Yarned and Dangerous Read online

  Gladly, if it would dissipate some of the heat. She pulled the wool sweater over her head, adjusted her T-shirt, and dropped the sweater on the counter. A search of the painted wooden cupboards yielded a can of tomato soup. She checked the expiration date. It was still good, and it had a pull top, which was also good because there was no sign of a can opener. All the kitchen drawers were full, and the last one she’d pulled open had been full of mousetraps and a package of poison. Perhaps Coco could make herself useful around here, if she weren’t torn to shreds by Jethro first.

  Still, this was a nice room. It appeared to have been painted recently, a soft buttery yellow. The light in this part of the house came in through wavy glass panes and accumulated on the wide golden pine boards of the floor. The bottom half of the window was covered in a snowy openwork crocheted curtain. Josie bent to examine the lovely piece, fascinated by the tiny stitches and complicated pineapple pattern. This must be Cora’s, she thought, and felt a twinge of sadness. Poor Cora had started to make this old house a home, but never had the chance to finish the job.

  Josie squirted some dish soap into a saucepan she found in the sink, grabbed a paper towel, and began to wash it. A few minutes later, she had the soup bubbling on the stove and had located bread and a package of cheddar cheese wrapped in brown paper and tied in string in the refrigerator. Grilled cheese, she decided, and set to work. Gourmet cook she was not, but this she could handle.

  She returned to the dining room and cleared off two chairs and a corner of the table by depositing the stacks on the floor. “Lunch is ready, Uncle Eb.”

  He huffed. “I like to eat here in my chair.”

  “Well, today you eat at the table. Come on, I’ll help you up.” She offered him a hand, which he didn’t take.

  His eyes cut to the lunch on the table. “Where’s my coffee?” he growled.

  “You’ll have to give me a lesson on that thingie. I made tea instead. After lunch I’ll go into town and shop.” And buy a real coffeemaker, she thought.

  Eb sat down with a mild grunt and began to spoon up the soup. “You ain’t shoppin’ today,” he said, dipping a corner of the grilled cheese into the bowl.

  “Why not? The stores are open, right?” Not that she’d actually seen any stores.

  The old man tore off a crust of the sandwich and tossed it at Jethro, who caught it in midair and came over to the table, sniffing. “You ain’t got time.”

  As far as Josie could tell, she had nothing but time for the next two weeks. For all his blustering, maybe her great-uncle just didn’t want to be alone. A feeling she could sympathize with. New York was a city with millions of people, but when she went back to her apartment at night, it was just her and Coco.

  “I’ll be back soon, and I’ll bring us back a nice hot dinner.” She wondered what takeout was available in town, then decided it didn’t matter. As long as it was hot, maybe containing gravy, Eb would probably be satisfied.

  “We’ve got chores to do, missy. Then you can drive me into town, and I’ll show you what you need to do at the shop.”

  Chores? She hadn’t even unpacked yet. This didn’t sound good.

  A half hour later Josie found herself sitting behind Eb on a four-wheeled, camouflage-painted contraption that looked like a golf cart on steroids. She held onto the handles down by her hips for dear life, feeling as though at every bump and rut she would be propelled off the ridiculous machine and into the field that surrounded them. Dirty water sprayed up as they hit a deep puddle. “Nuts!” she said. “These are brand new jeans. And my fur clogs!”

  Did Eb even have a washing machine? She hadn’t gotten a chance to see the rest of the house, let alone find out where she would be sleeping. Probably in some upstairs room, uninhabited for years—uninhabited by humans, anyway. There was no telling what kind of nasty things resided in that old farmhouse. She shuddered, glad once again for Coco’s mousing prowess.

  A few hundred yards from the old farmhouse, Eb pulled to a stop at a small barn covered in weathered gray-brown boards. He swung his good leg over the seat. “Well, ain’tcha gonna help me?” he snapped. “I can’t use crutches on this bumpy ground.”

  She got off the machine and let Eb lean on her. “Fine. Don’t get your union suit in a bunch, Eb.”

  Eb snorted. “For your information, I wear Fruit of the Looms, just like every other self-respecting farmer in these parts. And now that you mention it, you can pick me up a package when we go into town. Now get a move on.”

  TMI. Josie grimaced, counted to ten, then backwards to one, as they made their way to the doorway of a shed that appeared to be tacked on to the main structure of the barn. A dull clucking sounded from behind the door as she opened it. A flutter of feathers assaulted her, causing her to jump back. No mistaking a chicken coop, even for a city girl.

  “Now grab a basket and go collect the eggs.”

  Josie stared at Eb, then looked down at her feet. The hens exploded upward, settled down to the coop floor, and marched out the door into the sun. Josie gulped. “You want me to touch eggs that haven’t been washed yet? Ones that have just come out of a chicken’s . . . you know what?”

  Eb’s prodigious eyebrows pulled together into a large, hairy caterpillar.

  “Can’t you find somebody else to come in and help you? Someone who knows what she’s doing?”

  “Ain’t nobody else. Everybody’s got day jobs. The neighbor’s grandson’s been coming over to take care of the chickens for me, but now I’ve got you, and he can go back to those crazy critters he’s got. Hay, melons, and pumpkins in the summer and fall, maple syrup in the winter, eggs all year round. I gotta make enough money to pay the taxes, otherwise I lose the farm. Simple.”

  She wondered what constituted a crazy critter. This farm had been in the family for more than two hundred years. She couldn’t let Eb lose it. But Eb had no children, and it would probably have to be sold once he died anyway. She felt a little stab of . . . something at that thought. Curious.

  Eb’s eyes narrowed. “Where do you think eggs come from?”

  “I know where eggs come from,” Josie said. “The supermarket, in nice clean containers.” She took a deep breath, wondering if she’d regret it. But the air smelled like sweet straw instead of bird excrement, which she’d expected. She poked a finger into one of the long boxes lined with hay. A warm, smooth object found its way into her hand, and she pulled it out, placing it into the padded basket. Eb prodded her with a crutch from the sidelines as she fished around again and again until she’d found all the eggs. My queendom for some hand sanitizer, she thought.

  “You sure you got ’em all? Now put some fresh straw down on top of the old and let’s get these wiped down and into the cartons. We’ve gotta deliver them to the store.”

  Josie resisted the urge to wipe her hands on her jeans. “What store?”

  “Downtown. Wash up over there, and let’s get going. We’re late.”

  Chapter 3

  Dougie’s General Store was located on Main Street in a building that had housed a hardware shop when Josie had lived in Dorset Falls as a teenager. After her dad died—a long, slow, painful death from cancer—she and her mom had moved here so Katherine could teach at the local high school. They rented a cute little Victorian a few blocks from the center of the village. When Josie graduated, she went to New York and never looked back at Dorset Falls. Katherine Blair moved on to a permanent position in a private school in Westchester County.

  Josie had made friends in high school, but gradually lost touch with everyone over the years. So she was surprised—pleasantly so—to find someone familiar behind the counter. Lorna Fowler greeted them as they walked in. Lorna had aged well, not that she was any older than Josie. Her hair was back to its natural dark color, pulled back into a glossy braid. Josie remembered one night when Lorna had slept over. The girls had dyed stripes into their hair with powdered drink mix—Lorna, blue; Josie, hot pink; mothers, livid. She smiled and gingerly set her box of eggs
on the counter.

  “Josie?” Lorna said. “Is that you?” Her face broke into a broad smile, and she came around the counter, enveloping Josie in a hug. Josie stiffened, then relaxed and hugged Lorna in return.

  Eb hobbled toward the back and parked himself at one of the café tables. “Can’t a man get a cup of coffee around here?” he called, leveling an accusing glare in Josie’s direction. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  “Coming right up, Eb,” Lorna said. “This morning’s donuts are sold out, but I’ve got some fresh gingersnaps.” A low grunt of acquiescence sounded. Turning to Josie, Lorna said, “Don’t go anywhere—I’ll be right back. I want to hear all about New York.”

  Josie looked around. The store was certainly countrified. The area to the left of the sales counter was lined with aisles flanked by shelves containing basic groceries—canned soups, boxed macaroni and cheese, and a small selection of dish detergents were visible from where she stood. A small table sat at the end of one of the aisles. Brightly colored mittens were arranged neatly on the fire-engine-red tablecloth.

  Josie walked over to examine them. The child-sized mittens, each pair held together by a matching cord, were beautifully done with perfectly uniform stitches. Josie was no knitter, but she knew quality work when she saw it. She wished she knew a kid she could buy them for, but none of her friends back in the city had children, or were likely to anytime soon. Kids certainly weren’t on her personal radar, although at thirty she was aware that her biological clock might possibly be ticking.

  A sign on the table read: HANDMADE BY THE DORSET FALLS CHARITY KNITTERS ASSOCIATION—ALL PROCEEDS BENEFIT THOSE IN NEED. The price was half what Josie would have expected to pay in a New York boutique. She reached up and fingered the scarf around her neck, the one Cora had sent her. Cora had almost certainly been one of the Charity Knitters, or at the very least she had provided them with supplies.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they? And the money goes to all kinds of good causes,” a crisp voice said behind her. Josie straightened and turned. The woman was in her sixties, tall and angular with silvery gray hair cut in a severe pageboy, a pale, heavily powdered face, and bright red lipstick. “I’m Diantha Humphries, the president of the club that makes these items.”

  Josie felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. Of all the people in this town whom she could run into, it had to be Diantha Humphries. The mother of her high school boyfriend, Trey. A mother who thought her darling son could do no wrong—and could do a lot better than dating the pink-haired daughter of a schoolteacher.

  Diantha’s eyes disappeared into a squint. “I know you, don’t I?” she said. Recognition dawned, and her eyes flew open. “Josephine Blair. What a . . . surprise.”

  Apparently bygones were not going to be bygones.

  Josie squared her shoulders. “Mrs. Humphries. How nice to see you again.” Not. She forced a smile to her face. “I hope you are well,” she said sweetly.

  “What brings you back to town?” Diantha’s lips pursed so tightly it appeared her face might crack from the pressure. “Trey’s married, you know.”

  Oh, for the love of Ralph Lauren. Trey had been a jerk in high school, and Josie would bet dollars to the donuts the store had sold out of this morning he still was. “I’m here temporarily. To help my uncle close up Cora Lloyd’s yarn shop.”

  Diantha visibly relaxed. “Oh. When is your going-out-of-business sale?” Her eyes took on a glint that was almost greedy. “You could simply donate the stock to the Charity Knitters Association, you know.”

  She could, but it wasn’t hers to give. And she wasn’t at all enthused about doing any favors for Diantha.

  “Well, that’s up to Eb. The store and its contents belong to him now.”

  Diantha’s face took on a calculating expression. “It’s too bad about Cora. Such a horrible accident.” She tapped a long, blood-red nail on her chin. Josie felt her hopes tick up a notch. So there was a nail salon somewhere around here. “You know, I’ve thought about opening up my own yarn shop. Perhaps you—or Eben—would consider letting me take over the lease and buy the stock?”

  Josie bristled. She glanced at Eb, who was glaring in their direction. Whether his annoyance was directed at her, Diantha, or someone else was impossible to tell. “Uh, I’ll talk about it with my uncle, and one of us will get back to you.”

  Diantha’s face relaxed. “You do that.” She pulled a creamy business card from her purse and pressed it into Josie’s hand. “My number’s on there, along with my e-mail address. I expect to hear from you soon.” She turned and left the store.

  Josie moved to the back of the store and sat herself down across from Eb. He pulled a set of keys out of the pocket of his canvas Carhartt jacket and scooted them toward her. “Here are the keys for the shop. Go on over and get started. I’ll be over when I’m done with my coffee.”

  Get started with what? She had no idea. She called out to Lorna. “I’ll be back, and then we can catch up.” Lorna waved at her, smiling broadly, and poured Eb another cup.

  Josie stood in front of Miss Marple Knits, a block from the general store, past several empty storefronts. The door was painted a bright, cheerful blue, which contrasted with the sad sign posted on it: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. She tried several keys until she found the one that turned the lock. Bells tinkled as she stepped over the threshold into a dark room. It was late afternoon, and the natural light was fading. She felt around on the wall near the door for a switch and was rewarded with illumination.

  The shop was moderately sized. Perpendicular to the big front window sat a sofa upholstered in a floral pattern. Two wingback chairs and a coffee table covered in knitting magazines completed the sitting area. Josie’s eyes moved around the room. One wall was hung with what appeared to be tools and supplies. Josie recognized knitting needles and what must be crochet hooks in various sizes. Cubbies lined two walls, and each cubby was filled with yarn in a riot of colors. She reached out and ran her hand across a skein of dark green yarn—wool, she could see from the paper label—and resisted the urge to rub it across her face.

  She’d always loved fabrics and the fashions that could be made from them, but this was different. There was something elemental about the yarn she held in her hand. Something close to the earth that nurtured the grass that fed the sheep that produced the wool that made the yarn that would someday make a garment. Suddenly sorry she’d never learned to knit, she wondered what it would feel like to create a beautiful thing, stitch by stitch. The shop felt warm, inviting, almost like the hug she’d received from her old friend Lorna.

  Josie shook it off. She was here to nurse her great-uncle back to health, close up this store, and get back to New York, where she belonged.

  The bells over the door rang again. A group of ladies, none under retirement age, blew in with a cold wind that ruffled the pages of the knitting magazines on the coffee table.

  They began to disperse around the shop, heading straight for the cubbies and baskets full of yarn. One came toward her and thrust out a gloved hand. Josie stood there, her mouth hanging open. What the heck was going on?

  “Hello, dear,” the woman standing in front of her said. She pulled back her hand when Josie didn’t take it. “You wouldn’t know me, but I was a friend of Cora’s. Lillian Woodruff.”

  Josie shook her head to clear it. “Nice to meet you, Lillian. Uh, you all know the shop is closed, right?”

  Lillian laughed, her tightly permed gray hair bouncing around her head. “Closed? No such thing as closed. I was downtown and saw the lights on in the shop, so I called all my friends. Look at these knitters, ready to buy.” She swept her hand grandly around the room. “You are having a going-out-of-business sale, aren’t you?” Lillian was matter-of-fact now, even a little bossy, the façade of the sweet old lady gone. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  What was it with the women in this town? Cora had only been gone six weeks, and they’d descended like vultures on the shop. Eac
h skein of yarn was a siren calling to them, Josie supposed. Maybe they couldn’t help themselves. But it didn’t make her feel any less defensive. It was certainly disrespectful to Cora, and Josie wasn’t about to let them get away with it. A dozen years in New York City had taught her everything she needed to know.

  “I’m not selling the inventory.”

  Lillian frowned. “Perhaps I didn’t understand you.” Her face cleared. “Ah, you’re going to donate it to the Charity Knitters Association. A noble sentiment. But unnecessary.”

  “Unnecessary, how?” Josie’s radar was pinging like crazy. Something was going on here.

  “Because I’m going to make you and Eben an offer—a very generous offer—to buy the business and everything in it.” Her moon-shaped face got even rounder when she smiled.

  “I’ve already had an offer.” Josie smiled back.

  Lillian’s eyes darkened. “Who?” She began to twist the scarf around her neck. “Cora always planned to sell me a share of Miss Marple Knits, you know.”

  Josie didn’t know. Couldn’t know. But somehow, despite the fact that she’d never met Cora, Lillian’s statement didn’t ring true. Josie made a decision.

  “Ladies,” she said, using her New York voice. “There seems to be some misunderstanding. The shop is being closed, but the inventory is being sold online. Through an auction site. So you can all leave now.” She looked pointedly at Lillian. “There’s no sale.”

  Lillian glared. “Diantha got to you first, didn’t she? Or maybe you’ve got some rich New Yorker on deck who thinks she can swoop in here and change everything?” The woman’s breath was coming faster and harder now. “You’ll be sorry,” she hissed. “Who do you think you are, waltzing back into town and taking charge? You’re probably trying to fleece poor Eben for everything he’s got, now that Cora’s gone.” She smoothed the scarf around her neck. “Well, you won’t get away with it. I’ll see to that.” Lillian stormed toward the door. “Come on, ladies. Nothing to buy here.”