The Stitching Hour Read Free Page B

never to underestimate the propensity for murder in this lovely small coastal town.

Chapter Two
    R ight after lunch, a couple of sweet ladies came in looking for some needlepoint kits.
    â€œI used to cross-stitch,” said one. “But my eyes aren’t good enough to count all those teeny, tiny squares anymore.”
    â€œI prefer painting myself,” said the other. “I’m just here with my sister. You don’t sell art supplies, do you?”
    â€œI’m afraid not,” I said as I led them to the needlepoint kits and supplies. “I’m getting ready for my one-year open house. I hope you’ll stop back in for a goodie bag and some special discounts. I’ll give you a flyer with all the information. And today I’m happy to give you a ten-percent discount on your total purchase.”
    â€œWell, aren’t you nice?” said the sister looking for needlework supplies.
    â€œWhat a handsome dog,” said the other, going over to the window where Angus lay.
    I’d put him in the bathroom so often when elderly patrons came in that he’d learned not to rush to greet them the way he did most every other visitor to the store.
    â€œI’d love to sketch him sometime.” She patted his head, and he sat up, wagging his tail.
    â€œCome by anytime,” I told her. “I’m not sure how cooperative he’ll be about posing, though.”
    The bell over the front door jingled, signaling a new arrival. I turned to see a tall, lanky man wearing black slacks, a white button-down shirt, a red-and-black paisley vest, and a black top hat. Angus leapt to his feet.
    â€œHello, my good man.” After greeting Angus with a pat on the head, the visitor tipped his hat to us. “Ladies.”
    â€œHi,” I said. “Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch. I’m Marcy. How may I help you?”
    â€œMy wife will be joining us momentarily,” he said. “Please continue assisting these fine gentlewomen.”
    Gentlewomen? How strange! Who talks like that?
    My customers were apparently wondering the same thing. The one sister hastily made her decision, paid for her selection, and said she’d be back for the open house. The man held the door for them, and they murmured their thanks as they hurried past him.
    â€œAh, I see my lovely wife approaching,” he said, still holding the door open.
    I quickly came around to the front of the counter and took hold of Angus’s collar in case he decided to bolt.
    The man’s wife swept through the door, and she was every bit as flamboyant as he. She, too, wore black slacks and a white shirt; but instead of the vest, she wore a red jacket with tails. She had long tangerine corkscrew curls, and I wondered if it was a wig or her real hair. She also wore a tiny purple top hat perched on the left side of her head.
    â€œHi, I’m Marcy,” I said.
    â€œWonderful to meet you, Marcy,” she said. “I’m Priscilla. Did Claude introduce himself already?”
    â€œNo, my love,” said Claude. “Marcy was entertaining customers, so I thought it would be more prudent to await your arrival.” He removed the hat and bowed deeply. “Claude and Priscilla Atwood at your service.”
    I didn’t bow. “Marcy Singer and Angus O’Ruff at
your
service.”
    â€œWe’re enchanted to make your acquaintance, Marcy,” said Claude, as he returned the hat to his head.
    â€œIndeed we are,” said Priscilla. “And aren’t
you
charming?” She held her flat palm out toward Angus, and he planted one large furry paw in her hand. Priscilla laughed. “How delightful!”
    â€œTed—my boyfriend—has been teaching him a few tricks.” Should I also mention that Ted was a detective? Although Claude and Priscilla seemed nice enough, there was something about them that set off my internal alarm bells.
    â€œTed should be commended,” said