Lie of the Needle(47)

            I threw my hands up in the air. Great. Like a dog that loses interest once it knows the bones are gone.

            “Is that all they want me for, Alice? Martha’s treats? And without them I am nothing?”

            I’d been sitting on the stool behind the counter, and now I slipped to the ground, letting my vertebrae fall back into place before I attempted to move.

            I was still grumbling to my mannequin about the total cupboard love on the part of Serrano and Eleanor when I realized I wasn’t alone.

            Mary Willis was in the corner, looking through a selection of vintage snaps and fasteners still on their original cards. My signature “new” old stock. She looked up at me, her worn Persian lamb coat hanging haphazardly on her thin frame because she’d missed a button. “Oh, that’s all right, dear, I still talk to my Fred, and he’s been gone almost a year now.”

            When Mary’s husband had died, she’d brought in a bunch of exquisite linens to sell. I’d given her a fair price, and it had worked out well for both of us.

            I smiled, hoping my face wasn’t as red as it felt. When she came over to the counter, I rang up her purchase of two dollars and slipped one of Laura’s bookmarks into her bag as a treat. “Have a great day, Mary.”

            After she left, I held up a hand to Alice. “Don’t say it, okay? No comments from the peanut gallery.”

            Alice smirked at me, but stayed blissfully silent, so I set about refreshing the store for the next wave of customers. Merchandise was selling quickly in this holiday season, and I added more linens, glasses, and tableware to the front window.

            Even though I didn’t have the patience for needlework, I could spend hours crafting a beautiful display, or hot-gluing pods of star anise over a Styrofoam ball. I took some balls I’d already made, stuck some whole cloves into any empty spaces, and then added them to a platter with pinecones, fresh greens, cinnamon sticks, and a scattering of tiny gold ornaments.

            “I think we could put a price tag of at least twenty dollars on this. What do you think, Alice?”

            Fabulous.

            I lit four candles on a brass Swedish angel chime. As the heat of the candles rose, it made the paper-thin angels spin, gently ringing the Christmas bells.

            Who was that guy on the street with Ruth? I knew the look of people who had been intimate, their heads a little closer together than normal. How long had this been going on? And had Ruth really killed Stanley to get him out of the picture?

            My mind was in a whirl, like the angels wafting in a circle. Trying to ignore my growing conviction that Ruth had something to do with the death of her husband, I focused on what I knew for a fact.

            The memories of our years of friendship infused with her glamour and warmth and his intelligence and sense of humor. Stanley and Ruth were one of the nicest couples Joe and I had ever known. They fit together. They were always talking about what they would do when he retired. The trips they would take to South Africa, to Australia, to Greece.

            I blew out a heavy breath. I’d bet when Ruth pictured her golden years, it didn’t involve taking care of a terminal patient who didn’t even know who she was.

            I was suddenly glad Joe had pushed me to take early retirement. I wasn’t sure how I’d felt about it at the time, leaving the excitement of New York, but our life in Millbury really was a dream come true. I had a business that I adored, and Joe was happy puttering around the yard, or fixing up treasures we discovered at yard sales. Not to mention, his honed cooking skills were to die for. I bet he could enter one of those cooking contests and . . .

            Focus, Daisy.

            I glanced over at Alice. “Sorry.”