Gone with the Wool Read Free

any more so than she was to do anything about the streaks of gray that had begun to show up in her short chestnut hair. Even though she was widowed, I’d also bet that she would never be caught hanging out in the local wine bar looking for a hookup. As far as I could tell, all her energy went into trying to keep the yarn store and her family afloat.
    Today I noticed there seemed to be an extra furrow to her brow, and for a moment I considered ignoring Frank’s advice and pulling her into the storage room and blurting out that she was the secret Delacorte heir. But the place was busy, and that’s not the kind of news to just dump on someone between ringing up skeins of hand-dyed yarn.
    â€œWe’re over here,” Crystal Smith called to me, waving from a room off to the side. A table sat in front of a window that looked out into the strip of space between the house and its neighbor. Three captain-style chairs were around it. Crystal was Gwen’s daughter, though any resemblance was well hidden. Gwen leaned toward neutrals, while her daughterwas all about splashes of color. Her dark hair fell into tight ringlets, and she had a thing for wearing pieces that didn’t match. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her in a matched set of earrings or a pair of socks that were the same. She managed to wear all kinds of eye makeup and have it work. The one time I’d tried to emulate it, I came out looking like a sad raccoon.
    It was just the two of us for now, and Crystal offered me a chair. “I hope Wanda shows up soon. I have to leave for the football game so I can cheer on my son. Go Monarchs!” Crystal said, shaking her fist in a supportive gesture. “It was very nice of you to bring the corn muffins last night,” she said.
    â€œIt was my attempt at showing town spirit,” I said. As soon as I’d heard about the tradition of a chili dinner the night before the team’s homecoming game, I’d decided to make a contribution. The event was held in the multipurpose room of the natural history museum. Long tables had been set up and the walls decorated with pennants for the Monarchs. I had just gone into the kitchen and dropped off the muffins.
    â€œToo bad you didn’t stay for the dinner,” Crystal said. “The boys were all excited being served by their parents and the coach. There was lots of cheering and ‘We’re going to win this year’ kind of stuff.”
    â€œThe woman making the chili didn’t seem that happy with my donation or my presence,” I said. “Besides, I had things to do.”
    â€œThat would be Rosalie Hardcastle, and I’m not surprised she wasn’t gracious,” Crystal said. “She’s very possessive of the dinner. She started the tradition and cooks the chili from her recipe. If it’s any consolation, the boys really scarfed down those muffins.”
    â€œWell, that’s history now anyway, so on to the present.We’ve got a problem,” I said, hoisting the bag onto the table. Wanda Krug came in just as the bag flopped over on its side and all the long looms fell out and hit the floor.
    Though Wanda was a golf pro at a local resort, which made her an athlete, somehow whenever I saw her all I could think of was “The Teapot Song.” She was short and stout as the lyrics proclaimed, and she had a habit of putting one hand on her hip and gesturing with the other. The funny thing was that with her bland style of dress—polo shirts and comfortable loose slacks—it seemed like she should be Gwen’s daughter.
    Crystal and Wanda had become my regular workshop leaders for the yarn retreats. They were both much better with yarn craft than I was and never agreed on anything. Somehow I’d thought that would balance things out.
    I retrieved the long looms, thinking how much they resembled something you’d put on the wall to hang coats on. I left the bag on its side and