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about me setting one foot outside, when she’s the one who was probably out murdering people.”

There it was again—“murder.” What did Brianna know that we didn’t?

Vicki stood up tall and said in a louder-than-usual voice, “Ms. Shrevedale—”

She couldn’t finish whatever she was about to say. Mustache and Bow-Tie yowled in unison from my bedroom. They were particularly fond of our police chief.

Vicki gazed at my bedroom door. “Those kittens of yours seem to have gained adult voices, Willow.”

Brianna griped, “They never shut up.”

So she drowned out their voices with her music? I told Vicki, “They’ve grown a lot. Want to see them?”

Detective Neffting sneezed.

“Allergic to cats?” she asked him.

His eyes were watering, but he didn’t answer her question. “I think we’re done here. Let’s head back to the park.”

I put the dogs in my bedroom with the kittens, then escorted Neffting and Vicki upstairs, through In Stitches, and out the front door.

On the porch, Vicki asked me quietly, “What’s with that girl?”

I shrugged. “I guess she doesn’t like the law.”

Vicki moved her hat back and blew at strands of hair on her forehead. “I don’t think she likes
you
much, either. Maybe you should boot her out.”

“I can’t. My mother would disown me. She told Brianna to come stay with me. Brianna’s father is one of my mother’s most important financial backers.”

Neffting peered at me. “You said her name is Shrevedale—is she one of Todd Shrevedale’s family?”

“His daughter.”

Neffting glanced at Vicki. “That guy wields a lot of power.” He raised an eyebrow, as if telling Vicki they’d have to tread carefully around Brianna Shrevedale. He handed me his business card. “Don’t hesitate to call one of us if you think of anything else.” He turned to Vicki. “Do you have a card you can give Willow?”

I admitted, “I have her number on speed dial.”

That startled him. “What? Oh, I get it. I should have figured it out when that Shrevedale kid said Willow kept getting involved in murders. Willow’s the one who—”

Vicki nodded. “Keeps
solving
murders. Yes.”

I backed away. “Not by myself. Chief Smallwood and detectives did most of it. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

Vicki corrected me. “Or the
wrong
time.”

I asked both of them, “How does Brianna know that Isis was murdered?”

Neffting answered, “I don’t think she did. She was jumping to a conclusion based on your reputation.”

“For solving murders,” Vicki reminded him. “Don’t forget to lock up, Willow. And call us if you need us.”

“I will. Meanwhile, feel free to check my phone records, although she probably
was
on my line for hours. But that doesn’t prove she was inside the entire time.”

Neffting only shook his head. “Kids are always on the phone or texting. Don’t let it worry you. My instincts are good. That girl’s not a murderer.”

So he was calling it murder now, too? Hoping that his good instincts would lead him to the actual murderer and not to an innocent person, I went inside. Vicki watched through the glass until I locked the door, then she trotted down the porch steps after Detective Neffting.

So far, Neffting seemed to have ruled out Dare Drayton as a possible murderer because Dare was a celebrity. And now he was excluding Brianna because her father was powerful and wealthy.

I supposed it was natural to ignore certain people as suspects because we didn’t want to believe they could be murderers. I did it, too. But
I
wasn’t a detective. I plodded grumpily down to my apartment.

Brianna and the phone from her room were nowhere to be seen, but music boomed behind her closed door. I put her dishes into the dishwasher, then joined my animals in my bedroom. A few years before, when I was working in New York, Haylee had decided to tempt me to move to Threadville and open the shop I’d always dreamed of owning. She had enlisted Clay to renovate the building in a way she knew I’d love. A practical and thinking man, he’d been very thorough, and had put locking doorknobs on each of the suites. I locked my door and fell into bed.

Isis’s horrific death and Brianna’s incessant music invaded my dreams, and when the phone awakened me shortly before time to get up, I was gritty-eyed and grouchy. It seemed to me that Brianna had played her music most of the night, and had sometimes sung—or shouted—along with it, but now her room was silent. Maybe she’d gone home?

A state trooper was on the phone. He told me he was on the front porch of In Stitches, ready to fingerprint my patio door.

Apparently, I was destined to be seen day after day in my pink fuzzy bathrobe and matching slippers. Someone was probably about to create a TV show called
Desperate Housecoats
and cast me in the starring role. I left my pets shut in my suite.

Upstairs in my shop with its big front windows, I lost all hope that silence from Brianna’s room meant that she’d packed up and left. Her car was still parked in front of In Stitches.

The trooper was a big bear of a man, gray-haired and old enough to be my father, so I wasn’t as embarrassed about my garb as I could have been around a younger trooper.

I ushered him downstairs to my apartment. He dusted for fingerprints, then asked to see my hands. “Yep,” he said, “your fingerprints were on the shoe that was taken for evidence last night, and they’re on the door, the handle, and the locking mechanism, and so are someone else’s. I got good prints of that person’s thumb and forefinger.”

“Were her fingerprints on the shoes?”

“I didn’t see any besides some that I’m sure are yours. Couldn’t someone slip in and out of those shoes without touching them with their hands?”

“Yes. But if she stuck her bare feet into them . . . ?”

He nodded. “She could have left toe prints. And since this is a murder investigation—”

“Murder?” I squeaked. “For sure?” Neffting had finally used the word during the night, but I hadn’t been certain that he meant it.

He hedged, “Since this is
potentially
a murder investigation, we may have to cut the shoes apart for toe prints. I hope you weren’t in love with those shoes. Even if we don’t take them apart, you won’t have them back for a while.”

I made my best mournful expression. “I guess I’ll just have to order the cute ones I saw online.”

I noticed that he very carefully did not allow his gaze to dip toward my pink fuzzy slippers.

I asked him, “Want to see a drinking glass my guest used?”

“Yep, might as well rule her out as last night’s alleged intruder, too, the one who supposedly left your door unlocked.”

That could depend on your definition of “intruder.”
I opened the dishwasher and pointed. The trooper applied black dust to a couple of the glasses, and then grunted in satisfaction. “I’ll check the prints I lifted from the door and from these more carefully, but I’m about ninety percent certain that no one else has come into your apartment besides you and your guest.” He opened the door. “I was told we’re supposed to look for footprints outside.”

He and I searched all of the borders near the patio. We found doggie footprints, but we didn’t see even one print of a human foot or a shoe, and we didn’t see any footprints in the flower gardens near the front porch, either. The trooper left, and I put on jeans and an embroidered sweater for work.

The kittens would have to use the litter box in my en suite bathroom until we were allowed in our backyard again. I gave them a quick cuddle, shut them into the master suite, and took the dogs out through In Stitches to the street. Naturally, I was curious about the crime scene in the park.

White-garbed people combed the grass and the switchbacking boardwalk between the bandstand and the boat launch ramp. Sally and Tally were quite happy to bypass those scary-looking aliens and run to the sandy beach instead.

Wind must have come from the north during the night, pushing the waves high on the strip of sand, but they’d subsided, and the dogs and I were able to jog across a wide strip of hard sand between the water and the curved ridges of foam, sticks, shells, and other flotsam the biggest waves had left behind.

One piece of flotsam was larger than the rest. Reining in my dogs, I walked carefully to the thing and stooped for a better look.

It was a boat-shaped basket, crudely woven from willow wands that were still hanging on to a few torn and storm-tossed leaves.

The boat was small. It could have been held in the palm of one hand.

A 3-D machine-embroidered lace groom had been tied into it.

I
recognized the lace groom doll in the boat. I’d made it for Edna’s quilt and hadn’t seen it since I’d hung it on my front porch to dry.

The groom, now unstarched and limp, lounged on a bed of blood-red chrysanthemums, the exact color of the mums that had been in urns beside the doll-sized clothesline.

I didn’t touch the little willow-wand boat.

I stood and surveyed the high-water marks farther down the beach.

At first glance, the spot of white several yards away could have been foam, but it was bigger than the other bits. Leaving the tiny boat and its passenger behind, I ran with the dogs to the white thing.

The lace bride doll I’d created for Edna’s wedding quilt was in this boat.

The roaring in my head wasn’t only from the waves and the wind. The small makeshift boat nauseated me.

Not only did the bride have no bed of flowers matching the groom’s; she was lashed in place with her head down and her feet up.

Bias tape had been used to fasten the dolls to the boats. The groom’s had been black, matching his 3-D lace tuxedo. The bride’s bias tape had originally been white, but was now, like the bride doll, wet and speckled with sand.

Isis had been staying in Edna’s apartment. To get to it, she’d had to go through Buttons and Bows, where Edna sold bias tape.

I had no doubt that these tiny basketlike boats were the objects I’d seen Isis place in the water on Wednesday night. She had called Gord’s name, urged him toward an afterlife where she would meet him, and let something float away from her. But when she’d called Edna’s name, she’d held an object underwater. The symbolism was plain. The groom was supposed to sail on a bed of flowers. The bride was supposed to drown.

Feeling even sicker, I didn’t touch the thing or let the dogs go near it. They were quite pleased to run back down the beach and up the sidewalk.

Standing beside the yellow tape defining the crime scene, the dogs and I caught an investigator’s attention. White outfit flapping, Detective Neffting loped to me.

I babbled that a pair of little boats that Isis had put in the river had washed up on the shore of the lake.

“Why would the deceased put little boats into the river?”

“I think it was part of her curses.” I explained about the bride and groom dolls. “I heard her call out Edna’s and Gord’s names as she placed what I think were those boats on the river. She let the one representing Gord float, but when she cursed Edna, she held the object underwater.”

“Edna?” he repeated.

“Edna Battersby.” I pointed to her shop. “She owns Buttons and Bows. Isis had been staying with her in the second-story apartment.”

“Aha. Yes. That Edna. We’ll be questioning her about her recent guest. Do you think Edna knew about these curses?”

“I told her about them.”

“How well do you know this Edna?”

Pulling my inquisitive dogs closer, I stood up tall. “Very well. She’s a wonderful person, very upbeat. She and Gord laughed about the spells. Edna wouldn’t kill anyone, especially over a curse she didn’t believe in.”

“And the groom is . . . Gord?” He tilted his white-hooded head.

“Gord Wrinklesides, a local doctor. He assists the county coroner. You probably talked to him last night. He and Edna were at Gord’s house when Isis was pushed into the river.”

I didn’t like the knowing look on Neffting’s face.

I added, “I saw them go off together before the murder, and I saw them come back to the park after the rescuers got here.”

“Back to the park.” He repeated my tones precisely. “They’d been in the park at the time of the murder?”

“No. A half hour before, when Gord brought Edna to see the dress we created for her.”

He let one side of his mouth go up slightly. “The death con
trap
tion, yes. Didn’t you tell us that someone else accused the deceased of casting spells against him?”

“Floyd the zombie.”

He asked, “And did you actually see the deceased cast spells against this man?”

“No, but I did see him tell Isis to stop casting spells against everyone—living or undead, I think he put it.”

“So it’s only hearsay that she cast any spells on the zombie.”

I guessed it was the job of a detective to be difficult. I pointed out, “I’m not sure it matters, as long as Floyd
believed
Isis was casting spells on him. Last night it was clear that he did.”

“And now, this morning, you’re telling me you actually observed the deceased uttering curses against two other people. Why didn’t you tell us about the those two people last night?”

“Because I
know
Edna and Gord. Neither of them would hurt anyone. Besides, when I told them about Isis’s curses, they laughed them off. They didn’t care. And both of them are too short to have been the skulker I saw.”

“Who may not have been the murderer. Did you find any little boats with miniature lace zombies riding around in them?”

“No. I wouldn’t expect to. Someone stole the little lace bride and groom I made. I didn’t make any 3-D lace zombies.” And although it was a cute idea, I didn’t think I would make any freestanding lace zombies until long after this case was settled.

Turning, Neffting snapped his fingers at a uniformed trooper. The trooper ran to us. Neffting asked him, “You have evidence bags?”

The trooper was a hunk with an engaging smile. “Yes, sir.”

“Go with this lady. She may have found some evidence that washed up on shore.” Looking at me, he tilted his head for confirmation.

I nodded.

He turned back to the trooper. “See if we need to extend the search area. If it appears to you that the objects merely washed up from the lake, bring them back. We can’t tape off the whole lake. Take pictures of the site.” Neffting stalked toward the bandstand.

Giving me the full force of the smile, the trooper let the dogs sniff his hand, then offered to take one leash. “I’ve been standing around half the night,” he explained. “Mind if I run ahead?”

I handed him Tally’s leash. “He loves to be first, and we’ll be right behind you.”

The trooper only jogged, and Sally and I had no trouble keeping up with him and Tally.

At the first boat, the one with the groom and the chrysanthemums, I told the trooper about Isis and her curses—the ones I’d seen her make, and the spells that she’d said a zombie had accused her of casting.

“Weird,” he said. “But I’m sure you’re right that this washed up. See the curving pattern of dried foam over everything, including this basket with the figure in it?” He gave me Tally’s leash, took photos, and placed the tiny groom and his boat into an evidence bag. We all raced to the second boat, where he took more photos and loaded the boat containing the upside-down bride into another bag. “Did you see anything else unusual, like maybe a boat related to the spells she allegedly cast against the zombie?” He smiled.

I pulled Tally closer. “Not here, but last night after the victim was pushed into the river, I saw a fistful of willow wands like the ones used to make those boats. They were in the bandstand, arranged as if they’d been placed carefully on the floor. Maybe she planned to make another boat for the zombie.” And when the investigators searched Isis’s room, they’d find a tiny 1930s zombie constructed of bias tape or other trims from Edna’s notions boutique?

The trooper studied my face, then seemed to decide to trust me. “I saw them, too. The sticks were sort of mashed at the cuts like the ones in these boats, as if someone’s pruning shears were dull.” Widening his stance in the deep sand, he held up his evidence bag. “Did you see the victim make these boats?”

“No, but shortly before she was killed, she appeared to be pruning a willow tree beside the river.”

He gazed toward waves lapping the beach. “People do strange things.”

I couldn’t deny that. After all, I had helped make the bizarre wedding skirt that had ended up killing Isis. I told him I’d be at In Stitches if anyone needed to talk to me, and then the dogs and I left him to continue searching the high-water mark.

It was almost time to open In Stitches. The dogs and I ran past the investigators in the crime scene, past Brianna’s car, into my shop, and downstairs to my apartment.

I stroked the kitties, gulped down my breakfast, and signaled to the dogs, who undoubtedly knew it was time to go upstairs and greet our customers. Carrying a carafe of hot coffee up the stairs, I heard absolutely no noises from my guest suite.

My students and I spent the morning creating and stitching Halloween designs with embroidery software and machines. Laughing and chatting, we incorporated glow-in-the-dark thread in a ghost, the features in jack-o’-lanterns, the faces of zombies, the moon behind a witch on a broomstick, and the web of a scary spider. Everyone’s designs were different and original, and quite spectacular. We were all hyped with success and camaraderie. And caffeine.

And then Vicki Smallwood walked in.

She admired our work before drawing me aside and commenting quietly, “Too bad someone wasted so much of that thread by spreading it around on the trail and in the park.”

I agreed.

“One of the guys untangled it and measured it, and guess what?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “It could have gone past your property, as you said it did, and ended just about where we found those two little slashes in the ground.” A smile flickered across her face. “The end of the thread was
tied
to the thread nippers.”

“Tied,” I repeated.

She nodded. “Yep. And the pointed ends of the blades were crusted in dirt. You guessed that someone could have used the nippers like a big staple to anchor one end of the thread to the ground. That guess could have been right.”

Great. Detective Neffting would think that I had done all of that, and then had “solved” how it was done. I pointed out, “That thread may have nothing to do with the murder.”

“I would agree with you—except for one thing.”