Yarned and Dangerous (11 page)

Josie heard movement in the kitchen. Eb had thumped through the back door, banging a crutch on the jamb. “'Bout time you got home,” he growled. “I'm hungry.”

“Me too,” she said. “Then after dinner we've got work to do.”

Dinner, bless Evelyn's heart, was a casserole labeled S
PANISH
R
ICE.
It consisted of white rice bathed in tomato sauce, mixed with lots of ground beef and chopped green peppers. A layer of cheese covered the top and bubbled as Josie pulled the vintage Pyrex dish out of the oven. Josie's stomach growled. She wasn't sure what was Spanish about this dish, because the tomato sauce was clearly Italian and probably came from a glass jar, but it didn't matter. It was delicious. She never ate like this in New York, where she was often surrounded by svelte models and waif-like interns, both male and female, who would rather run naked through Times Square than let a carbohydrate pass their lips. But, man, she had to admit, this dinner tasted good. She even had a second helping.

J
osie stared at the paper in her hand, then reread it.
What the heck?

After cleaning up from dinner, scooping the litter box, and feeding Coco—she left feeding Jethro to Eb, who was now settled in the living room watching a reality fishing show and occasionally making snorts of disgust at the screen—she had sat down and gone to work in earnest on the stacks that covered most of the dining room table.

Outdated catalogs and assorted junk mail went into a cardboard box without a further look. Eb either had no bills, which seemed unlikely, or he had a system for taking care of them, because she didn't find any, nor any overdue notices.

When she moved on to the newspapers, she paused. Each issue of the
Dorset Falls Tribune
was folded out to Eb's word puzzles, except for one. That one was folded to the notices of public hearing.

And one particular notice was circled in pencil, Eb's writing utensil of choice.

Miss Marple Knits was located at 13 Main Street. She'd seen the numbers painted on the window of the front door.

Why would Trey, her high school boyfriend, be applying to the planning and zoning committee about Miss Marple Knits?

Something was off. She felt her brow crease into a furrow as she made her way to the living room. “Eb? What's this about?”

Her great-uncle didn't look up from his recliner, which was a match to the one in the dining room. “Wait till the commercial, missy. Lemme see if they land this tuna.”

Josie parked herself on the couch to wait. She read the notice again. Nope, no idea came to her. She'd have to wait for the fish to either be caught or lost.

Finally, the show went to commercial, and Eb turned toward her. He didn't talk, just raised an eyebrow.

Josie showed him the newspaper and pointed to the circled notice. “What's this about?”

Eb squinted. “Humphries owns the building. He must want to do something with it.”

Josie's mouth dropped open. “Diantha Humphries?”

Eb shook his head.

“You mean
Trey
Humphries is our landlord?” It took her a moment to realize she'd said the word “our.” “Your landlord?” she amended.

“Not for much longer. Once you get that shop closed up, he can do what he wants with it.”

A knot formed in Josie's stomach. What she knew about zoning was analogous to what she knew about chickens and alpacas and knitting—not much. But this must mean Trey was planning to change the use of the building to something other than a storefront.
None of your business, Josephine,
she told herself. That seemed to be her mantra since she'd returned to Dorset Falls. But the knot didn't go away. If anything, it twisted tighter. What if he made big alterations that changed the character of the building? It
wasn't
her business, in any sense of the word. But that would be awful.

“What's he planning to do?” She almost wished she could take back the question. Maybe it would be better not to know.

Eb's brows drew together, then apart, in a sort of hairy mating dance. “Don't know. Not my place to argue even if I did.” He turned back to the show, where a heavily bearded man in a pair of chest-high overalls was straining mightily against a fishing rod that was bent nearly double.

Josie sat back. “Didn't he have to notify you or something? I mean, you might have wanted to keep the shop open. Miss Marple Knits is yours now.”

Eb let out a snort, which was the closest thing to a laugh she'd ever heard from him. “Do I look like the kind of fella who owns a yarn shop? That place was Cora's, not mine. Now leave me be.”

Leave him be. Yeah, that about summed it up. Josie didn't belong in Dorset Falls, had no intention of staying, and needed to finish the job she'd come here to do so she could go home. There was no sense getting involved in things out of her control. But she couldn't help but wish that 13 Main Street had been owned by anyone other than a member of the Humphries family.

Josie returned to the dining room. At least she could finish this job. Soon the surface of the table shone dully up at her. Josie was surprised to find a pretty oak table underneath all the detritus. She ran a damp dishcloth over the top and stood back to admire her work, satisfied. Some placemats would have been nice. There were probably some around here, but she didn't feel much like hunting for them. Asking Eb was out of the question. Her great-uncle was way too prickly tonight. She hauled all the boxes of paper trash out to the back door. Tomorrow, she'd ask Mitch about recycling or at least responsible trash disposal. There was a rusty oil drum in the backyard that she suspected Eb used for burning, but that didn't seem like the right thing to do.

Her great-uncle didn't bother to acknowledge her as she passed him on her way to the morning-borning room. She shut the door, sat down, and reread the zoning notice, tapping a pencil on the desk. Why was this bothering her so much? Was it because Trey Humphries was involved? She hadn't thought about Trey in years. They'd only dated for a few months, and then he'd moved on to some cheerleader. She didn't recall having been particularly broken up about it.

Or was this about Diantha? Maybe she really did want to open a yarn shop, although the odious woman would have to hire someone to work behind the counter. With her personality, she'd never make it in sales.

But if Diantha wanted to open a yarn shop, there'd be no need for a zoning change, which brought Josie back to square one. She wondered if Mitch or Lorna might know something about it. There was a good chance Evelyn might. Tomorrow Josie would ask around, and then maybe she could get it out of her head.

She checked the little clock on the front right corner of the desk. Its dark case had a warm sheen. The clock was probably an antique. Josie reached out and ran her fingers along the wood. So much nicer, Josie thought, than a digital clock with a plastic case. When she squinted, she could just make out the words S
ETH
T
HOMAS
written in black letters on the face. It was close to eight o'clock. Just enough time before bed to start sketching out some preliminary designs for Otto's fall ready-to-wear collection. These had to be stellar, her best work to date, if she wanted to get her job back. She put a pencil to a notepad she found in the desk and began to sketch.

Two hours later, she threw the pencil down in frustration. The floor was littered with crumpled balls of paper, and the pad was empty.

Tears spilled out onto her arms as she lay her head on them on the desk, leaving cold, wet trails of failure. This was never going to work.

 

Josie didn't feel much better when she woke up after a fitful night's sleep. Her stomach was still in a knot, and her head ached. If she'd been home in New York, she would have called in sick and stayed in bed snuggling with Coco, if the cat would allow it, and watching movies all day. Around lunchtime, she'd call for Chinese takeout and eat it while still wearing her pajamas.

But she wasn't in New York. She was in Dorset Falls, Connecticut, she was late, and she had responsibilities, whether she wanted them or not. She hauled herself out of bed, wincing as pain shot through her head at the bright morning light coming in through the lace curtain, and got herself dressed. Mercifully, the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom contained a bottle of aspirin and some small paper cups. Heedless of the possible damage to her kidneys and liver, she took three pills and headed downstairs.

Eb was sitting at the newly cleared dining room table, with a cup of coffee and the paper in front of him. Josie frowned. Had the old man been holding out on her? Coffee didn't just magically appear.

Or did it? Mitch Woodruff came out of the kitchen, holding two steaming mugs. He smiled when he saw her. “Eb said you were sleeping late, so I took the liberty of starting breakfast. I went out and collected up the eggs, too.”

A strange mixture of guilt and relief washed over Josie. She took the cup Mitch handed her and swallowed the hot liquid gratefully. Mitch didn't comment on the puffy purple circles under her eyes, or the fact that she hadn't even combed her hair, but had just run her fingers through it and smoothed it back with a headband.

Eb, however, showed no such restraint. “You look like hell,” he said, and went back to the paper.

Josie didn't argue. Her great-uncle was right. She turned to Mitch. “Roy didn't want breakfast?”

Mitch laughed, and little crinkles appeared around his blue eyes. “He said he'd rather starve.”

“Hmmph.” Eb's face darkened. “Nothing would make me happier. Why do I smell bacon and there's none in front of me?”

Mitch laughed again. “Coming right up. Josie, I can get this. Why don't you sit down and let that coffee start working?”

She started to protest, then sat down. It was nice to have someone do something for her, just because he wanted to. “Thanks,” she said simply.

“No problem.” She watched as he returned to the kitchen, then closed her eyes, willing the headache to subside.

When she opened her eyes again, Mitch was setting a plate of hot eggs and bacon in front of her. Triangles of buttered toast towered on a plate in the middle of the table. She waited for Mitch to sit down, then forked up a yellow chunk of scrambled eggs and a piece of bacon. Heaven.

“Where'd you learn to cook?” Josie asked.

“My mother trained me right,” Mitch said. “And when a couple of bachelor farmers live together, somebody's got to do it. Trust me, I'm the better choice.”

Eb snorted, then went back to his breakfast.

 

Mitch dropped her off at the general store an hour later, where she made the egg delivery; then she walked to Miss Marple Knits. By noon Evelyn had still not shown up, probably exhausted from her night at the casino, so Josie decided to take a break from her solo inventorying. The relatively mindless task had helped her avoid thinking too much about the failed sketches last night and what that meant for her future. The day was bright and, for the first time since she'd arrived in town, above freezing. Now that her headache had subsided, she could enjoy the warmth of the sun on her face as she made her way the two blocks to Rusty's Car Repair.

No one was behind the counter when she arrived, so she sat down to wait. A woman sat in a chair nearby, reading a magazine. The woman did a double take as she looked up at Josie, then glared, her eyes narrowing.

Josie was surprised. She'd only been in town a few days, and there seemed to be an inordinate number of strangers who had some beef with her. Well, no time like the present to find out what
this
woman's problem was. “Hello,” Josie said sweetly. “Waiting for your car?”

The woman folded her magazine closed and dropped it on the table between the chairs. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of knitting needles attached to some peach-colored yarn. “What I'm waiting for,” she said, stabbing one needle through the loops on the other and wrapping the yarn around, “is for you to tell me when you'll be finished closing up that shop.”

Josie was taken aback by the woman's sharp tone, but quickly recovered. She was learning that New Yorkers had nothing on the people of this small town when it came to rudeness. “How nice of you to be concerned. Have we met?”

The woman looked up and continued to knit, rather violently. Her fingers flew with a practiced rhythm. Josie was fascinated, in spite of herself. The woman never took her eyes off Josie. “You can stay away from my husband.” Her mouth opened for her to speak again, but she was interrupted.

“Courtney?” Rusty's deep voice rumbled around the room as he emerged from the side door that led into the working part of the garage. “Trey's car is all set.”

Courtney. Could this blonde with expensive-looking highlights be Trey's wife? Josie took a closer look. The woman's face softened as she looked at Rusty. “Thanks so much for squeezing me in,” she purred.

Rusty was unreadable. He towered over the petite Courtney, who was looking up at him from under her lashes.

“No problem, Courtney. I put a sticker on the windshield. No need to get that oil changed again for at least another three months.”

Courtney reached into her purse and pulled out a wallet. “What about the tires? Did you check those?” She handed him her credit card. “I can come back.”

Rusty swiped the card across the machine and handed it back to her. “Yes, the tires are fine. And so is every other system in Trey's car. And your car. And your mother-in-law's car.”

“Oh. Well, good. So, I guess I'll go over to the general store for lunch.” There was a significant pause, while she waited for him to take the bait.

“Meeting up with Trey?” he asked innocently.

Josie had a good view of Courtney's profile. The woman's lips pursed. “I'll see you later, Rusty,” she said, and turned to Josie. “Remember what I said,” she hissed under her breath.

“Sure thing, Court. You have my word.” It was debatable whom Josie liked less, Courtney or Courtney's mother-in-law, Diantha.
I'll bet they have some really fun holiday dinners,
she thought, stifling a laugh.

Courtney glared, then left. Rusty relaxed, blowing out a long breath. “Thank God she's gone. In the last two months she's been in here every week. And there's nothing wrong with any one of their cars.”