Seven Threadly Sins

Book 5: A Threadville Mystery

by Janet Bolin

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Fashion turns killer in the latest novel from the national bestselling author of the Threadville mysteries…
 
Threadville, Pennsylvania, is famous for its fabric, needlecraft, and embroidery, so it’s only natural that it would become the home of the Threadville Academy of Design and Modeling. While Willow Vanderling has certainly never wanted to be a model, here she is, voluntarily strutting her stuff in a charity runway show in outrageous clothing, all to support the Academy’s scholarship fund.
 
But the lascivious, mean-spirited director of the academy, Antonio, is making the fashion show a less-than-fabulous affair. After Antonio plays a shocking prank on Willow and her friends that doesn’t exactly leave the ladies in stitches, he mysteriously winds up dead—and someone is trying to pin the blame on Willow.
 
Now, she must do whatever it takes in order to clear her name, even if it means needling around in other people’s secrets…

Release date: May 5, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

1

Years ago, during the gawkiest of my teen years, well-meaning women gushed, “Willow, you’re so tall, you could be a model!” I knew they meant it as a compliment, but I’d had no interest in becoming a model. And now I was thirty-four, and I still didn’t want to be one.

So why was I stripping down to my undies and about to wear a series of peculiar outfits on a fashion show runway?

It was for a good cause, I reminded myself. The proceeds from the fashion show were going toward a scholarship fund for the Threadville Academy of Design and Modeling, TADAM for short, rhyming with madam. Scholarships at the school, which had opened only weeks before after amazingly speedy renovations during the summer, would mean that additional fashion design and modeling students would live in and visit Elderberry Bay, also known as Threadville. Our textile arts shops were thriving, but more customers were always welcome.

Besides, Ashley, the part-time assistant in my embroidery boutique, In Stitches, was a senior in high school. She wanted to learn fashion design here in Threadville where she could continue to live at home and work in my shop. Ashley’s talent should guarantee her a TADAM scholarship.

The shiny red polyester curtains surrounding our temporary dressing cubicles did not seem to belong in the luxurious conservatory where we were holding the fashion show, but at least we had some privacy.

Or did we?

A resounding slap came from the cubicle next to mine.

A man chuckled low in his throat. “If you think you’re going to be a model, you can’t be prudish about letting other people adjust your clothing.”

Curtains rustled. Shoes thwacked against the wood floor as someone strode away from the next cubicle.

I peeked out, but the man had disappeared. He must have walked down the narrow corridor between red-curtained cubicles and, from there, out onto the stage.

The conservatory, a Victorian glass confection, was warm and humid, and smelled of damp earth and rich, green vegetation. High above, panes of glass glowed orange, tinted by one of mid-September’s spectacular sunsets.

To my right, in the direction the man had gone, a woman yelled, “Places, everyone!” She sounded angry.

It was going to be a long night.

And this was only the dress rehearsal.

I pulled on slinky purple cropped pants and a matching peplum top that I’d made and trimmed with gold machine embroidery. I felt like a misplaced toreador in the outfit, which was gaudier than the clothes I usually designed and created for myself. Maybe, before I’d agreed to sew and model four outfits, I should have asked to see the sketches that Antonio, TADAM’s director, had said he’d provide. By the time I saw the sketches, I’d already committed myself and couldn’t back out.

A good cause, I reminded myself. The outlandish garments were to be auctioned off for the scholarship fund.

I slid my feet into fuchsia and gold sandals that Feet Accomplished, Threadville’s shoe store, had lent to the fashion show. Bravely, I joined the lineup of models in the walkway between cubicles.

And there was Madam TADAM herself, Antonio’s wife, Paula, who was also the academy’s administrative assistant. She was wearing a sagging straw-colored dress, wielding a clipboard, and glaring at the person immediately behind me.

I turned around. One of the modeling students, a tall blonde, appeared to be having difficulty walking in her flip-flops. Her face was red and her mouth was pinched. Was she the aspiring model who had slapped the man? Maybe she was merely grumpy about the flip-flops or the rest of her outfit. If I hadn’t been told that the clothes in the fashion show had been designed at TADAM, I’d have guessed that her skimpy shorts and halter top had been bought off the rack, and not in an exclusive boutique, either.

TADAM had begun classes less than a month ago, and none of the students could have had much time to prepare, which probably explained why most of the clothes on the student models didn’t seem very imaginative, especially compared to the outfits that my Threadville friends and I had made.

However, we were only in the Weekend Wear segment of the show. By the time we worked our way up to Glitzy Garb, the TADAM students’ work would probably shine.

Music played and the line began moving as models started down the runway.

Antonio’s voice boomed through the sound system. He used the words “lovely” and “beautiful” over and over again.

We shuffled forward.

The blonde behind me, who didn’t look old enough to vote, but was my height, about six feet, even in her flip-flops, whispered to me, “Stand still, and I’ll get your hair out of your zipper.”

My hair was shoulder length, light brown, and naturally straight. It was also flighty, and I’d managed to zip some of it into the back of my top.

The girl worked quickly, and I could turn my head without ripping out a hank of my hair. She no longer looked grouchy. Her smile was friendly, and her face had returned to pale pink with no splotches.

I whispered my thanks.

Paula clapped her hand on her clipboard and shushed us.

At the front of the line ahead of me, my best friend, Haylee, the owner of Threadville’s huge fabric store, disappeared onto the stage. Over the music, Antonio announced that the “lovely Haylee” had tailored her linen and silk golf shorts and shirt. A strange crunching noise—static?—interrupted his spiel.

A student went out between the blue velvet stage curtains, and then Haylee returned. As she passed, she gave me a high five along with a waggle of eyebrows showing that she was amused and maybe annoyed as well. She rushed off to change into her next outfit.

The girl in front of me wiggled out onto the runway, was described as “lovely” and wearing a “beautiful” outfit, and then it was my turn.

2

I slithered out between heavy blue plush curtains onto the lip of the stage. Carpeted in black, a runway stretched from the stage almost to the other end of the conservatory’s oval main room. In a polo shirt, khakis, and loafers, Antonio stood to my right, behind a podium perched precariously close to the edge of the stage. A light on the podium illuminated his notes and a line of what looked like fat, white beads.

Bending toward the microphone, Antonio announced to the nonexistent audience that the “lovely Willow” was wearing a purple outfit trimmed in gold stitching. I strolled down the runway. The sunset now bathed the conservatory in warm, almost magical pink tones.

Near the foot of the runway, one of TADAM’s male teachers leaned against the trunk of a palm tree, but his pose was far from casual. His arms were folded over his tight black muscle shirt as if he were attempting to contain an explosion. Glowering, he uncoiled, sprang forward to a camera on a tripod, and took a rapid sequence of flash photos.

What was I doing here?

Self-conscious and dazzled by the flashes, I pirouetted. As I traipsed clumsily back toward the curtains, the girl who had released my hair from the zipper passed me. Although I had stumbled, she seemed to float down the runway.

Antonio described her as the lovely Macey, popped one of the white “beads” into his mouth, and crunched down on it. His chomping, the noise I’d mistaken for static earlier, was amplified throughout the conservatory.

I batted the blue velvet curtains out of my way, glanced toward Antonio’s frowning wife, scooted into my dressing cubicle, and unzipped my top.

As I pulled it over my head, Antonio’s voice boomed out, “No, Macey! As lovely as you are, you’re not here to seduce anyone. Walk naturally, the way the lovely Haylee and the lovely Willow did.”

What a rude and discouraging thing for him to say to one of his students. My first impulse was to put on the comfy cutoffs and T-shirt that I’d worn to the dress rehearsal, walk out, and refuse to perform in the next night’s fashion show.

Publicly criticizing one of his students was bad enough, but comparing her unfavorably to Haylee and me, who had no interest in becoming models, was unconscionable. Besides, that photographer in the shadows had unnerved me, and my performance had been anything but natural.

Why was Antonio being so hostile to Macey? Would he treat Ashley the same way? Maybe I didn’t want her to attend TADAM, after all.

Breathing heavily, someone tiptoed into the cubicle beside mine. Hangers clinked, and one of Macey’s flip-flops sailed underneath the curtain into my cubicle.

A perfectly manicured hand with long, delicate fingers reached for it. “Sorry. I kicked too hard.”

“No problem.” Quickly, I stepped out of my sandals and pulled off the purple pants. Maybe Antonio was having a bad day. Ashley deserved a scholarship. Selfishly, I wanted her to go to school in Threadville so she could live at home and continue working part-time at In Stitches.

People padded past, going to and from the stage.

“Macey?” I recognized the voice. It was Naomi, one of the three women who had raised Haylee. Naomi owned Threadville’s quilt shop. “You did very well.”

“Thanks.” Macey’s dull reply lacked expression.

I poked my head out. All three of Haylee’s mothers were in the aisle between the dressing cubicles.

Edna murmured, “Macey, do you want us to tell Antonio that you were very good and will make a great model?”

“No, thanks.” The girl still sounded like she was trying to mask her emotions.

I turned my head toward her cubicle. “Would you like us to quit the fashion show in protest?” My stage whisper came out more harshly than I meant it to.

Naomi winced. “That could do more harm than good, Willow, don’t you think? To Macey.”

“I guess you’re right.” After Haylee’s mothers scurried away, I pulled my head back into my cubicle and muttered, “But I didn’t walk at all well. I have no idea what I’m doing out there.”

A shaky laugh came from Macey’s cubicle. “Thanks. Neither do I, but I’m learning.”

I contradicted her. “You were great!”

The second segment was Ambitious Attire. Antonio liked alliteration.

When he’d handed me the sketch of a dress and jacket, he’d said it was supposed to be a dress-for-success outfit for a businesswoman. He’d told me to make it light brown to match my hair. Although I’d fitted the dress and jacket carefully and had kept the shiny cocoa-toned machine embroidery to a tasteful minimum, I felt dowdy in so much brown. The pumps that Feet Accomplished had provided for me to wear with the outfit were the color of a churned-up mud puddle. Charming. And I couldn’t count on the sunset to enliven the outfit, either. The sky above the glass-roofed conservatory had faded from pink to sallow gray.

Antonio had told me not to carry a briefcase or handbag. “TADAM will supply a surprise,” he’d promised with a wink.

The shoes were too big. I clomped to the end of the lineup.

Macey crept up behind me. “You look fab.”

We’d passed all of the red-curtained changing cubicles, but a section of the stage behind the podium had also been curtained off in red polyester. A thirtyish woman with an enviable mass of shoulder-length auburn curly hair emerged from that larger cubicle. I’d never met her, but I guessed she was TADAM’s assistant director, Loretta. She carried several identical homemade cardboard briefcases covered in glossy white paint. Apparently, Antonio’s “surprise” was a fake briefcase for each of us to carry.

However, Loretta ran out of briefcases before she got to me. Her outfit was what I’d expect to see at a fashion design school—a stylish skirt and flowing jacket, both in delicious plum silk, worn over a carefully crafted mint green tank top. She frowned at my head and thrust a handful of hair clips at Macey. “Pin her hair up before she goes onstage,” she ordered. “And both of you, grab briefcases from the next two people who exit the stage.”

Macey’s hair was neatly pinned back, and she wore a blazing red dress underneath an unbecomingly bulky sweater in a shade of royal blue that clashed with the red so much that both garments seemed to jitter and twitch when I tried to focus on them. In one hand, she carried navy pumps like my brown ones. She set the shoes down, eased her feet into them, and whipped my hair into shape.

By the time that Haylee, in one of her expertly tailored pantsuits, came off the runway, Macey and I had each nabbed briefcases.

Using her clipboard to move one of the blue velvet curtains out of my way, Paula nearly sheared the covered, machine-embroidered buttons from my jacket sleeve. “You’re on.”

I couldn’t pick up my feet without stepping out of those extra-large pumps. Unlike any successful businesswoman that I’d ever seen, I trundled past the modeling student returning up the runway.

Antonio brayed, “With the simple removal of her jacket and the addition of a necklace, the lovely Willow transforms her beautiful outfit into one appropriate for a romantic dinner and evening on the town.” He popped a candy into his mouth but did not turn off the microphone. Crunch, crunch.

I was supposed to gracefully drop a chunky faux gold chain over my head and shrug out of the jacket to reveal the sleeveless dress. I hadn’t anticipated wrestling with the necklace, the jacket, and a cardboard briefcase at the same time, and my dropping and shrugging were anything but graceful. Finally, I unsnagged the chain from my hairdo and subdued the jacket.

The man in the black muscle shirt snapped dozens of pictures, and again appeared to find my performance lacking, which wasn’t surprising. With any luck, he and the next night’s audience would see very little besides that dazzling white briefcase. With it in one hand and my jacket in the other, I slid my oversized shoes around in a circle. Maybe the move passed as a slow twirl. I had to sort of skate back up the runway, which seemed longer than ever.

Backstage, Paula hissed at me, “Carry your shoes when you’re backstage. They make too much noise. And give that briefcase to the next person in line who doesn’t have one.” She scowled at Macey. “What’s keeping you? You’re supposed to be out there while the girl in front of you is still on the runway.”

Did Antonio and his wife treat all of their students this way, or only Macey? I wished I could stick around and encourage Macey when she came offstage, but I needed to change into my Distinguished Dressing outfit.

This was not to be formal—that was the last part of the show. This was supposed to be a cocktail dress.

It was, to say the least, a very unusual cocktail dress.

Following the sketch and instructions that Antonio had given me, I had concocted a tiered, ruffled, balloon-like mini-dress from white and baby blue organza, with tiny flowers machine-embroidered at the edges of the ruffles. He’d ordered white gladiator sandals for me to wear with the dress. Fortunately, they zipped up the back and I didn’t have to buckle twenty tiny straps. If Loretta gave me a shepherd’s crook with a bow, I’d pass for Little Bo Peep on stilt-like legs.

Fortunately, she didn’t, but she raced down the line, unpinned what was left of my glamorous hairdo after the “gold” chain had pulled tendrils from it, and arranged my hair in two ponytails, one above each ear. Glancing into the full-length mirror near the stage curtains, I mistook myself for a two-year-old in a fun house mirror, the kind that stretched one to a ridiculous height. With a wide and phony smile on my face, I paraded down the runway.

Antonio praised “the lovely Willow.” If I heard that description one more time, I’d throw a tantrum. He munched another candy loudly and then turned off the microphone.

Because the dress was short and I’d expected the runway to be high, but maybe not quite this high, I’d made a pair of ruffled organza bloomers to wear underneath the dress. At the end of the runway, I turned slowly, hoping the dress wouldn’t flare out and display the bloomers to that man in the muscle shirt and his camera. Trying not to channel Bo Peep, I strolled past Macey, who was in a sleek black dress hardly bigger than a bathing suit. Antonio turned on the mike, described the dress as sexy, and then boomed out that Macey should sway her hips more when she walked. The poor girl couldn’t win.

I rushed to my cubicle to put on my evening gown.

Antonio had sketched a tight velvet gown that was backless, came down in a V just below the waist in front, and featured a slit almost to the wearer’s left hip bone.

I had made the back and the V neck less plunging, or I’d have needed to glue the bodice on, and I had ended the slit mid-thigh.

Antonio hadn’t specified where I should add machine embroidery to this outfit. To emphasize the gown’s long lines, I’d edged both sides of the slit with a narrow geometric design. I had strayed from Antonio’s design another way, as well. I’d used reddish bronze velvet instead of the drab and unflattering olive brown that he had suggested.

I could no longer see the sky or focus on the glass panels forming the roof. Bright overhead lights illuminated the backstage.

I brushed out the girlish ponytails and let my hair hang to my shoulders. Along with the embroidered satin evening bag I’d made, I carried metallic gold stiletto sandals.

While I waited in line, Loretta teamed up with Macey to pin my hair into the world’s fastest French braid. I caught a glimpse of myself after I put on the heels and right before I went onstage. The dress fit well and looked, I thought, very good. Fortunately, the shoes were the right size. Imitating 1930s movie stars, I undulated down the runway. Reflections of fairy lights on trees inside the building sparkled from the conservatory’s glass panes.

Muscle Shirt again took scads of pictures. Ignoring him, I turned around and passed Macey in a dress that Cinderella might have worn—before the fairy godmother fitted her out with princess gowns.

Antonio gave me an approving smile, let his gaze drift over my curves, and murmured, “Nicely done, Willow!” He hadn’t turned off the mike, which meant that everyone else in the conservatory would have heard his too-intimate tone. Nauseated, I slipped behind the curtains and ran to my dressing cubicle to finally change into my usual evening attire—cutoffs, T-shirt, and sneakers.

Antonio called to us, telling everyone to come onstage. Standing in the spotlight on the runway, he said that we’d done marvelously, and that he’d make certain that, by the next night, his modeling students were as good as Willow and Haylee and “the other Threadville ladies.”

Edna muttered, “I wasn’t good. Whoever heard of a five-foot-two-inch model who wasn’t under the age of ten?”

Loretta said we should leave our outfits and shoes in our dressing cubicles for the next night. “And tell me if anything needs dry-cleaning, polishing, or freshening. The fashion design students will fix everything before tomorrow’s show.”

I decided that asking for replacements for the gigantic shoes would be too much bother for everyone. I would have to wear them for only a few minutes.

Antonio gave us instructions for the end of the next night’s show. As we came offstage after the Glitzy Garb segment, we would be handed a slip of paper stating which of our four outfits we were to wear to the awards ceremony.

Awards ceremony?

“If the paper says nothing, that doesn’t mean you’re to come onstage stark naked.” He smiled to show it was a joke. “It means you don’t have to attend the awards ceremony.”

Maybe the awards were only for TADAM students. Giving Threadville proprietors awards for our creations would be silly. We’d been sewing for years, and Antonio had designed all of our outfits. The students were only beginning.

The paper, Antonio said, would also have a number on it. We were to file out in numerical order, with the first person going to the farthest reaches of stage left. He pointed. “Stage left is on your left when you’re on the stage and facing the audience. The second person will stay to her right, and so on down the line. And stand naturally, remembering that your outfit is of the utmost importance. But do smile.” He flickered a sample smile at all of us. “And after the awards ceremony, change back into your Glitzy Garb outfits, go around the corner to the TADAM mansion, and strut your stuff during the reception and the auction.”

I was beginning to feel like one of Little Bo Peep’s sheep. But I wouldn’t look much like a sheep in the revealing gown that Antonio had designed, and if the next evening was cool, I’d be strutting goose bumps and wishing I had a woolly sheep’s coat.

Antonio added, “You’re probably wondering how to return your Glitzy Garb outfit to us after the reception. You can change in the TADAM mansion if you like.” His leer warned me not to choose that option. “Or you can bring the outfit back here Sunday morning and leave it in your cubicle with your other outfits, along with a note about anything that needs repairs. Loretta will open the conservatory at nine on Sunday morning.”

Finally, Ashley, Haylee, her three mothers, and I escaped into the warm September evening. Above us, the sky was deep indigo velvet, sprinkled with diamonds.

I walked beside Ashley. Usually, she was exuberant, but tonight, the seventeen-year-old lagged as if something were bothering her.

3

Had Antonio’s behavior upset Ashley? I asked her, “Do you still want to attend TADAM?”

“It would be perfect.”

So that wasn’t what was bothering her. Still, I hadn’t appreciated the way Antonio and Paula had treated Macey, and the picture-taking teacher in the muscle shirt had freaked me out. “Going away to school could be good, too,” I suggested. “Though I’d hate to lose the best assistant I’ve ever had.”

Ashley stopped walking. “I don’t think I’ll be able to go away.” She gulped.

Hoping the women ahead of us wouldn’t hear, I asked quietly, “What’s wrong?”

She toed at grass sprouting between the concrete slabs on the sidewalk. “I haven’t told you this because, well, just because. My dad . . .” Her voice dwindled. She took a deep breath and started over. “My dad lost his job. My mom’s gone back to work and my dad is throwing himself into finding a new job. That means I need to spend more time looking after my little sisters and brothers. I don’t know how long it will take him to find a job. If I don’t get a good scholarship to TADAM, I may not be able to go to school anywhere.”

I offered, “You always have a job at In Stitches. Or a reference if something better comes along.”

She started walking again and looked away from me as if studying the pretty Victorian homes on her street. “Thanks, Willow. It would be hard to think of a better place to work than In Stitches.”

The same was true for me. I had tried another career, investment management, before moving to Threadville and opening In Stitches. Ashley had more design talent than most of the Threadville tourists who came every day for workshops and classes. She was smart, helpful, and eager to learn. I imagined someday attending her college graduation, along with her parents and all of her little sisters and brothers.

Would TADAM be good enough for Ashley? In addition to Antonio’s and Paula’s strangely hostile treatment of Macey, the school had seemed to come out of nowhere and had opened in a rush in mid-August. I supposed we should give it a chance to prove itself.

At Ashley’s front walk, I impulsively gave her a raise. She thanked me. Head down, she moseyed toward her front porch.

I caught up with the others.

“What’s wrong with Ashley?” Naomi asked.

I told them the girl’s news. We all agreed that we would do our best in the next night’s fashion show. We would help TADAM raise scholarship funds in the hope that maybe Ashley would benefit.

“And there’s that Macey, also,” Edna said. “Why did Antonio and Paula pick on her?”

“Did they pick on other students?” Haylee asked.

Haylee’s birth mother, Opal, answered, “Only Macey, that I noticed.”

“And she seemed like such a sweet child,” Naomi said.

“She was.” I told them that she’d been helpful to me, and I also described the slap and a man’s amused response.

“Who was the man?” Haylee demanded. “That creepy guy taking pictures of us?”

I admitted that I wasn’t sure. “I’ve never heard that photographer speak, and this guy was lowering his voice artificially, probably trying to sound sexy.”

“And probably not succeeding.” Still walking, Edna held up her left hand, flashing her sparkly engagement and wedding rings under the streetlight. “Men who think they’re sexy often aren’t.”

Haylee and I grinned at each other. Edna might think of her new husband as the sexiest guy in Threadville, but Haylee and I each had our own ideas about that.

Unfortunately, however, Haylee’s heartthrob was still mourning his late wife. I hoped he would eventually notice Haylee.

And my nominee for the sexiest guy in Threadville? Clay Fraser, owner of Fraser Construction. We both worked long hours, and except for our usual Tuesday evening volunteer firefighting practices, I hardly ever saw him. With any luck, he’d been too busy to hear about the fashion show the next night and wouldn’t attend it.

Haylee and her three mothers and I said good-bye on Lake Street. They headed toward their apartments, which were above their shops in a Victorian building. My machine embroidery boutique, In Stitches, was across the street in an Arts and Crafts bungalow with deep eaves and a large front porch. I could have reached the apartment underneath my shop by going through In Stitches, but this time, I unlatched the gate and walked down the hill through one of my two side yards to the patio, where I opened the sliding glass door and let my pets outside.

Sally-Forth and Tally-Ho, both part border collie, were littermates. Sally always made it her duty to herd the two tuxedo cats, Mustache and Bow-Tie, during their short visits to the great outdoors. She did a surprisingly good job of it, and soon the young cats were safely inside again, and Sally and her brother were racing around my hillside backyard.

In Blueberry Cottage, lights were on and windows were open. Clay and his company had renovated the quaint wooden structure after moving it up the hill from its original position, too close to the river and occasional floods. Edna’s mother’s spinning wheel whirred. Edna’s mother had helped plan the renovations to Blueberry Cottage. Since she’d insisted there should be space for her loom and spinning wheel beside the hearth, I hadn’t been surprised when she’d asked to be my tenant.

She was a good one, though I had the feeling she was aware of everything I did, day and night, and I had finally installed drapes in my apartment’s wall of floor-to-ceiling windows facing Blueberry Cottage.

Edna’s mother living in my backyard was almost like having a mother nearby. Or a grandmother. However, as Dora Battersby liked to point out, Opal and her best friends, Edna and Naomi, had only been seventeen when Haylee was born, and Dora was in her early seventies, rather young to be the grandmother of a thirty-four-year-old. She did like to supervise both Haylee and me, however.

Sally and Tally ended their playtime and came in. The dogs and I went to bed. Mustache and Bow-Tie spent a good part of the night doing their best to remind us that cats were nocturnal creatures.

•   •   •

In my shop the next day, Ashley and I gave two machine embroidery workshops, one in the morning and another in the afternoon. One of my favorite hobbies, the one I’d bu