Lie of the Needle(44)

            And all my bones gone rotten

            When this you see, remember me

            That I be not forgotten

            True to her word, Althea appraised the rest of the samplers for me after the class. When I thanked her effusively, I even received an invitation to attend the next class if I liked.

            I left Dottie’s shop with my head buzzing full of images of Maltese crosses, Sprat’s Heads, and French knots.





Chapter Eight




                         Everyone who came into my store that Saturday seemed to have the same topic on their minds: Cyril and Martha. Like the women in the needlework class, most people thought that Cyril had left because he was tired of the pressure. Not only from having to participate in the calendar shoot, but from the ardent attentions of his new girlfriend.

            When there was a break in the action, I took the samplers out of the bag and hung a couple on the wall. I hoped they’d sell quickly, before I got too attached to them, especially the one that had been stitched by Claire’s counterpart in another lifetime. Our modern lives were so different today, with our instant communication, global travel, and career aspirations.

            Or maybe not that much. Maybe we all still longed for the same things deep down. A safe, happy home. A loving family.

            I was standing there lost in thought when Eleanor slipped into the shop.

            “What’s going on, Daisy?”

            I sighed. “Oh, it’s just that if I hear one more denigrating comment about Cyril today, I’m going to scream.”

            “Well, I wouldn’t blame him if he had decided to get out of here and fly south for the winter. God, I hate the cold. And it’s snowing early for this time of year.”

            “How do you know something didn’t happen to him? I’m not convinced Cyril would leave Martha without a backward glance. I don’t think he’d be that unkind.”

            I picked up a rare Red Wing beehive salt-glazed jug, similar to those I’d glimpsed through the window of the farmhouse, and set it next to a display of vintage dish towels. I’d paid $75 for it at auction, but I thought I could get at least $185. I wrote up a price tag and tied it to the handle.

            “Hmm.” Eleanor frowned at the empty surface of the seed counter. “What, no treats again?”

            “Martha didn’t feel like baking. She’s too upset.”

            “Daisy, you have to do something! This is serious. She needs to get a grip. Winter is depressing enough—getting up in the dark, coming home in the dark. I feel like a mushroom. I can see why all those people in Norway drink vodka and kill themselves. A deficiency of chocolate gâteaux and honey madeleines is going to make me want to do the same.”

            “Have some coffee in the meantime.” I poured us each a mug. “Then there’s this bad business with Stanley. I wonder if a toxicology report would have shown a slow poisoning.”

            Eleanor heaved a sigh. “Oh, you can’t be serious. Come on, you know that Ruth’s not a murderer.”

            “I can’t forget Stanley grabbing my hand and saying, ‘She’s trying to kill me!’”

            “Are you sure he said ‘she’?”

            I stared at her. “You know, now that you mention it, I’m not sure whether it was ‘he’ or ‘she.’ His voice was quite faint. I was just so shocked that he was talking normally. Or seemed to be.” I sipped my coffee. “I wonder if it’s too late to exhume the body.”

            “What would that do to Ruth if you stirred things up now?” Eleanor caressed the sides of the mug with her elegant fingers.