Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery (28 page)

We both looked at my hand sticking out there between us. I quickly pretended to assess my manicure needs, but before I could oh-so-nonchalantly pull the hand back from where it didn’t belong, she reached over and slid her fingers across my palm. It felt like a trickle of ice water or a particularly cold dog nose. I swallowed, smiled, and congratulated myself for not yanking my hand back and rubbing it on my pant leg.

“And you?” I asked.

She swayed a bit. “Geneva?” She didn’t say it with any confidence, more as if she had to drag it out of a dark corner and dust it off.

“That’s a nice name.”

She shrugged a shoulder.

“Geneva what?”

She swayed faster and went into her humming-cum-moaning routine, which in the confines of the car was even eerier than it had been in the kitchen. Or maybe that showed I had insensitivity-management issues to deal with, too.

“That’s okay. It’s okay,” I said. “Geneva is a fine name. Geneva’s great. Let’s go with that and not worry about the rest. Okay?”

“Okay, let’s go.” Her recovery was remarkably fast.

“Uh, no. Not yet. One last thing. What are you doing here? I mean here, today, now, in the car? And what
exactly are you planning to do when we get to town?” My imagination provided a whole spectrum of answers, heavily weighted to the “horrible” end. If my head had been screwed on right, that question would have been the first one I asked. What was I thinking, taking a ghost into Blue Plum?

“Oh,” she, Geneva, said. “I thought you guessed. I’m what that person on the telephone, Aramis, said you needed. I’m your side trick.”

“Her name is Ardis. The word is ‘sidekick.’”

“Yes. That’s me. And I get to play the bad cop.”

Chapter 28

Y
ou can’t strangle a ghost.

I didn’t actually try because despite what Homer thought, I didn’t ordinarily have violent reactions in moments of anger or frustration. Besides, I knew it wouldn’t work. I did lower all the car windows, though, with the idea she might blow straight out of one. But, apparently, once a self-satisfied ghost is sitting in the front seat of your car, it’s impossible to get her to go until she wants to. And that wasn’t until I’d parked the car in the lot across from the Weaver’s Cat. At that point
I
felt like moaning but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. To us. Whatever.

We’d argued over the bad-cop, good-cop thing all the way into town. I threatened to drive back to the cottage and not take her anywhere. If she’d been a two-year-old, I would have. But I didn’t want to be stuck out there anymore than she did. I had questions to ask and prying to do. It was time I figured out what Granny knew, who knew she knew it, and who knew to look for it in her house. And maybe it was time to figure out who killed Emmett Cobb. I’d already broken Clod’s nose; maybe I should break his case for him, too.

“How is this going to work?” I asked her, Geneva, before getting out of the car. “Are you going to float along next to me or what?”

“Don’t be surly. That’s my role.”

“Don’t start again. It makes no sense. If no one else can see or hear you, you can’t be the bad cop.” I threw my hands in the air. “I’m arguing with a ghost.” I let my hands drop back into my lap, then raised them to run my fingers through my hair, no doubt making it extremely attractive. “I must sound like a lunatic. And if people are looking, they’ll see me talking to myself, and they’ll
know
I’m a lunatic. Oh my gosh. I just thought of something. What if we run into someone who’s been drinking daiquiris for lunch?”

“I think you’re getting upset over nothing,” she said.

“Why?”

“Daiquiris are made with rum, not gin.”

“How do you even know that? And you know what I mean. What if someone sees you?”

“When was the last time you heard of anyone believing in, much less seeing, ghosts?”

Apart from being tired of arguing with her, I couldn’t on that point. I got out of the car and stood with the door open, expecting her to glide out after me. Instead, she wafted through the passenger door and wavered there above the pavement, taking in the sights and sounds of downtown Blue Plum.

“It’s changed,” she said.

“You remember being here?”

“I think I must.”

“Will you be okay crossing the street?”

“We’ll find out, though I have a suggestion.”

“What?”

“You probably shouldn’t talk to me. You do look like a lunatic.” She laughed and did an imitation of Mary Tyler Moore twirling and tossing her hat in Minneapolis.

She was having fun while I was adding nervous breakdowns to my list of things to avoid. I grabbed my
laptop and purse and stalked across the street to the Weaver’s Cat, not looking around to see who’d seen me talking to no one and not bothering to see if Geneva made it safely or came with me at all. She did, though.

“Oh, my stars,” she said when she saw the window displays. “What is this place?” She moved along the porch, flickering from window to window. Without waiting for me to open the door, she flickered right through the glass into the shop.

And blessed silence descended. Except for a tour bus idling up the street, a dog barking—the usual hubbub of downtown Blue Plum—no more prattle filled my ears. Her mouth was moving, but it was no different from seeing and not hearing Ardis on the other side of the glass. It surprised me for some reason, but maybe because it made her more human. Or maybe it gave me the respite I needed to refocus on what I planned to do. This traveling with an unearthly sidekick was going to be tricky business. I enjoyed the quiet for another moment, then followed her inside.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this place?” Geneva asked when she heard the bell on the door and saw me walk in. “I’m in heaven.” She’d draped herself, like an animate cobweb, around a bolt of batik quilting fabric. “Does this bring out the blue in my eyes?”

That was not a pair of baby blues looking at me.

“Kath, there you are!” Nicki called from the sales counter. “Homer Wood’s been calling wondering where you are and why you aren’t answering your phone. Ardis told him you were crawling around in the unfinished part of the attic and probably didn’t get reception up there. But if that’s where you were, then why did you just come in the front door?”

Prattle. Straight onto my avoidance list. Although prattle falling from my own lips, just then, would have
helped. I couldn’t think of a plausible reason or lie. I needn’t have worried.

“Were you out at your car?” Nicki asked. “I guess you were. I see you’ve brought your laptop in.”

Geneva left the window, gliding to a mannequin nearer the counter. She rose up behind it and her face appeared above its shoulder like a second head. The chartreuse sweater set the mannequin wore did nothing for her coloring.

“Oh, now, there. Do you see a fly?” Nicki asked. “I thought I saw one buzzing around in the window when you came in and then…” She pulled a swatter from behind the counter and peered at the mannequin. “But isn’t that always the way? As soon as you find the swatter you can’t find the fly. Do you see it?”

I shook my head. Geneva snickered.

“You’re awfully quiet. Are you feeling all right?” Nicki stopped peering at the mannequin and peered at me. “What were you doing in the attic, anyway?”

“That’s a good question. I’ve been wondering what I’m doing almost everywhere I go these last few days.”

“Aw, it’s the stress, don’t you think, dearie? It’s all right if I call you dearie, isn’t it?”

“I guess, if you want to sound like an old lady.”

“I just thought you’d like to hear it again, you know, because that’s what Ivy called you, isn’t it? And I thought you might miss it. Oh, now…” She bounded over and gave me a quick, hard hug, no doubt mistaking the look on my face as “gosh, that’s so sweet.” As she pulled away I saw an angry scratch on the back of her hand.

“That has to hurt. Have you put anything on it?”

“I told her to wait and let Joe trim those roses,” Debbie said, appearing from the back. “It’s what we pay him for. Those things are like tigers out for blood when they get hold of you.”

“Well, he can finish them,” Nicki said. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

“At least you wore jeans,” Debbie said. “Are those yours? They look like Ivy’s.”

“They look good, too, don’t they?” Nicki turned in several circles admiring her jean-clad legs and rear. “Ivy gave them to me.”

“Oh, hey, before you go, Ardis is looking for the price sheet for the new Blue Ridge. Will you find it for her?”

“Will do. And, Kath, you’d better call Homer. He’s probably wondering if you got lost up there in the rafters. And he asked about knitting groups and when I told him about Friday Fast and Furious he asked me to be sure and tell you that it starts at three o’clock in TGIF’s workroom. Wasn’t that sweet of him? And before I forget, if things work out, and you get the house back, will you rent it to me? I love that little place and I’d feel just like Ivy living there. Promise me you’ll think about it, okay? Well, I’m off. See you in the morning. Bye now!”

“Does she wake up like that,” I asked, watching her go, “or does she work up to it with triple shots of espresso?”

“Her nickname was Bunny when she was a kid, if that tells you anything.”

At that, Nicki popped her head back around the corner. “I almost forgot, Kath. The Spiveys are looking for you.”

“Where?”

“Behind you.” That was Shirley. Or Mercy.

Chapter 29

“Y
our phone is off again,” one or the other Spivey said. “Better check it for low batt.”

They were indistinguishable in matching black sweat suits, possibly their idea of appropriate mourning attire honoring Max. A wavering to their left caught my eye—Geneva floating closer. The twins blinked in her direction, then looked back at me.

My face must have reflected my (a) dislike, (b) distrust, (c) anger-management issues, or (d) all three. I was happy going with all three. Debbie was happy going away altogether. She gave me a cowardly wave and disappeared around the corner, on her way to warn Ardis of the Spivey blight, no doubt.

“We snuck down the alley and slipped in the back door,” one twin said.

“Like a couple of shadows. The cops never saw us.”

“Were they looking for you?” I asked.

“Let’s move away from the windows,” they answered.

Looking furtive, they relocated to a corner out of view of passersby. Geneva floated after, settling in a basket of purple wool. The three of them presented a strange picture and, in a surreal fashion moment, I saw that deep purple was a better color for ghosts than chartreuse. All three of them looked at me expectantly. I joined them,
not in the friendliest of moods and asking myself hard questions. Why was I letting myself be sucked into these Spivey dramatics? Why weren’t there any customers to interrupt us?

“We think we can help you,” the twin closest to Geneva said.

“How?”

“I knew she’d like the idea, Shirl,” the other twin, Mercy, said, hearing my incredulity as acceptance.

“Tell her about the boxes,” Shirley said.

“Stacked in Angie’s garage,” said Mercy. “What Max cleared out of Emmett’s place. No telling what all is in them.”

“But we can look,” Shirley said. “Because now they belong to Angie.”

I felt like groping for a chair to sit down. Access to Emmett’s things? The answer to how he got the house might be sitting in Angie’s garage? This was huge. From their twin smirks, Shirley and Mercy knew it, too.

“Okay. Why are you telling me this? Oh, no, wait. Not the alibi again. Trust me. You don’t want me trying to lie for you.”

“Forget the alibi,” Mercy said. “We’ll lay low and keep to the shadows, but we aren’t afraid of Cole Dunbar anymore. This is bigger than he is. This is about sticking together. About family. Ivy could be a tetchy old lady, but she was kin and so are you. Besides, if you can break Cole’s nose, we don’t need an alibi.”

I didn’t see how that last part made sense. But who was I to question sense? I didn’t see anyone else in the room watching a ghost twine around and between the Spiveys as she inspected every inch of their identicalness.

“You know about the nose?” I asked.

“He came by to ask Angie more questions,” Shirley said. “The bandage cheered us right up.”

“And that’s how we know the boxes are full of Emmett’s things. We hid out in the garage until Cole was gone,” Mercy said. “He left Angie in tears. That’s when we decided to join forces and came to find you.”

Geneva glided around behind me and I felt a brush of cold on my neck. “I like them,” she said in my ear. “This is better than television and twins are good luck. Unless they’re bad luck. I don’t really remember. Anyway, is the tetchy old lady they’re talking about the same one we’re trying to prove killed darling Em?”

“
They’re
your sidekicks?” Ardis asked when I told her about my pact with the twins.

“Independent operatives is a better description.”

“Goons is a more accurate description. Since when do you trust those two?”

I explained the logic of trusting Shirley and Mercy’s bottomless pit of nosiness. “Add that to their cockeyed family loyalty and I think it’s worth a shot. If they can find something in those boxes, the whole nightmare of who owns the house could be over.”

“But not the nightmare of who broke in,” Ardis said. “Twice. That person, those people, are still out there and…What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing.” It wasn’t exactly nothing. I hadn’t told her about Max being murdered yet. She should know, but I didn’t want to say anything until I found out for certain. “I forgot to call Homer. Be right back.”

There were customers milling and although Ardis and I had kept our conversation quiet I didn’t want to take a chance on this call being overheard. I went into the small office, back behind the sales counter, and closed the door. Ernestine answered and put me through to Homer immediately. When I asked him if it was true about Max being pushed, his answer was characteristically to the point.

“Where did you hear that?”