Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery Page 28

  “Meow?”

  “There isn’t much. Do you like tuna noodle casserole for breakfast?”

  It turned out we both did.

  “Who’s this?” Ardis unlocked the door for us before the Weaver’s Cat opened.

  “Meow.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s all he’ll tell me. He’s kind of like a dog, though. He follows me everywhere.”

  “He’s got a bald patch. Does he have mange? And why does some of his fur stick up like that?”

  “Cowlicks?”

  The cat jumped up on the counter and purred for Ardis.

  “Where did he come from?”

  “Out of the storm. Joe says there aren’t any ginger cats at the Homeplace.”

  “Oh, you talked to Joe, did you?” She had a glint of speculation in her eye.

  I scritched the cat’s head and ignored the glint. “I’ll ask around, take him to the vet, see if he’s microchipped.”

  “Will you take him back to Illinois?” Her voice was even and her face impassive, but the effort it was taking for her to appear calm, while only just approaching the subject of the shop’s future, was obvious in her rigid hands.

  I brushed a bit of orange fur from the sleeve of my beautiful indigo jacket, put my hands over hers, took a deep breath, and leapt. “Ardis, I lost my job and I want to move here and run the Cat with you. Do you think that will work? Will you teach me what I need to know? Do you think we should offer Ernestine a job because she won’t be working for Homer anymore? If the cat behaves, can it come to work with me the way some of Granny’s used to?”

  She answered yes to all my questions with tears running down her face. The cat and I left her alone to pull herself together before it was time to open the doors to customers, and we climbed the stairs to Granny’s space under the eaves.

  “Are you any good at finding hiding places?” I asked. “By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Meow.”

  “That answer is no help. What are you looking at?”

  The cat jumped onto the window seat and sat as though facing someone who might offer to rub his chin.

  “He is an unusual cat, so he needs an unusual name,” a voice said. And as I watched, Geneva appeared.

  “I was afraid you were gone. Are you okay?”

  “Why? What did you imagine could happen to me beyond being dead?” she asked.

  “Um, I’m not sure. But I wanted to thank you. You saved our lives.”

  “I’m glad being dead is good for something.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Around. I needed to be alone,” she said.

  “Mourning Em?”

  “Mourning my idea of Em. He wasn’t a good man, was he?” She sniffled.

  “He didn’t kill anyone, though.”

  “No. But I’m glad I have someplace else to go because I cannot bear to stay in that tainted house any longer.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I could hardly bear waiting until we got in your rental car and came back here.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. Larry and I will be very happy here.”

  “Larry?”

  “I named the cat Larry,” she said.

  “And who says you get to name him and since when is Larry an unusual enough name for an unusual cat?”

  “Do you know any other cats named Larry?”

  “I’m not calling him Larry.”

  “You could try.”

  “No.”

  “Once?” she coaxed.

  “No.”

  “But, still, I can stay here, can’t I?”

  I looked at her, nestled comfortably in the window seat next to the unusual cat who tolerated both of us. The cat made happy eyes as it watched us arguing. I sat down in Granny’s chair and put my feet up on her desk, as she’d done so many times. I looked around the snug room, wondering where I’d look first for her private dye journals and what I’d do with them if I found them and what Ardis would say if she heard the question I was about to answer.

  “Geneva, we can all stay.”

  Rosemary Watermelon Lemonade

  This lemonade is gorgeous and absolutely delicious!

  INGREDIENTS

  2 cups water

  3⁄4 cup white sugar

  1 sprig rosemary leaves, chopped

  2 cups lemon juice

  12 cups cubed, seeded watermelon

  Bring the water and sugar to a boil in a small saucepan over high heat. Stir in the rosemary and set aside to steep for 1 hour.

  Strain the rosemary syrup into a blender. Add a third of the lemon juice and a third of the watermelon. Cover, and puree until smooth. Pour into a pitcher.

  Puree another third of the lemon juice and watermelon. Add to the pitcher and repeat with the last of the lemon juice and watermelon.

  Stir the lemonade before serving. Hold your glass to the light and marvel at the beautiful color.

  Rosemary Olive Oil Cake with Dark Chocolate

  Preheat oven to 350º F.

  Line a 91⁄2 -inch springform pan with parchment paper.

  INGREDIENTS

  3⁄4 cup whole wheat flour

  11⁄2 cups all-purpose flour

  3⁄4 cup sugar

  11⁄2 teaspoons baking powder

  1⁄2 teaspoon salt

  3 eggs

  1 cup olive oil

  3⁄4 cup milk (2% or reconstituted nonfat dry milk is fine)

  11⁄2 tablespoons fresh rosemary, finely chopped

  5 ounces semisweet, bittersweet, or a combination of the two chocolates, chopped into 1⁄2-inch chunks

  11⁄2 tablespoons sugar to sprinkle on top for crispy crunch

  Mix the first five ingredients in a large bowl and set aside.

  In another large bowl, beat the eggs. Add the olive oil, milk, and rosemary and beat again.

  Fold the wet ingredients into the dry, gently mixing until just combined. Stir in two thirds of the chopped chocolate, reserving the other third for the next step.

  Pour the batter into the prepared pan. Sprinkle the remaining chocolate and the 11⁄2 tablespoons sugar over the top.

  Bake 40 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. At this point the cake will be pale.

  Run the cake, still in the pan, under the broiler to caramelize the sugar—browning the crown and giving the cake a nice top-crunch. Watch the cake carefully while it’s under the broiler.

  Eat warm, cooled, or cold. The cake will keep—leftovers? Ha!—wrapped in plastic.

  Thea’s Red and White Baby/Toddler Hat

  Designed by Kate Winkler. Designs from Dove Cottage.

  Designed for Molly MacRae’s Last Wool and Testament.

  19” finished circumference at bottom

  MATERIALS

  Worsted-weight yarn, 100 yards each of two colors

  16” circular and double-pointed needles, US 8 (5mm) or size needed for gauge

  Stitch marker

  Tapestry needle

  Gauge: 20 st = 4 inches in stockinette.

  Using circular needle and Color A, cast on 97 stitches. Being careful that the stitches are not twisting around the needle, knit the FIRST stitch you cast on, then pass the LAST stitch you cast on over it. Place marker on needle to mark the beginning of the round. You have 96 stitches.

  Work K1 P1 ribbing for 1.5 inches.

  Change to Color B.

  Round 1: K

  Round 2: K into the stitch of Color A below the first stitch on the needle*; K normally to end of round.

  Rounds 3-8: K

  *This will make the stripe line up without a “jog.”

  Change to Color A.

  Round 9: K

  Round 10: K into the stitch of Color B below the first stitch on the needle; K normally to end of round.

  Rounds 11–16: K

  Repeat these 16 rounds once more. Your hat should be about 5.5–6 inches from the cast on edge. Continuing with color stripes, shape top, chan
ging to double-pointed needles when necessary.

  Decrease Rounds:

  Round 1: *K10, K2tog, repeat from * around—88 stitches.

  Round 2: K around.

  Round 3: *K9, K2tog, repeat from * around—80 stitches.

  Round 4: K around.

  Round 5: *K8, K2tog, repeat from * around—72 stitches.

  Round 6: K around.

  Round 7: *K7, K2tog, repeat from * around—64 stitches.

  Round 8: K around.

  CHANGE COLOR AS BEFORE

  Round 9: *K6, K2tog, repeat from * around—56 stitches.

  Round 10: K around.

  Round 11: *K5, K2tog, repeat from * around—48 stitches.

  Round 12: K around.

  Round 13: *K4, K2tog, repeat from * around—40 stitches.

  Round 14: K around.

  Round 15: *K3, K2tog, repeat from * around—32 stitches.

  Round 16: K around.

  DO NOT CHANGE COLOR

  Round 17: *K2, K2tog, repeat from * around—24 stitches.

  Round 18: K around.

  Round 19: *K1, K2tog, repeat from * around—16 stitches.

  Round 20: *K2tog around—8 stitches.

  Break yarn and thread through remaining stitches with tapestry needle. Draw up snugly and fasten off on inside. Weave in all ends.

  If you like, top the hat with a pom-pom or tassel using either color or both.

  Read on for a sneak peek of

  Molly MacRae’s next

  Haunted Yarn Shop mystery,

  coming from Obsidian in summer 2013.

  Where are the lambs?” Ernestine asked when she and I caught up to the rest of the group at the pasture fence. “Did Kath and I dawdle too long? Have they already run off to play?”

  “Oh, sorry, Ernestine,” I said. She was spry for being nearly round and almost eighty, but I’d been sure I was doing her a favor by walking slowly down the farm lane with her. As it turned out, she’d been the one waiting for me because I couldn’t help stopping to take pictures along the way. She kindly hadn’t complained, but now I felt bad because we’d expected to see Debbie’s new lambs frisking in the field. “Did we miss them?”

  “No, they’re with their mamas,” Debbie said, “at the far end, over there under that beech tree.” She pointed across the hillocky field.

  Not knowing much about lambs or their mamas, I wasn’t surprised they weren’t hanging around at the fence waiting for us. Debbie seemed puzzled though, and it was her farm and they were her sheep, so I mimicked her scrunched nose and stared across the field where she pointed. I could just make them out standing in a white huddle under a huge tree.

  Ernestine put her cheek to Debbie’s extended arm, using it and Debbie’s index finger as a sight and squinting toward the sheep, her thick lenses flashing in the sun. Her head barely reached Debbie’s shoulder. Concentrating and leaning into her squint the way she did, and dressed in a gray sweater and slacks, she looked like an ancient mole trying to bring the world into better focus. She wasn’t as blind as a mole, but she probably didn’t see the tree, much less the sheep, at that distance.

  Thea and Bonnie, the other two women with us, had already gotten tired of straining to see the sheep. Thea, in jeans and a Windbreaker, climbed up and sat on the fence. Bonnie was checking her phone for messages.

  “I don’t get it,” Debbie said. “Usually they’ll come see if I’ve brought treats. And the lambs are always curious. But I don’t think they’ve even noticed us.”

  The five of us, all members of the needle arts group Thank Goodness It’s Fiber (TGIF), had met up that morning at Debbie Keith’s farm, Cloud Hollow. Thea and Ernestine had been smart and carpooled with Bonnie, letting her navigate the half dozen winding miles up the Little Buck river valley from Blue Plum, our small town in east Tennessee. I’d driven out alone, arriving last and feeling as though I’d made it despite rather than because of Debbie’s directions, which included the near-fatal phrase “and you can’t miss it.”

  We’d all been looking forward to spending the morning in Debbie’s studio. She was going to teach us her techniques for dyeing yarn and wool roving by “painting” them. Unfortunately, in her flurry of preparations, Debbie had locked the key to the studio inside it. She’d called her neighbor across the river, who kept an extra set of keys for her. The neighbor said she’d drop the keys off on her way to town, and we’d decided to make the most of our wait by walking down the farm lane to visit the new lambs. But, as we saw, the lambs and their mamas were otherwise occupied.

  “Can’t you call them?” Thea asked. “Whistle for them or something?”

  “Not at this distance,” Debbie said. “I’m not loud enough. And that’s not really how sheep work, anyway.”

  “See, Bonnie?” Thea said. “I told you—that’s what Bill is for.”

  “I know what a sheepdog is for,” Bonnie said. “But dogs in general don’t like me, except to bite, so I don’t like them back. And I make it a point to never give them the chance to bite in the first place. No offense intended, I hope you know, Debbie, but I am much obliged to you for putting what’s-his-name in the house.”

  Debbie, still looking at the distant flock, waved off Bonnie’s thanks.

  I was pretty sure I heard a muttered “Wuss” from Thea, but Bonnie, farther down the fence and engrossed in her phone again, didn’t catch it.

  Bonnie pocketed her phone with a disgusted noise. “The morning’s turning out to be a complete bust, though,” she said. Ernestine tried to shush her but Bonnie continued grousing more loudly than seemed polite. “Driving the whole blessed way out here and trying to find this place was bad enough, but now we’re standing around in wet grass and accomplishing absolutely nothing.”

  “But isn’t it a beautiful morning for getting nothing done?” Ernestine asked.

  No one could argue with that. It was the kind of gorgeous spring day in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains that looked like the inspiration for an Easter card. The world smelled of fresh breezes. Also of the wild onions I was standing on. I stepped back from the fence and took a picture of the grassy lane we were in and another where the lane disappeared around the next hill. Then I snapped a few candids of the other women.

  Thea, sitting on the top fence rail, was a tempting target. Her orange Windbreaker was stretched across her broad back, making her look like a giant pumpkin perched on the fence, her brown head making the stem. I skipped that picture, though. Thea was our town librarian and defied all stereotypes associated with that position except two—she was single and she had more than two cats. But she was far from being hushed and, in fact, called herself the “beautiful, black, loud librarian,” and I knew she’d be loudly unappreciative of a picture taken of the particular view I had in my lens.

  Ernestine and Bonnie stood farther down along the fence, with Ernestine distracting Bonnie’s grumbles by asking about her winter in Florida. Ernestine’s white hair became a dandelion nimbus as she turned her wrinkled face toward the sun, eyes closed behind her thick glasses. She was retired after holding a number of jobs, most recently as receptionist for my late grandmother’s lawyer. She had a dry sense of humor and although her eyesight was failing, she saw the good in people and frequently apologized for their shortcomings.

  I’d met Bonnie for the first time that morning. The only things I knew about her were what I’d just been hearing—she’d returned from Florida the week before, she was a gung ho spring, summer, and fall member of TGIF, and she didn’t like dogs. She also seemed to be expecting a phone call or expecting someone to answer a call she was trying to put through. And she wasn’t exactly patient. At a passing glance, she looked to be on the good side of fifty. But after studying her face and hair in my viewfinder, I suspected she was closer to the upper end of sixty and had a hairdresser and possibly a plastic surgeon under orders to fight for every year they could gain.

  Debbie stood at the fence, a hand shading her eyes, staring across the field toward her sh
eep. With her blond braid down her back she could have been a Norse maiden scanning the horizon for sails. My grandmother liked to say Debbie looked as though she’d stepped out of one of Carl Larsson’s nineteenth-century Swedish watercolors. Debbie worked part-time at the Weaver’s Cat, the yarn shop in Blue Plum that had been Granny’s pride and passion up until her death six weeks earlier. The shop was mine now, which made Debbie my employee but, truthfully, she and the shop’s longtime manager were still “teaching me the stitches” of owning and running the business, as they liked to say.

  At the shop, Debbie tended toward long skirts and embroidered tops, hence Granny’s Carl Larsson comment, but that morning she was wearing farm-sensible jeans, a navy blue fisherman’s sweater that brought out the blue of her eyes, and a great pair of red tartan rubber boots that I coveted. She had four or five inches on me, though, and was strong enough, so I’d heard, to toss a bale of hay or hold a sheep between her knees for shearing, so I didn’t plan to try to wrestle the boots off her feet.

  Framing each face in my camera, I realized we were a nice range of ages. Debbie was in her early thirties, I’d turned thirty-nine the month before, Thea was an honest mid-forties, Bonnie could cover both fifties and sixties for us, and Ernestine capped us out with her nearly eighty years. I snapped another picture of Ernestine smiling at Bonnie, who was showing her the size of something by holding her hands out and looking from one hand to the other, maybe telling Ernestine a Florida fish story. Thea turned and I was able to get a picture of her pretty face in profile.

  “I know what the sheep are doing,” Thea said. “It’s Monday-morning book group. They’re reading Three Bags Full and making plans. You need a smart brown sheep out there to be the ringleader. I’ll let you name her Thea.”