by Molly Macrae
PRAISE FOR THE NATIONAL BESTSELLING HAUNTED YARN SHOP MYSTERIES
Plagued by Quilt
“Full of loving crafting details and quirky, sassy characters. If you like mysteries about life in a small town, this is the series for you. Kath is a tried-and-true amateur detective who loves to stick her nose into everybody’s business.”
—Library Journal
“Mixing murders with the bits and pieces about quilting made Plagued by Quilt by Molly MacRae well worth the read. Very enjoyable.”
—BookLoons
“Whether you like the fiber arts or you just like a good mystery, I wouldn’t hesitate in recommending the Haunted Yarn Shop Mysteries.”
—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
“Filled with humor. . . . Kath Rutledge is my kind of amateur sleuth . . . a crazy-quilt puzzle with heart.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
“A very good addition to the series. . . . The mystery itself was very unique. . . . Geneva is a ghost that keeps it interesting.”
—Debbie’s Book Bag
Spinning in Her Grave
“MacRae does a superb job of coordinating her amateur sleuth ensemble cast . . . set in Tennessee. Snappy repartee and genuine warmth are both conducive to the best sort of cozy.”
—Library Journal
“MacRae weaves another terrific mystery . . . a colorful cast of characters, alive and dead . . . a rich fabric of murder, touches of romance, a lingering cold case, and vibrant characters.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
“The mystery pleases with its plot and character development.”
—RT Book Reviews
“This is a fun series and the latest is a fantastic whodunit.”
—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
Dyeing Wishes
“A light paranormal cozy that will draw readers in with its small-town charm and hidden secrets.”
—Debbie’s Book Bag
“[An] enjoyable mystery . . . filled with a cast of charming characters.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
“[This] series is one that I’ve fast learned to enjoy for its cast of characters, its humor, and its primary setting of a yarn shop. . . . Oh, how MacRae’s characters shine!”
—Kittling: Books
“Molly MacRae writes with a wry wit.”
—MyShelf.com
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 Knot Guilty
“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 FOR THE OTHER MYSTERIES OF MOLLY MACRAE
“MacRae writes with familiarity, wit, and charm.”
—Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
“Murder with a dose of drollery . . . entertaining and suspenseful.”
—The Boston Globe
“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
Also by Molly MacRae
The Haunted Yarn Shop Series
Book 1: Last Wool and Testament
Book 2: Dyeing Wishes
Book 3: Spinning in Her Grave
Book 4: Plagued by Quilt
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
First Printing, September 2015
Copyright © Molly MacRae, 2015
Penguin Random House 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 Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
Obsidian and the Obsidian colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
For more information about Penguin Random House, visit penguinrandomhouse.com.
ISBN 978-0-698-16822-0
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 for Molly MacRae
Also by Molly MacRae
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Cast of Characters
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
Tunnel of Fudge Cake with Ginger
Roasted Beet and Radish Salad à l’Orange
Yarn Bomb Bunting
For Michael Fesehaye
Thompson, who already loves to read
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing the Haunted Yarn Shop Mysteries is a joy—for the opportunity to write another one, I thank Cynthia Manson, my agent, and Sandy Harding, my editor at NAL/Obsidian. For encouragement along the way, I thank critique partners Betsy Hearn, Janice Harrington, Sarah Wisseman, David Ingram, Steven Kuehn—the value of your help and friendship is immeasurable. Thanks to Nick Freer for letting me try my hand with his kumihimo loom. Thanks also to Michael Newton for letting me put a copy of his book, The Naughty Little Book of Gaelic, in Hugh McPhee’s sporran. Thanks to the members of An Comunn Gàidhealach Ameireaganach (ACGA—the American Scottish Gaelic Society) who let me join them at Lees-McRae College in Banner Elk, North Carolina, for their Gaelic-immersion week and use the time as a writing retreat, and to Sherry Kreamer for waking us each morning with her pipes. Thanks to Johnson City, Tennessee, for not complaining that I took the name Blue Plum. You had the name first, but you discarded it when you thought you’d found a better one. Kate Winkler—you’re a gem. Thank you for providing the patterns in my books and for your continued enthusiasm for the series. Special thanks to my generous colleagues at the Champaign Public Library—Debbie Keith, Aaron Carlin, and Thea Green lent me their names; Mike and Val Rogalla lent me Al and Bruce; and Larry Damski let me have Bill the Border Collie. Mike, Ross, Gordon, Milka, and Michael—I love to write, but you are my true loves.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
At the Weaver’s Cat
Kath Rutledge: Textile preservation specialist formerly of Springfield, Illinois, now owner of the Weaver’s Cat, a fiber-and-fabric shop in Blue Plum, Tennessee
Ardis Buchanan: Longtime manager of the Weaver’s Cat
Geneva: The ghost who lives at the Weaver’s Cat, Ardis Buchanan’s great-great-aunt
Debbie Keith: Part-time staff at the Weaver’s Cat, full-time sheep farmer
Abby Netherton: Teenager working part-time at the Weaver’s Cat
Argyle: The shop’s cat
Members of TGIF (Thank Goodness It’s Fiber) and the Yarn Bomb Squad
Joe Dunbar (Tennyson Yeats Dunbar): Kath’s significant other, fly fisherman, watercolorist, sometimes called “Ten”
Ernestine O’Dell: Septuagenarian, retired secretary
Melody (Mel) Gresham: Café owner, calls Kath “Red”
Thea Green: Town librarian who came up with the idea to yarn-bomb Blue Plum
John Berry: Octogenarian, retired naval officer
Zach Aikens: Teenager
Rachel Meeks: Banker
Tammie Fain: Energetic grandmother
Wanda Vance: Retired nurse
Supporting Cast
Shirley and Mercy Spivey: Twins, Kath’s cousins (several times removed)
Hugh McPhee: Bagpipe player, former Blue Plum citizen
Gladys Weems: The mayor’s mother
Olive Weems: Organizer of the arts and crafts fair Handmade Blue Plum, the mayor’s wife
Palmer (Pokey) Weems: Mayor of Blue Plum
Al Rogalla: Accountant, volunteer fireman
Ellen: A knitter in town for Handmade Blue Plum
Janet: A knitter in town for Handmade Blue Plum
Aaron Carlin: Odd-jobs man, significant other of Angie Spivey
Hank Buchanan: Ardis’ daddy
Ambrose Berry: John’s older brother
Angie Spivey: Mercy Spivey’s daughter
Sheriff’s Department
Cole (Clod) Dunbar (Coleridge Blake Dunbar): Deputy, Joe’s brother
Darla Dye: Deputy
Shorty Munroe: Deputy
Leonard Haynes (Lonnie): Sheriff
Chapter 1
Waiting for twilight would have been a good idea. Waiting for full dark even better. A sunny Tuesday morning was hardly the best time for scuttling up the courthouse steps and sliding behind one of the massive columns—not if I wanted to call myself “sneaky.”
I hesitated at the bottom of the steps. My friends and former colleagues back in Springfield, Illinois, might not think so, but from where I stood Blue Plum, Tennessee, bustled. Crowds didn’t jostle me, but in the way of small towns, as long as anyone was around, there was a chance that someone would see something and mention it to two or three others. The problem was partly my own fault. If I’d completed this measuring assignment for TGIF sooner, I wouldn’t have to worry about being surreptitious in broad daylight now. Then again, if we’d included the courthouse in our original plan, I would have had weeks, not days, to get it done. The occasional criminal investigation aside, TGIF (Thank Goodness It’s Fiber—the needle arts group that met at the Weaver’s Cat) was not an organization ordinarily dedicated to furtive operations, though, so I didn’t want to let the others down now, as we prepared for our first-ever clandestine fiber installation event.
The way to sneak successfully, I decided, was to act normal. Eyes open, not casting shifty glances left and right. Shoulders square, not hunched as though ready to creep. Air of confidence. Relaxed smile.
A familiar-looking woman came down the stairs toward me. Her face didn’t jog a name from my memory, but I liked the popcorn stitch cardigan she wore and I smiled as she passed.
“It’s Kathy, isn’t it?” she asked, turning back to me.
“Close,” I said. “Just Kath.”
“I hope you know how lucky you are.”
“Pardon?”
“Lucky to have the Weaver’s Cat. Your grandmother made the right decision in leaving the shop to you.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“I keep meaning to stop in. Later this week, though. Not today—must rush.”
“Great—” Before I could say anything more, her rush carried her away.
I walked up the dozen worn limestone steps, looking for all the world like anyone else on her way to renew car tags, attend a trial, or probate a will. But at the top, rather than follow an older couple across the portico and through the doors, I stopped, turned around, and pretended to enjoy my elevated view of Main Street.
I didn’t really have to pretend. The streetscape, a mix of mostly Federal and Victorian architecture, looked and felt exactly right to me. Pink and purple petunias spilled from half-barrel planters along the brick sidewalks. Window boxes with red geraniums and sweet potato vines brightened storefronts. Looking right, I saw the bank and half a dozen office buildings and shops and, down at the end of the next block, the sign for the public library. To the left, along past Mel’s café, my own shop, the Weaver’s Cat, basked in the morning sun. This view, this town, had been part of my life through all my childhood summers when I’d come to visit my grandmother in her hometown. Now, thanks to her generosity in leaving me her house and the Weaver’s Cat, Blue Plum was my hometown, too.
I watched Rachel Meeks, the banker, deadhead a couple of geraniums in the planters at the bank’s door. Somewhere in her mid- to late fifties, Rachel’s business suit mirrored her straightforward business sense. Apparently so did her sense of gardening decorum. She carried the withered flowers inside with her. I strolled to the end of the portico, still looking out over the street and assuming I looked casual, then sidled around behind the last column where I’d be in its shadow and couldn’t be seen from the steps or the door. There I took a coil of string from a pocket in my shoulder bag.
A second pair of hands to hold one end of the string would have helped. Unfortunately my favorite second pair of hands had other business that morning. Joe—the Renaissance odd-job-man-about-town who’d worked his way into my heart—had gone over the mountains early to deliver half a dozen fly rods he’d built for an outfitter in Asheville. That was just as well; two of us fiddling around a column would draw more attention. I took a roll of painter’s tape from my bag, tore off an inch-long piece, and pressed it over the end of the string, sticking it to the column at about waist height.
“Ms. Weems, ma’am—oof—now, that was uncalled for.”
“You’re a quack, and I’ll tell anyone who asks.”
“Let’s step on inside, then, ma’am, and you can tell the sheriff.”
I inched around the column in time to see Joe’s uniformed and starched brother, Deputy Cole Dunbar, ushering a tiny, elderly woman through the courthouse doors. The woman, Mayor Palmer “Pokey” Weems’ mother, wore tennis shoes, and it was a good thing. As she passed Joe’s brother, she hauled off and kicked his shin. He winced, but there was no second “oof.” That led me to believe the first “oof” had been a reaction to a different kind of assault—maybe a swift connection between Ms. Weems’ pocketbook and his midsection.
Snickering at someone else’s pain isn’t nice, even if that person is a clod. And even though Cole Dunbar would always be “Clod” to me, I was fairly sure I hadn’t snickered. But before the door closed on him, something made Clod turn toward me and my column. I immediately knelt and retied my shoe, pretending not to notice him noticing me.
“I’m not sure he fell for that,” a voice from farther around the column said.
At one time in my life an unknown and unexpected voice addressing me out of the blue might have startled me. Not anymore. Now I practically yawned to show how blasé I was about such surprises. I also flicked an inconsequential speck of dust from the toe of my shoe to show I wasn’t worried about whether or not Clod fell for my pretense. Then I stood up to see who’d spoken. That I could see a living, breathing human standing there was a plus, even if I hadn’t ever seen him before and had no idea who he was. Judging by the light gray overtaking the dark gray in his beard, I guessed he was in his fifties—older than Clod by at least ten years and Joe by more than a dozen.
