Free Dire Threads by Janet Bolin

fabulous.” I wasn’t gushing. They were.
    “Do you think you could sell them in your store?” She didn’t look up at me.
    “They’d sell anywhere, but I’d be afraid to sell them here for fear someone would take a notion to embroider things on them. They’re beautiful the way they are.”
    “That wouldn’t matter.” Even her voice trembled.
    Was she desperate for funds? I shouldn’t have problems selling these gorgeous hand-woven linens, but I’d have to prevent myself from buying them, because no matter how many times I told myself they didn’t need embellishment, sooner or later I’d stretch them into hoops and let my machines have their way with them. “Okay,” I agreed. “Let’s talk about prices and my markup and how I’ll display . . .”
    “I’m sure you’ll do it all just right.”
    How could she be so trusting? “No,” I said firmly. “Let’s sit down and discuss this.”
    She sat, but she wouldn’t take off her coat.
    I suggested prices.
    Gasping, she clapped both hands to her cheeks.
    “Not enough?” I asked.
    She quavered, “Too much?”
    I shook my head. “Definitely not.”
    She pulled a scrap of paper from a pocket. “Here’s my address. If you sell anything, send me the check? And . . .” She fiddled with the paper. “Would you mind coming out to my studio to pick up new pieces? That is, if you ever want more.”
    “I’d love to see your studio and your work.” Once a fabriholic, always a fabriholic. Besides, looms fascinated me.
    “I hate coming to town.” She appeared to hold her breath in hopes I wouldn’t question her about it.
    Not that I could have. My sea glass chimes jangled. She shoved the paper at me. Dawn Langford, Weaver , I read.
    Sam came halfway in. “Hey, Willow, how’d those padlocks work out for you?”
    “Fine,” I answered over Dawn’s lowered head. “Thanks for thinking of matching ones.”
    Dawn bent farther forward. Her face was inches from her knees.
    “Y’know,” he called out, “the guys who hang out in The Ironmonger and I were talking, and we all thought what you did to Mike Krawbach was perfect.”
    My hair was too long to stand on end all over my head, but that’s what it felt like it was doing. “What I did to Mike Krawbach?” Did everyone in town think I’d murdered Mike? And they were applauding me for it?
    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
    S TRANGELY, 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