Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

  The guardsman grunted and shuffled away as the unlikely comrades persevered, frantically trying to finish before they were discovered. When Emma was satisfied that their rope was long enough, they both ran to the window and looping the linen over the rod, made sure it was tied into a triple knot. In her excitement, Lady Buckingham knocked over the stool by mistake and they paused, suspended, barely breathing. But after a full minute, with no outside sounds forthcoming, they nodded at one another and pressed on.

  “Emma, thou goeth first. Thou art younger and everything ‘twas thy idea. I shall hoist thee up, and when thou ist safe in the moat, I shall follow thee!” Lady Buckingham’s cheeks had regained a healthy, rose sheen.

  She was as good as her word. Tossing the long rope out the window, she pushed Emma up and over the window ledge, and as Emma was lowering herself down the other side of the wall, she jumped up to the window, flipping the stool down with a loud clatter. Then, pulling herself up and over the ledge, she began her own descent, a good six feet behind Emma.

  They made it down to the water and immediately started paddling—slowly at first, then, due to the frigid water, at an extremely splashy, accelerated rate. They were halfway to the other side, when Lady Buckingham let out a cry of pain.

  At first, she had felt a sharp sting on the back of her head. Then came a jab, only harder and fiercer this time. Stunned by the blows, she didn’t expect the flutter of the swan’s wing as it flapped hard against her shoulders. In her panic, she strained towards Emma with her left hand, while trying to swing at the relentless bird with her right, as she fought her way to the shore. After she reached Emma, the two became a united front, poking and punching at the swan as they slowly continued their swim across a seemingly endless moat.

  Shouts could be heard coming from the Manor, and Lady Buckingham recognized the fury of her husband, screaming at the guardsmen to take aim and draw fire. As they neared the shore, suddenly they could hear the faint voice of someone hidden in the bushes:

  “Do not tally! Come to safety. We shall protect thee. Do not stop—”

  Emma didn’t understand, but Lady Buckingham did, and let out a sob of relief. Landing on other side of the moat intact, she turned back for Emma and started to pull her friend up the marshy bank behind her, just as the High Minister and his servants rushed over to help hoist the noblewoman up the slippery embankment.

  Halfway out of the water, Emma could hear the whir of arrows whooshing past her ear and thudding into the ground all around her. Suddenly Lady Buckingham wailed, “Oh no, dear God, no!” as the High Minister pried her hand loose from the seamstress’ hand, to whisk her away with him.

  She kept turning back for Emma, panicked at not seeing her friend. “Wait! Where hast Emma gone?” she demanded.

  The High Minister shouted, “We have no time! The carriage is just beyond. Pray, do not go back or we shall all be killed!”

  “But I do not see Emma!” She sobbed, trying desperately to pull away from her saviors as she was being dragged off into the carriage.

  Through the night air, they could all hear the slow grind of the drawbridge chains being lowered. Torches, held by at least a hundred guardsmen, lit up the moat as the carriage started to pull away with Lady Buckingham leaning out of its window, straining to see her friend one last time.

  “Oh no, no.” Her whispers faded to silence as the carriage raced away to London and King Richard I, leaving Emma lying on her stomach at the edge of the moat, an arrow lodged in her back.

  My mother, never one for leaving stories unfinished, has informed me that these days, when tourists visit the famous stately homes of England, they never miss the Buckingham Manor; it is one of the finest examples of how the nobility lived during the Middle Ages. On this tour, she has proudly assured me, the guides usually take an extra five minutes or so to point out the small gravestone almost hidden on the front grounds, just beyond the moat. If one looks closely enough, with a little help from a tour guide, most people have been able to make out the weathered words on the moss-covered shrine:

  “Herein lies Emma at night,

  Who did seweth with all her might

  To save England it hath been told,

  Long liveth Emma the bold

  --Lady Buckingham

  1455, Year of Our Lord

  MURDER SHE SEWED

  “Detective Del Riggio, please take a seat.”

  Shifting her body slightly on top of the uncomfortable vinyl cushion, Carla avoided the jagged, scar-like tear. In front of her, the standard issue police desk loomed large, as her palms moistened and her mouth felt like the Sahara Desert.

  “Now, I’m going to call off a list of symptoms, and you tell me, to the best of your knowledge, if you have ever experienced these feelings. Ready?” The psychologist leaned towards her and started in.

  “Ever had chest pain?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Two days ago when I was admitted to St. Vincent’s.” Carla drummed the metal railing of her chair with the fingertips of her right hand, castanet-style.

  “Any difficulty in breathing?”

  “Yes, that too.” Carla waited for a response. It never came.

  “While you were experiencing these two other symptoms, did you also have any dizziness or vertigo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Blurred vision?”

  “I—I don’t think so.”

  “Feelings of faintness?”

  “Yes.”

  “Profuse sweating or clamminess?”

  You mean like what I’m feeling now? Carla thought. “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Sudden sensations of nausea?” Dr. Rogette was beginning to look worried.

  Thoroughly depressed now, Carla gave a slow nod.

  “Now, detective, I realize you’ve had a couple of deals gone bad recently with your partner. Understandably, you are experiencing some PTSD—you know, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” He opened up one of his top drawers and pulled out a thick, industrial-looking rubber stamp. Smacking it down hard on the papers in front of him, he looked up at her and blinked.

  Carla jumped. “What’s that for?”

  “Well, you should be hearing from your supervisor on this–– soon, very soon I should think.” With a wave of his hand, he started sorting papers on his desk. She was dismissed.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. You want me to do what?” Carla stared at her supervisor in shock.

  “That’s right. I’m ordering you to take a Leave of Absence. Look, Del Riggio, frankly, you don’t have any choice. If you don’t take it, I suspend you. Period. But because I’m such a nice guy, I’ve taken the liberty of signing you up for a cruise to the Bahamas. Courtesy of the NYPD. Not bad, huh?” Captain McMann grinned.

  “Very bad. What in the world would I do on a cruise?” Visions of Carnival Cruise Line advertisements, with wall-to-wall people aerobicizing across decks while gluttonous couples knocked little children aside on their way to the banquet rooms for a mid-afternoon food orgy, flashed before her.

  “Relax, Del Riggio, relax. That’s what cruises are for. Just think, no drug busts, no incompetent partners. Just ordinary people acting decadent. How can you go wrong?”

  Mary Ellen Stafford couldn’t wait to get onto the cruise ship. What a great vehicle for teaching your quilting workshop, her friends had all told her. Hang the workshops. It was a chance for her to get away from her own drab, mundane life.

  “I don’t get why these murder mysteries mean so much to you,” her husband had complained recently, flipping popcorn kernels into his mouth with one hand, fingering the remote control with the other.

  “I like a good mystery,” she said, looking up from her crime novel. “I like a good mystery, and I like variety.”

  With a familiar grunt, he changed the channel to “America’s Funniest Videos.”

  Mid-life was hitting Mary Ellen hard.

  The Cyraneaux Cruise Line was unique in one respect. It offered a more
varied program of courses than many of the main stream lines: Refurbishing Antiques, Belly Dancing and now, Mary Ellen’s Memento quilt class showing how to make quilts using people’s personal clothing, lending an even more homey touch to the curricular lineup. But to Carla, none of these workshops written up in the brochure were impressive. Classes? What for? And quilting classes? Give me a break!

  She made her way down the narrow corridor, her black backpack and tote bag slamming into people, her black tennis shoes squeaking against the newly polished floors. Just outside her assigned cabin, she stopped. She could hear someone humming on the other side, and her heart sank. Oh, crap! Some happy person is in there, and I’m expected to make light conversation. I knew this was all a big mistake. She started to use her key when the door burst open.

  “Oh, hello! My name is Mary Ellen Stafford, and I guess we’re going to be roommates.”

  Carla stared in horror at the Peter Pan collar and granny-glasses-attached-to-a-chain facing her.

  “Hi. I’m exhausted. I gotta get my things together here. Maybe we can chat later.”

  Mary Ellen’s offended look was brushed aside as Carla continued. “My name’s Carla Del Riggio, I’m a New York detective on leave of absence, and I really need to have my own space. Understood? And FYI, I hate humming!”

  With a quick gulp, Mary Ellen froze, her heart pounding. A New York cop! Of all the good luck! If only this woman weren’t so nasty. Well, they did have two weeks. Maybe in time, her new roommate would thaw out.

  The quilter finished placing all her clothing and supplies neatly in a small chest of drawers next to her bunk bed. She started to hum again then stopped, with a quick glance up at Carla. By way of a silent apology she shrugged her shoulders and smiled tentatively.

  Unmoved, Carla flung her luggage onto her bed, practically ripped it open, then pulled out her vacation clothing. One black skirt, four pairs of slacks—all in dull shades—black shoes, several tops, underwear, and a large floppy hat.

  Mary Ellen, more meticulous, unzipped a large rolly bag and proceeded to take out various sewing items. Two acrylic rulers of assorted sizes, a pin cushion stuffed with colored-headed straight pins, sewing scissors, a soft cutting board, some odd pizza cutter thing, graph paper, note cards, and a folder filled with Xeroxed paperwork.

  “What’s with the pizza cutter?” Carla couldn’t help herself.

  Mary Ellen smiled. An entrée. “Oh, that’s my rotary cutter. It’s a wonderful invention for quilters; it enables you to cut very straight, even strips of fabric. You’ll have to take my quilting class this week. I always give a demonstration on how to use this.”

  Carla sat down on her bed with a nod of her head. “Look…” She cleared her throat. “I don’t mean to be rude, I just need a lot of R&R, if ya know what I mean.”

  “Sure, I can appreciate that. It’s just that I have always loved detective stories and mysteries, so I guess I got a little carried away at meeting someone like you. I promise I won’t bother you too much on this trip.” Mary Ellen attempted a tight smile.

  Carla felt guilty. “Hey, no problem. I mean it. To show you there’s no hard feelings, why don’t we go to the dining room together for lunch, OK?”

  Mary Ellen did nothing less than beam.

  As the two women entered the First Class dining room, they both gasped. Raised-mahogany paneled walls fenced in high-lofted blue and gold fleur-de-lis patterned carpeting, rendering more of a ‘Titanic-esque’ feel than a modern cruise line eatery. The circular tables were covered in white Damask, with full table settings of elegant silverware, crystal wine goblets, white plates edged in gold, and porcelain centerpieces exploding with spring-like flowers.

  Carla spoke first. “Boy, this is something, isn’t it?” Mary Ellen agreed and steered them both toward a large sign at the far end of the room that read, “SEATING ASSIGNMENTS.” They noticed they had been placed together at Table Number 12, along with about six other people, including a Richard Hempton.

  “Ummm. Richard Hempton. You know, I know that guy’s name from somewhere,” Carla murmured to herself, ignoring Mary Ellen hanging on to her every word.

  At their table, Mary Ellen’s motor mouth took over. “How are you? My name is Mary Ellen Stafford, this is my roommate Carla Del Riggio. She’s from New York.” Carla cringed with each new introduction.

  “Well, don’t this beat all! John T. Porter here,” blustered a heavy-set Texas businessman in a tight cream-colored suit and tan leather cowboy boots. He shoved his cowboy hat down under the table away from sight as his timid, fluttery wife smiled in agreement, pulling herself in closer to the table, and checking out her husband every few seconds.

  “Hello, everyone. My name is Richard Hempton,” a balding middle-aged man proclaimed. “This is going to be the last time in a very long time that I will be able to really enjoy myself. You see, by next fall, I plan on running for the House of Representatives, and although I will be traveling quite a bit, it will be primarily for business.”

  A politician! That’s where I’ve heard of him. Great! More BS to contend with, Carla thought.

  “Hey, I’m Eddie Runyon and this here’s Tracey,” said a young man sitting next to a thin, giggly young woman. His hair looked as greasy as hers looked clean, and they both had light nicotine stains between their fore and middle fingers. Mary Ellen just hoped they would wait a few years before starting a family. Suddenly, like synchronized swimmers, everyone turned to stare at the only vacant chair.

  Five seconds later, a fiftyish looking man slid onto the seat. His mouth folded into a straight line and his head bobbed a quick nod just before he introduced himself. “Hello, I’m Steven Bingham. Pleased to meet you all,” he announced. Everyone murmured a greeting in return, then looked down at his or her shrimp cocktail, but Carla’s radar felt a slight tug.

  The main course of Rubber Chicken Kiev was more than tolerable, so at first, people were too intent on eating to make polite table conversation. Then Mary Ellen broke the silence. “I’m a quilter by profession and will be teaching a workshop on the ship, but my roommate is actually an NYPD detective on vacation!”

  Uh-oh. Carla dreaded what would inevitably come next. “Really? Aahhh, Ooooh, what a kick!” people responded, as if on cue.

  Oh, God, here come the questions. “Tell me, detective, how much time do you spend per case? I mean, how quick does it take to crack one?” John T. Porter leaned forward, his chin tinged with Chicken Kiev sauce.

  Carla sighed. “It depends on the case.”

  “Well, I’ll have you know, little lady, I have a software program on my laptop that could streamline any case you were working on!”

  “Oh?”

  “Yep. It’s called WebPrivateye2009, and it’ll get you all kinds of information on anyone you want.”

  “You mean people with records only, don’t you?” Mary Ellen was fascinated.

  Porter was having a ball. “I mean, you can be curious about your neighbor, for God’s sake—find out his social security number, where to go for unlisted numbers, or whether or not he’s been missing his child support payments. You name it, you got it. You can even camouflage your e-mail so no one knows it’s you doing the searchin’!”

  “Sounds dangerous to me,” Carla fired back. “We do use something like that at work, but I think that’s too much information for the general public.”

  She had already set her usual game in motion, ‘Where’s the poker face?’ Looking around the table for reactions, she noticed Eddie and Tracey couldn’t have cared less. They and their nicotine fingers were far too into each other. Porter’s wife looked uncomfortable with her husband’s showmanship, Mary Ellen, of course, was enthralled, Steve Bingham looked ill at ease for some reason, and she couldn’t quite make out Hempton’s face. The politician’s mask was on.

  That night, Mary Ellen was impossible. Every ten minutes she would try to grill Carla about detective work. Had she done many stakeouts? Had she killed anyone? What was undercover
work really like? Finally, the exhausted cop had to say ‘enough was enough, let me get some sleep’ as she reached up to turn out the light.

  A sealed, plastic sandwich bag started to form tiny beads of moisture as a faceless policeman swung it high over his head.

  “No, no, that’s destroying evidence. You’re supposed to use the paper bag, not the plastic bag!” Carla screamed.

  “Oh, really?” The faceless cop stood still, clueless.

  “It’s all ruined, it’s ruined!” Carla repeated over and over again. Numerous hands reached in towards her, then started touching everything in the room. Cocaine vials scattered as the featureless man in blue chuckled and shrugged.

  A second later, Carla was screaming. “You blew it! You blew it! Blew the whole case!” The cop remained standing, his head rolled back in one roaring belly laugh.

  “Hey, hey, hey! Wake up! You’re having a bad dream. Wake up!” The quilter shook Carla awake.

  Carla shot upright, layered in sweat. Then she remembered where she was. Oh God, I’m with the Do-Gooder-Happy-Homemaker, she thought, struggling to gain some composure.

  Mary Ellen switched on the light. “You want to talk about it? Who’s Martin?”

  “Martin was my partner for six months,” the detective replied. “He was young and inexperienced, and they put him on a drug bust with me. It was terrible. He messed up key evidence and he didn’t even realize it. And because of his incompetence, I almost got myself killed.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “I told you. I’m here on a Leave of Absence.”

  “That seems kind of drastic, all because you had a bad experience,” Mary Ellen pointed out.

  God help us, we have a police expert in our midst. “I had an anxiety attack if you must know. That’s all.” She glowered at Mary Ellen. Her roommate finally got the point; you could hear a pin drop in the cabin.

  By the time the two ladies reached their full table the next morning, a lively conversation was ensuing between Porter and Hempton.

  “Tell me, Hempton, what does it cost to run a campaign these days, umm?” Porter’s wife cringed at his crude questions, but Hempton was obviously happy to pontificate.