Stitches in Time by Barbara Michaels

area in an unused room. A police officer investigating another, more serious kind of crime wouldn’t be likely to notice that a chest or box of linens was only half-filled. Especially a male police officer.
    Rachel turned onto her back and glared at the ceiling. Such speculation was a waste of time and nervous energy. She had to get some sleep. It had been a tiring day, and tomorrow would be just as rushed; by now she was familiar enough with Cheryl’s habits to anticipate the frantic scramble ahead, the last-minute packing, the forgotten tasks, the inevitable delays. Tony would be in a bad mood, fuming silently because he wasn’t able to pitch in or help with the driving.
    At first the voice was indistinguishable from the normal sounds of night, breathy as the movement of air in the branches, wordless as the wind. Then she heard, or thought she heard, words. Relaxing muscles tightened, propelling her out of bed. Without stopping to put on slippers or robe she headed for the stairs. Tony was down there, alone in his room, handicapped by the cast on his leg…
    The night lights in the shop left the room in semidarkness. The garments hanging from hooks glimmered, ghost shapes in the shadows; the mannequins in their trailing skirts and big hats looked unnervingly lifelike. A lifted hand seemed to beckon, a parasol tilted at a coquettish angle hid sly, peering eyes. Rachel stopped in the doorway, every sense alert. Not a breath of air stirred. A good thing, too, she thought, trying to keep her composure. If a drapery had fluttered or a sleeve had moved, she would have dropped in her tracks.
    She heard no sound, from within the house or outside it. She told herself she must have been dreaming. She was wide awake now, shivering in the night-cool air; but the sense of imminent intrusion, of something demanding entry, did not diminish. She pressed the switch and the track lights overhead shone out, lighting the room like a stage set.
    She went from one window to another, shading her eyes, looking out, seeing only the normality of nighttime. But her skin was prickling and her mind denied the evidence of her eyes; she could feel it there, waiting, wanting—demanding—to come in.
    The sound came, not from without, but from behind her. She whirled around, lips parting in a cry she was too breathless with terror to utter.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” His black hair was disheveled and his eyes were heavy with sleep, but he stood erect, steadying himself with the crutches instead of leaning on them. One hand rested on the pocket of his robe.
    Rachel collapsed into the nearest chair. She was too short of breath to speak clearly; the words emerged in a whisper. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
    â€œI wasn’t asleep.” He swung himself toward her and stood by the chair looking down at her. “I’m the one who should apologize; I keep scaring you half to death, don’t I? What are you doing down here?”
    â€œI thought I heard something. A voice calling…I must have been dreaming.”
    Tilting her head back to meet his eyes, she was acutely aware of his nearness, and of the ragged condition of the old summer nightgown that left her arms and shoulders bare. She had a long-sleeved flannel nightshirt in one of her suitcases, but she had been too tired to look for it.
    â€œYou’re shivering,” Tony said. “It’s freezing in here. Put this around you.”
    Balancing on one crutch he reached out for the nearest thing at hand and threw it clumsily over her shoulders.
    Rachel rose to meet it, feeling the time-softened fabric settle around her like an embrace. The movement brought her so close to him that his face became a patchwork of isolated elements—the dark eyes, wide with surprise or some other, stronger emotion; a lock of black hair, lightly frosted with silver, curving over his temple; the thin, sensitive lips framed by his mustache. Her hand moved of its own