Free Dyeing Wishes by Molly MacRae Page B

upstairs?”
    “I just needed a quick fix,” the photographer said. “I don’t really have time for needlepoint these days.” She patted her camera case again.
    “But I was wondering if you could make a couple of recommendations,” the scarf woman said.
    “Sure. As you can see, we have a wide variety of yarns, threads, needles, and notions. Pretty much, if it’s related to fiber or needlework, we’ve got it, and we also do special orders when we can. Or if you need help with a pattern or a particular project, we do that, too.”
    I smiled some more. They exchanged looks.
    “Well, now we feel bad,” the photographer said. “All your wonderful wares and services and what we’re really hoping is that you can tell us the best place to eat lunch.”
    “And can you give us directions to a B and B, if there is one?” the scarf woman said. “We’re on a tight schedule today but maybe we can make it back in the morning to do some shopping. You can help me find something for my sister’s birthday.”
    “Oh. Sure, of course.” I nodded away my disappointment. The local yarn shop wasn’t the most obvious place to seek dining and lodging information, but I knew there were travelers and whims of all kinds. “Lunch is easy,” I said. “Nobody can beat Mel’s on Main. Mel has everything from vegan to a daily meat and two veg, plus the best homemade bread and pastries. Go left out our doorand it’s toward the end of the block. Your nose won’t let you get lost.”
    “Perfect. I think we saw that on the way in. And a B and B?”
    “I’m not as up on places to stay. I know there’s a motel out on the four-lane, but ask at Mel’s. Someone there will know about B and Bs.”
    “Sounds good,” the scarf woman said. She started to say something else, but the photographer slipped in ahead of her.
    “Pictures are okay, aren’t they? Sorry, Sylvia.” She touched the other woman’s arm. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but the light looks perfect out there right now.” She turned back to me. “If I want to get pictures of the front of the shop, of any of the shops, that’s not a problem, is it?”
    “If we don’t see tourists taking pictures we don’t know how to act.”
    “And the same goes for freelance journalists taking pictures?”
    “Um, sure. As far as I know.”
    “Super. I’ll meet you outside, Sylvia. I want to catch the courthouse with that blue, blue sky.” She turned with an “Oh, hi, sorry,” as she dodged the twins.
    Mercy followed her to the door and watched her angle across the street. Shirley kept her eyes on the woman named Sylvia, who was still standing at the counter. Geneva draped herself around one of the ceiling fans, which I’d forgotten to turn on with the lights.
    “Are you both journalists?” I asked.
    “More like trying to be,” Sylvia said, sounding apologetic. “Hi, I’m Sylvia Furches.” She held out her hand and I shook it. “I hope you don’t think we were trying to mislead you.”
    I hadn’t until she brought it up. “I’m Kath Rutledge.”
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kath. And that was Pen Ledford. We’re taking a class at the community college in Asheville. We have a final project we need to do, and when Pen heard about the, well, about the trouble here yesterday, she was keen to take a run over the mountains to see what we can dig up. I think she has ‘scoop’ on the brain. She’s full of energy and ideas.” She smiled and wiggled her fingers near her ears to illustrate all that energy percolating out of Pen. Then she folded her hands and leaned closer. “Did the murders happen in Blue Plum?”
    “Near here,” I said, wishing not for the first time that lies would roll off my tongue convincingly. Settling for being nonspecific would do in a pinch, though. Sylvia and Pen could find out more, easily enough, without my being their source.
    “It was shocking news, wasn’t it?” Sylvia said. She sounded genuinely distressed but kept her