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

son.” He gave no specialemphasis to the words in either of those two short statements. His voice and face were clear of emotion. He held my eyes with a bland look for a moment, then nodded as though agreeing with me. “Exactly,” he said. He flipped his pen in the air, caught it, and pointed it at me. “Exactly.”
    “Um, exactly what? I didn’t say anything.” Couldn’t say anything was more like it.
    “You haven’t got a lawyer’s face, Kath.”
    My face had probably screeched “bloody hell” while my mind sat there gulping and inarticulate. “Maybe I’ll work on that. Wow. Emmett Cobb who was murdered? Max is that Emmett Cobb’s son?”
    “We don’t know for a fact that he’s Emmett Cobb’s son.”
    “Sure we do.” I didn’t have a lawyer’s prissy approach to facts, either. “Even if we don’t, we can find out fast enough. Ask Ernestine. I bet she’ll know.”
    “I will.”
    I started to get up. Homer waved me back into my chair.
    “Kath, we need to consider this situation matter-of-factly.”
    “Okay.”
    “Without emotion.”
    “I can do that. But I think I see where Cole Dunbar might have gotten the idea that Granny should be a suspect in Emmett Cobb’s murder—if he somehow got hold of her house. But I don’t believe, not for one single minute do I believe, that she had anything to do with his death at all.”
    “Without emotion.”
    “Oh. Right. Really, I can do that.” I peeled my hands from their death grip on the arms of the chair, took several calm, deep breaths, tried to relax my teeth.
    “May I tell you what I think we should do?” he asked,obviously modeling the state of calm to which he wished I’d aspire.
    “Sure.”
    “First, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep the rent notice for the files.”
    “Sure.”
    “Then I will call Sheriff Haynes and find out if there is an official line of inquiry connecting Ivy with Emmett Cobb’s murder. I agree with you. I find it hard to believe she had anything to do with his death.”
    “Not just hard to believe. Impossible.”
    “Beyond the realm of imagination.”
    “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome. Next, let me ask what your plans are for the rest of the day.”
    “Meet with Rachel Meeks over at the bank. Meet with Ardis and maybe some of the staff at the Weaver’s Cat. I’d kind of planned to start going through things at the house, too.” The thought of going through Granny’s clothes made me sniff, but I pulled myself together for Homer’s sake. Maybe, if I asked, Ardis would come over and lend a shoulder and helping hands. Instantly, as the words “helping hands” came to me, an image flashed through my mind. A pair of hands pawing through Granny’s chest of drawers, her closet, her desk. Hands helping themselves…An involuntary shake of my head cleared the image, as though it had been a gnat buzzing between my eyes and ears. “Do you know Nicki Keplinger?”
    “Who?” Homer asked.
    I don’t know which of us was more surprised by my blurted question. I felt a trickle of sweat on the back of my neck and rushed to explain and cover the confusion the image left behind. “I was just thinking out loud, thinking of asking Ardis Buchanan, over at the shop, if she’d helpme go through Granny’s things. And Nicki.” Nicki who was wearing a jacket she said Granny gave her.
    “Of course, and Nicki works at the shop, too, doesn’t she? Her name rings a bell. No doubt Ruth has mentioned it. Although, if she used the name Nicki in any sentence also containing the word ‘yarn’ or ‘wool,’ I can’t vouch for paying close attention. And, please,” he said, pointing his pen at me again, “do not ever repeat that to Ruth.” He nodded when I dutifully returned his quiet laugh. “It’s never an easy task, sorting through a loved one’s life. A lot of emotion. A lot of memories.”
    “A lot of good memories,” I said.
    “That will help. And I should think any of the women at the shop will be happy to