Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery by Molly MacRae Read Free Book Online Page A

and in the meantime I’ll call a motel for you.”
    The phrase “well, shut my mouth” shot through my mind, ricocheting back and forth along that line he expected me to draw. But why was he being so coy about it?
    “This line you want me to draw, Deputy, is it the official line?” I demanded. I’ve always thought “shut mymouth” was a silly phrase, anyway. “You think my grandmother poisoned that old guy, don’t you? But is she anyone else’s suspect, or is she just your suspect? You decided that sweet, innocent old lady, who never had an evil thought in her life, who only ever charmed and helped everyone she ever met, you decided she was guilty. And I’ll bet you badgered her, too, didn’t you? What possible reason would she have to kill that man? If I find out you were giving my eighty-year-old grandmother the third degree and caused her blood pressure to spike so she had a heart attack—”
    A curious change came over Deputy Clod while I waxed hysterical. A line of sweat beads broke out on his forehead. He wiped away several of them as they slid down his nose. His feet shifted, as though they itched to be somewhere else, and his eyes, though they kept returning to my face, spent more time darting glances into the corners of the room.
    “It’s entirely possible you’re right, Ms. Rutledge,” he said, managing to sound stiff as a prig and uneasy as a long-tailed cat at the same time, “and I do apologize. But if you’ll gather your belongings now, I’ll be happy to call that motel for you and we can both get out of here.” He pulled a handkerchief from a back pocket and wiped sweat from his eyes.
    I couldn’t help staring at him. He must have sensed my lack of hop-to-it from behind the mopping handkerchief, though, because he made hurry-up motions at me with his other hand. And that got all over my perversity buttons.
    “There’s no need to call a motel.” I walked over to the recliner and sat down, crossing my legs and casually swinging my foot. The chair was every bit as comfortable as it looked. I fit right into Em’s accustomed hollow. The whole room was warm and homey from that perspective.
    “You can’t think you’re going to stay here,” he said.
    “Because of the retch factor?”
    “Hell, yes, that and—”
    “And nothing. Deputy Dunbar, the director of this site invited me to stay as long as I need to. Indeed, as long as I like. And frankly, I wouldn’t leave now if the place was haunted.”

Chapter 5
    T he first thing I did after Oaf ficer Dunbar left was call Ruth Wood to let her know about the intruder and to ask why she hadn’t mentioned the reason this charming cottage was available for unaware out-of-town guests. I was relieved, though, when her voice mail kicked in. Ruth had done me a favor, albeit a tainted one, and I didn’t want to risk derailing again and end up yelling at her. My rant at Clod Dunbar to the contrary, confrontations weren’t ordinarily my thing. It was time for me and my rancid, rotten day to wind down. I disconnected without leaving a message.
    Thinking back, I realized there was a moment after Ruth wrapped Granny’s coverlet around my shoulders when she said something I missed. Maybe she’d started to tell me about the murder and I was lost in whatever blue-and-white-wool haze I’d drifted into. I would give her the benefit of the doubt and find a way to ask her, carefully, in the morning.
    In the meantime, me and my big perversity buttons.
    Murdered man’s house…murdered man’s bed…murdered man’s shabby, comfortable chair. It took me several minutes of pacing, not quite to the point that I was wringing my hands and muttering “woe is me,” but I finally decided I’d convinced myself I wasn’t squeamishabout spending the night with a murdered man’s memory. Maybe.
    There were a couple of things I could do, though, guaranteed to ease the loneliness of the evening and keep my mind from dwelling on the retch, creep, or any other