Lie of the Needle(40)
I sighed. It was common knowledge that the formidable and deeply religious Althea Gunn vehemently disapproved of the Men of Millbury calendar. She wasn’t my favorite person, but hey, beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Go on. The class hasn’t started yet. They’re still waiting for a few more. Unless—wait, don’t tell me . . . You’re scared of our church secretary?”
I shook my head at her. “Very funny. Everybody’s a comedian.”
Dottie grinned as I sucked in a breath, straightened my shoulders, and walked to where Althea sat, ramrod straight, at a large frame, while several other women were unpacking their embroidery hoops. She was wearing a gray serge dress that was almost nunlike, secured with a wide leather belt around her narrow waist. Her snow-white hair was cropped short, but in an uneven fringe, as if she’d cut it herself.
Althea ran the operations of the church with an iron fist and had most of the flock cowed and completely in awe. She edited the weekly bulletin, maintained the calendar, answered the phones, and was the first point of contact for anyone inquiring about our community. She also kept the database of parishioners and probably knew more than most people where the bodies were buried. Literally and figuratively.
“Good morning, Althea.” I gave her the brightest smile I could muster.
“Daisy Buchanan.” Her voice was a low alto. She peered over the rims of her bifocals at me. “I heard that your fancy-pants photographer came to a very unfortunate end. Just as well. It’s immoral that those men were taking their clothes off for money.”
I gritted my teeth. Just as well? Where was her respect for the dead?
“The profits from the calendar would go to a good cause, Althea. To save Millbury!”
“I heard that someone ransacked the carriage house where he was staying.” Grace Vreeland, the local tax collector, didn’t look up from where she was sorting pearl cotton threads. “I bet he was involved in marijuana or something like that.” She pronounced it marry-jee-wahna.
Althea made the sign of the cross over her chest. “It’s the wrath of God.”
I quickly took the first sampler out of the bag, hoping it was enticing enough to overcome her disapproval of the activities of the Historical Society.
“And that Cyril Mackey? I hear he’s gone, too,” Grace said as she paired a skein of ecru with a darker shade of beige. Her milky blue eyes went round with excitement. “Do you think he—you know—he was murdered, too?”
I could feel my blood pressure rise and I wondered if an antiques appraisal was really worth all this aggravation. “I sincerely hope not.”
Althea nodded at me in agreement. “He must have figured it was a good excuse to disappear. You know what a loner he was. Martha Bristol and her big plans were enough to scare the devil out of any man. That woman paraded him around to every social event under the sun like a pet Chihuahua. He probably tired of the pressure.”
In desperation, I shoved the sampler under her nose. “Althea, I was wondering if you have a moment to take a look at these items that I plan to sell in my shop. I have some idea of what they’re worth, but I’d really value your input.”
Althea’s mouth was still set in a scowl, but her eyes brightened at the sight of the pretty antique needlework, and she took the frame out of my hands.
“Hmm. This one is likely early nineteenth century. See the pair of bird-in-branch designs, the floating swans, the floral sprigs? All classic Quaker motifs.” She peered at it closely. “This could possibly have been worked at the Quaker Westtown School in Chester County. Somewhat plain, but distinctive. Some of the best school samplers in that time period were made in Pennsylvania.”