Dinner was the usual Magnificent Seven mayhem. My brothers held court, recounting their day at wrestling camp; Pippa spilled her milk twice; and Lauren, who was wearing another of her attic finds—a glossy black hat with a fishnet veil—got reprimanded for reading at the table, although Aunt True argued for leniency. “She has such excellent taste in literature, Jericho!” she protested, when my dad took the book away. “The Westing Game was one of my favorites when I was in fourth grade.”
I didn’t even bother trying to get a word in edgewise.
“How’s your research going, Dinah?” Professor Rusty asked my mother. “Have you settled on a topic yet?”
“I can’t decide between the Hatfields and the McCoys or the Underground Railroad,” she told him.
“I know about the Underground Railroad!” Pippa piped up excitedly from the far end of the table. “Mr. Henry read about Harriet Tubman at library thtory hour!”
Professor Rusty nodded. “Indeed, Pippa. She was a very important conductor along those invisible rails, leading dozens of slaves to freedom.” He turned back to my mother. “They’re both excellent subjects, Dinah. Hmmm. Which would I choose? The famous feud that has entered both the annals of American folklore and our national lexicon, or one of the most exciting chapters in nineteenth-century history, featuring a network of brave souls and safe houses, secret tunnels and passwords, disguises and subterfuge? An organization that involved whites and blacks alike, men and women who risked everything to help some hundred thousand slaves to freedom? Slaves who faced danger at every turn as they risked recapture, punishment—even death?” He pretended to rub his chin, considering.
My mother laughed. “I think it’s pretty clear which one you’d choose.”
“You know my weakness for the Civil War era,” he admitted. “It really is a fascinating subject, however. And did you know that the Underground Railroad may have a Pumpkin Falls connection? It’s been the basis for much speculation over the years, although nothing has ever been proven.”
“Is that so?” said my mother.
Professor Rusty ran a hand through his hair, warming to his theme. “Have you read about Henry ‘Box’ Brown, the slave from Virginia who mailed himself to freedom in a box?”
We looked at him blankly.
“Just one of many fascinating stories,” he continued, turning to me. “Truly, you’ll appreciate this one—there was a Canadian man by the name of Alexander Milton Ross, known as ‘Birdman’ to the workers on the Underground Railroad, because he traveled through the Southern states helping slaves escape while pretending to be an enthusiastic ornithologist.”
“An orni-what?” asked Pippa, frowning.
“A bird watcher,” I told her.
Across the table, my cousin gave me a frantic get-me-out-of-here-before-I-die-of-boredom look. Not that I wanted to sit through another of Professor Rusty’s lectures, either, but history was so not Mackenzie’s thing.
“May we be excused?” I asked politely. “Mackenzie and I set the table, so it’s Hatcher’s and Danny’s turn to do the dishes.”
“Don’t go too far, girls,” said my mother. “We’ll be leaving for our knitting class in about half an hour.”
Like I could forget.
“We’ll be ready,” I promised, forcing myself to smile sweetly, and I followed my cousin upstairs to my room.
CHAPTER 8
“Cute place,” said Mackenzie, peering out the window of our minivan as we pulled up in front of A Stitch in Time.
Ella Bellow’s new shop was carved from half of the building that housed Earl’s Coins and Stamps. Bud Jefferson’s business hadn’t been doing too well—I guess people didn’t collect that stuff the way they used to—and the two of them had struck a deal for Ella to take over part of his space. I examined the window display as I got out of the car. I was hardly an expert on store windows, but I’d been helping Aunt True with the one at our bookstore for a few months now, and I could tell that Ella had done a good job with hers. It was cheery and colorful, and she’d even managed a very un-Ella-like touch of whimsy: a near-life-size plush sheep in the center of the display, surrounded by baskets spilling over with skeins of bright wool. Decked out in a knitted hat and scarf, the sheep was wearing a sweater sporting a maple leaf design. A sign around its neck announced: MAPLE MADNESS IS BAAAAAAA-CK!
I couldn’t help noticing the book propped up by the sheep’s front hooves—Maple Country Mufflers, the one Ella’d had her gym shorts all in a twist about when she’d spotted it in our bookshop window.
“Ooo, that sheep is adorable!” Mackenzie squealed. “I have to get a picture. Go stand in front of it. You too, Aunt Dinah. Now smile!”
My mother slipped her arm around my waist and put her head on my shoulder. I rested my chin on top of her head. It still felt weird being taller than her, but I was getting used to it.
“Hey, Little O,” she whispered as Mackenzie snapped the picture.
“Hey, Mama O.”
“Happy birthday!”
“Thanks.” I felt myself start to relax. Knitting might be my mother’s thing, not mine, but that was no reason not to have fun.
“Come in, come in!” said a voice behind us. We turned around to see Ella holding the door open, beaming. Ella didn’t usually beam, especially at me. I gave her a cautious smile in return and followed my mother inside.
A circle of chairs had been set up. Most of them were occupied. The other students in the Spring Break Socks class besides my mother and Mackenzie and me were Lucas Winthrop’s mother; Alice Maynard, who was married to my swim coach; Belinda Winchester; Mr. Henry, the Pumpkin Falls children’s librarian; and Annie Freeman and her mother.
Belinda jerked her chin at me and patted the seat next to her. I plunked myself into it. My mother and Mackenzie sat down on the other side of me.
“I’m so happy you all are joining me for the inaugural class in A Stitch in Time’s knitting instruction series,” Ella began rather primly. “As you can see, there’s a snack table set up, and I hope you’ll all help yourselves to tea and currant scones, my signature treat.”
I elbowed my mother sharply. Ella had a nerve, making us take a book out of our window, when she was stealing Aunt True’s idea for a signature treat!
My mother frowned and shook her head at me. “It’s not a big deal.”
I wasn’t so sure Aunt True would feel the same way.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” Ella continued. “We’ll begin by winding our skeins of yarn into balls. It’s so much easier to work with that way, I find.”
Before she could show us how, there was a tap on the door in the new wall that divided her shop from Earl’s Coins and Stamps.
“Got everything you need, Ella?” asked Bud Jefferson, poking his head in. “How’s the temperature in here?”
“Such a thoughtful landlord!” Ella said. “It’s just fine, thank you, Bud. There’s an extra seat if you’d like to join us.”
Across the circle from me, I noticed Mrs. Winthrop’s cheeks turn as pink as the yarn she was holding. I remembered what Ella had said at the bookshop earlier, about Lucas Winthrop’s mother and Bud Jefferson spending a lot of time together recently. Sap really did seem to be rising all over Pumpkin Falls these days.
“Uh, knitting isn’t really my thing,” he replied.
I could see why. Bud Jefferson looked like a bear, and he had hands like hams. It was hard to imagine them clutching a pair of knitting needles.
“Did you know that knitting used to be considered men’s work?” Mr. Henry told him. “In fact, in some cultures women weren’t even allowed to knit.”
Mr. Jefferson’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
Mr. Henry nodded. “During the Renaissance, only men were allowed to join knitting guilds. The word ‘knit’ itself is derived from the Old English cnyttan, meaning ‘knot’—probably because it grew out of the knots with which fishermen crafted their nets. They’ve been knitters for centuries, as have sa
ilors and shepherds. The craft has a fascinating history. It started in ancient times, with the Romans and Egyptians.”
It has been my experience that librarians know a lot of stuff.
“Huh,” said Mr. Jefferson, digesting this information. “Interesting.”
“Oh, come and join us, Bud!” said Ella. “You can at least be sociable if you don’t actually want to try your hand at knitting. I made some of those currant scones you like.”
That clinched it. Closing the door behind him, Mr. Jefferson tiptoed in and looked around for a seat.
“Amelia could use your help.” Ella’s dark eyes gleamed as she gestured toward the empty chair next to Lucas’s mother. “It takes two to wind wool, you know.”
Beside me, my mother gave a quiet snort. I had a feeling that Ella was talking about more than just knitting. I wondered what Lucas thought about his mother and Mr. Jefferson. Did it freak him out that they might be “winding wool,” as Ella put it?
“Here, Bud, hold your hands out straight,” Ella directed. “Like a robot. Now, Amelia, untwist the skein. See how it forms a loop?” She placed the loop of wool over Bud Jefferson’s hands and passed the loose end to Mrs. Winthrop. “Off you go—start winding.”
I watched for a few moments as she wound and a ball began to form, then took my yarn out of my bag.
“We’ll wind yours first,” Belinda Winchester told me. I nodded, untwisted the skein, slipped it into place over her waiting hands, and started winding.
“Blue socks, they never get dirty . . .” Belinda sang softly to herself.
“What?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. Just an old camp song.”
At least my mother had chosen my favorite color for the yarn she bought me, I thought as I wound. Blue as water, blue as sky. Thinking of water made me think of my Mermaid-hued bedroom back in Texas, and I made a mental note to ask Gramps and Lola about painting my room here in Pumpkin Falls. Maybe as an extra birthday present?
The work went quickly, and before I knew it I had a fat ball of yarn, ready to be turned into socks.
“My turn,” said Belinda. She’d brought along purple wool, and I wondered if maybe she was planning to knit socks for her gentleman caller.
Purl the kitten skittered past just then. Belinda paused her winding and reached for the purple feather tucked behind her ear. She dangled it in the air, and Purl stopped in her tracks, then leaped up and batted at it with her paws. Belinda was too quick for her and whisked it out of her reach.
“Stop teasing Purl, Belinda,” said Ella severely.
“Not teasing. Playing,” Belinda replied, dangling the feather again.
“Her name’s spelled P-U-R-L,” Annie announced, just in case anybody was wondering. “It’s a knitting stitch.”
I smiled at Mackenzie. I’d told her all about the reigning junior spelling bee champion of Grafton County, but, like Belinda, Annie had to be experienced firsthand.
My mother leaned toward me. “Now that I know Annie’s here, I’m feeling a little guilty,” she whispered. “Should I call home and have your father bring Lauren down to join us?”
Lauren again! “But this was supposed to be our thing!” I protested. “You know, Little O and Mama O?”
I didn’t want Lauren tagging along. I never got a chance to have my mother all to myself, and as it was, I was already sharing her with Mackenzie, sort of.
“I suppose you’re right.” My mother didn’t look convinced, though, and she kept shooting guilty glances over at Annie.
Once we all had our yarn tamed into balls, Ella showed us how to cast on. “You’ll want to look carefully at the patterns I’ve given each of you, and find the exact number of stitches you’ll need,” she said. “I’ve tailored them to your shoe sizes.”
Great, I thought, with a rueful glance at my size-ten-and-a-half feet. I’d be casting on all night.
Sure enough, I had to cast on nearly twice as many stitches as Mackenzie. My cousin had feet like an elf.
Those of us who had never knit before—me, Mackenzie, Annie, Mrs. Winthrop, and Mr. Jefferson, who had succumbed to the spirit of the evening and was as busy casting on as the rest of us—were shown the two basic stitches, and instructed to practice several rows of each of them.
“When you alternate rows of these two stitches, which we’ll be doing shortly,” Ella explained, “you’ll have what’s called ‘stockinette stitch.’ ”
“S-T-O-C-K-I-N-E-T-T-E,” Annie couldn’t resist whispering.
“Nice and smooth,” Ella continued. “And when you alternate those stitches, or pairs of those stitches, within a single row, you create ribbing, which we’ll all do at the top of each of our socks.”
The more experienced knitters were already off and running. I watched in admiration as my mother’s needles flashed. She could seriously go pro. The socks she’d chosen to knit were for my father, in a complicated pattern called “argyle.” Mr. Henry was making red-and-white-striped ones, of course. Nearly his entire wardrobe was red and white, and Hatcher said he looks like an African American Where’s Waldo? Mrs. Freeman was starting on an orange leaf design, and I wondered if maybe she were planning to sell the socks in the barn store at Freeman Farm.
After a few minutes I paused to inspect my progress. I’d made a hash of casting on, and somehow I must have managed to knit some of the stitches together, because now I had three fewer stitches than when I started. Seeing my dismay, Ella came over and helped me rip out the mistaken rows, and I started again.
I glanced over at Mackenzie. Her head was bent over her needles, and she was frowning in concentration. She was way ahead of me.
“No fair—you’ve done this before!” I said.
She shook her head. “Never.”
I sighed. Just one more thing to add to the long list of things I wasn’t good at. At this rate, I’d be lucky to have one big toe finished by the end of the week.
After a while we paused for tea and scones, which were surprisingly good. Who knew Ella Bellow could bake? Then it was time for more knitting. The evening flew by. Class was just about over when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” called Ella.
I looked up to see Coach Maynard in the doorway. Spotting Mackenzie and me, he smiled and sketched a wave. “I’m a few minutes early, honey,” he said to his wife. His smile faded as he noticed Mrs. Freeman in the circle of knitters.
“Good evening, Wyatt,” said Annie’s mother pleasantly.
“You’ve got some nerve!” Coach Maynard thundered.
Mrs. Freeman looked up in surprise. “Pardon me?”
“Someone cut one of our sap lines, and I have a pretty good notion who it was,” my swim coach retorted. “I saw that son of yours out sniffing around my property earlier today, Grace.”
Uh-oh, I thought. This didn’t sound good.
“Franklin? He would never—”
“I heard all about what happened at your farm last night,” Coach Maynard barreled on. “You think we did it, and now you’re trying to get even!”
“That’s a ridiculous notion!”
“R-I-D-I-C-U-L-O-U-S!” Annie sputtered furiously.
Ella Bellow’s head swiveled back and forth, like a spectator at a tennis match. Her dark eyes gleamed again, and I knew she was filing this information away to be used the minute we all went home. By morning the entire town would know what was going on.
Was Pumpkin Falls facing its very own feud, Hatfield and McCoy style?
CHAPTER 9
“That was more exciting than I expected a sock class to be,” said Mackenzie as we were driving home.
“ ‘Exciting’ is Pumpkin Falls’ middle name!” my mother joked. Then her expression grew serious. “Theft isn’t anything to laugh about, though, and I sure hate to see our friends disagreeing. I hope it all gets sorted out quickly.”
It will if the Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes have anything to say about it, I thought. Because my mother was right—it wasn’t
fun to see the Freemans and the Maynards feuding. What if people in town started choosing sides? Things could get seriously out of hand.
“So what do you girls have planned for tomorrow?” my mother asked, glancing in the rearview mirror at us.
“Nothing much,” I told her, which wasn’t entirely true. Especially if you counted making a field trip to the scene of a crime. “We might hang out with Scooter and Lucas and Calhoun.”
“I thought I’d take Pippa and Lauren out to lunch and a movie over in West Hartfield, if you two want to join us,” she offered. “The girls have been begging to see that new cartoon about the robot and the hippopotamus.”
Mackenzie and I exchanged a quick smile. My mother clearly thought we were still six.
“Um, no thanks, Aunt Dinah,” Mackenzie replied.
“Yeah, that’s okay, Mom,” I added. “We’ll find stuff of our own to do.” Like see if we can catch a sap thief, I thought.
“Suit yourselves.”
Lauren was waiting up for us at home. “Can I see your socks?”
“Later,” I told her.
“They’re hardly socks at this point, sweetie,” my mother explained.
“Hey, guess who was there?” said Mackenzie before I could shush her. “Your friend Annie and her mother.”
Lauren shot my mother a wounded look. “Mo-om! If Annie gets to go, how come I can’t?”
“Because it’s my birthday present, not yours!” I snapped.
“Truly!” My mother gave me a reproachful look.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, not feeling sorry at all. It was true, wasn’t it? Leaving her to sort things out with my sister, I headed upstairs.
Mackenzie and I changed into our pajamas and brushed our teeth. Grabbing my new bird book, I flopped onto my bed on my stomach and opened it, eager to see if it contained any new information about barred owls.
“So what do you think of Calhoun?” Mackenzie asked casually, picking up her hairbrush.
Yours Truly Page 7