Spinning in Her Grave
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
THE HAUNTED YARN SHOP MYSTERIES
Dyeing Wishes
“The TGIF (Thank Goodness It’s Fiber) club has unusual and very different characters—and all their quirks and sometimes droll sense of humor make the book a nice read. I’ll be happy to return to Blue Plum, Tennessee, for the next adventure.”
—Meritorious Mysteries
“MacRae’s Dyeing Wishes is filled with a cast of charming characters, from Kath to her store manager, Ardis, to Thea, the ‘Loud Librarian.’ But, no one takes murder lightly.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
“Small-town charm.”
—The Mystery Reader
Last Wool and Testament
WINNER OF THE 2013 LOVEY AWARD FOR BEST PARANORMAL/SCI-FI NOVEL SUSPENSE MAGAZINE’S BEST OF 2012
“A great start to a new series! By weaving together quirky characters, an interesting small-town setting, and a ghost with a mind of her own, Molly MacRae has created a clever yarn you don’t want to end.”
—Betty Hechtman, national bestselling author of For Better or Worsted
“A delightful paranormal regional whodunit that . . . accelerates into an enjoyable investigation. Kath is a fascinating lead character.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“A gem.”
—TwoLips Reviews
“A delightful and warm mystery . . . with a strong, twisting finish.”
—Gumshoe
“Suspense and much page flipping! . . . I loved the characters, the mystery; everything about it was pitch-perfect!”
—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
“The paranormal elements are light, and the haunted yarn shop premise is fresh and amusing.”
—RT Book Reviews
“MacRae has the perfect setting and a wonderful cast for her new series . . . good setting, good characters, good food . . . and fiber and fabric too. Last Wool and Testament is a wonderful beginning to a new series.”
—CrimeSpace
PRAISE TOR THE OTHER
MYSTERIES OF MOLLY MACRAE
“MacRae writes with familiarity, wit, and charm.”
—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“An intriguing debut that holds the reader’s interest from start to finish.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Witty . . . keeps the reader guessing.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Engaging characters, fine local color, and good writing make Wilder Rumors a winner.”
—Bill Crider, author of the Sheriff Dan Rhodes Mysteries
“Murder with a dose of drollery . . . entertaining and suspenseful.”
—The Boston Globe
Also by Molly MacRae
The Haunted Yarn Shop Series
Book 1: Last Wool and Testament
Book 2: Dyeing Wishes
SPINNING IN HER GRAVE
A HAUNTED YARN SHOP MYSTERY
Molly MacRae
OBSIDIAN
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
Copyright ©Molly MacRae, 2014
Ghost Finger Puppet © Kate Winkler, Designs from Dove Cottage, 2013
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
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ISBN 978-1-101-63490-5
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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Contents
Praise
Also by Molly MacRae
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
Ghost Finger Puppet
Baked Black Bean and Spinach Burritos
Mel’s Rhubarb Sourdough Bread Pudding
Excerpt from PLAGUED BY QUILT
For the distaff side of my family
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve taken liberties with this book by spinning a yarn about a livestock feud called the Blue Plum Piglet War. There is no record of any such incident occurring in east Tennessee’s history and I hope I’ll be forgiven for suggesting the outlandish notion. For real stories from the region’s past, visit the Jonesborough-Washington County History Museum in Tennessee’s oldest (and my favorite) town, Jonesborough. Information about the real Pig War—an 1859 border dispute between the United States and Great Britain—can be found in a quick Internet search. Many thanks to the spinners of the Champaign Urbana Spinners and Weavers Guild who answered the questions I asked and also the questions I should have asked. Thanks, especially, to Jackie Brewer, for introducing me to PVC and bicycle-wheel spinning wheels and to Kate Winkler for another wonderful knitting pattern. Thanks and admiration to my brother Jack, aka Dr. John Alexander MacRae, who let me borrow his brilliant creation, his Incredible Tent of Wonders. You can be awed and amazed by the real Incredible Tent of Wonders on Labor Day weekend each year at the Kline Creek Farm in West Chicago, Illinois. And, as always, thank you to Ross, Gordon, Milka, and Mike Thompson. I love to write, but you are my true loves.
No piglets were harmed in the writing of this book.
Chapter 1
“With guns?” I stared at the man standing on the other side of the sales counter in the Weaver’s Cat, my fiber and fabric shop in Blue Plum, Tennessee. I’d only just met him—Mr. J. Scott Prescott as it said on the card he’d slid across the counter. He was slight and had a well-scrubbed, earnest face that at first glance put him anywhere from early twenties to midthirties. He wore an expensive suit and tie, though, and had the beginnings of crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes. Taken together, those details put him closer to the mature, successful end of that age range. He also came across as calm and operating on an
even keel, despite the mention of guns. Unfortunately, much as I wanted to appear the competent, calm business owner so early on a Friday morning, I couldn’t help sounding more edgy than even. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Your town board already gave us—” Mr. Prescott started to say.
I interrupted, holding up my hand. “But they’re running through the streets with guns?”
“Only some of them will be running.” Again, the gravitas of his suit and tie helped.
“Okay, well . . .”
“Half a dozen. A dozen tops, and we reconsidered the burning torches and decided against them. Most of the rest of the actual participants will be posted at strategic points around town.” He gestured right and left, fingers splayed in his excitement. Thank goodness for the suit; otherwise he was beginning to look and sound like an eager Boy Scout. “We already have permission to use the park,” he said, “and the old train depot and the upper porch of Cunningham House. The main concentration will be in the two or three blocks surrounding the courthouse.” His hands demonstrated several concentric circles, then came together with a ghost of a clap and he leaned toward me. “Oh, and we’ve been given access to the roof of the empty mercantile across from the courthouse. Those locations are for the visible men; the rest will be hiding. As I said, the plans and permissions have been in place for several months, but one of the property owners was recently obliged to back out and that’s where you and the Weaver’s Hat come in.”
“Cat.”
“Pardon?” He straightened.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but we’re the Weaver’s Cat, as in ‘meow.’ Not hat.”
“Really? I’m embarrassed. Anyway, we’d love it if one or two of the men could sneak in here during the action and watch from the windows upstairs.”
“Hmm.”
“They won’t get in your way. They’ll watch at the windows and when they see the other men down in the street, they’ll stick their heads out and shoot. They might also do the famous yell, but I’ll tell them that’s optional, sort of as the spirit moves them, if you see what I mean. But a bloodcurdling yell like that really whips up the enthusiasm of the spectators, and between that and the shots erupting from unexpected places, it’ll keep things off balance in a realistic way so that the whole reenactment will have an incredible sense of authenticity and it’ll be great.” He stopped, eyes wide. I took a step back.
“At this point I should ask you not to divulge any of the details we’ve discussed,” he said. “We’re keeping the program under wraps. Looking for the big reveal, if you see what I mean. The wow. Also, I forgot to ask, do the windows upstairs open? Because there isn’t any point in trying to shoot out of them if they don’t.”
I’d processed his words and understood his gesturing hands, and it would have taken a harder history-loving heart than mine to ignore the excitement of a good-natured reenactment. The tourists flocking to town for our annual heritage celebration—Blue Plum Preserves—would no doubt love it, too. But my mind kept skipping back to my original question. “With guns?”
J. Scott blinked.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout,” I said. I surreptitiously wiped my mouth in case I’d also spit. “But the stories I remember hearing always made that whole episode sound more like a loud fuss between neighbors than a feud with guns.”
“But a feud is more fun. Plus, there’s historical precedent. A pig almost changed the course of American history in 1859. Look it up sometime. It’s fascinating. Of course, we’re switching the pig out for a piglet, because piglets are cute. People love them. I’d also like you to think of the marketing possibilities. If the event goes well this year, just wait until next. And I assure you it will be perfectly safe. No projectiles. No live rounds. No actual aiming at people. Your mayor and aldermen were extremely impressed by how thoroughly and carefully I’ve choreographed the event. It will be playacting at its finest. Verisimilitude and good fun. We’re taking Blue Plum’s worn-out skit and giving it the life it should be living. We’re giving Blue Plum’s history the voice and resonance it was meant to have. Believe me when I say this will take your festival weekend to the next level. Blue Plum Preserves is going to be on the map and on every heritage tourist’s itinerary. The result will be more visitors, more fun, and more money in the merchants’ pockets. Win. Win. Win. And here’s something else that will interest you. If I’m not mistaken, one of the originators of the festival, a founding mother, if you will, was, like you, a knitter.”
“Are you talking about Ivy McClellan?”
“Ivy?” He nodded. “Yes, that could be the name. I see you know your local history. That’s wonderful. She might be the one who dabbled on the original skit, too. The records aren’t entirely clear on that.”
“Ivy McClellan was my grandmother.”
“You’re kidding. Is she still . . .”
“She died four months ago. This was her shop. She and a couple of friends wrote the skit based on their research.”
“I am so sorry for you loss.” He gave his sorrow half a beat. “But then this will be especially wonderful. It could hardly be more appropriate for the shop to have a role in this year’s celebration. You will be honoring your grandmother’s memory and her vision by letting part of the action take place here. And that win, win, win I mentioned? It will go for you and the Weaver’s Cat, too. You’ll see. People eat this stuff up.” He smacked his lips and smiled. “Frankly, I’m surprised you aren’t already aware of the reenvisioning of what I believe is a cornerstone activity of Blue Plum Preserves.”
I opened my mouth—but to say what? That I’d been busy planning the shop’s own festival booth and related activities? Maybe. To tell him my life had been upended and my mind otherwise occupied since Granny died? Probably not, but it didn’t matter, anyway. He was primed and ready and got in ahead of whatever I might have said.
“Also, if you stop and think, I feel sure you’ll realize you’re focusing on the wrong component of the event.” He shook his head with a sad cluck of his tongue. “It happens, though. Mention guns and there are people who will misinterpret what you’re trying to do. But I think that, like the others, you’re missing the educational importance of this kind of event. You’re focusing on a small part of our tool set and missing the bigger picture of our message.”
“I could be.” I nodded, trying to give him the benefit of a snapless judgment. He was right. I was having trouble getting past the guns. Guns in the streets of Blue Plum. Guns fired out my second-floor windows. Guns in a little skit about a minor land squabble and wandering livestock. I gave myself a shake to jar my focus somewhere other than guns. Then, to give my judgment more time to flex and accommodate other interpretations, I picked up his card and read the fine print under his name. “You’re a piano salesman?”
He tipped his head and smiled. “High-end,” he said.
That probably accounted for the antique ivory color of the card and expensive feel of the stock. The name of the store and his position were expensive-sounding, too. He was vice president for institutional sales at the Copeland Piano Gallery in Knoxville, about a hundred and twenty miles west of us. Interesting. I glanced from the card to J. Scott Prescott for a quick comparison between him and whatever my preconceived notion of piano salesmen was, high-end or otherwise. Before I got further than thinking his hands were smaller than seemed optimal for reaching octaves, a question occurred to me.
“What’s your interest in this, Mr. Prescott? Why are you involved in our ‘worn-out skit,’ if you don’t mind my asking?”
He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his smile warmed and he slid a second card across the counter. This one was a richer, almost edible butternut color and glossy with an embossed seal in the center. I ran my fingertips over the words running around the seal’s edge: “Prescott Preservation Realty.”
“Also high-end,” he said. “And I’ll let you in on a secret. The empty mercantile there across from the courthouse? I’m brokering
a deal for an exciting new business and an eager tenant-to-be. That’s why we’ll have access to the roof. As a favor to me. The owner has been trying to rent or sell the place for years and is very happy I came along. I specialize in at-risk vintage and antique buildings. I am all about preservation. Of our history, our heritage, our homes. Our home.” He spread his arms wide, embracing the whole, heartwarming caboodle and with “our home,” he gave a slight bow. “So you see? I fit right in with the tenth annual Blue Plum Preserves celebration.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you’re from Blue Plum.”
“Well, no, actually I’m not. I was using ‘our’ and ‘home’ in the broader sense,” he said. “I also suspect I’m preaching to the choir when it comes to antique buildings. This whole row house is an architectural gem. Do you rent?”
“I own.”
“The whole row?”
“This house.”
“Well, the way you kept the feel of the original home when you repurposed it should be written up in one of the journals. No changes too drastic— it’ll be a snap for anyone to turn it back into a single-family residence. And having this unit is a plus. Windows on three sides, plenty of light. Are there any structural problems? Anything with the drains? The roof? If you ever want to sell—”
“No.”
He might have taken my interruption as a slap. I might have meant it that way. I felt like a cat with fur on end, claws exposed for a razor swipe across his nose if he took another step closer to my mortgage-free deed. This house had been my grandparents’ home. Granny had started the Weaver’s Cat right there in the corner of the room and let it grow and stretch until it had taken over the whole house. Granny’s inspiration and the love she had for all forms of needlework were intricately and inextricably woven into every inch of the Weaver’s Cat. This building—and all its accumulated fibers and fabrics and textures and colors and memories—this house was not a repurposed unit.
“It won’t be for sale anytime soon,” I said after taking a deep breath.