Read Online Night of the Living Thread (A Threadville Mystery) by Janet Bolin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janet Bolin
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my breath, I listened.
Metal casters rattled. I heard Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” tinny and distorted by distance, and then a splash and a series of pops.
Both the large glow on the hill and the one that had been heading toward the river dissolved into darkness. The music stopped, also.
The dogs and I were alone in swirling fog.
My flashlight accomplished little besides making the fog appear denser. I crept forward.
It seemed like hours, but was probably only a minute, before I managed to bring my dogs out of the shelter of trees and into the grassy park. I turned off my light. The strand of thread led up the hill toward the now-dark bandstand.
The screams and splashing had been ahead of me.
The dogs’ leashes firmly in one hand and my flashlight in the other, I eased past willows lining the riverbank. My toes found the edge of the boardwalk, and I stepped up onto it. The dogs’ claws clicked on planks.
I called out, “Hello? Is anyone there?”
The dogs panted. Ripples lapped at the riverbank.
Hard soles slapped against pavement up the hill near Lake Street. I yelled, “Come back and help!” The person was quickly putting distance between himself and me.
I couldn’t take time to chase him or her. A woman had screamed, and then I’d heard a splash.
If the woman had fallen into the river, someone needed to rescue her.
Now that the screaming had ended, the dogs were braver. Sniffing, they pulled me to the concrete boat ramp. I turned on my flashlight and swept its beam in front of me.
Clay’s orange extension cord led up the hill toward the bandstand, but at the foot of the hill where the dogs and I were, the cord went to the base of the boat launch and disappeared underwater.
The unsewn end of a frill trimmed with lace floated next to the cord. I snapped off my flashlight. Bits of glow-in-the-dark thread showed up. I turned the light on again and aimed it farther out.
A whitish blur rolled downriver in sluggish underwater currents.
8
T he extravagant overskirt we had constructed for Edna was now near the bottom of the river, and it couldn’t have gotten there by itself.
Someone must have pushed it out of the bandstand and started it down the ramp. And the wheeled skirt couldn’t have zigzagged down the switchbacking ramp to the boardwalk and from there to the boat launch by itself, either. It would have scooted off the ramp and tipped over.
Someone had guided it down the hill at least as far as the straight, sloping concrete boat launch.
I wanted to believe that pranksters had shoved the skirt into the water, and that no one had been hurt, but the terrified scream kept echoing through my mind.
Don’t push me!
A woman’s voice, but panic had reshaped it, and I hadn’t recognized it.
Had Edna returned and tried on the huge overskirt? Had someone pushed it, with her inside it, down the slope and into the river? If so, had she scrambled out before the skirt sank?
Remembering how the woman’s voice had carried through the damp air, I again called, “Is anyone there? Help!” I shined my flashlight on the misty river. Bubbles broke on the surface above the white blur, still rolling downriver.
I stooped and yanked at Clay’s extension cord. I managed to lift it a couple of inches from the water, and I seemed to pull it toward me, but its reel had turned easily earlier in the evening, and I was probably merely unwinding the extension cord, not hauling the heavy skirt in.
Tally-Ho and Sally-Forth sniffed the boat ramp. I shined my light on partial footprints. Had someone run away from the river and up the hill, perhaps on tiptoe?
Tally raised his head, stared toward the dark bandstand, and whimpered.
Was someone up there? The woman who had screamed?
Hoping she was, I again shouted for help.
No answer.
Taking shortcuts by leaping over parts of the switchbacking plank ramp, I rocketed up the hill. The dogs ran as fast as their leashes would let them. They arrived at the now-dark
Metal casters rattled. I heard Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” tinny and distorted by distance, and then a splash and a series of pops.
Both the large glow on the hill and the one that had been heading toward the river dissolved into darkness. The music stopped, also.
The dogs and I were alone in swirling fog.
My flashlight accomplished little besides making the fog appear denser. I crept forward.
It seemed like hours, but was probably only a minute, before I managed to bring my dogs out of the shelter of trees and into the grassy park. I turned off my light. The strand of thread led up the hill toward the now-dark bandstand.
The screams and splashing had been ahead of me.
The dogs’ leashes firmly in one hand and my flashlight in the other, I eased past willows lining the riverbank. My toes found the edge of the boardwalk, and I stepped up onto it. The dogs’ claws clicked on planks.
I called out, “Hello? Is anyone there?”
The dogs panted. Ripples lapped at the riverbank.
Hard soles slapped against pavement up the hill near Lake Street. I yelled, “Come back and help!” The person was quickly putting distance between himself and me.
I couldn’t take time to chase him or her. A woman had screamed, and then I’d heard a splash.
If the woman had fallen into the river, someone needed to rescue her.
Now that the screaming had ended, the dogs were braver. Sniffing, they pulled me to the concrete boat ramp. I turned on my flashlight and swept its beam in front of me.
Clay’s orange extension cord led up the hill toward the bandstand, but at the foot of the hill where the dogs and I were, the cord went to the base of the boat launch and disappeared underwater.
The unsewn end of a frill trimmed with lace floated next to the cord. I snapped off my flashlight. Bits of glow-in-the-dark thread showed up. I turned the light on again and aimed it farther out.
A whitish blur rolled downriver in sluggish underwater currents.
8
T he extravagant overskirt we had constructed for Edna was now near the bottom of the river, and it couldn’t have gotten there by itself.
Someone must have pushed it out of the bandstand and started it down the ramp. And the wheeled skirt couldn’t have zigzagged down the switchbacking ramp to the boardwalk and from there to the boat launch by itself, either. It would have scooted off the ramp and tipped over.
Someone had guided it down the hill at least as far as the straight, sloping concrete boat launch.
I wanted to believe that pranksters had shoved the skirt into the water, and that no one had been hurt, but the terrified scream kept echoing through my mind.
Don’t push me!
A woman’s voice, but panic had reshaped it, and I hadn’t recognized it.
Had Edna returned and tried on the huge overskirt? Had someone pushed it, with her inside it, down the slope and into the river? If so, had she scrambled out before the skirt sank?
Remembering how the woman’s voice had carried through the damp air, I again called, “Is anyone there? Help!” I shined my flashlight on the misty river. Bubbles broke on the surface above the white blur, still rolling downriver.
I stooped and yanked at Clay’s extension cord. I managed to lift it a couple of inches from the water, and I seemed to pull it toward me, but its reel had turned easily earlier in the evening, and I was probably merely unwinding the extension cord, not hauling the heavy skirt in.
Tally-Ho and Sally-Forth sniffed the boat ramp. I shined my light on partial footprints. Had someone run away from the river and up the hill, perhaps on tiptoe?
Tally raised his head, stared toward the dark bandstand, and whimpered.
Was someone up there? The woman who had screamed?
Hoping she was, I again shouted for help.
No answer.
Taking shortcuts by leaping over parts of the switchbacking plank ramp, I rocketed up the hill. The dogs ran as fast as their leashes would let them. They arrived at the now-dark
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