Read Online Night of the Living Thread (A Threadville Mystery) by Janet Bolin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janet Bolin
Ads: Link
bandstand a second before I did.
The bandstand was empty except for a half-full spool of glow-in-the-dark thread, the quilted label that said
Edna’s Wedding Skirt
, and a handful of ten-inch-long willow wands, lined up as if someone had placed them there carefully.
And Clay’s extension cord, still plugged in.
I’d seen a flash and heard the popping and tinkling of glass, and I was almost positive that the hot bulbs would have exploded when they hit the cold water, which would probably have caused the electrical circuit to short out. The bandstand’s fairy lights were dark, but I unplugged the cord anyway, in case a circuit might still be live.
Knowing I was calling in a possibly false alarm, I dialed 911 and babbled to the dispatcher that someone might have fallen into the river. She told me to stay on the line.
“I . . . I have to call someone.” I wanted to be certain that Edna had
not
been inside that skirt when it rolled—or was pushed—into the river.
Sternly, she contradicted me. “I need you to stay on the line. I’m sending police, fire, and ambulance. Don’t go into the water by yourself, and let me know of any developments.”
I agreed. The dogs and I ran down the hill to the foot of the boat launch.
The siren on the fire station’s roof wailed. Haylee would have to leave Mrs. Battersby and run to the fire station. Maybe Clay, driving his cousin home, would hear the alarm and turn back. Others among our firefighting colleagues would be here soon. I wouldn’t have to cope with this situation—whatever it was—alone.
Impatient for the emergency workers to arrive, I squeezed my hand more tightly around my phone.
I needed to call Edna.
Was she all right?
Tally-Ho growled low in his throat at someone approaching from the direction of the lake.
With his arms angled out in front of his body, Floyd, the zombie in the torn 1930s suit, clomped toward us. In the fire station, Isis had said that Floyd had accused her of casting spells on him, and he hadn’t denied it. I wasn’t frightened, either speakably or unspeakably, but I was glad that I still had the dispatcher on the line.
When Floyd was close, he shouted over the siren, “What’s wrong?”
I shined my light at the river. I could no longer see the white blur and the end of the frill, but the extension cord was still heading underwater. “Someone may have fallen in.”
The dispatcher asked, “Who are you talking to, Willow?”
“A . . .” I stopped myself from telling her I was talking to a zombie. She’d be certain I’d made a crank call. “A passerby.”
“Don’t go into the water even with one other person there,” she ordered.
Floyd grabbed the flashlight from my hand. “Maybe they swam to shore.” He shined the beam up and down the river. He probably didn’t notice that he licked his lips.
I couldn’t see anyone on the opposite bank, and the near one was steep and hidden by weeping willows.
Floyd handed me the light. “No one’s there, but go ahead and dive in for a better look. I’ll hold your dogs for you.”
Until that moment, I’d found the zombies around Threadville amusing, but with his dripping blood, shot-up suit, hungry smacking of lips, and cold eyes, Floyd was beginning to give me a fright. I hadn’t appreciated the way he’d grabbed my flashlight, and I didn’t trust him with my pets or anything else. Besides, his hard-soled dress shoes could have been the ones I’d heard pounding up Lake Street. He could have circled down to the beach in hopes that I wouldn’t guess that he had run away from this spot only minutes ago, after he pushed that giant skirt—with someone in it—into the river.
Usually, I felt safer when my dogs were with me, but they were obviously wary of Floyd and were again trying to tug me home. I desperately wanted to let them do it.
But I couldn’t leave until I was certain that no one was in trouble in the river. Behind my back, I made the hand signal for
The bandstand was empty except for a half-full spool of glow-in-the-dark thread, the quilted label that said
Edna’s Wedding Skirt
, and a handful of ten-inch-long willow wands, lined up as if someone had placed them there carefully.
And Clay’s extension cord, still plugged in.
I’d seen a flash and heard the popping and tinkling of glass, and I was almost positive that the hot bulbs would have exploded when they hit the cold water, which would probably have caused the electrical circuit to short out. The bandstand’s fairy lights were dark, but I unplugged the cord anyway, in case a circuit might still be live.
Knowing I was calling in a possibly false alarm, I dialed 911 and babbled to the dispatcher that someone might have fallen into the river. She told me to stay on the line.
“I . . . I have to call someone.” I wanted to be certain that Edna had
not
been inside that skirt when it rolled—or was pushed—into the river.
Sternly, she contradicted me. “I need you to stay on the line. I’m sending police, fire, and ambulance. Don’t go into the water by yourself, and let me know of any developments.”
I agreed. The dogs and I ran down the hill to the foot of the boat launch.
The siren on the fire station’s roof wailed. Haylee would have to leave Mrs. Battersby and run to the fire station. Maybe Clay, driving his cousin home, would hear the alarm and turn back. Others among our firefighting colleagues would be here soon. I wouldn’t have to cope with this situation—whatever it was—alone.
Impatient for the emergency workers to arrive, I squeezed my hand more tightly around my phone.
I needed to call Edna.
Was she all right?
Tally-Ho growled low in his throat at someone approaching from the direction of the lake.
With his arms angled out in front of his body, Floyd, the zombie in the torn 1930s suit, clomped toward us. In the fire station, Isis had said that Floyd had accused her of casting spells on him, and he hadn’t denied it. I wasn’t frightened, either speakably or unspeakably, but I was glad that I still had the dispatcher on the line.
When Floyd was close, he shouted over the siren, “What’s wrong?”
I shined my light at the river. I could no longer see the white blur and the end of the frill, but the extension cord was still heading underwater. “Someone may have fallen in.”
The dispatcher asked, “Who are you talking to, Willow?”
“A . . .” I stopped myself from telling her I was talking to a zombie. She’d be certain I’d made a crank call. “A passerby.”
“Don’t go into the water even with one other person there,” she ordered.
Floyd grabbed the flashlight from my hand. “Maybe they swam to shore.” He shined the beam up and down the river. He probably didn’t notice that he licked his lips.
I couldn’t see anyone on the opposite bank, and the near one was steep and hidden by weeping willows.
Floyd handed me the light. “No one’s there, but go ahead and dive in for a better look. I’ll hold your dogs for you.”
Until that moment, I’d found the zombies around Threadville amusing, but with his dripping blood, shot-up suit, hungry smacking of lips, and cold eyes, Floyd was beginning to give me a fright. I hadn’t appreciated the way he’d grabbed my flashlight, and I didn’t trust him with my pets or anything else. Besides, his hard-soled dress shoes could have been the ones I’d heard pounding up Lake Street. He could have circled down to the beach in hopes that I wouldn’t guess that he had run away from this spot only minutes ago, after he pushed that giant skirt—with someone in it—into the river.
Usually, I felt safer when my dogs were with me, but they were obviously wary of Floyd and were again trying to tug me home. I desperately wanted to let them do it.
But I couldn’t leave until I was certain that no one was in trouble in the river. Behind my back, I made the hand signal for
Similar Books
