Dyeing Wishes

by Molly Macrae

  “Oh, pshaw, what do you want to see this old thing for?”

  “It interests me. It’s what I do. Or what I did. I guess it’s what I still could do if I found another job. Didn’t I ever tell you what my job was? I’m a textile conservationist. I study and take care of materials made of fibers. Everything from tapestries to rags. Coverlets, crinolines, long johns, ball gowns, you name it. Very old stuff, usually.”

  “Well, la-di-da,” she said. She gave me a mock curtsy, but then she sashayed another few feet closer and held still for a few moments.

  It made no difference, though. Looking at her made me want to blink my eyes or squint to focus them better, and proximity didn’t help. The details of the fabric weren’t clear enough to see a pattern or weave. It could have been a knit, for all I could tell, although it didn’t seem to drape or move like one. Then again, she didn’t move like any person I knew in this world, so maybe the way the fabric moved didn’t mean anything. But whether it was a nightgown or a dress or a shroud, I still couldn’t say. I only knew there were no hoopskirts or voluminous petticoats involved.

  “I wish you would describe what you’re wearing for me,” I said. My fingers itched to get hold of whatever it was so I could examine the construction, the seams, the actual material.

  “Why? What good would it do either of us?”

  “I could write an article for Preservation magazine about it,” I said answering what I considered to be a silly question with a silly answer. “I’d call it ‘My Ghost Predates Polyester: A Paradigm for Unraveling the Preservation of Paranormal Textiles.’”

  “Would I be famous?”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure the preservation world would be talking about both of us for a long time. What do you think? Should we go for it?”

  While she appeared to be seriously considering that, another thought struck me. What would happen if I could get hold of her dress? Would I find the patterns of wear I looked for when studying textiles? The sort of day-to-day stains I found on some pieces of clothing? And when I touched it, would I “feel” her emotions? Which emotions would they be? Would I get a clearer sense of her current state of mind or would I suddenly be plugged into the emotions she felt when she died? That notion sent a shiver down my spine.

  “No,” she said, twitching her skirt and turning her back on me. “I’ve decided we should not go for it and I won’t describe anything for you. You should not write that article. Think how unpleasant my existence will be if I am hounded day and night by paparazzi.”

  “You’re probably right about the article and the paparazzi, but how could it hurt for you to tell me—”

  “I know I’m right about those gadflies. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Oprah or Prince William what it’s like to have the media constantly on one’s doorstep. I’m sure they know exactly what I’m talking about. I do think I would handle fame better than Elvis Presley does, though.”

  “Did.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Than Elvis did. He’s, um, well, he’s dead. He died quite a few years ago. The press can’t hound him anymore.”

  “Shows how much you know.”

  This was turning into a conversation I never in my wildest imagination pictured being a part of. But why did that surprise me? Daily dialogue with a ghost was my new norm. I wished I could shake my head until my brain settled back into the old norm.

  “Well, anyway, you’re probably right that you would handle the press better than Elvis.”

  “Yes, I’ve grown very wise over the years. Television has done that for me,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m sure. And how many years are we talking about?”

  “I don’t like the doubting tone of your voice and I don’t like your insistence on asking personal questions this morning. Why don’t we return to our original topic? Your subconscious reason for wearing that skirt, which is a tad too tight across the beam. I find that far more interesting.”

  “We won’t return to the topic of my skirt for two reasons. First, the only decision it indicates is the conscious choice I made between showing my knees and pulling on yesterday’s blue jeans. And second, I can sidestep personal discussions as easily as you. The difference is that I’m aware of sidestepping them and know why I do.” I almost bit my tongue in half to keep from adding that I owed that awareness to critical thinking skills and a memory, neither of them saturated with ten thousand hours of television psychobabble. I wasn’t above letting my own hurt feelings show, though. “Also, I’ll thank you not to make comments about my beam, which is not too broad and which my skirt fits perfectly. Far from being too tight, there is even room for my phone, my favorite pen, and a tissue in the pocket. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to unlock the door, because it’s time to open the shop.”

  I snapped the dead bolt open, picturing how many times Granny’s fingers had turned it more calmly. Part of her morning ritual, no matter the weather, no matter her mood, had been to push the door open, take a deep breath, and look up and down the street. Even if no one else is out and about and ready to shop, I’ll invite the morning in, she’d say.

  So I flipped her old needlepoint sign to its “open” side and pushed the door open to continue her tradition and restore some equilibrium to my haunted existence. I closed my eyes and took in the deep breath, but when I opened my eyes and looked left, it was all I could do not to yelp. Geneva’s face hovered inches from mine, staring at me. A bone-deep chill traveled across my back, left to right, and, there, out of the corner of my right eye, I saw her misty hand come to rest on my shoulder.

  “The differences between us,” she whispered, “are smaller than you like to think. Those four dead people need us.”

  Chapter 7

  Geneva ruined her exit when she failed to enunciate the word “poor,” making it sound as though she’d said “four” dead people. Or maybe that was just my ice-cold ears; I was having trouble getting past her sinister whisper and ghostly embrace. I felt as though I’d spent the last half hour underdressed in a haunted subzero freezer. Debbie bustled in, ready for her usual Tuesday-morning shift, while I was still shivering.

  “You’re not coming down with anything, are you?” she asked, stopping short when she saw me with my shoulders hunched and rubbing my hands to rewarm them. “I’m still waiting on a couple of the girls to lamb, and I don’t have time to catch a breath, much less a cold.”

  I shook my hands out and squared my shoulders. “Nope, I’m healthy as a cosseted Cotswold.”

  “Good.” She turned abruptly and went to put her jacket and purse away.

  Even though Debbie had told Ardis she would be in, I’d half hoped she would call and say she’d changed her mind. I wasn’t entirely adept at running the shop by myself yet, but by midmorning there were usually two or three TGIF members knitting and gossiping in the comfy chairs grouped here and there around the shop. Almost any one of them could set me straight or at least help me muddle through until Ardis came in at noon.

  “You know, Debbie,” I said when she came back out front, “if you wanted to skip today, no one would blame you.”

  “My bank account would. Tuesdays are my half days, anyway. It won’t be a big deal. By the way, good morning. I didn’t say that when I saw you shivering. You freaked me out for a minute.”

  “Just a sudden chill. Nothing to worry about. You aren’t worried about being away from the farm, though? About reporters trampling all over or disturbing the sheep? What if they leave a gate open?”

  “The press is more interested in a handsome fugitive and a beautiful woman dead in each other’s arms. Saying it happened under a tree east of Knoxville is about as close as they’ve come to pinpointing the location. But the sheriff said he’ll have someone out there all day, anyway, and it turns out it’s my cousin Darla. She’s a little green at being a deputy, but she’s had a few sheep of her own ever since she was in 4-H, so the girls will be in good hands. Besides, if UPS and even GPS have trouble finding
the farm, I’m not too worried about CBS.”

  “Good point. And you’ve got the dog. Bill, right?”

  “Yeah, he’s my boy. He’ll nip at any stray newsmen’s heels and keep them in line if Darla can’t.”

  “Did he bark Sunday night or yesterday morning when, er…”

  “No, his crate’s in my bedroom and he slept like a baby. The house is a hundred and sixty years old and the walls are solid brick. We don’t hear much when the windows are shut. But you don’t think if he had heard something I could have done something, do you? That I could have stopped or saved or…”

  “No, no, really, I don’t.” Rats. This was one of the hard parts of investigating—asking what seemed like a small droplet of a question and then watching as the implications of it sizzled and upset or horrified someone. Pest-infested textiles were so much easier to deal with than people. Especially people—or ghosts—I cared about. “No, Debbie, I’m just glad you’ve got him out there with you. So how are you doing?”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. Mabel dropped twins last night.” She looked more frazzled than fine, despite her twin avowals. Her usually neatly braided hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Blond wisps were beginning to escape. “Mabel’s a sheep,” she said.

  “Yeah, I thought she probably was. Did you get any sleep last night?”

  The string of camel bells on the door jingled, interrupting Debbie’s yawned answer, and two women came in, one older, one younger. I didn’t recognize either of them, and by the way they looked around, exclaiming over the burst of colors that met their eyes and getting their bearings, it was clear they were newcomers to the shop.

  “Let us know if we can help you find anything,” I said.

  “Needlepoint supplies?” the older woman asked.

  “Sure, follow me.”

  It would have been easy enough to tell them “upstairs, front room on the right,” but it was better customer service to take them there. That also gave me a chance to glance around for Geneva. She sometimes liked to sit on the stairs or perch on the newel-post. I didn’t see her, though, until I returned to the front room. She was hovering by the two comfy chairs near the front window. When she saw me, she motioned me over.

  “Oh dear.” I sighed. Debbie was nestled in one of the chairs, the cat curled into a skein of ginger fur in her lap, both of them sound asleep.

  “Did you know Debbie used to entertain Will Embree out at her place?” Geneva asked.

  “Where did you—”

  “Wait, wait, don’t answer,” Geneva said. “We have incoming from two directions. Two from behind and three more at the door. Oh goody. Look who it is.”

  The bells jingled as the door opened, and at the same time I heard the first two women coming back from upstairs. One of them was describing an antique loom, a customer after Granny’s own heart.

  I turned to greet the new arrivals and saw why Geneva was so pleased. Shirley and Mercy came through the door flanking a younger woman who could only be Mercy’s daughter, Angela. Geneva found the twins endlessly fascinating. They fascinated me, too, but more in the way an itching, red rash does. Even though we’d parted on semifriendly terms the previous afternoon, I had trouble following through with the warm greeting I’d started. Still, I was able to muster a plausible smile.

  It was wasted. The twins were arguing and didn’t return my greeting. Geneva circled them a few times, empty eye sockets wide. I didn’t really care that the Spiveys didn’t seem to notice me standing there, but I was very glad they weren’t aware of Geneva’s attentions.

  The other two women cut short their loom discussion when they came back into the room. Their hands were empty; no needlepoint supplies. A pity. The younger one gave me the kind of wave that indicated they were happy browsing and they started leafing through the pattern binders near the sales counter. I would have been happier helping them leaf, but I turned back to the Spiveys.

  To my surprise, the twins weren’t togged out in identical outfits. They also weren’t wearing their usual sweat suits. Taking a chance on making a snap psychobabble fashion judgment, I decided that could be a good sign. They both wore pressed khakis, but one’s blazer was lemon yellow and the other more of an orange sherbet. The upgrade from garage-sale casual was almost encouraging and certainly interesting.

  What wasn’t surprising was the fact that I’d never met Mercy’s daughter, Angela. True, the twins were Granny’s cousins, but they were a dozen or so years younger than Granny, and they’d never been close. Patchy images of Shirley and Mercy appeared throughout memories from my childhood. But whenever I tried to envision a girl with either of the twins or even trailing behind them, probably looking agonized or embarrassed, I got nothing. Any memories or awareness of Angela’s existence, if they’d ever been there, were gone as though eaten away by a moth.

  Vanity made me want to say that Angela was in her early forties rather than her late thirties. The only evidence I was going on for that assumption, though, was her mother’s estimated age, the lines creasing Angela’s low forehead, and her cheeks, which were probably once round and rosy but were heading toward jowly. According to Ardis, Angela had a tattoo. That wasn’t so unusual, but the only detail Ardis revealed was that the tattoo was on a part of Angela’s anatomy she didn’t ever want to see any closer. That didn’t really tell me much. I could think of a lot of places on a lot of people I didn’t want to see any closer.

  As I approached them, Angela gave me a halfhearted smile and then broke eye contact. She looked profoundly unhappy, but I couldn’t tell if her unhappiness stemmed from being in the shop or being dragged there by her mother and aunt. She looked cowed and uncomfortable, like a teenager under duress to attend and perform. From the way she pulled at the cuffs of her blouse and tugged her skirt, she wasn’t in her normal comfort zone of dress, either. She was tugging on a herringbone pencil skirt.

  “Maybe the two of you are twins, too,” Geneva said in my ear, “separated at birth.”

  My herringbone pencil skirt was no longer my favorite.

  “Hers is not as tight across the beam as yours,” Geneva said, continuing to study Angela. “Although hers required more yardage in the first place. She also has a tiny runner in her left stocking.”

  The Spiveys et fille stopped in front of Debbie.

  “What’s wrong with her?” the twin in the lemon yellow jacket asked. She pointed at Debbie but looked at me. Debbie and the cat continued sleeping soundly.

  “Just a little bit of exhaustion,” I said.

  “You’re either exhausted or you’re not,” the lemon yellow twin said. “It’s like being pregnant. You can’t be just a little bit. She isn’t pregnant, is she? That can account for a lot of exhaustion, let me tell you.”

  Angela had started inching back from between the twins, but she stopped and gave the yellow twin a scathing look. “Ma, her husband died three years ago. Of course she’s not pregnant. Be decent.”

  Talk about being decent, it was only then that I remembered that poor Angela had been widowed a few months earlier. I’d never met her husband, either, but that shouldn’t stop me from offering my condolences. Even though I’d had a bone to pick with him before he died. Before he was killed.

  My goodness, what a lot of sad and unpleasant things had happened in this town recently. I dropped into the chair next to Debbie’s, wondering if I’d made the right decision in packing up my apartment in central Illinois, where the only real disruptions in the flat cornfield of my life had been the occasional blizzard or tornado.

  “And now what’s wrong with you?” Shirley asked me.

  “She must be exhausted, too,” Mercy said. “Let the poor thing rest. Angie, sweetheart, why don’t you show Kath what a go-getter you are? Be an angel and go see what you can do for those customers waiting so patiently at the counter.”

  I was back up out of the chair like a shot and racing to beat Angie to the customers. I should never have let those khakis and pastel polyester blazers fool me
. Soon after Angie’s husband died, the twins had mentioned that she would need a job. They’d been testing the waters then, and I hadn’t bitten. Now they were angling more seriously and that’s why all three of them were here.

  But I didn’t zip past Angie on the way to the counter because she wasn’t headed there to demonstrate her customer service skills. When I tagged the counter first, the camel bells on the door behind me jingled. I turned around just in time to catch a glimpse of Angie’s unhappy, herringbone-clad beam disappearing down the street. Mercy squawked and started after her, but Shirley held her back with a grip on her shoulders. She also whispered something in Mercy’s ear. That could have looked sisterly and consoling. It didn’t. It looked sneaky and suspicious.

  “Your shop is even more exciting than we’d heard,” said the older of the two women at the counter. Her good humor came through with the warmth of her voice and showed in the creases at the corners of her eyes. She was probably in her mid-fifties but must have gone silver years earlier. Her thick hair was cut even with her jawline and she wore it tucked behind her ears, a pair of sunglasses acting as a headband. She made business casual look more chic and trustworthy than the Spiveys did. Also more expensive. No poor little polyesters had given their lives to put the clothes on her back.

  “And we had no idea Blue Plum was so photogenic,” the younger woman said, patting a large, compartmented bag slung over her shoulder. She was tall and sleek, even in cargo pants and Dr. Martens boots, and her dark hair was long and sleek to match. She looked as though she’d be equally at ease dressed for a tango with a rose clenched between her smiling teeth. The age difference between the two women might make them mother and daughter, but there was nothing about their features or coloring to suggest they were.

  “There’s great small-town atmosphere here,” the younger woman said.

  “You think?” I couldn’t help asking.

  While both nice, normal, very-pleasant-to-have-in-the-shop women confirmed that opinion with comparisons to other small towns they knew and loved and couldn’t pass by, I watched Geneva following the twins and mimicking their movements. They examined the Icelandic wool, stroking and squeezing the various shades although it was unlikely they planned to buy any of it. Mercy held a couple of the skeins under her nose and sniffed them as though testing the bouquet. Geneva pretended to sneeze. I opened my mouth to remind Geneva to behave herself but caught myself and returned my attention to the paying customers.