Sam nodded several times. "Stood up to him, you did. Yesterday afternoon in the street. Throws his weight around too much, that boy. Always has."

Dawn seemed to crumble into herself. Sam didn't seem to know that Mike was dead. Did Dawn?

Uncle Allen pushed his way into the store past Sam. "Stood up to Mike, my foot. Murdered him, more likely."

Pot lights in my ceiling reflected onto Sam's bald head, giving it a jaunty look, like he'd pasted fat white sequins on it. Sam examined Uncle Allen's truculent expression. Sam's smile disintegrated. "Uncle Allen, my boy, you're not serious, now, are you?"

"Serious as all get-out. We found Mike beaten up at the foot of her backyard last night." He jabbed a thumb toward me. "He died there."

Dawn Langford tumbled off her chair and onto the floor.

7.

STRANGELY, IT WAS THE HARDWARE store owner, not the policeman, who ran to the fallen woman. He hollered, "Uncle Allen, get on your radio and call for help!"

If Uncle Allen had a radio, would it work?

We weren't about to find out. Uncle Allen shaped his hand like a revolver and pointed the barrel at me. "Now she's gone and killed another one."

His accusations were becoming tedious. Besides, Dawn didn't appear to be dead, much less murdered. Her color was returning. I knelt beside her. Her lips moved.

Uncle Allen shuffled to us. Dawn's lids fluttered open, revealing dazed and wobbly pale gray eyes. She focused on the two men above her, then scuttled crabwise away from them. I was probably the only one to hear her whisper, "Don't let them touch me."

I murmured, paying no attention to what I was saying, trying to calm and soothe.

I took her hand in mine. Her skin felt dry and calloused. Her muscles, presumably from all that weaving, were like steel cables. She nearly crushed my hand.

As if sensing her unusual strength, Sam backed away, taking Uncle Allen with him.

The door opened, admitting a blast of cold air. And Naomi, who apparently had invisible, trouble-seeking antennae. "What's wrong?" she shouted.

"Nothing," I said.

"Nothing," Dawn repeated. She whispered, "Don't let her near me, either."

My mouth dropped open. Naomi was one of the sweetest people on earth. "It's okay," I told Dawn, extricating my hand and flexing my fingers. They seemed to work.

Naomi asked, "Should we call Dr. Wrinklesides?"

Dawn sat up. "No!" Her face was a healthy pink.

"She's fine," I said. "She slipped off her chair."

"Bring that chair over to The Ironmonger," Sam offered. "I'll have a look at it."

I flashed him an appreciative smile. He probably knew as well as I did that the chair was fine.

Naomi tiptoed closer. "Oh, the poor dear." She had removed the green goo from her face, but Dawn shrank from her anyway.

Naomi turned toward the window. "Our local students, Georgina and Susannah, are going into my store." She left.

I supposed that, under the circumstances, I should be glad I didn't have customers, only a thin wraith of a woman given to swooning, an angry cop given to accusing me of murder, and a kindly ironmonger given to tripping over his feet in his rush to return to his hardware store so he could tell his cronies about Uncle Allen accusing me of murder.

Maybe instead of running a business, I should take my cue from Dawn and hide under chairs.

Uncle Allen marched outside and turned toward The Ironmonger as if he wanted to deliver his version of the news to the old-timers hanging around the potbellied stove.

I couldn't help picturing all those retired farmers sitting in a jury and weighing evidence against me, putting me in jail where I would . . . design and embroider gorgeous motifs all over everyone's orange jumpsuits?

I shook myself back to reality. It wouldn't happen. Uncle Allen would call in reinforcements, and they'd find out who attacked Mike.

I helped Dawn stand. "Maybe you should see a doctor." During my short time in Threadville, I'd picked up some questionable hinting skills from Haylee's mothers.

Dawn looked about as energetic as the bag she'd brought her weavings in. "I'd rather die."

I couldn't think of anything to say. Besides, if I pressed her about visiting a doctor she was obviously afraid of, she might swoon again, and I would never get her off my floor.

She leaned toward me. "Don't you let them be accusing you of murdering that Mike Krawbach. Lots of people wanted to murder him."

Including her?

"The first place to look is his friends," she said. "When they were boys, they were a nasty bunch. Uncle Allen called what they did mischief, but it was downright vandalism. They came around my place at night knocking on my doors and windows and hollering for me to come out and stop them. They threw paint over my porch furniture. Wicker. I had to repaint it."

And someone threw paint on my porch.

"And that wasn't all," she confided in whispers. "Somebody burned down my outbuildings. Three Halloweens in a row. Chicken coop, smokehouse, corncrib, all burned to the ground. No one believed me that the culprits were Mike and his gang, and their parents claimed their kids were home watching TV."

How many years had she waited to tell this to someone? I had to keep her talking. "Do the other members of Mike's gang still live around Elderberry Bay?"

"Most of them. One's none other than our sainted mayor, Irv Oslington. Who would vote for him? And Herb Gunthrie, the postman everyone loves so much. I don't trust that guy to deliver the mail without checking the envelope for things he might want."

"Did Smythe Castor run around with Mike and his buddies?" I asked.

"I may have seen him with them once or twice. I think he's younger than the ringleaders."

"What about Clay Fraser? Was he one of Mike's gang?"

"I can't remember. There were so many of them. Different ones at different times. But always Mike spurring them on." She seemed to fold in on herself. "You be careful around all of them, and don't let them blame you for things they did. And that includes Uncle Allen DeGlazier. He's wilier than he looks."

"You be careful, too." I tried to keep doubt from my face. Was she warning me against Mike's friends for my sake or to deflect suspicion from herself?

Looking satisfied at accomplishing her mission, whatever it was, she sidled out. Was agreeing to sell her weavings a mistake? If fear was contagious, I might catch it. But the linens were beautiful. I didn't want to display them near the front windows where they might fade. I moved the bistro table farther back. Dawn's colorful work contrasted nicely with the heritage designs I'd stitched on the white tablecloth.

The Threadville tour bus trundled past. Minutes later, my morning students charged into my shop.

"What happened? Why is that cop car outside again?" Rosemary asked.

"A man died in my backyard early this morning."

Yesterday's artistic woman, the one who'd said she lived in Elderberry Bay and had drawn a picture of Blueberry Cottage in a few deft strokes, was dressed head to toe in chocolate brown today. She raised her chin. "I heard it was that snirp-"

Rosemary interrupted. "What's a snirp?"

"You know, a twerp in a snit, like that Mike Krawbach who was in here yesterday trying to pack a petition with illegal signatures. If anyone was asking to be killed-"

"Now, Georgina," the woman beside her scolded. Susannah, the other local?

The somber mood lightened as everyone poured themselves cider and showed off their homework. Following the instructions I'd given them yesterday, they had bought floral fabrics at The Stash and had hooped fabric and stabilizer together, but any resemblance to each others' work ended there. They'd chosen a variety of fabrics, colors, and stitches, and had ended up with deliciously different embroidered flowers.

In addition to flaunting unique designs, each student made it her mission to describe how she planned to use her completed homework. Several motifs were destined to be sewn onto babies' and children's clothes. Some would decorate quilts. One woman was going to use hers to patch a sheet that had suffered an unfortunate clash with a sofa bed. Another planned to use hers to beautify an apron for her mother. Two women pranced around in vests, one quilted pink twill, the other black velvet, both embellished with their homework. These women were a traveling fashion show.

Rosemary cut their show-and-tell short. "What are we making today, Willow?"

I held up an embroidery hoop that fit one of my embroidery machines. I had loaded it with stabilizer and a square of sage green felt. "We're going to embroider with machines."

They cheered.

Grinning at the enthusiasm the women must have fanned into flames during their bus ride from Erie, I showed them a small memory card. "In addition to pretty designs, this contains several fonts." They gathered around while I inserted the card into the attachment and demonstrated choosing letters, resizing them, and centering them in the hoop.

I started the machine. It wrote Willow in-what else?-willowy script. My students loved it.

Georgina asked, "What about those threads between letters? They show."

They did, barely. "You can clip them. Very carefully."

"Won't your name unravel?" Susannah asked.

"Not if you don't cut the threads on the back of the design," I answered.

They dispersed to machines around the shop. Judging from their chatter and triumphant yelps, they had a wonderful time, especially Rosemary, Georgina, and Susannah, working together in a back corner of the store. Their laughter drew the rest of us to them.

"We're making mottos," Georgina explained. "Mine's for my sewing room." She eased away so we could see what she'd stitched. So Many Fabrics, So Little Time.

"I'm putting mine above the bed." Susannah showed us bright red felt, cross-stitched in eye-zapping royal blue. She Who Hoards The Most Fabrics Wins. I couldn't blame her for substituting "hoards" for the usual "dies with."

Rosemary gestured like a game show host and declaimed, "Mine's going over hubby's widescreen TV in the living room. Now he won't have to ask why I spend my days in Threadville." With a flourish, she revealed, What Does "Need" Have To Do With Buying Fabric?

Fabriholics had to be among the happiest addicts around. Not that any of us saw it as an addiction. By the time they left for lunch at Pier 42, everyone had stitched their names and a motto.

As I ate my own lunch, Clay phoned, wanting to know if this evening would be a good time to tour Blueberry Cottage and discuss renovating it.

I gripped the phone so hard my nails bit into my palms. "We can't. My whole backyard, including Blueberry Cottage, is a crime scene. We're not allowed in it."

Silence. Then, "You're kidding."

"I wish I were. Mike Krawbach somehow managed to get himself beaten up near Blueberry Cottage last night, and now he's dead, and Uncle Allen thinks I did it." I was probably coming across as hysterical.

"I'll come right over," he said.

And he did. He parked his truck in front of Tell a Yarn, got out, and stopped dead, staring toward my front gate. Seconds later, he was inside In Stitches. "Are you okay, Willow?" He looked so concerned and ready to console that I was tempted to say I wasn't.

Haylee hurtled through the front door. "Clay!" They slapped palms. She looked about to explode in mirth. "Did you notice-?"

His shoulders shook. "Yes, I did."

Haylee collapsed in my chair in a fit of hysterics.

"What's so funny?" I demanded like a whiny little kid around her big sister and her big sister's boyfriend and their mysterious secret society.

"She hasn't seen it yet, has she?" Haylee gasped.

"I guess not," Clay answered.

"Come outside," Haylee demanded. "Close your eyes."

8.

I WASN'T SURE THAT CLOSING MY EYES was a great plan, but I obeyed. Haylee and Clay helped me down the wide front porch steps and turned me right. I felt the relative smoothness of concrete under my shoes. We had to be on the path leading toward the gate between my front and side yards.

"Open your eyes," Haylee ordered.

My expression, which must have been startled to say the least, threw her into another fit of giggles.

Uncle Allen had festooned my fence and gate with yellow police tape. He had woven it in and out, through chain links and around gateposts. Apparently, he'd had to cut the tape to open the gate so he could leave my property. He'd made up for it by draping several more layers of tape around the cut ends. Where was he, at home eating his lunch? Waiting for a team of investigators to arrive and help him? All this tape would impress them, no doubt.

I leaned over the gate. Because of the tall cedars parading down both sides of my yard, I couldn't see all of my fence. What I could see of it, and of the gate at the foot of the hill, was covered in tape.

"It's a work of art," Haylee managed.

"Maybe Uncle Allen really wants to retire and take textile arts courses from the Threadville shopkeepers," Clay suggested.

Haylee checked her watch. "I'd better finish preparing for this afternoon's class." She dashed through my front yard and across the street.