The Stitching Hour

Book 9: Embroidery Mystery

by Amanda Lee

Genres: Mystery; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

In the latest mystery from the bestselling author of Wicked Stitch, the future of Marcy Singer’s embroidery shop is dangling by a thread…

Marcy’s shop, the Seven-Year Stitch, is one year old this October so it’s time to party in little Tallulah Falls, Oregon. Aside from the Halloween decorations and festive stitching kits and patterns, Marcy’s got all sorts of celebratory swag, including Seven-Year Stitch key rings and goodie bags.

Unfortunately, her new neighbors might spoil the revelry. An eccentric couple has opened a haunted house next door, and all that screaming will certainly scare off customers. But there’s even more to be frightened of after a local waitress is found dead on the sidewalk with mysterious markings on her neck—and one of Marcy’s key rings beneath her. With no time to hem and haw, Marcy must act fast if she hopes to restore the peace to Tallulah Falls…

Release date: November 3, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter One

I reached down and patted the head of my Irish wolfhound, Angus. At only two years old, he still had a lot of puppy in him, but he was mannerly and well behaved. The patrons of my embroidery shop, the Seven-Year Stitch, loved him.

“Can you believe we’ve been here in Tallulah Falls for almost a year?” I asked him. I jerked my head in the direction of Jill, the mannequin-slash-Marilyn-Monroe-lookalike that stood by the cash register. “Jill says she can’t.” I looked at her, as if she’d actually said something. “What’s that, Jill? What you can’t believe is how I haven’t dressed you in a beautiful new dress befitting the occasion?” I blew out a breath. “All in good time, Jill. All in good time.”

Okay, so maybe having a mom who was a Hollywood costume designer led me to do more than my fair share of play-pretend as a child, and maybe . . . just maybe . . . that trait had followed me over into adulthood. But I got lonely when I was the only person in the store. And when the only “people” around to talk with were Angus and Jill, I made do. Besides, I was pretty sure that Angus not only understood every word I said but that he communicated with me too. He had such expressive eyes. And that smile! With Jill, you just had to make it all up as you went and hope she wasn’t one of those cursed paranormal items that would come to life and try to kill you one day.

So on that creepy thought, I gazed around the store and firmly directed my thoughts back to my upcoming anniversary open house. Since it was October 1, Jill was wearing a witch costume. She wasn’t scary—she was more of a Samantha from Bewitched type. Before the open house, I planned to change her into either a white or pink dress—more Marilyn than Sam.

Everything else in the store would probably be all right as is, other than tidying up and borrowing a few folding chairs from the library. Since I was good friends with the librarian, Rajani “Reggie” Singh, I didn’t think that would be a problem. Under normal circumstances, I had plenty of seating in my sit-and-stitch square—two navy sofas that faced each other across an oval maple coffee table, a red club chair at either end of the table, and ottomans matching the chairs. I wondered briefly if I should shampoo the red-and-blue braided rug that lay beneath the table, but I decided a thorough vacuuming would be fine.

I turned to the merchandise part of the store, where I’d been marking down prices and placing specials on the shelf nearest the door. I looked over the embroidery projects that lined the walls with a critical eye. Should I add more? Take a few down? There was the redwork swan . . . the Celtic cross . . . the sampler I’d made from Louisa Ralston’s original . . . the bunny done in crewelwork . . . the Bollywood-inspired elephant . . . the pirate map tapestry . . . the cross-stitched bride. . . . With a slight smile, I decided to leave them all. I didn’t think it was necessary to add another one . . . yet . . . but there weren’t any I wanted to take down.

I went over to the sit-and-stitch square, moved aside one of the candlewick pillows, and plopped down on the navy sofa facing the storefront window. I’d come a long way in the past year, professionally and personally. Just before I moved here, I’d adopted Angus, and we were living in an apartment in San Francisco where I worked in an accounting office. Then Sadie MacKenzie had called and urged me to come to Tallulah Falls and open my own embroidery shop. Sadie had been my best friend and roommate in college. She and her husband, Blake, had a coffee shop called MacKenzies’ Mochas right down the street from the Stitch. She hadn’t had to twist my arm; and despite my ups and downs in Tallulah Falls, I was happier here than I’d ever been.

I’d barely sat down when Vera Langhorne came through the door.

“Good morning, Marcy,” she said.

“Hi,” I said as Angus trotted over to greet Vera.

She scratched his head and cooed to him for a minute before joining me on the sofa. Vera had also come a long way in the year that I’d known her. She was no longer the mousy brunette in baggy clothes that I’d met when I’d first arrived in Tallulah Falls. Now she wore her hair blond with subtle highlights, and she always dressed with style and class. Today she wore gray slacks, black pumps, and a royal blue short-sleeved sweater twinset.

“You’ll never believe what’s coming in next door to you,” she said.

“Please tell me that whatever it is won’t be operated by a relative of Nellie Davis,” I said with a groan.

Nellie Davis owned the aromatherapy shop down the street, and she and I had never been friends. Heck, we’d hardly been civil. I’d tried over the past year to warm up our relationship, but Nellie was convinced that all the mishaps that had befallen Tallulah Falls had coincided with my arrival and that either I or my shop—or both—was cursed. She’d been so antagonistic toward me that she’d recently talked her sister, Clara, into renting the space next to the Seven-Year Stitch—a knitting shop, no less, where she’d also planned to sell embroidery supplies! Unfortunately, Clara had met with a bad end, and the shop was once again for lease. Well, not anymore, it seemed.

“It’s gonna be a haunted house!” Vera clapped her hands in excitement. “Won’t that be fun? They’re only here for the month of October, but from what they told Paul, they plan to do it up right.”

Vera was dating Paul Samms, a reporter for the Tallulah Falls Examiner.

“They’re going to take the first few days of the month to decorate and move in all their creepy crawly stuff, and the actual haunted house is going to open the following weekend,” she continued.

I frowned. “Are they only going to be open during the weekends? If so, how will they make enough to justify renting the building?”

“According to Paul, after that opening weekend, they’re going to be open every night,” said Vera. “So they believe—and so do I—that they’ll make their rent back many times over. They’ll have special events throughout the month to draw repeat business, like themed costume contests, local celebrities—news anchors and people like that . . . Paul might even be one. And they’re having concessions!”

“They’re having concessions at a haunted house? That seems a little odd.”

“I’m surprised Sadie hasn’t mentioned it to you. She and Blake are in charge of the food.”

“Neither of them has said a word to me,” I said. “How will that work? I can’t imagine where they’ll find the time to run a concession stand on top of operating a busy coffee shop.”

“Paul says they’re going to do fairly simple stuff—caramel apples, popcorn and kettle corn, cookies, some hot chocolate and a couple of other beverages maybe—and the patrons have to eat outside of the actual haunted house,” said Vera. “The haunted house operators don’t want to wind up with a colossal mess. And one of the MacKenzies’ Mochas waitresses will work the haunted house each night. So it really shouldn’t interfere with Sadie and Blake’s schedules all that much.”

“Cool.”

“You don’t look like you really feel that it’s all that cool,” Vera said. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just concerned about how it will affect my evening classes,” I told her. “Some of my students are a little older—like Muriel—and I wouldn’t want her to be frightened or put off if she hears a ton of screaming going on next door.”

Vera laughed. “Sweetie, you know Muriel can’t hear herself think. And I don’t know that it’ll be that disruptive. Maybe you could put on some music or something.”

Oh, sure, I thought. That would be great—blaring music to drown out the screaming teenagers next door.

“Besides, you might enjoy going to the haunted house with Ted.” Vera winked.

“I’m not saying it won’t be fun,” I said. “I guess I’m just being selfish. How will this affect me . . . Angus . . . my students . . . my open house?”

“That’s right! Your anniversary’s coming up!” Vera clasped her hands together. “What are we doing for that?”

“I thought I’d have special sales and markdowns for the two weeks leading up to the open house. And I want to have gift bags for open house attendees.” I leaned forward. “But I’m struggling with what to put into the bags. Any suggestions?”

Vera looked up at the ceiling. “Well . . . you could put something different into every bag . . . like a coupon. Each coupon would be for a different amount off a particular item or the customer’s entire purchase. And you could have one coupon for a free item within a particular price range.”

“That’s a fantastic idea,” I said.

She smiled at me. “Don’t sound so surprised, darling.”

“I’m not surprised.” I laughed. “Honest. I’ve simply been pondering over what I can give out that will appeal to everyone and not break the bank. The coupons are a wonderful idea.”

“Sure,” she said. “And you can put candies . . . teeny little sewing kits . . . maybe those braided friendship bracelets the kids like. . . .”

“You have a ton of fantastic ideas, Vera Langhorne! You should be an event planner.”

Vera laughed. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Just then, Reggie hurried into the shop. Although she was beautifully dressed in an Indian-style coral tunic with matching slacks, Reggie’s normally elegantly coifed short gray hair looked as if she’d barely taken time to brush it this morning.

“Have you heard?” she asked us. “Somebody’s doing a haunted house next to your shop, Marcy!”

“That’s what Vera was telling me,” I said, my smile fading. “I’m getting the feeling you’re not in favor of haunted houses?”

She dropped onto the sofa across from Vera and me. Angus came and placed his head on the arm of the sofa closest to Reggie. She patted his head absently.

“I’m in favor of the library’s haunted house,” she said. “It’s one of our biggest annual fund-raisers. And now this fancy group is going to come in and ruin it for us.”

“No, they won’t,” Vera said. “Their haunted house isn’t geared for small children. It’s more for teens and adults. Paul interviewed the event organizers, and they told him all about it. Your haunted house is supposed to be funny and sweet. Theirs is supposed to be scary as heck!”

“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 continue 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