died?” Eunice clutched the yellow cotton pieces of a baby quilt she’d been cutting when Agnes stopped by her house. “Mildred? It was Mildred who died, wasn’t it?” Another town councilwoman.
“Mildred is fine. It’s—”
“It’s Rose.” The third councilwoman. It’d been years since a spot on the council had opened up. “I knew the poor dear was on her last legs mentally.”
“Rose is fine. Sharper than ever.” Agnes ran a hand through her pixie-cut gray hair, and pressed her lips together as if trying to stop herself from saying more.
“Quit beating around the bush and tell me who died. I’m very busy here.” Stitching quilt pieces together at the window that faced the old Reedley place. The two-bedroom bungalow next door was being rented by one of those winery employees. A tall fellow named Duffy, who rose early, made eggs for breakfast with a sprinkle of cheese and liked cream in his coffee.
“It’s you, Eunice. I came to talk about you.”
The yellow blocks fell to Eunice’s lap. “I’m not dying.”
Agnes sighed. “It’s about you.”
Eunice stacked the blocks on top of each other, smoothing out the creases with her liver-spotted fingers. “You need to work on your delivery, Agnes. I thought someone had died again.” Mae Gardner had recently passed. Eunice hadn’t even realized Mae was sick. “What about me?”
“It’s your baby quilts.”
“Are they selling? I’m making them as fast as I can.” She’d make them faster if Duffy was home more often. Sewing gave her an excuse to sit by the window.
“Maybe you should slow down.” Agnes pulled the pink sunflower quilt Eunice had made from her tote and unfolded it. “We can’t sell a baby quilt with Frankenstein stitches.”
Eunice squinted at where Agnes pointed to the fabric. “Frankenstein stitches,” she harrumphed. “Have you seen the way my corners meet? They’re perfect. And my stitches are wonderful.” Her grandmother had taught her how to sew by hand, back before they made fancy machines.
“You can’t see your stitches, can you?”
Eunice didn’t want to admit she couldn’t. The comment about Frankenstein hurt.
A truck pulled into the driveway next door. Agnes turned, blocking Eunice’s view.
“Is that Duffy?” Eunice craned her neck. “His license plate has two eights at the end.”
Agnes gave Eunice a chastising look over her shoulder. “How can you see across the yard and not see the stitches on your quilt? Have you tried reading glasses?”
Eunice suppressed a gasp. “No one in my family has ever needed glasses.” The Fletcher women were beauties, every one.
“You can deny needing glasses all you want—”
“And I will.”
“But until your stitches improve, I need you to make something else for the shop.” Mae’s Pretty Things was a boutique that carried handmade gifts for the tourists, the ones everyone was sure would start showing up soon. Or as soon as there was wine to sell.
Eunice narrowed her eyes. “What other things?”
“That’s why I’m here. To see what other things you can make that aren’t sewn together.”
If that wasn’t the most infuriating statement. “I don’t make other things. I sew.” Over the years, she and Mae had stitched together everything from pot holders to placemats.
“Eunice, you taught kindergarten and youth Bible study. You have to be crafty to have worked with kids all those years.”
And she had been. “We colored. We finger-painted. We glued things.” Not fine art by any means, but it qualified as crafty.
Agnes frowned. “Oh.”
“Yes, oh.” Eunice looked at the sunflower quilt block she’d meticulously pieced together. The corners were square. The angles perfect. She’d never worn glasses in her life. “You want something else? I can color you a picture with crayons. Or create turkey portraits made from painted handprints. Or glue Popsicle picture frames decorated with colored glitter.”
“You need glasses.” Agnes’s words were as short as she was.
“I’m not going to hide my eyes behind a pair of homely frames.” Her mother would spin in her grave at the thought.
“Don’t be vain, Eunice.”
Too late. “My cousin Kim had a great body. My sister Julia had beautiful red hair. Kim gained weight. Julia went gray. But I still have my peepers.” Eunice had violet eyes like Elizabeth Taylor. And Eunice was still alive. “My eyes are my best feature. Everyone says so.” She’d made a good living modeling with those peepers. She wasn’t about to cover them up.
“And yet you can’t see.” There was sarcasm in her friend’s words. And impatience. And exasperation. “I’m not asking you to wear glasses all the time. Just when you’re sewing. I’d rather have one of your quilts to sell than an arts-and-crafts picture frame.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.” Agnes carefully folded the baby quilt and set it in Eunice’s lap. “I’ll make an appointment for you with my eye doctor in Cloverdale. In the meantime, you can borrow my reading glasses and see if that helps.” She dug in her tote and handed Eunice a pair of black rectangular frames.
Eunice accepted them with a two-finger hold, as if they were slimy creatures who might sting. “They’re—”
“Hideous. Yes, I know. But they work. Put them on and see for yourself.”
Reluctantly, Eunice did as Agnes asked, but not before looking up to see if Thelma across the street was sitting at her front window. Thankfully, she wasn’t. Glasses on, Eunice glanced down at the pink baby quilt. The stitches were monstrous. “Blast.”
“Exactly.”
* * *
DUFFY PREPARED HIS coffee by the small light over the stove. He hadn’t slept well. Thoughts of Greg’s baby and Jessica had him counting alarm-clock clicks.
He was thickheaded tired. But it was a workday. He’d rely on his morning ritual to get him going. Drag himself out of bed, check; grind fresh coffee beans, check; make a pot of coffee, check; and stand there waiting for it to brew. The standing and waiting was a waste of time, but he liked not doing anything. He liked the quiet. He liked—
Snap.
Duffy startled. The two-bedroom Craftsman house was ninety years old and prone to the creaks and groans of an older property in California. But this wasn’t a creak or a groan, and it had come from outside.
His entire body tensed as he strained to identify the sound over the hiss of the coffeemaker.
Thunk.
