Thread Reckoning Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-­one

  Chapter Twenty-­two

  Chapter Twenty-­three

  Epilogue

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Also by Amanda Lee

  PRAISE FOR THE EMBROIDERY MYSTERY SERIES

  Stitch Me Deadly

  “The writing is lively.... This book should appeal not only to embroidery enthusiasts, antique-hunters, and dog lovers, but to anyone who likes a smartly written cozy.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  The Quick and the Thread

  “Lee kicks off a cozy, promising mystery series . . . a fast, pleasant read with prose full of pop culture references and, of course, sharp needlework puns.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “In her debut novel, The Quick and the Thread, author Amanda Lee gives her Embroidery Mystery series a rousing start with a fast-paced, intriguing who-done-it that will delight fans of the cozy mystery genre.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Stands out with its likable characters and polished plot.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “If her debut here is any indication, Lee’s new series is going to be fun, spunky, and educational. She smoothly interweaves plot with her [main] character ’s personality and charm, while dropping tantalizing hints of stitching projects and their history. Marcy Singer is young, fun, sharp, and likable. Readers will be looking forward to her future adventures.”

  —Romantic Times

  Also by Amanda Lee

  The Quick and the Thread

  Stitch Me Deadly

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, September 2011

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA), Inc., 2011 All rights reserved

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  ISBN : 978-1-101-54400-6

  http:­/­/­us.­penguingroup.­com

  For Caleb, Carlie, Nicholas, Jennica, Andrew, Faith, Nathan, Lexi, Daniel, Grace, Jake, Lindsey, Rachel, and Logan

  Special thanks to my 2010 Teach Blountville creative writing class—you guys rock! In addition, I’d like to thank the incomparable Jessica Wade, Robert Gottlieb, Kim Lionetti, and Kaitlyn Kennedy. As always, thanks so much to Tim, Lianna, and Nicholas for your love and support.

  Chapter One

  It was your typical Tuesday at the Seven-Year Stitch, insofar as there’s ever anything typical about Tallulah Falls. Since February is both Black History Month and the month when nearby Lincoln City hosts its weeklong antiques festival, I was sitting in my favorite red chair in the sit-and-stitch square working on a quilt in the tradition of the Congolese Kuba cloth that I was hoping to display at the festival. My quilt was a camel color, with a design of intertwining diamonds.

  Funny that I was stitching diamonds at that particular moment. The bells over the door jingled, and I looked up to see a stunning young woman entering the shop with a clear garment bag over her shoulder. The garment bag contained an ivory wedding dress. Thus, the coincidence about my embroidering diamonds, see?

  Angus, my lanky Irish wolfhound, loped over to greet the woman. The horror in her eyes, combined with the fact that she was backing up as fast as her long, lean legs would carry her, led me to believe she might not be a dog person.

  “Angus,” I called, laying aside my Kuba cloth carefully. Kuba cloths are believed to have originated in the Congo sometime before the beginning of the sixteenth century. I loved the version I was working on.

  Angus immediately trotted to my side. I instructed him to sit and to stay. Those obedience classes I’d enrolled him in when he was still only a few months old were paying off big-time right now.

  “Sorry about that,” I said to the customer. “I’m Marcy Singer. How can I help you today?”

  “Well, I was going to ask you to do some embroidery work for me,” the woman said, her hazel eyes still watching Angus warily. “But this is a very delicate gown—it was my mother’s—and I can’t leave it here. I’m afraid that . . . that dog . . . will ruin it.”

  “I can assure you I’ll take excellent care of the dress.” I stepped behind the counter and got Angus’ leash. “In fact, let me put him in the back while we discuss the work you’d like done.”

  Although he hates it, Angus’ private little room at the shop is the bathroom. I put him there when there’s someone in the store who is nervous around him or who has a delicate condition—particularly frail, elderly people, toddlers, and pregnant women come to mind. He has a water bowl and a couple toys in there, but he’s never a happy camper when he’s sent to “his room.”

  “It’ll only be for a few minutes,” I whispered as I ushered th
e whining dog inside and closed the door.

  When I returned to the shop area, the woman—who appeared to be in her midtwenties—was sweeping her brown curls off her forehead. Her hair had been professionally highlighted with blond streaks, and these streaks caught the sun that was peeping through the clouds and through the window.

  “Is he here all the time?” she asked.

  “Most of the time,” I said. “Although I do let him stay home on pretty days.”

  “We don’t get many of those on the coast in February.”

  I laughed. “Nope. Of the four days we’ve had this month, it’s rained three.” I nodded toward the garment bag. “What sort of embroidery did you have in mind for the dress?”

  “Is he shedding?” she asked, eyes darting to the navy sofa behind me.

  “Not at the moment, but I’ll be happy to get a lint brush and go over the sofa if you’d like me to.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Smiling but gritting my teeth, I retrieved the lint brush from beneath the counter and went over both the navy sofas and the two red chairs that form the square seating area. After I’d finished delinting the furniture, I followed her gaze around the shop. She eyed the black-and-white-checkered tile that covered the floor to the right of the seating area, the maple bins containing yarn and embroidery flosses, and the examples of my work displayed on the walls and shelves.

  “What’s with the dummy?” she asked as I returned the lint brush to the counter.

  I explained that Jill—the mannequin who bears a striking resemblance to Marilyn Monroe and who stands near the cash register, and who today was wearing a jaunty red hat and scarf upon which I’d cross-stitched snowmen—was sort of the shop mascot.

  “The Seven-Year Stitch . . . a takeoff on the movie The Seven-Year Itch,” I said. “Get it?”

  “I thought the dog was the mascot.”

  “Well, you can’t ever have too many mascots, can you?”

  She shrugged and at last opened the garment bag and spread the wedding gown across the sofa facing away from the window. Once it was outside the bag, I could see that the gown wasn’t the gasp-inducing creation I’d hoped it was. Apparently, it wasn’t too pleasing to the bride-to-be, either, or else she wouldn’t be here, wanting me to embellish it.

  “As you can see, the dress has some yellowing here near the neckline and a little around the hem,” she said. “It wasn’t stored properly or something.”

  There was some significant yellowing on the bodice, especially near the neckline, so that would take quite a bit of work to cover up. I could also see where there would need to be embroidered lace or perhaps ribbon embroidery all around the hem as well.

  “I see definite possibilities,” I said. “Are you wanting something elaborate or more subtle?”

  “Elaborate. My mother-in-law is providing some pearls, crystals, and some other kinds of gems she thinks might look nice on the dress. So I’ll want elaborate, just not tacky.”

  I smiled. “I can handle that.”

  “Could you sketch out some design ideas that I could stop back by and look at tomorrow?”

  “I sure can. Would you mind if I take a photo of the gown with my phone so I can use it for the designs?”

  “That’ll be fine,” she said.

  “Would you hold the dress up in front of you?”

  With a sigh of impatience, the woman complied with my request. “I’m Cassandra Wainwright, by the way.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” I snapped the photograph. “I’ll work on the designs today and see what I can come up with. Can you tell me about how large the gems are?”

  Cassandra shrugged. “All sizes. There are both larger and smaller pearls. The crystals are pretty uniform in size, and they’re—I don’t know—about a third of a carat maybe? Then she has a few sapphire-looking gems that are at least two carats apiece.”

  “What do the pearls look like?” I asked. “Are they freshwater or saltwater?”

  “Um . . . they’re round.”

  “Saltwater,” I said.

  “And they’re probably not actual pearls,” Cassandra said. “My mother-in-law doesn’t make that much money. In fact, she lost her job a while back and had to move here. I’m afraid she’s going to wind up living with us, because I’m not even sure she qualified for her pension.” She waved her hand. “But back to the dress. If I like the designs you come up with, I’ll give you a retainer and we’ll go from there. Provided I do hire you, I’d like you to start on the dress right away. My fiancé and I are getting married on Valentine’s Day.”

  Nothing like loads of notice, I thought. “No problem,” I said.

  Cassandra put the gown back in the garment bag and said she and her fiancé would be back tomorrow to look at my designs. I hurried to let Angus out of the bathroom as soon as she left.

  I was thinking most women select their wedding dress on their own . . . or with their mother or their best friend. To me, it was unusual for Cassandra to include her fiancé in the dress design. Who knows? Maybe she was marrying a fashion designer.

  When I’d almost gotten married a few years ago, I certainly hadn’t included David when I’d chosen my dress. My dress had been gorgeous—prettier than the plain ivory gown Cassandra had brought in. Mom had designed it, of course. My mother is Beverly Singer, a costume designer to many Hollywood A-listers. She’d done several wedding gowns for movies, but this was her first “real” gown. And since it was for her only child, she planned to go all out. And since I planned to be married only once, I let her.

  We looked through one wedding magazine after another until I found two gowns I thought—or rather knew—Mom could combine into the one perfect gown. And she did. The bodice had a sweetheart neckline with silver metallic embroidery and intricate beadwork. The full organza skirt had a sweep train with beading that echoed and enhanced the beadwork on the bodice. At the waist was a cluster of pearls and crystals that looked like an ornate brooch.

  I knew that it would absolutely blow David away. And it might have . . . if he’d ever seen it. He didn’t show up at the wedding. The best man, Sadie, Blake, and Mom were all calling everywhere. Mom was convinced David had been in some sort of accident. Sadie and Blake didn’t say anything that day, but they were thinking what I was thinking—the truth—that David had gotten cold feet.

  The best man, Tony, was able to get in touch with David about an hour after the ceremony was to have started. He had been David’s best friend all through college and knew of a dive where David liked to hang out and drink. I was in the garden alone—still wearing the wedding gown—when Tony approached me. I remember how the wind was blowing my hair and how the gown was billowing, and I was thinking what a shame it was that there would be no wedding pictures and that no one would be able to admire this beautiful gown Mom had poured so much of herself into.

  “You know, he could’ve called me yesterday,” I’d said to Tony.

  He’d bowed his head.

  “Or even this morning. Actually, anytime before the guests got here would have been nice.” I knew Tony wasn’t to blame—after all, he’d shown up for the wedding—but I also knew David would ask Tony what I’d had to say.

  Tony simply nodded. “He said everything just happened too fast and that it dawned on him that he wasn’t ready for marriage.”

  As tears burned my eyes, I’d turned away from Tony. He put his hands on my shoulders, but I didn’t turn back toward him. I didn’t want to fall into his arms and weep. I didn’t want to give David the satisfaction of knowing he’d hurt me that badly.

  “He wants to know if he can call you tomorrow.”

  “We have nothing to say to each other,” I said.

  “He thinks the two of you could still have a future . . . someday.”

  I’d shaken my head. “Tell him we have nothing . . . and not to ever call me again.”

  And he didn’t. At least, so far he hadn’t. It hadn’t been forever yet. But I wasn’t expecting to ever hear
from him again.

  Shortly after the breakup, I adopted Angus. That had been over a year ago, but Mom still believed I left San Francisco to avoid running into David or any of our mutual friends. Maybe that was part of it, but I was happy with my new life here in Tallulah Falls . . . for the most part. I’d had my share of bad luck—beginning with finding the man who had leased the shop before me dead on my storeroom floor the first week I was in business. But I’d met a lot of terrific people, business was going well, and my embroidery classes were full every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evening.

  I’d even started dating again. Sadie had fixed me up with Todd Calloway, who owned the Brew Crew, a craft brewery next door. Todd was handsome, witty, charming . . . and he had chocolate brown eyes and a voice that could make you go weak in the knees. We’d been on a few dates.

  I’d also been on a couple dates with Detective Ted Nash, who’d investigated the murder of the man found in my storeroom. Our first date was way after that investigation had ended. Ted was handsome, too. He had black hair with some premature gray threaded throughout. It made him look distinguished. Of course, he was a pretty distinguished guy, so the look worked for him.

  I was trying to play it cool with both guys at this point rather than rush into a relationship with either one. Todd was recovering from a bad breakup when I met him, and Ted had been through a divorce. And, of course, you know about all the heartache that wedding dress drummed up from my own past.

  Putting those thoughts firmly aside, I stepped into my office and booted up the computer. I checked my e-mail first and was pleased to see there was a message from Reggie with photos attached. Reggie Singh was the local librarian, and her husband, Manu, was the sheriff. They were vacationing for two weeks in their native India. They were staying with family in Gujarat, and Reggie had passed along some fantastic photos of her and Manu at the Laxmi Vilas Palace.

  Smiling to myself, I sent a note back to Reggie telling her not to let Manu get too comfortable in the palace.