Night of the Living Thread (A Threadville Mystery) (18 page)

H
aylee gave me an apologetic look, but I welcomed Mrs. Battersby with a smile widened by the memory of how Vicki, probably on purpose, had mangled the woman’s name. Luckily, I’d prepared more than enough food for the four of us plus Mrs. Battersby, and Brianna, too, if she showed up.

Mrs. Battersby plunked herself into a lawn chair near the grill. “What was going on last night? Why did those state troopers come by in the middle of the night and demand to know where Haylee had been, and then where
I
had been?”

“What?” Haylee asked.

“Calm down,” Mrs. Battersby told her. “They didn’t have a search warrant and I wouldn’t let them into your apartment. The nerve of them! You were sound asleep, and I didn’t want to bother you today while you were at work to tell you about it. They claimed they were searching for someone who looked like Willow. Me? Were they having hallucinations?”

I glanced across her head at Haylee. “It was a false alarm.” I flicked my eyes toward my suite.

Haylee must have understood that I didn’t want to discuss it in front of Mrs. Battersby. She said, “I told Edna’s mother you’d be glad to have us both come for dinner.”

I smiled again at Mrs. Battersby. “I am.”

Mrs. Battersby retrieved a tiny, partially knit sweater from her bag. “I told Haylee I could fend for myself, or go over and bother Edna.”

I asked, “Is Edna allowed in her apartment?”

Haylee nodded. “Yes. She has about five thousand more beads to sew on her gown. She was getting nervous about packing for the cruise, too.”

Mrs. Battersby growled, “Don’t tell me I’m supposed to have one of those heart-to-heart, mother-to-daughter talks with her about the birds and the bees!”

Haylee and I both laughed.

Mrs. Battersby glared at us. “Your generation can probably inform her generation about that, and everything else. Like phones. Whoever said that
phones
needed to be smart? How’s anyone supposed to cope with phones that know more than we do? What next?” Her hands moved the yarn and needles with lightning speed. “But don’t worry about feeding me, Willow. I don’t need to eat.”

“I made lots,” I said, “and I’m glad you came.” I studied her knitting. Each of the sweaters she made was different, but they were beautiful and original, and they combined colors that looked great together. This one reminded me of a misty summer dawn over Lake Erie. “I can use your color sense and ideas for my cottage design.”

Mrs. Battersby sat up straighter. “Design?”

“Yes.” I explained, “You met Clay when we showed you the wedding skirt—”

“That thing!”

I ignored Mrs. Battersby’s outburst. “He built the base and wired it for sound and lights—”

Mrs. Battersby shook her head. “Tsk.”

I soldiered on. “Clay and his friend Ben are coming to dinner tonight. Haylee and Clay planned the renovations to Haylee’s shop and apartment, and to Opal’s, Naomi’s, and Edna’s shops and apartments.” I pointed toward my apartment. “My building, too. And Clay and Ben worked together to restore and renovate Ben’s lodge. Haylee and I helped Ben decide which vintage photos to hang, so I’ve asked all three of them to come tonight and make suggestions about my cottage’s design.” I nodded to Blueberry Cottage, slightly downhill from my patio.

Mrs. Battersby adjusted her glasses and peered at it. “Ha. It looks like it was designed a long time ago.”

“It was,” I agreed, “but Clay gutted it, winterized it, and updated the wiring and plumbing.”

Mrs. Battersby turned a little sleeve and started a new row. “I wanted to be an architect, but I didn’t have the gumption to go for all that schooling. I did interior design, instead. Edna didn’t inherit my taste.” She shuddered. “Have you seen her apartment? You need welding goggles just to walk through the door. It’s all mirrors and crystals and shiny things.”

Haylee’s smile was nearly as bright as Edna’s mirrors. “We’ve seen it.”

I bit back a giggle. “Perfect for a bride on her
weld
ing day.”

Haylee groaned.

Mrs. Battersby demanded, “What does she do, stare at herself in those mirrors all day? I didn’t intend to raise a vain daughter. Or maybe she believes she’s living in Versailles. And Naomi should think beyond quilted things. It’s like she has to decorate with rags and tatters. Opal’s the only one of the three of them with good, solid, classical taste.” Mrs. Battersby looked up at Haylee. “You’ve got that minimalist style down pat, but it’s so hard and cold, I don’t know how you can stand it. Sterile.”

I told her, “I love the clean lines of Haylee’s apartment.”

Mrs. Battersby frowned. “I suppose yours is just like it.”

“No, Haylee knows my taste—uncluttered, with touches of wood, and matching the Arts and Crafts style of the building’s exterior. Haylee got Clay to renovate my apartment and shop the way I would like them before I even saw them or knew they existed.”

Mrs. Battersby began casting off. “What a strange thing to do.”

“The shop and apartment,” I corrected myself. “I knew Haylee existed.”

“It worked,” Haylee crowed. “Willow came to live and open a shop in Threadville.”

Mrs. Battersby harrumphed. “To think I’d end up with a devious granddaughter. Not that she’s a
real
granddaughter.”

Grinning, Haylee patted her shoulder. “You should be used to me by now.”

Mrs. Battersby offered to go inside with Haylee and me to help retrieve the appetizers, but I told her to stay put and keep knitting.

In the kitchen, I quickly brought Haylee up to date on Brianna’s latest antics, which had sent a pair of state troopers scurrying to her door in the wee hours only to be blockaded by Mrs. Battersby. During the dozen years that Haylee and I been friends, I’d confided lots about my mother and my occasionally stormy relationship with her. Haylee understood why I couldn’t kick Brianna out, even though I wanted to.

I also told Haylee what I’d learned about Patricia and Isis Crabbe’s son, Heru.

“Wow,” she said. “False accusations from Brianna, and Patricia must harbor a huge grudge against Isis. We’d better keep our eyes on both of those women.”

“And Juliette and Isis have been attending the same shows and fairs for several years, so who knows what run-ins they may have had.” I also told Haylee what Georgina had said about Dare’s presentation.

“I wouldn’t put murder past that man,” Haylee said, “even if he is related to Clay.”

“The person I saw sneaking around that night could have been Dare, Floyd, Patricia, or Juliette. But if the skulker wasn’t the murderer, I hope the
real
investigators have Brianna in their sights.”

Haylee and I took platters of veggies, dip, crackers, and cheese to the table. Mrs. Battersby tucked her knitting away, and we all slathered Brie on crackers.

Whistling, Clay appeared around the corner, with Ben right behind him.

Mrs. Battersby’s eyes opened wide. “Don’t tell me that handsome dark-eyed giant with Clay is the Ben fellow you were talking about.”

I bent down and whispered to Mrs. Battersby, “Yep, that’s Ben.” Imagining her saying something embarrassing, I quickly added, “They’re just our friends.”

Both men handed me bottles of wine. Clay ruffled my hair.

“Just
friends
,” Mrs. Battersby muttered. I was sure Clay heard.

I quickly told Ben, “I’m glad you could get away. The lodge must be busy.”

His laugh was warm, and so was his deep voice. “I feel like I’ve seen enough zombies to last a lifetime.”

Haylee clutched at her face and staggered backward. “That doesn’t sound quite right.”

Ben gave her a huge smile. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Haylee didn’t seem to know she was blushing.

I asked Clay to light the barbecue. Ben opened both bottles of wine. Wineglasses in hand, he and Clay waved tongs over the chicken on the grill.

As the chicken began sending mouthwatering aromas our way, Brianna straggled down through my side yard. The dogs romped to her. Glaring at them and keeping her hands out of their reach, she asked me, “What’s for dinner?”

I told her and offered her a glass of wine. Ungraciously, she accepted.

Mrs. Battersby sat straighter. “Not long ago, young lady, children were taught to say ‘thank you’ when someone did something for them.”

“Yeah.” Brianna didn’t look at any of us. “Thanks.”

Mrs. Battersby stared at Brianna for long moments, then asked me, “Do we have time to tour your cottage before supper? Afterward, it could be too dark to see.” She turned her attention to Clay. “Or have you already installed lights inside it, young man?”

He gave her an easy smile, the kind that warmed his eyes and had to make her feel special. “Not the final ones. Willow still has some decisions to make. And the chicken won’t be ready for a while. What do you say, Willow?” His gaze landed on me with an amused fondness that made me forget to breathe.

“Sure,” I managed. “It won’t take long.”

Mrs. Battersby stood up. “Let’s go.”

I was beginning to understand where Edna had inherited her enthusiasm.

We trooped down to the door that faced my apartment. I tended to think of it as the cottage’s back door, which meant the back doors of my two buildings faced each other. It seemed confusing until I remembered that the back doors of houses in cities and towns often faced each other. The riverside trail had been a road when Elderberry Bay was first established. Blueberry Cottage’s front door faced the former road and the river. My shop faced the next street up the hill, Lake Street.

Brianna hadn’t come with us. I didn’t see her at the picnic table, either.

Mentally shrugging, I opened the door, and we followed Sally and Tally inside.

The subflooring inside was lower than the doorstep. “Take my arm, Mrs. Battersby,” Ben offered.

She complained, “It’s too high.”

He leaned toward her and lowered his arm.

Mrs. Battersby hooked her arm through his. A look of appreciation flickered across her face. “It has good bones.”

Haylee gasped, “
What?
”

Mischief sparked from Mrs. Battersby’s eyes. “You thought I meant this giant’s arm, didn’t you? That, too, but I was looking at his head. Above his head, actually. This cottage, Willow. It has good bones. You can do a lot with it. You and your young man there.”

“My contractor,” I supplied, ignoring Clay’s wink and Haylee’s and Ben’s smiles.

“So,” she said, “you’ve roughed in the kitchen here beside the back door, and a fireplace against that wall.” She scanned that half of the cottage. “Which leaves the area overlooking the river as the sitting area?” She turned again, gestured toward the window near the door we’d entered, and spoke rapidly. “An L-shaped kitchen counter there underneath the back and side windows, a dining table in front of the fireplace, and a couch maybe here, where people can sit and look out at the river and your flower border and cedar hedge, and they can also gaze at the fireplace while keeping an eye on the kitchen.”

“Works for me,” I said.

“And speaking of working, how about a table or desk under this window beside the fireplace? And lots of bookshelves and storage cabinets that you can close to keep dust and moths away from the books and yarn.”

Yarn?

I hadn’t said it aloud, but my eyebrows must have zoomed upward.

Mrs. Battersby waved her arm dismissively. “Or games and jigsaw puzzles. Whatever people keep in their cottages. For me, it would be books and yarn.”

She tromped into what used to be the kitchen, with one window overlooking the river and another facing the northern side yard. “Windows on all four sides! Lovely! Lots of natural light.” She checked out the back wall. “Aha. I see you’ve roughed in a bathroom. So that means the rest of this space becomes a bedroom, am I right? With a wall right about here.” Standing in approximately the middle of the cottage, she tapped a foot. Tally barked.

Clay gave her a lazy grin. “Um, not quite there. Willow wanted this original feature of the cottage kept, and it is rather necessary.” He reached up to the low ceiling and unhooked a latch.

He didn’t even have to lower the stairs before Mrs. Battersby clapped her hands. “I see why! That’s not your common, everyday attic ladder, either. Those are almost normal stairs. They must be heavy.”

“They are,” Clay said, “but the original builder counterbalanced them, so they feel lighter than they are.” With only one finger underneath them, he let them down.

“Show off,” Haylee teased.

Mrs. Battersby peered up the stairs. “What’s up there?”

I answered, “Two small bedrooms, each with a closet and two windows. The windows are flush with the floor, which makes the cottage look bigger from outside.”

“It’s like a doll house.” Mrs. Battersby spoke with something like admiration. “Your tenants can fasten those stairs up against the ceiling whenever they don’t want to heat the whole place, or lower them if they have overnight guests or want to use the second story themselves. They could use those rooms upstairs as offices or workrooms if they wanted to. Then they wouldn’t need a desk by the fireplace. Actually . . .” She looked wistful. “A spinning wheel would go beside the hearth very nicely. And who needs a big dining table? If you had a small one, you could fit a floor loom in front of the fireplace.”

She lifted her chin and gazed at Clay. “Do you have drawings of this place? Could you give me a copy so I can sketch my ideas?”

“Glad to,” he said.

Brianna popped her head around the doorjamb. “Yuck. You were right, Willow. This shack’s unlivable. Just so you know, the chicken’s burning.”

Wagging their tails, Sally and Tally bounced toward her.

She shrieked and ran away. Naturally, Sally and Tally followed. I called them, and they came back for praise.

We all left.

Mrs. Battersby watched me lock the door. “You should finish that cottage,” she told me. “And rent it out. What’re you waiting for?”

“I would . . . um . . . I’d like to see
your
sketches before I make decisions.”

“It should be comfy,” she went on, “like Opal’s apartment, not modern and minimalistic and sterile like Haylee’s. It needs to reflect its Victorian roots. I read an article in an architectural magazine about a hotel around here that was recently restored. The writer said the people who restored it did an exceptional job. You should go see it and emulate what they did. Help me up the hill, Ben.” She grabbed Ben’s arm.