Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery by Molly MacRae

that had a flash of sneer attached, unless I imagined it. “I wonder how any of this managed to stay quiet.”
    “Granny was pretty good at keeping secrets.”
    “Ivy was a practical woman.”
    “And keeping secrets is practical? Huh. I never thought of it that way. But the secrets I’m thinking of are more along the lines of surprise parties or hiding a bicycle before a birthday.”
    “Small things.”
    “Compared to her not owning her house anymore, yes. Selling her house is a huge secret. And she kept it so secret she didn’t even change her will.” I was not going to mention, refused even to think about, her other huge “secret.” Except, maybe the business about being a witchand the business with the house were part of the same problem. And not because she was a witch, but because she thought she was a witch.
    “That is a curious point,” Homer said.
    “What is?” Had I said “ witch” out loud?
    “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, looking at me more closely.
    “Oh, yes, sorry. It’s just all of this…” Thank goodness for grief as a handy excuse. “I’m fine.” I took a sip of the now cold tea, then put the cup next to his on the tray. He smiled encouragingly. “Okay, I’m wondering two things, coming at this from different directions. First, is the house thing really a secret? The Spiveys knew about it, so maybe other people know and haven’t said anything because they assume I know, too.”
    “A possibility. Ruth didn’t know anything about it, though?”
    “No.”
    “I haven’t heard anything about it, either. And Ivy did not change her will.”
    “No. So, looking at this from the flip side, I wonder if it’s true? Did she really sell the house? What if she didn’t and someone’s trying to pull a fast one?”
    “A fast what?”
    “A fast property grab? I don’t know. But this guy, Max, is married to Mercy Spivey’s daughter, Angela, and there’s never been any love lost between Granny and the Spiveys.”
    Homer’s beak inclined toward me. “Kath, be very careful what you say along those lines, and where, and to whom.”
    “Libel?”
    “Slander.”
    “Oh, right.” I flapped a hand. “I always get those two confused.”
    “It’s serious. I’m serious.”
    “I am, too. Who’s Max—other than Angie’s husband?”
    Homer’s left eye narrowed again, very slightly. Because of the poor manners I’d showed by lapsing into slander? Or at the mention of Max? He didn’t answer my question, but brought his pen back out and tapped it on the legal pad. He clicked it open, clicked it shut, open, shut, then made a check mark beside one of his notes. I was tempted to stand up so I could see better and try reading that note upside down. But placing myself more directly in front of that nose and those eyes wasn’t a comforting thought. It would be safer to approach obliquely, by swinging around behind him and reading over his shoulder. I gave myself a discreet pinch and told myself to pay attention.
    “First, your idea of anyone pulling a fast one”—Homer paused and tapped his pen one more time before continuing—“to gain possession of a small, nondescript, basically insignificant house is unlikely.”
    “Hmm.”
    “I don’t mean to insult Ivy, you, or the property by that statement.”
    He did insult us, but maybe he couldn’t help himself. I pictured the lovely house he and Ruth must live in. He probably couldn’t imagine relaxing in a cozy place like Granny’s, or stretching his long legs out in such close quarters. I let the slight pass.
    “Second, if Ivy sold the house it will be a matter of public record and should be easy enough to track down. Maybe trickier if Max inherited the property. I’ll see what I can do this afternoon.” He made another note.
    “And Max?”
    “I only know one Max. It’s very likely there are others in town and around the county.”
    “Oh, dozens, I’m sure. Who’s the one you know?”
    “Max Cobb. Emmett Cobb’s