Free Knot the Usual Suspects by Molly MacRae Page B

Geneva, although she’d made valuable contributions to our investigations, was the most excitable member of the group. As she might say, “excitable” was a good word meaning “unpredictable” or “volatile.” Because of that, and as much as it grieved her, it was probably best the others didn’t know she was a member. Ardis knew now, but investigating Hugh’s murder would be the first time they were both aware of working together. Given the uncertain chemistry between them, that could prove interesting.
    Geneva hummed the theme music from
Murder, She Wrote
and smiled at me.
    â€œIf you throw in episodes of
Miami Vice
,” she said, “I could give you pointers for piloting a powerboat seized from drug smugglers and teach you to drive your car in a sportier manner. Not to mention make suggestions for a snappier way of dressing.”
    â€œSorry, no TV.”
    â€œIn that case, I will only agree that you are disagreeable,” she said, and she disappeared.
    *   *   *
    Bombing Blue Plum—yarn-bombing it—had been Thea Green’s idea. Thea, in addition to being an active and avid member of TGIF, was the director of the J. F. CulpMemorial Library—Blue Plum’s public library with a name almost longer than the sign for it on the lawn in front of the building. Thea was constantly looking for ways to engage more teenagers and twenty-somethings in library activities.
    â€œIt wouldn’t hurt to shake up TGIF, too,” she’d said back at the beginning of September during a meeting of the TGIF challenge knitting group known as Fridays Fast and Furious. We were furiously working to meet our goal of knitting one thousand baby hats for newborns by the end of the year.
    â€œWe might actually get a few bodies younger than geriatric to join,” Thea had said that afternoon. “Yarn bombing is cutting-edge stuff—or it would’ve been if we’d done it a few years ago. What could possibly be cooler than fiber graffiti? And it ties in perfectly with Handmade Blue Plum next month. And the kids will be out of school for the fall break with time on their hands. We can leave fun fiber surprises all over town for the visitors to find and enjoy. It’ll be like a knitting and crochet scavenger hunt. And it’ll help clear out everyone’s stash closet. If we start now, we’ll have time to prepare. It’ll be exciting. Edgy, even, depending on how we do it, and if you think this town can handle edgy. And
if
we do it, we can still claim to be on top of the wave, because yarn bombing’s never been done around here before. What do you think?” In her excitement, Thea stood up and waved her knitting needles so that she was in danger of losing stitches.
    â€œStep over here and call me geriatric. That’s what I’m thinking,” Mel Gresham said. Mel and Thea were only a few years older than me, putting them in their early to mid-forties. Mel, with spiked lime-green hair, was slicingthe tunnel of fudge cake she’d brought for refreshments, and she still held the knife.
    â€œ
Are
we geriatric?” Ernestine O’Dell—seventy-something—turned to John Berry—eighty-something. “Except for my eyesight, and a few more pounds, and a touch of stiffness first thing in the morning, and the occasional memory lapse, and shrinking an inch or two, and, of course, the white hair and wrinkles, I don’t feel any different than I did at fifty. And one of my great-grandchildren told me they aren’t wrinkles anyway. They’re ‘life experience lines.’ ‘Geriatric’ doesn’t sound as nice as plain old being old.”
    â€œI like the words ‘spry for his age’ better than ‘geriatric,’” John said, “as long as they aren’t on my gravestone.”
    Thea interrupted a growl coming from Ardis. “Relax, Ardis. And, Ernestine, you’re