The Stitching Hour

by Amanda Lee

  “You truly don’t think their haunted house will have an impact on our fund-raiser?” Reggie asked.

  “I know it won’t,” Vera said. “In fact, I’ll insist that Paul give the library equal time. I’ll see when he can drop in at the library and do a story on your haunted house. I’ll make sure he emphasizes the importance of the fund-raiser on the library’s annual budget. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds terrific, Vera. Thank you.” Reggie smoothed her hair. “I’m sorry that I allowed the news of the new haunted house to upset me so badly. It isn’t like me at all.” She turned to me. “How do you feel about having a fun house right next door, Marcy?”

  “I’m not terribly happy about it,” I said. “I’m afraid it’ll drive Angus and my students crazy.”

  “She was particularly concerned about the effect all the screaming might have on poor Muriel,” Vera said. “I told her Muriel probably wouldn’t even notice, no better than she can hear.”

  “True, but I see Marcy’s point,” said Reggie. “At least, they won’t be disturbing your business during daylight hours.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “And it’s only for a month. What real harm can it do?”

  When would I ever learn to stop asking that question?

  • • •

  My sweetheart, Ted, came for lunch. Ted was the head detective for the Tallulah Falls Police Department. He worked for Reggie’s husband, Manu, who was the Chief of Police.

  Broad, strong, and well over a foot taller than me, Ted was a walking dream. He had black hair with a few flecks of premature gray and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. He wore suits for work, and he favored gray and navy. Today he wore light gray with a royal blue shirt and a blue, gray, and lavender striped tie. He looked yummy.

  On top of looking so mouth-watering, he brought my favorite lunch—chicken salad croissants from MacKenzies’ Mochas. I had bottled water in the minifridge in my office. I didn’t have a customer in the shop when Ted arrived, so I put the cardboard clock on the door, indicating that I’d be back in half an hour so we could go into the office and eat undisturbed.

  After we kissed hello, I got us each a bottle of water, and we sat at my desk to eat.

  “How’s your day going?” I asked, as I opened the box containing my croissant.

  “Fine. I’m guessing you’ve heard the news about the Horror Emporium that’s moving in next door to you.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it?” I frowned. “That seems like a mouthful . . . especially for kids.”

  “Well, from what I hear, the Horror Emporium isn’t designed for children. It’s more for adults,” said Ted. “I’ve even heard that they plan to make visitors sign waivers before they buy their tickets, saying that if they’re harmed in any way, suffer a heart attack or seizure, that the Horror Emporium will not be held responsible.”

  “Good grief! What’re they planning on doing in there?”

  He shrugged. “I’d say the waiver is more for publicity than anything. All the tough kids will want to come to prove they can’t be scared by whatever some local haunted house can dish out.”

  “I suppose. . . .” I uncapped my water bottle and took a drink.

  “You wanna go?”

  I grinned. “Of course! Do you?”

  “They can’t scare me.” He winked. “But I’ll go with you so you’ll have someone to hold on to.”

  I batted my eyelashes at him. “My big strong hero!”

  He leaned across the desk to give me another kiss. “I’ve missed you today.”

  “But we had breakfast together this morning.”

  “Yeah . . . four and a half hours ago.” He tore off a piece of his croissant and tossed it to Angus, who caught it in midair. “Good boy!”

  “About this haunted house,” I said. “Do you think they’ll cause a lot of ruckus?”

  Ted grinned. “Why, Ms. Singer, the Tallulah Falls Police Department will do our dead-level best to keep all the hoodlums at bay.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I guess I did sound like a grumpy old lady, didn’t I?”

  Angus drank noisily from his water bowl.

  “Maybe a little,” said Ted. “But, seriously, I can see your point. It would be ideal if this Horror Emporium wasn’t right in the middle of Main Street. It’s going to be hard for you and your students to concentrate during evening classes while crowds of people scream next door. I’ll check to see if they’re doing anything to help muffle the sound.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just everyday hero stuff, ma’am,” he said. He bit into his sandwich as Angus sat near him expectantly.

  I tossed Angus a bit of my croissant to give Ted a break. “Vera was in earlier. She’s the one who told me about the haunted house, by the way. But she had some great ideas for the open house.” I told him about the coupons she suggested for the goodie bags.

  “You’re excited about this anniversary party, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” I said. “The last party I had here didn’t turn out so well. And the day after was even worse.”

  “Hey, don’t say that. That’s the day I met you.”

  I smiled. “That was the only good thing about it.”

  “You didn’t think so at the time,” he said.

  “You suspected me of murder.”

  “Only a little.”

  “A little was too much, in my opinion,” I said.

  “I know. But we found the real killer . . . and look at us now.”

  Indeed. Had Sadie had her way, I’d have been dating Todd, who owned the Brew Crew across the street. And yet it was Ted who’d captured my heart almost from the beginning.

  “We’ve come a long way,” I said.

  “We sure have,” he said. “And we have a lot further to go.”

  “I just hope we can keep the killers at bay for this year’s open house.”

  We held each other’s gaze, both afraid to say anything. It had been our unfortunate experience never to underestimate the propensity for murder in this lovely small coastal town.

  Chapter Two

  Right after lunch, a couple of sweet ladies came in looking for some needlepoint kits.

  “I used to cross-stitch,” said one. “But my eyes aren’t good enough to count all those teeny, tiny squares anymore.”

  “I prefer painting myself,” said the other. “I’m just here with my sister. You don’t sell art supplies, do you?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said as I led them to the needlepoint kits and supplies. “I’m getting ready for my one-year open house. I hope you’ll stop back in for a goodie bag and some special discounts. I’ll give you a flyer with all the information. And today I’m happy to give you a ten-percent discount on your total purchase.”

  “Well, aren’t you nice?” said the sister looking for needlework supplies.

  “What a handsome dog,” said the other, going over to the window where Angus lay.

  I’d put him in the bathroom so often when elderly patrons came in that he’d learned not to rush to greet them the way he did most every other visitor to the store.

  “I’d love to sketch him sometime.” She patted his head, and he sat up, wagging his tail.

  “Come by anytime,” I told her. “I’m not sure how cooperative he’ll be about posing, though.”

  The bell over the front door jingled, signaling a new arrival. I turned to see a tall, lanky man wearing black slacks, a white button-down shirt, a red-and-black paisley vest, and a black top hat. Angus leapt to his feet.

  “Hello, my good man.” After greeting Angus with a pat on the head, the visitor tipped his hat to us. “Ladies.”

  “Hi,” I said. “Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch. I’m Marcy. How may I help you?”

  “My wife will be joining us momentarily,” he said. “Please con
tinue assisting these fine gentlewomen.”

  Gentlewomen? How strange! Who talks like that?

  My customers were apparently wondering the same thing. The one sister hastily made her decision, paid for her selection, and said she’d be back for the open house. The man held the door for them, and they murmured their thanks as they hurried past him.

  “Ah, I see my lovely wife approaching,” he said, still holding the door open.

  I quickly came around to the front of the counter and took hold of Angus’s collar in case he decided to bolt.

  The man’s wife swept through the door, and she was every bit as flamboyant as he. She, too, wore black slacks and a white shirt; but instead of the vest, she wore a red jacket with tails. She had long tangerine corkscrew curls, and I wondered if it was a wig or her real hair. She also wore a tiny purple top hat perched on the left side of her head.

  “Hi, I’m Marcy,” I said.

  “Wonderful to meet you, Marcy,” she said. “I’m Priscilla. Did Claude introduce himself already?”

  “No, my love,” said Claude. “Marcy was entertaining customers, so I thought it would be more prudent to await your arrival.” He removed the hat and bowed deeply. “Claude and Priscilla Atwood at your service.”

  I didn’t bow. “Marcy Singer and Angus O’Ruff at your service.”

  “We’re enchanted to make your acquaintance, Marcy,” said Claude, as he returned the hat to his head.

  “Indeed we are,” said Priscilla. “And aren’t you charming?” She held her flat palm out toward Angus, and he planted one large furry paw in her hand. Priscilla laughed. “How delightful!”

  “Ted—my boyfriend—has been teaching him a few tricks.” Should I also mention that Ted was a detective? Although Claude and Priscilla seemed nice enough, there was something about them that set off my internal alarm bells.

  “Ted should be commended,” said Claude. He extended his right arm toward the sit-and-stitch square. “May we sit, my lady?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Where are my manners? Would you like some coffee or bottled water?”

  “Not me. Thank you,” said Priscilla. “I’m fine.”

  “As am I.” Claude took his wife’s hand and led her over to the sofa that faced away from the window.

  I sat on the sofa across from them, glad that the maple table was between us and that Angus had come to lay by my feet. He didn’t appear to be nervous about these two. Why was I?

  “So . . . what brings you to the Seven-Year Stitch?” I asked.

  “You might say we’re getting the lay of the land,” said Priscilla, tossing one of those long curls over her shoulder. “We leased the shop next door for the next month.”

  “The Horror Emporium,” I said.

  Claude beamed. “I’m delighted to find that our reputation has preceded us. Tell us—what have you heard?”

  “Only that you’re opening a haunted house soon,” I said. “I believe you were interviewed for the local newspaper by Paul Samms. Paul’s girlfriend, Vera, gave me the news. She’s thrilled about it.”

  “And how do you feel about it, Marcy?” Priscilla asked.

  “I’m looking forward to checking it out.” I tried to choose my words carefully. The last thing I needed was another neighbor who hated me. Nellie Davis already fulfilled those duties to the best of her abilities. “I have to warn you, though, I might not scare as easily as some of your other patrons.”

  “Yes, we know,” said Claude. “We did our homework on the shopkeepers, and we thought you might be quite the challenge.”

  My eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “Only that we’ll have our work cut out for us if we intend to frighten the daughter of Beverly Singer.”

  “You know my mom?”

  Priscilla laughed. “We know of her, dear.”

  “We would love to make her acquaintance,” said Claude. “Is there any chance she’ll be visiting Tallulah Falls in the coming weeks?”

  I shrugged. “Anything’s possible with Mom. So, tell me—how did you become interested in costuming?”

  “It’s vital to what we do,” said Priscilla.

  “Critical,” Claude agreed. “We have to make our monsters and creatures look as realistic and horrifying as possible. I create the costumes, and Priscilla performs the makeup enhancements.”

  “That’s fantastic. Do you do this type of work—haunted houses, I mean—year round?”

  “No,” said Priscilla. “We’re a couple of gypsies really, going wherever the wind blows us, doing first one thing and then another. Claude is an excellent illusionist.”

  Claude squeezed her hand. “You flatter me, my sweet. She is right about us being two leaves taken by the breeze, however. We’ve done magic shows, community theater, a few television appearances here and there. . . .”

  “And don’t forget that off-Broadway production.” Priscilla smiled. “I did makeup and helped with costumes and props, and Claude played the role of Petruchio.”

  “What fun,” I said, wondering if perhaps they were trying to wrangle an introduction to my mother in the hope that she’d help them get into the movie business. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “It was enjoyable,” said Claude. “But, alas, the East didn’t suit us as well as the West; and we were glad when the wind changed direction for us.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay in Tallulah Falls,” I said.

  “If all our neighbors are as appealing as you, Mr. O’Ruff, and the MacKenzies, I’m sure we shall,” said Claude. He stood and held out a hand to his wife. “We must go. We don’t want to keep you from your work any longer. I do hope we see each other again anon.”

  I rose and walked them to the door because it seemed the polite thing to do. Angus followed at my side.

  “Thank you for dropping by,” I said. “If you need my help with anything, please let me know.”

  “Likewise.” Claude tipped his hat, Priscilla wished me a grand day, and they strolled up the sidewalk in the direction of their shop.

  I pushed the door up and shook my head. I looked over at Jill and could’ve sworn I heard her whisper, “It’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.”

  I went behind the counter to get the tote that held my current project, a bouquet of large pink and white ribbon roses, complete with stems and leaves. It was a stunning pattern. I hoped to finish two before the open house next week—one to frame and display, and one to give away as a door prize.

  Angus lay down nearby. As I worked, he began to snore softly.

  The old song “You Don’t Have to Be a Star,” made popular by Marilyn McCoo and Billy Davis, Jr., began to play from my phone. Mom had been working on a film set during the age of disco, and I’d changed her ringtone accordingly.

  “Hey there, Mom. Were your ears burning?”

  “No. Why? Were you telling someone how badly you want me to be there for your open house?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, I’d love it if you could be here, but that’s not why your name came up.” I relayed to her the visit of Claude and Priscilla Atwood. “Have you ever heard of them?”

  “Their names aren’t familiar. What television programs did they work on?”

  “I didn’t ask, and they didn’t say. I got the impression they were dying to meet you so that you might pull some strings and get them into the movie business.”

  “I don’t mind helping people when I can, but I’d never blindly give out anyone’s contact information or pass along any recommendations for someone whose work I hadn’t seen firsthand.”

  “I know, Mom. Maybe it’s a good thing that you won’t be able to make the open house. You won’t have to worry about sidestepping the eccentric Atwoods.”

  “But that’s why I’m calling,” she said. “The movie wrapped earlier than expected
—there’s a first—so I’ll be able to make it to your party after all.”

  “That’s wonderful! When will you be here?”

  “Not until next Tuesday . . . unless you need me before then.”

  “Tuesday will be great.”

  “And don’t worry about . . . what were their names again?”

  “Claude and Priscilla Atwood,” I supplied.

  “I’ll handle them tactfully,” she said. “A haunted house, huh? This should be an interesting visit.”

  Angus got up, went to the door, and looked back over his shoulder at me.

  “Mom, I’ve got to run. Well, actually, I have to take Angus up the street. Talk with you soon.”

  “Okay. Give him a hug for me . . . well, you know . . . after. I love you.”

  I told her I loved her too before quickly ending the call and grabbing Angus’s leash. I turned the cardboard clock around to let people know I’d be back in ten minutes, clipped the leash onto Angus’s collar, and led him—though observers might’ve said he led me—up the street toward the town square. As I passed by Nellie Davis’s aromatherapy shop, Scentsibilities, Nellie was standing at the window. As I passed, she quickly ducked out of sight. I wondered what on earth that was about but didn’t have the time, energy, or inclination to give it more than a passing thought.

  Angus went to the tall black wrought-iron clock that stood in the center of the square. He sniffed at the base and then peed. Afterward, he nosed around a little more, paying particular attention to one deserted bench where he peed a bit more, and then he trotted to me. Our stroll back to the Stitch was more leisurely.

  As we reached the shop, Todd Calloway jogged across the street.

  “Hi,” he said. He scratched Angus’s head with both hands. “Hey, buddy. How’re you doing? Huh?”

  Todd had wavy—not quite curly—brown hair and eyes the color of milk chocolate. When I’d first arrived in Tallulah Falls, Sadie had been determined that he and I would be perfect for each other. As it turned out, we preferred being friends.