“We are!”
“That’s not how she wrote it. She’s going to think about that when she catches Nadine’s report.”
She found a parking spot that required a two-block walk. What fell out of the sky now was a cold and bitter rain, the sort that made her hate February with every cell in her body.
And still she found that icy wet less of a chore than time spent in the bright, patterned, swirling world of the Sewing Basket.
Big bolts of fabric rose in stacks on tables, hanks and balls of yarn hung from walls. Spools of thread—huge to tiny—formed pyramids or towers. Buttons—also huge to tiny—glinted and glowed.
Why had she never noticed that buttons with two holes looked like faces with empty eyes? Why had she never considered that?
Big, cheerful signs marked sections: BUTTON WORLD, YARN CITY, ON NEEDLES AND PINS.
But the worst of it, the part that made her back itch, were the fake people—men, women, children, even household pets—suspended from the ceiling.
And they all smiled.
Peabody pressed both hands to her chest. “Oh my God!”
“I know. They dress fake people, they give them fake dogs and cats wearing coats and vests and, Jesus, little hats, then they hang them. It’s just sick.”
“How have I missed this place? Oh, look at the colors on that Egyptian cotton! It would make a mag duvet cover. Maybe it’ll go on sale. Oh, and those yarns, the pastels look like Easter eggs! Spring sweaters!”
The voice, the eyes, sparkled, and had Eve taking a hard grip on Peabody’s arm. “No.”
“If I could just—”
“No. Ride your hobbyhorse off duty.”
Music played. Not loudly, but it hit the obsessively chirpy level on Eve’s personal gauge. The way customers—men, women, children, and household pets—packed the place told her Peabody had a lot of company on that hobbyhorse.
A woman scurried by hauling a bolt of something pink and shiny topped by a bolt of something white and frothy.
Eve risked releasing Peabody to snag her.
“We need the manager.”
“Oh, um …” Obviously distracted, the woman glanced around. “She was just here.”
“That pink shantung is gorgeous,” Peabody commented.
“Isn’t it? And perfect for a girl’s ballet recital, with this tulle?”
“So sweet!”
“Manager,” Eve repeated.
“Oh, yes, Karleen … There she is! In the midnight mohair gradated tunic and ebony velvet slimmers. I’d take you back to her, but the young diva and her mother are waiting for these fabrics.”
“What the hell is a gradated tunic?”
“It’s the mohair yarn that’s gradated. I see her.”
All the way back through the maze of tables, the towers, the stacks, Peabody made yummy noises and wistful sighs.
14
They found the manager—long sweater in varying blended blues—in an intense discussion with a man in a fitted vest, a precisely knotted tie, and a topcoat over his arm.