Free Dyeing Wishes by Molly MacRae Page A

the occasional blizzard or tornado.
    “And now what’s wrong with you?” Shirley asked me.
    “She must be exhausted, too,” Mercy said. “Let thepoor thing rest. Angie, sweetheart, why don’t you show Kath what a go-getter you are? Be an angel and go see what you can do for those customers waiting so patiently at the counter.”
    I was back up out of the chair like a shot and racing to beat Angie to the customers. I should never have let those khakis and pastel polyester blazers fool me. Soon after Angie’s husband died, the twins had mentioned that she would need a job. They’d been testing the waters then, and I hadn’t bitten. Now they were angling more seriously and that’s why all three of them were here.
    But I didn’t zip past Angie on the way to the counter because she wasn’t headed there to demonstrate her customer service skills. When I tagged the counter first, the camel bells on the door behind me jingled. I turned around just in time to catch a glimpse of Angie’s unhappy, herringbone-clad beam disappearing down the street. Mercy squawked and started after her, but Shirley held her back with a grip on her shoulders. She also whispered something in Mercy’s ear. That could have looked sisterly and consoling. It didn’t. It looked sneaky and suspicious.
    “Your shop is even more exciting than we’d heard,” said the older of the two women at the counter. Her good humor came through with the warmth of her voice and showed in the creases at the corners of her eyes. She was probably in her mid-fifties but must have gone silver years earlier. Her thick hair was cut even with her jawline and she wore it tucked behind her ears, a pair of sunglasses acting as a headband. She made business casual look more chic and trustworthy than the Spiveys did. Also more expensive. No poor little polyesters had given their lives to put the clothes on her back.
    “And we had no idea Blue Plum was so photogenic,” the younger woman said, patting a large, compartmentedbag slung over her shoulder. She was tall and sleek, even in cargo pants and Dr. Martens boots, and her dark hair was long and sleek to match. She looked as though she’d be equally at ease dressed for a tango with a rose clenched between her smiling teeth. The age difference between the two women might make them mother and daughter, but there was nothing about their features or coloring to suggest they were.
    “There’s great small-town atmosphere here,” the younger woman said.
    “You think?” I couldn’t help asking.
    While both nice, normal, very-pleasant-to-have-in-the-shop women confirmed that opinion with comparisons to other small towns they knew and loved and couldn’t pass by, I watched Geneva following the twins and mimicking their movements. They examined the Icelandic wool, stroking and squeezing the various shades although it was unlikely they planned to buy any of it. Mercy held a couple of the skeins under her nose and sniffed them as though testing the bouquet. Geneva pretended to sneeze. I opened my mouth to remind Geneva to behave herself but caught myself and returned my attention to the paying customers.
    “Your scarf is beautiful,” I said to the older woman. “Raw silk?”
    She had the scarf wrapped around her shoulders in one of those twists that look so artistic and effortless and thrown together for the occasion and that would take me half an hour to figure out. It was a lovely thing, wide and loosely woven, in a range of shimmery blues and greens. Granny would have loved it and the way she wore it.
    “It’s silk and something else I’ve forgotten. Don’t tell my sister. She wove it and she’s told me what the other stuff is too many times already.”
    “I promise I’ll only tell her she’s very talented. Is she local?”
    “No, I’m pretty sure you’re safe.” The woman laughed. “She lives in Minnesota. I know she’d love your shop, though.”
    “Thanks. Did you find what you were looking for