Spinning in Her Grave

by Molly Macrae

  Chapter 6

  “She took the ceramic spindle. She’s cheating in the knitting challenge. Now she’s buying us lunch?” Ardis was either still disgusted or disgusted once again with Reva Louise. “Pffft.”

  Blue Plum Preserves was two days away and Ardis was showing the strain. For the umpteenth time, she was checking over what Granny had dubbed The Pattern—pages and pages of all the plans and procedures they’d devised, revised, and perfected for the Weaver’s Cat demonstration booth over the ten-year history of the Preserves—and muttering darkly about ulterior motives and free lunches.

  I was looking forward to the weekend with a little more bounce than Ardis. I’d never made it down to visit Granny for the festival, so this was my first Preserves experience. I was also more willing to cut Reva Louise some slack. She’d called before we opened and left me a message about the box lunches.

  “Maybe it’s her way of trying to make friends,” I said. “Or amends. She said sandwiches, side salads, cookies, and drinks. That can’t be so bad, can it?”

  “Pffft.” Ardis went back to poring over The Pattern, a task made more difficult by Argyle. He left the window, where he’d been dozing with Geneva, leapt up onto the counter, and folded himself into a neat loaf shape—on half the pages—for another of his many required afternoon naps. “You aren’t a help, sir,” Ardis told him. “But you’re sweet.”

  “I think it would be a tremendous help to all of us if the cookies Reva Louise brings are ginger,” Geneva called from the window.

  “You mean gingersnaps from a Snapp?” I said. Oops.

  “Sorry, hon,” Ardis asked without looking up. “Did you say something?”

  “I was just wondering what I can do to help you,” I said.

  “You can call me the Empress of Everything, hon. It’ll help make all this fuss worthwhile.” She added a note to one of the pages.

  “New instructions, E.E.?”

  She checked for customers within earshot, but it was a quiet afternoon. “A new name. This is our ‘No Fly’ list. Authorized eyes only. We don’t want to hurt feelings, but we don’t want to repeat mistakes, either.”

  “Like . . . ?”

  “Like Charlotte Ledford demonstrating needle felting. That will never happen again.”

  Ardis shuddered and passed the page to me. I didn’t know who Charlotte Ledford was, but from the way her name was underlined—twice—I was ready to back away from her if we were ever introduced. There were four names on the page. The first two were typed, part of the document from the get-go, no doubt. They were Shirley and Mercy Spivey. Ardis had just added the fourth name below Charlotte Ledford’s—Reva Louise Snapp.

  “And don’t ask me if I think adding her name is kind or necessary. Kindness is moot because no one else will see this. And it is necessary because making that one small note will go a long way toward maintaining my sanity.”

  “Fine by me, but seeing the twins’ names reminds me of something. Be right back.” I dipped into the office behind the counter and found Angie’s card in my purse. I went back and put the card on the counter.

  “What’s that?” Ardis asked.

  “Hold on.” I opened the drawer in the counter where I’d tossed J. Scott Prescott’s cards. By then they’d slid under a notepad and assorted pens and rubber bands. “Look.” I arranged Angie’s card and Prescott’s three on the counter in front of Ardis. “I bet I’m the first one on our block to have a whole collection of these babies.”

  “Have I got time for this?” she asked.

  “Sure. It might give you a laugh, and you should always make time for that.”

  She didn’t laugh at Angie, though, because she agreed with me that Angie’s new career might be a good change for her. She also didn’t laugh at Angie’s card, because printing them up as a surprise for Angie’s graduation was such an oddly touching gesture on the part of the twins. She came close to a snort when I told her about the twins’ clandestine delivery of the card, but at the last minute she only lifted her eyebrows and shook her head. What finally got the laugh was telling her about my promise to J. Scott Prescott that I’d keep mum about the guns in the rewritten skit. But it wasn’t a jolly laugh.

  “For heaven’s sake, everybody in the pig skit will know about the guns, and that means anyone associated with anyone in the skit knows.”

  “Did you know?”

  “Knew it and forgot it. This idea of a refurbished skit isn’t the big deal Mr. Prescott’s making it out to be. What did he say when you told him no guns in the Cat?”

  “He smiled and told me to call him J.”

  “Good Lord. Well, the whole weekend’s a load of poppycock, anyway, but if people want to believe in the good old days, who am I to argue?”

  “What’s up, Ardis? You’ve been on edge for days. Don’t you like Blue Plum Preserves?”

  “It’s a lot of extra bother and it doesn’t really help our bottom line.” She fussed with her papers, smoothing them, tapping their edges on the counter, and rearranging them again. Then she was still for a moment. “And it isn’t as much fun without Ivy.”

  “Aw.”

  “Sorry, hon. Time out for a maudlin moment.”

  “It’s okay, Ardis. You’ve let me have plenty of them, and being Empress of Everything probably doesn’t make up for missing Granny.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Empress of Everything is nothing at all because Ivy was High Empress of the Whole Enchilada and no one trumps that.”

  Argyle woke and looked at her. “Mrrph?”

  “No, not even the Archduke of Napping on Important Papers,” Ardis said. “But you have the right idea. Can you handle the shop this afternoon, Kath?”

  “Sure. Are you—”

  She stopped me with a hand. “I’ll be fine. But I’m taking Argyle’s advice. I’m going home for a nap. And if need be, I will take another one this evening and another one when I’m able to fit it in tomorrow. They will get my head straight so that I can participate in Blue Plum Preserves with the right attitude and a revived spirit.”

  “This spirit needs no reviving,” Geneva hmphed from the window. “Thank you just the same.”

  Chapter 7

  “What are you all doing here at this unghostly hour?” Geneva asked. It was six o’clock Saturday morning and we’d obviously “revived” her too early; she was grumpy. But she did have a point.

  “Tell me, again, why we couldn’t do this at seven thirty? Or eight?” I asked.

  “It’s in The Pattern,” Ardis said, “and it sets the tone. If we have our tent up first, then we look calm and collected while the others are running around with last-minute emergencies.”

  “I feel intruded upon,” Geneva sniffed.

  Six wasn’t Ardis’ idea of an ideal hour, either, but her attitude-adjustment naps had produced results. She was present and pleasant and even had the two teenaged grandsons Ernestine had volunteered to help us smiling through their yawns. They followed her instructions, anchoring the canopy legs with sandbags in case of wind, unfolding and arranging tables, and carrying boxes and display fixtures. The morning had dawned clear and blue. We heard workmen banging the stage together at the courthouse and two teams of draft horses clopping past as we worked. When the Weaver’s Cat demonstration tent was up, the grandsons yawned some more and agreed to keep an eye on it for us, and we were back in the Cat’s kitchen before anyone else arrived in the parking lot.

  • • •

  “We made excellent time,” Ardis said, “and I’ve just had a brainstorm.” She set The Pattern on the kitchen table. “Here is the most brilliant editorial decision of the century.” She took a pen, crossed out “Pattern,” and rewrote it in large capitals—PATTERN. “There. Even if we make four dozen other revisions this year, you have to agree this change will be the best. See? Plan A to Terminate Errors and Random Nuttiness—PATTERN. Random and nuttiness being the key words; errors I’m not worried about. If one of the spinners doesn’t show up, we’ll be fine. If chil
dren run amok or drop lollipops in unspun wool, we can deal with it, and believe me we’ve dealt with worse. But the nuts like Reva Louise, who think sandwiches make up for shoplifting, are the ones we need to guard against. No matter how good those sandwiches are and even if they do come with chips, a side salad, cookies, and ice-cold sweet tea.”

  “Technically, it was more like long-term borrowing without returning,” I said, “because the spindles weren’t for sale. And the drink choices are bottled water or pop. Do I need to make you take another nap?”

  “Pfffft.”

  “Your eloquence is exceeded only by your need for coffee, which is right here at number eight in The PATTERN, and I quote, ‘Coffee or chocolate to be administered at regular intervals.’”

  “Better yet, mix the two together,” Ardis said, “and I’ll have a jumping-off point for getting into the swing of this, this . . .” She stopped, took a deep breath, let it out, and smiled. “This fun-filled family festival.”

  “There you go,” I said. “You get a perfect ten for that jump and you did it without the caffeine.”

  “Ah, but,” Ardis said, holding up a finger, “wait for it . . . wait for it . . . and cue the caffeine.” She pointed at the back door.

  The door opened and Joe Dunbar strolled in. I would have been surprised, but Ardis pointed at the schedule page of The PATTERN. There it was in twelve-point Times New Roman, 7:15 coffee and doughnuts, kitchen. Joe’s name was penciled in next to the entry. He set a pastry box from Mel’s and a cardboard caddy holding three cups on the table.

  “No fishing plans?” I asked, helping myself to one of my weaknesses, a chocolate-frosted chocolate cake doughnut.

  “Fish wait patiently,” Joe said. “Caffeine habits not so much. Mocha with whipped cream?”

  Ardis latched onto the cup he handed her, closed her eyes, breathed in the steam, and sighed.

  “Mrrph.” Argyle sat in front of Joe and put a paw on his leg.

  “No mocha or doughnuts for cats,” I said. “You can have a little more kibble if you want. Come on.” He followed me to his bowl in the corner near the fridge. Geneva materialized on top of the fridge, her knees drawn up to her chin.

  “Cats wait patiently,” she said, “but not for cakes or kibbles. Argyle loves haikus.”

  “Mrrrph.” Ignoring the kibble I’d just tipped into his bowl, Argyle leapt to the counter and then up to the fridge top. Geneva scooted over to make room. He gazed at her with happy cat eyes.

  “‘Loves’ isn’t really strong enough, of course,” Geneva said. “He adores haikus, but ‘adores’ wasn’t going to scan in my last line once I started it with his name. It’s an interesting quirk in his personality, though, don’t you think? Also interesting is how completely idiotic you look standing there catching flies with your jaw hanging open. I have told you about that before, you know, and I thought you’d broken yourself of the habit. Honestly, your inter-paranormal-personal skills are backsliding. You should work harder at that.”

  I closed my mouth and spun around. Ardis and Joe immediately started playing with crumbs on the table, looking suspiciously nonchalant.

  “What did you say about fish and caffeine when you came in?” I asked Joe. “Were you speaking in haiku?”

  “Haiku isn’t a language,” Ardis said. “It’s a poetic form.”

  “I know—”

  “It’s highly structured,” she said, “and it would be an extremely unusual person—not to say odd—who was able to compose them on the fly as part of a normal conversation. You come on back over here, hon, and drink your coffee. We have a long day ahead of us and no time for uncaffeinated poetic whims.” She muttered something else that sounded like “or eccentricities.”

  I ignored the mutter. Geneva snickered.

  Joe said, “See you later, alligator,” and ambled on out the door.

  Those were another couple of differences between the Dunbar brothers. Joe was an ambler by nature, his long legs graceful and unhurried. The starch in Clod’s spine made him look as though he was itching to bark orders even when he was out of uniform, slouched in a chair, raising a bottle of beer. And I doubted that he ever spouted a haiku, memorized or otherwise.

  • • •

  The PATTERN had Ardis and Debbie handling the tent and the spinning volunteers for the first half of the morning while I watched the shop. At noon, two TGIF members would arrive to take over the shop and I would join Ardis under the canopy for the middle part of the day, which, if Blue Plum Preserves tradition held, was far busier than the sales counter in the Cat. Debbie had farm obligations and never worked past noon on Saturdays.

  “Ernestine and John are still on for noon?” I asked. They were good choices because they both felt at home in the Cat and had helped behind the counter before. In case of Errors or Random Nuttiness, we had our phones and we’d be right across the street. If nothing else, they could open a window and shout. Ardis nodded. “And lunch, courtesy of Reva Louise, at one.”

  I could hear the “we’ll see” in her voice. “The skit’s at two. Do you want to take a break then and watch?”

  “Pffft.”

  • • •

  By the time our first demonstrators arrived with their spinning wheels and whorls and baskets of fleece and roving, the rest of Blue Plum had awakened in Brigadoon-like splendor. Most of downtown was closed to motorized traffic. The sharp blasts of a steam whistle came from a “petting zoo” of antique farm machinery in the middle of Main Street down past the library. There was a screech of feedback and then the amplified strains of an old-time fiddle tune from the stage at the courthouse. Other canopy tents had popped up in parking lots and shaded areas where people would be demonstrating, watching, or trying their hands at making butter, brooms, shingles, nails, and more.

  I wondered how much of all that Geneva would recognize. Would the music catch her ear? Would the smell of chicken dinner on the church lawn tickle her nose the way Reva Louise’s gingerbread did? Or the smell of fresh horse dung? I wanted to take her around with me later in the afternoon, if there was time. Maybe the sights and sounds of Blue Plum’s yesteryear would jog tidbits of her memory loose.

  Ten minutes before it was time to open, no public clamored on the porch to be let in or I might have unlocked the front door early. Instead I went to look for Geneva. I thought she’d be in the display window, her ghostly nose pressed to the glass as though she watched her own personal reality show on a superlarge-screen TV. But she wasn’t and she wasn’t curled around the ceiling fan, either. I ran quickly up the back stairs to my study in the attic. She and Argyle were there in the window seat, looking down on Main Street from that vantage.

  “You can see our tent if you look out the windows on the west downstairs.”

  “I could see it from the window in the gable end if it weren’t covered in dust and cobwebs.”

  “We never use that part of the attic.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  She was in a snippy mood and said no when I asked if she’d like to go sightseeing with me later.

  “It could be important, though,” I said, playing up to her ego. “Granny thought it was important enough to make it step number twelve in her instructions.” I’d brought The PATTERN with me and showed it to her. “See? It says ‘Take time to admire (critique) other tents and booths.’”

  “Your grandmother was an industrial spy? That must be where you get your sneaky ways.”

  “What sneaky ways?”

  “I’ve heard the whispers downwind from you and I’ve been behind your back when people have talked there, too. ‘More like Ivy all the time,’ they say and ‘Crazy Ivy’s granddaughter.’ Crazy like a fox, is what I think they must mean, if she was that sly.”

  I held my breath and held my tongue, with effort, then tried to speak calmly. “Walking around town is a friendly, community-minded thing to do. It also happens to be a good way to pick up ideas to try in our own tent next year, or to see what we should avoid, but there w
as nothing sly about my grandmother and there is nothing sneaky, at all, about walking around the festival and how do you even know about industrial spies?”

  “You’re getting that shrill tone in your voice that’s so hard on my nerves. You should avoid that while you’re out gadding. It will put people off, and that is the opposite of being friendly. See? I’m already full of good ideas. I don’t need to slink around town looking for more.”

  “Fine. Don’t. I just thought you might like to see the blacksmith or people making apple butter or any number of other things you haven’t seen or thought about in—”

  “A ghost’s age? No. I will stay here and watch your folderol from the attic window with loyal Argyle at my side. Unless he decides he needs a nap. Then I might watch by myself or ignore everything altogether.”

  Why was I arguing with this contrary creature? Walking around town would be easier and much less stressful without her. Safer all the way around—oh—safer? “Geneva, are you afraid?”

  “Are you insensitive and rude?” She flounced her back to me. “You shouldn’t call your dear departed friends names.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I really want to know. Is there something you’re afraid of out there?”

  She didn’t look at me and didn’t answer. She was using her fingers to count something to herself.

  “Geneva, honey, what are you doing? What’s the matter?”

  “You go have your fun. Walk and drink pink lemonade. I cannot; I’m dead.”

  “Mrrrph,” said Argyle

  Geneva looked at him. “Inspired poetry? Why, thank you, Argyle. I thought so, too.”

  • • •

  At quarter to twelve, John Berry opened the door and held it for Ernestine. Joe ambled up behind them and held the door for John. I was happy to see all three. Ernestine looked more like Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, Beatrix Potter’s washerwoman hedgehog, than a mole, though still gray. She wore a calf-length white apron over an ankle-length gray skirt, a lighter gray blouse, and a white mob cap. She enjoyed dressing for a part. John gave a nod to the day with a pair of suspenders and garters at his elbows. Joe had changed his shirt.