Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery (19 page)

“Your hour of need? For a skunk of an old man who blackmailed a sweet little old lady?”

“Love is never simple, is it? I’ve watched enough hours of Dr. Phil and Dr. Ruth to know that much. And I never miss Oprah. She’s almost a doctor, too.” She sat up straighter and began to sound more alive. “This is rather
exciting now that I think about it.” Her wispy hands came together in a soundless clap. “I also adore
Law & Order
and
CSI
and
Andy Griffith
, all those cop shows, so I know exactly how you need to go about this. Start by investigating that little old lady you mentioned. It should be dead easy to prove she killed darling Em.”

Chapter 18

I
spent a second night in that house. Despite the ghost. Mostly because it was pouring again, and I couldn’t bear to schlep my suitcase out into the waterlogged dark to find a motel.

It might have been a sleepless night. I didn’t have earplugs to muffle the deluge drumming on the tin roof or Ms. Histrionic’s wails. She turned them on as soon as I refused to cooperate with her plan to pin Emmett Cobb’s murder on Granny. Her level of melodrama increased from barely tolerable to nearly excruciating the longer I tried. Luckily, a cunning plan occurred to me.

Ignoring Her Dolefulness, I fetched my laptop, opened it on the kitchen table, plugged it in, and powered up. Next, I reset the screen saver so it would display photographs from one of my picture files in a continuous random slide show without reverting to a blank screen. Then I started an MP3 I’d downloaded of a Sharyn McCrumb mystery. I didn’t say anything, didn’t tell the ghost what I was doing. She’d moved to the counter beside the sink and appeared to be cradling herself in the dish drainer, moping in a gray heap, with her back to me.

The slide show—shots I’d taken over the years of the Smokies, Blue Plum, the Weaver’s Cat, and Granny—didn’t exactly coordinate with McCrumb’s
The Ballad of Frankie Silver
, but the narration and the pictures complemented
each other fairly well. If I’d had Internet access, I could have let the poor thing console herself with her beloved TV shows. Instead, maybe McCrumb’s story or the photographs would capture her attention so she wouldn’t follow me upstairs and haunt me in my sleep.

I tiptoed out, leaving Ms. Mope to discover the magic of computer entertainment on her own. Holding my breath, creeping up the stairs, furtively brushing my teeth, slipping into bed and under Granny’s coverlet, I thanked Sharyn McCrumb for providing twelve hours and fifty-six minutes of auditory distraction for a depressed, television-addicted ghost. And I thanked the programmer who invented the screen-saver slide show. And Granny for the coverlet. And Ruth for sharing it. And tried not to think of Emmett Cobb’s horrible death by poison in that very bed. It wasn’t easy. But the exhaustion of several days with too little sleep swept over me and carried me off.

Homer called the next morning before either the sun or I was up. Well before McCrumb’s story was due to conclude in the kitchen, too, and I wondered if sometime during the night the ghost lost interest in the laptop’s charms. But she didn’t shimmer into view at the end of the bed when the phone startled me awake, and a quick check of the room didn’t reveal a damp lump snoring nearby. Maybe my idea for overnight ghost care had worked. Good. When she was out of sight, I felt much less out of my mind.

It was too early for an ordinary phone call, so I braced myself when Homer’s somber lawyer’s voice greeted me. But it was good news and I sat up, rejuvenated and ready to tackle the day, after he delivered it.

Max Cobb was back. He’d rolled into town in the wee hours and he’d agreed to drop by Homer’s office with a set of keys that would finally let me into Granny’s house.
Homer sounded pleased with himself about the negotiated delivery time. Max had said he’d drop the keys off shortly after noon, a time that Homer summarily dismissed. With only a little persuasion, Max swallowed a gigantic yawn and promised to put the keys in Ernestine’s hand no later than eight thirty. I didn’t ask Homer how he knew Max was home. Or what his persuasion techniques consisted of.

“Thank you, Homer.”

“Don’t thank me until we see if he follows through. And I haven’t gained a stay of execution yet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The new renters scheduled to move in at the first of the month. Wednesday.”

“Hoo boy.”

“Concisely stated. I’m hoping to negotiate for a delay at least until that weekend. That will give you a week, a more civilized period of time in which to remove Ivy’s belongings. In the meantime I have the name of someone who can arrange help for the heavy furniture. He’s not a professional mover, but he’ll be efficient and he also owns an acre or so of those metal storage buildings. Unless you’ve already made arrangements to move everything back to Illinois?”

“No, the ‘hoo boy’ pretty much summed up the whole picture. Clear thinking stopped a couple of days ago.”

“That’s not surprising given the circumstances.”

“A few more days to empty and clean the house would be terrific, if you can get it.”

“I wish I could guarantee it. Ernestine will give you that fellow’s name and number. And I’ll have her call you when the keys arrive. I expect Mr. Cobb will show up on time, but there’s no need for you to be there or to waste your time waiting at the house if he doesn’t. And if he doesn’t make his appearance by eight thirty, I will
personally describe for him the special place in purgatory reserved for obstructionists when I do see him.”

I thanked Homer again and disconnected, picturing his raptor eyes skewering a tardy, blustering Max Cobb. For Max’s sake, I hoped he showed up full of cooperation with a jangling set of keys no later than eight twenty-nine. Seeing him squirm, other than in my mind’s eye, wasn’t appealing and I was glad Homer didn’t expect me to be there to witness it. But having the raptor on my side, ready to strike, gave me a reason to hop out of bed and make ambitious plans for the day.

Those plans did not include a ghost. Not her badgering, or her whining, or her theories about homicidal old ladies.

I pulled on my jeans and semigrungy sweatshirt. No need to doll myself up for a day of sorting, packing, and cleaning. Mouse-quiet, I crept to the top of the stairs and listened.

Only a mumble of narration came from the kitchen. I stifled a giggle when I pictured what I must look like sneaking around. I felt like a teenager slipping out of the house and almost went to check for a drainpipe to shinny down. Instead, shoes in one hand, purse slung over my shoulder, I eased down the stairs and along the wall until I could see what was going on in the kitchen.

It wasn’t easy to tell. The sun was just creeping in as I was creeping out and the ghost wasn’t much more than a ripple in that soft light. She blurred a chair and the end of the table opposite the computer. Her elbows were distinguishable, though, and they appeared to be planted on the table. Using them as a starting point, I was able to make out her hands propping her chin up. She sat, leaning forward, staring at the laptop, enrapt. A ghost hypnotized by gadgetry.

Except for the photographs sliding on and off the
screen, and for the odd effect of the air undulating where she took up space, nothing moved. McCrumb’s words were the only sound. No whiff of moldering, ghostly wool or linen tickled my nose—just a trace of tuna casserole.

I crossed the room undetected, invisible as a ghost myself. Rattling the door chain would make me feel like Marley, but I resisted the temptation and muffled the chain and the click of the dead bolt with my hand.

I did wonder about leaving the laptop, open and inviting. But the likelihood of Joe Look-At-Me-I’ve-Got-Keys waltzing in and grabbing it when he knew I knew whatever it was I thought I knew about him was pretty slim. Or so it seemed after a night’s sleep. Besides, I couldn’t take the laptop with me. My ghost was using it.

Before pulling the door shut, I glanced over my shoulder. A picture of Granny standing behind the counter at the Weaver’s Cat disappeared as I watched. Just the way she had. There one minute, then gone. I closed and locked the door and fumbled in a pocket for a tissue.

Breakfast at Mel’s was first on the agenda. But because I tended to thumb my nose at agendas, even my own, I took a detour and drove down Lavender Street first. I stopped the car and sat looking at Granny’s house, drawing peace of mind from the lines of the roof, the porch, the windows, the front door she told me a million times not to slam. I almost got out so I could wait on the porch swing for Ernestine’s call telling me the keys were in hand. Then my stomach growled and I decided fortifying myself with substantial calories was a better use of my time.

Walking into Mel’s on Main is like walking into a fog of bacon, coffee, and yeast. That morning hints of onion soup and overtones of berry pie also drifted past. The memory of killer brownies lingered, too, but my nose
returned to the bacon and coffee and I followed them to the counter.

Mel herself stood behind the counter, a pencil behind each ear and two more sticking out of her apron’s bib pocket. The apron was an intense mustard color, her spiked hair even more so. The last time I’d seen her, apron and hair were violet. She looked up from taking a camera-slung couple’s order and spotted me.

“You couldn’t stop by sooner? Get over here.” She grabbed me in a hug across the counter, putting a hand on the back of my neck and pulling my ear close to her lips. “I’m sorry about Ivy, but I don’t do funerals,” she whispered, “or burials. It’s rude, but that’s tough.” She let me go and lifted her chin. Tough. That was how Mel wanted the world to see her.

“It’s good to see you, too, Mel.”

“Get back in line.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I snapped a salute and retreated.

“Sorry,” Mel said to the touristy couple. “She’s from up north. Indinois or Ohiowa or some such outlandish place. Gets impatient and tries to jump.” She made a shooing motion at me. “None of your sass, missy. Right to the back of the line.”

The couple and I were the only ones
in
line, so that confused them. Mel gave them complimentary doughnuts and they sat down looking unsure but pleased with their good fortune.

“What’ll it be?” Mel asked me.

I bit my tongue against asking for the brownie I’d missed the night before. “Spinach omelet wrap and coffee, please. And can you slip some bacon in the wrap?”

“For you? Anything. For here?”

“To go.”

“You have someplace you need to be this early?”

I’d decided to risk spilling breakfast on myself eating in the car outside Homer’s office. That way I’d be on the
spot when Ernestine called. I looked at Mel’s Rosie the Riveter clock. Seven forty-five. Maybe I’d been overeager. But this way I’d catch sight of Max if the fear of Homer prompted him to show up early and drop the keys through the mail slot. I wanted to see Max Cobb, wanted to see what a man looks like who’d turn an old lady’s possessions out in the cold and who willingly married into the Spivey family. But in thinking that through, I didn’t answer Mel fast enough.

She tsked and turned to the order hatch. “Popeye omelet, sharp cheddar, side of sausage, side of rye, coffee black, for here.” Turning back to me, she said, “In honor of Ivy. That’s what she liked and here’s where she liked it. In fact, it’s slow, so I’ll join you.” She untied her apron and hung it on a peg below the hatch. “Double that last order,” she called through the hatch. “Couple of large mango juices, too.”

She led us to a round table in one of the front windows, maneuvering so she faced the window and the door. “The better to see who’s coming in,” she said.

Mel’s was in an old, narrow hardware store, abandoned for a dozen years after the owner died. Tough Mel, medium height and roughly my age, moved home to Blue Plum and bought the building with money from her divorce. Her brother pulled down the shelving, exposing the brick walls. She refinished the chestnut floors and designed the kitchen. He repainted the pressed-tin ceiling. They hung enlargements of black-and-white photographs their newspaperman grandfather took of Main Street in the forties and fifties. Then her brother joined the Marines and Mel started cooking.

“How’s business, Mel?”

“Hopping.”

We looked around at the generally hopless café. Quiet munching went on at a few tables. Others showed evidence of recent occupation. Mel shrugged.

“Tourists don’t get up early. My early-morning bread and butter’s over there.” She nodded toward the back where half a dozen old men sat talking over empty plates. “This is their clubhouse. Gives them a reason to get up and out in the morning.”

One of the men raised his cup to Mel.

“You need more coffee, Carl?”

“Wouldn’t mind.”

“You know where it is. Go on, now, and stir yourself. Don’t make me come over there.”

The other men laughed as Carl rose, laughing too, and limped over to the pot.

“Wouldn’t do to baby him,” Mel said watching his slow progress. “He’s eighty-eight. Fetching coffee is cheaper than physical therapy and nagging him reminds him of his late wife. So”—she turned to me again—“where were you taking my good hot breakfast? The Cat’s not open until ten. My informants say you’re staying at the Homeplace. Danish travels that far, omelets not so much.” She cocked her head. “And I hear through the Spivey vine that there’s trouble over Ivy’s house. Don’t pretend you’re shocked. I’m nosy and good at eavesdropping.”

She talked a lot. I’d forgotten.

“Come on, spill. You know I won’t pump it back
into
the Spivey vine. Heard in confidence, it stays with me. Overheard in passing, or loitering with intent, it’s fair game for sending on down the line. Hold up, though—here’s our Ivy McClellan Memorial Breakfast.”

While our plates were set down and we lifted glasses of too-sweet mango juice in Granny’s memory, I decided it couldn’t hurt to fill Mel in—leaving out words like “blackmail” and “ghost.” In return, maybe she’d dredge up something useful she’d overheard. She ate and listened with characteristic intensity. When I finished laying out the snarled strands of the story, I drained my coffee, wishing Granny had gone in for cream and sugar. Mel
immediately refilled my cup from an insulated carafe, a luxury she apparently didn’t believe in offering the gimpy old men. She batted my hand when I reached for sugar.