Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery (10 page)

I did some deep breathing and inner admonishing. This was not the time to fall apart or lash out. I needed to concentrate on appreciating Homer’s efforts and consideration. But, really, a line like
during this sad time of transition?
Maybe he was lunch buddies with Neil Taylor, the funeral director, and couldn’t help absorbing phrases that sounded as though they came straight out of a mortuary science manual for model customer service. This probably wasn’t a time to snicker, either. Homer meant well. People usually do during sad times of transition. And if he were able to find answers and make things right, that would be a fine thing.

A list would be a fine thing, too, I thought, and I should have started one sooner. Granny always said any project worth beginning was worth beginning with a detailed list. I was a confirmed acolyte of that philosophy in my professional life and my private life. Arriving listless for my appointment with Homer was a sure indication of stress-related backsliding. It was easy enough to remedy that.

As I rummaged in my purse for a notebook, something bright, white, and lined caught my eye. The corner of a legal pad winked at me from Homer’s desk. A legal
pad would be larger than anything I had with me, with plenty of surface area, allowing for a better-designed list or even an outline or a diagram. Ooh, with that pad and my favorite mechanical pencil…I heard the siren call of having the right office supplies for the right job.

But I couldn’t do that. What if Homer’s personal notes were on that pad of paper? Or notes from another client’s appointment? Or notes scribbled during a conversation with someone who knew something about Emmett Cobb’s murder…What if my imagination was launching itself into the ozone?

I dug further for my crabbed little spiral-bound, locating it under my cell phone and a rolled-up reusable bag. I pulled the notebook out and kept my eyes from wandering back to the tempting legal pad. My bent and rumpled paper might produce something that looked more like an impromptu grocery list, but it would be an honest effort.

First bullet point on my list, with its attendant mini-bullets: Granny’s house on Lavender Street. Who owned it? Were the Spiveys and the uninformative rent-due notice correct and did Angela’s husband, Max, now own it? If Max owned it, how did that happen?
Did
he inherit it? From whom? And how had
that
happened? The initial phrasing of that question was more colorful before I marked through parts of it. Next, why were the locks changed? If the place was broken into, did anyone know if anything was missing? Missing. Oh my God.

Second bullet point: Maggie. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten about her again. Where was she? Locating Granny’s cat might not be exactly what Homer meant by finding answers, but her disappearance might be a clue to the break-in. If there’d been one.

Third point: Joe Pantry Guy and the break-in at the cottage. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but could the break-in at the cottage and the supposed break-in at Granny’s be related? Would Homer believe someone
broke in last night if the police didn’t? Could last night’s break-in be related to Emmett Cobb’s…

Fourth: Emmett Cobb’s murder.
Murder
. Ruth didn’t like saying the word and I discovered I had trouble writing it. I almost substituted something less permanent-sounding in its place. Then I pictured Cole Dunbar curling his lip at my squeamishness. I underlined “murder” twice. The sub-bullet I added below that really did make me feel squeamish. I scribbled it in anyway. Was Cole Dunbar right? Was Granny a suspect? Why? Then, to show I was an independent and possibly more astutely suspicious person than Cole Dunbar, I wrote down my own favorite suspect: Joe Pantry Guy. I thought about adding Dunbar, too, figuring I could make a case for him poisoning his poker buddy in a fit of pique, but I didn’t want to invite bad luck. Or incur the further wrath of a still pretty much unknown quantity of a cop. Which led to the next bullet point.

Fifth: Cole Dunbar. Was he an honest cop?

“I would have asked,” Homer said, coming back through from the kitchen, making me jump, “but I pegged you for a black tea drinker.” He carried a tray loaded with teapot, cups, creamer—the works—and set it on the desk, eclipsing my view of the legal pad. “It’s a knack I have. Choosing the right color tea for the right person and occasion. Ivy, for instance.”

“Granny only drank coffee.”

“Exactly.” Homer laughed. “‘Homer,’ she told me, ‘don’t waste your water if you’re going to run it through a teabag. I’ll have coffee and I’ll drink it black.’” His imitation of Granny was fair enough. I smiled, despite the list of unhappy questions glaring in my lap. Homer poured two cups and handed one to me. “Would you like anything in it?”

“No, thanks.” I doubted there was a nip of anything on the tray. Too early, anyway.

“I thought not. I’m a honey-and-lemon man, myself.” He sat in the chair opposite mine again, content with his tea and his parlor trick. “Now, tell me what you’ve been hearing and we’ll see what I can do to put your mind at ease.”

His charm and patter worked, as he must have known they would. I sat back, warmed my hands and breathed steam from the cup, took a sip. “Granny’s house on Lavender Street.”

“It’s yours, of course. Lock, stock, and the rain barrel she keeps in the backyard for her dyeing projects. A very pleasant little property which should have good resale value even in this economic climate.”

“But…”

“Only if you should choose to sell, of course. It might also bring you a tidy sum as a rental property. As for the property on Main Street, the business, the building, and the lot are yours. I would imagine you’ll be looking to sell those as well, and we’ll start probate. Are you familiar with that process? It can be lengthy, but with a single heir and an uncontested will…”

Words had failed me back at the “but” that he’d bulldozed under and right on past. Fortunately, my left hand took control of the situation, and while it flapped for Homer’s attention, my right hand valiantly kept tea from sloshing all over my lap.

Homer skidded to a stop. I related my encounter of yesterday afternoon with the locked door on Lavender Street and the Spiveys with their information bomb about someone named Max supposedly inheriting the house, and Granny owing back rent. Once started, momentum carried me downhill through every bullet point in my hastily assembled list. When I arrived, breathless, at the bottom, I looked up.

Homer sat motionless, completely focused. Then, without a word, he reached over and set his teacup on the
tray. He stood, walked around the desk to his own chair—his black, high-backed, throne of a chair—and sat down facing me. He moved the tea tray aside, placed the legal pad in front of him, lining it up with the edge of the desk, unnecessarily smoothed its flat, crisp surface, and took a pen from the inside pocket of his suit coat. He rolled his shoulders, adjusted his cuffs, turned his long nose toward me, giving me the look of an intent raptor. He clicked the pen.

“Go through it all again,” he said. “Slowly.”

Chapter 10

T
hat authoritative click of Homer’s pen woke me from my bad dream. There were no longer any answers he needed to find for me, because there weren’t any questions. He needn’t work his lawyer magic to make things right, because there were no snags, no wrinkles in my little patch of the world. Granny was gone—that was true and incontrovertible—but otherwise the forecast, thanks to Homer, was for smooth sailing through this time of transition. My life was suddenly almost jolly.

Sadly, it was also delusional. Of course the click of Homer’s pen didn’t jolt me out of troubled sleep. I was having a bit of a struggle to either feel or appear competent, but I was most definitely wide-awake. I started through my list of questions again.

Homer listened, made notes, and asked for clarification on several points. Did Shirley and Mercy say when the break-in on Lavender Street occurred? Did it look as though there actually had been a break-in? Had I walked around the house? Tried my key in the back door? Did I mention that break-in to Deputy Dunbar? Had I brought the rent notice with me? Did I know who Max was? His last name? The way Homer’s left eye narrowed when he asked about Max and looked at the receipt gave me the impression he was pretty sure he already knew who Max was.

Homer apologized, again, for being away when I could have used his help immediately. In fact, he said, he hadn’t returned until that morning. He hadn’t even seen Ruth yet.

His total concentration calmed me at the same time it disturbed me further. His attention to my concerns made me feel safe, even if I half hoped he would shrug me off with a smile and another pat on the hand. But the fact that he paid such serious attention also confirmed my worries. Far from there being no snags or wrinkles, my little patch of the world was unraveling and possibly moth-eaten. If that weren’t true, then why was Homer using up so many sheets of his legal pad?

I finished reading my list and waited. Homer made a few more notes. He had a light hand and the pen made a soft, expensive sound gliding over the paper. He glanced through his notes again, clicked the pen, and returned it to his inside pocket.

“I really appreciate Ruth coming to my rescue like that yesterday.”

“And you’re probably wondering why she didn’t call me in Nashville and tell me about this situation with Ivy’s house.”

I lifted one shoulder in what I hoped came across as a nonjudgmental shrug.

“If there had been a dire emergency she would have. No question,” Homer said. “But Ruth knows that I don’t discuss my clients’ business, and understands why, even in a situation such as this. There are circumstances wherein it is difficult to maintain lawyer-client privilege. In a small town—” He spread his hands and paused. “Well”—he refolded his hands and brought them to rest in the middle of the legal pad—“as you might imagine, it’s hard to keep anything private in Blue Plum. In the meantime, Ruth took care of the immediate needs of the situation, with her invariable capability, and she left me to gather initial impressions for myself, as I prefer.”

“Holmes.” That slipped out. Only halfway audible, though, thank goodness.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry. I was thinking how nice it is to be home. I’ve always thought of Blue Plum as a second hometown. People like Ruth and you, Homer, are part of the reason why.”

“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I nodded, wondering if he were prone to fits of melancholy or if he slipped into a smoking jacket when faced with long hours of difficult cogitation. Or was it Poirot who was so fond of gathering initial impressions?

“To be quite frank,” Homer said, abbreviating my digression, “I doubt I could have done anything more substantive for you than Ruth did had I been here yesterday, as late as all this happened. But here we are now, and we will find out what has happened and what is going on and what we can do about any of it.”

“So, what are your initial impressions?”

“In this town?” He spread his hands again, this time adding a quick smile that had a flash of sneer attached, unless I imagined it. “I wonder how any of this managed to stay quiet.”

“Granny was pretty good at keeping secrets.”

“Ivy was a practical woman.”

“And keeping secrets is practical? Huh. I never thought of it that way. But the secrets I’m thinking of are more along the lines of surprise parties or hiding a bicycle before a birthday.”

“Small things.”

“Compared to her not owning her house anymore, yes. Selling her house is a huge secret. And she kept it so secret she didn’t even change her will.” I was not going to mention, refused even to think about, her other huge “secret.” Except, maybe the business about being a witch
and the business with the house were part of the same problem. And not because she
was
a witch, but because she
thought
she was a witch.

“That is a curious point,” Homer said.

“What is?” Had I said “
witch”
out loud?

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked, looking at me more closely.

“Oh, yes, sorry. It’s just all of this…” Thank goodness for grief as a handy excuse. “I’m fine.” I took a sip of the now cold tea, then put the cup next to his on the tray. He smiled encouragingly. “Okay, I’m wondering two things, coming at this from different directions. First, is the house thing really a secret? The Spiveys knew about it, so maybe other people know and haven’t said anything because they assume I know, too.”

“A possibility. Ruth didn’t know anything about it, though?”

“No.”

“I haven’t heard anything about it, either. And Ivy did not change her will.”

“No. So, looking at this from the flip side, I wonder if it’s true? Did she really sell the house? What if she didn’t and someone’s trying to pull a fast one?”

“A fast what?”

“A fast property grab? I don’t know. But this guy, Max, is married to Mercy Spivey’s daughter, Angela, and there’s never been any love lost between Granny and the Spiveys.”

Homer’s beak inclined toward me. “Kath, be very careful what you say along those lines, and where, and to whom.”

“Libel?”

“Slander.”

“Oh, right.” I flapped a hand. “I always get those two confused.”

“It’s serious. I’m serious.”

“I am, too. Who’s Max—other than Angie’s husband?”

Homer’s left eye narrowed again, very slightly. Because of the poor manners I’d showed by lapsing into slander? Or at the mention of Max? He didn’t answer my question, but brought his pen back out and tapped it on the legal pad. He clicked it open, clicked it shut, open, shut, then made a check mark beside one of his notes. I was tempted to stand up so I could see better and try reading that note upside down. But placing myself more directly in front of that nose and those eyes wasn’t a comforting thought. It would be safer to approach obliquely, by swinging around behind him and reading over his shoulder. I gave myself a discreet pinch and told myself to pay attention.

“First, your idea of anyone pulling a fast one”—Homer paused and tapped his pen one more time before continuing—“to gain possession of a small, nondescript, basically insignificant house is unlikely.”