Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery Page 7

The flicker of her needles and the shimmer of yarn transforming before my eyes mesmerized me and I wondered why in blue heaven’s name I let my job hijack my own creative energy. Except that wasn’t entirely true. My work at the museum had a perfectly willing accomplice. Me. True, there was a lot of the analytical and unromantic to my job. Microscopes, test tubes, and fumigation hoods can’t help themselves that way, bless their hearts. But the job did take several micrograms of creativity and an unquantifiable spatter of imagination to pick apart and unravel the problems and mysteries presented by antique textiles. The horrid stain I’d found on a fragile eighteenth-century chemise might have been nothing more unpleasant than an accident with red wine, but arriving at that answer and deciding on a next step was the kind of excitement I studied long and hard to be a part of. Chemical analysis? It thrilled me. Wiping out a weevil infestation? It wowed me, if not exactly to the point of making me giddy, at least leaving me satisfied that I’d saved one small corner of the world.

  Still, I wasn’t Ivy’s granddaughter for nothing. My days and energy were spent tending the artifacts of other people’s creative efforts with textiles and fibers, some of the artifacts only remnants, dirty and damaged, and most of the people long dead. Watching Ernestine with her billowing blue, my fingers tingled for fibers of their own to manipulate and bring to life.

  “Are you a knitter, Kath?”

  “On occasion. I’m more of a weaver. I like the mechanics of looms.”

  “They’re not so easy to carry around, though, are they?”

  “A tapestry frame, maybe, but no, you’re right—not as portable as your needles.”

  “You take after your grandmother, all right. I can see that,” Ernestine said with a nod. “Although Ivy did it all and did it all well, didn’t she? Spin, dye, weave, knit, tat, crochet, embroider, sew, you name it. Really, she was an artist. And generous with her talents. What a loss. Goodness, now I’ve dropped a stitch.” She fussed quietly until she recovered her rhythm, then looked up, smiling again. “I was in absolute despair when I heard my granddaughter was expecting this child.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  Ernestine’s hands and needles stopped mid-dance. “That didn’t come out right, did it?” She shook her head and started knitting again. “What I meant to say is that I was in despair over ever being able to knit a blanket for the little button. I knit one for each of my own four babies and I knit one for each of my ten grandbabies and when my oldest granddaughter found out she’s expecting, she said she wanted me to knit one for the beginning of this next generation, too. Thomas Andrew—that’s what they’re going to call him. Did I tell you that? They already know it’s a boy. Isn’t it an amazing world we live in today?”

  “Why were you in despair?”

  “My eyes. I’m blind as an old bat these days. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize you when you came in. I expect you look just like your grandmother but I’m sorry to say I couldn’t tell you from Adam or that man in the kitchen there.”

  “So, what did you do? You’re knitting so fast now, I can hardly see the needles flying. Is it like riding a bicycle and you just needed confidence to hop back on?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I’d say it’s all thanks to Ivy.” She beamed and began whistling “What a Wonderful World.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Hmm?”

  “How is it all thanks to Ivy?”

  “It’s this blessed yarn she sold me. It practically knits itself.”

  A small warning bell I thought I’d deactivated with my good night’s sleep went off somewhere in my analytical, unromantic mind. Yarn that practically knits itself? For a woman blind as a bat? From Granny? No, no, no. This had not and was not going to happen in my life.

  “We aren’t expecting anyone else for your meeting with Homer, are we?” Ernestine interrupted my agitation. She finished a row and bundled the soft blue cloud back into her knitting bag, then swept the bag back into the drawer. “No, oh my, no. I do not recall these two having an appointment here this morning.” She primly folded her hands and returned them to the middle of the blotter in the center of the desk.

  From where I perched in my wing chair, I wasn’t able to see who was approaching the front door and blotting the sunshine from Ernestine’s smile. As it turned out, I didn’t need to see them. I recognized those voices.

  “Why, Ernie O’Dell.”

  “As we live and breathe.”

  “Where’s that pretty young Heather who used to be here?”

  The Spivey twins. They taunted their way in and planted themselves, hands on hips, in front of Ernestine’s desk. They were dressed in identical knife-creased khakis and similar, though not quite matching, embroidered pullovers. Both pullovers were pink, but one was a light rose and the other was electric bubblegum. That didn’t help me know which was Shirley and which was Mercy, unless one habitually wore more eye-killing colors than the other. I’d never paid enough attention over my years of sporadic Spivey contact to notice that peculiarity. Maybe Ernestine could clue me in later. If only one or the other had a noticeable scar, maybe a saber slash across one cheek.

  “Good morning, Shirley, Mercy. It’s nice to see you, as always.” Ernestine’s reversion to her pleasant but formal manners could not have sounded more puckered if she’d been sucking lemons. “Heather—Ms. Monroe—is taking a leave of absence. Mr. Wood was kind enough to ask me to fill in while she’s gone. Unfortunately, if you’re hoping to see Mr. Wood, I must inform you that he will be engaged all morning. He also has plans for lunch. I am so sorry.”

  “We’re one of his morning engagements,” Light Rose Spivey said.

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Ernestine moved her clasped hands a fraction to the left and peered at the square with the day’s date on the blotter.

  “How can you tell? Here, let me see.” Electric Bubblegum invited herself over to Ernestine’s side of the desk. “Why, Ernie, what a large calendar you have.”

  “And I don’t see you anywhere on it,” Ernestine snapped. She splayed her hands over the calendar, protecting her territory. “Mercy Spivey, I will ask you to kindly step back around to the appropriate side of the desk.”

  Aha, unless Ernestine was mistaken, Mercy was Ms. Electric Bubblegum. But what was her trick for telling them apart if she couldn’t see them clearly?

  “Shirley,” Electric Bubblegum said with a lift of her nose.

  “Don’t play your games with me, Mercy. I know exactly who you are.”

  “Check your spelling, then, Ernie, before you jump down someone’s throat,” Electric Bubblegum said. “What I started to say is this: Surely we have a right to be present when our dear late cousin’s will is read.”

  “And to support Katie in her sad bereavement,” Shirley added with nauseating treacle.

  “Kath,” Mercy said, giving the point of her elbow to Shirley’s ribs.

  Shirley drew in a sharp breath, then pretended to clear her throat. “Such a sad time for all of us. Kath included.”

  The two had been so intent on crowding in and bullying Ernestine, I wasn’t sure they’d seen me sitting in the waiting area. I was fairly well camouflaged in the dark leather chair, wearing my all-purpose and well-traveled black trousers, black silk blouse and a brocade jacket that was such a deep eggplant it might as well have been black, too. It isn’t as easy to hide a redhead’s hair and complexion against that backdrop but maybe my head appeared pale and floating. Like a ghost. No. No, no, no. I was not, I absolutely was not, thinking along those lines.

  “How did you know what time I’d be meeting Mr. Wood this morning?” I asked, making one of the twins, Ms. Light Rose Shirley, jump.

  “You told us,” Mercy said, smoothly covering her own surprise and slewing around to face me.

  “I did?” Darn, I might have. I couldn’t remember.

  “Yes. Yesterday,” Shirley said.

  “Yes. You told us yesterday afternoon,” Mercy agreed. “Of course, you were upset ove
r not being able to get into Ivy’s house at the time, so you might not remember. Stress affects some people that way.”

  “You didn’t even remember to take the casserole we brought you,” Shirley said. “By the way, where did you stay last night? We looked for your car at the motel up on the four-lane and didn’t see it.”

  “Not at the B and B, either,” Mercy said.

  I ignored their nosy question while my nose wrinkled in memory of the casserole Shirley hadn’t, in fact, ever handed to me. A memory slip on her part, no doubt, due to the stress of my not accepting their eagerly volunteered help in breaking into the house. For my part, not receiving their wretched casserole had been one of the few bright spots of the day.

  Abandoning Ernestine, the twins advanced on me, pink shoulder to pink shoulder. I could almost smell thawing tuna as they came. That imagined aroma was just the prod my memory needed. Maybe they’d been patrolling for my car again and found it parked in the lot behind the courthouse and surmised I’d be visiting Wood, Attorney at Law, this morning. But I definitely had not told them when I was meeting with Homer.

  I stood. They stopped.

  Ernestine leaned out of her chair precariously to see around them and made some interesting faces and gestures at me. She appeared to be miming removal of the twins from the premises. Her suggestions looked alarmingly aggressive, possibly involving a hatchet or shovel. That made me smile.

  “Shirley, Mercy,” I said, holding out my hands, “it’s so kind of you to come down here this morning.” Judging by Shirley and Mercy’s response, the smile made my words sound genuine. “You’re absolutely right about the stress of yesterday, too. And believe me when I say you don’t know the half of it.” Oops, that last bit offered too much information. Definitely a mistake, as I saw quickened curiosity blooming in their eyes. I took evasive action by putting my hands on their shoulders. “But now I’m afraid I’ve gone and wasted your morning, and I’m so sorry.” I amped my smile up several watts and gave each pink shoulder a gentle squeeze, at the same time maneuvering the twins so they faced the front door. “You see, my meeting with Mr. Wood is private this morning. I’m sure you understand. It’s all this stress, you know. I am so sorry.”

  I was about to take my hand from Shirley’s shoulder to open the door and escort them out when Ernestine appeared at my elbow. The apologetic look she gave them as she held the door was worth memorizing for future personal use. If I’d had my camera with me or my phone out, I would have snapped a picture for reference.

  “Do you think they’ll try to come back?” I asked, staring after them. Just then, Mercy looked over her shoulder, half turning, and I again smiled and waved, although the gesture might more closely have resembled a shooing motion. “They can’t really think they inherited anything, can they? Granny was never close to them.”

  “Oh, I think they’ll stay gone for now,” Ernestine said. She turned a key in the lock and gave me a satisfied look. “As for the other, they’re just nosy with a pinch of mean. Always have been, always will be. And their brand of mean came, literally, with a pinch when they were children. They’ll track you down again before too long, I have no doubt.” She gave me a wicked smile. “And I am so sorry.”

  I laughed, as she knew I would.

  “There, that’s better. You deserve some small joy at this sad time, bless your heart. Now, Homer’s ready to see you, and I believe I’ll slip out the back door and over to the courthouse for a necessary break.”

  “Before you go, Ernestine, I have to know. What’s your trick for telling Mercy and Shirley apart?”

  “Ah.” She tapped her nose. “No one else in this world, not even her sister, would wear the dreadful scent that Mercy Spivey dabs behind her ears.”

  Chapter 9

  Granny certainly knew handsome. Everything about Homer Wood was just that. His posh furnishings, his elegant manners, his lovely tie and beautifully tailored suit, his lean face, long nose, and Paul Newman eyes. He met me at his office door with a warm Georgia drawl. His two large hands enveloped mine and then he ushered me in, one consoling hand transferred to the small of my back, guiding me to a club chair in front of his desk. Then, rather than put the barrier of the desk between us, he took the chair next to mine, crossing his lithe legs and leaning slightly toward me. He was every inch the solicitous solicitor Granny had told me about. If Homer and Ruth weren’t the kind of couple who glide across dance floors, sharing candlelit dinners into the wee hours afterward, they were missing a good bet and countless photo ops. I was pretty sure, though, that Homer was aware of handsome, too.

  “Before we even start, Ms. Rutledge, let me apologize for making you wait this morning.”

  “It wasn’t a problem.”

  “Thank you. And may I call you Katherine?”

  “No, it’s Kath. Just Kath.”

  “Of course. Your grandmother told me that. That’s what we wrote in the will.” He tapped his fingers against his brow, shook his head, smiled. “Slow down, Homer,” he told himself with a soft chuckle. “Get your facts straight. Kath. Let me tell you how very nice it is to finally meet you. Of course, I’d rather the circumstances were different.” He shook his head again, this time with his lips pursed and that stricken look I couldn’t quite get used to no matter how often I’d seen it in the eyes of Granny’s friends over the past two days. “I can’t tell you,” he said, reaching over and putting a hand on mine, “how sorry I am that I missed her funeral yesterday. I was unexpectedly called to Nashville and was not able to break away from the meeting to make it back in time. I do hope I knew Ivy well enough, though, to know she wouldn’t have minded so terribly much.”

  “Burial.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It was a burial. Granny didn’t want a funeral.” He was being kind and gracious. Why was I suddenly nitpicking?

  “You’re right again, of course, and I see you have your grandmother’s eye for detail. She was a very bright woman. A bright light in our community and well loved.”

  “Except…I’ve heard a few things.”

  Homer sat back, head cocked. Was he dubious? Surprised? I couldn’t tell but decided his raised eyebrows were inviting me to continue.

  “Her—her house—” And now why was I suddenly choking? It wasn’t tears this time. Anger? Anger with a prickling strand of worry…

  “It’s all right. Take your time, Kath. May I get you a cup of tea or coffee?”

  I didn’t want either, but I couldn’t help looking around for the giant bottle of water that so impressed Ernestine. Homer took my interest as an affirmative.

  “Tea, then?”

  I nodded. It was easier.

  “Good. I’ll step into the kitchen and you can have a few minutes to yourself. Then you can tell me what you think you’ve heard or whatever it is that’s concerning you. I’ll do what I can to find the answers you need and make things right. I want you to know that I’m here to make things as smooth as possible for you during this sad time of transition.”

  After he patted my hand, which I could have done without, he filled a carafe from his mega-gallon bottle of spring water and went through to the kitchenette. Before he pulled the door closed, I heard him greet someone who promptly dropped what sounded like a couple of hammers and a bag of nails.

  I did some deep breathing and inner admonishing. This was not the time to fall apart or lash out. I needed to concentrate on appreciating Homer’s efforts and consideration. But, really, a line like during this sad time of transition? Maybe he was lunch buddies with Neil Taylor, the funeral director, and couldn’t help absorbing phrases that sounded as though they came straight out of a mortuary science manual for model customer service. This probably wasn’t a time to snicker, either. Homer meant well. People usually do during sad times of transition. And if he were able to find answers and make things right, that would be a fine thing.

  A list would be a fine thing, too, I thought, and I should have started one sooner. Granny always said
any project worth beginning was worth beginning with a detailed list. I was a confirmed acolyte of that philosophy in my professional life and my private life. Arriving listless for my appointment with Homer was a sure indication of stress-related backsliding. It was easy enough to remedy that.

  As I rummaged in my purse for a notebook, something bright, white, and lined caught my eye. The corner of a legal pad winked at me from Homer’s desk. A legal pad would be larger than anything I had with me, with plenty of surface area, allowing for a better-designed list or even an outline or a diagram. Ooh, with that pad and my favorite mechanical pencil…I heard the siren call of having the right office supplies for the right job.

  But I couldn’t do that. What if Homer’s personal notes were on that pad of paper? Or notes from another client’s appointment? Or notes scribbled during a conversation with someone who knew something about Emmett Cobb’s murder…What if my imagination was launching itself into the ozone?

  I dug further for my crabbed little spiral-bound, locating it under my cell phone and a rolled-up reusable bag. I pulled the notebook out and kept my eyes from wandering back to the tempting legal pad. My bent and rumpled paper might produce something that looked more like an impromptu grocery list, but it would be an honest effort.

  First bullet point on my list, with its attendant mini-bullets: Granny’s house on Lavender Street. Who owned it? Were the Spiveys and the uninformative rent-due notice correct and did Angela’s husband, Max, now own it? If Max owned it, how did that happen? Did he inherit it? From whom? And how had that happened? The initial phrasing of that question was more colorful before I marked through parts of it. Next, why were the locks changed? If the place was broken into, did anyone know if anything was missing? Missing. Oh my God.

  Second bullet point: Maggie. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten about her again. Where was she? Locating Granny’s cat might not be exactly what Homer meant by finding answers, but her disappearance might be a clue to the break-in. If there’d been one.

  Third point: Joe Pantry Guy and the break-in at the cottage. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but could the break-in at the cottage and the supposed break-in at Granny’s be related? Would Homer believe someone broke in last night if the police didn’t? Could last night’s break-in be related to Emmett Cobb’s…