Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery (4 page)

“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” Ardis said.

“It might be closer to lunch. I don’t know how long it’ll take with the lawyer.”

“Whenever you get here is fine.”

She’d pressed me to take some of the food with me, but I’d lost my appetite. The headache and fatigue were true enough, and I got in the car, as happy to head for Granny’s little house on Lavender Street as she had always been at the end of a day. The house and the business were both mine now. I’d known since my mother died that Granny planned to leave everything to me. I’d just thought I would have a few more years before I had to deal with it all. At the next stop sign I rubbed my temples, wondering what my options were, realistically.

I had spent many of my childhood summers with Granny in Blue Plum, just as I told Deputy Dunbar. And I’d spent countless hours behind the sales counter, playing
at keeping store, a nuisance more than a help, most likely. I loved the Weaver’s Cat and I loved Blue Plum and even though I eventually took the academic rather than the business route, Granny quite easily passed her love of fibers along to me, too. I studied and worked hard to become the expert I was and I had my own successful career as a textile preservation specialist at the state museum, “up north there in Illinois,” as Dunbar put it.

Thinking of Deputy Dunbar made my headache worse. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten to ask Ardis what he could have meant about Granny’s death being “convenient.” And where did he get off calling her Crazy Ivy? Where had that stupid name come from, anyway?

I pulled into the driveway on Lavender Street, glad to be home, even without Granny there. Glad, that is, until I saw the Spivey twins sitting on the porch swing. One of them waved. The other held up a casserole dish and smiled. I killed the engine and groaned once, in private, before getting out.

“We wondered where you were,” the twin with the casserole called as I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk.

“Took you a while to get here from the cemetery,” said the other.

“Casserole’s about thawed out by now.”

“Was that your car in the lot over on Depot?”

They weren’t dressed alike, thank goodness, so I knew that as soon as I figured out which was Shirley and which was Mercy, I’d feel on firmer footing.

“We thought we’d do our duty and drop this by,” the one with the casserole said.

“That’s awfully kind of you, Sh—”

“Mercy.”

“Mercy, of course. Thank you.”

“No, I mean Mercy has something to tell you. I’m Shirley,” the casserole bearer said.

“Oh. Well, thank you, Shirley. Thank you both.” I held my hand out to take the casserole but Shirley held on to it. And then, unfortunately, my good manners went into overdrive. “Would you like to come in? I don’t know what there is to offer, but I’m sure there’s coffee and I’d love to make you a cup.”

They smiled and nodded and I dug for the keys, which weren’t in my hand anymore. While my manners had been inviting the Spiveys in for coffee, my better judgment had dropped the keys back in my purse and buried them, trying to save me. The Spiveys smiled and waited.

“Ah, here we go.” I dragged the wayward things out and fumbled my duplicate of the house key into the lock. To no avail. Confused, I looked to be sure I had the right one. Yes, the one with the cat key fob. Just like Granny’s. The cat on the fob was the cat from the store’s logo. I tried again. And again. Felt like swearing.

“Huh,” Shirley said. “Isn’t that something? Ours didn’t work, either.”

“What?” I turned and looked at her. “Since when do you have a key to the house?” My manners were suddenly scarce.

“Since Ivy asked me to feed the cat,” Mercy said.

“She did?” That seemed so unlikely. “When?”

“The last time she went to Atlanta for a trade show of some sort.” The way she said “trade show” made it sound as though Granny had traipsed down the road to a flea market.

“The last time she went to Atlanta for that show was three or four years ago.” That news failed to perturb either of them, but it gave me a sharp jab. I hadn’t given a thought to Granny’s cat, Maggie. “Oh my gosh, who’s been feeding her since…Who’s been taking care of poor Maggie?” I put my ear to the door, didn’t hear any yowls.

“No one asked us to.” Mercy looked put out.

“Take a look in the window,” Shirley suggested helpfully.

I brushed past her, cupped my hands to the glass, tried to see through the sheers drawn across the front window. No frantic Maggie peering back at me. No little tabby huddled and mourning under Granny’s loom in the corner. “Someone from the shop must have her,” I said, kicking myself for not thinking about her sooner.

“Probably for the best,” Shirley said. “That cat never liked you, anyway.”

That was sadly true, if somewhat rude of her to point out. I looked at the key and the door again. “What’s going on here?”

“That’s what I was about to find out when you drove up,” Mercy said. “I’ll call Angie.” She pulled a phone from her purse, pulled her glasses to the end of her nose to see the phone more clearly, pressed buttons. Then she smiled, saying, “Hey, Angel,” turned her back, and walked to the end of the porch.

Shirley and I eyed each other. I wanted to ask her why calling Angie would solve anything but, for whatever perverse reason, didn’t feel like showing my ignorance. Instead, I tried to see some of Granny in this removed cousin of hers.

It didn’t work. There was certainly nothing of Granny in the pastel polyester stretch outfit Shirley wore. The thought of that fabric touching my skin made me itch. Granny was the kind of old lady who could and did wear blue jeans and a T-shirt and made them look good.

“Why don’t you add some color to your hair?” Shirley asked, eyeing the top of my head. “Brighten it up some. Red like yours fades so as you get older.”

That was another difference. The twins had several inches on me, so they would have towered over Granny.
They also had several doses of sour to Granny’s sweet. And beadier eyes.

Mercy returned then, her beady eyes screwed up with annoyance.

“If that doesn’t beat all,” she said. “Max had the locks changed.”

I decided to forget about looking ignorant. “Who’s Max?”

“He told Angie,” Mercy said, ignoring my question and studying the door’s hardware, “that someone got in here.” She took hold of the knob and gave it a violent shake.

“You could probably get in through this window easier than anything else.” Shirley, still holding the casserole, attempted to raise the window.

“Who is Max?”

They slewed around to stare at me. I might have shouted that question.

“And where might I find him?” I asked more politely when I had their attention. I had a few questions for a man who changed locks on my doors. Or if the house had been broken into, maybe I owed him thanks.

“Oh, didn’t we tell you that to begin with?” Mercy looked unconvincingly nonplussed. “Well, we just found out ourselves last week. Ivy didn’t own this house. Max does. Of course, he only just found that out, too, when he inherited it. But it’s a rental, and for some reason Ivy wasn’t paying the rent. So Max found new tenants, and you’ll have to clear Ivy’s things out. By the first. That’d be next Wednesday.”

“That’d be a week from yesterday. We thought we’d lend a hand,” said Shirley.

“Except, according to Angie, Max is off visiting kin in Kentucky and didn’t leave the new keys. Although I believe he did leave you this. I found it in the mailbox.” Mercy handed me an envelope with my name, the Lavender Street
address, and no return address. “It’s probably a bill for the rent she owed,” she said. “Why don’t you go ahead and open it, see what it says?”

I jammed it in my purse, snapped the purse shut, and started to open my mouth. Mercy opened hers first.

“Angie’s husband,” she said. “That’s who Max is.” Then she turned back to the door. “I do believe we can get this open, anyway, if we work at it.”

Fifteen minutes later, after I’d declined their offers of help and watched them mutter their way back down the front walk with the casserole, which had begun to smell unpleasantly of tuna, and after I’d started breathing normally again, I pulled Max’s envelope out of my purse and ripped it open.

Inside, on a sheet from a generic receipt pad, was
$1,200—Ivy owed
written on one line, and on the lines below it,
Now you owe. I’ll be in touch.
No doubt the spare approach was small-town and laid-back, but it was the poorest excuse for a piece of business correspondence I’d ever seen. Not itemized, unsigned, and no contact information—so I couldn’t even call him and be irate with him for going off to Kentucky with the only keys. But maybe he’d thought that through and saved himself an earful by not including his number. That only made me want to call him and be more than irate. Instead I jammed the letter back in my purse, letting my fingers take a bit of comfort as they brushed Granny’s letter. Then I called Granny’s lawyer.

Except I got his answering machine because, of course, he wasn’t in and it was that kind of day. Then I remembered Granny’s good friend Ruth. Ruth, who was Handsome Homer the lawyer’s wife, and had told me to call if I needed anything. I could have called Ardis, but I remembered Ardis had her hands full with an elderly father disappearing into Alzheimer’s. She didn’t need me whining on her sofa bed. Besides, what I needed now
was legal assistance, and calling Ruth put me one step closer to getting it.

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do about getting you into the house tonight,” Ruth said. “If they’re right about ownership, and without keys, well…”

I could hear the head shake in her words, and she must have heard the exhaustion in my sigh. She was suddenly brisk, decisive.

“How long are you in town?”

“Two weeks. I put in for some vacation time.”

“Not personal or compassionate leave?” She sounded surprised. “Sorry—I’m being nosy. Occupational hazard of being a site director.”

“That’s okay. Illinois is in worse shape than usual and our budget’s been cut off at the knees.”

“Then my idea is even better. You don’t need to be spending money staying in a motel or B and B. You know where the Homeplace is?”

“Follow Buffalo Road out past the old school and turn left?”

She laughed. “Except they pulled the old school down, so it’s like that joke, look for where the school isn’t and turn left when you don’t see it. There’s a Quickie Mart there on the corner now, so look for that. And you’ll see the signs. Can’t miss them. If you get there first, wait for me. The gate will be locked.”

I lugged my suitcase back to the car, looked sadly at the little house, and went to find out what Ruth’s idea was. I hadn’t even asked. But the sun was on its way down and my spirits had already sunk. I’d lost Granny and now the house on Lavender Street? How could that be? I shook my head as I started the car. As long as Ruth’s plan involved a bed and a pillow to cry under, I was all for it.

As I passed the shop, going back down Main, I
reminded myself to call Ardis and find out if she knew anything about Maggie. So what if Maggie didn’t like me; she came from a long line of cats that hadn’t. Cats gravitated to Granny. She was a cat magnet. They took one look at me, sneered, and stalked off. Or bit me if I tried to pet them. It was something I didn’t understand, but it didn’t mean I didn’t like them or didn’t want one to sit on my lap someday and purr.

A sign for the Holston Homeplace Living History Farm popped up as soon as I turned onto Buffalo Road. People in Blue Plum were fond of saying the Homeplace was their own miniature version of Williamsburg, except that it was a farm instead of a city and it represented the early nineteenth century instead of the late eighteenth. There were costumed guides, though, and farm animals. Tourists and Holston family members from all over the country and the world flocked to visit.

Ruth waved when she saw me turning in. She swung the gate open and motioned for me to park on the far side of the caretaker’s cottage, which sat just inside the entrance. I got out of my car and followed her along a flagstone path.

“What do you think?” she asked over her shoulder. “Perfect solution?”

“Are you serious?” The path led us around to the front of the cottage.

“Why not? We’d be doing each other a favor. We’re between caretakers for the time being. It’s clean, furnished. The kitchen’s not gourmet but the appliances work. The bathroom is small but not claustrophobic. I like having someone out here. It’s yours, free and clear, as long as you need it.”

I opened my mouth. She didn’t give me a chance.

“You’ll want to look at it, of course. Here’s the key. Kath, I think you should do it.” Brisk and decisive.

She took the key back from my motionless fingers,
unlocked the door, and went inside. I stood a moment longer, looking at the place. Not much, but not bad. It was an unpretentious, unadorned clapboard rectangle, with a half story under the eaves and a room with a shed roof off the back. Pretty cute, in its workaday, antebellum simplicity. The front door sat dead center, with a small garden planted on either side of it, running along the stone foundation. And right there, where a hand could brush it going through the front door, was a clump of sweet-smelling lavender.

Ruth raised a front window. “What do you think? Yes?”

It was a place to put my head on a pillow. At least until the mess over Granny’s house got straightened out. “Yes.”

“Good. I thought so. I brought linens.”

I followed her to her car, deciding it was very nice having someone in charge. Then the Spiveys strayed through my mind, bringing an involuntary shudder along with them, and I amended my thoughts. It was nice having someone competent and pleasant in charge.

“Towels, sheets, pillow in here.” Ruth pulled a duffel from her trunk and handed it to me. “And blanket,” she said, lifting out a brown shopping bag. “Actually”—she hesitated and her face softened—“it’s a coverlet Ivy wove. I thought it would be appropriate.” She took the coverlet from the bag and draped it around my shoulders.

She must have said something more then, but I didn’t catch it. I’d lifted a corner of Granny’s soft blue and white coverlet to my cheek and nothing else seemed to matter at that point, or to compute.