Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

  She had gone to PS 143 in the Bronx up through 8th grade, then moved on to Bronx Science before attending NYU in Forensics Pathology. Mary Ellen was impressed; Carla’s tough exterior masked a very intelligent person.

  “Would you mind loaning me this laptop just for a couple of hours?”

  Sitting back, Porter tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowing.

  “Ah, I realize you don’t know me from Adam, but I would sure appreciate it.” Mary Ellen practically batted her eyes.

  Porter assessed the quilter for a few more seconds. “Oh, what the hell. Sure you can, honey. Get your own account, though. I’m not giving you my password, although I suppose if you steal the thing or break it, I can always write it off as a business expense!”

  Ten minutes later, Mary Ellen was alone in their cabin, planted in front of the computer, trying to remember everything John T had just shown her. She went to the website and whipping out her credit card, set up her own account, going for the more expensive Professional Search. When the advanced software came up on the screen, she did the preliminaries—Bingham’s name, address, phone number, email address: sbziploc@gmail.com. She laughed out loud. What kind of character would think of an e-mail like that! She continued. OK, OK, we go here, then here, and OK, OK… There! Steven Bingham’s entire life was up on the screen. She scanned the page. Grew up in Wichita Kansas, local high school, got a scholarship to Brighton Medical School. OK, smart boy. Transferred out of med school into a different division called medical research, three years into his med program. Why? OK…

  Bit by bit, she was scrolling down the page to the bottom when suddenly she paused, her brain percolating.

  “When I was in Medical school years ago, before I decided to go into Law, the costs were a drop in the bucket compared to what it takes to run for Congress these days.” Hempton went to medical school, too. Let me try him.

  She cleared Bingham and started in on Hempton. His e-mail address was not as silly: rjhempton@earthlink.net. Continuing, she ticked all the appropriate keys and got his history. Prep schools all the way. Of course. She recognized several of the well-known names. College: Brighton Medical School. The same school as Bingham. Interesting…

  She could feel her pace quickening. Never finished med school, but there was nothing that would indicate why. Then she went back over to the educational sidebar and hit another key listed: Reason for Leaving. She waited a couple of seconds. Then, it flicked on: Reason for Leaving: Expulsion.

  Expulsion. Why would he be expelled? She was wracking her brains on what to do next, when the phone rang.

  “Hey little lady, how’s it goin’?” John T. sounded a bit nervous.

  “Great, only I forgot the next step if a school has a reason for a dismissal.” Mary Ellen blurted out.

  “What the hell are you lookin’ up if I might ask? And what program are you in?”

  “I ordered the Professional Search one. And, well, don’t tell anyone, but I’m looking up someone on this ship.”

  Porter’s tone switched from mildly interested to intrigued. “Oh? Which one?”

  “Well, if you must know, Mr. Hempton,” As soon as she said it, Mary Ellen regretted having mentioned his name.

  There was a slight lull. “You might try punching in the F10 stop on the top of the keyboard—it should take you one step further. But remember, little lady, all this info should be confidential. You get it?” All of a sudden, the gregarious Texan had turned prudent.

  “Of course, of course.”

  He could hear her doing a couple of more clicks. “Hey Mary Ellen, are you still there?” All his charm had evaporated.

  “Yes, yes.” She scanned another screen filled with details—who Hempton roomed with, what car he drove, license number, etc. etc. She was about to hit Exit when her eye fixed on the lower right-hand section. ‘Reason for Expulsion: Attempted Abortion without License.’

  “Oh, my God,” she muttered.

  “Oh my God, what? What is it?” Porter demanded.

  “It’s complicated, but I think I might know who killed Steven Bingham.”

  “Yes, I heard he was dead. What’s going on? Now, honey, don’t do anything foolish, ya hear?”

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks for all your help.” Hanging up fast, she elected to go back to the locked sewing room for another look at the scissors before relating her suspicions to Carla. Just in case there was any evidence they might have missed.

  Extracting a forensic paper bag from Carla’s leather briefcase, she hurried along to her workshop station, excited and pleased with herself. I’d make a pretty darn good detective if I do say so myself, she mused, visualizing Det. Mary Ellen Stafford in gold embossed letters on a black lacquered plaque on top of a police office desk somewhere. Next to a Dunkin’ Donut and Starbucks coffee, and…

  “Mr. Hempton, please sit down,” Carla said warily. After a trying morning of interrogating disgruntled vacationers, she was worn out.

  “Yes, yes, can we get this over with soon? I have to make an important call at four p.m. and I want to read some material before I do it.” Hempton kept looking around him impatiently.

  “Just a few minutes, if ya don’t mind. Did ya know the victim other than our table conversation?”

  “Of course not. No, no, no, I never saw him in my life. What kind of question is that to ask someone in my position?”

  The red flags inside her head were already up and fluttering. “Please just bear with me a minute. You say ya didn’t know him before the cruise ship?”

  “I never met him before. And if you try to link him to me, I will have my lawyers come down on you so fast it’ll make your head spin!”

  Whoaaah, Nelly! What’s goin’ on? Carla thought. “All right, calm down, Mr. Hempton. We’re through, for now. You’re free to go.” She watched him leave and quickly turn left into the corridor as she tapped rhythms against a chair rail, deep in thought.

  Meanwhile, Mary Ellen, passing by en route to her workstation, couldn’t help but notice how red Richard Hempton’s face looked as he exited the ‘interrogation room.’ Angry red, she speculated. What happened? she wondered.

  I’m not going to tell Carla about Hempton yet. I’ll just go see if the murder weapon is still in the workshop, then bring all my info back to her. Mary Ellen gloated at the idea of being the one to solve the case. Carla would be so grateful, she might even offer her an assistant’s detective job, or at the very least, a special recognition certificate.

  Her daydreams buzzed around her as she opened up the sewing room, but once inside, she focused and charged over to the box where the dress had been housed. The dress was still there, but there were no bagged scissors anywhere. Carla must have nabbed them to be cataloged.

  Turning back to her overly organized desk, she sensed something else was missing, but began her usual preparation drill anyway. Rulers, check; masking tape, check; seam ripper, check; rotary cutter…where in the world was the rotary cutter?

  Wham! From out of her memory bank flashed an image. She was ten-years-old and she had just been hit on the side of the head with a soccer ball, and all she could remember was pain and this boy Billy Thomas, close at hand, sing-songing nasty comments.

  Wham! It happened again. This time, through her stinging tears she could see Richard Hempton coming after her again. She dodged just right of his fist, and ran to the door, trying to scream, but no sound came out. Scrambling to another exit, she discovered the side door had been locked from the outside. Slowly, she turned to face him.

  Panting and wheezing, he took out a tiny inhaler and sucked in two puffs of ventolin; enough time for her to find her strength. “Why are you doing this? Why me? What did I do to you?”

  “You’re connected with that busybody detective, that’s why. Don’t worry, I’m gonna get her too after I finish with you. Nobody is going to stop me from being in Congress! Nobody!

  “You killed Steven Bingham! Admit it!”

  “He deserved it, the bastard. He
was ruining my life! Wherever I went, there he was, blackmailing me. All because long ago, so long ago… How was I to know she would bleed so much? It wasn’t my fault, I tell you! It wasn’t!” He looked so desperate, for a moment Mary Ellen almost felt sorry for him. But his mood flipped. Lunging at her, he shoved her up against the wall, then spun her around so that he could hold both her hands behind her back with his left hand as he fumbled with something in his pocket with his right.

  Sss—snapp! The sound was so familiar. “Remember, class, when the safety latch is off, the rotary cutter is dangerous!”

  Hempton drew his right hand out in front of her, then over towards the left side of her face. With one smooth stroke a neck could so easily be sliced. She closed her eyes and thought about how wonderful her husband and kids were.

  Crack. Mary Ellen could feel Hempton collapse behind her, the rotary cutter clattering on the linoleum floor. She looked up to see Carla in a swat-team stance, legs apart, both hands on the gun. Behind her, the tall Texan was holding onto the doorjamb, issuing a slow, deep, wolf whistle.

  Still in shock, Mary Ellen couldn’t move as people streamed in, demanding to know what had happened, and each time someone asked, Carla would answer simply, “Ask Mary Ellen. She solved the case!”

  At dockside, the last day blended into a series of yellow sticker tapes, uniformed crewmembers, and cops everywhere. Passengers couldn’t wait to rush off the ship to tell their family and friends about the double homicide, but in their cabin, Mary Ellen and Carla took their time, silently packing their bags.

  Finally, Carla spoke. “If I come to the Midwest, how ‘bout givin’ me another quilt workshop?” She winked at her roommate. “Maybe my new partner and I could use a creative outlet to balance out all our anxieties.”

  “Oh, you plan on trusting another partner again?” Mary Ellen raised one eyebrow.

  “Sure, why not. And what about you?” Carla turned to face her. “You know, I could put in a good word about you to my supervisor. Go back to school. Think about Forensics. It’s a growing field. ”

  The quilter smiled, but shook her head. She had already decided to switch to romance novels.

  PRECIOUS GIFTS

  The air thickened as a heavy blanket of rain clouds threatened to let loose a downpour at any moment. Out of the stillness, a quick, sharp breeze kicked up little spirals of dust from the earth, making the cornfield rustle with activity. Gears clicked softly, as the rat-tat-tat-tat of a needle dove in and out of a patchwork quilt so large, it seemed to completely envelope the small woman hunched over a metal machine, lost in her own world.

  Despite the increasing wind, there was no stopping, or even slowing down of the needle. If anything, the rhythm only got faster. Ignored hungry chickens clucked in the front yard of the small cabin and dried laundry flapped sideways as the cast-iron sewing machine pedal persisted, up and down, more and more frenetically.

  On a nearby road, a dark wooden wagon was making its approach, the hooves of the horse trotting in time to the movement of the pedal as the wagon’s driver gave tiny clicking noises to his nag, signaling he was serious about getting a move-on.

  “What do ya bet your Mama’s out sewin’ in the cornfield again!” Papa grumbled out of one side of his downcast mouth.

  “Papa, why does Mama wanna sew all the time? We don’t git to see her the way we used to,” his youngest, Martha protested.

  Ten-year-old Paul chimed in. “The other day I was goin’ out to fetch the firewood, and I saw the dirty dishes in the sink and no Mama anywhere! An’ when I holler’d for her, all I heard was the sewin’ machine!”

  “Oh, you mean the ‘Devil’?” Papa snorted.

  The children stared up at their father, startled by his tone. But he was already deep in thought, remembering that infamous day when they had all gone to the 1872 Washington Territory State Fair. There, they had passed jelly booths, pig demonstrations, horse-trading auctions, and farm equipment trade-ins. Armed with twelve of her most delicious fruit pies, Mama was hoping to take home at least one blue ribbon. For two consecutive days she had rolled dough, stirred pots of bubbling fruit glaze, and hovered over their small oven, until the delicious aroma wafting in from the kitchen became almost unbearable. Her only break came when she caught the children and even Papa trying to dip their fingers into the warm pies. “Leave them alone! Leave them alone! You’re not going to take away my ribbons!” she had wailed, wringing her flour-coated hands.

  By late afternoon, they were all exhausted and ready for their cabin. Mama was discouraged because she was returning empty-handed, Papa was annoyed at the prices and the children had seen and tasted enough to last them for quite awhile, at least until the next year’s fair rolled around.

  Just as they were about to climb onto their wagon, a woman bustled by. “Did you see the new Singer Sewing Machine Exhibition? It’s Mr. Singer himself, visiting us all the way from New York City!”

  Before anyone could stop her, Mama had darted off towards the ‘sewing’ tent, where a small crowd had already assembled.

  “Step up, little lady, and see my new Singer Perpendicular Action Sewing Machine demonstration! Step right up; you won’t ever go back to hand sewin’ again!” Isaac Merritt Singer’s Shakespearean-trained voice bellowed as he beckoned to Mama from across the tent. Then, placing a flirtatious arm on the shoulder of a young woman he had retained to show off his machines, he urged everyone to ‘gather ‘round.’

  Mama, edging her way through the crowd for a better look at the new wonder, saw a pretty young girl of around twenty, down in front next to Mr. Singer, seated on a new bench, her bodice tight, her back arrow-straight, poised to sew. While the few men in the crowd seemed particularly appreciative of her form, Mama’s focus was solely on the machine itself.

  The model’s black shoe tipped the foot pedal forward, thrusting the needle up and down with a clicking noise that instantly had the eager crowd oohing and ahhing. And when she held up the seams she had just completed, everyone cheered.

  Before he could come out with a “What’s all the fuss about?” Papa caught sight of Mama’s face and froze; in all their time together it had never shown so much animation. Suddenly he felt replaced.

  “Mama, can’t we please go home now?” the children were unanimous. Ignoring their cries and looking only at her husband, Mama spoke up. “I’m gonna git me one of these, you know.”

  “What, are you crazy? How much do they cost?”

  “It doesn’t matter; I’m gonna have it, make no mistake about it.”

  Papa stared at her uneasily for a few seconds, shifting from one leg to another. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask how much they are…” The children’s mouths dropped. Papa giving in this easily? What was going on? Before they knew it, it was ordered and the contract sealed, for the whopping price of seventy-five dollars—ten dollars down, sixty-five dollars due upon delivery.

  The family’s return trip to their farm was long, bumpy, and stagnant from the angry silence up front. The children, nestled in the back on a pallet, kept rubbing their burning eyes, but with only the owls and coyotes to serenade them, all resistance faded and soon, they drifted off into a much-needed sleep.

  And then came The Wait. For Mama, each day felt like an eternity, sticking in her craw and driving the children outside from morning until dusk. Papa remained outside as well, fantasizing about a quail expedition in nearby territories as he did his chores. But finally, the mail carrier appeared with a well-traveled letter. Barring any unforeseen Indian attacks or other mishaps, the sewing machine was due to arrive the following week.

  “You know, I heard ‘bout a settler who killed a couple of Chinooks gist last week. There’s bound to be trouble. It just might disturb the comin’ of your contraption,” Papa announced, puffing on his pipe and assessing her reaction.

  “It’ll get here, it’ll get here. We haven’t really had any trouble with the Chinooks, now have we?” Mama snapped back.

  Shruggi
ng, Papa turned away.

  For the next few days, Mama bustled throughout the cabin, possessed by a new-found energy. Decisions had to be made as to the best placement of ‘it’; hours were spent rearranging chairs first here, then there, dragging their clothing bureaus around, and shifting their supper table over against a wall. Sounds of heavy objects scraping against the wooden floors became a daily occurrence, yet she never seemed satisfied. Once she stood back and surveyed each room, she would sigh, and begin the entire process over again.

  Finally, the moment came. Sitting down to supper one evening, they could hear a single-teamed wagon chugging up their road. The children looked at Papa, who was riveted on Mama. In an instant, she was jumping up and galloping out the front door, down the porch steps, and over to the approaching wagon, her skirt and petticoat making full arcs as they swished on either side of her.

  “Hey, little lady, I can see you’re all fired up about this here machine. Best thing money can buy, I can tell ya that! The machine to beat all machines. It’ll make your life a lot easier, that’s for sure!”

  As if the salesman had to convince Mama! She was already running her chore-worn hands over the frayed horsehair blanket cover. She had started to pull it off when the salesman stepped in and took over.

  There it was. Shiny, black, embellished with beautiful gold lettering, and supported by intricate ironwork around the pedal and below the mahogany base. Mama sucked in her breath. It was even more spectacular than she had remembered. The salesman signaled to Papa standing on the porch, to come over to help him remove it from the wagon, and between the two of them, they managed to hoist it off and carry it over to the cabin.

  “Where do you want it, little lady?” the salesman inquired.

  In unison, everyone turned to Mama.

  “Well, I’ve done a lot of thinkin’ and I’ve decided it should go in the main room where I can get to it real easy,” she gushed.

  After they had planted it in Mama’s designated spot, the sales man mopped his forehead. “Whoosh! It sure does look pretty sittin’ there. Just take good care of it. If you knew what I went through to bring it out here, you’d treat it like the Queen of Araby!”