The Quick and the Thread

by Amanda Lee

  “Hazardous materials? You don’t want to be cleaning up that storeroom yourself.”

  “Ugh. You’ve got a point.”

  Sadie dialed Blake and turned around as she quietly explained the situation.

  A burly paramedic strode out of the storeroom. “Miss, I need you to lock the front door. We need to secure the area until the police arrive.”

  “The police?” I asked. “But I don’t want to press charges. Mr. Enright must’ve staggered in there during the party last night and passed out—that’s all. I don’t think he broke in this morning before I got here or anything like that.” I peered at him. “Do you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to comment, miss. Please lock the door until the police arrive.” With that, he abruptly went back to the storeroom and closed the door.

  I locked the front door and flipped the CLOSED sign over as Sadie returned her cell phone to her pocket.

  “What the heck was his problem?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But apparently, the paramedics have called the police and they’re on their way.”

  “You don’t . . .” Sadie’s voice trailed away.

  “I don’t what?”

  “You don’t think he’s . . . dead. Do you?”

  “D-dead? Why would he be dead?” My voice had become a shrill shriek. Probably whales were hearing me miles offshore.

  “I don’t know. Maybe when he fell, he hit his head on something.”

  “Like what, for goodness sake? A bag of pillow stuffing?”

  “It’ll be okay,” Sadie said unconvincingly. “The police will be here in a few minutes, and we’ll get everything sorted out.” She tried to smile, but her lips were quivering too badly to pull it off.

  She was partially right. The police did arrive quickly; but, unfortunately, nothing was sorted out. With Angus still barking furiously from the bathroom, Sadie and I were told to wait in the sitting area and not to move around the shop until we could speak with the detective in charge. A uniformed patrolman stayed to keep us company, or, rather, to babysit us.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  The patrolman, a young Native American, most likely from the local Clatsop tribe, simply stood with his feet shoulder width apart and his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Please!” I said. “This is my store. I have a right to know what’s going on!”

  He looked down at me with gentle brown eyes. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait.”

  Finally, a tall, lean, clean-shaven man, young but with salt-and-pepper hair, emerged from the storeroom. “Ms. Singer . . . Mrs. MacKenzie.” He nodded to each of us in turn. To me he said, “I’m Ted Nash, chief detective for the Tallulah Falls Police Department. I need to speak with you ladies separately.”

  “What’s going on, Ted?” Sadie asked.

  The detective hesitated a moment and then admitted, “Timothy Enright is dead.”

  “How?” Sadie asked. “Did he hit his head on something when he fell, or—”

  “Sadie . . . Mrs. MacKenzie, I can’t talk to you and Ms. Singer together. Go on next door, and I’ll be there when I’m finished here.”

  Sadie stood. “She had nothing to do with this. We—”

  “Mrs. MacKenzie, do I need to have you escorted next door?”

  Sadie huffed. “No, Ted, you do not need to have me escorted anywhere. I’m going.”

  “Thank you.”

  I stood, showed the key to the detective, and—upon his nod—unlocked the door for Sadie.

  “I’ll talk to you as soon as he leaves,” Sadie whispered.

  I merely nodded and locked the door behind her. I returned to the sitting area. The detective gestured for me to sit on the sofa.

  I said nothing. I merely sat and stared at the tweed pattern on his sport jacket. I resented his treating me as if I’d done something wrong.

  “Do you have any idea why Mr. Enright was in your storeroom?”

  “No. I suppose he might’ve wandered in there by mistake.” I shrugged. “We . . . There was an open house here last night. Mr. Enright came and kept wanting to tell me something.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Not a thing. He appeared to be drunk, and I avoided him as much as possible.”

  Detective Nash wrote in his notebook before leveling his gaze back at me. “Was liquor served at this party?”

  “No. The MacKenzies took care of the refreshments. We had hot cocoa, coffee, and assorted cookies.”

  “What made you think Timothy Enright was inebriated?”

  “Well, he was staggering . . . slurring his words.”

  “I see.” Again, the detective wrote in his notebook.

  I glanced up at the patrolman. He was looking straight ahead, as stoic as a Buckingham Palace guard. I turned my attention back to the detective.

  “So, what happened to him?”

  “We don’t know, Ms. Singer. Our forensics team is on its way, and we should know more after they and the coroner complete their investigations.”

  “In the meantime, I need to stay out of the storeroom, right?”

  The detective looked sharply up from his notes. “In the meantime, you need to stay out of this store. It’s to remain closed until the crime-scene investigators are finished and—”

  “Crime-scene investigators? Since when is this a crime scene?”

  Ted Nash focused his level gaze on me. “This became a crime scene when a man died on your property.”

  A baker’s dozen more questions and a few hours later, I was back in my living room, sitting to the right of the fireplace in a white suede chair, talking on my cell phone. I’d been calling people who’d enrolled in my classes all afternoon to let them know the store would be closed for the next few days. I could see Sadie coming up the walk. She waved to me, and I motioned her inside.

  Angus met Sadie at the door. Despite Sadie’s calling Angus a pony and scolding Blake for spoiling him, she had a soft spot for the dog. She dropped to her knees there in the foyer, took his head in her hands, and crooned to him softly.

  “I know you were scared in that old bathroom today. Yes, you were. And Marcy and I were a little scared ourselves.” She kissed the top of Angus’ head.

  I had turned off the phone and walked to the foyer. Hearing Sadie’s testament to being a little scared, I admitted, “Marcy is still scared.”

  “I know.” Sadie stood and hugged me. “Sadie is still a little shaken up herself.”

  Grinning at our silliness, I asked, “Did Blake call the hazmat guys for me?”

  “Yeah. They said they’ll coordinate with the forensics guys and start cleaning as soon as they can. They’ve already come by the coffee shop and gotten the key. So they’re working on it.”

  “Thank you. That’s good to know. I’ve been telling people I’ll open back up as soon as I can. I was hoping we’d have the first embroidery class tomorrow evening, as scheduled. But . . .”

  “Yeah, I don’t know about that. I’m not sure the police and the cleaning crew will be finished by then. Of course, you could always hold class here. Did anybody back out?” Sadie asked.

  “No, but everybody wanted to hear all about Mr. Enright.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  I motioned for Sadie to join me in the kitchen. “I’ve been telling them I found him in the storeroom and that it appears he suffered some sort of accident.” I opened the refrigerator. Focusing on mundane activities helped settled my nerves. “Want some juice?”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Orange, mango, tomato.”

  “Tomato, please.”

  I poured two small glasses of tomato juice, and Sadie and I sat down at the table.

  “What did Nash say to you?” I asked.

  “Not much. He asked if anyone else at the party got sick.”

  I uttered a growl of frustration. “Enright wasn’t sick. He was drunk.”

  “That’s what I said. But Ted insists Tim Enright was
a lifelong teetotaler.”

  “So? There’s a first time for everything.”

  “True,” Sadie said. “And from what I’ve been hearing around the coffee shop, the guy was going through a lot.” She took a sip of her juice. “He lost his business, his wife, Lorraine. . . .”

  “Then why does Ted Nash have such a hard time believing the poor man decided to partake of a little fruit of the vine?”

  “I don’t know. But he apparently found it more plausible that Blake and I spiked the coffee.”

  I shook my head. “What galls me is that what happened is obvious to everyone except the detective investigating the case.”

  “Did he ask you about the message Enright scratched on the wall with one of your tapestry needles?”

  “That four square fifth w weirdness? Yeah, he mentioned it. To me, it’s further proof of Enright’s drunkenness.”

  “Still, you have to wonder what he meant by it,” Sadie said. “I mean, he was apparently still scratching on that wall when he died.”

  “Probably because there was nobody there to help him.” I dropped my chin. “I feel horrible about that. I should’ve checked the storeroom before I left last night.”

  Sadie took my hand. “You didn’t know. None of us did. And, well, we thought we were the last to leave.”

  I sniffled. “If I’d checked that stupid storeroom last night, Mr. Enright might be alive today.”

  “Sweetie, please stop beating yourself up. What happened couldn’t be helped. And if Ted is right and Tim Enright was poisoned—”

  My head shot up. “Nash thinks Enright was poisoned? He didn’t tell me that.”

  “Probably because Blake and I served the food. He needed to know if anyone else got sick or acted strangely.”

  “So if he was poisoned . . .”

  Sadie nodded. “Then he was likely poisoned before he showed up at your party.”

  There was a pounding at the front door, followed immediately by Angus’ bark.

  “Hey, hey,” came Blake’s voice from the foyer. “It’s only your friendly neighborhood caterers.”

  “In that case, we’re in the kitchen,” Sadie called.

  Blake and Todd came into the kitchen with Angus on their heels.

  “I hope you don’t mind my tagging along with Blake,” Todd said to me. “I heard about all the hoopla going on at your shop and wanted to come by to see if there’s any way I can help.”

  “Thanks, Todd, but I’m not sure what anyone can do at this point.”

  “I know what we can do,” Blake said, setting two large, insulated bags on the table. “We can eat.” He took a platter of chicken salad on croissants from one of the bags.

  I smiled. “My favorite.” Blake made his own chicken salad from all white meat and pecans and white seedless grapes. It was delicious.

  “I know it.” Waggling his eyebrows at Sadie, Blake took out the next platter. It was an array of fruit with a cream-cheese dip in the middle.

  “And that’s my favorite,” Sadie said. “Thoughtfulness. It’s why I married that man.”

  Blake feigned hurt. “I thought it was my great butt.”

  “I don’t like you for your thoughtfulness or your butt,” Todd said. “Now haul out those brownies.”

  Relieved at how the men had lightened the mood, I retrieved plates, glasses, and silverware. “What do you do, Todd? In all the excitement last night, I forgot to ask.”

  Todd lifted a six-pack of bottles from the other insulated bag. “This is what I do.”

  I cocked my head. “You drink beer?”

  “Well, yes.” Todd chuckled. “But I own a craft brewery and pub. It’s just across the street from your shop, as a matter of fact.”

  “The Brew Crew?”

  “That’s me. My mom wanted me to call the place Hot Toddy’s, but I flatly refused.”

  I laughed, but I had to silently agree that Mr. Calloway was one hot Toddy.

  “What flavor did you bring?” Sadie asked.

  “Apricot ale. I figured it would complement both the chicken salad and the fruit, and then we can have coffee with the brownies.”

  “Wow,” I said, “you guys thought of everything.”

  We filled our plates, and then Sadie, Blake, and Todd watched as I tried my first sip of apricot ale. I raised my glass to my lips, my eyes searching each of their faces, particularly Sadie’s, for a clue as to what this golden concoction might taste like. It smelled fruity, but I’m not a big beer drinker, and fruity scent aside, this was beer. Still, I didn’t want to hurt Todd’s feelings. He’d made it himself.

  Trying to take a deep breath and hold it without being too obvious, I took the teeniest of sips. It was good. It was actually good. It had a sweet, malty flavor, but was rather dry, like wine. I took another drink.

  “I think she likes it,” Sadie said.

  “I do. It’s not what I was expecting. The apricot flavor is there, but I can also taste a hint of spice.”

  “It’s a specialty yeast I use for brewing this flavor, among others,” Todd said. “I’m glad you like the beer.”

  We enjoyed our meal. Even Angus had a chicken-salad sandwich, although he’d already had his supper before Sadie arrived. Blake offered to take Angus for a walk; but shortly after he disappeared through the front door with a delighted Angus on a leash, he reappeared in the kitchen.

  “Uh, Marcy,” he said, looking worried, “Tim Enright’s widow is here to see you. Lorraine. She won’t say why she’s here, but if you want, I can . . .”

  I stood up, admittedly a little at a loss. “No, Blake, it’s ok. I’ll talk to her.”

  We all traipsed through to the foyer.

  Standing right outside the door was a gaunt, red-haired woman.

  “Lorraine?” I ventured.

  “I take it you’re Marcy Singer,” the woman said. “I came to thank you for taking away not only Timothy’s business, but his life, as well.”

  “What?” I asked, stepping to the forefront of the group. “How can you possibly think I had anything to do with Mr. Enright’s business or his death? I only met your husband yesterday.”

  “You might’ve met Timothy only yesterday,” the woman said, “but I’m his wife, and I know for certain that if it wasn’t for you and your artsy shop, Mr. Trelawney wouldn’t have run Timothy out of business.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I didn’t even know the shop was available until Sadie called me in California after Mr. Enright had vacated it.”

  “That’s right,” Sadie said. “I didn’t call her until I saw the For Lease sign in the window.” Clearly, Mrs. Enright wasn’t being totally logical. Sadie tried to calm her down. “I know this must be tough, Lorraine, to lose Tim even though you were divorcing.”

  “It wasn’t final yet,” Mrs. Enright said angrily. “I still have a stake in Timothy’s financial affairs.” Her tone obviously rubbed Angus the wrong way, and he gave one of his deep, resounding barks. Mrs. Enright started.

  I could sense Angus getting tense and asked Blake to take him outside.

  “So what are you more concerned with here, Mrs. Enright?” Todd asked. “What happened to your husband or his financial status?”

  Mrs. Enright glared at him. “Timothy was my husband for twenty-five years. Of course I’m concerned about what happened to him.” She turned her baleful gaze on me. “As a matter of fact, I’ll be talking with my attorney tomorrow morning to see if I have grounds to file a wrongful-death suit against you. And if I do, I’ll see you in court, Ms. Singer.”

  With that, she turned and stormed out, leaving my guests and me dumbfounded.

  Chapter Three

  Sadie and Blake left together after making sure I wasn��t too shaken up by the Lorraine Enright incident. I was, but apparently I did a good job of hiding it. Todd stayed behind to help me “clean up.”

  “There’s really not much to clean up, Todd,” I said, loading our plates, glasses, cups, and silverware into the dishwasher.

 
; “I know,” he said, “but you have to admit, it was a gallant excuse to stay behind.”

  I smiled. “It was awfully gallant.”

  “I don’t think Lorraine will be back tonight,” he said, “but I’d like to hang around a while just to make sure.”

  “You don’t have to do that. But I am glad you’re here. And not just because of Lorraine. You want to go hang out in the living room?”

  “After you.”

  We sat on the sofa near the fireplace. His dark jeans and black shirt were a stark contrast to my white suede sofa, but he looked great—handsome, comfortable, at ease with himself and his surroundings. I was glad I’d finished all my unpacking and that I’d finally gotten the house in order. I took off my shoes and slipped them under the cherry coffee table in front of the sofa.

  “Have you lived in Tallulah Falls all your life?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. I grew up here, went to college in Portland, and then came back here afterward.”

  “Gee, I’ll bet you loved CliffsNotes in college,” I teased. “I know your life has been more exciting than that. Can you give me the less-abbreviated version?”

  “I did love CliffsNotes in college. Couldn’t have passed high school English without them, either.” He chuckled. “You, on the other hand, probably loved laboring over all those boring old texts.”

  “They’re called classics, not boring old texts. And, yes, I did. I thought they were romantic. What was your favorite subject in school, since it so obviously wasn’t literature?”

  “Chemistry. It’s how I got started in the beer business, actually. Dad was afraid I’d blow up the garage, so my senior year of high school, he began steering me toward the craft brewery business.”

  “But isn’t beer just as combustible as a lot of other things?” I asked.

  “I guess it could be, but I think Dad figured other things didn’t taste as good.”

  We both laughed.

  “Do your mom and dad live nearby?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes I feel it’s too close, but usually I’m pretty happy to have them around. How about you? Miss your parents?”

  “My mom,” I said. Thinking of her gave me a twinge. At some point, I’d have to tell her about finding Timothy Enright’s body. She wasn’t going to like it. “I do miss her. I think it was time for me to spread my wings a little, though . . . take a flight a little farther from the nest.”