“If you have to ask, then you didn’t.” She smiled. “The pitch to Legacy is still a go. One of the Scott brothers is coming for the tasting and the art show.”
“That’s good news,” I said.
“Yeah, it is,” Susan said, unzipping her jacket as she followed me inside. “Most of the work is already done. What’s the worst that can happen?”
Given that Mike Glazer’s body had been found in one of the tents that was going to be used as part of the presentation to Legacy Tours, I was pretty confident that the worst had already happened. “I forgot to ask you,” I said, switching on the downstairs lights. “What’s Eric making for the tasting?”
Susan grinned at me. “Three kinds of pudding cake—chocolate, apple spice, and lemon—and little mini muffins—cheddar and spinach, cinnamon streusel, blueberry, and ham and Swiss.”
I groaned. “You’re making me hungry.”
“Eric said you’d say that.” Susan held up her fabric tote. “That’s why he sent a little care package.” She held the top of the bag open, and I looked inside. It was actually a big care package, assuming all the food was staying at the library.
“Your husband is wonderful,” I said.
“Yeah, he is pretty great,” she agreed as we headed for the stairs. “He snores, but I kick, so it all works out.”
I dropped my things in my office while she headed for the staff room. The coffee was started, and Susan was putting a selection of muffins on a glass plate when I got there. There was a metal crochet hook skewered through her updo.
“Susan, why do you have a crochet hook in your hair?” I asked.
She pushed her dark-framed glasses up on her nose and put two mugs on the table. “I couldn’t exactly leave it lying around the house,” she said. “The boys would put someone’s eye out with it.”
She was right about that. The twins were scary smart. Literally. They generally used their smarts to do something involving heights and electrical appliances.
“I didn’t know you crocheted,” I said.
Susan gave a snort of laughter. “I don’t. Abigail is trying to teach me how to make a scarf, but let’s just say it’s not going well and leave it at that.”
I looked at her, eyebrows raised. She sighed and inclined her head toward her bag, hanging on the back of a chair at the end of the table. “Take a look,” she said.
I set the bag on the table, reached inside and pulled out a tangle of soft, cranberry-colored yarn that filled both my hands. “It’s not that bad,” I said. “All you need to do is wind this into a ball and you can start your scarf.”
She turned from the counter, coffeepot in her hand. “Kathleen, that is the scarf.”
My cheeks reddened. “Oh. Well, it’s soft.”
Susan filled my mug and pushed it toward me. “It’s a mess.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said, turning the clump of wool over in my hands. “It’s just kind of twisty.”
She filled her own cup and put the pot back. “It’s supposed to be that way. It’s one of those spiral scarves—you know, with a ruffled edge.” She made a circular motion with one finger.
“Well, at least you got that part right,” I said.
Susan started to laugh. “Honestly, Kathleen, I appreciate the fact that you always say something nice, but that is not a spiral scarf. It’s not any kind of scarf. It’s a tangle of yarn that might make a good bird’s nest, but that’s about it.”
I handed the scarf back to her and she stuffed it back in her bag. “Maybe you’d be better at knitting,” I suggested, eyeing the muffins, wondering which one I should try first.
“Maybe I’d be better at buying a scarf,” she said. She pointed at the plate. “Try that one. It’s ham and Swiss. I think you’ll like it.”
I bit into the muffin and made a little moan of happiness. “Could we just keep the doors locked and maybe stay here and eat muffins all morning?”
Susan shook her head. “We have a ninth-grade English class coming for a tour at nine thirty. You have five minutes to eat as many muffins as you can, and then it’s time to get this show on the road.”
It turned out I could eat three of the tiny muffins in five minutes. Then Susan and I went downstairs to open the building for the day.
It was a busy morning. It seemed like half of Mayville Heights had run out of reading and viewing material, and the ninth-grade class had dozens of questions about the reference section. I was glad I’d asked Abigail to come in early. Things finally eased off about twelve thirty.
I found Abigail still in the reference section, reshelving some books. “You were great with that class,” I said. “Thank you.”
She smiled. “It was fun. They asked some great questions.”
I smiled back at her. “They were trying to stump you.”
“I know.” Her hair, red-gold shot with streaks of silver, was in its usual braid, and she flipped it over her shoulder. “That’s exactly the kind of thing I used to do when I was that age, so I can pretty much guess what the questions will be.”
“Susan told me you’re trying to teach her how to crochet.”
Abigail laughed. “You’ve heard the expression ‘all thumbs’?” she asked.
“I have,” I said, reaching down to line up the spines of three dictionaries on a lower shelf.
“If we could get to that point, I’d be happy.”
“She showed me the scarf,” I said.
Abigail shook her head. “I have no idea what the problem is. She’s working at it and I’m watching every stitch. I glance away for a second or two, and it goes from a scarf to something that looks like Medusa’s head.” She brushed lint off the front of her sweater. “That doesn’t mean I’m giving up, though.”
“I didn’t think you would,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman coming toward us.
Abigail caught sight of her and smiled. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said to me. “I want you to meet my friend Georgia.”
Georgia Tepper was about my height, with jet-black hair cut shorter than Maggie’s. She had long, strong fingers, I noticed as Abigail introduced us and we shook hands.
“Georgia is one of the vendors for the food tasting,” Abigail said.
“You’re Sweet Things,” I said, realizing I’d heard Maggie mention her name—and rave about the maple cream cupcakes she’d made for the reception after the final concert of the Wild Rose Summer Music Festival. I’d been in Boston and missed the festival.
Georgia smiled. “Yes, I am.”
Abigail nudged me with her shoulder. “And she’s doing some of the baking at Fern’s, too.” Fern’s was the fifties diner where I’d had breakfast with Burtis Chapman. “You’ll love her devil’s food cupcakes.” She knew about my penchant for anything chocolate. “With dark-chocolate frosting and bittersweet shavings,” she added with a sly grin.
“You’ll be my first stop,” I promised Georgia.
“Wait a minute,” Abigail said. “Does that mean the food tasting is still on?”
Georgia and I both nodded.
“That’s great,” Abigail said. Her gaze shifted to Georgia. “So you’re not dropping out?”
“No, I’m not,” she said. She flushed and gave me an embarrassed look. “I was thinking about not doing the tasting, but I’m a new business and this is a great opportunity for me.”