Night of the Living Thread (A Threadville Mystery) by Janet Bolin Read Free Book Online

creation.
    “What’s it made of?” she asked. “Hula hoops?”
    I tapped the hip area of the skirt. The skirt swayed. “Good guess. We did tie one hula hoop to the underside near the top. The entire skirt is built on a wheeled frame.”
    She tilted her head. “How is your friend supposed to wear it?”
    I handed her the spool of thread, a packet of needles, and my small, tweezerlike thread nippers, and then lifted the tulle draperies at the back of the skirt. “You crawl into the back and step over the brace between the frame’s two back legs. Like this.”
    I crouched and maneuvered myself into the thing. Clay Fraser had contributed an old steel jigsaw stand as the skirt’s frame. He had also made the inside of the skirt a work of art. Cords, speakers, and batteries were neatly arranged on a shelf in the front, and a thick orange extension cord in a huge black plastic reel hung from one side.
    I battled my way up through the waistband and stood. Clay had cut the jigsaw stand’s legs short enough so that after he added casters, the top of the stand should be at Edna’s waist. We weren’t positive about that, though, since we were keeping the bizarre overskirt a secret from her.
    I could hardly wait to see her face when we revealed it.
    Taller than Edna, I had to cinch the drawstring around my hips. I grabbed flounces above the hula hoop, took a few dancelike steps, and moved the gown back and forth on its casters. They worked beautifully.
    Behind me, a woman snarled, “You can’t do that.”
    I whirled the giant skirt around.
    Isis, again in that flowing, gold-trimmed, white nylon jersey gown that looked for all the world like a nightie, glared up at me. “It’s not ordained that you should wear someone else’s wedding gown.”
    Not ordained? What could she mean?
    Stunned speechless for the second time in about as many minutes, I managed, “It’s not finished.” Staring down at her, I tried to come up with a polite way of asking her if she had removed my lace bride and groom dolls from my front porch.
    I couldn’t think of one.
    Scowling, she backed away from me.
    “Stay there, Willow,” Opal ordered. She plugged the overskirt’s cord into an outlet. Lights came on all over the skirt.
    Some of them shined up onto my face, probably turning me into a specter rivaling any of the zombies at the zombie retreat.
    And that was when Clay walked in.
    Clay always looked good, but tonight he was especially hot in jeans and a blue chambray shirt with
Fraser Construction
embroidered in red over the pocket. He had commissioned me to embroider shirts for him and his staff.
    Clay and Fraser Construction had done many of the renovations in Threadville, and had moved Blueberry Cottage up the hill for me. Between building entire housing developments, Clay and his employees were renovating Blueberry Cottage.
    However, no matter what Haylee might have hoped or believed, Clay and I each worked incredibly long hours, and hardly ever saw each other. Although we’d shared a few romantic moments in the past that may have given me some hopes and dreams, Clay and I were still only friends.
    Remembering those romantic moments, I felt my face heat and redden. I hoped he didn’t think I was wearing the wedding skirt as a hint.
    I ducked out of the skirt. Brianna watched me with scorn on her face. She wasn’t the world’s greatest houseguest, and she wasn’t much fun, either.
    Behind me, Isis shrieked, “You!”

6
    H er incongruous nylon gown billowing, her hands at shoulder height, and her fingers curled outward, Isis raced toward Clay as if she were going to claw into him. She dashed around him, though, and confronted a man in the shadows behind him.
    The other man was dressed in black—slacks, turtleneck, blazer, loafers. He was tall and trim like Clay, although not as muscular, and his hair was a darker shade of brown.
    Clay’s eyes could warm a room. The other man stepped into the light and gave Isis a look that should