Free Dire Threads by Janet Bolin Page A

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