Blood Stitches. Erin Fanning
full of whips and chains?” Frank asked.
Esperanza buried her face in the bag, mumbling about a broken coffee cup. She extracted a chipped handle and pipe cleaner.
Frank chuckled. “Or men in trench coats, lurking in dark alleys?”
Like our orange-skinned friend from that afternoon. I blurted, “Are you sure you’ve never heard of Mr. C?”
Esperanza looked up from threading the pipe cleaner into the knitted shawl. “Why do you ask?”
Answering a question with a question, her favorite stalling technique, gave her extra time to think of a response, which might or might not be the truth. Someone pounding on the door saved her from replying.
“Our first trick-or-treater.” Esperanza dropped the knitting on the sofa and slipped into her heels. “I’ll get it.” She tottered from the room.
Frank handed me his essay. “Something’s going on.”
“No kidding, Sherlock.”
“Hey, no need for sarcasm. It’s not like you ‘eased Mr. C into the conversation’. Could you have been any blunter?”
“The question popped out before I could stop it.” The steady drum of rain turned into a volley of hail. “What are trick-or-treaters doing out in this weather?”
“And what’s holding up Esperanza?”
“I bet she’s avoiding us in the kitchen or her bedroom,” I said. “We might not see her again tonight.”
“The mystery continues. Oh well, we’ve got plenty to keep us busy.” Frank bent his head over my calculus homework while I read his essay.
Raised voices echoed from the hallway. Something crashed and Mr. C, arm intertwined with Esperanza’s, barged though the door.
He ripped off his cap, hair spiking around his head like a halo of orange flame. “I decided for a trick instead of a treat.”
Chapter 4
Pattern for Disaster
Esperanza twisted, trying to escape, but Mr. C held on tight.
“Let her go,” Frank said.
“Okay, Knight, she’s all yours.” Mr. C gave Esperanza a gentle push in Frank’s direction. She teetered on her heels, and Mr. C jumped forward, helping Esperanza steady herself.
“Don’t touch me,” Esperanza said. “And leave them out of this.”
“I don’t think so. You’ve swindled me, and I bet your sister and her Knight were part of the con game.” Mr. C cracked his knuckles. “I was easy on you kids this afternoon, knowing you’d lead me straight to the goods.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Esperanza glanced in my direction but said to Mr. C, “Manipulating my sister will get you nowhere.”
“It got me here, didn’t it?” Mr. C nodded at Esperanza’s knitting and whistled. “The final tapestry in The Disaster Series?”
“Look, buddy, I’m calling the police.” Frank tapped numbers into his cell phone.
“Go ahead, but what are you going to tell them? We’re having a friendly conversation here. Right, Hope?”
Esperanza gestured for Frank to put his phone away. “How’d you find me?”
“It took a while, what with your letters coming from different postmarks and your phony name.” Mr. C fingered a piece of paper wedged inside his scarf. “I decided to use your abilities against you.”
“Wait a minute, that scarf was supposed to help someone find their lost love,” Esperanza said. “The scraps of paper were from their letters, or so you said. Was it a trick?”
“Yep, I shredded your letters and sent them back to you.”
“Lost love? Shredded letters?” I asked.
Esperanza and Mr. C focused on each other. Frank and I could have run around the room naked, and they wouldn’t have noticed.
“It brought me to Seattle, but not all the way to your house. Someone recognized your work, which led to another person and so on.” Mr. C flapped the scarf in my direction. “My spy followed you this afternoon.”
I frowned. Then it came together. “The man wearing the red scarf?”
“Bingo,” Mr. C said. “Your knitting is well known, Hope, along with your grandmother’s.”
Esperanza fished the knitting needle out of her pocket and held it in front of her like a sword. “How do you know Abuela?”
“Your signature moon gave away the connection.” Mr. C’s eyes traveled the length of Esperanza’s body. “Although, you’re not what I expected, not at all.” His expression softened but hardened again when Esperanza gave him the finger.
“Why do you keep calling her Hope?” I asked.
“It’s your sister’s alias, but you’re right. It’s time I called Esperanza by her real name.”
“Who told you?” Esperanza asked.
“Not exactly rocket science. Esperanza means Hope in English. Your Knight here let it slip.”
“I didn’t mean—” Frank said.
“Don’t sweat it, kid. When I discovered my customer’s favorite artist wanted to break our contract, I planned to find her.” He whipped a sheet of paper covered with tiny print out of his pocket. It unraveled to the floor. “No one hoodwinks Mr. C.”
Esperanza sank into a chair.
“Tell me what’s going on.” I stood between Esperanza and Mr. C.
“This will make the buyer very happy, very happy indeed.” Mr. C poked a gloved finger at the shawl and drew back as if stung.
“It’s not for sale,” Esperanza said. “I’ve decided to keep it.”
“Ha! Getting greedy? Holding out for the highest bidder?” Mr. C’s voice grew shrill.
Esperanza shook her head, dislodging the witch hat. The crochet hooks, holding it in place, clattered to the floor.
“Lookee here, my client has collected all your work and wants the fifth and final tapestry. He insists on having the complete collection. Got it? When this particular gentleman insists, I deliver, ‘or else’.” He made quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “I’m not taking any chances on ‘or else’. I’m delivering this piece; then you and I can call it quits. If that’s what you want….”
“He has them all?” Esperanza wobbled to the fireplace and gripped one of the knitted dolls. “I agreed to knit five tapestries only if they were sold to multiple buyers.”
“I thought he would sell them too.” Mr. C scrunched his cap. “I’m not exactly consulted on his day-to-day operations.”
“Don’t you understand? If one person owns them, God knows what’ll happen. He could unleash—” Esperanza glanced from Frank to me.
“Your sister doesn’t know about your, um, talents?” Mr. C flashed his kernel teeth and convulsed into silent laughter. “I’m coming back in two hours for the tapestry and don’t even think about taking off. Someone will hunt you down, and believe me, you’d rather deal with Mr. C than my customer.”
He shoved his cap down on his head, taming his fiery hair, and marched out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him.
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