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

  Fourth: Emmett Cobb’s murder. Murder. Ruth didn’t like saying the word and I discovered I had trouble writing it. I almost substituted something less permanent-sounding in its place. Then I pictured Cole Dunbar curling his lip at my squeamishness. I underlined “murder” twice. The sub-bullet I added below that really did make me feel squeamish. I scribbled it in anyway. Was Cole Dunbar right? Was Granny a suspect? Why? Then, to show I was an independent and possibly more astutely suspicious person than Cole Dunbar, I wrote down my own favorite suspect: Joe Pantry Guy. I thought about adding Dunbar, too, figuring I could make a case for him poisoning his poker buddy in a fit of pique, but I didn’t want to invite bad luck. Or incur the further wrath of a still pretty much unknown quantity of a cop. Which led to the next bullet point.

  Fifth: Cole Dunbar. Was he an honest cop?

  “I would have asked,” Homer said, coming back through from the kitchen, making me jump, “but I pegged you for a black tea drinker.” He carried a tray loaded with teapot, cups, creamer—the works—and set it on the desk, eclipsing my view of the legal pad. “It’s a knack I have. Choosing the right color tea for the right person and occasion. Ivy, for instance.”

  “Granny only drank coffee.”

  “Exactly.” Homer laughed. “‘Homer,’ she told me, ‘don’t waste your water if you’re going to run it through a teabag. I’ll have coffee and I’ll drink it black.’” His imitation of Granny was fair enough. I smiled, despite the list of unhappy questions glaring in my lap. Homer poured two cups and handed one to me. “Would you like anything in it?”

  “No, thanks.” I doubted there was a nip of anything on the tray. Too early, anyway.

  “I thought not. I’m a honey-and-lemon man, myself.” He sat in the chair opposite mine again, content with his tea and his parlor trick. “Now, tell me what you’ve been hearing and we’ll see what I can do to put your mind at ease.”

  His charm and patter worked, as he must have known they would. I sat back, warmed my hands and breathed steam from the cup, took a sip. “Granny’s house on Lavender Street.”

  “It’s yours, of course. Lock, stock, and the rain barrel she keeps in the backyard for her dyeing projects. A very pleasant little property which should have good resale value even in this economic climate.”

  “But…”

  “Only if you should choose to sell, of course. It might also bring you a tidy sum as a rental property. As for the property on Main Street, the business, the building, and the lot are yours. I would imagine you’ll be looking to sell those as well, and we’ll start probate. Are you familiar with that process? It can be lengthy, but with a single heir and an uncontested will…”

  Words had failed me back at the “but” that he’d bulldozed under and right on past. Fortunately, my left hand took control of the situation, and while it flapped for Homer’s attention, my right hand valiantly kept tea from sloshing all over my lap.

  Homer skidded to a stop. I related my encounter of yesterday afternoon with the locked door on Lavender Street and the Spiveys with their information bomb about someone named Max supposedly inheriting the house, and Granny owing back rent. Once started, momentum carried me downhill through every bullet point in my hastily assembled list. When I arrived, breathless, at the bottom, I looked up.

  Homer sat motionless, completely focused. Then, without a word, he reached over and set his teacup on the tray. He stood, walked around the desk to his own chair—his black, high-backed, throne of a chair—and sat down facing me. He moved the tea tray aside, placed the legal pad in front of him, lining it up with the edge of the desk, unnecessarily smoothed its flat, crisp surface, and took a pen from the inside pocket of his suit coat. He rolled his shoulders, adjusted his cuffs, turned his long nose toward me, giving me the look of an intent raptor. He clicked the pen.

  “Go through it all again,” he said. “Slowly.”

  Chapter 10

  That authoritative click of Homer’s pen woke me from my bad dream. There were no longer any answers he needed to find for me, because there weren’t any questions. He needn’t work his lawyer magic to make things right, because there were no snags, no wrinkles in my little patch of the world. Granny was gone—that was true and incontrovertible—but otherwise the forecast, thanks to Homer, was for smooth sailing through this time of transition. My life was suddenly almost jolly.

  Sadly, it was also delusional. Of course the click of Homer’s pen didn’t jolt me out of troubled sleep. I was having a bit of a struggle to either feel or appear competent, but I was most definitely wide-awake. I started through my list of questions again.

  Homer listened, made notes, and asked for clarification on several points. Did Shirley and Mercy say when the break-in on Lavender Street occurred? Did it look as though there actually had been a break-in? Had I walked around the house? Tried my key in the back door? Did I mention that break-in to Deputy Dunbar? Had I brought the rent notice with me? Did I know who Max was? His last name? The way Homer’s left eye narrowed when he asked about Max and looked at the receipt gave me the impression he was pretty sure he already knew who Max was.

  Homer apologized, again, for being away when I could have used his help immediately. In fact, he said, he hadn’t returned until that morning. He hadn’t even seen Ruth yet.

  His total concentration calmed me at the same time it disturbed me further. His attention to my concerns made me feel safe, even if I half hoped he would shrug me off with a smile and another pat on the hand. But the fact that he paid such serious attention also confirmed my worries. Far from there being no snags or wrinkles, my little patch of the world was unraveling and possibly moth-eaten. If that weren’t true, then why was Homer using up so many sheets of his legal pad?

  I finished reading my list and waited. Homer made a few more notes. He had a light hand and the pen made a soft, expensive sound gliding over the paper. He glanced through his notes again, clicked the pen, and returned it to his inside pocket.

  “I really appreciate Ruth coming to my rescue like that yesterday.”

  “And you’re probably wondering why she didn’t call me in Nashville and tell me about this situation with Ivy’s house.”

  I lifted one shoulder in what I hoped came across as a nonjudgmental shrug.

  “If there had been a dire emergency she would have. No question,” Homer said. “But Ruth knows that I don’t discuss my clients’ business, and understands why, even in a situation such as this. There are circumstances wherein it is difficult to maintain lawyer-client privilege. In a small town—” He spread his hands and paused. “Well”—he refolded his hands and brought them to rest in the middle of the legal pad—“as you might imagine, it’s hard to keep anything private in Blue Plum. In the meantime, Ruth took care of the immediate needs of the situation, with her invariable capability, and she left me to gather initial impressions for myself, as I prefer.”

  “Holmes.” That slipped out. Only halfway audible, though, thank goodness.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry. I was thinking how nice it is to be home. I’ve always thought of Blue Plum as a second hometown. People like Ruth and you, Homer, are part of the reason why.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  I nodded, wondering if he were prone to fits of melancholy or if he slipped into a smoking jacket when faced with long hours of difficult cogitation. Or was it Poirot who was so fond of gathering initial impressions?

  “To be quite frank,” Homer said, abbreviating my digression, “I doubt I could have done anything more substantive for you than Ruth did had I been here yesterday, as late as all this happened. But here we are now, and we will find out what has happened and what is going on and what we can do about any of it.”

  “So, what are your initial impressions?”

  “In this town?” He spread his hands again, this time adding a quick smile that had a flash of sneer attached, unless I imagined it. “I wonder how any of this managed to st
ay quiet.”

  “Granny was pretty good at keeping secrets.”

  “Ivy was a practical woman.”

  “And keeping secrets is practical? Huh. I never thought of it that way. But the secrets I’m thinking of are more along the lines of surprise parties or hiding a bicycle before a birthday.”

  “Small things.”

  “Compared to her not owning her house anymore, yes. Selling her house is a huge secret. And she kept it so secret she didn’t even change her will.” I was not going to mention, refused even to think about, her other huge “secret.” Except, maybe the business about being a witch and the business with the house were part of the same problem. And not because she was a witch, but because she thought she was a witch.

  “That is a curious point,” Homer said.

  “What is?” Had I said “witch” out loud?

  “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, looking at me more closely.

  “Oh, yes, sorry. It’s just all of this…” Thank goodness for grief as a handy excuse. “I’m fine.” I took a sip of the now cold tea, then put the cup next to his on the tray. He smiled encouragingly. “Okay, I’m wondering two things, coming at this from different directions. First, is the house thing really a secret? The Spiveys knew about it, so maybe other people know and haven’t said anything because they assume I know, too.”

  “A possibility. Ruth didn’t know anything about it, though?”

  “No.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about it, either. And Ivy did not change her will.”

  “No. So, looking at this from the flip side, I wonder if it’s true? Did she really sell the house? What if she didn’t and someone’s trying to pull a fast one?”

  “A fast what?”

  “A fast property grab? I don’t know. But this guy, Max, is married to Mercy Spivey’s daughter, Angela, and there’s never been any love lost between Granny and the Spiveys.”

  Homer’s beak inclined toward me. “Kath, be very careful what you say along those lines, and where, and to whom.”

  “Libel?”

  “Slander.”

  “Oh, right.” I flapped a hand. “I always get those two confused.”

  “It’s serious. I’m serious.”

  “I am, too. Who’s Max—other than Angie’s husband?”

  Homer’s left eye narrowed again, very slightly. Because of the poor manners I’d showed by lapsing into slander? Or at the mention of Max? He didn’t answer my question, but brought his pen back out and tapped it on the legal pad. He clicked it open, clicked it shut, open, shut, then made a check mark beside one of his notes. I was tempted to stand up so I could see better and try reading that note upside down. But placing myself more directly in front of that nose and those eyes wasn’t a comforting thought. It would be safer to approach obliquely, by swinging around behind him and reading over his shoulder. I gave myself a discreet pinch and told myself to pay attention.

  “First, your idea of anyone pulling a fast one”—Homer paused and tapped his pen one more time before continuing—“to gain possession of a small, nondescript, basically insignificant house is unlikely.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I don’t mean to insult Ivy, you, or the property by that statement.”

  He did insult us, but maybe he couldn’t help himself. I pictured the lovely house he and Ruth must live in. He probably couldn’t imagine relaxing in a cozy place like Granny’s, or stretching his long legs out in such close quarters. I let the slight pass.

  “Second, if Ivy sold the house it will be a matter of public record and should be easy enough to track down. Maybe trickier if Max inherited the property. I’ll see what I can do this afternoon.” He made another note.

  “And Max?”

  “I only know one Max. It’s very likely there are others in town and around the county.”

  “Oh, dozens, I’m sure. Who’s the one you know?”

  “Max Cobb. Emmett Cobb’s son.” He gave no special emphasis to the words in either of those two short statements. His voice and face were clear of emotion. He held my eyes with a bland look for a moment, then nodded as though agreeing with me. “Exactly,” he said. He flipped his pen in the air, caught it, and pointed it at me. “Exactly.”

  “Um, exactly what? I didn’t say anything.” Couldn’t say anything was more like it.

  “You haven’t got a lawyer’s face, Kath.”

  My face had probably screeched “bloody hell” while my mind sat there gulping and inarticulate. “Maybe I’ll work on that. Wow. Emmett Cobb who was murdered? Max is that Emmett Cobb’s son?”

  “We don’t know for a fact that he’s Emmett Cobb’s son.”

  “Sure we do.” I didn’t have a lawyer’s prissy approach to facts, either. “Even if we don’t, we can find out fast enough. Ask Ernestine. I bet she’ll know.”

  “I will.”

  I started to get up. Homer waved me back into my chair.

  “Kath, we need to consider this situation matter-of-factly.”

  “Okay.”

  “Without emotion.”

  “I can do that. But I think I see where Cole Dunbar might have gotten the idea that Granny should be a suspect in Emmett Cobb’s murder—if he somehow got hold of her house. But I don’t believe, not for one single minute do I believe, that she had anything to do with his death at all.”

  “Without emotion.”

  “Oh. Right. Really, I can do that.” I peeled my hands from their death grip on the arms of the chair, took several calm, deep breaths, tried to relax my teeth.

  “May I tell you what I think we should do?” he asked, obviously modeling the state of calm to which he wished I’d aspire.

  “Sure.”

  “First, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep the rent notice for the files.”

  “Sure.”

  “Then I will call Sheriff Haynes and find out if there is an official line of inquiry connecting Ivy with Emmett Cobb’s murder. I agree with you. I find it hard to believe she had anything to do with his death.”

  “Not just hard to believe. Impossible.”

  “Beyond the realm of imagination.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Next, let me ask what your plans are for the rest of the day.”

  “Meet with Rachel Meeks over at the bank. Meet with Ardis and maybe some of the staff at the Weaver’s Cat. I’d kind of planned to start going through things at the house, too.” The thought of going through Granny’s clothes made me sniff, but I pulled myself together for Homer’s sake. Maybe, if I asked, Ardis would come over and lend a shoulder and helping hands. Instantly, as the words “helping hands” came to me, an image flashed through my mind. A pair of hands pawing through Granny’s chest of drawers, her closet, her desk. Hands helping themselves…An involuntary shake of my head cleared the image, as though it had been a gnat buzzing between my eyes and ears. “Do you know Nicki Keplinger?”

  “Who?” Homer asked.

  I don’t know which of us was more surprised by my blurted question. I felt a trickle of sweat on the back of my neck and rushed to explain and cover the confusion the image left behind. “I was just thinking out loud, thinking of asking Ardis Buchanan, over at the shop, if she’d help me go through Granny’s things. And Nicki.” Nicki who was wearing a jacket she said Granny gave her.

  “Of course, and Nicki works at the shop, too, doesn’t she? Her name rings a bell. No doubt Ruth has mentioned it. Although, if she used the name Nicki in any sentence also containing the word ‘yarn’ or ‘wool,’ I can’t vouch for paying close attention. And, please,” he said, pointing his pen at me again, “do not ever repeat that to Ruth.” He nodded when I dutifully returned his quiet laugh. “It’s never an easy task, sorting through a loved one’s life. A lot of emotion. A lot of memories.”

  “A lot of good memories,” I said.

  “That will help. And I should think any of the women at the shop will be happy to give you a hand. Ruth, too, I’m quite s
ure.”

  “Everyone has been very kind. Um, but, what about the break-in, or the supposed break-in? If there really was one, will the police object? Will there be any problems getting into the house?”

  “Was there crime scene tape across the door?”

  “No. Gosh, that would’ve been horrifying to come across. Do they really use that stuff? On the other hand, if there was tape, you don’t suppose the Spiveys took it down, do you?”

  Homer wasn’t amused.

  “Slander again? Sorry.”

  “Always remember how small this town is, Kath. Like a family of twelve sharing a two-room apartment. There’s no privacy, and a virus spreads like wildfire. Or think of it like a group of seven-year-olds playing that old telephone game. Massive amounts of misunderstanding.”

  I sighed.

  “But a lot of laughs and good times, too. That also is worth remembering. This is a good place. Good people.” He made another check mark on his list. “I’ll make some calls and we’ll get you in the house. Maybe not today, if Max is still in Kentucky, but I don’t want you to worry about the house. It’s locked. It’s safe. How long do you plan to be in town?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “That’s fine, then. You have time. The house isn’t going anywhere and we will get you in. Now, what is your meeting with Rachel Meeks about?”

  I blanked. Had I really had the presence of mind, sometime in the past few days, to make an appointment with Granny’s banker? How practical of me. How Granny-like. “I guess I thought it would be a good idea to know exactly where the business stands, where Granny’s estate stands, before I try to make any decisions.”

  Homer nodded his handsome head. “That makes good sense. You have some not inconsequential decisions to make regarding the business, and those decisions will, of course, affect not only the shop’s employees but the town as well. You’re smart to approach that decision with your eyes open, armed with all the facts.”