“Oh, my God!” Lisa cried, hands to her face. “You’re getting married!” She leaped from the sofa and raced over to embrace Megan. “That’s wonderful!”
Kelly and Jennifer immediately joined Lisa, swallowing Megan in hugs and good wishes. Greg, Steve, and Pete clustered around Marty, slapping him on the back amidst heart-felt congratulations.
“I’d say that announcement calls for raspberry pie,” Pete said as he headed for the kitchen.
“I’ll make coffee,” Lisa said, popping off the sofa again. “Ohhhh, this is so exciting. When’s the date, or don’t you know yet?”
Marty sank back into the sofa beside Megan and put his arm around her shoulders. “We haven’t decided for sure yet, but probably fall of next year.”
“You’re waiting a whole year?” Jennifer asked.
“Yeah, there’s a lot to do. Organizing everything, guest lists, catering, scheduling the reception. It takes at least a year,” Megan said, finishing off her beer.
“Reception, that means food,” Greg said, eyes alight.
“Ohhhh, yeah. A lot of it,” Marty added. “Pete, I don’t know whether to ask you to do the reception or not. I’d rather have you be a guest and have a good time.”
Pete looked up from slicing the raspberry pie and smiled. “That’s okay, Marty. I don’t do weddings anymore. I learned long ago that brides and their mothers came drive you certifiably crazy. But I can recommend some caterers who do an outstanding job.”
“Oh, lord, I don’t even want to think about the lists Megan will make,” Kelly said, settling beside Steve. “They’ll be down to the floor.”
Megan grinned. “I’m going to start this week.”
“Why are we not surprised?”
Greg shook his head. “Megan, are you sure you want to attach yourself to this guy? I always thought you were sensible.”
Megan reached over and placed her hand on Marty’s knee. “Yeah, I do. He’s kind of grown on me over these last two years.”
“Sounds like a fungus,” Greg said, accepting a plate of pie from Pete. “You can go to the doctor and get cured.”
Megan and the others laughed out loud while Pete and Lisa distributed the pie. Kelly took a bite and let the delectable taste of berries melt on her tongue. Then looking over at the flushed happy couple on the sofa, Kelly added, “I’m not sure that would work, Greg. I think Marty may be totally incurable.”
Three
Kelly and Steve slowed to a jog as they reached the golf course. The Sunday-morning sun was creeping over the foothills, sending blinding shafts of early sunshine across the greens. September always brought the scent of fall to the air even though the temperatures were mild, often balmy. Kelly could still smell the difference in the early morning, particularly when she took her run.
“What’s your plan for today? Head over to your Old Town office?”
Steve slowed to a walk and stretched his arms over his head. “Yeah. Go over all the bills that have piled up since last weekend. Figure out how I’ll pay everyone. Rather, how much I’ll pay each one.”
They neared the cottage backyard, and Carl spotted them. He started his welcoming bark. “You want me to bring you something for dinner?”
“Why don’t you pick up some takeout and a DVD and we’ll stay in tonight. I’m hoping I can finish by five or six.” Steve stretched his arms behind his back as they walked around to the front of the cottage.
“You look tired already,” she observed. “I hope you can finish up earlier and come home and crash.”
“So do I. Let’s see what’s waiting for me. What have you got on tap for today?”
“I’ve got some account work to do. But first, I promised Mimi I’d help out with some of her classes. She scheduled a special kids’ knitting class today, and she’s a little shorthanded since Rosa’s had to cut back her hours.”
“What’s up with Rosa?”
“Same thing as with everyone else,” Kelly said, scooping up the rolled newspaper from the sidewalk. “Her husband’s construction job was cut so Rosa’s had to start working another part-time job in addition to working here at Lambspun.”
Steve wagged his head. “Brother . . .”
Kelly unrolled the paper as she followed Steve up the steps to the front door. “You go ahead and jump in the shower while I make coffee . . . Whoa!”
“What?”
“Oh, no! A girl was killed on the river trail night before last.”
Steve leaned over Kelly’s shoulder as they stood in the front doorway. “You’re kidding? That’s right in our backyard.”
“Maybe it was that guy who’s been attacking women on the trails. That’s awful! They gotta catch him.”
“It could be more than one guy. Meanwhile, swear to me you’ll stay off the river trail after dark when I’m out of town, okay?”
Kelly looked up to see Steve’s worried face. “Absolutely. No way am I going on that trail alone.”
“Any information about the victim?” Steve asked as he headed toward the bedroom.
Kelly skimmed the article as she walked into the kitchen. “No, they usually don’t give out much when they first report something. They have to contact next of kin. Damn. No one’s ever been killed before. Why did that happen?”
No answer from Steve this time, only the sound of the bathroom shower starting to run. She retrieved coffee from the fridge and started the coffeemaker brewing, then leaned back against the counter to finish the article.
Only the barest of details were mentioned. A young woman was found dead on the river trail early Saturday morning. Kelly and Steve usually ran along that same stretch of trail every morning but decided to go the opposite direction that day, following the trail into Old Town instead. She hadn’t heard any sirens blaring late Friday night, nor seen any flashing lights sweeping the darkness of the golf course when she and Steve returned from Greg and Lisa’s around midnight. Carl had barked a few times. But then, he usually heard something to bark about in the middle of the night.
Who would be foolish enough to walk at night along the river trail? The newspapers and media had been reporting every one of the assaults for the past few months. All of the victims were women walking alone at night. Maybe this woman was a new university student from out of town who didn’t know about the attacks.
The ding of the coffeepot sounded, and Kelly sniffed the delectable aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. Checking the clock on the microwave, Kelly dropped the newspaper on the counter and returned to her morning routine. A hungry dog, a hot shower, and a busy schedule were waiting—in that order.
“Okay, now slip the tip of the right needle underneath that last stitch on the left needle,” Kelly instructed the young girl beside her.
The sixth-grader stared at the rows of stitches Kelly had cast onto the circular needles for her. “Like this?” she asked as she shoved the needle beneath the right side of the stitch.
“That’s the right side. Slip it under the left side of the stitch.” Kelly refrained from moving the needle herself.
She remembered that she learned faster when she was allowed to fumble through the stitches herself. Learning by doing.
The youngster tried again. This time she slid the needle over the left side of the stitch. “Like this?”
“Almost. Make sure the needle you’re knitting with goes underneath the left-hand needle.” She watched the girl slowly move the needle to the correct position. “That’s right. Now, you hold both needles by the tips while you use your other hand to wrap the yarn from the back to the front.”
“How do I do that?” the youngster asked, clearly perplexed.
“Here, let me show you, then you can do it.” Kelly reached over and took both needles from the girl’s hands. Placing the fingertips of her left hand near the tips of the two needles, she held them in place. “You can hold the needles tightly but not in a death grip. Like this. Just tight enough to keep the stitch in place so you can wrap the yarn.” She took the dangling
strand of yarn and slowly wound it from the back of the bottom needle, through the middle where the two needles crossed, and to the front. “Now you do it.” She unwrapped the yarn and handed the needles back to the girl.
“I’ll try. They’re kind of wiggly.” She tentatively accepted the needles.
“I remember them feeling like that when I first started. Then before you know it, it starts feeling different. You don’t feel as clumsy as you do at first.”
“Got that right,” another girl down the table said.
Kelly glanced at the eight sixth-grade girls in Mimi’s junior hat class. Each one was in a different stage of progress on the beginnings of their first hat.
“Hey, guys. I still feel clumsy, so don’t worry about it,” Kelly confessed.
“I think I got them,” the youngster said, holding the tips of the two needles with her fingertips.
“Okay, make sure you’re holding them tightly enough so they won’t fall, then start to wrap the yarn.” She watched as the girl tentatively picked up the yarn strand with her right hand and brought it forward. “That’s right. From the back, between the two needles, and to the front.”
“Now what?”
“Now you take the tip of that right needle again and slide the stitch on the left needle, then slide that stitch from the left needle to the right.”
“That sounds confusing.”
“Well, it makes more sense when you see it happening. Go ahead.”
“Okaaaay . . .” the girl said dubiously. She slowly slid the right needle under the stitch and slipped it off the left needle onto the right. She blinked up at Kelly, surprised. “Like that?”
“Exactly like that,” Kelly congratulated. “Good job. Now do the next stitch.”
“Whoa, I think I forgot how to do it all.”
“Just slip that right needle under the stitch on the left needle, and I bet it’ll all come back to you,” Kelly said, hoping to infuse confidence. “You did a great job. You learned faster than I did when I started.”
“No way,” the girl countered.
“Yeah, way. I made more mistakes than a dog has fleas.” Some of the girls laughed softly, while others stayed focused on their knitting, rows forming on their needles. The little Megans, Jennifers, and Lisas of the world.
Burt walked into the knitting room carrying a large plastic bag filled with creamy white wool fleece. “Hey, Kelly, that’s nice of you to come by today and help Mimi with her class.”
“Well, I thought it would help relax me before I start my account work this afternoon. Speaking of relaxing, why don’t you pull up a chair and sit and spin while we knit away?”
“I was thinking of doing that very thing,” Burt said. “Hey, girls, mind if I sit and spin awhile? I’ll be glad to answer any questions you might have.”
All eight girls nodded their heads, peering at Burt’s spinning wheel as he settled into the corner. He set the large bag of fleece on the floor beside him and grabbed a handful of fluff.
Kelly watched Burt gently stretch the handful of wool fleece, drafting the fleece into what spinners called batten or roving. She glanced around the table at the eleven-year-old beginning knitters. Their attention had obviously shifted from their knitting to Burt’s activities. She decided this was an ideal time to stoke their curiosity.
“Do you know what Burt’s doing now?” she asked them as she walked beside the table. She pointed toward Burt. “He’s stretching the wool fleece so he can spin it.”
“Is all that wool from one sheep?” a girl asked.
Burt looked up with a smile. “Oh, no. This bag contains the fleeces from two sheep.”
“Does the wool come off the sheep looking like that?” another asked.
Kelly knew the answer to that one. “Oh, no. The original fleece when it comes off the sheep is pretty dirty. It’s filled with dirt and bits of twigs and leaves and stuff. Once the sheep shearer comes with the razor and takes off the fleece, it has to be cleaned and washed.”
“Washed? How? In the washing machine?”
Kelly and Burt laughed along with the girls. “Actually, yes. The fleece can be washed in a machine. But first, you have to card it to get the dirt out. They do that with metal brushes that brush through the fleece to get out all the dirt and leaves and stuff.”
“Boy, that sounds like a lot of work,” a girl at the end of the table said, picking up her knitting again.
“It is, believe me,” Burt said with a chuckle. “I’ve done a lot of it.”
“What kind of combs do you use?”
“Well, they’re actually brushes,” Burt explained, then motioned to Kelly. “Check in the spinning room, would you, Kelly? I think there are some brushes there.”
Kelly went into the small room adjacent to the main knitting room where bags of colorful fleece sat beside luscious wound skeins of hand-dyed wools and mohairs, silks and alpaca, ready to be spun together into custom yarns. Scanning the crowded room, she grabbed two carding brushes on the table and returned to the class.
“Here you go, girls,” she said, holding them up. “I’ll pass them around. See those metal teeth? They’re designed to catch all the dirt and leaves and stuff that gets caught in the sheep’s fleece over the winter.” She handed it to the first girl at the end of the table.
“Take some of this, Kelly, and show how they brush it,” Burt suggested, handing her a chunk of the fleece.
Kelly took the bunch of fleece and placed it on one brush, then used the other brush to brush through it. “See, it’s tricky, and it does take a long time.”
“Isn’t there a machine that does that?” someone asked.
“Matter of fact, there is,” Burt answered. “But they’re expensive so most spinners do it by hand. But, there are people who do it as a business. Spinners who want to pay to have their fleeces done take it to someone who’ll card it, get out all the dirt and stuff, then they’ll wash and dry the fleece.”
Kelly remembered that Curt Stackhouse’s late wife, Ruth, used to provide that service for spinners before she died of a heart attack years ago. “How expensive is it, Burt?” she asked as she watched each of the girls around the table take a turn trying to brush the fluffy fleece.
“Well, it’s not cheap, but it’s really a matter of whether it’s worth it to you or not. Some people don’t have much time to spin each day, and they’d rather pay someone to do the time-consuming task of cleaning and preparing the fleece. That way they can spend their time doing what they like best—spinning.” Burt pulled another handful of fleece from the bag and began drafting again.
“Why do you have to do that before you spin?” a girl sitting closest to the wheel asked.
“You want to stretch the wool’s fibers so it’s easier to go through the wheel,” he said, stretching the fibers for them to see. “We call it roving or batten once it’s stretched. And after I’ve got a bunch of roving, I’ll start to spin.”
Kelly noticed most of the girls returned to their knitting, hats slowly forming on their circular needles. But they kept glancing up at Burt, watching the pile of fluffy roving grow in his lap. Once it did, Burt looked up at them with a smile.
“Okay, now I’m ready. Who’s ever watched a spinner before?”
All the hands shot up in the air as each of the girls vied for Burt’s attention, waving their hands as if they were in the classroom. Waiting to tell their stories.
“We went to the Renaissance Fair, and there was a whole bunch of them there,” one girl said.
Others nodded and added their own stories of colonial demonstrations at school and the county and state fairs. Burt dutifully paid heed to each account and encouraged the girls to talk. Burt would have made a great teacher, Kelly decided.
“Okay . . . now that I’ve got a lapful of roving I can start spinning,” Burt announced and pulled the wheel closer. “Take a look at the yarns you’re knitting with. Hold them up and see how thick the strands of wool are. I’ll bet each one of you has a differe
nt thickness.”
The girls began to examine their yarns, holding up individual strands and comparing with each other’s. “See, Burt’s right,” Kelly said, pointing around the table. “Yours is thicker than hers. I’ll bet no two are the same.”
“Does that happen when you spin the yarn?” a girl beside Kelly asked.
“Yes, it does,” Burt answered. “And I’ll show you how we do it. Spinners control the thickness of the yarn by how much roving they feed onto the wheel. Let me show you. You’ll notice there’s already yarn on the spinning wheel. See how it goes from the wheel over to the spindle, this funny-shaped thing. That’s where it winds the yarn.” He pointed to each part. “Now, we can control the thickness of the yarn by the amount of roving we let pass through our fingers onto the wheel. Watch.”
Burt began the familiar movements, explaining as he went along. “First, we start the treadle going as we feed this roving onto the yarn that’s already on the wheel.” As Burt’s feet began to work the treadle, the roving began to slide through Burt’s fingers and onto the wheel, binding to the strand of yarn already there.
“See how the yarn is getting thicker now that I’ve added more to it,” Burt observed. “If you want a thinner yarn you add less roving. If you want it thicker, then you add more.”
Every girl around the table focused on Burt, seemingly fascinated. Kelly understood. She loved to watch the spinners, too. Burt, Mimi, anyone. She found it relaxing to watch. Even though Mimi and others had suggested Kelly might want to try it herself, she declined. There was no way she could get her feet coordinated with the wheel. She’d seen what happened when spinners let their fingers and feet go different speeds, and it wasn’t pretty.
“That’s cool,” one of the girls decreed after a minute or so of watching.
“Yeah, it is,” another agreed.
“Well, if any of you girls are interested, we were thinking of offering a kids’ spinning class this winter,” Burt announced. “On Sundays, like today.”
Mimi appeared in the archway just then. “Well, it looks like you’ve captivated my junior hat class, Burt. Nobody’s knitting anymore. Everyone’s watching you spin.”
Skein of the Crime Page 5