The Vampire Knitting Club: A cozy paranormal mystery series

by Nancy Warren

  “In self-defense?”

  “In magic.”

  “But I can’t find the book of spells.”

  She waved that away. “Books aren’t everything. Now, where shall we begin?”

  She walked around the shop, sticking her nose in random baskets, reminding me of my cat. I thought she was enjoying being back in the shop, feeling triumph at how much of the stock had sold today.

  “The best help you can give me is to help me figure out what to order.”

  “But first, I want you to reorganize the shop.”

  I couldn’t have heard her correctly. “But you have a system that works.”

  “We can put everything back again. But let’s have some fun.”

  Reordering the shop and then putting everything back again did not sound like fun. I’d been on my feet all day. We’d be here all night if we followed her crazy idea.

  She winked at me and then, making a circular motion with her index finger, said, “Blues switch with reds.” Before my astonished gaze, balls of wool in those two colors rose out of their baskets and floated across the room, neatly missing each other before swapping places.

  “How did I never know you were a witch?” I whispered.

  “Your mother wouldn’t allow me to speak of it. She made me promise before she allowed you to visit me.” She sighed. “She’s one of us, too, but she won’t acknowledge her power. Instead, she suppresses it. I worry about her. She’s made herself vulnerable. Still, she works in remote areas. That should keep her safe.”

  Safe from what, I wondered, but I was more interested in balls of wool that could fly on their own. “How did you do that?” And can I try?

  “You must concentrate and picture exactly what you wish to happen. Then say it out loud.”

  “Do I make the circular finger movement the way you did?”

  “That was for show, but go ahead.”

  I breathed deeply, pictured exactly what I wanted. I waved my index finger in a circle too, because it looked so witchy. “Everything in alphabetical order,” I said with as much confidence as I could. That feeling started up in my fingers again and, less shockingly this time, I saw blue-white electricity zap through my fingertips. I was thrilled when balls of wool and twisted skeins rose up from the baskets and began to parade and waltz through the air.

  I watched in excitement as the Aran wool swapped places with the Alpaca. The wools were floating nicely, taking their places, when the buttons floated off the wall racks. The crochet hooks headed toward them. But I hadn’t meant the notions to rearrange themselves, only the wool.

  Nyx had watched wide-eyed. Now, as I fretted about my mistake, the wafting wools, cavorting crochet hooks and bouncing buttons wavered. The cat jumped to the ground as the wools began to float downward, like balloons losing their air. She jumped up on her hind legs and swiped at a ball of purple mohair, then pounced on a glittery skein of gold chunky yarn. “No,” I cried as the entire stock of the knitting shop turned into a treasure trove of cat toys.

  “Concentrate,” Gran said. “Try again.”

  “Up, up, up,” I said aloud, spiraling my finger upwards. Obediently, the balls and skeins, the buttons and needles rose in the air. The chunky wool under Nyx’s paw tugged itself out of her grasp and as it rose, she pounced, all kitten and no sense, and then hung on, rising with the wool. I couldn’t laugh, couldn’t lose my concentration or Nyx could be hurt, so I kept my mind on everything arranged alphabetically. When the gold chunky yarn floated into a basket, taking the cat with it, Nyx seemed delighted, and rolled around and then popped her head over the edge. A piece of gold wool hung over her ear like a tassel.

  “You did it,” Gran said, clapping her hands.

  “I did!”

  “Now, try again.”

  This time, I said, “Wools only,” and ordered them in rainbow order. ROYGBIV. It worked well except for the variegated yarns, which floated aimlessly up and down the rainbow until I sent them to their own basket.

  We’d returned everything when Sylvia came to collect Gran for their midnight outing. She hugged me before she left and said, “If I can’t teach you to knit, at least I can teach you to be a very good witch.”

  What did it say about me that knitting spells was easier than crafting a simple scarf?

  Chapter 14

  I went down to the shop early Saturday morning, feeling excited about my newfound powers, determined to find that grimoire and hopeful of having another sales day as good as yesterday’s.

  I wore the same blue sweater that had generated so many sales yesterday, assuming I’d have a new set of customers today to wow with my wearable art. However, when I entered the shop my foot bumped yet another bag containing yet another sweater. I recognized the wool, it was the chunky alpaca in purple. The garment was gorgeous with a scoopy neck and big sleeves that folded over into pretty cuffs. I'd worn black trousers and a white shirt so I simply took off the blue sweater and slipped the purple one over my head. I pulled my hair out from under the collar and let it swing loose around my shoulders.

  I took the blue sweater I'd been wearing yesterday, placed it on a hanger, and displayed it on the wall. I had a feeling that very soon I was going to have my walls covered with examples of the most amazing knitted items that ingenious and very nimble fingers could devise. I strutted down the center of the shop as though I were a top model and this was my runway. I struck a pose in front of Nyx and said, “I am the Naomi Campbell of the cardigan.” Nyx yawned and bathed me in tuna breath.

  Rosemary arrived a few minutes late this morning but I didn't chide her as her eyes looked puffy, either from lack of sleep or from crying. "Is everything all right?"

  Her expression turned belligerent. "Why wouldn't it be?"

  Okay then, I’d keep my sympathy to myself. Fortunately there wasn't time for more, as our first customer arrived. She pointed to the sweater on the wall, the one I'd been wearing yesterday. "I saw that on your Facebook page. It looks so nice, I decided to knit myself something for a change. I'm always knitting for other people, but I want that sweater for myself. It gets cold in the lab where I work."

  I had to regretfully explain that all the wool had sold out yesterday, but I had a new order coming in that should arrive Tuesday. She looked at the sweater I was wearing. "What about that one? Do you have the wool for that?"

  Oh we had lots of the chunky alpaca in stock. I wondered if it was Gran’s idea to kit me out in a sweater that promoted the wools we had most of in stock, and I silently congratulated her.

  Of course, I knew so little about knitting that I turned the customer over to Rosemary, who managed to rally and began digging through the patterns finding something that would approximate what I was wearing, while the woman happily collected balls of purple yarn.

  If the day wasn't quite as busy as the one before, it was still a happening place. I’d just accepted a jar of homemade quince jelly from a longtime customer with fond memories of my grandmother, and added it to the collection of cards and small gifts, when my nostrils twitched. I smelled a combination of burned lavender and sage. I glanced around and found myself confronting an interesting looking woman.

  She was about my own age, with long black hair that she had styled into a single braid that hung over one shoulder. Her bangs were streaked with bright red and pink and purple and she carried the multi-colours through a single stripe of hair. Her eyes were round and bright, almost like black buttons, her lips were painted the same red as her hair and her clothing style was what I would call dramatic. Black boots, a full black skirt, and a loose woven jacket in red and black. But what caught my eye was her necklace. Hanging at the end of a gold chain was a ruby set in gold filigree. It looked exactly like my ring.

  As she walked towards me her high-heeled boots tapped like snapping fingers. "Are you Lucy Swift?"

  "I am." I was certain I had never seen this woman in my life, so I wondered how she was knew me.

  "I'm Violet Weeks."

  "
Violet Weeks was the cousin I’d never known I had. The one who had supposedly taken care of Gran’s funeral. “So you're real?" I believe I've mentioned I blurt out stupid things when I'm nervous.

  She looked taken aback by my question but decided to be amused. She lifted her hands and held them out like a magician who’s just conjured a rabbit out of a hat. Silver bracelets jangled on her wrists and she had more rings on than fingers to display them so she had to double up. "I'm real and I believe we’re cousins."

  "I don't want to be rude, but I never knew I had a cousin until after my grandmother passed away."

  Her eyes opened wide. "You never knew? Honestly?"

  "No. Did you know about me?"

  She snorted. "Of course I did. Our grandmothers were sisters, but they had a fight, I don't know what about. Hadn't spoken in years, but I knew of you."

  "We moved to the States when I was little." I'd never had much family, so I wanted to be happy about finding this long-lost cousin. But Gran wasn't the sort of woman to cut people out of her life without a very good reason. I didn't know a lot about witches, but I knew there were bad witches as well as good ones.

  I glanced into the corner to make sure Rosemary was busy, which she was, and lowered my voice. “Are you—” What was I doing? I couldn't ask a virtual stranger if she was a witch. I fumbled and asked if she was a Bartlett. Then I realized that her surname was Weeks.

  She giggled and poked me in the arm with her index finger. "What you really want to know is am I a witch." She dropped her voice on the last word and imbued it with all the sinister drama she could manage, and it was quite a lot. In a normal voice she said, "Of course I am. Just like you."

  How did this alarming young woman know that I was a witch before I did? I glanced at her ruby necklace, so much like my ring. I held up my hand. "Your necklace and my ring, they match."

  "Our great-grandmother, the ancestor we share, broke up the set and gave one piece to each of her daughters. I have to be honest, I wore mine today so I’d know if you were my enemy or not."

  Her necklace must have the same powers as my ring. And she was right, my ring wasn't glowing red and it wasn't hot. It was a relief to know this witch meant me no harm.

  "I'm hoping we can be friends. In fact, I'm only in Oxford for the day; why don’t I come back when you're closing, and we can go upstairs and you can tell me all about your life and I'll tell you all about mine. I'll even bring wine."

  My mind was racing. Even though my ring wasn't setting off an alarm, her behavior was. All the while she was speaking to me her gaze was darting around the shop, as though she was looking for something. And she hadn't suggested we meet for a drink in a pub the way most new acquaintances would, she wanted to come upstairs to my home. Why? If my grandmother hadn’t wanted me to know about the other side of my family, I needed to find out why.

  I said, "I'd love to get together with you, but unfortunately I'm busy tonight. Give me your mobile number and I’ll give you ring."

  Annoyance flickered across her face like a cloud crossing the sun and she seemed much less friendly in that moment. But soon her expression cleared and, forcing a smile, she said, "Of course. Let’s get together soon. And I can introduce you to my coven when you’re ready." Oh, goody.

  I put her number in my mobile and promised to call her. Before she left, I said, “Wait. You arranged Gran’s burial.”

  “That’s right. I tried to find your mother, but the university couldn’t get hold of her. Your home in Massachusetts had voicemail. I left several messages.”

  “It’s okay. I know we were hard to reach. I wondered where Gran is buried, that’s all.”

  “Oh, in Moreton-under-Wychwood. You must come and visit. I’ll take you there. Lots of our family are buried there.”

  I felt a flicker of pleasure when she said ‘our family.’ “I will.”

  "Don't be a stranger,” she said, and then, "Blessed be."

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully enough. We were busy. I enjoyed helping customers and listening to more stories about Gran. But I was definitely handicapped working in a knitting shop and not knowing how to knit. I was determined to learn. Surely someone in the vampire knitting club could teach me?

  At the end of the day, I turned to ask Rosemary something and found her taking the cash out of the drawer. Due to the busy day, there was quite a bit of it. "What are you doing?"

  "Just preparing the deposit,” she said, with a casualness that sounded forced. “The bank’s on my way home, no trouble at all." She looked almost desperate. Her eyes cut to the window where I saw the son with the pit bull tattoo staring in at us, his eyes squinted against the smoke from his rollup. When his gaze caught mine, my ring sparked heat, as though the tip of that cigarette had come close enough to scorch my finger.

  "That's all right," I said. “I like to get a bit of a walk, anyway. I'll take the deposit. You go on home."

  I thought she might cry, or argue with me, instead, her shoulders slumped and she nodded. "I'll see you Monday, then."

  A woman with backbone would've told her not to bother coming in Monday, Tuesday or the Twelfth of Never. She’d been far too eager to get her hands on that cash, both she and her son made my ring hot, and my grandmother had already fired her once. But I couldn't do it. Not when she looked so downcast. I told myself that if I kept an eye on her and the cash, we’d muddle through.

  She went out and met up with her son and as they walked up the street together, it looked to me as though they were arguing, again.

  Rosemary was barely out of sight when there was a tapping on the door, which I had locked moments earlier and put up the Closed sign. I glanced out, surreptitiously. Sidney Lafontaine, the estate agent, stood there. I debated ignoring her, but she called out, “Hello Lucy. Your sweet little cat is so adorable posing in the window.”

  What could I do? I opened the door and tried to look firm. “I’m afraid we’ve just closed.”

  Clearly, I wasn’t very good at firm. The woman brushed past me and said, “I won’t stay a minute, but I brought the contract and the first payment.” She set her attaché case on my cash desk as though she already owned the place, and pulled out a sheaf of documents and a bank draft. She smiled at me, a wide, white smile you see often in LA and almost never in England. “Richard Hatfield was very taken with you. His motto is, “Do business with people you like, and business will always be a pleasure.”

  “He should have that made into a bumper sticker,” I said.

  She chuckled as though I were the funniest comedian ever. “Here’s the draft for one hundred thousand pounds. Just sign here.” She pulled out a pen and flipped pages. There were several yellow stickers with arrows on them, all letting me know where to sign and initial. I’d never felt so railroaded. I could imagine elderly people being easily intimidated by these tactics. I was intimidated myself. And a hundred grand in Sterling isn’t pocket change.

  My jaw was aching and I realized my teeth were jammed together. I relaxed slowly and said, “I haven’t made a decision about selling, yet.”

  “Oh, but all the others have signed. The deal will fall through without you.”

  “Why? Why can’t Mr. Hatfield be happy with three lovely old shops? Why does he need four?”

  She shrugged. “The rich have their whims. Take the money, dear. You’ll never get another offer as good.”

  “I haven’t spoken to my mother, yet,” I said, using my parent was the best excuse I had.

  She chuckled again. I was going to have to start doing stand up if she was going to be in the audience. “We both know you’re the owner now.”

  Wow, that was fast. “Still, I like to discuss everything important with my parents. But thanks for stopping by.”

  I went to the door and held it open. There wasn’t much she could do, so she packed up her papers and that draft and, as she walked past me, said, “Don’t leave it too long. I can’t guarantee Richard won’t move on to other projects.”

&nb
sp; I took the deposit to the bank and took a detour to walk off some of my frustration. I walked past groups of students heading out for the evening, past tourists, past couples heading into restaurants. I wished, quite suddenly, that I’d told my long-lost cousin I’d spend the evening with her. I was in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and I had no one to go to dinner with, or just hang out with. I didn’t miss my old life, but I did miss my friends. If I was going to stay, I’d have make some new ones.

  I picked up a takeaway curry for me and more tuna for Nyx and returned home. We both ate and then the kitten napped while I checked email.

  My phone rang and it was my mother. Finally. “I’ve got bad news,” I said, when we’d assured each other that we were fine and Dad was fine. “It’s Gran.” I told her Gran had died, sticking to the whitewashed version where heart trouble had taken her in her sleep. It was impossible to tell whether my mother believed the story since she was miles away and on a Sat phone.

  The silence stretched. Was she crying? Then she said, “I’m sorry for you, Lucy. You were so close to her. Do you need me to come to Oxford?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t need her, and until we discovered who’d all but murdered Gran, I didn’t want my mother in any danger. “There wasn’t much to do. She was already buried when I got here.” I asked if she knew about the other branch of our family and there was another pause.

  “Yes, I knew, but we lived so far away, what was the point of telling you about relations you’d probably never meet?”

  “I met my cousin today. She’s the one who took charge of the burial since you and I were both unreachable.”

  “That was kind. What’s she like?”

  “She seemed nice.” I didn’t know how to describe Violet and we’d spoken so briefly I didn’t know anything about her apart from the witch thing. I hadn’t found out what she did, or what other family members there might be. “She lives in Moreton-under-Wychwood.” At least I knew that.