Read Online A Murderous Yarn by Monica Ferris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Monica Ferris
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skein of silver-gray yarn of grossly varying thickness. “This is different. But what on earth can you make with it?”
“Look up there,” said Betsy, gesturing at a shawl suspended on strings from the ceiling. She had nearly broken her neck fastening that up there.
“Why, it’s lovely!” Charlotte exclaimed, and it was, all delicate open work, the uneven yarn making it lookas if it were knit from fog. She reached up to feel the edge between a thumb and forefinger. “Oooooh, soft!”
“It’s surprisingly easy to work with,” said Betsy, who had also knit the shawl.
“Really?” said Charlotte. Then she glanced at the price tag on the yarn and hastily put it back in the basket. “Actually, I came in for some DMC 285. It’s a metallic, silver. I couldn’t find it at Michael’s.”
“My counted cross stitch materials are in the back. Come with me, I’ll show you.” The back third of Betsy’s shop was devoted solely to counted. It was set off from the front by a ceiling-high pair of box shelves. Charlotte went to a tall spinner rack of DMC floss, but Betsy said, “No, that metallic comes on a spool. Over here.”
A small rack in one of the “boxes” held spools of metallic floss. “Here it is,” said Betsy.
“Thank you. So long as we’re back here, do you have cashel?”
“Certainly. What color are you looking for?” Betsy didn’t have the enormous selection of fabric that Stitchville USA had, but she was proud to have a wide selection, rather than restricting her shop to Aida and linen.
A while later, Betsy rang up a substantial sale—Charlotte was like many stitchers. She couldn’t resist poking through the patterns and the rack of stitching accessories, and adding to her initial purchase.
And then, riffling the sale basket of painted needlepoint canvases next to the cash register, Charlotte found a painted canvas of a gray hen that would look “darling” made into a tea cozy, so then Betsy had to help her select the gray, taupe, white, yellow, and red yarnsneeded to complete the pattern. She added the customary free needle and needle threader to the bag.
“Are you from around here?” asked Betsy after Charlotte had paid for her additional selections. “We have a group that meets every Monday afternoon in the shop to stitch. They do all kinds of needlework so you can bring whatever you’re working on.”
“Oh, that sounds nice,” said Charlotte wistfully. “But we live in Roseville, clear the other side of the Cities, which makes an awfully long drive.”
Reminded, Betsy checked her watch and made an exclamation. “We’d better get back out there. It’s almost time to start back to St. Paul.”
Charlotte said, “I’m not going to ride back in the Maxwell. It’s too hot, and the jiggle was making me sick.”
“ ‘Jiggle’?”
“It’s a two-cylinder and it jiggles all the time. Especially when it’s not running well. After a while you begin to think your stomach will never be right again.”
“Then how are you going to get home?”
“Oh, I’ll ask Ceil or Adam or Nancy if I can ride with them to St. Paul. I can help out in the booth until Bill gets back. Then I’ll help him put the Max into the trailer for the trip home.”
“Well, I’m supposed to go over there, too. Would you care to ride with me?” After all, Charlotte, who had come in looking for a two-dollar item, had just spent nearly seventy dollars.
“Why, thank you, I’d like that very much. Let me go tell Bill.”
They went out together and up the sidewalk to the brown car with a man leaning over the engine revealedby a rooked-up hood. He, too, had removed his duster, and had wrapped a towel around his waist to protect his immaculate white flannel trousers from the grease he was getting on his hands and on his fine linen shirt. Another towel, liberally smeared with grease, was draped over a fender. His head was well under the hood and he was muttering under his breath.
Charlotte came up
“Look up there,” said Betsy, gesturing at a shawl suspended on strings from the ceiling. She had nearly broken her neck fastening that up there.
“Why, it’s lovely!” Charlotte exclaimed, and it was, all delicate open work, the uneven yarn making it lookas if it were knit from fog. She reached up to feel the edge between a thumb and forefinger. “Oooooh, soft!”
“It’s surprisingly easy to work with,” said Betsy, who had also knit the shawl.
“Really?” said Charlotte. Then she glanced at the price tag on the yarn and hastily put it back in the basket. “Actually, I came in for some DMC 285. It’s a metallic, silver. I couldn’t find it at Michael’s.”
“My counted cross stitch materials are in the back. Come with me, I’ll show you.” The back third of Betsy’s shop was devoted solely to counted. It was set off from the front by a ceiling-high pair of box shelves. Charlotte went to a tall spinner rack of DMC floss, but Betsy said, “No, that metallic comes on a spool. Over here.”
A small rack in one of the “boxes” held spools of metallic floss. “Here it is,” said Betsy.
“Thank you. So long as we’re back here, do you have cashel?”
“Certainly. What color are you looking for?” Betsy didn’t have the enormous selection of fabric that Stitchville USA had, but she was proud to have a wide selection, rather than restricting her shop to Aida and linen.
A while later, Betsy rang up a substantial sale—Charlotte was like many stitchers. She couldn’t resist poking through the patterns and the rack of stitching accessories, and adding to her initial purchase.
And then, riffling the sale basket of painted needlepoint canvases next to the cash register, Charlotte found a painted canvas of a gray hen that would look “darling” made into a tea cozy, so then Betsy had to help her select the gray, taupe, white, yellow, and red yarnsneeded to complete the pattern. She added the customary free needle and needle threader to the bag.
“Are you from around here?” asked Betsy after Charlotte had paid for her additional selections. “We have a group that meets every Monday afternoon in the shop to stitch. They do all kinds of needlework so you can bring whatever you’re working on.”
“Oh, that sounds nice,” said Charlotte wistfully. “But we live in Roseville, clear the other side of the Cities, which makes an awfully long drive.”
Reminded, Betsy checked her watch and made an exclamation. “We’d better get back out there. It’s almost time to start back to St. Paul.”
Charlotte said, “I’m not going to ride back in the Maxwell. It’s too hot, and the jiggle was making me sick.”
“ ‘Jiggle’?”
“It’s a two-cylinder and it jiggles all the time. Especially when it’s not running well. After a while you begin to think your stomach will never be right again.”
“Then how are you going to get home?”
“Oh, I’ll ask Ceil or Adam or Nancy if I can ride with them to St. Paul. I can help out in the booth until Bill gets back. Then I’ll help him put the Max into the trailer for the trip home.”
“Well, I’m supposed to go over there, too. Would you care to ride with me?” After all, Charlotte, who had come in looking for a two-dollar item, had just spent nearly seventy dollars.
“Why, thank you, I’d like that very much. Let me go tell Bill.”
They went out together and up the sidewalk to the brown car with a man leaning over the engine revealedby a rooked-up hood. He, too, had removed his duster, and had wrapped a towel around his waist to protect his immaculate white flannel trousers from the grease he was getting on his hands and on his fine linen shirt. Another towel, liberally smeared with grease, was draped over a fender. His head was well under the hood and he was muttering under his breath.
Charlotte came up
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