Dire Threads

by Janet Bolin

  If he found me here, he would know that I knew, and he’d put me where only the coyotes would find me. I didn’t dare run to my car. He would see me from his windows and catch me before I could reach it.

  I sagged backward, nearly letting go of the door. Reflexes jerked my bare hand out of my pocket. I caught my balance against smooth metal.

  A lawn tractor.

  A key was in the ignition.

  I saw it as a sign.

  I peeked outside. No one. My car was on the other side of Smythe’s house, and the newcomer’s vehicle must be, also. I couldn’t see it. The screen door hadn’t screeched again. The person had to be inside the house, and he had to be Smythe. With any luck, he wouldn’t hear the noise I hoped to make.

  Smythe’s tractor started with a deafening, and very satisfying, roar.

  I put it into gear and accelerated into the shed door. It swung open on its hinges. Giddy with success and dread, I steered the lawn tractor out of the shed, through a gap in the evergreen windbreak surrounding Smythe’s farmyard, and into the cornfield.

  I had driven lawn tractors in spring, summer, and fall when I was a girl living at home with my parents, but I had never driven one in winter, much less on frozen furrows. Riding the thing was bone- and teeth-jarring. Aiming the wheels as best I could into furrows, I gunned the motor. The lawn tractor sprang forward. Trust Smythe to buy a really fast one.

  Not fast enough.

  I looked over my shoulder at the expanse of cornfield I’d already crossed.

  A man wearing a bright yellow parka and a yellow and black striped stocking cap dashed out through the gap in the windbreak. Arms flailing above his head, he sprinted into the cornfield.

  I needed to get to a road where I could urge the lawn tractor to its top speed. The relatively smooth road leading to Shore Road was just beyond a line of trees. The field had been plowed parallel with the road. I hauled at the steering wheel. Crossing the furrows was like sewing sideways on wide-wale corduroy, though, and I nearly beached the tractor on ridges.

  I hauled at the steering wheel again and took a gentler angle across the field. The tractor moved marginally faster, but I would have to drive it farther on bumpy ground to reach the road.

  At the edge of the field, I squeezed the tractor between spindly trees. Luckily, there was no fence.

  There was, however, a ditch. A deep one.

  Picturing myself flying over the steering wheel or rolling the tractor, I drove straight down into the ditch. The tractor bottomed out, and crawled, much too slowly, up onto the road.

  Letting out a triumphant whoop, I glanced back. Smythe had closed some of the distance between us, but I was now driving faster than any man could run.

  Jolting along with my teeth bared to the wind, I was about to freeze.

  Jolting. Uh-oh.

  The road wasn’t that uneven.

  A flat tire or two? Like a bicycle racer, I bent low to improve my aerodynamics. Nothing, not even speeding along on the rims with sparks flying, was going to keep me from driving all the way home.

  Nothing.

  Except Uncle Allen in his cruiser.

  The tractor was so noisy that I hadn’t noticed the cruiser’s siren or horn. The cruiser cut in front of me.

  I had never been happier to see Uncle Allen. He had taken me seriously enough to break speed limits. I pulled onto the shoulder and climbed off the tractor, which, now that no one was on the seat, promptly shut itself off. The right front tire was as flat as freshly ironed damask.

  Hands on holsters, Uncle Allen swaggered to me. “Get back on that thing.”

  I could barely hear him. As usual, he hadn’t shut off his siren, and the ever-persistent horn had not quite worn itself out yet. Hoot, bloop, hoot, bloop.

  “Uncle Allen—”

  He chopped the air with one gloved hand. “Driver’s license?”

  “It’s in my car. This,” I explained, “is a lawn tractor. The reason I called—”

  “You were driving it on the road.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And it has no license for on-road travel.” He was really fond of his gotcha look.

  “No, but—”

  “I’m gonna have to ticket you.”

  “Fine, but do it later, please. I called because I’ve discovered that Smythe—”

  Uncle Allen gazed at something behind me. Between the police car’s barnyard noises, I heard footsteps, running on pavement. Close.

  Smythe called out, “Willow, whatever are you doing riding around on my lawn tractor in the middle of winter?” He arrived, panting, beside me.

  “She stole your tractor?” Uncle Allen asked with more drama than was absolutely necessary.

  I edged out of Smythe’s reach. “I had to escape!” I didn’t mean to shout, it just sort of came out that way. Besides, I had to make myself heard over the cruiser’s horn and siren.

  “From what?” they asked in unison.

  “From Smythe. Uncle Allen, that’s what I was trying to tell you. I’ve found evidence that Smythe murdered Mike.”

  “I did not,” Smythe said.

  At the same time, Uncle Allen announced. “That’s impossible.”

  Hoot, bloop, hoot, bloop.

  I pulled Smythe’s padlock, with my keys dangling from it, out of my pocket. “This was on Smythe’s shed. My key opens it. Therefore, his key opens the padlocks on my gates, which explains how Mike ended up locked inside my yard.” There. Perfectly indisputable logic. I tightened my frozen fingers around the lock, ready to plunge it back into my pocket if Smythe or Uncle Allen reached for it.

  Uncle Allen’s eyebrows came down toward each other over his nose. Had he finally started to believe me?

  “I never saw that padlock before in my life,” Smythe said in his most honeylike voice.

  And that was when I was sure that dear, sweet Smythe had murdered his cousin. Why else would he lie about the padlock?

  I was also sure that I had made a colossal error. By removing the padlock and bringing it with me, I had destroyed my own credibility, not to mention a crucial piece of evidence. I leveled a gaze at Smythe. “I’m disappointed in you. You and I both know you’re lying.” When had I begun channeling my long-ago kindergarten teacher?

  “And I’m disappointed in you,” Smythe countered. “For taking my lawn tractor without asking. I’d have given you a ride.”

  Hoot, bloop, hoot, bloop.

  Uncle Allen reached for my elbow. “You’re coming with me.”

  He carried two guns and a billy club. “I’ll come,” I agreed. “But I only borrowed the tractor.”

  Uncle Allen grunted. “You only borrowed the sand, too.”

  I resisted the urge to point out that just because I hadn’t yet put it back didn’t mean I wasn’t going to.

  I pointed at Smythe with the top of my head. “Bring him, too. I have more proof in my store. A photo of him the morning Mike died.” I didn’t mention the embroidered cap, camouflage coat, and wadded gloves for fear that Smythe would hide them before Uncle Allen could see them.

  “Impossible,” Smythe said.

  “No it’s not,” I argued. “You didn’t manage to destroy all of my photos when you stole my camera.”

  Smythe turned his most innocent look on Uncle Allen. “She’s not making sense.”

  Uncle Allen said, “We’re not going to argue about this out here in the cold. Both of you, get into my cruiser, and we’ll go see this photo she claims to have.”

  Maybe I was making a teeny bit of progress with the stubborn policeman.

  Smythe turned away. “I’ll just take my lawn tractor home and follow you in my truck.”

  I cried out, “Don’t let him!”

  Hoot, bloop, hoot, bloop.

  Uncle Allen fixed Smythe with a sterner stare than I thought he could give a local. “No one’s going to bother that tractor. Just bring the key and come along. We’ll get this all straightened out, then I’ll drive you home.”

&nb
sp; I hoped that after I made my case, I would be the one catching a ride to Smythe’s farm to retrieve my car, but I figured this was not the time to suggest it. If these two men had their way, Uncle Allen would deposit me in jail. Maybe Troopers Smallwood and Gartener would pay social visits from time to time.

  Uncle Allen let me ride in the front seat and put Smythe in the back, probably out of chivalry.

  We didn’t go anywhere.

  33

  THE SIREN HOOTED AND THE HORN blooped, but apparently, the cruiser’s engine had the right to remain silent.

  Uncle Allen and Smythe got out and lifted the hood. Uncle Allen asked me to try starting the car.

  So there I was, pressing the gas pedal and turning the key in the ignition of a police cruiser while a murderer and the man who wanted to put me in jail for the murder stood in front of me.

  Maybe I was lucky the cruiser didn’t start.

  I slid out in time to hear Smythe offer, “I’ll go back for my truck.”

  “My car’s at his place, too,” I told Uncle Allen, hoping he wouldn’t haul me off to jail for, if nothing else, taking a lawn tractor without permission. I needed a chance to show off my evidence, first. “His pickup truck only has two seats, but all three of us will fit in my car for the ride to my store. You can’t stand here, Detective DeGlazier. It’s too cold. We’ll have to walk back to Smythe’s together.”

  Rescue came in the form of a deus ex machina. The god was Rosemary, and the machine was the Threadville tour bus. I flagged them down.

  Rosemary opened the door. “Willow, what are you doing out here?”

  Hoot, bloop, hoot, bloop.

  “Do you have room for us? Our vehicles don’t seem to be working.”

  Rosemary cast a puzzled glance at the listing lawn tractor and moaning cruiser, but she had the good sense not to ask questions. “Hop in!”

  Smythe made one last try. “I’ll go back for my truck.”

  To my surprise, Uncle Allen told him he might as well come with us and get it over with. They stood back and let me climb aboard, then actually followed me.

  Students near the back of the bus flapped their homework at me. “Willow!” Catching myself against seats as the bus bumped along, I made my way down the aisle. I plunked down beside the window in the next to last row of seats.

  Uncle Allen and Smythe rode in front, close to Rosemary. They didn’t appear to be enjoying themselves nearly as much as I was. Maybe no one was giving them embroidery to admire.

  Rosemary turned onto Shore Road and picked up speed. Just outside Elderberry Bay, she pulled out to pass a red pickup truck that was driving too slowly to suit her. I opened the window. We barreled past Clay. His eyes opened wide. He couldn’t be used to seeing me sticking my face out a bus window and screaming his name while urging him forward with a furiously waving arm.

  The women on the back bench turned around, knelt on the seat, and beckoned to him. Settling again like a bunch of happy hens, they reported, “He’s coming.”

  Clay would help, but I needed to recruit other sympathetic witnesses for my showdown with Smythe. I asked the woman behind me, the two women in front of me, and my seatmate to run across the street as soon as we arrived in Threadville, and to bring Haylee, Opal, Edna, and Naomi to In Stitches. I also had them spread the word that everyone on the bus was to gather at In Stitches for an important meeting before the morning’s classes.

  We rounded the corner near the post office. A portly man in a long black coat strode along the sidewalk. Dr. Wrinklesides, another possible supporter. I threw the window open again. “Come to my shop!”

  He gazed for a startled second at me, then raised a thumb in the air. He probably thought I was undergoing a new sort of trauma. Or that I needed his services as a coroner’s assistant again.

  With any luck, it wouldn’t come to that.

  Before Rosemary pulled up in front of In Stitches, I made certain I was between Smythe and the door of the bus. This was not the time to allow him to escape. I jumped out of the bus, then turned around and gave Uncle Allen a hand. He escorted Smythe and me to the front porch of In Stitches. Women streamed out of the bus. My four messengers dashed across the street toward The Stash, Tell a Yarn, Buttons and Bows, and Batty About Quilts. The rest of the women joined us on the porch.

  Clay parked at the curb. He and Dr. Wrinklesides, still carrying his package, climbed out of the pickup and walked toward us. Both of them watched me carefully, no doubt wondering what symptom I might display next.

  I attempted a reassuring smile, but my entire body seemed to lack stabilizer. I unlocked my front door and let Uncle Allen and Smythe in first. From their pen, Sally and Tally yipped.

  Clay gave my elbow a quick pat, then strode to the back of the store, went into the pen, squatted, and hugged the two wriggling dogs.

  Rehearsing what I was going to say, I joined Clay and the dogs in the pen. My computer hummed on the desk beside me.

  Haylee, her mother, and her mother’s lifelong friends ran into the store. All four of them bit their lips, probably imitating my thin-as-thread smile.

  I hated to hurt Haylee. With a deep breath, I raised my chin and announced loudly, “This morning at Smythe’s farm, I discovered that Smythe had a padlock matching the ones on my gates.”

  Naomi and Opal steadied each other. Edna’s mouth pruned up like she’d expected an orange and gotten a lemon. She thumbed through the notebook where she’d written clues about our suspects.

  Haylee crossed her arms.

  I waved Uncle Allen and Smythe closer but made them stay outside the pen, on the other side of the railing. Uncle Allen’s lower lip jutted out with belligerence. Smythe was casual and relaxed, his hands in his pockets.

  The store had quieted. This time, I didn’t have to raise my voice. “Several hours after Mike died, I drove out into the countryside to take pictures.” I jiggled my mouse until the picture became clear. “This photo shows a man cutting across Dawn Langford’s fields into the woods on a route that would take him directly to Smythe’s farm. I believe it’s Smythe.”

  Uncle Allen put a hand up like he was stopping traffic in an intersection. “That’s Mike. Everyone says so.” Everyone? Aunt Betty and Rhonda and their friends.

  Smythe scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not me.”

  “It’s Mike,” Rhonda snarled. Where had she come from?

  Aunt Betty, too. “He’s tall, like Mike,” she commented. “But like Smythe, too.”

  I nearly fainted. I didn’t expect any sort of help from her. I enlarged the photo to show the man’s right hand. “Look closely and you’ll see a tiny bit of yellow and black glove.”

  Opal gasped. “Smythe bought his yellow and black hat, socks, and gloves at my store.”

  Uncle Allen hitched at his belt. “Doesn’t prove a thing. The person in the picture could be anyone. Every hunter in the state owns a coat and cap like that.”

  I squared my shoulders. “This morning in Smythe’s shed, I saw his yellow and black striped gloves with a camouflage coat and a neon orange cap. A bunch of grapes and the words Krawbach Vineyard were embroidered on the cap.” My turn to dish out a gotcha look.

  It didn’t bother Uncle Allen. “Mike gave those hats to everyone. Besides, Smythe said he never saw that padlock you claim was his.”

  From the back of the crowd, Sam the ironmonger piped up, “Mike may have stolen a padlock from me. He could have given it to . . . someone else.”

  Beside him, Pete DeGlazier nodded three times. “Mike and Smythe were thick as thieves.”

  Mona shook her head.

  Irv edged around Jacoba and Luther. My store was becoming quite crowded. “More like thick as arsonists.”

  Smythe rubbed at his chin, then thrust both hands into the pockets of his jeans again. “Mike was the arsonist, but he always had a way of proving that Herb or I did it.”

  “That’s right,” Herb shouted. “We were always Mike’s fall guys.”

  I tried
to put sympathy and understanding into my voice. “The night Mike died, someone emptied a gas can around my cottage, the one Mike wanted to bulldoze. Maybe Mike brought someone he could blame another arson on. Maybe that person was angry at Mike for the theft of timber, including a very old and valuable black walnut tree.”

  Irv jeered, “You loved the tree house we built in that old tree, didn’t you, Smythe? Did you still go up there to daydream, right until the time Mike had it cut down? Did Mike steal trees from you?”

  I asked Smythe, “Why didn’t you report Mike for stealing your timber? It had to be worth a lot.” Mentally subtracting the amount of Mike’s first large unexplained bank deposit from the amount of second, I came up with a ballpark figure. “Like maybe over a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Smythe tore off his stocking cap. “Yes, I did suspect that Mike had some of my trees cut down and sold the timber, but I didn’t need the money, and he did. He had a hard time making a go of everything, especially after my aunt and uncle died. Our farms were originally one, owned by our great grandparents. I didn’t want to confront him about it until, well, maybe until he brought it up and, I don’t know”—Smythe shrugged—“confessed and paid me back on his own.” He shoved the cap into a pocket of his yellow parka and folded his arms. “But none of this matters. I was in Erie the night Mike died. I didn’t know anything about it until Friday night when Aunt Betty and Rhonda told me.” A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  I turned to Uncle Allen. “Subpoena the hotel’s surveillance tapes. You may see Smythe’s truck arriving early Wednesday morning.”

  34

  IT WAS A SHOT IN THE DARK, BUT IT found its mark.

  Smythe lowered his head, backed away, and bumped into my cutting table. “You don’t have to subpoena the hotel’s surveillance tapes, Uncle Allen. I did leave the hotel Tuesday night and return early Wednesday morning. And I did come to Willow’s place with Mike on Tuesday night.” If Smythe hadn’t clutched the table with one white-knuckled hand, he might have crumpled to the floor.

  Keeping my eyes on him, I backed to the phone, called the state police, and asked them to send reinforcements. To my amazement, Uncle Allen didn’t stop me, and after I hung up, he reminded me, “It could take a half hour for them to get here.”