The Quick and the Thread

by Amanda Lee

  Todd grinned. “If I had a beer, I’d drink to that.”

  After Todd left, I went upstairs to the master suite. I put on some soft music, took a warm bath, donned my favorite flannel pajamas, and confronted the inevitable. I called Mom.

  I’d propped my pillows up against the headboard of my bed and slid under the covers, so I’d settled in for a long conversation. I was hoping to be able to pretend this was no big deal. I didn’t want Mom to come rushing all the way across the country from her film location in upstate New York to my rescue. She’d done that a little too often in the past. It was time for me to stand on my own two feet. . . . Although, in a way, it would’ve been nice to have Mom there to lean on.

  She answered on the first ring.

  “Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

  “Hello, darling! How is everything? I’m so sorry I missed your party last night. It must have been wonderful fun.”

  “It . . . it was. Everybody was really supportive and seemed to be excited about the shop.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was a loaded yeah if I’ve ever heard one,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “There was a man at the party last night who was drunk. And this morning, Angus and I found him in the storeroom.”

  “He’d passed out in your storeroom?”

  “Um . . . I guess you could say that,” I hedged. “He . . . um . . . he—”

  “Marcella?” She’d taken on that stern tone she’d always used when I was in trouble as a little girl.

  “He died,” I said. I blinked furiously, daring myself to cry.

  “He died?”

  “Yeah . . . he was . . . he was dead when Angus and I found him.”

  “Oh, darling. Do you need me to come out?”

  “No, Mom, I’m fine. Really. I just had to close the shop for a few days until the cleaning crew can get the stockroom back in order.”

  “Well, if you need me, you know I’ll hop on the next plane out,” she said.

  “I know, but really, everything is fine. Just a minor aggravation, more or less.”

  She sighed. “Still, finding that man in your storeroom must’ve scared you silly. I’m sorry this had to happen. Leave it to some drunken buffoon to wander in and not only spoil your party, but make you have to shut down your store to boot. What a shame.”

  “Yeah . . . what a shame.”

  We made small talk for a few more minutes before signing off. I heard Angus’ toenails clicking on the hardwood floor outside my room.

  “Come on, Angus,” I said.

  Tail wagging, he obliged, jumping up onto the bed. I stroked his fur, happy for the company. Mom had been put out about Timothy Enright’s spoiling my party and store opening, but my mind kept going back to the fact that he was there to tell me something. Something important. And if the authorities were correct and he had been poisoned, it might’ve been something that cost Mr. Enright his life.

  I spent most of the next day in a state of anxious listlessness. I fielded calls, answered questions, but mostly tried to keep a low profile.

  After Mrs. Enright’s scathing accusations, I wanted to talk with my landlord, Mr. Trelawney, to see just what had happened to cause Timothy Enright to close his business.

  I called Mr. Trelawney’s number, and his wife answered.

  “Hello, Mrs. Trelawney. This is Marcy Singer.”

  “Oh, hello, dear. I’m glad you called. Are you enjoying your shop? I so wanted to come to your little party the other evening, but I was a bit under the weather. Allergies, I suppose. But I do hope you had a nice time.”

  It was really strange that she didn’t appear to know about the murder. “Um . . . yes. Is . . . is Mr. Trelawney there? I have a question for him.”

  “Oh, certainly. He’s just now finishing up his dinner. You take care, dear, and I’ll be in to see you soon. Now, let me get Bill.”

  I really wondered why Mrs. Trelawney hadn’t said anything about Timothy Enright. Could there possibly be someone in town who hadn’t heard of the man’s fatal visit to my storeroom?

  Bill Trelawney came on the line. “Hello, Marcy. How are you, dear?”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Trelawney. And I hope you are.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “I’m calling to ask you about Timothy Enright.”

  “I heard his behavior was deplorable at your reception, and I’m sorry about that.”

  “Um . . . thank you. Did . . . did you not hear about . . . about my finding him in the storeroom?”

  “Oh, now, that is truly unacceptable. I made it clear to Mr. Enright that he was not to disturb you in any way. All of his belongings should have been moved out of that shop long before you arrived.”

  “Mr. Trelawney, I don’t think you understand. When I found Mr. Enright in the storeroom, he was dead.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Quite.”

  “Oh, my.” There was a long pause. “That’s another matter altogether, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so. It’s very upsetting. The death.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “A real shock.”

  “I wanted to ask . . . It’s not necessarily relevant, but I just have to know. . . . Mrs. Enright came by my house yesterday evening and accused me of putting her husband out of business.”

  “Now, we both know that’s nonsense. Don’t allow Lorraine Enright to befuddle you. I imagine she’s terribly distraught.”

  “I realize that, of course. Even though she and Mr. Enright were going through a divorce—”

  “Were they?”

  “That’s my understanding.” I was getting frustrated with the entire conversation, so I decided to say something off-the-wall myself. “Say, does the phrase four square fifth mean anything to you?”

  Mr. Trelawney got so quiet, I was afraid we’d been disconnected. “Mr. Trelawney?”

  “Where did you hear that?” he asked softly.

  “Mr. Enright wrote it on the storeroom wall before he died.”

  “He shouldn’t have done that. Did he write anything else?”

  “I believe he meant to. There was a w following fifth.”

  “Can I come over to look at it?”

  “Sure, but not until tomorrow. The police closed my shop while they investigated, and then a cleaning crew is supposed to be coming in.”

  “The police?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s disturbing,” he mumbled.

  “Um. . . yes, it was. Finding Mr. Enright dead in the storeroom was very disturbing, also.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow morning, then.”

  “Okay, any—” I realized Mr. Trelawney had hung up. I wondered why the phrase had brought about such a reaction from him. I also wondered why neither he nor his wife seemed to know about Timothy Enright’s death. The rest of the town certainly was abuzz over it.

  When I arrived at the Seven-Year Stitch the next morning, I was relieved to see that everything looked tidy and clean. The hazmat cleaners had assured me they’d put the shop back in order, but I wasn’t convinced until I’d seen it for myself. The samplers and dolls were on their shelves, Jill was at the register, the yarns and threads were in their proper order, and the furniture looked freshly vacuumed. Of course, this wasn’t the area I’d been most concerned with.

  After depositing Angus in the bathroom with the promise “It’s only for a couple minutes,” I timidly went to check the storeroom. It looked great. The hazmat team had done a wonderful job. The fabrics had been neatly returned to their boxes, the tapestry needles had been gathered and reboxed, and the foul odor was gone. If not for the words still scratched in the wall, no one would ever suspect what had transpired here night before last.

  I bent down to take a closer look at the odd inscription.

  Four square fifth w.

  “Four square fifth what?” I wondered. “Fifth wheel?” The scribbles were probably merely a reflection of Mr. Enright’s confu
sed state of mind.

  Staying true to my word, I firmly closed the storeroom door and went to let Angus out of the bathroom. He bounded over to the storeroom door, sniffed, and then came to lie on his bed under the counter and chew on a toy.

  I smiled at this further reassurance that the storeroom had been thoroughly cleaned.

  Sadie dropped in about ten a.m. with coffee for both of us. I got up from behind the counter, and Sadie and I went over to the sitting area. Sadie chose to stretch out on one of the navy sofas, while I ensconced myself in one of the red chairs.

  “Have you heard any more from Lorraine?” Sadie asked.

  “Not yet. I did speak with my lawyer yesterday—actually, Mom’s lawyer—and he said I have nothing to fear from a wrongful-death suit since I in no way contributed to Mr. Enright’s death.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Yeah. I still hope she doesn’t file suit, though. I can do without the expense, not to mention more bad publicity.”

  Angus came over to my chair and whined.

  “Sadie, can you watch the shop for a sec while I take him outside? Normally, it’s no big deal, but I’m expecting Mr. Trelawney sometime today.”

  “Okay. This is our slow time, anyway.”

  “Thanks.” I grabbed Angus’ leash, and he hurried over to let me snap it onto his collar. “We’ll hurry.”

  “No problem,” Sadie said.

  I took Angus out onto the street and headed in the direction of the clock tower. It was a grassy area with black wrought-iron benches and large wooden flower barrels. The barrels currently contained mums in shades of white, yellow, and pink.

  Before we could get to the clock tower, a woman burst out of the aromatherapy shop. She was thin, had gunmetal gray hair, and was wearing red, thick-framed glasses.

  “Hey,” she said. “Aren’t you Marcy Singer? Didn’t you open that new shop down the street, the Seven-Year Stitch?”

  I smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Do you like to embroider?”

  “No, no,” she said quickly. “I just wanted to ask you about Timothy Enright. I heard he died in your shop.”

  “Um, yes. That’s right.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  I shrugged. “Nobody really knows at this point.”

  “I saw that cleaning crew come in there with their white suits and hoods on and everything,” she said. “What was that all about? Did Mr. Enright make some sort of mess?”

  “I . . . I’m not at liberty to say, Ms. . . .”

  Without giving me her name, she hurried on. “I knew Mr. Enright when he leased the shop, you know. He appeared to be a very nice man—never did anything untoward, as far as I know.” She narrowed her eyes. “So, what do you think made him snap?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Please excuse me. I need to walk Angus and then get back to my shop.”

  I hurried on to the clock tower. Angus fulfilled his obligations, I cleaned it up, and then we returned to the Seven-Year Stitch.

  Sadie zeroed in on my face when I returned. “What happened?”

  I removed Angus’ leash. “The lady from the aromatherapy shop came out and wanted to know what happened to Timothy Enright.”

  “Oh, don’t mind her. She makes it her hobby to butt into everyone else’s businesses.”

  “She didn’t strike me as a particularly nice person,” I said, “which is too bad, because I like aromatherapy products.”

  “That’s okay,” Sadie said with small smile. “I know a wonderful place in Lincoln City that sells top-of-the-line stuff.”

  “Did Mr. Trelawney stop by?” I asked.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, he did. He was all freaked about that writing on the wall in the storeroom. He wants it painted over as soon as possible and said he’ll send someone over to look at it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s not that big a deal. Not as big a deal as it will be to have to move everything so the storeroom can be painted.” I sighed. “Is that all he said?”

  Sadie nodded. “He was in and out of here in less than five minutes. Totally out of character. He usually loves to talk.”

  “I thought it was weird that neither he nor Mrs. Trelawney knew about Timothy Enright’s death.”

  “They don’t get out as much as they used to. Maybe they’re out of the loop these days.”

  “Maybe. But Mr. Trelawney knew Timothy Enright had behaved badly during the party. How could he know about that but not know about Mr. Enright’s death?”

  I closed up the shop at five p.m. and placed a sign in the window that I’d be back at seven. I desperately needed a respite from the stress of the past few days, so I took Angus down to the beach so we could walk along the shore. I unhooked the dog’s leash to allow him to run on ahead and play while I strolled. The rhythmic crash of the waves was soothing. I smiled at a black oyster-catcher as it waddled to a tide pool and dug in its orange bill to scrounge for food. Angus turned and ran back for a hug from me before scampering down the beach again. He’s such a good dog.

  Back when I worked at the accounting firm, Pat, one of our clients, had been fined and ordered to get rid of some of her dogs or face jail time. I’d heard that Pat was a dog breeder and that she sold Yorkshire terriers. I wanted a little female Yorkie I could name Dahlia and adorn with pink hair bows.

  Our boss, Mr. Ely, had sent a few of us over to see what we could do to help. When we arrived at Pat’s palatial home, I was impressed. The place was gorgeous. Surely her kennels must rival those of the Westminster Kennel Club. Pat took us out back, where the true state of the kennels broke my heart. Her operation was little more than a puppy mill.

  One scruffy gray puppy cowered in a tiny cage by himself. He was not a Yorkie; he was actually an Irish wolfhound. But he needed me.

  “It’s all right,” I’d cooed softly, my eyes filling with tears. I reached into the cage and pulled him out, cuddling him to me. “I’ll take you with me and give you a great home.” The very thought literally warmed my heart, or so I thought, until I realized the puppy had peed all over me.

  I did have the best of intentions when I took him home. And I adored this puppy I’d dubbed Sir Angus O’Ruff. But I’d gotten him a year ago—not long after the boyfriend bust-up—and he’d pretty much outgrown my small apartment. Sadie had been right when she’d said the move here would do him good. I was hoping it would do me good, too.

  I’d thought David—the boyfriend—and I would be married and on our way to happily ever after by now. Too bad he was a commitment-phobe . . . and really too bad he didn’t realize that before the dress was bought, the invitations were sent, and the church was booked. Mom still thought I was moving to Oregon to escape the embarrassment. I kept telling her I was over it, but I have to admit, the thought of getting out of the same state where David and our mutual, pitying friends lived was a comfort.

  “Marcy!”

  I turned to see a woman wearing jeans rolled to the knees. She was still too far away for me to recognize, so I started walking to meet the woman halfway.

  “I don’t want to disturb your walk,” the woman said. “I just want to make sure we’re still on for class this evening.”

  When I got closer to the woman, I could see it was Vera Langhorne. I smiled. “Yes, Vera. We’ll be having class at seven.”

  “Oh, good. I was worried that with the tragedy and all, you might have decided to cancel.”

  I distinctly remembered leaving a message on Vera’s answering machine, but I knew firsthand how fickle electronic devices could be. “Nope. We’re still on.”

  Vera smiled. “I’m glad. I’m sorry for what happened to Timothy, of course, but I’ve been looking forward to this class.” She lifted and dropped her shoulders. “I’ve been searching for a creative outlet, if you will.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll be pleased with the class and that it gives you the opportunity to tap into your artistic side.”

  “I do, too,” Vera said with a girlish giggle
. “I signed up for the cross-stitch tote bag project.”

  “Oh, that’s great. Since the holidays are coming up in a couple of months, I thought we could make some as gifts. You know, either for ourselves or our friends and relatives, or to give to the women’s shelter or girls’ club.”

  “Or all of the above!”

  I laughed at Vera’s enthusiasm. “Then I’d better get to the shop early and make sure I have enough supplies.”

  Less than two hours later, I was surveying my eager group. Vera, the most eager, was sitting on the edge of her seat with an open notebook on her lap. Reggie Singh sat beside her, and Mrs. Trelawney sat beside Reggie. On the other navy sofa, the honey-haired girl who’d developed such a rapport with Angus sat beside her mother. Angus sat at the girl’s feet with his head resting on her knee. I later learned the girl’s name was Amber and her mother was Julie. I sat on the red chair with my materials spread out on the ottoman.

  “For this project,” I said, “we’re going to cross-stitch a design on a canvas tote bag.” I held up a couple of the bags. “As you can see, these come in a variety of colors, or you can choose the natural color. Either way, our first order of business is to use a fabric marker to create a cross-stitch grid where we’ll be making our design.”

  Vera wrote furiously in her notebook, and Mrs. Trelawney asked for directions to the bathroom.

  As Mrs. Trelawney ambled off, I said, “You can choose the color of your tote bag based on the pattern you like.” I’d directed the comment to Amber, thinking the girl might want a tote in bright pink or fluorescent green. She merely looked a little blankly at me, but Vera wrote the comment down, making me feel it must’ve been important after all.

  Mrs. Trelawney finally wandered back to rejoin the group. She settled onto the sofa and bestowed a smile on everyone—including Angus. In a Peanuts-inspired fantasy, I pictured Mrs. Trelawney asking, “Who’s the kid with the dog-biscuit breath, sir? He needs a hair-cut, but he sure can embroider.”