Silence of the Lamb's Wool (A Yarn Retreat Mystery) (5 page)

I began to second-guess my decision to put on such an ambitious retreat. “I should have stuck to something safe and easy.”

One of the women had gotten up from the table and joined us. “I don’t know why you didn’t contact me if you needed someone to teach spinning,” the woman said. Gwen stepped in and introduced her as Wanda Krug. The woman added “spinning specialist” to her name.

“It was a mistake to hire that Nicole Welton,” the short stout woman began in a matter-of-fact voice tinged with annoyance. “She might have some fancy degree in textiles, but let me tell you, when it comes to spinning, I can spin her into a corner—any day.”

I was taken aback by Wanda’s attack. As if to punctuate her comments, Wanda pulled a drop spindle out of her floral-print tote bag and grabbed the length of roving on the counter. She moved so fast, I couldn’t see what she was doing, but after a moment she began to hit the cylinder part of the spindle against her leg and held the long strand of wool as it twisted upward. She wasn’t silent as she did it, either. She almost did a little dance and kept yelling “Woo-ha!” every time she gave the spindle a whirl.

I was amazed at how fast she turned the long piece of roving into a length of yarn. At the end she seemed to come back to reality and realized what she’d done. She paid for the roving and then left in a huff.

After she’d gone, Gwen told me Wanda really was an expert spinner and her confidence was earned even if she was a little hard to take. The older store owner went back to the table to help a woman who was holding up a piece of pearl gray knitting with a big hole in the middle, hysterical because she didn’t know what she’d done wrong.

I hung around the counter with Crystal for a while and she assured me that Nicole Welton would be able to handle the spinning just fine and I said I’d let her know if I decided to skip right to spinning. “No matter where you start, the group is going to end up knitting,” she said, handing me an envelope with copies of the pattern for the shawlette.

Of course the bag with the spindles and the patterns wasn’t the only package I left with. Even though my aunt had left me a closetful of different kinds of yarn, I couldn’t seem to get out of Cadbury Yarn without buying something. I’d become particularly fond of making washcloths. They were small and required only a few skills—like the knit stitch, yarn overs, increasing and decreasing—and I was left with something useful. I picked up a skein of pink organic cotton, thinking I’d make one and send it to my mother to show off my skills.

Who was I kidding? I could hear her saying, “So now you’re a towel maker?”

The sun was still shining as I went back to the main street. There were an assortment of Cadburians and tourists out enjoying the bright afternoon. I looked down toward the aquarium and wondered if Dane had had to dive into the otter pool to retrieve the overzealous visitor.

Nicole Welton’s shop was just down the street. Instead of calling her, it seemed better to go there in person and bring up the no-sheep situation. Maybe, after Wanda’s disparaging remarks, I wanted some reassurance that Nicole really could handle the retreat. And a visit to Nicole’s was always a feast for the eyes.

I dropped my packages in my car and walked up the street to the old Cadbury by the Sea Bank. It was an imposing structure situated on the corner, with two white columns flanking the door.

One of the arched windows still had
CADBURY BY THE SEA NATION
AL BANK
painted in gold across it, though time had smoothed away bits of the letters. My understanding was that the building had stayed empty and abandoned since the Cadbury Bank had closed years ago.

A machine-embroidered banner with
ANTIQUES
emblazoned on it hung over another of the arched windows and made it clear it wasn’t a bank anymore.

Bells attached to a leather strap went into a ringing frenzy as I opened the front door and walked in. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the lower light inside, though with large arched windows on two of the walls, it was still quite bright. The temperature dropped, too. The high ceiling and abundance of marble kept the place cool. The bells served their purpose and Nicole looked up from the back of the open space and waved.

I thought it was clever how she’d turned the bank into an antiques store and textile studio. The old tellers’ cages were hung with samples of old and new textiles, and they were a feast of color and texture. There were quilts, afghans and knitted blankets, along with some of Nicole’s hand-woven creations. An antique dressmaker’s dummy seemed to be standing guard, swathed in a light green shawl that sparkled with tiny crystal beads.

“I can’t believe what you’ve done to this place,” I said, looking at the open area opposite the old tellers’ cages. Beautifully refinished antique furniture had been arranged into settings complete with plants and more quilts and blankets to add color. I admired a deep blue lap blanket that hung on the arm of an oak rocker. I couldn’t help but touch the intricate design of the thread doily sitting on a wooden washstand. I thought the clear vase holding a bunch of crocheted red roses was the perfect touch for the round mahogany table.

The store seemed to have everything . . . except customers. It was really out of place in Cadbury, too arty and sophisticated, and instead belonged in San Francisco, Santa Fe or even down the road in Carmel. It hadn’t helped matters when Nicole had decided to call it The Bank. Just like my muffin names, Cadburians liked things to be called just what they were.

Nicole was working at one of the looms and took a moment before she left her work and gestured for me to join her. She was dressed casually in soft-with-age jeans and a long white shirt with a darker T-shirt underneath. She had a beautiful aqua woven scarf arranged around her neck, held in place with a silver pin. There was a nonchalance to her whole outfit, as though she’d merely added one piece after the other without much thought instead of agonizing in front of a mirror trying to figure out if something looked good, like some of us—well, I—did.

“You should have seen the place when we got it,” she said as I passed a U-shaped island of glass cases in the center of the large space. “There was dust a mile high and boxes of old papers from the bank. They must have just shut the doors and not looked back. The only good thing is they left me lots of papers to use as kindling in the fireplace.” I noticed a stack of blue ledgers next to the stone fireplace on the side wall. “The only thing they seemed to have taken were all the desks. Too bad, they would probably be a hot item now.”

I noticed a pile of old pieces next to a stack of books. I glanced at the titles and noted they were all about textiles and fibers. Nicole saw me looking at them. She picked up a dingy-looking woven rug. “Most of the woven and knitted pieces I get don’t come with labels, so I have to figure out what they’re made of and when. It’s amazing what you can find out.”

Nicole had made the back area into her studio. Beyond, there was a half partition left from when it was a bank and a couple of cubicles that had been used for privacy when checking safety-deposit boxes. It was odd to see the thick metal door of the open vault showing over the top of the divider, with the selection of spinning wheels in front of it. She had both antique and modern machines. She’d demonstrated how they worked, but looking at them now with all their wheels, hooks and pedals, I had no idea how to use them.

I didn’t mention Wanda, but asked Nicole if she was ready for the retreat.

“You look tense,” she said to me. “Don’t worry, I can handle everything. I’ll be there tomorrow morning to teach your pre-retreat people how to use a drop spindle. And I’ll have Will bring these wheels over later in the week.”

“I need your advice,” I began, and then told her about the no-sheep-shearing situation. I didn’t have to explain. She knew right away it was Kevin St. John’s doing.

“Kevin St. John is so possessive of that place. I know all about it. Remember, my husband works for him. Though Will never has a problem with him because he just does everything Kevin’s way.”

I brought up the idea of bringing in roving and making the spinning the center of things, but she said there was no need to change anything. “Why don’t you just go to the farm and pick up the fleeces? You won’t have your razzle-dazzle beginning, but we can go from there.”

I nodded in agreement, even though I didn’t want to give up the razzle-dazzle beginning. She sensed my concern about the retreat. “Don’t worry. The group will get caught up in picking through the fleeces and washing and carding them. Everybody is going to have a great time. The first time I started with fleece and ended up knitting with the yarn, well, there was something magic about it.”

She was going to show me some handspun yarn she’d made, but the sleigh bell went into a frenzy as the front door opened.

A customer?
I looked across the large space and saw a man in a familiar sports jacket. Burton Fiore? I checked beyond him, expecting to see Cora Delacorte, but he was alone. He seemed intent on his mission and didn’t look around enough to see me, walking right to the U-shaped glass counter in the center of the place. As soon as Nicole saw him she stepped away and went behind the counter. He looked down through the glass at something and they spoke for a moment or two. Apparently what he saw hadn’t pleased him because a moment later he walked to the door. Even from where I was standing, I could see that he’d left an envelope on the counter. I was going to call out to him, but when I looked again, the envelope was gone.

Nicole seemed a little disconcerted when she returned. “He was just looking for a gift for his fiancée. You do know that Cora Delacorte is engaged.”

I explained I’d just heard the news that morning. Though Nicole was new to Cadbury, her husband had grown up in the area so she knew all the local stories. I was curious about what Burton Fiore had been considering and walked to the counter and looked inside. The glass cases had an assortment of mini-treasures. Things like silver chafing dishes and old silver dresser sets. But below the spot he’d been standing, there was a pink velvet backdrop with some pieces of jewelry on it. I’d never seen anything like them. The one thing the drop earrings, the watch chain and several brooches had in common was they were all brown. The piece that really caught my eye was a wreath shape decorated with tiny brown flowers.

“What are these?” I said, looking again at the drab pieces.

“Interesting color, huh?” she said, coming to stand next to me. She slid open the back of the case and took out the pink velvet backdrop the pieces were sitting on. “They’re made out of hair.”

“Hair?” I said with a combination of fascination and distaste. She smiled at my reaction.

“I guess I thought of it more from a student of fiber’s point of view.” She took out one of the dangle earrings for me to get a closer look and I saw that the design was created by intricate braiding.

“It’s called mourning jewelry and became popular during Victorian times.”

I wasn’t sure if I understood what she was saying. “You mean it was made after someone died,” I said, putting the earring down rather quickly. She nodded and explained it was worn as a memento, similar to keeping a lock of someone’s hair. The whole hair-jewelry thing creeped me out, but the idea of it coming from a dead person’s hair was even worse. I wasn’t surprised that Burton Fiore had left empty-handed if this is what she’d showed him as a gift for his fiancée.

“These must be very expensive,” I said, and she nodded, lifting one of the price tags. When I saw it was in the five-hundred-dollar range I commented that maybe she ought to keep the counter locked.

“I don’t worry about it. Besides, locking things up is a red flag that they’re worth stealing. I’m more of a hide-things-in-plain-sight sort of person,” she said, putting everything away and sliding the back of the counter shut. “Anything really important I keep where no one would expect to find it.”

She walked me to the door and repeated the time she was coming to the retreat the next day. She had worked it out so she could be back at the shop to open at noon.

“I’ll come by a half an hour early, so we can set up things in the meeting room. I have the roving all set to go,” she said.

“Roving?” I said.

“Your people need something to spin with,” she prodded with a smile.

“Of course, you’re right. I didn’t even think about that. I’m certainly glad I hired you.”

By the time I got home, I barely had time to put the drop spindles and patterns in the three red tote bags with
Yarn2Go, Fun with Fiber
emblazoned on the front, and go across the street. The white van was pulling up to the Lodge just as I got there.

“Casey,” an excited voice said. I recognized the short frizz of Bree’s blond hair as she got out of the Vista Del Mar van. She still looked the part of the harried young mom in unglamorous jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt.

“It’s good to be here again.” Olivia Golden lowered her head as she stepped out after Bree. Olivia’s reddish hair had grown since I’d seen her last and now went below her ears instead of hugging her almond-shaped face. She looked around and took an appreciative breath of the cool damp air. She seemed glad to be here and looked very stylish in her dark slacks and rust-colored cowl-necked sweater.

“No secret what I have in here this time,” Scott Lipton said, swinging his soft-sided briefcase as he got out last.
Bounded out
was more accurate. To prove his point, he unzipped the top and displayed his knitting. He seemed a lot less tense than he’d been at the last retreat and had loosened up from the button-down business attire he’d arrived in before.

The three swarmed me and we did a group hug before I escorted them inside the Lodge. I handed each of them a tote bag and helped them get checked in. Once they had their keys, the three of them looked at the surroundings and seemed surprised.

“Things have changed around here,” Bree said, directing her attention to the seating area. She did a few minutes on how much she liked the new leather furniture and the rug underneath. She had a puzzled look as if she realized something was missing, but couldn’t place what.

“It’s the TV,” I said. I left it at that, not sure how to break the news to her about Vista Del Mar going unplugged. She had spent the last retreat glued to her phone and tablet so she could stay in touch with her kids.

“A piano,” Olivia said, walking over to it and hitting a few of the keys. “What a nice idea.” I mentioned I’d heard there were going to be sing-alongs in the evening.

Scott had already set his briefcase on the long table and pulled out one of the chairs. “What a perfect spot for knitting.” I know that I shouldn’t have, but I still did a double take when he took out a ball of powder blue yarn and a pair of circular needles with something lacy hanging off. There was nothing wrong with a man knitting; it just wasn’t the usual sight.

Still, when I saw the happy look on his face as he began working the needles, anything weird went away.

“I better tell them I arrived,” Bree said. I knew the “them” referred to her young sons and her husband. She was better than last time, but I could see she was still nervous about being away from home. Before I could intervene, she had her cell phone out and her fingers were moving over the screen. She stared at the phone and started to move toward the window.

“It won’t help,” I said, putting my hand on her arm to stop her. I took a deep breath and explained the new policy of Vista Del Mar to the three of them. Bree’s face crumbled. Olivia said it was no problem for her because there was nobody she wanted to talk to anyway. It took a moment to cut through Scott’s bliss at knitting and then he seemed a little concerned.