Read Online Spin a Wicked Web by Cricket McRae - Free Book Online
Authors: Cricket McRae
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery Fiction, Murder, Investigation, Murder - Investigation, Women Artisans, Spinning
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chives and oregano. The eggs had probably
still been warm from the chickens when she'd cracked them into
the bowl. A steaming cup of coffee topped the whole meal off.
How could I even think about leaving this?
"Where's Erin?" I asked, between bites of sausage.
Meghan joined me at the table with her own plate. She nodded
toward the backyard.
"Already?"
"Not the chickens this time," she said. "I told her if she'd weed bed
three I'd take her to the river this afternoon after camp to swim."
"Nice" We only had four small vegetable beds, but they seemed
to require constant attention. "I'll weed one today, too."
"Do you have time?" Meghan asked.
"Oddly enough, I'm pretty much caught up, except for the
usual order filling. Cyan is coming by tomorrow, so I can have her do some of that." I bit into a juicy strawberry and let out a low
moan. "God, these are good."
"Aren't they? Of course, by the time the season is over we'll be
sick to death of them."
It was hard to imagine, but she was right. "That's what freezers
are for. Do you have any clients today?"
"Two" Her massage business had begun to slow for the summer, too. "At noon and at one."
I have an errand to run. I'll be home later," I said.
"Sounds good."
I refrained from mentioning the errand involved spending
time alone with a possible murderer.
The ranch-style house was located on ten acres of land on the east
side of Cadyville, set back from the county road that wound north
from Highway 2. A large black dog and a smaller brown one
greeted my arrival with joyous barks and wagging tails. Laughing
at their enthusiasm, I pushed their cold noses away from my bare
legs. A metallic clang sounded from behind the house as I reached
for the doorbell.
Chris didn't answer. Another loud reverberation carried through
the air, followed by another and then another. A low droning underscored the mesmerizing rhythm. The dogs gamboled around me
as I walked around the house to the backyard.
The drone became the roar of an enclosed fire as I neared the
source: Chris' blacksmith shop. No walls enclosed the thirty-bythirty space, but eight thick corner posts supported the octagonal roof. The floor was bare dirt, swept smooth. Her arm, pale in the
relative darkness, rose and fell, the clank of the hammer on redhot metal sparking with each blow. The pounding stopped, and,
with a pair of tongs, she transferred a flat, tapering rod from the
anvil to the forge.
Chris turned and saw me watching. I raised a hand in greeting.
"Oh. It's you," she said, swiping at the sheen of sweat on her
forehead with the back of her wrist. She beckoned me in. "Be careful. Forge's hot."
The air close to the blaze warped and shimmered with heat. The
tang of hot iron mingled with the earthy scent of Chris' perspiration. It smelled like hard work.
"Do you want some iced tea?" she asked.
"Sure"
"Oh. Well, there's some in the big thermos over there. Should
be some cups by it."
I found the cups and opened the thermos. "Do you want some?"
I asked. "You must be roasting in here."
"I'm fine." She sighed. "I'm sorry. I know I'm not being very
gracious."
Her hair hung lank, as if she hadn't washed it for days, and it
was held back off her face on each side by blue plastic barrettes
more suited to a ten-year-old girl. She wore a white tank top that
needed an appointment with a washing machine, and faded jeans,
frayed at the edges. I wondered whether it wouldn't be safer to
wear long sleeves when working with hot metal.
"Don't worry about it," I said. I could hardly recall the period
right after Mike died. Mostly I remembered having to put on a
good show for all the people who were trying to be nice to me. At the time it had felt almost like an imposition, but now I realized it
had been one of the things that had kept me from falling apart
completely.
Chris, on the other hand didn't seem to be concerned with putting on a game face. She dipped a sopping
still been warm from the chickens when she'd cracked them into
the bowl. A steaming cup of coffee topped the whole meal off.
How could I even think about leaving this?
"Where's Erin?" I asked, between bites of sausage.
Meghan joined me at the table with her own plate. She nodded
toward the backyard.
"Already?"
"Not the chickens this time," she said. "I told her if she'd weed bed
three I'd take her to the river this afternoon after camp to swim."
"Nice" We only had four small vegetable beds, but they seemed
to require constant attention. "I'll weed one today, too."
"Do you have time?" Meghan asked.
"Oddly enough, I'm pretty much caught up, except for the
usual order filling. Cyan is coming by tomorrow, so I can have her do some of that." I bit into a juicy strawberry and let out a low
moan. "God, these are good."
"Aren't they? Of course, by the time the season is over we'll be
sick to death of them."
It was hard to imagine, but she was right. "That's what freezers
are for. Do you have any clients today?"
"Two" Her massage business had begun to slow for the summer, too. "At noon and at one."
I have an errand to run. I'll be home later," I said.
"Sounds good."
I refrained from mentioning the errand involved spending
time alone with a possible murderer.
The ranch-style house was located on ten acres of land on the east
side of Cadyville, set back from the county road that wound north
from Highway 2. A large black dog and a smaller brown one
greeted my arrival with joyous barks and wagging tails. Laughing
at their enthusiasm, I pushed their cold noses away from my bare
legs. A metallic clang sounded from behind the house as I reached
for the doorbell.
Chris didn't answer. Another loud reverberation carried through
the air, followed by another and then another. A low droning underscored the mesmerizing rhythm. The dogs gamboled around me
as I walked around the house to the backyard.
The drone became the roar of an enclosed fire as I neared the
source: Chris' blacksmith shop. No walls enclosed the thirty-bythirty space, but eight thick corner posts supported the octagonal roof. The floor was bare dirt, swept smooth. Her arm, pale in the
relative darkness, rose and fell, the clank of the hammer on redhot metal sparking with each blow. The pounding stopped, and,
with a pair of tongs, she transferred a flat, tapering rod from the
anvil to the forge.
Chris turned and saw me watching. I raised a hand in greeting.
"Oh. It's you," she said, swiping at the sheen of sweat on her
forehead with the back of her wrist. She beckoned me in. "Be careful. Forge's hot."
The air close to the blaze warped and shimmered with heat. The
tang of hot iron mingled with the earthy scent of Chris' perspiration. It smelled like hard work.
"Do you want some iced tea?" she asked.
"Sure"
"Oh. Well, there's some in the big thermos over there. Should
be some cups by it."
I found the cups and opened the thermos. "Do you want some?"
I asked. "You must be roasting in here."
"I'm fine." She sighed. "I'm sorry. I know I'm not being very
gracious."
Her hair hung lank, as if she hadn't washed it for days, and it
was held back off her face on each side by blue plastic barrettes
more suited to a ten-year-old girl. She wore a white tank top that
needed an appointment with a washing machine, and faded jeans,
frayed at the edges. I wondered whether it wouldn't be safer to
wear long sleeves when working with hot metal.
"Don't worry about it," I said. I could hardly recall the period
right after Mike died. Mostly I remembered having to put on a
good show for all the people who were trying to be nice to me. At the time it had felt almost like an imposition, but now I realized it
had been one of the things that had kept me from falling apart
completely.
Chris, on the other hand didn't seem to be concerned with putting on a game face. She dipped a sopping
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