Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery (6 page)

I suddenly felt like coughing, maybe even gagging as I imagined toxic, noxious vapors swirling in eddies around us. “Wow. Okay, that’s awful.” I cleared my throat, swallowed. “Um, what kind of poison was it?”

“I forget the name. It was in something he drank, though. Not a real quick exit.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yeah, very messy. High retch factor involved, if you know what I mean. Can’t imagine anybody wanting to sleep up there after what I saw.”

We looked at each other, noses wrinkled, then tilted our heads back and looked at the ceiling, he now frowning and grim, me trying not to picture what he’d seen up there. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a shiver run through him. For an absurd second I was tempted to reach around his back and tap his shoulder and yell “Boo.” But that was a gun in his holster.

“But you caught the, the…”

“Bad guy? No, we did not. Bad guy, one. Cops, zip. Old Em, zipped up and six feet under.” He grinned nastily at my reaction to his scorecard.

And, me being me, I reacted again. “Deputy Dunbar, what do you call it when a policeman talks to a civilian? Is there a term for that?”

“Huh?”

“You know, with a doctor it’s called bedside manner. Is there an equivalent term for cops talking to regular
people? Roadside manner, maybe? Or how about badgeside manner?”

“I don’t get it. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about whatever it is you don’t have. Whatever it’s called, you need to sign up for a refresher course in it, maybe see if you can get some kind of continuing education credit for brushing up. I’ve only met you twice and the first time we probably didn’t even exchange a hundred words. Yet each time we’ve met, you’ve managed to be insensitive, sneering, and downright rude. Why? Is this how you always are? Or is it a problem you have with women? Or is it just a problem you have with me? And if that’s the case, then what is that problem? You don’t even know me. You know what? I’m like you; I don’t get it.” My voice might have risen a tad toward shrill.

Deputy Clod clapped his hat back on his head. “I’ll tell you a story, Ms. Rutledge. A couple of weeks ago, I sat out there in the kitchen with Emmett Cobb. We played a little friendly poker. I had a beer and Em had his usual glass of sweet tea because he wasn’t much of a drinker. In fact, Em wasn’t much of anything but an old guy. And then, next thing I know, not two days later, Em winds up dead. Dead in a way I wouldn’t wish on a dog or that dog’s worst enemy. And now here you are moving into Em’s house. Well, excuse me if I’m a little worked up. You asked if we’ve caught the murderer. You asked if I knew your grandmother. You can draw whatever lines or conclusions you like between those two statements. I’ll be happy to wait while you do that, and in the meantime I’ll call a motel for you.”

The phrase “well, shut my mouth” shot through my mind, ricocheting back and forth along that line he expected me to draw. But why was he being so coy about it?

“This line you want me to draw, Deputy, is it the official line?” I demanded. I’ve always thought “shut my
mouth” was a silly phrase, anyway. “You think my grandmother poisoned that old guy, don’t you? But is she anyone else’s suspect, or is she just
your
suspect? You decided that sweet, innocent old lady, who never had an evil thought in her life, who only ever charmed and helped everyone she ever met, you decided she was guilty. And I’ll bet you badgered her, too, didn’t you? What possible reason would she have to kill that man? If I find out you were giving my eighty-year-old grandmother the third degree and caused her blood pressure to spike so she had a heart attack—”

A curious change came over Deputy Clod while I waxed hysterical. A line of sweat beads broke out on his forehead. He wiped away several of them as they slid down his nose. His feet shifted, as though they itched to be somewhere else, and his eyes, though they kept returning to my face, spent more time darting glances into the corners of the room.

“It’s entirely possible you’re right, Ms. Rutledge,” he said, managing to sound stiff as a prig and uneasy as a long-tailed cat at the same time, “and I do apologize. But if you’ll gather your belongings now, I’ll be happy to call that motel for you and we can both get out of here.” He pulled a handkerchief from a back pocket and wiped sweat from his eyes.

I couldn’t help staring at him. He must have sensed my lack of hop-to-it from behind the mopping handkerchief, though, because he made hurry-up motions at me with his other hand. And that got all over my perversity buttons.

“There’s no need to call a motel.” I walked over to the recliner and sat down, crossing my legs and casually swinging my foot. The chair was every bit as comfortable as it looked. I fit right into Em’s accustomed hollow. The whole room was warm and homey from that perspective.

“You can’t think you’re going to stay here,” he said.

“Because of the retch factor?”

“Hell, yes, that and—”

“And nothing. Deputy Dunbar, the director of this site invited me to stay as long as I need to. Indeed, as long as I like. And frankly, I wouldn’t leave now if the place was haunted.”

Chapter 5

T
he first thing I did after
Oaf
ficer Dunbar left was call Ruth Wood to let her know about the intruder and to ask why she hadn’t mentioned the reason this charming cottage was available for unaware out-of-town guests. I was relieved, though, when her voice mail kicked in. Ruth had done me a favor, albeit a tainted one, and I didn’t want to risk derailing again and end up yelling at her. My rant at Clod Dunbar to the contrary, confrontations weren’t ordinarily my thing. It was time for me and my rancid, rotten day to wind down. I disconnected without leaving a message.

Thinking back, I realized there was a moment after Ruth wrapped Granny’s coverlet around my shoulders when she said something I missed. Maybe she’d started to tell me about the murder and I was lost in whatever blue-and-white-wool haze I’d drifted into. I would give her the benefit of the doubt and find a way to ask her, carefully, in the morning.

In the meantime, me and my big perversity buttons.

Murdered man’s house…murdered man’s bed…murdered man’s shabby, comfortable chair. It took me several minutes of pacing, not quite to the point that I was wringing my hands and muttering “woe is me,” but I finally decided I’d convinced myself I wasn’t squeamish
about spending the night with a murdered man’s memory. Maybe.

There were a couple of things I could do, though, guaranteed to ease the loneliness of the evening and keep my mind from dwelling on the retch, creep, or any other factors of my new dwelling. I pulled Granny’s letter from my purse again and I replayed a message on my phone. I’d lost track of how many times I’d already played it over the past few days, but I held the phone to my ear and listened to Granny’s voice again.

Hello, Dearie. Got your e-mail about the gig in Richmond next week. I was going to e-mail you back but then I thought I might as well call and chat with whoever’s home on your end. Hello, phone, tell Kath I miss her and I want to hear all about the collection in Richmond, especially if she finds anything interesting. And her birthday present is finished and wrapped and will be in the mail soon. Late, but soon. Ow! Maggie! Keep a civil claw in your paw. That’s no way to behave just because I’m talking to Kath and not you. Maggie sends her love, too. Oh, and I thought you’d like to know, I finally started my Blue Plum tapestry. It’s…well, it is what it is. A bit of a puzzle, but…Well, I’ll stop crowding your inbox now. Catch you later, Dearie.

Typical Granny. Interested in what I was doing and busy and distracted with her own projects. I’d sent her a quick e-mail in answer. Got busy myself, packing or preparing or whatever. Could have called her back. Didn’t. The birthday present hadn’t arrived before I left home. Maybe I’d find it at her house, still waiting to be mailed.

After blotting my eyes and nose, I saw the quart of milk and packet of cocoa still sitting on the floor where I’d left them. The episode with Pantry Guy seemed like hours ago but the carton was still cool. I gathered myself and the fixings and went to make the cocoa I wished I
were sharing with Granny. Heck, I’d even have shared it with snarly Maggie if she’d been there.

Now that I wasn’t in vigilante mode, I could see why Deputy Clod had sniffed at my attempt to barricade the pantry door with the kitchen table. It was part of a lightweight tubular metal dinette set. I laid the envelope from Granny in the middle of it, then rummaged through the cupboards and drawers, finding an assortment of mismatched flatware and dishes. I came up with a coffee mug and spoon and gave them a quick rinse. Then I remembered the details Deputy Dunbar had supplied about Emmett Cobb’s death—poison in something he drank. I eyed the mug and spoon, thinking about rational versus irrational reactions. I opted for irrational and soaped and scoured them so thoroughly I could have performed surgery with them. Then rinsed them again for old times’ sake.

I tipped the packet of cocoa into the mug, stirred in the milk, set it spinning in the microwave, and glanced at the envelope in the middle of the table.

…
make yourself comfortable, read this letter, and remember, always, I am your loving Granny.

The microwave beeped. I jumped. Then I wrapped my hands around the steaming mug and made myself comfortable in one of the dinette chairs. Somehow this seemed like the kind of moment for a brightly lit room. The envelope waited patiently on the table in front of me as I inhaled warm cocoa vapor. What had Neil Taylor said when he handed the envelope to me?
She was one in a million. Don’t let anyone tell you different.
And my unanswered question, why should they?

I hopped up. One more thing to brighten the room and the moment further. I fumbled with the radio sitting on top of the refrigerator. Apparently Em’s taste ran to nasal and twang, though, which wasn’t quite what I had
in mind. I tapped the tuning buttons until sounds of a lilting flute and lively fiddle filled the room. Granny would have liked that. I could see her sweeping Ardis or Maggie into an impromptu hornpipe. I was delaying, and I knew it, though I couldn’t have said why.

I sat back down. Tapped my toe to the jig on the radio. Inhaled more of the calming chocolate steam from the mug, then took a long, deep swallow of the dark, velvety stuff. Felt it slide over and smooth the catch in my throat. Finally slit the envelope.

Inside were two sheets of paper the color of pale celery, folded together in thirds. I ran my fingertips over them, feeling the thin plant fibers that gave them their faint texture. The texture was like Braille to my fingertips, bringing to mind with a rush the Christmas a few years back when I gave Granny a box of these handmade papers. Before unfolding the letter, I turned it over, looking for…yes, on the back in the lower left corner was a tiny pencil sketch of Maggie washing her paw. Every letter or card or postcard Granny had ever sent me included a drawing of one of her cats. It was Purl before I learned to read her letters myself, Cumber Bund when I started scrawling notes back to her, then Overshot and Raglan. And for the last ten years or so, when we more often exchanged e-mails and phone calls, it was pretty gray Maggie with her white bib and tucker.

I touched a finger to the sketch of Maggie, then opened the letter.

Dearest Kath,

Are you alone and comfortable? Sipping that nice cup of cocoa? Ah, ah, ah, if I know you as well as I think I do (of course I do), you’re sitting bolt upright somewhere pretending you’re as comfortable as Maggie sleeping in a puddle of sunshine. But you’re just pretending. Go on now and sit in my old blue comfy chair. Trust your old Granny. You’ll be glad you did.

I laughed out loud. Hadn’t Ruth said at the cemetery that Granny was always right? Yes, indeed, she was always absolutely right.

But this time she was wrong, too, because sitting in her big, soft blue chair was out of the question. It was locked up tight in the house on Lavender Street. And the house was no longer hers and, so, not mine. But was that true?

I flipped quickly through the letter, looking for a date, and didn’t find one. Not on the envelope, either. The paper was from Christmas two or three years ago, though, which gave me somewhat of a time frame. So, when had she written this, and what had happened between then and now? If for some reason or somehow she’d sold or lost the house, why hadn’t she updated this letter? And why hadn’t she told me? There’d been no hints of trouble or sudden changes in any of our conversations over the last few years.

Go on now and sit in my old blue comfy chair.

I wished I could. The radio continued to pipe jaunty airs into the kitchen. I left it playing and carried the letter and the cocoa into the parlor, not even close to laughing now.

Trust your old Granny. You’ll be glad you did.

Trust her? Of course I did. Yes, of course I did, despite Dunbar’s insinuations about Emmett Cobb’s murder and
his rude presumption in calling her Crazy Ivy. I nestled into the recliner, half expecting Granny to reach over my shoulder to tuck a pillow behind my back and adjust the shade on the floor lamp.

That’s my girl. Now, you’ve always known everything that’s mine will be yours—the Weaver’s Cat (the business, the building, and the lot it’s sitting on) and the house and property on Lavender Street. Maggie, too, and her catnip mice (if she’ll let you share). But there’s something else that’s yours, which I will try to explain without making you think your old Granny is gaga. Are you sitting comfortably?

Oh for heaven’s sake.

That nip was a good idea, too, so I hope you added something to the cocoa.

Out with it, Granny.

I’m a bit of what some people might call a witch.

Oh. My. God. The nip would definitely have been a good idea. I swigged the rest of what I did have without tasting it, felt blindly for the side table, set the mug on it, and gave my head a shake to see if that improved my brain’s reception any. I turned back to the letter, attempting to feel competent and collected, but I’m sure my mouth was hanging open.