Clay came into In Stitches with me, opened the stove, threw in a chunk of wood, then poured each of us a mug of warm cider. "I'm used to making myself at home," he said. "I worked here for so long that I sometimes forget it's not my place."

"Anytime," I said with more conviction than I wanted him to hear if he and Haylee were as close as they appeared to be. I covered it with a quick, "Like some cookies?"

Tally whined from the top of the apartment steps on the other side of the door.

"Maybe we should take your dogs out first," Clay suggested.

I let the pups into the shop, snapped leashes on them, and put on my burgundy jacket. Clay took Tally, and I took Sally. While the dogs sniffed at the yellow tape woven through my fence, I told Clay about Mike's death. I didn't tell him what Mike's purported last words were. For one thing, Uncle Allen changed them every time he repeated them. I concluded, "So, because Mike died in my yard and my canoe paddle and an empty gas can were near him, Uncle Allen is going around saying that Mike found me about to burn my own cottage down and I killed him so he wouldn't report me to my insurance company."

"Even Uncle Allen must know that's a stretch. He hasn't arrested you." Clay frowned toward two large white trucks parked near the vacant store. "What's with the trucks?"

"I don't know." I was beginning to suspect everyone and everything, including mysterious unmarked trucks, of murder.

Clay bent down and scratched Tally's head. "Maybe the vacant building on the other side of The Ironmonger is finally being renovated. Usually, I hear about things like that. Those trucks don't belong to any construction company around here."

The dogs seemed more than willing to help investigate. They tugged us past the hardware store. I wondered what allegations about my connection with Mike's death were swirling around that potbellied stove.

The vacant building had been constructed from early twentieth-century concrete blocks, the ones cast with bumps to resemble stone. Once ubiquitous, these buildings were becoming rare and had a certain antique charm. Newspapers were taped in the large front windows, so we couldn't see inside, where hammers pounded, saws whined, and a radio blared. Clay handed me Tally's leash, strode to the door, and knocked. No one answered. Clay tried the knob. Locked. He returned to the dogs and me.

Tally pulled him to the next building, a brand-new one with Victorian gingerbread styling, wide porches, glassed-in balconies, and many huge windows. "This is going to be a restaurant," Clay told me. "It's supposed to open this spring."

The restaurant would have a fabulous view of the village park, which included the beach, the mouth of the river, and the end of the riverside trail where I'd searched unsuccessfully this morning for tracks from Mike's ATV.

Pier 42, where the Threadville tourists were eating lunch, boasted a similar view, but from the other side of Lake Street, so it didn't overlook the river. At the rate the Threadville boutiques were drawing tourists besides the usual summer sun lovers, the village would soon easily support two year-round restaurants.

Clay helped me convince the dogs to go back to In Stitches, where we all feasted on peanut butter cookies, made without sugar for the dogs and with plenty of rich brown sugar for us. Clay stared at the corner of my shop where I kept my computer, beside the door to my apartment. "If you had a pen for the dogs here, at the top of the stairs, they could stay near you in your store, and you could leave your door open for them to wander to and from your apartment whenever they wanted to."

I loved the idea. "And Tally wouldn't have to whine and whimper so much. Could I hire you to build it?"

"You could."

We spent the next five minutes gobbling cookies, mapping out the penned area, and designing a gate for it. We agreed that Clay would build it on Monday, the day the Threadville shops were closed.

Clay fished a card from the inner chest pocket of his jacket. "Here's my number. I don't live far away, and I'm building new houses up the river. If this place gives you problems, call me anytime, day or night."

I asked, "How did you know my phone number to call me just now?"

He grinned. "The dogs told me. It's on their tags."

And he'd made a note of it. Thorough.

He knelt to tell the dogs good-bye. Unabashedly, they gave him more than his share of kisses, then rewarded me with reproachful looks for letting him leave. To add insult to injury, I closed them into the apartment.

Halfway through the afternoon class, my students and I heard Uncle Allen's police cruiser. We watched it lead a flatbed truck up Lake Street. The truck carried an ATV. It had to be Mike's. Originally, it must have been black. Now, dust and road salt made it appear gray.

IT WAS AFTER FIVE AND GETTING DARK when the tour bus left. I began tidying the store. My sea glass chime jingled.

Uncle Allen. "I've taken your canoe paddle and gas can as evidence, and Mike's ATV. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

I walked close to Uncle Allen so I could tower over him. "It wasn't my gas can. And Mike was-" I almost said hateful. "He had a way of making enemies."

"Only you and your friends with your silly hobbies. Why did you all have to invade our peaceful village and start murdering folks?" He backed into a rack of sparkly embroidery threads. Spools bounced and rolled over my black walnut floor.

I gathered errant spools of thread. "None of us harmed him. None of us would hurt anyone." I poked spools back into their places in their rack.

Widening his stance and placing his fists on his hips, he endangered my rack of low-gloss cotton embroidery thread. "Mike told me you women killed him." Uncle Allen seemed determined to change-or forget-Mike's last words. "Only a woman would use a canoe paddle to kill someone."

It was such a cockeyed accusation that I wondered if Uncle Allen had planned it first, then attacked Mike with my canoe paddle. Uncle Allen was big, but perhaps not coordinated enough to do real damage with a canoe paddle, even one made of good, sturdy hardwood like the one that had come with Blueberry Cottage.

I put my favorite scissors into their drawer. "That doesn't make sense."

"Sure it does. Men have guns and knives. What do women have? Rolling pins and . . . and canoe paddles."

Scissors, too. I slammed the drawer. "Besides, my gate was locked when I found Mike. If someone threw him over the fence, it had to be someone strong. A man."

"No one had to throw Mike. Maybe you left your gate unlocked last night."

"I don't dare leave my gates unlocked. Mi-someone opened one and let my dogs out."

"Aha!" Uncle Allen raised an index finger. "I heard that you blamed Mike for letting your dogs escape."

I fought to control a guilty expression. Last night, I'd told people on the trail that Mike had let my dogs out of my yard. I may even have uttered a death threat. I'd undoubtedly looked murderous. My sweet little Sally-Forth and Tally-Ho could have been lost, injured, or killed.

"I'm sure he did open my gate. I got the dogs back, bought padlocks, and locked my gates, so I had no reason to harm him."

He grunted in scorn. "Your gate started out locked last night, then someone unlocked it, let Mike into your yard, beat him up, and locked the gate. Who would that be?" The finger pointed at me. "That'd be you. The woman who threatened to kill him."

"I didn't mean it that way. I spoke in anger." I was digging a bigger hole for myself. "I admit I shouldn't have spoken like that, but it was just words. Besides, I was the one who called for help when he was injured."

He jutted his chin, which he probably hoped made him look dangerous, but really only stretched his wattles. "You didn't mean your words. Maybe you didn't mean to kill him, either, but when you saw how badly you'd injured him, you got scared, and called 911."

"I didn't even know he was in my backyard. I never touched him, never hurt him, never would have!" I told myself to ratchet down the anxiety before it manifested itself in twitches or blushes. "Have you checked up on everybody around here who owns a dark pickup truck?"

"Check up, how?"

I held my hands out, palms up. "To see if any of them had grudges against Mike. Or-" I tripped over my words. "Wouldn't Mike have fought his attacker? Maybe someone went to the emergency room with strange wounds last night. Or visited a doctor."

"If they did, I'd hear about it."

I wasn't so sure. "I never saw that gas can before, or touched it. Someone brought it to my place. Why don't you dust it and the canoe paddle for prints? The paddle came with the property, and I may have touched it, but I'm sure you'll find someone else's prints on it. More recent prints than mine. That'll be your man."

"Woman," he jumped in. "And she . . . you . . . wore gloves. I already dusted them."

Everyone wore gloves or mittens last night. Overcoming my panic was becoming increasingly difficult. On the other hand, Uncle Allen seemed more interested in taunting me than arresting me. I asked, "Why haven't the state police sent teams to help you investigate?"

Uncle Allen puffed out his chest. "I haven't asked them, and they can't go butting into my jurisdiction. What would they know about Elderberry Bay? This case I'm solving myself. In all my years of policing this village, nothing like this has ever happened before."

All the more reason to ask for help. "They could take some of the burden. You'll be putting in hours of overtime."

Somewhere among the chins and wattles, Uncle Allen had jaw muscles he could clench. His teeth made a horrible grinding noise. "I watched Mike and all the other young folks around here grow up. Whenever they had a problem, they always knew they could come to me. I was about to retire. Mike trusted me. I owe it to him to stay on until his killer is nailed."

Maybe he believed that being denied a building permit was a motive for murder, but I knew a better one. "Who inherits Mike's vineyard?"

Uncle Allen backed away as if hoping I wouldn't recognize the grief in his eyes. "His parents are dead and he had no sisters or brothers or wife or children. He struggled with that vineyard all by himself, had to mortgage everything after a couple of disastrous winters killed his grapevines. The poor boy had nothing besides debts. He was about to get on his feet."

He turned and shambled toward the door.

"When can I use my backyard again?"

Pushing my door open, he called over his shoulder, "I'll let you know."

Seething at Uncle Allen's stubborn belief that I had to be a killer, I hung my embroidered Closed sign in the door, then called Haylee and asked her to come for a walk with me and the dogs. She came out and took Sally's leash from me. As we strolled together through Threadville, it was apparent that her mothers had not yet begun their supper. Opal was inside Tell a Yarn, stocking her shelves-diamond-shaped niches-with yarns in spring colors. The pine shelving, walls, and ceiling gave the shop a warm glow. Next door, Edna was vacuuming. Buttons and Bows was mostly white inside, a background for Edna's sparkling, floor-to-ceiling displays of buttons and trims. The front room of Naomi's shop, Batty About Quilts, was an art gallery showcasing gorgeous quilts. We caught glimpses of Naomi bustling around in the brightly lit shop behind the gallery.

Although all different, the shops shared a fresh, clean style. "Did Clay renovate all of the Threadville shops?" I asked Haylee.

"Yep. He did a great job, didn't he?"

I let Tally pull me down the hill toward the beach. "He said you told him what I wanted."

"Did he?"

"Haylee, when you called me to come see the shop and apartment below it, they were already finished."

"I was right, then. He did renovate it perfectly for you."

"Yes, but-" I spluttered. "You tricked me."

We ventured onto the sandy beach. "I wanted to do you a favor. You'd been dreaming of leaving that stressful job in Manhattan and opening your own shop where you could play with embroidery to your heart's content, right?"

"Right." And I did love living and working in Threadville. How could I not? Waves thundering onto the beach, adorable dogs that I would not have subjected to apartment life in Manhattan, a wonderfully warm and fun set of friends and customers, and fabrics, fabrics, fabrics. And embroidery.

"How do you like Clay?" she asked, with a teasing lilt.

"He's very nice."

"Is that all you can say? I practically throw you two together, and . . ."

"Um, Haylee, don't you have first dibs on the guy?"

"Clay? I like him. Really like him. He's a friend. But he would be perfect for you." Sally pulled Haylee away from the breaking waves.

Tally, of course, pulled me toward them, so I had to shout. "If he's perfect for me, why wouldn't he be perfect for you?" Maybe she had her eye on someone else. Hauling Tally back to Haylee and Sally-Forth, I hinted, "Your mothers seem to adore Smythe Castor."

The wind whipped her hair over her face. She pulled the hair away. "Everyone says he's as sweet as the honey his bees make. But . . . right now, I'm only looking."

"Me, too," I said firmly, turning Tally toward home.

Behind me, Haylee snickered.

We all jogged up the hill. In the street between our shops, I took Sally's leash from Haylee. "You're right about only window shopping for now, Haylee. Until Mike's murderer is behind bars, both of us need to be cautious about all of the bachelors around Elderberry Bay."

She retorted, "You sound like my mothers. But I'll be careful."

"Promise?"

"Promise. I saw Uncle Allen at your place a while ago. How's his investigation going?"

I groaned. "He's still ignoring any evidence that doesn't point to me as Mike's murderer."

"Maybe we should drive out to Mike's place and see if Uncle Allen has put police tape around it."

"And if he has?"

"We'll respect it and stay out."

"And if he hasn't?"

9.

HAYLEE LOOKED OFF INTO THE DISTANCE. "Someone needs to keep an eye on Mike's place." "Maybe we should head out there now."

She shook her head. "Too many people up and around."

"How about midnight? Meet you at my car."

"Done. See you then." She crossed the street toward The Stash.

I took the dogs inside and gave them treats. Before Haylee and I involved ourselves in something we knew we shouldn't, I would give law enforcement one more chance. I dialed the Erie detachment of the Pennsylvania State Police.

A woman with a soft voice introduced herself as Trooper Smallwood. I explained that a suspicious death had occurred in Elderberry Bay. "And we only have one policeman. He needs help solving the murder."

Trooper Smallwood sounded very nice and caring. "If he needs help, he'll ask us."

I wasn't so sure. "I don't think he should be the only investigator." The line became quiet. "Are you still there?" I tried not to whine.

"I'm here," she reassured me. "And I understand your concerns. I don't believe Elderberry Bay has requested our assistance recently. I'll check."

Before she could hang up, I blurted, "I called 911 last night when I found the victim. He was still alive. The dispatcher sent Unc . . . er, Officer DeGlazier. If he hadn't been available, wouldn't the dispatcher have contacted you? It would have been your case from the beginning."

"It's not that simple. I'm sorry. I know this must be very difficult for you. Frustrating. I'll see what I can do." She clicked off.