Tempting Fete, page 1
Tempting Fête (Men Who Stitch Mysteries #1): A Diverse Cozy Mystery
by Kate Silvers
The characters and events in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons—living, dead, secret crafty sheriff’s patrol, or otherwise—is entirely coincidental. This is purely a work of fiction.
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All Rights Reserved
©2023 Katherine Gilbert
Cover Art by MiblArt
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Tempting Fete (Men Who Stitch Mysteries, #1)
Kate Silvers’ Men Who Stitch Mysteries
Chapter 1—Beware the Crafters of Death
Chapter 2—Basking in the Aftermath
Chapter 3—Bikers and Bros—With Needles!
Chapter 4—Starting the Day with a Suspicious Mind
Chapter 5—The Art of Casual Questioning
Chapter 6—Hanging Out With Peewee
Chapter 7—Whispers about Poison
Chapter 8—Tracking the Beast to Her Stockroom
Chapter 9—A Velveteen Grilling
Chapter 10—Brotherhood of the Crochet Needle
Chapter 11—Caught in a Cute ‘n’ Cuddly Lair
Chapter 12—Terror in the Backroom
Epilogue—The Mayor Makes Some Decisions
About the Author
Dedication
For my beloved sister, Armida, who shares my fascination with the Blue Ridge Mountains and follows me, no matter what genre I wander into. Thank you for your love and constant support.
Kate Silvers’ Men Who Stitch Mysteries
Short Prequel: “The Cutest Puppies in the World”
#1: Tempting Fête
#2: A Study in Shih Tzus
Chapter 1—Beware the Crafters of Death
If there were one thing Officer Obadiah Goode hated, it was being called in for a 419, otherwise known as a Crafters’ Showdown.
Arms crossed and staring down at the two, much-shorter ladies, Di hoped to make his glare do his work for him. After all, in most places, a 6-foot, 4-inch tall, very dark-skinned black man would have been seen as a threat all on his own, especially when he was in uniform.
But nope. Not here. The small ladies glared right back, each of them waiting for him to side with her.
Granted, the uniform in this case was not all that helpful. The Prospector’s Rest, North Carolina Sheriff’s Department uniforms had the town’s official seal on them and were a kind of khaki which made him look like a national park tour guide. Since said seal was an old-timey prospector snoring on his back in a bed while his feet stuck out the covers, it wasn’t exactly “putting the fear of God into the populace” time.
As the glare wasn’t working, Di decided to try “the voice.” Ever since he’d managed to break up the infamous Ladies’ Night Brawl a year ago, its implementation was in the official department handbook as the first line of defense against warring women.
Of course, the “brawl” had actually been more of a mild rumpus, but Prospector’s Rest was not exactly a party town. When the Woo! girls had met the bears of a gay bachelor party, it had been enough of a scene to still be talked about a year later.
While Di found people’s reactions to his deep voice to be embarrassing as all get-out, as the lowest-ranking and newest officer in the department, it wasn’t like he had a lot of say in the matter. Besides, whatever worked.
“Now, Velveteen,” he addressed the glaring, gray-haired, white, sexagenarian crafter in the blue, Indian textile dress.
Rumor had it that Ms. Dubois had renamed herself when she’d moved to town and opened its first craft shop in 1977, but, as the head of the Prospector’s Rest Chamber of Commerce for the last 16 years, everyone had long ago gotten used to it.
The rich, deep tones of his voice made three passing women stop and sigh. Di was just glad they couldn’t tell he was blushing.
“The tables for the fête were assigned months ago,” he reasoned.
Okay, so Mayor Pocket didn’t bother to tell anyone, but what did you think was gonna happen when you helped to elect a man whose official nickname on his election signs is “Pick’em Pocket”?
“I’m sure there’s enough room for all the wares from The Craftsman’s Art and Cute ‘n’ Cuddly both, side by side.”
Clearly, neither Velveteen nor Nora believed this, which wasn’t really surprising.
Prospector’s Rest was hidden way up in the Blue Ridge mountains and had made selling crafts to the many interested tourists the town’s main way of staying afloat for at least the last 45 years, all of it due to Velveteen’s intense, long-term efforts. While she had first been seen as an annoying hippie before slowly being accepted into the fold—even if she wasn’t married and had no children, which everyone deemed “weird”—Velveteen had poured every ounce of effort and love into the place since the late seventies. Every other craft store on Main Street had her to thank for its existence and profits, and it was generally acknowledged that the town itself might not have still been here without the change, too.
When Nora had moved in, fresh off her business degree and with a marketing plan she’d assiduously researched as her graduate thesis, and created Cute ‘n’ Cuddly, trading on the fact that some people were not looking for skill and art in their crafts as much as they were a sort of saccharine sweetness, the two were already bound to butt heads. That Nora had actually moved her store in next door was all it had taken for Velveteen to consider it a declaration of war.
Why, then, Peckham (Pick’em) Pocket—in his infinite, money-grubbing wisdom—had decided that the two ladies should neither be given the larger booths they had asked for and should also be set directly beside each other, was a bit confounding. Di wasn’t certain whether it were the mayor’s way of snubbing all the craftswomen who thought they ran the town or whether he’d been too busy chatting up the newly-arrived rich folks who were happily trying to cut down half the trees on the mountain to build million-dollar vacation homes.
Whichever it is, it’s annoying.
That the lowest man on the department totem pole ended up working the most Crafters’ Showdowns was even more so. Even deploying “the velvet voice of death,” as Mac Welles called it, wasn’t enough to undo the bad blood.
Still glaring, Velveteen’s blue eyes said everything. Mostly, they said, Kid, I know your granny. And your deepest, darkest secret. If you wanna keep living in this town, you shouldn’t mess with me.
Meanwhile, Nora pouted. In her early twenties and always dressed to place attention on her very well-built frame, Nora Dugan was white, with red hair, green eyes, and always wore a kind of red lipstick which made women wonder what she was thinking and men flock to her.
Well, most men. She was way too calculating for Di.
Sometimes, he wondered whether her pout weren’t part of her business plan, too. It certainly worked on the town’s newest, rich, weekend visitors.
But it was Velveteen’s look which made him worry the most.
Because she’s right. She DOES know my secret.
He watched her surreptitiously push one of his handmade stuffed animals back to the edge of the table. And it wasn’t even the least-manly item of his she was selling. Only she and his grandmother knew that reclusive macramé artist, Diana Gooch, who sold more than nearly anybody else in the store, was actually big, burly Officer Goode’s nom de needle, as it were.
He had twelve other such names, too, for his various areas of craftwork. Football left him yawning, but anything crafty got his motor seriously running.
Still glaring at him, Velveteen was pushing the plush silver rabbit toward the back of the table. Soon, it was going to be on the ground, where it would probably get stomped by a thousand families waiting for funnel cakes nearby.
Di tried, and failed, not to feel sorry for the little guy.
Say what you will about me, Granny. It’s hard being built like a wrestler when you have the soul of a sentimental little old lady.
Had he had his way, Obadiah would have liked nothing better than a life of crafts and tea.
Taking a deep breath, he pointed to the crowd, who were just starting to make their way in.
“Look, ladies, there are enough attendees for everybody to make some sales.”
It was putting it mildly. Not only was there a traffic jam down the Blue Ridge Parkway to their little burg, but the three local inns, the new resort, and four campgrounds had been booked up since last February. The three other, nearby towns which shared a high school with Prospector’s Rest were booked up, too. The sixth annual Crafts Fête was off to its usual, roaring start.
“Soon, our little town of 300 . . .”
“. . . or thereabouts,” Velveteen and Nora intoned automatically, as though it were a church call-and-response.
It was what the sign into the town had said for the last 100 years, when a previous mayor had gotten tired of sending someone to repaint the number every time there was a birth or death. Of course, if you counted the visitors, and the new weekend home owners, it was quite a few m
He carried on, then.
“. . . will be so full of people desperate for crafts and fudge and funnel cakes and lemonade that we’re barely going to be able to move.” Trying not to sigh, he added, “There’s more than enough people who’ll want all the things you sell.”
Of course, staring over the selection on Nora’s table, he wondered at who these people would be. She generally had three kinds of crafts she specialized in. There was the “I Love Grandma” line (variations on the phrase embroidered and surrounded by black bears on shirts, painted on mugs with fake little kid handprints, and on plaques with children saying prayers, among others), the “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know” items (Bible sayings—none of them from the actual Gospels—on every conceivable tchotchke from oven mitts to bedspreads), and the “My Name is Special” selection (where she used glittery, permanent pens to write people’s names in flowery writing on items of their choice).
To put it mildly, Di did not sell in her store. He often thought that she should provide anti-diabetes medication to her customers to help them endure the sugar overdose. And he knew for a fact that absolutely none of it in any way reflected anything she actually believed.
Glancing around at the families who were now milling in their direction, the two women seemed like they might possibly be ready to listen, so he drove his point home.
“If you can call a truce till after the fête is over, it will be good for both of your businesses and the town.”
Although he knew Velveteen had already agreed by the look in her eye, her finger was still thumping on the head of the teetering silver rabbit.
Thankfully, the crowd helped him out, as a woman pulled her husband over to the Cute ‘n’ Cuddly table, exclaiming, “Granny would love these!” just as a little girl pointed at Di’s stuffed creation, saying, “Look, Daddy! Bunny!”
As Nora was already in her Oh, yes, I’m just the sweetest little crafter you can find persona—which entirely covered up the sign she had over her bed, which said, “Religion is the opiate of the masses. Give me money, instead”—there was only another moment where Velveteen gave him her, Okay, fine. But I’m discounting your latest quilt by 15% look. Then, she smiled at the little girl and agreed to sell her father the bunny.
Di let out a quiet breath and walked away as stealthily as possible, messaging one of his Facebook buddies on his phone: Crafters’ showdown at hour zero of fête. Why did I become a cop again?
About twenty seconds later, Boomer messaged back, Because we crafting men have to keep up our cover. Sadly.
Smiling and putting away the phone, Di was grateful for the internet. If he’d had to go through life without the support of his Men Who Stitch group, he’d probably have gone mad.
Thankfully, the rest of the fête was going pretty well so far. Kids were jumping around but mostly staying near their parents. Parents didn’t yet have the If I have to see ONE MORE CRAFT . . . look to them. None of the food stalls had started to run out of food, and the other town crafters weren’t involved in quite such an I’ll see you rotting in Hell after I stick a knitting needle in your heart feud as Velveteen and Nora.
Wandering back to the Sheriff’s Department booth/Lost Kids Roundup—thankfully kid-free at this early point in the festivities—Di saw the always-annoying grin of Sgt. Spencer. The once-celebrated quarterback of their high school, Spencer still had a blond crewcut, slightly cruel blue eyes, and fairly pumped-up arms. He was also a good eight inches shorter than Di, which Di knew he hated.
Proving it again, the man chuckled, “How’d it go with the Crone and the Hottie, Diana?”
Di merely sighed. He’d grown used to the nickname years ago.
While Miles Spencer thought that Di’s quiet acceptance of such nonsense was a sign of weakness, Di understood that there was simply no changing idiot, in-bred hickness as terminal as Spencer’s, so he didn’t try and answered the question for the others there.
“I think they’re going to try to get through it, if only for the profit.”
Sheriff Pommelroy punched him playfully on the arm.
“Good job, Goode.”
Then he chuckled like he always did. Di would have objected, but he suspected letting the man make the joke was the main reason he’d gotten hired. He was the only African-American on their small force and only one of two non-white officers, along with Alex Martinez. Every time they needed to prove how “integrated” the small town was, it was the two of them standing front and center. The rest of the time, they were mostly relegated to 419s (Crafters’ Showdown) and 220s (Black Bear in town).
Still, a moment later, sauntering toward them through the crowd came Mac, and Di remembered why he’d become an officer in the first place.
Of course, MacBeth Welles did not hold a particularly honored place on the force, either. She was somewhat akin to the department mascot.
The daughter of the last sheriff, she’d been taken on as the secretary out of pity, a few years after he’d died of a heart attack. That she was 200 times smarter than anyone else on the force was something the others dealt with by belittling her constantly.
But not Di.
His heart nearly beating out of his chest, as it always did when she was around, he watched her making her way through the crowds to the department booth.
They’d given her a sort of mockery of the official uniform, with a shirt which was a few times too large for her and a tan mini skirt to go with it, but Mac dealt with them both like a champ, her long, black hair flowing all around her. The only time she ever put her long locks up was when she was working on an engine. Given it, her deep, black eyes, and the light brown tone of her skin, he sort of believed that the eternal claim of every white Southerner that they “had a Cherokee grandmother” might actually be true in her case.
Of course, the other claim to fame of her heritage was the rumor that her grandmother, or great-grandmother or something, had had a one-night stand with Orson Welles back in the ‘40s or ‘50s, which was where her last name had supposedly come from. Mac’s mother, who wasn’t exactly a theater expert, had been charmed by her husband’s family legend and had, the story went, shot for a high-falutin’ name for her daughter and missed.
Currently, Mac was walking the department’s other mascot, Sgt. Peewee. The runt of a litter which had been abandoned on their doorstep a year ago, Peewee was a brown-and-white Boston terrier, now wearing a tan, dog’s version of their uniform’s shirt.
Yep. Even the dog outranks me. Story. Of. My. Life.
Pulling together his braids to put them up in a bun—which didn’t help dissuade Spencer from his favorite nickname—Di felt hot and sad and even softer and more melty inside, as she approached.
And I’m pretty much a big puddle of mush all the time, anyway.
Thankfully, the other officers didn’t seem to have noticed, but they were usually too busy checking out her legs.
Somehow, the woman bore all of this without any sign of caring. As she’d told him once, she had a job which didn’t require all that much from her and could spend her time outside of it rebuilding and selling muscle cars from the 1960s without needing to worry about how to buy the groceries.
Joining the men by nodding in their general direction without actually seeming to see any of them, she did look squarely at him.
“Di,” she acknowledged with a nod.
Although what he wanted to say was, “Marry me?” he managed a mere nod and a “Mac.” If he were lucky, which he rarely was, the woman had no idea how he felt.
He’d been told the story of their meeting by his grandmother before, but he didn’t actually need to be. Although only 18 months old at the time, he had never forgotten.
Di’s mother had been the secretary for the local bail bondsman, so she’d been a bit of a regular at the station. One day, when his father had to be elsewhere, she’d brought Di along. Since Sheriff Welles had a playpen in his office for his own 18-month-old daughter, Di had been put into it as well.
To this day, he remembered sitting there in his blue onesie, while Mac had glanced up at him curiously. One look in her dark eyes had probably already done it, but, when he’d held out his stuffed blue doggie to her, she’d taken it and grinned.
