Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery by Molly Macrae

Author:Molly Macrae
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery & Detective, Fiction
ISBN: 9781101599525
Publisher: NAL
Published: 2012-09-04T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

“Do you think they read lips?” I asked that from behind my coffee mug.

“Let’s find out.” Mel mouthed something toward the Spiveys.

“Wait, don’t leave the sound out altogether. Even if they read lips, I don’t. What are you saying?”

Mel held her napkin to her mouth. “Something guaranteed to get a rise out of them. Watch.”

“No, Mel, nothing rude.”

She ignored me and waved her napkin at the twins. She mouthed something, wiggled her eyebrows, and pointed at me. “No,” she said then, clearly disappointed. “They do not read lips.”

“Well, thank God. I don’t need those two on the warpath against me.”

“Warpath, nothing. If they read lips they’d be out of that car, and in here pulling up chairs, only stopping to hug your neck first. I told them you’d buy them breakfast. But hold on, something else is happening.”

“Something else” was Deputy Dunbar arriving, light bar flashing. He pulled to the curb in front of Mel’s, stopping in a no-parking zone. His siren, which had been silent, came on for one whoo-whoop that sounded like a nose-thumb to all parking regulations. He doused the lights, climbed out, adjusted his gun belt, and came toward the café.

“Why do I think this doesn’t look good?” I asked.

“Why do I think the Spiveys were expecting it?”

My mouth was still hanging open at Mel’s question when Dunbar stalked through the door and over to our table. It snapped shut at his question.

“Ms. Rutledge, will you please come with me?”

“Morning to you, too, Cole,” Mel said.

“Ms. Rutledge?”

“How about a friendly cup of coffee first?” Mel got to her feet and stood in front of Clod. Unfortunately, with her spiked mustard hair, she looked less than friendly and more like an agitated canary.

Clod looked over the top of her bristling spikes to where I hadn’t stirred from the table. “Ms. Rutledge?”

“Coffee’s on me.” Mel took a step closer to Clod, her smile not in sync with the fists on her hips.

Clod closed his eyes and said something under his breath that even non–lip readers could decipher. Chairs scraped as the old men rearranged their seats so they wouldn’t miss anything. The touristy couple reached for their cameras. I looked at the Buick across the street. No flash of binoculars. The car was empty.

Clod sidestepped Mel. “Ms. Rutledge, last time I’ll ask.”

“Why?” Mel, my wild mustard forward guard, kept pace with Clod, moving sideways in a belligerent pas de deux. “She has a right to know what this is all about.”

“She, Mel. Not you. Put your protest sign away and stand down.”

“It’s okay, Mel.” I stood and put a hand on her shoulder, feeling the tension there and wondering if I’d have to stop her from flying at Clod. Or if I’d try. “I’m sure it’s something routine. Maybe about the break-in at Granny’s house?”

Clod didn’t say or mutter anything to confirm or deny that.

I took a steadying breath and told myself to be polite and cooperative. Also not to slip and call him Clod to his face.

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