“That’s interesting,” she said. “I know absolutely nothing about sewing, but these are really neat.”
“Some of these were produced as promotional giveaways to advertise insurance companies and supermarkets and the like. The travel theme was popular, too.” I showed her one in the shape of an ocean liner, and another with a view of mountains from a train window. “Probably because sewing was something you could do to pass the time on a journey.”
She picked a book with a picture of a woman sewing in a garden surrounded by pink rosebushes. “This is pretty. I think I’ll take this one.” On the reverse was the same woman inside a drawing room, sewing with a child, and looking out of the window at those same pink roses.
“That’s what we call ‘new’ old stock,” I said. “More often than not, the books have some needles missing or the cover has some wear and tear, but there are a few here that have never been used.”
I helped her put together a nice selection of five needle books for her aunt. After she left, delighted that she’d found a thoughtful birthday present for under thirty dollars, I put the rest back on display. I picked up one of the Sewing Susan books again, musing over the pictures of the women on the cover.
That picture of the stepdaughter in the dollhouse. Whom did it remind me of?
It was like the thread of a dream that you remember when you first wake up, but the harder you try to think about it, the more awake you become and the further it disappears from reach.
What I needed were more pictures of the Rosenthal family.
I called Debby Millerton, the librarian over in Sheepville, and asked if she could help me locate some microfilm of the newspaper reports of Sophie’s death and also the accident that had killed her brother and his wife.
Next I called Chip Rosenthal and left a message that I had an interesting proposition for him and would he please call me back as soon as possible.
It was a busy day at the store, and when the last customer left around 5:30 p.m., I raced over to the Sheepville Library.
I called the house on the way but got the answering machine. I left a message for Joe that I would be late and not to worry about making dinner.
The library was an attractive two-story brick building on the corner of Main and Porter Streets. It had tall white Palladian windows on the first floor, and soaring wide arches inside formed impressive entryways between the various rooms. It was once the borough hall, and had served briefly as a polling place and senior center. It was actually quite a large library for a town the size of Sheepville.
Debby met me in the lobby, where there was a fireplace and comfortable couches to sit and enjoy a good book. She brought me back through the reading tables and endless aisles of bookshelves, through the used-book sale area, and finally to a back room, with beige filing cabinets and a table holding the microfilm reader. “We only have a limited collection of newspapers, but I think you’ll find what you need. I’ve pulled out the Sheepville Times for the dates you asked about.”
I sat down in front of the reader, and she showed me how to set the reel on the spool and feed the film through the guide.
“What’s going on, Daisy?” she whispered, even though no one else was around. “Are you involved in a top-secret investigation again?” Her eyes sparkled. Debby was a film buff and everything was dramatic and exciting if she could make it that way. She’d been writing a romance novel in her spare time for the past five years, but she’d never let anyone read it.
I shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Just one of my hunches.” I looked around and lowered my voice to a whisper, too. “No one knows if Sophie’s death was from an accidental overdose of insulin, or if she killed herself because she was depressed over the death of her brother. I was hoping to find some clues in these articles.”