One Sharp Stitch

Book 1: Nimble Needle Mystery

by Allie Pleiter

Genres: Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

When thirty-something Shelby Phillips returns to her quiet hometown just outside of Asheville, North Carolina, she reluctantly takes over her mother’s Nimble Needle needlepoint shop—and gets entangled in a murder investigation . . .

It’s only temporary. That’s what Shelby Phillips tells herself when she returns to excruciatingly harmless Gwen Lake after her graphic arts career—and the office romance blooming with it—get tossed like rejected design mockups. Her plan is as simple and fool-proof as a tent stitch: manage the family needlepoint shop duringher parents’ RV vacation. It’s just a month. It’s not as if they’re retiring . . . right?
 
When Shelby becomes responsible for hosting a trunk show with local vendors, she’s determined to pull it off. Even if that means dealing with former classmate Kat Katsaros, a rising entrepreneur specializing in needlework scissors. Kat has changed since high school—and she’s angling to take over the Nimble Needle herself. The tension unspools when Shelby makes a terrible discovery on the morning of the event: Kat’s dead body.
 
Shelby can’t believe the death was an accident. That’s why she’s set on exposing who committed the murder with Kat’s own equipment. She finds help in a new friend, a potential crush, and the surprising support of her sister and the Nimble Needle stitchers. Still, Shelby must move quickly to stop the crafty culprit before her maybe not-so-temporary new life in Gwen Lake comes apart at the seams . . .

Release date: March 25, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

“Here they are, Shelby, the keys to the kingdom.” Mom handed me the shop keys with all the pomp of a coronation.

This wasn’t my idea. My brilliantly devised “achieve success by thirty-five” plan did not include the loss of my dream job. Or a move home to play kingdom sitter to my mother’s needlepoint shop.

Seeing as how this gig came with a rent-free apartment above the shop, however, I found myself unable to fend it off.

And my schedule was alarmingly empty.

I stared down at the set of old-fashioned brass keys that unlocked the doors to Nina’s Nimble Needle. “Don’t you think Jessica would be better at this?”

Of course Jessica would be better at this. Jessica was better at everything. I’d spent most of my life trying to get out of the shadow of my big sister’s effortless perfection. Ambitious “success by thirty-five” plan—Exhibit A.

Mom frowned. “You know she’s too busy for this.”

I didn’t agree. All this would come as second nature for Jessica. And it wouldn’t matter that she already had two kids and a part-time job writing columns for a decorating magazine, because that sort of plate-spinning was Jessica’s native language. We both knew she could run the shop better than I could without breaking a sweat.

Which left only two real explanations: This was a pity gig. Or a shameless attempt to pull me back to Gwen Lake. And into the crafting world my mother adored and where my sister already excelled. More likely all of the above.

“She’s said she’d help if you needed it,” Mom offered with a weak smile.

“Yeah, well . . .” In my view, the only thing in all of North Carolina worse than needing Jessica’s help would be having to ask for it. She’d be so gracious I wouldn’t feel the sting . . . at first.

“You won’t need Jessica’s help. You’ll take to this like a fish to water. You’re Shelby Phillips. It’s in your blood.” Mom closed my fingers around the keys after delivering this benediction. “You’ve got all that business sense. Just put it to work for the shop. I even bought that new retail software you’ve been hounding me to get.”

Surprise dropped my jaw. “You did?” She was right. I had been hounding her to computerize her sales records. And telling her she could double her business with even the simplest of upgrades to her website. For a woman who sold needles, Mom clearly knew how to bait a hook.

She nodded. “You can install it and get it up and running while Dad and I are out on the road.” She strung the last four words out like a rock star announcing a world tour. I suppose for her it was. For all the time she and Dad talked about this crazy dream of “going nomad,” I confess I never thought they’d really go through with it. My parents love each other, but I can’t quite see the logic of piling them into a smallish motor home for four weeks. Good marriages seem to need a lot more space than that—not that I would know.

I looked around the shop, trying to see it with new eyes. The Nimble Needle—we never called it Nina’s Nimble Needle, because she was Mom to us, not Nina—had been part of my life for so long, it was hard to see it as a business venture. It was what Mom did. Everybody in Gwen Lake, North Carolina— and probably in nearby Asheville, as well—knew Mom as Nina from the Nimble Needle. It was an inseparable part of her identity. I suppose that was why I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around her wanting to leave it—in my hands, of all places—for a whole month.

I cast my gaze across the shop floor, over to the wall of mesh squares and rectangles needle pointers know as canvases. And canvases really was the right term, because these were painted like artwork. Paging through the collection of large canvas-filled boards that swung from the wall on hinges was like walking through an art gallery. A feast of possibilities met the eager shopper’s eyes: canvases ready to become mountains of pillows, large and small, from simple to ornate. Others ready to become little signs and ornaments, wall hangings, bags, and eyeglass cases. Still more ready to become luggage tags and belts, coin purses, coasters and, of course, Christmas stockings. An art gallery of gorgeous images waited to become decor and accessories in the right hands.

The opposite wall held the means of that transformation. Thread, floss, fiber—there were different names for the small twisted skeins and smaller cards of colored thread—all meant to fill those canvases. I suppose I became a graphic design major because of my life among all this color. There was never just blue in the world; there was ocean blue and sky blue, lapis and cerulean, royal blue and turquoise, peacock and electric blue. There wasn’t just red; there was poppy and cardinal and vermilion. Green, yellow, orange—I could name twelve versions of any of these colors as if I walked through life with a box of 120 Crayola crayons (of which I owned three).

In the middle of the shop were three tables. One displayed all kinds of tools and notions, one had a specialized display of holiday things or other seasonal items, and the third one, a large table, was where stitchers gathered either for classes or merely to socialize.

Gathered around that table were four women who were practically aunts to me: the NYAGs. The NYAGs were all women of Mom’s age and had long ago christened themselves “Not Your Average Grannies.” And they were not your average grannies, to be sure. While each of them was an accomplished needle pointer, most of them debunked the stereotype of the rocking-chair granny with a vengeance. While Faye, Livvy, Tilly, and Dot were each in their sixties, none of them were anything close to “old.” Mom had only barely escaped the tattoo two of them had gotten last year—a threaded needle, of course—because Jessica had talked her out of it.

Can I really do this? I waffled between doubt and determination on a moment-by-moment basis.

Technically, I could do this. I had run the administrative functions of Batterson Graphic Arts Design as office manager for two years. I knew the commerce of art and the strategies of sales.

Right up until that fateful meeting a month ago, when Dave Batterson had called us all into the Savannah, Georgia office and had announced he was selling the business to some large corporate firm. One that was not interested in “retaining existing staff.” It had taken us all of thirty seconds to realize we’d just been let go. And if we hadn’t caught on, the envelope with a pitiful severance and a written order to clean out our desks by the end of the week would have made things crystal clear.

If only I had actually followed Mom and Dad’s advice to stash some away for a rainy day. I had honestly thought I was Dave’s right hand in the business. Indispensable, in fact, and dancing on the edge of a personal romantic relationship.

As it had turned out, I was neither indispensable nor on the brink of an office romance. The way Dave made his quick goodbyes had told me I wasn’t on the brink of any romance at all. Ouch. On any number of levels.

“Your biggest challenge will be Saturday,” Mom was saying, dragging my thoughts back to the present.

“What’s Saturday?”

“I told you, that’s the trunk show. We do a trunk show the first Saturday of every month, so you’ll only have this one to manage. Dad and I will be back before the next one.”

Trunk shows are where one designer or vendor sends over a huge selection of his or her work so that customers can shop. They get to know the artist. And there are snacks. It’s basically a retail party. “Okay.” I’d organized enough client events to give me a shred of confidence that I could pull this off. “Who’s the vendor again?”

“Your old friend the scissor gal.”

I racked my brain for the name that fit this description. “Huh?”

Mom walked over to a glass display case by the cash register. “Gina Katsaros. She creates the most beautiful needlework scissors now. You didn’t know?”

“No, actually.” I peered into the case to see half a dozen intricately crafted small scissors. They were closer to silverware or jewelry than to standard scissors, fashioned as birds or flowers or delicate, ornate shapes. Needle pointers are notoriously picky about their scissors, and it wasn’t hard to see why these had gained popularity. Mom had always had a great eye for artistic talent.

“She sharpens knives and such, too, but it’s mostly the scissors that are the draw on Saturday.”

“Kat makes these?” I asked, rather shocked. My eye caught the Kat’s Kutz label, which I’d missed until now. “Kat from school?”

Gina “Kat” Katsaros was a year behind me in school and not someone I’d expect to have such talent. Kat was a misfit of sorts, quiet, and awkwardly geeky. The sort of person who fades into the woodwork in the wild drama of high school.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Wasn’t she artsy when you two were friends in school?”

I knew Kat, and Kat knew me, but we weren’t friends in the way Mom seemed to think we were. “Sort of, I suppose.”

Kat was always nice to me, but it was in a needy way. She would call me on the phone and sometimes trail behind me down the hall like a lost puppy, but we never hung out together. I never called her or invited her to anything. To be honest, I tolerated her—and, if I was being totally honest, it was a cold, weary toleration. More acquaintance than friendship.

Ah, but now she was evidently a successful art entrepreneur, and I was an unemployed office manager, ignoring any artistic talent I might have. Turnabout can be humiliating, can’t it?

“So now you two can get to know each other again. But I should warn you, there is something a bit . . . sticky in her visit.” Mom rubbed her hands together with a nervous twitch. “It’s why I scheduled it for while you’re here, actually.”

“What do you mean?” I didn’t like the sound of this. Faye’s frown from the NYAG table wasn’t helping, either.

“Gina has been hinting—rather broadly—that she’d like to take over the shop. When I retire.” Mom never did take to calling her Kat.

Wait . . . retire? Was this “going nomad” not just a vacation but a trial retirement? All these new facts made me feel as if the shop floor was shifting under my feet.

“Are you retiring?” She hadn’t said she was. Was I going to get a phone call from Nevada to tell me they’d decided to make this trip a permanent departure? That possibility landed like a rock in my stomach.

“No,” Mom was quick to reply. The alarm must have shown on my face. “Well, not yet,” she went on. “Not for a while, I think.” Mom leaned in. “But the point is, I don’t think Gina is the one to take over the Needle when it’s time.”

Her answer made me feel better. Slightly. I would certainly expect Mom to be picky as to who took over for her. “Why is that?” This was treading out onto some very thin familial ice, because I knew one of the reasons had to be I’m expecting one of my daughters will take the reins.

Now the timing of this trip and the scheduling of this trunk show were starting to make a calculated sort of sense. Despite Mom’s assurances, I began to realize this wasn’t just a stint of shop sitting. I’d been unwittingly lured into a full-scale apprenticeship.

“Mom . . .”

Mom waved me off, having misinterpreted my misgivings to be about Kat, aka Gina, rather than this first mention of retirement.

“Why don’t you think she would be a good fit? She’s obviously creative, and she was always sort of sweet in a quiet way.”

Tilly, another of the Not Your Average Grannies, looked up from the canvas she was working on. “I think she’s interesting.”

“Chester uses her because she’s convenient, coming to the butcher shop and all, but honestly, I find her rather . . . odd.” Faye snipped off the thread she was working on. “Intense, and not in a good way.”

All four of the NYAGs were working on what looked like pillows with sayings on them—a needlepoint mainstay if there ever was one. Mom must have owned a hundred. Her house was full of them, and she brought a new one to my apartment every time she visited.

Dot, who was always the rebel and who wasn’t even a grandmother, let alone your average one, was working on a pillow with a pirate and some startlingly salty language, which I won’t repeat here. “I’m with your mother. She’s not the one. The talent is there, but not the people skills. And . . . well, you’ll see.”

All the other NYAGs nodded, that uniquely Southern “Bless her heart” expression on their faces. What was everyone going out of their way not to say?

Mom put on her own “Bless her heart” expression, which I recognized as her “customer service” smile. The soft, slightly forced smile that was usually at odds with whatever she was really thinking. “You should never judge a person by how they dress.”

Dress? Kat was so unmemorable, I couldn’t remember how she dressed. Just that she was always there, bumbling around the outer edges of my life and always trying to get in, like a fly on a summer porch screen.

Even if she’d gone from neutrals to wild Lilly Pulitzer patterns, I couldn’t see how any of that would render Kat Katsaros unsuitable to run the Needle. Think of it as a second chance to be nicer than you were, I told myself. I looked around the room. I liked all these ladies, but I could use a few friends my own age to get through this month. I’d been terrible at keeping up with childhood and high school friends in college and beyond, so sure I was moving on to my snazzy new life in Savannah. Maybe I could get along nicely with Kat, get past the shop friction. But, I admit, I fought the urge to pull out my cell phone and google her name to see if I could pull up an image. How much could one person change in the years I’d been in Savannah?

Livvy, who oddly enough was your stereotypical grandmother but still counted herself among the NYAGs, leaned over in her chair to peer out the shop’s front window. “Speak of the devil, she just pulled up.”

“Good.” Mom headed for the door and motioned for me to follow. “I thought you two should get in a hello before Dad and I say goodbye. Just know she’s a bit . . . different . . . than you remember.”

The look in Mom’s eyes didn’t inspire comfort as I got a glimpse of a large white van with KAT’S KUTZ emblazoned on the side in bold black letters. The van boasted a logo—an enormous cleaver and a giant pair of scissors overlaid in skull-and-crossbones fashion—surrounded by sharp, jagged lettering. Zigzags of black and purple covered the van, with the words Artisan Scissors and Mobile Knife Sharpening appearing several times in white diamonds.

In all honesty, it made me a little nervous to see what sort of woman would get out of the van. I didn’t think she would bear much resemblance to the Kat I’d known. The Kat I’d kept only as a lukewarm friend, if that. You never really know someone, do you?

My jaw dropped as she got out. Or at least the person I had to assume was Kat Katsaros got out. I stared at Mom, then back at Kat.

Mom’s “a bit different” was the understatement of the century.

The van should have been my first clue.

Here I was envisioning the quiet wallflower Kat Katsaros—someone who looked exactly like a needlepoint shop owner. I now understood what Mom was trying to put so delicately. Tilly’s description of her as“interesting” came up rather short. Faye’s description of her as “intense” hit closer to the mark.

In fact, edgy was the word that came to my mind. Kat’s formerly unremarkable brown hair was now a choppy black bob with a streak of purple on one side. It took me a minute to reconcile the eyes I knew with the ones now framed in bold black eyeliner. When she turned to retrieve a bag out of the back of the van, I saw that her black leather jacket also bore the Kat’s Kutz logo. I had to admit, the woman knew the definition of on brand.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I have no problem with people who dress on the edgier side of things. My shock came from the total transformation Kat had made and the fact that I couldn’t quite picture the woman in front of me pressing Mom to hand the reins of the needlepoint business to her. Unless that van was decked out in expletive pillows (and believe me, those do exist in the needlework world), the contrast was too much of a reach.

“Shelbyo!” Kat called as she walked in the shop door and headed straight to where Mom and I were standing. Her use of an old nickname for me proved it really was her. “I heard you were back.”

I couldn’t tell if the faint undertone of disappointment was just my imagination or a hint that she really did see me as an obstacle. “I am,” I replied as I strove to keep the shock out of my voice. “For a while, at least.”

Kat held out a hand sporting black fingernail polish and thick, chunky rings to shake mine. “Wow,” she said. “Look at you.”

“Look at you,” I wanted to say but didn’t. If I ever needed evidence that you should never judge a person by how they were in high school, it was standing right in front of me.

“Hiya, Nina,” Kat said, giving Mom a chummy little punch in the arm. She’d always been super-polite, calling my mom Mrs. Phillips, if she spoke to her at all.

“Hello, Gina,” Mom replied. She flicked a split-second See what I mean? glance at me before saying, “I’m glad I got to see you before we head off.”

“Ah, the lure of the open road. You may never come back, huh?”

It was an awkward thing to say given the circumstances. I heard a murmur coming from the NYAG table, as if those women weren’t in any hurry to welcome Kat into the fold, no matter how gorgeous her scissors were. Which was funny when I thought about it—women so intent on bucking the stereotypes of “grannies” shouldn’t be so bothered by a woman who bucked the stereotypes of needlework enthusiasts. In fact, Kat dressed like half the creative staff at my old firm. It was just the juxtaposition between the Kat in front of me and the Kat I remembered that threw me.

“We’ll be working together on Saturday,” Kat said, giving me the same odd buddy-buddy arm bump she’d given Mom. “What do you think of that?” Again, there was just the tiniest note of challenge in her voice.

“I’m glad to be hosting the trunk show,” I replied. I nodded in the direction of the glass display case nearby. “You do amazing work. Where did you learn how to forge metal like that?”

“Oh, it started at the Renaissance Fair. I had a thing for one of the blacksmiths there. He gave me private lessons.” She gave the last words a flirtatious edge, which let me know Kat really had come out of her shell since school. The Kat I’d known could barely talk to boys without reaching for her inhaler. “And I’d always wanted to make jewelry. I just sort of put the two together.”

Kat abruptly switched gears and walked over to the NYAG table. “Hiya, gals! Whatcha working on?”

She worked her way around the table, oohing and aahing over the projects and making comments about each woman’s work. I suddenly realized what felt a touch off to me: she was trying too hard.

And there was the Kat I’d always known. Lingering just outside the social circle, not realizing her overenthusiastic attempts to fit in just pushed her further out. Mom used to call her “the darling little misfit,” and despite the leather and ripped jeans, it still applied. I didn’t know quite what to do with that.

Kat swaggered back to Mom and me. “So, am I in good hands this weekend?”

“You most certainly are,” Mom said, putting her arm around me.

“Imagine that,” Kat said. “Who’d have thought we’d be here, Shelbyo? Life is strange, huh?”

Oh, life had proven strange lately, that was sure. “Never a dull moment at this place,” was all I could come up with to say. For no good reason, I felt embarrassed that I’d been given run of the shop when Kat so clearly had wanted it. “I’m looking forward to Saturday. Mom tells me you sharpen knives like your dad used to do at the hardware store, too. Pretty clever business combination.”

“Dad stopped doing service at the hardware store when I took it mobile. I’ve even got an app. Cal told me it would never work, but I proved him wrong, didn’t I?”

I tried to picture Kat’s big, beefy brother and what he must look like now. “What’s he doing these days?”. . .