Murder of a Needled Knitter

by Denise Swanson

  “I see,” I said, wondering how intrusive the competition would be on my regulars. The contest people would have to march through the store to get to the flight of stairs leading to the second story. “I’m not sure my top floor will work for what you have in mind. It’s three offices with tiny reception areas—not one big room.” I hadn’t been able to figure out a good retail use of the space so I’d kept it intact, hoping I could rent it out to an insurance agent or Realtor. So far, there hadn’t been any takers.

  “Hmm. We can look into removing the walls.” Ronni took her iPad from her tote bag, brushed her finger over the screen, then said, “Or we could use the offices for the judging and maybe a lounge area. And we could have the big reception and award ceremony in your actual store on Sunday since you’re closed that day anyway.”

  “That might work,” I agreed, visions of rent money and new shoppers running through my head. “Removing a couple of the walls would be okay with me too.” With that area cleared, I could put merchandise up there. Maybe stock a whole new kind of product.

  “Good. Because you’ll probably want to extend your store’s hours and open up on Sunday to take advantage of last-minute customers.” Ronni turned to Harlee and said, “Since the majority of people interested in a cupcake contest will probably be women, we thought one of the additional activities could be a fashion show. Would you be up for that?”

  “Definitely.” Harlee pursed her lips. “I’ll need to find models, but that shouldn’t be too tough. I can put an ad in the local paper.”

  “When will the contest take place?” I asked. It was already the beginning of June and I wondered if this would be a fall or winter event.

  “The July Fourth weekend.” Ronni didn’t look up from her iPad.

  “But that’s not even a month away!” I yelped, then checked my math. Yep. Less than four weeks. “How are we going to be ready in time?”

  “No problem.” Ronni grinned. “I’ve got the workers lined up to start on your second floor whenever you give them the go-ahead. The PR campaign is ready, and the preliminary rounds of the competition have already started.”

  Ronni tossed a contract into my lap, and as I flipped through the multipage document, I heard a strident voice from the stairs yell, “Devereaux Sinclair, don’t tell me you’re alone on a Saturday night.”

  Gossip Central had started out life as a cattle barn, and when Poppy had remodeled the building, she’d decorated it to reflect its origins. The center area contained the stage, dance floor, and bar, and off to the sides, the stalls formed secluded lounges, each with its own individually themed decor. We were in the Hayloft, the second-story space reserved for private parties, but this didn’t stop my archenemy, Gwen Bourne, from marching uninvited up the steps and zeroing her malevolent gaze on me.

  Gwen had quite a crush on Noah, and that he preferred to date me, someone she considered inferior in both looks and social status, drove Gwen bat-shit crazy. I could have told her that even if I was out of the picture, she wouldn’t have a chance in hell with the handsome doctor. The problem wasn’t that she was a few years older than he was; it was that she was too much like his mother—a high-maintenance snob.

  “I’m hardly alone.” I swept my arm around the group. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t consider other women people, do you? To you they’re just rivals.”

  “Gwen.” Poppy slid from her stool and took the intruder’s arm. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to go back down to the bar. You know the Hayloft is a restricted area.”

  “What’s the big secret?” Gwen narrowed her color-contact-lens-enhanced blue eyes. “Are you witches stirring up trouble in your cauldron?”

  The witch allusion was Gwen’s favorite metaphor when attacking me—although generally, she pronounced a “b” instead of the “w”—so going along with her theme, I said, “Yes, we are. We’re brewing up love potions, and from what I hear about your lack of beaux, perhaps you’d like to put in an order.”

  “You little—” Gwen interrupted herself, then smiled spitefully. “But of course you really aren’t little, are you? Have you gone up a size . . . or two since the last time I saw you? Not that you were ever exactly slim. What did my cousin tell me they used to call you in high school? Stay Puft Marshmallow Girl, wasn’t it?”

  Her cruel words took me back thirteen years to the end of my sophomore year. I’d always been a size twelve—and sometimes a fourteen—in a size-two world, but until my family went from prosperous and respected to poor and humble, that hadn’t bothered me and no one had teased me about my weight. However, once my family’s circumstances changed, the mean girls had sensed weakness and descended on me like vampires on the last bag of plasma in the blood bank. That was one of the problems with living in the same town you had grown up in—there was no hiding from your past.

  Coming back to the present, I gathered my wits and retorted, “You’re right, Gwen.” I ran my hands down my hips. “I’ve always been on the curvy side. Then again, the men in this town seem to prefer rounded to scrawny.” I put a suggestive purr into my voice. “At least Jake and Noah seem to.”

  Gwen’s plastic surgery–smoothed face turned an unbecoming shade of magenta. It was always dangerous to stand up to someone like her, someone who thought they were better than the rest of us. She’d never been one to be able to handle what she dished out, and even as she snatched a half-full bottle of wine from the table and swung it at my head, I knew she was plotting an even worse retaliation.

  As I tried to scramble out of Gwen’s reach, Harlee leaped from the couch, and before I could blink, she had the Botoxed brunette flat on the floor. I’d never seen anyone move so fast—at least outside of an action movie.

  How on Earth had Harlee done that? She’d been a blur. To top it off, not a hair of her calico-colored spikes was out of place and there wasn’t a drop of perspiration on her impassive face. Still waters may run deep, but clearly, consignment shopkeepers ran even deeper. What exactly had she done in the service? Were women allowed in the Special Forces? Maybe she’d been a Green Beret.

  I glanced down at Gwen, who was threatening to have Harlee arrested for assault, and I shivered, remembering that Noah’s previous girlfriend had been murdered. It seemed that a lot of women wanted to be Mrs. Dr. Underwood, and were willing to kill or be killed for the position.

  At that moment, Gwen glared at me with such venom that I wondered if I might become the next victim in the battle to walk down the aisle with Noah. Which would really suck since I hadn’t even decided if I wanted to marry him yet.