of the lean-to and left the door open.”
“Is there a way from that lean-to into your cottage?”
“No.”
“And the cottage is locked?”
“Yes. The door facing the river bolts from the inside.” I pointed down toward the cottage. “I have a key for the door we can see from here.” I hadn’t decided whether that door or the one facing the river should be called the front door.
“Well, you can’t come into the crime scene to unlock it for me, now can you?”
Not as long as he told me I couldn’t.
“What’s in your cottage?”
“Nothing. It’s vacant.”
“Okay, you can either give me the key now or wait until I get a search warrant and give it to me then.”
“I have nothing to hide, and I’d like you to find Mike’s murderer and arrest him as soon as possible.” A good citizen, I gave him the key. “When are the other investigators coming?”
He turned his back to me, flapped a hand in dismissal, and marched down toward where I’d found Mike early this morning.
Back inside the shop, the fragrance of cider, orange zest, cinnamon, and cloves warmed me. I’d be safe from Mike’s attacker now that a policeman was in my backyard, wouldn’t I?
Tally, a dreamy sort, whimpered on the other side of the apartment door. Sally, the practical, heavy-footed one, clumped down the stairs, probably to claim the choicest napping spot on Tally’s bed. Or on mine.
Cooing at Tally through the closed door, I downloaded pictures from my camera to the computer. I cropped the photo of the man disappearing into the woods beyond the field of dead cornstalks, then launched my embroidery software, loaded the photo into it, and clicked on the appropriate icon. The software began generating stitches that mimicked the photo.
Suddenly, everything glowed red.
The ancient red car that Mike had attempted to railroad into a ditch came to a halt outside in the bright morning sunshine. The quiet woman inched her driver’s door open, looked left and right, then scurried toward In Stitches like she was hoping no one would see her.
She slipped sideways into In Stitches. Her bulging cloth bag was almost bigger than she was.
“Help yourself to cider,” I called.
She shook her head. I left her to browse.
The next thing I knew, she was peeking over my shoulder. “How do you do that?” she asked.
I showed her the photo I’d started with, and the embroidery software’s amazingly true-to-life depiction of how the design would look when stitched on cloth. “I need to adjust it here and there to force it into my vision.” I would also need to add varying thicknesses of foam to some of the trees, and maybe to the man, too. Seventeenth-century embroiderers often ignored things like scale, and a man could be bigger than a horse or a castle. Or a tree. Creating that stumpwork look was going to be fun.
“That’s what you’ll be teaching?” Her voice was reedy, her question tentative.
“We’ll work up to it, get used to the machines and the software in small steps.” I smiled. “I don’t want to give away all my tricks in the second lesson.”
My attempt to put her at ease failed. She stared at my gleaming walnut floor. “No, of course not.” She turned back toward the front windows. “Your boutique is lovely.” Tapping her index finger against her lips, she frowned toward the woodstove. Finally, she tiptoed to the fabric cutting table. “May I show you something?”
“Of course.” I followed her.
She turned her bag upside down and shook placemats and napkins out of it. Like any true fabriholic, I couldn’t help touching them. They were obviously hand woven, of natural fabrics, in beautiful shades. “These are gorgeous,” I burst out. Her purple hat was also hand woven, as were her black coat and emptied bag. “Did you do the weaving?”
“Yes. Do you really like them?” Gazing down as if saying a reluctant farewell, she ran quivering fingers across the placemats and napkins.
“They’re
“Is there a way from that lean-to into your cottage?”
“No.”
“And the cottage is locked?”
“Yes. The door facing the river bolts from the inside.” I pointed down toward the cottage. “I have a key for the door we can see from here.” I hadn’t decided whether that door or the one facing the river should be called the front door.
“Well, you can’t come into the crime scene to unlock it for me, now can you?”
Not as long as he told me I couldn’t.
“What’s in your cottage?”
“Nothing. It’s vacant.”
“Okay, you can either give me the key now or wait until I get a search warrant and give it to me then.”
“I have nothing to hide, and I’d like you to find Mike’s murderer and arrest him as soon as possible.” A good citizen, I gave him the key. “When are the other investigators coming?”
He turned his back to me, flapped a hand in dismissal, and marched down toward where I’d found Mike early this morning.
Back inside the shop, the fragrance of cider, orange zest, cinnamon, and cloves warmed me. I’d be safe from Mike’s attacker now that a policeman was in my backyard, wouldn’t I?
Tally, a dreamy sort, whimpered on the other side of the apartment door. Sally, the practical, heavy-footed one, clumped down the stairs, probably to claim the choicest napping spot on Tally’s bed. Or on mine.
Cooing at Tally through the closed door, I downloaded pictures from my camera to the computer. I cropped the photo of the man disappearing into the woods beyond the field of dead cornstalks, then launched my embroidery software, loaded the photo into it, and clicked on the appropriate icon. The software began generating stitches that mimicked the photo.
Suddenly, everything glowed red.
The ancient red car that Mike had attempted to railroad into a ditch came to a halt outside in the bright morning sunshine. The quiet woman inched her driver’s door open, looked left and right, then scurried toward In Stitches like she was hoping no one would see her.
She slipped sideways into In Stitches. Her bulging cloth bag was almost bigger than she was.
“Help yourself to cider,” I called.
She shook her head. I left her to browse.
The next thing I knew, she was peeking over my shoulder. “How do you do that?” she asked.
I showed her the photo I’d started with, and the embroidery software’s amazingly true-to-life depiction of how the design would look when stitched on cloth. “I need to adjust it here and there to force it into my vision.” I would also need to add varying thicknesses of foam to some of the trees, and maybe to the man, too. Seventeenth-century embroiderers often ignored things like scale, and a man could be bigger than a horse or a castle. Or a tree. Creating that stumpwork look was going to be fun.
“That’s what you’ll be teaching?” Her voice was reedy, her question tentative.
“We’ll work up to it, get used to the machines and the software in small steps.” I smiled. “I don’t want to give away all my tricks in the second lesson.”
My attempt to put her at ease failed. She stared at my gleaming walnut floor. “No, of course not.” She turned back toward the front windows. “Your boutique is lovely.” Tapping her index finger against her lips, she frowned toward the woodstove. Finally, she tiptoed to the fabric cutting table. “May I show you something?”
“Of course.” I followed her.
She turned her bag upside down and shook placemats and napkins out of it. Like any true fabriholic, I couldn’t help touching them. They were obviously hand woven, of natural fabrics, in beautiful shades. “These are gorgeous,” I burst out. Her purple hat was also hand woven, as were her black coat and emptied bag. “Did you do the weaving?”
“Yes. Do you really like them?” Gazing down as if saying a reluctant farewell, she ran quivering fingers across the placemats and napkins.
“They’re
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