Yarned and Dangerous (6 page)

“You like it here? I guess I made the right choice.” Josie removed the rest of the sheets and blankets from the bed and headed to the washer, which was located in the downstairs bathroom.

An hour and a half later, the room was vacuumed and dusted, and Josie had put her clothes away. On the top shelf of the small closet she'd found a treasure wrapped in an old sheet: a heavily fringed, handmade crocheted bedspread. She laid it out over the clean sheets and blankets, adjusting the sides so they hung evenly, then tucked the top over the pillows.

The lacy white pattern allowed the deep blue of the blanket underneath to show through, throwing each stitch of the flower motif into relief. Josie examined the bedspread, marveling. How many hours had it taken someone—Cora, or perhaps one of Josie's own long-ago ancestors—to form stitch upon stitch into this magnificent whole?

Josie stood back, admiring her work. Yes, this room would do nicely. Too bad she wouldn't be here long.

J
osie left Coco sleeping in the armchair and dragged the vacuum cleaner back down the stairs. Between bumps on each tread, she heard a woman's voice, which was rising and falling in a musical cadence. Had Eb turned on the television? No, this sounded like a live human. Eb was certainly a popular guy in these parts. There'd been no shortage of visitors today.

She parked the vacuum cleaner at the bottom of the stairs, which opened up into the dining room. Or what she had been assuming was the dining room, since that's where the big table was. Eb sat in his favorite armchair by the window, holding a folded-up newspaper and tapping the eraser of his pencil on his left thigh. He shifted several times in his seat, and looked decidedly uncomfortable. He turned toward Josie with pleading eyes.

A woman with shiny, obviously dyed strawberry-blond hair cut into a neat cap had pulled up a dining chair next to him and was prattling away. She appeared to be in her mid to late sixties, a little younger than Eb, and apparently didn't notice that Josie was now in the room. The well-manicured fingers of one hand grazed the soft flannel of Eb's shirtsleeve. “. . . so I just want you to know that you can call on me for
anything,
Eben.”

Josie cleared her throat. The woman stiffened slightly, then turned around. Eb blew out a breath.

“Hello. I'm Josie,” she said, extending a hand.

The woman smiled. “Evelyn Graves. I was just dropping off a casserole to Roy Woodruff, and, since I had an extra, I thought I'd drop one off to Eben as well.”

Of course. I keep extra casseroles around, too
. “That's really nice of you. Where is it, and I'll put it away?”

Evelyn waved her hand. “I've already put it in the freezer. There are heating instructions taped to the foil on top.” She cut her eyes toward Eb. “I'll come by in a few days to collect my baking dish.”

Eb's face registered a mild degree of panic, which Josie would have found amusing if she hadn't felt just a little sorry for him. Evelyn was clearly on the prowl, and it looked like Eb was the intended prey. Josie looked from the country-clubby Evelyn to the just-plain-country Eb and wondered at the attraction. But Dorset Falls was a small village. Maybe Evelyn didn't have a lot to choose from, or maybe she just liked bachelor farmers. Josie couldn't picture Evelyn ice fishing any more than she could see herself doing it. Maybe she and Evelyn had something in common after all.

“That's a lovely cardigan,” Josie said. “Did you make it?”

Evelyn preened. “Yes, dear. This is a traditional Irish fisherman's pattern. I bought the wool from Cora, of course. There's probably still some left in the shop. If you haven't sold everything yet.” Josie couldn't quite find fault with the woman's tone, but still it sounded like a mild accusation. What was this woman's problem? Miss Marple Knits was a shop, and shops sold things.

“Well, that's on hold right now while the police investigate,” Josie said.

A frown crossed Evelyn's face. “First poor Cora, now Lillian. Of course, at our age you have to be prepared for friends to go suddenly, but it still reminds us of our own mortality. Right, Eben?” He just sat there, his face a stony mask. Evelyn was going to have a tough time romancing him, if that was her plan. And Cora had only been gone six weeks.

Evelyn turned to Josie. “Speaking of Cora, I know you're here to close up her shop. What are you going to do with all the yarn she kept here at the house?”

“Did she keep yarn here? I've only been here a couple of days, and I haven't been through the whole house yet.”

Evelyn's mouth hung open, just a little, then she gave a small laugh. “My dear, it's probably just as well you're closing the shop. You know
nothing
about knitters.”

Josie stiffened. This woman was somewhere between good-naturedly condescending and downright rude. “What don't I know about knitters?” she said.

Evelyn smiled. “Knitters have stashes
everywhere
. We see beautiful yarn and we buy it, whether or not we have a project in mind for it or time to knit it. We can't help ourselves. Come on,” she said. “I know where Cora kept at least some of her hoard.”

She headed into the living room without a backward glance at Eb. Apparently yarn was more interesting to her than romance. Eb let out a breath. “Go on, and keep her busy, will ya?”

Josie grinned, then caught up with Evelyn, who was standing in front of a wooden door in the back corner of the living room. Josie had assumed it was a closet, so she was surprised when Evelyn opened the door and led her into a medium-sized room filled with late afternoon sunlight.

Josie let her eyes roam. A golden oak desk with a matching filing cabinet sat in one corner. A comfy-looking pair of mismatched armchairs flanked the window, which looked out over the meadow behind the house. And everywhere she looked, she saw baskets and bins of yarn. Evelyn was scanning the room, a reverent expression on her face.

She turned to Josie. “Of course, this would have been the borning room in the old days.”

Josie frowned in confusion, thinking of the period dramas she liked to watch on public television. The costumes were always so gorgeous. “You mean morning room. Like they had in mansions, where the lady of the house wrote her letters and things.” Of course, that didn't make sense. This was a farmhouse and gave no appearances of ever having been anything else.

Evelyn shook her head. “No, dear. I said
borning
room, and I meant
borning
room. This is where the lady of the house gave birth—and remember, not so long ago most women had a baby every year or so. It's also where the sick were tended, and where people died.”

A shudder ran through Josie. It was kind of nice to think about generations of Lloyd babies being born here. But it was not so nice to think of people dying. Her thoughts skipped back to Lillian, the only dead body she'd ever seen. Yup, Josie had had all the death she could handle.

She forced her brain back to the present. “You say you've been in this room?”

“Of course Cora only lived here a few months before she died.” A look of sadness passed over Evelyn's face. “Before she married Eben she had her own house, that big saltbox on Elm Street. Such a beautiful place, built by one of the founders of Dorset Falls. She sold it for a nice profit to some out-of-towners, you know.”

Josie didn't know. But she wondered if Cora had been spending the proceeds on keeping her yarn shop afloat. That would explain how she'd been able to stay in business in Dorset Falls, but that money wouldn't have lasted indefinitely. “So you were friends?”

“Well, of course. Cora and I went back a long way. We used to get together for dinner at my house or hers—either the house in town or later here—before our committee meetings. Put two knitters in a room together and, well, they're going to start knitting.” She gave a sad laugh. “You might want to keep the dog out of here. He'll ruin the yarn.”

Evelyn bent down and pulled a cherry-red skein out of one of the baskets. She ran her fingers through the strands. “Wool and mohair blend. Very nice. I wonder if there's any more of this?” The woman picked up the basket, parked herself in one of the armchairs, and began to rummage.

Josie watched, fascinated. Evelyn seemed to have forgotten all about her as she methodically pawed through the yarn.
Oh well,
Josie thought.
What can it hurt?
Josie used the opportunity to survey the room again. If Cora had been a superheroine, this would have been her inner sanctum, not a room that Eb appeared to have any presence in at all. Josie made her way to the desk while Evelyn did her thing.

This must have been where Cora had done her paperwork, not at the shop. Josie put her hand on the drawer handle. A pool of unease sloshed in her stomach. This didn't feel right, looking into Cora's personal world. She shook her head. No sense being squeamish, she told herself firmly. Cora was gone. And this was why Josie was there, to help close up Cora's affairs. Eb had given her carte blanche. If Cora had any secrets, they couldn't hurt her now.

Josie glanced up at Evelyn, who was still industriously going through the basket. The woman was focused, that was for sure. She'd pulled out three more skeins of the red yarn and set them on the side table next to her. Finally, she looked up.

“What are you going to do with all this?” She swept her arm around. Her eyes glinted, ever so slightly. A glint Josie had seen before in the eyes of Diantha Humphries. Suddenly, Josie knew why Evelyn had seemed familiar. She was one of the women who had descended on Miss Marple Knits the first day Josie had arrived. Not the one she'd seen coming out of the building across the street earlier today, but definitely one of the women who'd accompanied Lillian Woodruff into the shop looking for a bargain.

In truth, Josie had no idea what to do with all the yarn that surrounded her. She supposed she'd just pack it up and add it to the inventory at the shop, then start looking for a buyer. Darn it. There was that flutter in her stomach again. The potpie she'd eaten for lunch rather than her usual salad, she told herself. Maybe she'd fix something for Eb, but just have a yogurt for dinner.

“Honestly, since I didn't know about this . . . stash, I don't have any plans for it yet. Sell it along with the shop inventory, most likely.”

A cloud of disappointment passed over Evelyn's face. “Well, of course you'll do what you—and Eben—see fit.” She ran her fingers over the red wool again.

Josie had an idea. Whether it would turn out to be a good idea, or a bad idea, she didn't know. “Say, Evelyn. If you're not too busy, once the police clear me to go back to Miss Marple Knits, maybe you could give me a hand with making an inventory? I can't make any decisions until I know what's there.” Having someone to help who knew what she was doing would mean Josie could have this business over and done with quickly. She'd wait for the doctor to clear Eb, then she could hightail it back to New York in time for the spring runway show. Brilliant.

Evelyn looked at Josie appraisingly. “So, you'd like me to help you close up my favorite store in the world, a place where I have many happy memories of knitting together with my friends. That's what you're asking, you know.”

Josie hadn't thought about it that way. “Uh, yeah. I guess so. I could really use your expertise, though. And of course, by helping me you're helping Eb.” She felt a little guilty, dangling Eb out in front of Evelyn like a crotchety, flannel-wearing carrot. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Eb had been taking care of himself for a long time. He could handle this.

Evelyn's features softened into a smile. “At my age, it's nice to be needed. And you clearly need me. So yes, you can count me in. I'll call the police chief and find out what's taking so long. I'll have you back at Miss Marple Knits in the morning.”

Her confidence was impressive. Whether she could deliver on the promise was another thing. But Josie was certainly going to let her try.

“I'm so glad,” Josie said, and meant it. “Why don't you take that red wool? I'm sure Cora would have wanted you to have it.”

“Well . . . if you're sure.” Evelyn was making a good show of appearing nonchalant, but not quite succeeding. She really, really wanted that yarn.

“I'm sure,” Josie said firmly.

“All right then. Look in the drawers of that desk, will you? Cora will have a box of gallon-sized plastic zip bags in there somewhere.”

Sure,
Josie thought.
I keep those in my desk back at the Haus of Heinrich offices, too. Doesn't everyone?
But obediently she began opening drawers. The third one contained . . . a box of plastic bags. She pulled one out and took it over to Evelyn, who was waiting expectantly with the skeins of wool on her lap.

“I'll wind these into balls when I get home,” Evelyn said, placing her loot into the bag and giving it a quick zip.

Josie had to ask. “How did you know she'd have those?”

Evelyn laughed. “Dear, how do you think we keep our projects clean and organized in our purses? Now it's time for me to go. I'll just find Eben and say good-bye. Meet me at the general store tomorrow morning, and we'll get to work.”

 

Evelyn never did say good-bye to Eb, who was hiding out somewhere and was apparently prepared to wait her out. But the next morning she was as good as her word. Josie found her sitting at a table in the back of the general store, sipping from a mug. Half of a toasted, buttered bagel lay on a plate in front of her. Evelyn waved her fingers at Josie and set the mug down. Josie greeted her, then headed for the counter.

Josie handed Lorna the morning's eggs, then unbuttoned her coat and unwound the ocean-blue scarf Cora had given her. “Morning, Josie,” Lorna said. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please. Working in a chicken coop in February is cold work.”

Lorna laughed. “I never would have pictured a famous New York fashion designer like you managing poultry.”

“You and me both,” Josie said. “And I'm not famous. I'm not even sure I'm a fashion designer, though I work for one.” She looked around the store. That Master of Fine Arts degree Otto had insisted she get—and pay for herself—was dead useless in Dorset Falls.

Lorna handed her a steaming mug. “Cream and sugar are right here. You make drawings of dresses and things, right? So that makes you a fashion designer.”

Her words were meant to be encouraging. “I suppose so. But I'm beginning to suspect I'm not a very good one. Lately every design I turn in has something wrong with it.” She gave her coffee a stir.