Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery Read online

  “Don’t make fun.”

  “I’m not. But you said I acted like a scared rabbit and I thought…”

  “You’d get back at me? What kind of friend is that? You’re not very nice.” She covered her face with her hands and started to cry.

  “What? No, I didn’t. I am.”

  “You did and you’re not.” She was boohooing loudly now.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake.”

  “And now you’re shouting and swearing at me. I hate you. I’m leaving.” And she did. First she blew her nose on her sleeve and then, poof, she was gone.

  Great. Fine. Now, on top of everything else, I had a silly, depressed ghost on my hands.

  No. I was not ready to believe that. I jumped up, knocking my chair over, and for lack of a more original place to direct my words, shouted at the ceiling.

  “You don’t exist! If I wasn’t having such a rotten couple of days I wouldn’t hear you! If I’d had a nice hot bowl of potato soup for supper I wouldn’t see you, either! You’re just a figment of my starvation!” I might as well have added “so there” and stuck out my tongue. I was so incredibly mature.

  Sighing better than any figment, I righted the chair. Slung my purse over my shoulder. Turned to leave the room. And heard a voice the size of an olive twig.

  “If you take the casserole you brought with you yesterday out of the freezer and put it in a slow oven, it will be warm by the time you shower and change and come back downstairs.”

  Chapter 16

  After showering, pulling on my sweats, and going back downstairs, I discovered I loved tuna casserole. Ruth’s version of it, anyway. She added a hint of curry to her mushroom-laden sauce and that did wonders to warm and fill my empty spaces. After my long, strange day, I felt poetic about her casserole and thought I might even ask her for the recipe.

  I set the table for two, although as I laid out two forks, two plates, two glasses of water, I wondered how I would explain it to my professional, no-nonsense colleagues. There was no sign of the ghost and I tried hard to convince myself my private jury was still out. But on the off-chance that she did exist somewhere other than in the fog between my ears, setting a place for her seemed like the friendly thing to do. Maybe this had been her house, her kitchen. Maybe there was such a thing as ghost etiquette.

  She didn’t poof—materialize—in the chair across from me when I sat down. That was okay. If her absence meant she didn’t exist, then sitting across from an untouched plate of noodles and tuna only made me feel foolish and that was a healthy step up from feeling unhinged. As I raised my glass of water in a toast to that progress, someone knocked on the kitchen door.

  The rain had tapered off, but it was still coming down steadily. It was full dark and the site was closed. Who on earth? For a nanosecond the thought crossed my mind that it might not be someone on earth. Another quick bite of Ruth’s casserole took care of that nonsense. In fact, it was probably Ruth stopping by on her way home. As a dedicated employee of a nonprofit, she undoubtedly worked more hours than the site was open to the public.

  The knock came again. Definitely not parlor-game, séance-type rapping. I flipped on the outside light and started to turn the knob, but then caution kicked in. I twitched aside the curtain covering the lower half of the door window and looked to see who’d come calling.

  Joe Dunbar.

  And of course he knew someone was home because I’d just flipped on the flipping light. But did he know who was home? I put my eye to the slit between the curtain and the doorframe again. A dark mass blocked my view. He’d stepped closer to the door and was tall enough to see over the curtain. I looked up and met his blue eyes looking down. I jumped. He smiled.

  “Hi,” he called. “We met at the Cat this morning. Ten Dunbar.”

  “I thought you said your name was Joe.” Did he really think I didn’t recognize him as Joe Pantry Guy from the night before? Then again, did I know for an absolute fact that he was? I hadn’t seen Pantry Guy and had only heard either of them speak a few dozen words at most. I took a step back to see this Dunbar’s face better. He had on a worn-looking broad-brimmed hat. He and the hat looked comfortable together out there getting wet.

  “Well, yes, it is Joe,” he called through the door. “Strictly speaking it’s Ten, though, and I thought…” He stopped and scratched an eyebrow.

  “Thought what?”

  He smiled again. “Thought maybe we’d get off on a better foot than last night if I more formally introduced myself.”

  “More formally than you breaking in?” I knew it was him.

  “Well, now, again, strictly speaking, I didn’t break in. Say, do you mind if I come in?”

  “Why would I possibly think that was a good idea?”

  “Because I can explain what I was doing here last night.”

  “Or you can do that from where you’re standing. I can hear you well enough through the door.”

  “It’s really raining out here. And I’m sorry I scared you last night.”

  “I think I scared you more by calling the cops. Maybe I should call them again,” I said.

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Are you afraid of your brother?”

  “No…” This time he looked down and scrubbed both his eyebrows. “I’m not afraid of him,” he said, looking back at me. “I just don’t like complicating his life.”

  That was an interesting way to put it.

  “So what do you think?” he asked. “May I come in?”

  “I don’t know.” He was better dressed for standing in the rain than I’d been. He had on a waterproof jacket in addition to the hat. Ardis had said he was a fisherman. Maybe he had on waders, too, keeping his feet and his long legs dry. But talking through the door was getting tedious. “You broke in here. Maybe you killed Emmett Cobb. Won’t you be complicating my life if I let you in?”

  “Well, see, like I said, technically speaking, I didn’t break in. And I didn’t much like Emmett, but I didn’t kill him. And I really can explain everything, but I’d rather not stand out here shouting it.”

  “Explaining ‘everything’ is too vague. Give me one good reason to let you in.”

  “I have information about your grandmother. I think I know something you need to know.”

  He’d said the single thing guaranteed to get him in past my better judgment. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.” I grabbed my phone from my purse and ran to the parlor for my favorite weapon, the poker. Then, armed and curious, I opened the door, hoping I wasn’t crazy for doing it.

  Joe, or Ten, or He-Who-Seemed-to-Lead-a-Fairly-Complicated-Life-of-His-Own, stepped inside. He looked at the poker and raised his arms until they were shoulder height, showing me his empty hands, fingers spread.

  “Are you trying to prove how safe you supposedly are?”

  “I’m hoping you won’t whack me with that thing,” he said, nodding at the poker. “I’ll roll over and bare my throat, too, if that’ll help.”

  I lowered the poker a fraction and he relaxed a smaller fraction, slowly lowering his arms. Neither of us made any sudden moves, and after ten or twenty seconds, during which we stood there gauging each other, his eyes left mine and he looked around the room. I kept my eyes on him.

  “Your supper smells good,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Oh, hey, and I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “There’s no one here…” Except the ghost? I whipped around. The room was empty. I cleared my throat to cover my moment of panic. Then I saw he was looking at the table set for two. With two plates of tuna noodle casserole, no longer steaming.

  “But you must be expecting someone any minute.”

  “Oh, right. Ruth. I invited her. She was so kind to let me stay here. It was the least I could do. In fact, when you knocked, I thought you were her.”

  He moved closer to the table. I did, too, poker arm tensed.

  “I wonder if she was confused, then
,” he said. “Because she left about an hour ago saying something about skipping supper and going straight to the town board meeting. Isn’t this her casserole dish?”

  My bad lie was beginning to make me queasy. And annoyed. Why did I feel I owed this guy any explanations about anything? He was supposedly here to tell me something about Granny. It was time to start asking him questions. “You recognize Ruth’s dish?” Not what I’d meant to ask.

  “Oh, sure.”

  “How?” Definitely a fail in Interrogation 101.

  “Didn’t Ivy ever tell you Blue Plum is the potluck capital of the world? You graze enough potlucks, you recognize the dishes and the cooks behind them. Light green Tupperware salad bowl? Way too much dressing. Ruth’s casserole dish? Guaranteed edible. Besides, that smells like her tuna noodle. The curry gives it away. As long as she’s not coming, may I?” He indicated the second place setting.

  Somehow we’d ended up on either side of the table, me standing behind my chair, he behind the one opposite.

  “Um.” I’d been saying that a lot lately. Very uncharacteristic.

  While I tried to figure out how I suddenly had a guest burglar for dinner, he took off his hat and raincoat, hanging the coat on the back of the second chair on his side of the table and putting the hat on the seat. I held on to my poker.

  “How about I warm these in the microwave?” Without waiting for an answering “um” from me, he whisked the two cold plates off the table.

  Conversation lapsed further while the microwave zapped first one, then the other plate. He returned them to the table and pulled his chair out and started to sit. I didn’t. He noticed and hesitated.

  I nodded at his plate. “Go ahead.”

  “You sure?” Again, without waiting for an answer, articulate or otherwise, he sat and dug in.

  I stayed on my feet, weighing the poker in my hand and my options. I still had my phone in the other hand. I was also still hungry, not having finished what was on my plate, and his gusto only made the food look better. The longer I stood, the slower his rate of fork to mouth became, though, until he put his fork down and dabbed his lips with his napkin.

  “Not joining me?”

  “Not sure. I have a few questions.”

  He took a sip of water. Raised his eyebrows.

  “First, what were you looking for last night? Second, did you really come out here tonight to tell me something about my grandmother or was that a convenient excuse for getting in without breaking in? Although, come to think of it, why would you tell me if you were planning to break in again? And fourth, or third, or whatever, if you do have something to tell me about Granny, what is it?”

  “Hey, look, I really am sorry I scared you last night.” He started to push his chair back. I raised the poker. He stopped, raised his open hands. “Do you have to hold that thing like you plan to use it as soon as my back is turned?”

  “Yeah. Sorry if that bothers you, but burglars in the house seem to have that effect on me.”

  He started to smile. I narrowed my eyes and he stopped.

  “Okay. Hm. Okay.” He brought his hands together in a double fist, head slightly bowed. He bounced one knuckle of the fists against his lips, his eyes moving from left to right and back again. He appeared to be wrestling with something. But what? Bad news? How best to break that bad news to a woman standing over him with a poker? A lie of his own?

  His left eye twitched and he straightened his fingers, resting their tips against his chin. With his lean, bearded face he reminded me of a monk in a painting by someone like El Greco. I half expected him to close his eyes and start chanting or say amen.

  “Okay.” He shook himself and ran his hands through his hair, head still bent. “I kind of got lost in your questions, but I think maybe they can all be covered with one answer.” He sat up and looked at me. “It might come as a shock.”

  “Shock and I are best friends lately. Give it a shot.”

  “Okay. I was looking for evidence because I think Emmett was blackmailing your grandmother.”

  Even with his warning, his catchall answer begged for me to drop everything and stare at him. If I’d lost track of the poker and let it fall crashing to the table, it would have been understandable. Through tremendous effort I kept it cocked and ready.

  “I expected more of a reaction,” he said, studying my face.

  “I’ve been getting some practice. I’ll give you a ‘wow’ on that, though. It deserves it.” I thought back over the last day or so: secret dye journals, ghosts, burglars. Now blackmail? Why not? Why not was going to be a useful philosophy for as long as I stuck around Blue Plum—I could see that—and without thinking, I began working through Joe’s contribution to my weird new life out loud.

  “Blackmail isn’t the first possibility that jumps into my head, but first possibilities don’t seem to matter much these days. And it might explain how Emmett got the house without anyone else being aware. But what could he possibly know that was worth blackmailing Granny for?” My tongue skidded to a halt before “secret dye journals” slipped out. Oh, surely not. Surely Emmett Cobb hadn’t tripped over or somehow fathomed Granny’s notion that she had a “talent.”

  “Blackmailed her over what is definitely the question,” Joe agreed. He puzzled over that, brow furrowed, swirling his fork through the bit of golden sauce left on his plate.

  Granny said she did her best thinking while throwing a shuttle and thumping a beater bar. The rhythm organized her thoughts; the warp and weft gave her a scaffold to build on. I watched Joe thinking with his fork, not offering my answer to the blackmail question. Instead, I wondered how easily he might form his own answer, given access to whatever evidence he was looking for. And how would his answer, correct or not, create its own cascade of problems? I pictured Granny watching helplessly as her tightly woven fabric unraveled.

  Joe rested the fork, cocking his head and looking at his plate. For a second, the fork looked like a brush in his hand. Then he licked it. On the plate he’d painted a delicate curry-sauce fish leaping toward the rim, chased by a swan with wings and neck outstretched. Joe doodled swans. Granny doodled swans. Mean swans. There was more to this story than he was telling. Cobb. A male swan was a cob.

  “But, yeah,” he said, pushing the plate away. “I was thinking the same thing. About Ivy’s house. Whoa, watch it.” He snatched my water glass out of the way before I swiped it off the table with the poker I was suddenly paying no attention to.

  “You knew about the house?”

  “Why don’t you put that thing down?”

  “I’m not sure I want to.” I did want to. It was heavy. “If I put it down, how do I know I can trust you?”

  “Plenty of people do. Ardis, Ruth. Ivy did.”

  “She did? But you broke in here.”

  “One time. I came in, uninvited, one time. And I didn’t break anything to do it.”

  “You’re a burglar.”

  “I didn’t take anything, either.”

  I didn’t bother pointing out he hadn’t had time before I surprised him.

  He held his hands out, placating, pacifying. Playacting? “I was trying to help. I really was. And, just so you know, it wasn’t me who got into Ivy’s house.”

  “You know about that, too?”

  “And Maggie. She must’ve gotten out when whoever it was got in. I’ve looked around the neighborhood, asked around town, but haven’t found her. I’m sorry. She’s a sweetheart. So, can we have a truce? And will you put that thing down before you crack Ruth’s casserole dish?”

  He cared enough to look for Maggie? I looked at the poker and compromised by tucking it under my arm like a swagger stick. I was still armed, but the tableware could thank me for being less dangerous.

  “Can you get me into Granny’s house?”

  “Absolutely not.” He obviously expected me to believe that. The lowered brow, the set jaw, the thinned, unsmiling lips were working hard to convince both of us. But the slight blush playing
over his ears betrayed the possibility that I now had a burglar up my sleeve. A burglar with a soft spot for lost cats.

  “It probably doesn’t matter, anyway. Max should be back with the keys tomorrow. Thanks for looking for Maggie. So, what kind of evidence were you looking for out here? Wouldn’t looking at Granny’s make more sense? And why didn’t you go to the police if you’re so sure Emmett was a blackmailer? Did Granny ask you not to? Did she ask you to get the evidence back for her?”

  “We didn’t discuss it.”

  “You didn’t? Then what’s your stake in this and why didn’t you go to the police?”

  He didn’t answer, instead chewing his lip and studying a cuticle. I needed to stop asking multiple and multipart questions so I’d know if he was floundering somewhere in my stream-of-consciousness grilling or was just refusing to answer. I decided to help him out.

  “You didn’t go to the police,” I said, feeling my way along that thought carefully, “because he was blackmailing you, too.” I tensed for a reaction.

  He didn’t blink, but asked, “You don’t think that’s kind of a leap?”

  “It was more of a leap to consider blackmail to begin with, and no, I’d say it might take a blackmail victim to know one. Birds of a feather. Granny drew pictures of swans, too.”

  He didn’t answer. The sauce fish and swan on his plate hadn’t held their lines. He scraped the fork through what was left of them.

  “Okay, well, I think I’d also say that’s the real reason you were out here looking around.” I continued, feeling my way slowly. “You were looking for a record of some kind that Emmett kept. That he probably kept hidden. Otherwise someone—the police, for instance—would have already found it. And you might be sorry if they found it. You weren’t looking just because you think he was blackmailing Granny; you were looking to protect yourself. Because blackmail, and whatever Emmett had on you—those are the kinds of things that would make life complicated for your brother. I’m just thinking aloud here, but don’t you think that might be right?” Hidden dye journals, hidden blackmail records—they made sense to my overloaded, overstressed brain.