Say It Ain't Sew (A Good Harbor Witches Mystery Book 2) by J A Whiting & Ariel Slick

Author:J A Whiting & Ariel Slick [Whiting, J A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: J A Whiting Books and Whitemark Publishing
Published: 2021-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

10

The next day, Dana and I hopped into my Volkswagen and we headed toward Ogunquit to drop in at Dennis Mace’s quilting shop. If there was someone who wanted to hurt Maribeth, it would be a good idea to suspect Dennis. I still couldn’t get his menacing stance out of my head, despite Maribeth’s blind optimism about humanity. I doubted that I would be able to wring a confession out of him, but I wondered if he would say something that might cause the police to consider him as the perpetrator.

We stuck to Route 1 with the sparkling Atlantic on our left as we headed south. We rolled down the windows, enjoying the fresh breeze and scenery. The charming vista of Ogunquit greeted us as we passed the welcome sign. Houses with steep gables and white planking perched on hills and as we drove deeper into the historic part of the town, Greek revival mixed with old-school Victorian houses, with their patterned roofs and wide porches.

Rocky cliffs slowly became sandy beaches and droves of people were out enjoying the sunshine, swimming, and flying kites along the waterfront. We passed by a strange-looking metal sculpture that was far too post-modern for my taste or comprehension, a stone church that looked like something out of The Crucible, and a lonely lighthouse could be seen far down the coast.

Dennis’s store was at the edge of town and it was located in a humble cottage with a worn American flag hanging out front. A dusty sign with a cheesy arrow pointing to the right proclaimed “Mace Fabrics.” We pulled into the parking lot, the gravel crunching beneath the tires.

Dana and I hopped out, stretched, and looked around. Three other cars were parked in the same lot, but farther away, in the area of a small restaurant.

We walked up the wooden steps, the wood creaking beneath our weight, and I opened the door. Even though this store was owned by someone I did not particularly like, I couldn’t help but feel the rush of excitement of stepping into a fabric shop. It might sound corny, but I always felt a tingle, a shot of adrenaline, because each fabric shop, while different in its own way, had the same basic layout: rows and rows of neatly placed fabric, tools of the trade, and a long measuring board.

In a way, walking into a fabric store felt like coming home. No matter where I went, a fabric store offered an infinite number of possibilities. I loved running my hands over the fabric, feeling the textures, the softness of the cotton or wool or silk. The multi-colored stacks represented a quilt waiting to happen, a work of art ready for the right fingers to sew and cut and measure and stitch.

I inhaled that particular scent of fresh cotton, old wood from the floor planking, and something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but it was always in a fabric store. It always greeted me in waves when I stepped in, and I breathed deeply, savoring it.

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