Once Upon a Craft Shop, page 1
part #1 of Craft Shop Mysteries Series
Also by E. R. Paskey
The Guardians
Bad Faith
Portal Woes
Treason’s Edge
Freedom’s Children
* * *
Ink Realm Duology
Lady Ink
* * *
Finder Series
Head Case
Magna
Old Wounds
Overload
Blowback
* * *
Wild Sea Novels
The Other Side of the Horizon
A Tale of Star-Crossed Hearts
* * *
Standalone Novels
Galaxy’s Way
In Plain Sight
The Spy at the Embassy
The Spy at the Embassy Special Edition
Once Upon a Craft Shop is © 2025 by E. R. Paskey
All rights reserved.
Cover image is © Subtle Touch Creations
Illustrations are © Raymon.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or they are used fictitiously. Any reference to actual locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic, or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, to include, but not exclusive to audio or visual recordings of any description without permission from the copyright owner.
For information on subsidiary rights, email or write in the first instance.
E Minor Press
P.O. Box 33
Scottsburg, IN 47170
contact@eminorpress.com
For my husband, Tim.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Newsletter Sign-up
About the Author
Also by E. R. Paskey
Chapter
One
Golden morning sun poured through a large plate glass window, slanting across the dusty oak wooden floor and illuminating a horde of dust mites floating lazily in the thick air. It was early August, and Kentucky’s broiling heat and hazy humidity were in full force. They were especially noticeable in the large, empty front room of this shop.
My shop.
I clutched an ornate silver key and a sheaf of papers to my chest, careful not to wrinkle the papers in my excitement. My chest swelled with emotion, and for a second my eyes burned with hot tears.
It was finally mine. I’d done it.
After years of wishing and hoping, I’d finally made my dream come true. I had leased a little shop and I would be able to open my very own fabric and craft store in Starhaven, Kentucky—the cutest, sweetest little town I’d ever seen this side of the Appalachian Mountains.
Celia’s Craft Shop.
Did I know anybody in town? No. Did it matter? Also, no.
I dragged in a deep breath of hot, humid air, resolve and giddiness twirling together like bright ribbons inside me. I’m fairly approachable. I’d manage to make friends eventually.
A bright smile lit my face, wide enough to make my cheeks hurt. Even better, with any luck, I’d have customers soon.
Still clutching the papers, I twirled in a giddy circle, letting the folds of my light summer skirt fan out around my legs. Oh, I was so excited!
My open-toe sandals made little scuffing sounds on the wooden floor that echoed in the large room as I turned. The stuffy heat and humidity in this room grew more oppressive by the moment, causing sweat to bead on my forehead, the backs of my knees, and under my breasts, but I didn’t notice. I was too busy painting the room with my mind’s eye, imagining what it would look like once I bought rows of shelving and brought in bolts of fabric.
I’d been doing that for the last two months now, though I’d tried to restrain myself in case I hadn’t been able to lease the shop. In theory, it was a great thought. Better to guard myself a little and protect myself so I wasn’t completely crushed if everything fell through.
Reality worked a little differently.
The truth was, I had fallen in love with this shop and what I’d seen of this town and the sheer potential of it all. I had never in my life walked into a place and see what could be with such startling clarity before.
I was so wrapped up in my giddy imaginings that it took a few moments to register the weight of the silence filling this room—and the unsettling feeling that I was being watched. Slowly, like a damp fog rising from the Ohio River, it seeped into my delight and tainted it. The hair on the back of my neck prickled.
I blinked once, twice, and the store I’d been arranging in my head fell away to be replaced by the empty reality of the room in which I stood. Despite the heat, a chill crept over my skin. The feeling of bright promise permeating my new shop and making the sunshine glitter even brighter gold seemed to dim.
Even the rays of sunshine slanting through the large plate glass window darkened, as though someone had thrown a lacy veil between the sun and the earth.
Someone was watching me—and I had the distinct impression that they were not happy I was here.
Under the guise of smoothing out my sheaf of papers, I swept a quick glance around the room, taking in dingy cream walls and the original molded tin ceiling squares. Nothing.
I was alone in this room—I’d been alone since Mr. Moffat’s attorney handed me the sheaf of signed papers with a smile and let himself out.
The hair on the back of my neck continued to prickle.
Doing my best to maintain my giddy smile, I glanced toward the plate glass window. I expected to see a face duck out of sight—though I hadn’t thought there had been anyone outside on the sidewalk—but again, nothing.
It was only then that I finally noticed the disapproving heaviness of the silence filling the room. I stood perfectly still, listening. When I’d first set foot in this shop, I’d have sworn that the sounds of traffic from the street outside were audible.
I heard none of them now. The silence seemed to have melded with the heat and humidity to create a heavy layer that pressed down on me almost like a living thing.
Almost like it was trying to force me out. Like it was a disgruntled child trying to tell me I wasn’t welcome here.
Words stirred, formed before I could think about what I was doing.
“I signed a lease,” I said loudly, though to my own ears my voice sounded muffled. “I have a key.”
Instinctively, I tightened my grip on both my lease papers and my oddly antiquated silver key, as though someone—or something—was about to snatch them out of my hands.
But of course, that was ridiculous.
I breathed out a laugh that was only slightly shaky. What was I doing, talking to myself like this? It wasn’t like I’d never been alone in an empty room before.
The heat is getting to you, I thought. Need to get some fresh air.
Lifting my chin, I marched across the light wooden floor to the front door. In my hyper-alert state of listening for any other sounds, it struck me that this old floor was surprisingly non-creaky. The feeling that I was being watched persisted all the way up until I opened the door and stepped out into golden sunshine and fresh air—if you could call air so thick you could practically cut it with a knife ‘fresh’.
It was only when I took a deep breath and looked up and down the street that I realized that nagging feeling of being watched by disapproving eyes had disappeared.
I cast a backward glance over my shoulder. My shop’s front room was still empty. Shaking my head, I shut the door and locked it.
I was imagining things. I had to be. But on a practical note… I made a mental note to make sure I bought one of those little bells that jingled when someone opened the door.
A moment later, having safely tucked both the lease papers and the silver key in my purse, I looked around the street again. For a second, I couldn’t recall what I’d meant to do next.
A sultry breeze brushed past me, ruffling the leaves of the d
Three doors down from me, a large antique store took up one of the Square’s corners. An orthodontist office and a tiny jewelry store stood between us. Directly across the street stood a plant shop. The sign above the door read Vine Life in curly green letters.
I liked that. The shop had the same cutesy vibe you see on all those salt life stickers, but I knew the owner had to be dead serious about plants.
At that moment, a woman came through Vine Life’s front door with a large pink watering can and began to water a few hanging planters with vibrant green leaves that were suspended from the awning and hung on both sides of the door. Even from across the street, I could see she had a delicate face with large, dark eyes and a fall of chestnut-brown hair that almost seemed to glisten in the early morning sunlight. Everything about her was slender, from her long limbs and torso to the fingers grasping the watering can.
I almost took a step back when she turned her head and our gazes connected across the street. Those large, dark eyes were full of suspicion and—if I didn’t know any better—almost outright hostility.
I suppose I am staring, I thought, and forced myself to smile brightly and wave. The plant lady had to know who I was, though. Small towns differed in some things, like location or weather or layout, but there were a few things that remained the same no matter where they were.
One of those things was that everybody knew everybody else’s business. Particularly if a new business was coming into town from out of town.
For a split second, I debated crossing the street and introducing myself. But then the plant lady’s mouth firmed into a thin foreboding line. She broke eye contact and deliberately turned away, tossing her mane of chestnut hair.
My smile froze on my lips and my chest gave a funny ache, like somebody had shoved me really hard. Well, clearly at least one person in Starhaven was not happy I was opening a shop here.
Swallowing a protest that the plant lady didn’t even know me yet, I forced myself to turn away. Don’t let one cranky grump ruin your day, I told myself. They won’t all be like that.
The law of averages meant that at least a few people in this town would be glad to meet me, right?
Chapter
Two
I stood in the sunshine on my doorstep for a moment, debating whether I should go ahead and unpack my car or whether I could spare a few moments for a celebratory iced coffee. There was a cute little coffee shop on the corner of the Square opposite the antique shop.
I’d packed my car to the gills, but I’d had to hire movers to bring everything else from my apartment in Louisville. (It was either that or abandon what furniture I had. Unfortunately, none of my friends were available to help me drive a U-Haul.) I would have to drive back to Louisville this afternoon so that I could supervise the movers in the morning.
One of the coolest things about my new shop was the fact that the apartment over it was also included in my lease. My commute to work would literally consist of walking out of my apartment door and down the stairs to street level. It was an older apartment, but it had air conditioning and wi-fi access, and it wasn’t moldy.
Also, the combined rent was reasonable. I’d been thrilled.
In case you’re wondering, yes, I fell in love with my apartment the moment I saw it, too. Not because of what it was—it was clean, so to speak, but not the kind of clean you want to move all your stuff into—but, again, because of its potential.
Standing in the middle of the surprisingly spacious living room, I’d scanned the interior and seen what could be, with a little love and elbow grease. And new curtains. And a new coat of paint on the walls.
Since I moved out of my dad’s when I was twenty, I’ve rented several different apartments in Louisville, but I’ve never lived in anything like this. On my off days, sometimes I’d walk the streets in downtown Louisville and imagine what it would be like to live in the apartments that overlooked the stores and businesses along some of those streets.
And now I had the chance to do that too. My shop might not be directly on the Square, but it was close enough that it gave me a fluttery feeling of excitement.
I was so happy to be here it wasn’t even funny.
Glancing up at my apartment windows, I decided I’d better unpack first. Then I could grab some coffee and head back to Louisville.
I had just taken the first step toward the alley that lay between my shop and the shop to my left when a disgruntled male voice spoke from behind me.
“What are you doing here?”
Startled, I whirled around, my fingers tightening instinctively on the straps of my purse. The light folds of my skirt tried to stick to my bare, sweaty legs.
“Excuse me?” I asked, before I realized who had addressed me.
It was a little man about four feet tall, dressed in khaki slacks and a dark blue polo, with a faded blue baseball cap pulled over gray curly hair. Arms folded across his chest, he glared at me from beneath his cap as though my very presence—and maybe the fact that he had to literally look up at me—personally offended him.
“You heard me.” The little man raised his chin, his scowl deepening. “Why are you here?”
Bewildered, I motioned to the shop window behind me with the hand not clutching my purse. “I just signed a lease.” I tried for a friendly smile, despite the fact that the little man’s brown-eyed glare could have stopped a flow of lava in its tracks. “I’m planning to open a fabric and craft shop.”
“You shouldn’t be here. We don’t need a craft shop.” The little man shook his head, his upper lip curling with disgust. “What was Moffat thinking?”
“Hey.” Irritation finally broke through my shock. I posted both hands on my hips. “What are you, one of those small-town people who think nobody should be allowed to move in unless they’re already from the area?”
The little man just glared at me mulishly.
I took a deep breath of humid air and mentally counted to ten. I had absolutely no idea who this guy was or how he fit into the dynamics of Starhaven, but I really didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. Of course…I didn’t want to be walked all over, either…
“I’m Celia O’Malley.” I thrust a hand out toward the little man. “I’m from Louisville, originally—”
“At least you’re still from Kentucky,” the little man grumbled, eying my outstretched hand like it was something contagious.
“—but I fell in love with this town when I visited a while back and I decided to move here.” I dropped my hand, not bothering to mask my irritation.
“Why?” the little man’s arms were still folded across his chest. “What could possibly have made you think it would be a good idea to open a—” his nose wrinkled in distaste, “—craft shop here?”
Another light breeze brushed past us, the heavy, humid air tinged with something delightfully floral. I was too focused on the man in front of me to wonder where that lovely flower smell originated.
“I know there are a lot of artists in the Appalachian Mountains.” I gestured to the town at large with one hand. “This region of Kentucky is known for the beautifully handmade things that come out of it.”
