Thread End: An Embroidery Mystery by Amanda Lee Read Free Book Online

the man as I stroked Angus’s back. “He was sleeping, and you must’ve startled him.” The dog sat at my side and watched the newcomer.
    “So sorry about that.” He reached into the pocket of his linen blazer and handed me a business card.S IMON B ENTON, A RT C OL LECTOR.
    “Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch, Mr. Benton. I’m Marcy Singer. How may I help you?”
    “I understand you made an unpleasant discovery here this morning.” Before I could respond, he raised his hands. “Please don’t be alarmed. I’m not an investigator or a tabloid reporter or any of that nonsense. I’m merely concerned about the rug. It was an antique kilim, was it not?”
    “It appeared to be.”
    “Was it from the exhibit that premiered at the museum last night?” he asked. “You
are
familiar with the textile exhibit, I presume.”
    “Yes,” I said. “I attended the opening.”
    “I imagined you would, with your interest in”—he waved one arm airily—“this sort of thing. So . . . what of the rug?”
    “What about it?” I was hedging. I wasn’t prepared to answer this stranger’s questions.
    “Was it one of the kilims displayed at the museum?”
    “I have no idea, Mr. Benton.”
    “Well, then, more important, do you believe the rug can be restored?”
    “Again, I have no way of knowing that,” I said. “When I saw the rug, it was rolled up. It appeared to be badly stained, but I couldn’t see the extent of the damage.”
    “Ah . . . well . . . that’s too bad, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, it is.” I shook my head. “And as much as it pains me to say it, that lovely kilim is most likely a lost cause. It’s now evidence in a police investigation. Even if it
could
be cleaned, it won’t be.”
    “Yes, I see your point. I wasn’t thinking past saving that antique rug.”
    “We don’t
know
that the rug was an antique,” I said.
    “Of course we don’t. . . . Not yet, anyway. The museum hasn’t gone public with any news of a theft.”
    I drew my eyebrows together. “Gone public? Do you know something I don’t?”
    “I went to the museum this morning. It was closed, and there were a couple Tallulah Falls deputy police cars there,” he said. “There were a few journalists there as well. That’s where I first heard of your grim discovery, whispers about the museum having been burgled, and the likelihood that the kilim you saw had been taken from the exhibit.”
    “All of that is mere speculation right now—except for the fact that I did indeed find a body in the alley outside my shop this morning. I hope the museum exhibit is safe and sound.” I was pretty certain that it wasn’t, but I desperately hoped I was wrong. It would be a shame for the museum’s first major event in recent history to end in disaster. Who knew if Tallulah Falls Museum would
ever
get another exhibit to display?
    “That is my hope also,” said Mr. Benton. “However, I’m not optimistic about that. Back to the rug—do you think you could re-create it?”
    “Re-create it?” I echoed. “You mean, draw you a picture of the rug I saw?”
    “No, silly girl. I’m asking if you could make a rug like the one you saw.”
    “For one thing, I didn’t see the rug lying flat.” Unless it
was
the kilim from the museum exhibit, but I wasn’t going to tell Mr. Benton that. “And, for another thing, even if I had seen and could reproduce the pattern, I don’t weave rugs.”
    “Hmmm . . . too bad.” He wandered around the shop then, looking at the projects I had placed on the walls and shelves. “You did all these?”
    “I did.”
    “You appear to be quite the accomplished needle crafter.” Mr. Benton turned back around to face me. “You do no weaving at all?”
    “Well, I might’ve woven a potholder or two at summer camp at some point, but I’ve never woven a rug.”
    “And you don’t know of anyone who does?” he asked.
    “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” I wondered about his fascination with the kilim.