Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery (8 page)

It was only a little after eight. Plenty of time before I had to shower and look presentable for my appointment with Homer Wood to go over Granny’s will. I emptied the underwear and socks from my sweatshirt pillow back into my suitcase and pulled on the sweatshirt and the only jeans I’d packed for what was supposed to be a short business trip. I was staring into the open freezer, contemplating a jog to the convenience store versus chipping off a corner of Ruth’s casserole and tossing it in the microwave, when someone knocked on the back door. It was testament to the comfortable sofa and Granny’s coverlet that I didn’t yelp and slam the freezer on my hand.

Ruth stood smiling on the doorstep, looking as though she’d stepped off the page of a vintage clothing Web site, but not because she wore a costume appropriate for the era depicted by the Homeplace. She’d stolen a pair
of Katharine Hepburn’s high-waisted trousers in a dark chocolate tweed and borrowed someone else’s buttery-biscuit-colored twinset. As I’d obviously entered the describing-colors-in-terms-of-food stage of starving, I was delighted to see she also held a bakery bag and two cups nestled in a cardboard drink caddy.

“Coffee and a choice,” she said when I opened the door. “I wasn’t sure if you have a morning sweet tooth or not so I brought sausage biscuits and cherry almond Danish.”

“Perfect choices! From Mel’s?” I tried not to embarrass myself by grabbing the bag from her.

“Mel’s, of course. It’s the only place anyone should ever go for Danish. I left home a little early and stopped by on the way.”

“You’re an angel.”

“No, I’m not.” She entrusted me with the booty, going unerringly to a cupboard for plates and a drawer for forks, obviously familiar with the kitchen.

I started to wonder about her denial of angelhood, then opened the bag and fell in love. “I think you better hurry if you want your share.”

She chuckled, and doled out the plates and forks, but didn’t sit when I did. Instead, her smile flickered and dimmed. “Kath,” she finally said, gripping the back of the chair opposite mine. “I am so sorry. Cole Dunbar called me this morning.”

“Oh, well, I should have…”

“For heaven’s sake, what are
you
apologizing for?” She laughed, her eyes looking pained.

“Um.” I shrugged a shoulder.

“I started to tell you about Emmett yesterday. About the murder.” She stopped, looked down at her hands, shook her head. “I hate saying that word. The whole thing was terrible
beyond
words. Something I’d like to forget.”

Me, too, I thought. Along with most of the previous evening. Not to mention Granny’s funeral.

“After living in this town as long as I have, you would think I’d know a story like that wasn’t going to keep two hours, much less overnight. I should have told you about the situation yesterday. Anyway, I’ll understand, completely, if you don’t want to stay here after all.”

“Ruth—” I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, but it didn’t matter because she had her piece prepared and shushed me with a flip of her hand.

“Kath, I have to tell you, I was very glad to find you still here. It gave me a real sense that things can return to normal. That they
will
return to normal. But I need you to tell me, on top of everything else you were dealing with yesterday, after hearing about Em, were you able to get any sleep at all?”

“Yes.”

She looked both surprised and pleased by that answer. I was surprised by it myself, and gave it a quick fact check to make sure I wasn’t just playing the role of Polite Girl by feeding her a line to make her feel better. No, with only a minor adjustment, it looked as though the “yes” could stand.

“Actually, I slept on the sofa. And I won’t lie, the night did get off to a rocky start, but after I triple-checked the locks on the doors and windows, yes, I did get a reasonably good night’s sleep.” I hesitated before continuing, looking around at the kitchen, all parts of which were once again in focus. Quiet and dry, too. But was it “normal”? Probably more normal than the apparitions running amok in my head the night before.

I looked back at Ruth. She’d been waiting through my hesitation, watching my perusal of the kitchen with interest. She didn’t strike me as a person who believed in paranormal anything. Good. More power to her. I didn’t believe in any of it, either, I told myself firmly. I picked up one of the cups of coffee she’d brought and held it up to her in a toast. “Ruth, if it is indeed all right with you,
I’d like to stay. At least until this mess over Granny’s house is straightened out.”

“Excellent. And leave the straightening out to Handsome Homer. That’s his specialty.” That settled, she scooped up the biscuits and Danish and put them in the microwave for a reheat. The microwave did its thing with an efficient hum, then beeped, and Ruth returned the pastries to the table. “Bless Mel’s miracles,” she said, sitting down across from me. “Let’s eat.”

Had anyone ever asked me if there was a witch operating somewhere in Blue Plum or its environs, after first scoffing, I would have pointed my finger at Melody Gresham. Mel works pure magic at Mel’s on Main, her bakery slash café slash sorcerer’s kitchen. Anyone within several blocks of Main Street can close their eyes and easily stumble their way to Mel’s by simply following their nose to the headwaters of cinnamon, yeast, and whatever spices dance through the day’s tantalizing specials. Back home, surrounded by the flat farmlands of central Illinois, I’ve dreamed of Mel’s paninis piled high with roasted portobellos and Brie and mounds of thick, crisp, homemade potato chips capped with melting blue cheese. She outdid herself with the cherry almond Danish that morning. The sausage biscuits weren’t too shabby, either.

“Look, you match.” I pointed from my biscuit to Ruth’s twinset, pleased that I’d pegged the color.

“Yummy, isn’t it?” she said, admiring her sleeve. “For me, looking at yarn on an empty stomach is more dangerous than shopping for food. I bought the wool for this when I skipped lunch one day.”

“You knit that? The stitches are so tiny. It’s gorgeous.”

“I’m good, aren’t I?” There was no hint of bragging in her statement and no need for it; the twinset did the bragging for her. “Ivy taught me. Another thing I loved her for. She gave my ADHD fingers a purpose. Apparently I’m a natural.” She brushed a crumb from her front
and adjusted the drape of the cardigan. “I found the pattern in one of those old boxes up on the third floor at the Cat. Ivy even had mother-of-pearl buttons up there.”

“Ivy’s Archives. Old wool and notions don’t go baaaad,” I bleated. “They just move up a floor and wait for the right customer to come along decades later.”

Ruth laughed behind her napkin and a mouthful of Danish.

“I told Granny the shop was like reverse archaeology. The older the artifact, the higher up it floated in the stratigraphic layers of the store.”

A sip of coffee cleared her throat and then Ruth cocked her head. “What are your plans for the Cat? Sell it?” No beating around the bush for Ruth. When I didn’t answer right away, she rushed to reassure me. “I don’t mean to pry, Kath, and you certainly don’t need to answer my nosy questions. It’s just that we are all wondering.”

“Me, too. That’s the simple answer, anyway. I’m wondering, too. I love the place as much as anyone.”

“But.”

“Yeah. But.”

“We’d hate to lose it. It’s hard enough losing Ivy.”

I tried to speak but my throat had closed. In fact, with this turn of the conversation, my whole body had drawn in on itself. Shoulders up, arms crossed, one leg twined around the other, chin tucked. It was a perfect demonstration of a new yoga posture I’d call the Stress Pretzel. I made an effort to uncoil and take a deep breath.

“I’m meeting with your husband this morning and then someone at the bank.”

“Rachel Meeks?”

“That sounds right.”

“Good. Between Homer and Rachel, you’re in safe hands. They’ll help you sort your thoughts and plans from the purely emotional to the starkly financial. And now it’s time for me to hit the office before we throw our
gates open to the clamoring public.” She pushed back her chair and started clearing the table.

“I’ll get that, Ruth. Thanks for stopping by with breakfast. It was a feast and very welcome.”

“My pleasure, and my penitence. Again, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the situation with Emmett myself. When Cole Dunbar called this morning and said he dropped by last night and let it slip, I could have kicked myself.”

Dropped by? Let it slip?
Ruth had started for the back door when she said that, so she missed my complete and absolute dumbfoundedness, which couldn’t have left me anything but pop-eyed. She didn’t know why Dunbar “dropped by”? He didn’t tell her about the break-in?

“I think it’s sweet the way Cole was worried about you,” she said, pulling the door open. “I didn’t realize you knew him.”

That louse. He didn’t tell her. Why in blue blazes not?

“It’s good to have you here, Kath,” she called with a wave over her shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

“Sure,” I squeaked. “Bye.”

Deputy Dirty Rat Louse of a Dunbar. I knew why he hadn’t told her about the break-in. He didn’t believe it had happened.

Chapter 8

“M
r. Wood will be a few more minutes yet, Ms. Rutledge. I do apologize for the wait. Would you like another magazine? I’d offer you coffee or tea, but Mr. Wood likes the down-home touch of offering refreshments himself, so you’ll also have to wait for that and I apologize for that delay as well.” Homer Wood’s receptionist seemed to enjoy apologizing for him. “I would bring you a glass of water, only we have a man in doing some work on our kitchenette this morning and he found it necessary to turn the water off.”

“Thank you, I’m fine, Ms. O’Dell.”

“Please do call me Ernestine.”

“Ernestine, thank you. Really, I am fine.” I leafed through the magazine she’d first handed me to demonstrate how fine I was.

Homer Wood’s reception area, in a sizable alcove opposite Ernestine’s desk, was a pleasant enough place to wait. I could imagine Handsome Homer’s clients shedding their anxieties about laws and infractions as they crossed the plush carpet. Their trepidations about shyster lawyers would slip away as they settled into the palatial leather wing chairs, and confident visions of contracts and estate planning would visit them as they gazed into the highly polished surface of the mahogany coffee table. The deep burgundy walls, the somber framed landscapes,
the issues of
Architectural Digest
and
Fine Art Connoisseur
whispered, “Trust me.”

Ernestine O’Dell sat behind her orderly desk, smiling in my general direction, hands clasped on the large desk calendar that served as a blotter. She was easily in her late sixties and possibly in her late seventies. Her glasses were so thick I wasn’t sure how clearly she saw me. It was tempting to find out by making faces, but the setting and the occasion weren’t appropriate.

“You might be wondering,” Ernestine said, still smiling, “how Mr. Wood will offer you coffee or tea if we have no water from the tap this morning. He has one of those large bottles of spring water in his office.” She measured off the size and shape of an imaginary version of the bottle, her eyes growing larger behind her thick lenses at the thought of the bottle’s amazing dimensions. “I told the man who delivers them he should use a hand truck to save his back. I doubt he paid me any mind.” She refolded her hands. “Also, I should tell you, though I’m sorry to do so, but due to the water situation, we have no facilities this morning.”

“Oh. That’s inconvenient.”

“Wait until you’re my age and you’ll really know how inconvenient it is. In the meantime, we can run across the street to the courthouse if necessary.”

That was an oddly chummy thought and I returned her smile in case she could see my face from that distance. The chairs in the waiting area were deep and wide enough for two of me. I perched on the edge of one in order to remain politely upright. When Ernestine had ushered me in I’d dithered over taking a chair facing her or choosing one of the others. Sitting in profile with my allotted magazine might have indicated my desire for personal space and privacy, but I liked the twinkle in Ernestine’s thick lenses. And the clutter of small talk was more appealing than being stuck alone in my own
head anticipating the emotions of hearing Granny’s last will and testament read out in lawyerly tones.

“How long will the water be off?”

“I’m sorry.” Ernestine smiled. “I don’t have that information. The man doing the work is another one of Mr. Wood’s good deeds.” If eyebrows could supply air quotes, hers did for the words “good deeds.”

My own eyebrows rose in question but she either didn’t see them or missed them, and I lost my chance to find out what she meant.

“Lord love a duck,” she said, slapping her hands on the desktop. “I’ve only just realized. You’re Ivy McClellan’s granddaughter.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Bless your heart and bless hers, too. Oh, my goodness, I was so sorry to hear she passed.” Ernestine put a hand to her own heart and I had no trouble believing her sincerity. “But,” she said, a bit of the twinkle returning, “as you are Ivy’s granddaughter, you won’t mind if I do this.” She swiveled in her chair, took a knitting bag from a lower drawer, and plopped it on the desk. “Unprofessional, I know, but my first great-grandson is on the way”—she pulled a cloud of soft blue from the bag—“and I have miles to go before he can sleep under this.”

“You go right ahead.”

“Bless your heart. I wouldn’t ordinarily knit on Homer’s time, but with Ivy’s granddaughter sitting right here in front of me, I think it’s the proper thing to do. My tribute to a wonderful woman.” Ernestine and I were suddenly old friends. She relaxed into her knitting and started whistling a jaunty version of “My Blue Heaven.”

The flicker of her needles and the shimmer of yarn transforming before my eyes mesmerized me and I wondered why in blue heaven’s name I let my job hijack my own creative energy. Except that wasn’t entirely true. My work at the museum had a perfectly willing accomplice.
Me. True, there was a lot of the analytical and unromantic to my job. Microscopes, test tubes, and fumigation hoods can’t help themselves that way, bless their hearts. But the job did take several micrograms of creativity and an unquantifiable spatter of imagination to pick apart and unravel the problems and mysteries presented by antique textiles. The horrid stain I’d found on a fragile eighteenth-century chemise might have been nothing more unpleasant than an accident with red wine, but arriving at that answer and deciding on a next step was the kind of excitement I studied long and hard to be a part of. Chemical analysis? It thrilled me. Wiping out a weevil infestation? It wowed me, if not exactly to the point of making me giddy, at least leaving me satisfied that I’d saved one small corner of the world.