A Knit before Dying Read online

  “Eb?” Her uncle didn’t answer as she entered the house and kicked off her boots. When she’d arrived here from New York, she’d brought a cute pair of fur-lined clogs. Now she’d traded those in for a pair of water—and mud—proof boots. Here in the country, there were compromises to be made. You could be fashionable and uncomfortable, or less fashionable but warm and dry. These days, surprising herself, Josie was opting for the latter.

  The crackling of the wood stove in the kitchen was audible even at this distance. Eb must have loaded it recently, because it was blasting enough heat to smelt iron. With Jethro right at her heels, just waiting for her to make a mistake, Josie didn’t dare set down the bag containing the sandwich. So the irritating bead of sweat that was currently rolling down her nose continued to make its descent, and she was unable to wipe it away.

  “Eb?” she called again. “I brought dinner.” He didn’t answer. She reached up and set the bag on top of the refrigerator out of Jethro’s reach, then shrugged gratefully out of her sweater and fanned herself with the neck of her T-shirt. The door that led to Eb’s workshop, a room that, according to her great-uncle, had formerly been a woodshed, was ajar. Josie peeked in.

  Eb looked up at her over the top rims of his black-framed cheaters. His impressive eyebrows were drawn together over his customary scowl. “You brought food?” He went back to work on whatever he’d been fiddling with. “When are you going to learn to cook?”

  “You must have finished another lesson in your online charm-school class today,” Josie said affectionately. “What’s that?” Josie leaned in to get a better look at what Eb was working on, though it was impossible to see over or around the protective wall of junk parts and other detritus that was stacked up in front of him on the table. “Doesn’t look like one of your metal sculptures.”

  Eb snorted. “Sculptures are for artistes. Which I ain’t. I make thingamajigs. And this one’s none of your business.” A thin wire popped up behind the wall as though it had just sprung up from a spool, and Eb snatched it back down.

  “Speaking of business,” Josie said, “when are you going to let me sell some of your thingamajigs at the shop?”

  He didn’t look up, but reached for a tool of some kind on the small metal table to his right. “Not for sale. When do we eat?”

  Eb might not know this, but the sculptures he constructed from bits and pieces of metal from old farming tools and machines—what others might call junk—were quite artistic. When the leaf peepers came to town in the fall, she thought he could make some nice money from his work. Although Eb didn’t appear that interested in money, even the sizeable amount he’d inherited from his late wife. As long as he made enough from his hay, pumpkins, and maple syrup to pay his expenses, he seemed content.

  “Dinner,” he repeated, hammering away at something with a metallic clink. “That meal you eat after lunch but before the fishing shows come on?”

  “Coming right up, Your Highness.”

  Eb gave another snort. “Bring it out here, willya? Trying to finish something.” He went back to his hammering.

  Good old Eb. He did and said what he wanted, usually not in the politest way, but deep down, Josie had to admit she loved the cantankerous old coot. She certainly owed him. He’d given her a home, the yarn business, the building in which it was housed, and a rental property next door. The least she could do was bring him a meal. The fact that the meal had been prepared by someone else and would undoubtedly be delicious was not lost on her.

  Josie returned to the kitchen. Jethro had his front paws up on the refrigerator and appeared to be trying to jump a little higher, but his snout couldn’t quite reach the bag from the general store. “Eb,” she yelled toward the open door to the workshop. “Call off your hound, or he’ll be the only one eating tonight.”

  A sharp whistle sounded, and Jethro took off. Eb and their neighbor—their very good-looking neighbor, Josie had to admit—were the only two people on the planet who seemed to be able to control Jethro.

  Josie pulled two paper plates out of the cupboard, unrolled the grinder from its white paper wrapper, and sliced it into four six-inch sections. The savory aroma of still-warm meat, vegetables, and homemade bread wafted up and filled her nostrils, causing her mouth to water. She placed one piece of sandwich on a plate, then added a few potato chips, poured a glass of apple cider from the fridge, and placed everything on a tray, which she delivered to Eb. There was just room on the small table at his left elbow to set down the tray.

  He didn’t look up, just gave a small grunt of acknowledgment. Although she could now see around the wall of junk he’d barricaded himself behind, she still had no idea what he was working on. Just a lot of parts she could not identify. Jethro sat at his master’s feet, tail wagging, and looking up longingly at Eb’s dinner.

  Returning to the kitchen, Josie made a plate for herself, then wrapped up the other two pieces of sandwich and put them in the fridge for Eb’s lunch tomorrow. She took her plate to the dining room, which was also the foyer since for some reason the front door opened directly into it. Eb had managed to fill up one end of the table with his stuff again—it was a never-ending job keeping flat surfaces clear in this house—but there was room on the other. She sat down and thumbed through the stack of mail.

  An electric bill, assorted junk mail, the sale flyer from the grocery store over in Kent. She took a bite of the grinder. Delicious as always, Lorna, she thought as her eyes landed on the next item in the pile. The Haus of Heinrich ready-to-wear catalog. Josie wasn’t quite sure how she’d gotten on the mailing list, but she wouldn’t have put it past Otto Heinrich to add her name manually to the computerized system, just to stick it to her. Not that she cared—much. Her former boss was a lecherous jerk, who’d thought he could not only manipulate her into producing designs and running his online magazine, but also engage her in some office hanky-panky. Still, she flipped the pages one by one as she chewed. The summer designs weren’t bad, though why Otto thought leather jackets would sell in July in the northern hemisphere was baffling.

  What the—? The lump of roast beef she’d just swallowed stuck in her throat. She dropped the grinder on the plate, made a conscious effort to swallow, and picked up the catalog with both hands.

  A svelte model with sculpted cheekbones and dark hair slicked back from her forehead stared up at Josie, her expression almost defiant. She wore a fitted purple sweater, made of fine-gauge cotton and featuring adorably puffed short sleeves, over a long, slim gray skirt.

  That jerk! Not the model, of course. Otto. He had stolen her design. Josie thought back to a few weeks ago when she’d submitted this idea to him, along with several others, in a bid to get her job back. Did he have any claim to her drawings? Nope, she’d been officially fired when she submitted them. She turned the pages of the catalog so violently that a small rip appeared. No matter. Two more of the concepts she’d sent him were now being advertised for sale at exorbitant prices.

  She pulled out her cell phone and fired off a text. You are scum, Otto. Rotten, thieving scum.

  A return text came back almost immediately. Let’s do a video chat. You’re so beautiful when you’re angry.

  Josie threw the phone down in disgust, then set her plate on the floor for Jethro to find. She’d lost her appetite.

  As if she sensed that Josie needed her, the black-and-white form of Coco, Josie’s cat, brushed up against her leg. Coco jumped up into Josie’s lap and began to knead with her front paws, turned around twice, and settled down. Josie ran her hand from head to base of tail, then again, each stroke of the soft fur eliciting a purr from the former stray. “Want to help me plot a murder?” Josie asked, then immediately felt guilty. She’d seen the effects and aftermath of murder up close, and it wasn’t pretty. Nor was it something to joke about.

  “How about some revenge, then?” Coco purred in response. “Oh, who am I kidding? I could never think of anything good enough. Come on, girl,” she said, scooping up the cat. “Let
’s go for a ride.”

  * * *

  By the time Josie pulled up behind Evelyn’s big Buick with its vanity plates—KNITTR-1—she’d calmed down. Of course she was still angry—Otto had stolen her ideas and used them for his own gain. But as a practical matter, this happened all the time in the fashion industry. Some designer would start a trend. Other designers would follow suit, until finally the most wearable, economical-to-produce looks were being manufactured overseas and sold in the big-box stores here in the States. It wasn’t as if you could patent or even trademark a puff sleeve or a slim skirt. So there was really nothing she could do except tell him off. She sighed and opened the bright blue front door of Miss Marple Knits.

  “You made it!” Evelyn said from the vicinity of the couch. “Lorna’s bringing the dessert. Brownies, she said.”

  Josie set down Coco’s carrier, then released her. The cat minced out onto the hard wooden floor as if she had all the time in the world, then headed for the squishy pillow covered with a throw that Evelyn had knitted just for her. She settled herself and curled up into a ball.

  Evelyn eyed Josie. “You don’t look happy. Here—” She patted the seat next to her. “Come sit down, and I’ll pour you a cup of coffee. Unless you’d rather have the wine we left in the fridge from the grand reopening? It’ll only take a moment to fetch it.”

  Josie smiled. “That’s sweet of you, Evelyn, but you don’t need to wait on me. You’ve been on your feet all day too.”

  “Hmmph,” the older woman said and pulled her knitting out of her bag.

  “Josie’s right, Evelyn,” Helen Crawford said. “You need to save your strength for our next trip to the casino. I feel lucky.” Helen took a sip from a mug that read She Who Dies With the Most Yarn, Wins.

  “Where are Margo and Gwen?” Josie asked. Since Helen and Evelyn had been boycotting the Dorset Falls Charity Knitters Association meetings, a new, informal knitting circle had sprung up with Miss Marple Knits as the epicenter. It didn’t matter—much—that Josie didn’t knit. She already treasured the friendships that were growing, stitch by stitch, in her yarn shop.

  Helen opened her mouth to answer, when a loud scuffing noise, as if something heavy were being dragged across the floor, sounded from the shop next door, followed by a thud that produced vibrations Josie could feel under her feet, even from this far away. Three heads turned toward the wall.

  Josie paused, listening, then headed for the door without bothering to put her coat back on. She turned back to her friends. “I’ll go check to see if Lyndon’s okay. That sounded like something heavy falling over.”

  Evelyn and Helen simultaneously pulled the stitches on their needles back so they wouldn’t slide off, set their work down, and stood, as perfectly synchronized as a pair of knitting Rockettes. “We’ll come too,” Helen said.

  “Yes, both of us,” Evelyn responded, giving Helen the eye. Josie was sure they were genuinely concerned. She was also sure the pair of rather competitive single seniors wanted a better look at their potential quarry, Lyndon Bailey.

  “Follow me, then,” Josie said, and hustled out the door.

  Josie reached the antique shop first. The lights were on, which she hadn’t noticed when she’d pulled up out front earlier, having been preoccupied with Otto and the catalog. She opened the heavy wooden door. “Lyndon? It’s Josie. Are you all right?”

  Lyndon stood over what appeared to be a log wrapped in a quilted moving blanket, which lay prone on the floor. He seemed to be intact. “Ms. Blair,” he said. “How nice of you to drop by. And who are your stunning companions?”

  Helen reached him first and stuck out her hand, lightning fast. “Helen. Helen Crawford,” she said, gazing significantly into his eyes. “We heard a terrible noise. Are you sure you’re not injured?”

  From the corner of her eye, Josie could see Evelyn frowning.

  Lyndon took Helen’s hand. “I am perfectly fine, dear lady, and I thank you for your concern. And you as well,” he said, turning toward Evelyn, dropping Helen’s hand and offering Evelyn his freed digits, which she took with alacrity and held, while gazing up at him coyly from beneath her lashes. She even managed a faint blush. Score one for Evelyn.

  Lyndon looked at Josie, his expression benign. “Perhaps you could unwrap that end of the object on the floor?” He gently disentangled his hand from Evelyn’s and bent down, peeling back the mover’s quilt that covered the log. Josie pulled back her end of the padded fabric to reveal a section of a fluted column, covered in weathered white paint, which had probably once graced a classical-style home. Lyndon’s end featured carved scrollwork, which he was examining carefully. Finally, he stood, placing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

  “I was lucky,” he said. “I was moving this architectural column, and it fell over. I jumped out of the way just in time. Fortunately, there was no damage to it. Or to me.” He gave a little chuckle.

  Helen jumped in. “Well, you need to be more careful,” she tutted. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  While Evelyn and Helen fussed over Lyndon, Josie looked around the shop. Lyndon had made good progress setting things up just since this morning. If he kept up this pace, he could open for business anytime.

  There was certainly a nice assortment of merchandise. An antique bicycle, the kind with one giant front wheel and one tiny one in the back, leaned up against the exposed brick wall. She couldn’t imagine who’d want to buy such a thing, let alone ride it, but it was fun to look at. A brown wicker rocker sat next to a marble-topped side table containing a china tea set with a delicate pattern of pink roses. Empty bookshelves lined another wall. She guessed that the boxes stacked in front of them contained books waiting to be arranged. Josie made a mental note to come back over in a few days to see if there were any old books about needlework. They would be nice to display for her customers. Evelyn or Helen might even get a kick out of knitting up some of the old patterns.

  Her eyes fell on a cardboard box near her feet. One flap of the top was open. She bent down and opened the other. Inside the box was a jumble of fabric and needlework items, mostly white or ecru, but some with a bit of color. She pulled out a piece of what appeared to be white linen, edged in a hand-crocheted border. Josie was pleased with herself. She was learning to identify knitting versus crocheting, and usually got it right these days. The piece was about nine inches square and smelled faintly musty, but probably nothing a good washing couldn’t eliminate. Another piece was knitted in a lacy pattern of eyelets, strategically placed to form a geometric pattern, which would look lovely against a dark wood table.

  Josie straightened. Evelyn and Helen were still fawning over Lyndon, who was receiving the attention politely, but was beginning to look a bit uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other and glancing in Josie’s direction. “Helen, Evelyn?” Josie said. “We should get back to the shop. The other girls are probably there already, wondering where we are.” Actually, it would be a good thing if they’d already arrived. She’d left the door unlocked. Not that there was anything much to tempt a burglar. The bank deposit had been safely made before she went home to take dinner to Eb. And she didn’t think there was much of a black market for stolen yarn—though who knew? Good yarn was expensive.

  Lyndon looked profoundly relieved. “Thank you ladies for stopping by. I should get back to work. I’m hoping to open by the weekend.”

  Josie glanced down at the box by her feet, as a whim struck her. “Say, Lyndon,” she said. “Could I be your first customer? I’d like to buy this box of doilies.” What she’d do with them, she couldn’t quite say. There were more than she could ever use for their original purpose of protecting wood and upholstered surfaces. Something would come to her, she supposed.

  Lyndon’s face broke out into a broad smile. “You will save me a lot of work if you take that box off my hands. I just bought these. It’ll be a long time before I’m able to sort through them, have them cleaned, and identify which ones are s
aleable, and even then my profit margin won’t be high. How does twenty-five dollars sound?”

  “Really? That seems like too little. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you.”

  “Nonsense. Let’s call it a Landlady Special. You can take the box now and get it out of my way, then drop off the money tomorrow.”

  “Deal.” Josie hefted the box and made for the door. She turned. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Bright and early,” Lyndon called out. Evelyn and Helen eyed each other. The game was clearly afoot between them, but they followed Josie back to Miss Marple Knits obediently.

  “What a charming man,” Evelyn said, holding the blue door open for Josie.

  “Yes, extremely charming,” Helen replied.

  Poor Lyndon.

  Josie set her box down on the counter as a chorus of hellos sounded from the seating area. Her high school friend Lorna Fowler sat in one of the armchairs, and her new friends, Gwen Simmons and Margo Gray, sat on the loveseat. Gwen and Margo were working away, Gwen knitting what appeared to be a bright green and purple child’s hat, and Margo crocheting a larger piece, a shawl or perhaps the beginnings of a throw or afghan.

  “Where’ve you been?” Lorna asked. “We found the shop open and no one here.” She pulled the foil from a pan of brownies whose crinkled, glossy top shone faintly in the light from the overhead fixtures.

  “Just checking things out next door,” Josie said. Her stomach growled at the scent, and she remembered she’d only eaten a few bites of her dinner. Brownies would do quite well to take the edge off.

  “Thanks for inviting me tonight,” Margo said. “It’s nice to get away from the bed-and-breakfast—and my husband—for a while.” She pulled up some yarn from her ball and made a few stitches, pausing to count them. Crochet was, if it were possible, even more baffling to Josie than knitting, consisting of a complicated one-handed dance of looping and twisting. “Did Lyndon say what time he was finishing tonight?” Margo said. “I’ll have Darrell leave the key under the mat for him if it’s going to be too late.”