Night of the Living Thread (A Threadville Mystery) (17 page)

“M
any people’s fingerprints were on that plug.” It probably wasn’t the answer Neffting wanted from me.

“I get that.” He sounded miffed. “But why yours, specifically?”

“I unplugged it.”

“When?”

Hadn’t I already told him? “After I saw the skirt under the water, I ran up to the bandstand to see if anyone was there. No one was, and the skirt was plugged in, so I unplugged it.”

“Why?”

“In case the line was still live. I didn’t want anyone jumping into the river and electrocuting themselves.”

He looked skeptical, so I explained, “I guessed the line would have shorted itself out when the lightbulbs popped, but I needed to be sure.”

He said drily, “Electricity doesn’t usually wander around loose. You said lots of people’s prints would be on that plug. Who else’s?”

“Clay’s, because it’s his extension cord. And Opal plugged the cord in when we were in the fire station earlier Thursday evening. Naomi and Haylee, too, other nights. We had fun with the music and light display on that thing.”

“Death con
trap
tion,” he repeated. “Fun for everyone. Who plugged the skirt in before the deceased rolled down the ramp?”

“No one. I mean, when we left the skirt in the bandstand about a half hour earlier, the skirt was plugged in. Clay had plugged it in.”

Detective Neffting’s hair was brown, with a comb-over that started on both sides of his head above his ears and met at the top, where it had been glued to the middle of his head in a straight line imitating a part. He scratched at the fake part and dislodged the glue from his skin, but the glue still connected those two upward sweeps of hair, and the thing that had resembled a part now looked more like a millipede teetering on thousands—well, maybe hundreds—of hairy legs. “You told me you heard the deceased uttering threats the night before she died. Who were the people she threatened again?”

I tore my attention away from the fascinating “millipede.” “Not threats. She appeared to be reciting curses. One was for Gord Wrinklesides to spend his afterlife with her. With Isis, that is. The other seemed to be a spell designed to condemn Edna Battersby to—I’m not sure what—no afterlife at all, I think. And Floyd the zombie accused her of casting spells on him, but I don’t know if she did, or if he merely thought the curses I saw her call down on Gord and Edna were actually for him. You can probably learn more about the curses and the afterlives by reading one of Isis’s handmade books. Isis brought some of them with her and kept them in Edna’s apartment.”

Afraid he’d question me about how I knew what was in those books, I held my breath. Had Opal offered her copy to the police yet?

But Detective Neffting had a different agenda. “When did Edna Battersby touch that extension cord’s plug?”

I felt the blood drain from my face. I was certain he was bluffing, acting like he had incriminating evidence against Edna in hopes that I would give him more. But he didn’t have any, and neither did I. All he had against Edna was a weak motive—jealousy that she didn’t even feel—and an alibi that was only from her adoring fiancé. “She didn’t. She didn’t have a reason to. She first saw the skirt around nine that night, and it was already plugged in. Then she and Gord went to his place.”

“How do you know where they went? Did you follow them?”

“No. That’s where they said they were going.”

“Did you see Gord Wrinklesides touch that plug?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“About what time did you see Edna and Gord leave the park?”

“Around nine twenty, but I’m not sure. I left shortly after, and took more than the usual time getting home because the trail was dark and foggy. I got home around nine thirty.”

“And when did you hear the first scream on Thursday evening?”

“Around nine forty-five. Again, that’s a guess.”

He closed his notebook. “Okay, that’s all I wanted to know. Call if you think of something you haven’t told us about that night.” After giving me a piercing look from those oversized eyes, he headed for the door. With each step he took, the millipede-like line of glue bobbed up and down on its little hairy legs.

How could he think that either Edna or Gord could be a killer?

I should have stayed up late and researched Patricia. I could do that now, before customers arrived.

My dogs showed their wriggly appreciation when I joined them in their pen and sat at my computer. Soon after we’d left her apartment, Naomi had sent me the photos I’d taken with her camera. I saved those to my computer and then, faster than I’d have thought possible, I found the names “Isis Crabbe” and “Patricia Alayna Aiken” together on the website of a high school on the outskirts of Chicago. Isis Crabbe had been a history teacher at that school for many years, including the four when Patricia had been a student there. There were many mentions of them at school plays, debates, and even dances.

And then, in the archive of their community’s local newspaper, I read a headline that made my hair stand up almost as much as Detective Neffting’s glued-together comb-over had.

Senior Suspended Over Plagiarism
.

Immediately, I pictured Isis on Thursday night in the fire station, telling Patricia she was nothing but a copycat. Patricia had kept her anger tamped down, but I’d seen it smoldering beneath the surface.

Patricia Alayna Aiken had been suspended from school for two weeks after it was determined that the essay she’d attached to her admission application to a prestigious East Coast university was identical to the essay a boy from the same high school had sent. The other student’s mother had testified that she had read her son’s essay before he sent it.

Patricia, who’d said she had not shown her essay to anyone besides that same boy, had withdrawn her application and attended a community college instead.

The boy, whose name wasn’t given, had received a substantial scholarship from the East Coast university.

I found an article listing the postsecondary schools that members of Patricia’s high school graduating class were planning to attend. Only one of them was going to that prestigious East Coast university, and his or her name was Heru Crabbe.

Heru, not Hero?

I searched for “Heru” in a naming dictionary. It was a boys’ name, a variation of Horus, an ancient Egyptian god, the son of Isis.

I typed “Heru Crabbe” into my search engine and an obituary popped up. Heru Crabbe had attended most of a semester at that East Coast school, but had died suddenly about a year after the plagiarism scandal. He’d been predeceased by his father, and would be greatly missed by his mother, Isis Crabbe.

I phoned Vicki and left her a message that I’d found information linking Isis to someone I’d seen Isis scold.

While I waited to hear from Vicki, I searched for the name Isis Crabbe associated with Madame Juliette. To my surprise, I lucked out again. They were both listed on several sites listing schedules for psychic festivals, craft fairs, and bridal shows.

Bridal shows? How odd.

Isis must have encountered Madame Juliette telling fortunes at these events, and that’s why she had accused Juliette of making things up. Would Juliette have murdered because of that accusation? It didn’t seem likely, but I wasn’t going to discount it.

Vicki came in. The dogs greeted her with kisses, wags, and friendly yips.

I showed her the articles linking Patricia and Isis. After she’d had time to read and absorb them, I reminded her, “Patricia and Isis squabbled almost immediately when they ran into each other at the fire station on Thursday.”

Vicki only gave me a blank stare.

I explained, “Like they already knew and disliked each other. Hated each other, in fact.”

Vicki darted a glance up toward my bright white cathedral ceiling and then back to me. “Okay, I’ll grant you that the two women in these articles probably didn’t like each other. But we don’t know if they are our Isis and the Patricia who is staying with Opal. And even if we
knew
they were the same two women, what you’ve found is known as . . .” Watching my face, she tapped the toe of one of her police issue boots on my beautiful black walnut floor.

“Circumstantial evidence,” I supplied. “Yes. And here’s more circumstantial evidence—the person I saw skulking behind my yard right before Isis was killed was about Patricia’s height, and was wearing dark slacks and a dark jacket. Later that night, Patricia was wearing jeans and a matching jean jacket.”

Vicki reminded me, “You’ve been insisting that this skulker was a man. You also guessed it could be a zombie named Floyd or Clay’s cousin, Dare Drayton.”

“They all had means and opportunity,” I pointed out. “Everyone did. Isis got into this big heavy skirt with wheels on it, and anyone could have pushed her down the hill and tied a ribbon from the skirt around her neck. And they had motive, too. Floyd didn’t want her cursing him. Maybe Dare killed Isis in order to see what murdering someone was like, so he could add authenticity to his thrillers.”

“That’s pretty cold-blooded,” Vicki observed.

“So is Dare, as far as I can tell. And Floyd is hot-blooded.”

“A hot-blooded zombie,” Vicki repeated in mock wonder. “That could be one for the record books.”

I tapped my computer screen. “
Patricia
, however, had a strong motive.”

“Could you e-mail those links to me?” In my humble opinion, Vicki could have sounded more impressed by my deductions about Patricia. “I doubt that they mean anything, but I’ll forward them to Detective Neffting.” She spouted her e-mail address for me.

As I added the links to the e-mail, I reminded her, “Patricia should be at the Threadville craft show right now.”

“Detective Neffting is handling the case. He’ll decide what to do with the info. There’s not much here, really. Nothing concrete.”

“Yes, but—”

She adjusted the heavy belt she wore around her waist. “
Maybe
we’ll find something to bolster this evidence about Ms. Aiken that will lead somewhere, but only maybe. ‘We’ being the police, Willow, not you.”

“I wasn’t interfering. I just looked on the Internet for a connection between Patricia and Isis based on the way they treated each other.” Vicki didn’t need to know how I’d learned Patricia’s full name.

“But you already told me that Isis yelled at nearly everyone shortly before she was murdered. Who, again?”

“In addition to Patricia? Dare, Floyd, Brianna, and Juliette the fortune-teller.

“And you. She scolded you for trying on Edna’s overskirt.”

I waved my hand in dismissal. “That woman had a hair-trigger temper.”

“I noticed.” Usually, Vicki used that dry tone when she was about to say something scathing or funny or both. “She told me off—yelled at me, actually—for pulling her over for speeding.”

I gulped down a laugh. “No! Who would do something like that?”

“A very angry person. Maybe someone whose husband and son died young.”

“I wonder if Isis or Patricia had anything to do with either of those earlier deaths,” I began.

Vicki shook her head. “Don’t even start thinking like that, or about how anyone in Elderberry Bay could have been one of their accomplices way back when or
anything
. Leave investigating to the experts.”

I confessed, “I found something else.”

She demanded, “What did I just tell you?”

“It’s only something I discovered on the Internet.” I switched to the website of an annual psychic festival. “Someone named Madame Juliette has been telling fortunes at festivals where Isis has been . . . hmm.” I read aloud, “‘Exploring ancient Egyptian beliefs.’ And I found them both on sites for craft fairs and bridal shows, too, though I’m not sure what those types of shows have to do with ancient Egyptian curses and fortune-telling.”

Vicki reminded me that both Isis and Madame Juliette had come to Threadville for our Get Ready for Halloween Craft Fair. “Apparently some people spend almost their entire lives doing these events, one after another, picking up whatever income they can at them. There’s a whole circuit of the shows, with the same booths in many of them.” She gave me the name of the company that sponsored many of shows. Not ours, though. We’d organized it ourselves.

Excited, I loaded that company’s website. “Maybe Patricia’s on their list of exhibitors.” I ran my finger down their list of regular exhibitors, but had to admit that I didn’t see Patricia’s name.

“We didn’t, either,” Vicki said. “As far as we know, this is Patricia’s first foray into the craft show world.”

“Aha! Because she saw on our website that Isis was coming? And Patricia was planning revenge for the way Isis and her son treated her in high school!”

Vicki shook her head. “Your imagination’s running overtime again, Willow. Maybe Patricia signed up for your craft show because it has something to do with her subject?”

“It does, more than Isis’s or Juliette’s, but treadle sewing machines aren’t exactly a big thing. She could have come here to track down Isis.”

“Anything’s possible, but that doesn’t make it evidence.” Vicki stood still for a second as if listening, then asked me, “Where’s your houseguest?”

“Not in my house, thank goodness. She should be at the craft fair. Her stuff’s still in my guest room.”

“What did you do, go down and turn off her stereo?”

“You got it.”

“Maybe you should turn off all the circuit breakers to your guest suite, and she’ll give up and leave.”

I could tell she was joking, but it wasn’t a bad idea. Maybe I could turn off the water to her bathroom, too, but then she might decide to use mine.

Vicki said more seriously, “I have a question for you.”

V
icki flipped pages back in her notebook. “Willow, do you know a Mrs. Battleaxe?”

I burst out laughing. “No, but I know a Mrs. Battersby. Battleaxe might describe her, except that she knits tiny perfect sweaters and caps for premature babies and sends them to hospitals.”

“Must be the same person, then. As you know, before Brianna recanted her accusations against you, she called her father. Todd Shrevedale called a bigwig in the Pennsylvania State Police, who sent a couple of troopers out to talk to you. Meanwhile, Brianna told her father she was mistaken, and it wasn’t you who had pushed her, but although she wasn’t certain about it, she thought someone had.”

“Wait,” I objected. “Didn’t she tell you she must have tripped?”

“Yep. The girl was spinning her story for her father. Those two troopers decided that since Isis was pushed into the water, maybe we were having an epidemic. So they helpfully called Detective Neffting with this new ‘evidence’ of a serial water-shover and asked him who else Brianna might have seen. He named Haylee.”

I covered my mouth to hide a smile. I thought I saw where this was heading.

Vicki had a way of turning the corners of her mouth down when she was trying to hide amusement. “So they went to Haylee’s apartment and pounded on the door, and were met by this Mrs. Battleaxe. She was still up and dressed, and she said she’d been knitting in Haylee’s living room the entire evening, and that Haylee had not come out of her bedroom. She was quite defensive of Haylee.”

My eyebrows shot up all by themselves.

“Does that surprise you?” Vicki asked.

“A little. Mrs. Battersby is a bit of a character. She’s Edna’s mother, and she complains that Haylee doesn’t act like a real granddaughter, all the while pointing out that Haylee is
not
her real granddaughter. Edna’s been staying with Haylee, too, until the state police are done with her apartment. They’re going to have to let Edna into her apartment by Monday, though, so she can get her wedding dress and everything that goes with it.”

“I’ll tell them to hurry and release the scene. As I told Brianna early this morning, they’ve already taken Isis’s things away.”

I asked, straight-faced, “Did, um, did those two troopers accuse Mrs. Battersby of pushing Brianna into the lake?”

When I’d first met Vicki, I’d have never believed she could have a twinkle in her eye, but she did now. “It must have crossed their minds. They interrogated her about where she’d been all night.” She shook her head. “Too bad I was off duty and didn’t know they were going there. I’d have loved to have witnessed the discussion. I gather that Mrs. Battersby became quite, um, animated.”

“Feisty?”

The twinkle was still there. “They did report that her name was ‘Mrs. Battleaxe.’”

I said, “I still believe Brianna immersed herself in the lake and intended to blame me, but I don’t know why.” I urged Vicki to be careful around Brianna. “If her father’s as powerful as we think he is, he could cause you trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“I don’t know, but he might try to end your career in law enforcement.”

“Then I’ll take up sewing,” she teased.

“Oh, please, and leave Mrs. Battersby to the tender mercies of earnest state troopers?”

“I’m sure they’re trying to do a great job. They don’t know her or any of you, though.”

I suggested, “And the fact that you
do
can be used against you. Brianna complained about it to you and me last night, and told my mother that you and I were friends.”

Vicki gave me one of the icy, stern looks she’d perfected long before I met her. “Don’t kid yourself, Willow. I’d arrest you if circumstances warranted it.” She pocketed her notebook and pen. “And there have been times when I’ve wished they did.”

I made my grin devilish. “That’s why I like you so much. You’re not biased toward us or against us. You’re good at what you do.”

“I’m getting out of here before I puke.” She pointed a finger at me. “You be careful. If you really can’t upset your mother by sending that girl away, keep her locked out of your room when you’re sleeping. And be sure to call me or the state police if you need us.” With more admonitions and cautions, she left.

Because my customers were at the craft show and not in my store, I had no problems giving my pets a midday outing and fixing a sandwich to eat in the shop. The afternoon could have dragged, but fortunately, I had plenty of embroidery to design and stitch.

Shortly before closing time, Georgina showed up in a burnt-orange outfit with machine-embroidered pumpkins and vines over most of it. She handed me the receipts from our table at the craft fair.

I praised her for the amount of merchandise she and Ashley had sold. “Was the fair crowded?”

“Was it ever! Zombies were selling costumes and other things I didn’t want to know about. Also, that woo-woo woman, Juliette, was offering to use a crystal ball to tell fortunes, and that poor scared mouse of a thing, Patricia, was demonstrating using a treadle sewing machine to make Halloween costumes. Zombies were shopping, too. They loved Edna’s spangles and baubles, which are lovely, but don’t have much to do with zombies as far as I can tell. Lots of potential customers picked up your brochures and said they wanted to sign up for machine embroidery workshops.” Her forehead wrinkled. “And that thriller writer was there.”

I said drily, “Not to sign up for Threadville courses, I suspect.”

Georgina flicked invisible lint from her burnt-orange top. “He said he was researching characters. He seemed particularly interested in that thread distributor, Brianna, and the shy Patricia with the antique sewing machines.” She gazed past me, out toward the trees beyond the back windows. “But you should have seen the way he looked at them, at all of us. Like we were mice in a maze he’d built, with poison hidden in the peanut butter.” She shuddered. “He creeps me out, mainly because of that presentation he gave last night. He read from his latest book, and his writing’s okay—not my style—but he also talked about committing the perfect crime. I had this strong feeling that he was talking about actually doing it, not only about writing about it. He said . . .” We were alone in the store with my two dogs, but she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “He said that people
often
get away with murder by making the death appear either natural or like an accident.”

Isis’s death could have looked like an accident if we hadn’t found her quickly. If I hadn’t been outside at the right moment and heard her scream, the killer could have had time to shove the trailing extension cord under the water, and we might not have guessed that Isis and the skirt were in the river. We might have surmised that she had left Threadville for a few days and that the skirt had been stolen. I’d seen her down by the riverbank earlier that evening, but if no one had figured out for days that she was missing, we might have taken a long time to drag the river, and by then, the ribbon around her neck could have drifted off in the currents, and her death could have possibly been ruled an accident.

Georgina went on, “Dare Drayton also said that if anyone was planning a murder, they should know who to frame as a scapegoat, preferably a person who had means, motive, and
no
alibi.” She folded her arms and gave me an expectant look.

A thousand ideas crowded into my head.

She voiced one of them. “It was like he was bragging that he had killed that Isis woman and would get away with it because someone
else
would look guilty.” She took a deep breath. “Isn’t Dare Drayton your boyfriend’s cousin?”

“Clay’s only a friend.” I’d recited it so many times, mostly to myself, that it sounded rehearsed. “And yes, Dare is his second cousin. He’s staying with Clay.”

Georgina planted her fists on her hips. “I hope your
friend
Clay sleeps with a hammer, a saw, and five drills underneath his pillow.”

I laughed.

She scolded, “And you should, too, Willow. I don’t trust that Brianna.”

“Sleeping with a bunch of hardware doesn’t sound comfortable.”

“Being attacked in the night by some sly thread distributor doesn’t sound comfortable, either.”

“What’s she going to do, pelt me with spools of thread?” I waved toward the dogs. “Lucky thing I have my guard dogs.” Sally and Tally grinned and wagged their tails.

Georgina called to them, “You hear that, you two fluffy guys? Try to look dangerous.” After she left, I locked the front door and swept and tidied the shop. Humming, I took the dogs downstairs, where we had a joyful reunion with Mustache and Bow-Tie. The animals scampered outside. Sally and I managed to keep the kittens from wandering off.

After we were all inside again, I put pieces of chicken in a ginger and lime zest marinade.

Knowing I wouldn’t have time to make dessert for tonight’s barbecue, I had ordered cupcakes from the bakery. I ran down the street and picked them up. The evening was warm. Haylee, Ben, Clay, and I could spend at least part of the evening outside on the patio. With candles hinting at romance . . .

Back home again, I threw together a couple of large salads and put the cupcakes, decorated with sugary autumn leaves, on a platter.

Setting the picnic table on the patio was fun. I used dishes and real fall flowers that coordinated with the flowers I had embroidered on my napkins and tablecloth.

I was setting the candles on the table when Haylee arrived in my backyard.

With Mrs. Battersby.