Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery (3 page)

From what I could see through the wrap, there wasn’t anything special about the envelope. Just standard legal size. Several sentences in Granny’s neat script stretched across the front. I shook the worst of the rain from the plastic and then unwrapped it, being careful of stray drips.

Kath, Dearie, don’t open this envelope just yet. Find some time when you can be alone this evening. Fix yourself a cup of cocoa. You might as well add a nip, while you’re at it. Then make yourself comfortable, read this letter, and remember, always, I am your loving Granny.

Cocoa with a nip? An interesting suggestion—and I didn’t think she meant adding a dose of chili pepper to the
drink. Was she telling me I’d require a little something supportive while reading and digesting the contents of this letter? The orange plastic caught my eye from where I’d dropped it on the floor. It didn’t look quite as cheery now. More like orange for caution.

Ardis could probably shed some light on Deputy Dunbar’s remarks, but this letter? I read Granny’s instructions again.
Find some time when you can be alone this evening.
Hmm.

I tucked the envelope in my purse and headed into Blue Plum for the clandestine wake at the Weaver’s Cat.

Every time I returned to Blue Plum as an adult, I was struck by how small everything looked. The Victorian houses with their curlicues of gingerbread and deep front lawns, the redbrick storefronts lining Main Street downtown, the three-story courthouse, and the soaring church spires all loomed large in my childhood memories. In reality, the town sat toward the “quaint” end of the municipal scale. It was a tidily stitched sampler rather than a blanket of mass-produced yardage. On the other hand, the Weaver’s Cat, Granny’s pet, seemed to expand every time I turned around.

Main Street was awash with the rain. I waited behind an idling bus while a gaggle of die-hard tourists hopped off, ducked their heads, and darted into the beckoning shops. Only the Weaver’s Cat was dark that afternoon. A few shoppers stood on the porch, obviously wishing they were inside the store. The colors and textures displayed in the windows and the enticing glimpses of more skeins and fibers farther in lured even the most resolute. Anyone with the least fiber fetish had to work very hard not to salivate when stepping over the threshold. Finding the door locked must have been painful.

I turned the corner and found a parking space in the lot across the side street. The Cat occupied one of the
attached houses in the only row house in town. A doctor from Philadelphia, with an itch to construct, built the row in the 1850s, using bricks made on-site in the backyard. The three houses could have been called One, Two, and Three, or A, B, and C, or something more fanciful such as Lilac, Lily, and Loosestrife, but instead were dubbed Left House, Middle House, and Right House. My grandparents received Left House as a wedding present a hundred years or so after Dr. Thompson built it, and Granny turned the backyard into her garden.

“Come on in before you wash away.” Ardis was watching for me and opened the back door. “We’ve got food.”

“Bless you.” I hadn’t taken the time for breakfast, hadn’t stopped for lunch. “In the kitchen?”

“No, on through and upstairs.” Ardis led me through the kitchen, which doubled as a classroom, and up the steep back stairs.

People who were focused on the utility of big-box stores might see the Weaver’s Cat as an inefficient enigma. But anyone who ever imagined turning an old house, with all its rooms and nooks, into a shop full of quirks and charm, finds perfect and comfortable sense there. The shop started in a small way, more like a kitten, taking up a cozy corner of Granny’s front parlor. Over the years, as her interests meandered and grew, the shop spread and spilled over into one room after another. After my mother left home and my grandfather died, Granny let the Cat stretch and take over the house completely. She bought another little house over on Lavender Street and happily walked home there each night to sleep.

“We’re borrowing TGIF’s space.” Ardis puffed over her shoulder. “We didn’t want people seeing lights on downstairs. They can wait to shop one more day and we’ll
open again tomorrow, like Ivy wanted. Whew. Can you believe she was still running up and down these stairs?”

We stopped at the top for Ardis to catch her breath. She probably hadn’t run up or down the stairs in a decade but was happy to plow her steady way in either direction whenever it was called for. She often said her two regrets about growing older were thinning hair and a thickening waist. Neither seemed to bother her overmuch.

“Who all is here?” I asked.

Ardis smiled. “Wait’ll you see. It was Debbie’s idea.”

She crossed the landing to one of the rear bedrooms, now taken over by TGIF—Thank Goodness It’s Fiber—an eclectic group of fiber and needlework artists that Granny started way back when. They taught classes, donated their creations to the hospital gift shop, and helped organize the annual Blue Plum Fiber Festival. Some of the older members gave the impression they’d taken up residence in the overstuffed chairs dotted around the shop. Two or three or four of them were always there, working away at the latest projects and gossip.

“Here she is,” Ardis announced to the room but blocking the doorway and my view of the gathering.

By the murmured exclamations, I guessed the room was full of people. There were hurried shuffles of feet and scrapes of chairs. I detected the ever-present scent of wool laced with promising whiffs of coffee, just-baked bread, and melted chocolate. Someone whispered; someone else shushed. My stomach growled. Then Ardis stepped aside for the big reveal.

A dozen or so women faced the door. Faced me. Their eyes shining, reflecting their warmth and love. And something else. Anticipation?

A small movement to the right drew my attention. Debbie leaned down and lifted the hem of her long embroidered skirt. And then I knew what they were waiting
for. With a catch in my breath, I looked from one to the other, all the way around the room. Every one of them wore or held something knitted or stitched or woven from Granny’s threads and yarns—sweaters, hats, scarves. Ardis had joined them, pulling on a deep-rose-colored ruana. One member held a basket overflowing with a rainbow of skeins; another had draped herself in a tablecloth large enough to be a tent. When she caught my eye she did a twirl. And Debbie’s lifted hem exposed a pair of ridiculous, glorious puce, raspberry, and tangerine argyle socks. The room was alive with Granny and I couldn’t help laughing.

“We were afraid you’d cry,” Debbie said.

“I can do that, too.”

“But let’s not, at least for now,” said Ardis. “Come on over here and see what a feast we have.”

The women parted and Ardis ushered me to the back of the room, where four mismatched Welsh cupboards lined the wall, providing storage for TGIF’s various materials. The dresser tops were clear of the usual disarray of spindles, niddy-noddies, and whatnot. Instead, each was covered with a pretty lace or embroidered dresser scarf and each offered its own tempting contribution to the wake. On the first sat the bread I’d smelled from the hallway—three round, crusty loaves, raisins peeking from their split tops. The loaves smelled even better at close range. A plate of creamy herbed goat cheese sat on the second dresser. On the third were two flat, round cakes glinting with caramelized sugar and studded with chunks of dark chocolate. I held my hands over them, felt the warmth rising. Obviously straight from the oven. A coffee urn and two glass pitchers of juice or punch sat on the last dresser.

It all looked like heaven. Except maybe the stuff in the pitchers, which appeared to be thick, almost opaque,
and was an eyebrow-raising shade of pinkish, reddish, I-wasn’t-sure-what-color. I hated to prejudge it, but it looked either way too fruity and sweet or too spiked for an empty stomach.

“I hope you don’t mind, but we didn’t want to do the casserole thing,” Ardis said as we filled plates.

“Oh, please. Granny was so not casseroles. This is perfect.”

Debbie stood by the last dresser, handing full cups and glasses to people.

“Just coffee, thanks, Debbie.”

“No, no, try this.” She handed me a glass of the red stuff.

“Fruit punch?” I asked, trying to look happy about it.

“Don’t worry. It’s safe,” she said with a wink.

Ardis and I juggled our plates and drinks over to one of the room’s oak worktables. We joined the formerly-tablecloth-draped TGIF member, who introduced herself as Thea Green. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her until she said she was from the library.

“It’s the Queen Latifah look that throws people,” she said.

“That and the voice,” Ardis said.

“What can I say? I’m a loud librarian. I’ve thought about pushing a cart of books around with me as a visual aid, but then they’d be handing me overdue books when I’m in the checkout line at the grocery store. And expect me to make change.”

“Oh, gosh, I’d better look to see if Granny has any books out.”

“All taken care of,” Thea said. “She had a couple of mysteries out. Maybe a Peter Lovesey and the latest
Murder, She Wrote.
I’ll keep them renewed until you turn them in.”

“Thank you.”

Looking around the room, I realized Nicki wasn’t there. Over the sounds of contented munching, I asked Ardis how Nicki was doing.

“She was in shock. Well, we all still are,” Ardis said, “but, for Nicki, being the one to find her, well, you can imagine.”

I didn’t want to, but I could.

“I know, I know.” Ardis patted my hand. “It’s going to take time, honey. And don’t worry about Nicki. She’s coping and she’s full of bubble. She loved Ivy and she loves a party, too, so we might see her yet. Now, tell me, did you notice the theme of the food?”

I roused myself from my imagination and looked at the food in front of me. “Mmm, besides delicious?” I looked at the hunk of bread I’d smeared with goat cheese, popped it in my mouth, chewed, savored, swallowed. “Rosemary? Wait a second.” I took another bite of cake. The caramelized sugar gave the top a wonderful crunch; the chocolate was still semimelted. “Is there rosemary in everything?”

Ardis nodded. “For remembrance. That was Debbie’s idea, too.”

Debbie, watching from across the room, smiled and toasted me with her glass of red drink.

“Rosemary and raisins in the bread, rosemary in the goat cheese, and rosemary and chocolate in the cake, which is something I’ve never heard of but definitely want the recipe for,” I said. “But what is this?” I held my glass of as-yet-untasted punch to the light. It was actually gorgeous. “Okay, I’ll swallow.” I did and it was, indeed, thick. And tart with lemon…

“It’s rosemary-infused watermelon lemonade,” Debbie said, joining us. “Ivy’s latest addiction.”

“Wow.” I completely understood that addiction.

“And let me tell you, it’s not easy finding good watermelon this time of year.” She’d anticipated my reaction
to the concoction and brought one of the pitchers over with her. She poured me another glass.

Below, the kitchen door banged and a voice called, “Hello, all!” Light footsteps ran up the stairs and Nicki appeared.

“Hello, all. Here I am. It’s stopped raining and I saw a double rainbow over Banner Mountain. That has to be good luck, don’t you think? It made me feel better, anyway. Even if Ivy did step over one of them, its twin will bring some part of her back again. I think I kind of believe that could happen, too. Isn’t that funny? Oh, Debbie, I’m sorry I wasn’t here in time for your surprise. It was such a cute idea, too. Look, Kath, here’s my part of the tribute to Ivy.”

I didn’t remember what Nicki wore at the cemetery, but it wasn’t what she had on now. She struck a model’s pose, there in the doorway, showing off a jacket made from indigo fabric as dark and lucent as a midnight sky—Granny’s signature dye color and one that’s very difficult to achieve consistently. The jacket narrowed slightly at Nicki’s waist, then flared with a short peplum. It was beautiful, though it would need taking in a bit to fit her perfectly.

I couldn’t be sure without seeing it closer, but from where I sat, the fabric looked like raw silk. The buttons, nearly matching the fabric’s color, were unobtrusive, allowing the texture, cut, and drape to take center stage. I was by no means a clotheshorse, but I felt drawn to that jacket like a silk moth to mulberry.

“That’s absolutely beautiful,” I said, wondering if I sounded as jealous as I felt.

“Oh, do you think so? Thanks, Kath. That means so much to me. Hang on a tick. I’ll get a plate and I’ll be right over.”

“She’s bubbling, for the time being, anyway,” I said quietly to Ardis.

Nicki came back with minuscule portions of everything and sat next to me.

“Do you mind if I…”

“Touch it? Of course not,” Nicki said. “Wipe your fingers first, though, would you?”

“Nicki!” Debbie sounded scandalized. “Kath knows more about handling textiles than any of us. She’s a professional whatchamacallit.”

Being a polite, as well as professional, textile preservationist, I didn’t laugh at Debbie’s flub of my credentials or bridle at Nicki’s precaution. I smiled at both, carefully wiped my hands on a clean napkin, and touched the jacket at the sleeve and shoulder. Granny’s dyed and woven raw silk. I felt like petting it. I must have sighed.

“Oh, I know what you mean,” Nicki said. “I was so touched when Ivy gave it to me.”

“She did?” For a second, everything in the room stopped. Sound ceased. Movements froze. There was nothing but my hands on the jacket and Nicki’s smile after telling me my grandmother had given it to her. I didn’t know what had happened. And I didn’t know how. But I knew, absolutely, that Nicki was lying.

Chapter 3

I
left soon after Nicki joined us, claiming a headache and fatigue. The truth was, I couldn’t stand being near Nicki while she wore that jacket. How weird was that? I chalked my reaction up to my own shock over Granny’s death, forgave myself, and made plans with Ardis to meet the next day to discuss the future of the Weaver’s Cat, now that the weaver was gone.