Yarned and Dangerous, page 4
Lorna waved her hand in the air. “Oh, it’s one of my own special blends. Winterberry.”
Josie was impressed. “Well, it’s as good as anything I ever tasted in New York. Maybe better.”
Lorna beamed. “I do the baking here, too. I’ll send you home with some cookies for Eb. He likes my oatmeal raisin. So what happened to Lillian? Did she fall?”
Josie took another sip of the tea. It tasted of blueberries and maple with a hint of vanilla. Lorna could make a fortune selling this stuff in the city. Josie leaned forward, seeing no reason not to tell her old-new friend, but not wanting to broadcast the news about Lillian either. “I think she was murdered. The police think so too. They’re investigating the shop now.”
Lorna’s jaw dropped. “Murder?” she whispered. “But who would do such a thing to an old woman? Sure, she had her opinions on things and wasn’t shy about letting anyone know what those opinions were, but she wasn’t disliked.” She dunked her teabag again, then used a spoon to fish it out of the mug. “Not like Diantha. Any number of people in Dorset Falls would have a reason to want her dead.”
“I wish I knew,” Josie said. “Not only who killed Lillian, and why, but what was she doing in the storeroom of Miss Marple Knits?”
Lorna looked thoughtful. “Were there any signs of a break-in? A struggle?”
“Not that I noticed.” Josie’s heart gave a little squeeze. “Did Lillian have family? How awful for them, to lose her this way.”
“Let’s see,” Lorna said. “She has a son who lives on the West Coast, and a daughter out toward Boston. Her husband died years ago. The only local relatives I can think of are her brother, Roy Woodruff, and his grandson, Mitch.”
Josie reached back into her memory banks. “I don’t remember any Woodruffs from when I lived here as a teenager. Of course, I was only here for a couple of years after my father died.”
“Mitch would have been a few years ahead of us in school, then he went off to college. Cornell, I think. Agricultural sciences.” Lorna set down her cup. “He came back to Dorset Falls a year or so back to help Roy and try to get the farm certified organic and to manage the alpacas. I’m surprised you haven’t seen either one of them yet.”
Josie drained her teacup. “Why’s that?”
“Because the Woodruff farm is right next to the Lloyd farm. Mitch and Roy are your neighbors.”
Chapter 5
It was just after noon when Josie’s battered Saab rolled to a stop in Eb’s driveway. She made her way up the front walk, which she noticed had been freshly shoveled and salted. How had Eb managed that on crutches? Guilt pricked her conscience. The shoveling should have been her job. Not that she was an expert, having had that particular chore performed for her for the last decade in the city. But it wasn’t brain surgery.
She transferred her bags to one hand, but before she could turn the knob the door opened, and Jethro came barreling out and off the porch. She barely kept her balance. Fortunately, the bags stayed upright as she entered the sweltering house. It would have been a shame to lose lunch.
Eb’s back was toward her as he walked to the table and sat down in a chair. He stretched out his injured leg, then began to fiddle with some kind of fine line attached to a couple of sticks painted a dark green, which matched the outside trim around the windows. He looked up at her through a pair of half-moon reading glasses. “What the hell’s going on?” he demanded.
“You mean other than my almost getting run over by your hellhound?” She had planned to set the bags down on the table while she removed her boots and coat, but the spot she’d cleared on the table was filled up again. There seemed to be a number of contraptions identical to the one Eb was working on, stacked four or five deep. “Let me go put away these groceries and get lunch together, then we can talk. Something . . . happened at the shop.”
He stopped playing with the line and looked at her again over the rims of the glasses. “Lunch sounds good,” he finally said.
A few minutes later she came back out with two plates, each of which contained a generous slice of chicken potpie. Eb moved the thingies he’d been working on to the top of a stack of magazines and old newspapers. First order of business, Josie thought, was to take a tour of the house and find herself a bedroom. Second was to clear this table so they’d have a place to eat.
Eb dug into his lunch with gusto. Josie was pleased to see that he not only ate the tender chicken, he also ate the carrots, peas, and onions that were dispersed throughout the rich yellow gravy. She mentally shook her head. Why should she care if her great-uncle, whom she barely knew, and who didn’t seem to like her much, ate his veggies? He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Now, missy. ’Fess up. Did you set something on fire?”
The bite of chicken she’d just swallowed seemed to stick in her throat, as she remembered Lillian’s cold body lying on the boxes of yarn. Was there any sensitive, tactful way to relay the information that someone had died in Cora’s store? But Eb wasn’t the type who’d appreciate tact.
“I found Lillian Woodruff dead in the back room. I’m pretty sure she was strangled.”
Eb’s eyebrows drew together as he processed the news. “Wouldn’t be the first murder in Dorset Falls,” he finally said. “Probably won’t be the last.” He speared a piece of flaky crust and returned to his meal.
Connecticut Yankees. So warm and fuzzy. Jethro’s frantic barking interrupted her thoughts. She rose and went to the window. A faded red pickup truck sat behind her Saab, plumes of blue-gray exhaust rising up from the tailpipe. Jethro was growling at the driver’s side door. A tall man with dark hair got out from the other side and approached Jethro, his hand outstretched, palm up. Jethro stopped barking and began to lick the man’s hand. The driver’s door opened, and an older gentleman got out. He made his way up the front walk, the loose earflaps of his fluorescent orange cap bobbing as he walked.
“Well? Who is it?” Eb said. “Sounds like Woodruff’s truck. Engine’s knocking. Bad piston.”
“I don’t know, but they’ll be here any minute.” The younger man tossed something at Jethro and left him in the driveway, munching happily and wagging his tail. Brilliant. Why hadn’t she thought to buy dog biscuits?
Josie stepped away from the window. “Should I set a couple more places? There’s plenty of potpie left.”
Eb looked at her like she’d suddenly materialized out of thin air wearing a sequined top hat and cutaway coat, singing a show tune. “Hell, no,” he said.
She was saved the trouble of responding by an insistent banging on the heavy wooden door. Eb nodded, and she opened it.
The older man pushed past Josie. He stood over Eb, who nonchalantly scraped up some gravy from his plate. “What happened to my sister?” the man demanded.
“I could ask you the same question, Roy,” Eb said. “Not that a lying bastard like you would be likely to tell the truth.”
Josie’s mouth hung open. The younger man turned a pair of pale blue eyes toward her and smiled. “You must be Eb’s niece.” He extended a hand, then thought better of it and wiped his hand on his jeans. “Dog slobber. I don’t suppose I could use the kitchen sink and wash up?”
The two old farmers continued to trade barbs. “Can we, um, leave them alone together? Will they hurt each other?” Josie was genuinely concerned.
The man chuckled. She liked the sound of it. “Yes, and probably not, to answer your questions in order. I think it’s been a lot of years since they got into it physically. Mitch Woodruff,” he said. “I live on the next farm over with my grandfather.”
“Josie Blair,” she said, over the escalating argument. “Come on into the kitchen. This way.”
“I know the way, thanks,” Mitch responded. “I was just here this morning, actually, while you were in town.”
Light dawned. “You’re the one who filled up the wood box and took care of the front walk, aren’t you?”
Mitch grinned and moved to the sink, squirting some dish soap on his hands. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that quiet. My grandfather would have a stroke if he knew. I told him I’ve been working on the sap tubing.”
Josie grinned back. “Sap tubing?” She handed Mitch a paper towel.
“For collecting the sap to make maple syrup. We should talk about how that’s going to get done this year. Eb can probably handle the boiling itself, but he won’t be able to do the collecting.”
Josie pursed her lips. “Doesn’t maple syrup come from a store? Like eggs.” She reached into one of the bags she’d brought back from the general store, then handed him a cookie.
“Eventually,” he said. “But it starts out with trees.” He took a healthy bite. “You got this from Lorna, didn’t you? That woman is one fine baker.”
“She’s a good friend, too.” The thought pleased Josie. She nibbled at her own cookie. It was just the way she liked it, with lots of cinnamon and fat, juicy raisins. “What’s the deal with those two?” She nodded toward the dining room, where Eb and Mitch’s grandfather were still going at it.
Mitch looked thoughtful. “Honestly, I don’t know what started it. They’ve been bickering for as long as I’ve known them. It goes back even further, to their fathers or maybe grandfathers. Our families have been neighbors for more than a hundred years, and they’ve been fighting about something or other that entire time.”
Josie laughed. “You mean, the Lloyds and the Woodruffs, Connecticut versions of the Hatfields and the McCoys?”
“That about sums it up. Sorry about barging in. The police called us about Aunt Lillian, and I couldn’t let Gramps come over here without me to run interference. Although I think Eb could hold his own with or without a broken leg.”
“Who’s winning the feud, do you think?” The whole thing sounded petty and childish. But Josie couldn’t help but secretly root for Eb.
“Last month, Roy put a pile of alpaca droppings in the air vents of Eb’s Ford. Eb retaliated by somehow getting into Roy’s truck and messing with the engine. Not enough to make the truck dangerous, but enough that Roy might break down if we don’t get it repaired soon. I’m not sure how Eb managed it, actually.”
Josie thought of the camouflage-painted ATV he’d made her ride on out to the barn. Eb might not be able to drive a car or a truck right now, but he could get around if he needed to. She decided to say nothing. “I’m sorry about your aunt,” she said, changing the subject.
Mitch smiled sadly. “She was a pip, just like Roy. I’ll miss her always telling me what I should think and do. Speaking of Auntie”—he pronounced it awn-tee, in the New England way—“I’d better get Roy out of here and down to the hospital morgue so we can identify the body.” His eyes were sad. “Her kids, my cousins, won’t get here until tomorrow.”
Josie nodded. “Mitch? Forgive me if this is a bad time to ask, but you wouldn’t happen to know what she was doing in the yarn shop, would you?”
“Not a clue. She’s got an entire room of bins and boxes and shelves full of yarn at home. I can’t imagine what she’d want with more.” He headed back out to the dining room.
“Gramps. Roy,” Mitch said, louder this time. Roy’s face was red, contrasting garishly with his bright orange hat. He picked up one of the wooden things Eb had been working on when Josie got home and broke it over his knee, tossing it to the floor before storming outside. Mitch nodded apologetically to Eb, then to Josie, and followed. Jethro was quiet. Mitch probably had a whole pocketful of dog treats.
Eb watched them go. “That was fun. Not that I’m not sorry about Lillian.”
Josie bent over and picked up the broken sticks from the hardwood floor. She made a mental note to find out if Eb had a vacuum cleaner. There were some lethal-looking dust bunnies making a warren under the table.
“What is this, anyway, Eb?” She handed him the pieces.
He rolled his eyes. “Missy, you have lived in the city too long. That’s a trap.” He began to disassemble it, presumably for parts.
Of course. A trap. That explained everything. “Uh, a trap for what?” She hoped it wasn’t for small, furry animals. She always felt bad when Coco brought her mice. Not that she wanted them alive in her home, of course.
Eb put his glasses on, then went back to work. “They’re for fishing.”
Josie inspected one more closely. It didn’t look like any fishing pole she’d ever seen, though now she realized it did have something that might have been a reel attached to it. Still, how the thing worked was a mystery. “Getting ready for warm weather? I like trout. Do trout grow here?”
Eb shook his head, then began to laugh. It was a wheezy sound, which Josie attributed to the overheated dry air in the house. Maybe she could order a humidifier online.
When the laughter subsided, Eb said, “Yes, missy, trout ‘grow’ here. In the lake. These are ice-fishing traps. I figured you could come with me this afternoon, and we’ll catch dinner.”
Did the man not know that he was on crutches and that it was February? The coldest part of winter? He couldn’t be serious. And ice fishing? Wasn’t that where people sat around a hole all day and waited for a fish to come by and allow itself to be caught? No thanks. She’d rather dump her entire sample-sale collection of Kate Spade bags into the East River and carry her stuff around for eternity in a plastic grocery sack.
“Um, yeah. That sounds like a lot of fun. But the cops told me I was supposed to stay here in case they wanted to come talk to us. And I’ve got, uh, work to do.”
He stared at her out from under those bushy eyebrows, then let out another guffaw. “Just yankin’ your chain drive, missy. You don’t put your traps in the water in the afternoon. Fish don’t bite then. We’ll go tomorrow morning, soon as the sun’s up.”
That gives me less than twenty-four hours to come up with an excuse, she thought. And it’ll need to be a good one.
“I’ll take it,” Josie said to herself, surveying the eight-by-ten bedroom at the end of the upstairs hallway. Not only did it have a window overlooking the road and the snow-covered meadow across it, but it contained no clutter, so would be the easiest to clean and make habitable for her short stay here. Eb had told her to take whatever room she wanted. He slept downstairs, and Josie suspected he might not have been up the narrow stairway to the second floor in years. Still, it wasn’t as dusty as she would have expected, and there were some touches only a woman or a man with the decorating gene would have thought of.
A watercolor painting showing a pastoral scene hung over the bed, which was flanked by a Victorian-era table with a marble top and a pretty, but more modern lamp. The dresser matched the table, and when she opened the drawers, she found them clean and ready to receive clothes. Josie pulled out a tiny knitted pillow and put it to her nose as an old-fashioned scent wafted up. A lavender sachet. Lovely. She held the sachet in her hand and studied it. Cora had made this, she’d bet on it, and a pang of emotion surprised her. How was it possible that Josie felt such a connection to a woman she’d never met?
She replaced the sachet and closed the drawer, then looked around the room again. It was as though Cora had prepared this room especially for her, right down to the overstuffed armchair in the corner and the little painted bookcase next to it, filled with paperback novels and a couple of knickknacks. Josie shook her head. That was ridiculous. Cora had probably been reclaiming rooms in the house one at a time, like she’d started to do in the kitchen, and she’d chosen to make this into a guest room.
Josie began to pull off the bedding, when she felt a familiar brush against her legs. “Coco!” she said, reaching down to pet the cat’s soft black-and-white fur. “Where’ve you been hiding? Not that I blame you. Jethro scares me too.” The cat allowed a few strokes before jumping up into the armchair, turning around a few times, then settling onto the cushion. She tucked her legs up underneath her and stared at Josie intently with her bright green eyes.
“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.
Chapter 6
Josie 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.”
