"Join Kate and unravel this delightful mystery!"
Reviewed by Sharon Salituro
Posted January 25, 2015
Mystery Cozy
Kate is trying her best to get settled in her new shop,
Weaver's Cat. Little does Kate know that there is a ghost
living in her business.
The town of Blue Plum, Tennessee is getting ready for
their big
festival. The town committee wants to use Kate's upstairs
window for a reenactment. Kate is thrilled that part of
her shop is going to be part of this festival. The big
problem that now stands in the way is that the Reva, the
local baker is shot.
The town is in shocked especially when they feel that the
sniper is living in Kate's shop.
Kate has her own theory of who would want to kill Reva.
Kate and her group are on the case to find out is there a
ghost in the shop or someone making it look like one. Molly MacRae has a great talent for not only writing a
great
who dun it, including a little of humor in the mix. I
know I have said this in the past, but at the end of the
book there are recipes and knitting
patterns. Since I love to cook knit, this was
something that I really like.
SPINNING IN HER GRAVE by Molly McRae is a fast read.
Sit back, relax and enjoy this charming story.
SUMMARY
Kath Rutledge is settling in as the owner of the Weaver’s
Cat, a fiber and fabric shop in Blue Plum, Tennessee. But
nothing, not even the ghost haunting her shop, prepares
her
for the mystery that will leave the whole town
spinning.... It’s time for Blue Plum’s annual historical festival, and
everyone—including Kath and her spunky fiber and
needlework
group, TGIF—is getting in on the action. Expert spinners
are
being gathered, and a businessman has approached Kath
about
using the second-floor windows of her store for part of a
reenactment. But the reenactment ends in real-life
bloodshed
when local baker Reva Louise Snapp is shot—with a bullet
from a modern-day gun. Kath has her theories about who wanted to end Reva
Louise’s
life. But there’s also talk of a sniper stalking Blue
Plum,
and Kath’s shop is suspected to be the murderer’s
hideout.
Now Kath, her TGIF pals, and the gloomy ghost, Geneva,
must
unravel the mystery quickly, or someone else might be
left
hanging by a thread....
ExcerptChapter 1“With guns?” I stared at the man standing on the other
side of the sales counter in the Weaver’s Cat, my fiber
and fabric shop in Blue Plum, Tennessee. I’d only just
met him—Mr. J. Scott Prescott as it said on the card he’d
slid across the counter. He was slight and had a well-
scrubbed, earnest face that at first glance put him
anywhere from early twenties to mid-thirties. He wore an
expensive suit and tie, though, and had the beginnings of
crows’-feet at the corners of his eyes. Taken together,
those details put him closer to the mature, successful
end of that age range. He also came across as calm and
operating on an even keel, despite the mention of guns.
Unfortunately, much as I wanted to appear the competent,
calm business owner so early on a Friday morning, I
couldn’t help sounding more edgy than even. “You’re
kidding, right?” “Your town board already gave us—” Mr. Prescott started
to say. I interrupted, holding up my hand. “But they’re running
through the streets with guns?” “Only some of them will be running.” Again, the gravitas
of his suit and tie helped. “Okay, well . . .” “Half a dozen. A dozen tops, and we reconsidered the
burning torches and decided against them. Most of the
rest of the actual participants will be posted at
strategic points around town.” He gestured right and
left, fingers splayed in his excitement. Thank goodness
for the suit; otherwise he was beginning to look and
sound like an eager Boy Scout. “We already have
permission to use the park,” he said, “and the old train
depot and the upper porch of Cunningham House. The main
concentration will be in the two or three blocks
surrounding the courthouse.” His hands demonstrated
several concentric circles, then came together with a
ghost of a clap and he leaned toward me. “Oh, and we’ve
been given access to the roof of the empty mercantile
across from the courthouse. Those locations are for the
visible men; the rest will be hiding. As I said, the
plans and permissions have been in place for several
months, but one of the property owners was recently
obliged to back out and that’s where you and the Weaver’s
Hat come in.” “Cat.” “Pardon?” He straightened. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but we’re the
Weaver’s Cat, as in ‘meow.’ Not hat.” “Really? I’m embarrassed. Anyway, we’d love it if one or
two of the men could sneak in here during the action and
watch from the windows upstairs.” “Hmm.” “They won’t get in your way. They’ll watch at the windows
and when they see the other men down in the street,
they’ll stick their heads out and shoot. They might also
do the famous yell, but I’ll tell them that’s optional,
sort of as the spirit moves them, if you see what I mean.
But a bloodcurdling yell like that really whips up the
enthusiasm of the spectators, and between that and the
shots erupting from unexpected places, it’ll keep things
off balance in a realistic way so that the whole
reenactment will have an incredible sense of authenticity
and it’ll be great.” He stopped, eyes wide. I took a step
back. “At this point I should ask you not to divulge any of the
details we’ve discussed,” he said. “We’re keeping the
program under wraps. Looking for the big reveal, if you
see what I mean. The wow. Also, I forgot to ask, do the
windows upstairs open? Because there isn’t any point in
trying to shoot out of them if they don’t.” I’d processed his words and understood his gesturing
hands, and it would have taken a harder history-loving
heart than mine to ignore the excitement of a good-
natured reenactment. The tourists flocking to town for
our annual heritage celebration—Blue Plum Preserves—would
no doubt love it, too. But my mind kept skipping back to
my original question. “With guns?” J. Scott blinked. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout,” I said. I
surreptitiously wiped my mouth in case I’d also spit.
“But the stories I remember hearing always made that
whole episode sound more like a loud fuss between
neighbors than a feud with guns.” “But a feud is more fun. Plus, there’s historical
precedent. A pig almost changed the course of American
history in 1859. Look it up sometime. It’s fascinating.
Of course, we’re switching the pig out for a piglet,
because piglets are cute. People love them. I’d also like
you to think of the marketing possibilities. If the event
goes well this year, just wait until next. And I assure
you it will be perfectly safe. No projectiles. No live
rounds. No actual aiming at people. Your mayor and
aldermen were extremely impressed by how thoroughly and
carefully I’ve choreographed the event. It will be
playacting at its finest. Verisimilitude and good fun.
We’re taking Blue Plum’s worn-out skit and giving it the
life it should be living. We’re giving Blue Plum’s
history the voice and resonance it was meant to have.
Believe me when I say this will take your festival
weekend to the next level. Blue Plum Preserves is going
to be on the map and on every heritage tourist’s
itinerary. The result will be more visitors, more fun,
and more money in the merchants’ pockets. Win. Win. Win.
And here’s something else that will interest you. If I’m
not mistaken, one of the originators of the festival, a
founding mother, if you will, was, like you, a knitter.” “Are you talking about Ivy McClellan?” “Ivy?” He nodded. “Yes, that could be the name. I see you
know your local history. That’s wonderful. She might be
the one who dabbled on the original skit, too. The
records aren’t entirely clear on that.” “Ivy McClellan was my grandmother.” “You’re kidding. Is she still . . .” “She died four months ago. This was her shop. She and a
couple of friends wrote the skit based on their
research.” “I am so sorry for you loss.” He gave his sorrow half a
beat. “But then this will be especially wonderful. It
could hardly be more appropriate for the shop to have a
role in this year’s celebration. You will be honoring
your grandmother’s memory and her vision by letting part
of the action take place here. And that win, win, win I
mentioned? It will go for you and the Weaver’s Cat, too.
You’ll see. People eat this stuff up.” He smacked his
lips and smiled. “Frankly, I’m surprised you aren’t
already aware of the reenvisioning of what I believe is a
cornerstone activity of Blue Plum Preserves.” I opened my mouth—but to say what? That I’d been busy
planning the shop’s own festival booth and related
activities? Maybe. To tell him my life had been upended
and my mind otherwise occupied since Granny died?
Probably not, but it didn’t matter, anyway. He was primed
and ready and got in ahead of whatever I might have said. “Also, if you stop and think, I feel sure you’ll realize
you’re focusing on the wrong component of the event.” He
shook his head with a sad cluck of his tongue. “It
happens, though. Mention guns and there are people who
will misinterpret what you’re trying to do. But I think
that, like the others, you’re missing the educational
importance of this kind of event. You’re focusing on a
small part of our tool set and missing the bigger picture
of our message.” “I could be.” I nodded, trying to give him the benefit of
a snapless judgment. He was right. I was having trouble
getting past the guns. Guns in the streets of Blue Plum.
Guns fired out my second-floor windows. Guns in a little
skit about a minor land squabble and wandering livestock.
I gave myself a shake to jar my focus somewhere other
than guns. Then, to give my judgment more time to flex
and accommodate other interpretations, I picked up his
card and read the fine print under his name. “You’re a
piano salesman?” He tipped his head and smiled. “High-end,” he said. That probably accounted for the antique ivory color of
the card and expensive feel of the stock. The name of the
store and his position were expensive sounding, too. He
was vice president for institutional sales at the
Copeland Piano Gallery in Knoxville, about a hundred and
twenty miles west of us. Interesting. I glanced from the
card to J. Scott Prescott for a quick comparison between
him and whatever my preconceived notion of piano salesmen
was, high-end or otherwise. Before I got further than
thinking his hands were smaller than seemed optimal for
reaching octaves, a question occurred to me. “What’s your interest in this, Mr. Prescott? Why are you
involved in our ‘worn-out skit,’ if you don’t mind my
asking?” He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his smile warmed and he
slid a second card across the counter. This one was a
richer, almost edible butternut color and glossy with an
embossed seal in the center. I ran my fingertips over the
words running around the seal’s edge: “Prescott
Preservation Realty.” “Also high-end,” he said. “And I’ll let you in on a
secret. The empty mercantile there across from the
courthouse? I’m brokering a deal for an exciting new
business and an eager tenant-to-be. That’s why we’ll have
access to the roof. As a favor to me. The owner has been
trying to rent or sell the place for years and is very
happy I came along. I specialize in at-risk vintage and
antique buildings. I am all about preservation. Of our
history, our heritage, our homes. Our home.” He spread
his arms wide, embracing the whole, heartwarming caboodle
and with “our home,” he gave a slight bow. “So you see? I
fit right in with the tenth annual Blue Plum Preserves
celebration.” “Oh, I didn’t realize you’re from Blue Plum.” “Well, no, actually I’m not. I was using ‘our’ and ‘home’
in the broader sense,” he said. “I also suspect I’m
preaching to the choir when it comes to antique
buildings. This whole row house is an architectural gem.
Do you rent?” “I own.” “The whole row?” “This house.” “Well, the way you kept the feel of the original home
when you repurposed it should be written up in one of the
journals. No changes too drastic— it’ll be a snap for
anyone to turn it back into a single-family residence.
And having this unit is a plus. Windows on three sides,
plenty of light. Are there any structural problems?
Anything with the drains? The roof? If you ever want to
sell—” “No.” He might have taken my interruption as a slap. I might
have meant it that way. I felt like a cat with fur on
end, claws exposed for a razor swipe across his nose if
he took another step closer to my mortgage-free deed.
This house had been my grandparents’ home. Granny had
started the Weaver’s Cat right there in the corner of the
room and let it grow and stretch until it had taken over
the whole house. Granny’s inspiration and the love she
had for all forms of needlework were intricately and
inextricably woven into every inch of the Weaver’s Cat.
This building—and all its accumulated fibers and fabrics
and textures and colors and memories—this house was not a
repurposed unit. “It won’t be for sale any time soon,” I said after taking
a deep breath. “Message received.” J. Scott Prescott held up a placating
hand and smiled. “And you just proved my point about
preaching to the choir.” “Huh. Okay. But I guess I’m still not following. How did
you get so involved? Here, I mean, and in the skit? All
the way from Knoxville?” It was tempting to add “in
little old Blue Plum,” but only because I was beginning
to feel perverse. “We’re giving the skit a title, by the way,” he said.
“Apparently it’s never had one, other than people calling
it the pig skit. It’s now, officially, ‘The Blue Plum
Piglet War.’” He dipped back into his inside suit coat pocket and
brought out a third business card. I reached for it, but
he was ahead of me again, and he took my reaching hand,
cupping it in his. If he’d actually gripped my hand, I
would have yanked away from him faster than he could give
a Blue Plum Piglet War yell. But all he did was lay the
third card on my palm, tap it twice with a fingertip, and
wink. I ignored the wink and removed my hand from his. This
third card was simple white cardstock with a stylized
sketch of an ink bottle and a feather pen poised as
though it had just finished writing the words “Prescott
Preservation Plays.” I put the card on the counter next
to its friends. “You’re a man of many business cards.” “I’m a man of many interests,” J. Scott said, “and by
necessity a man of several streams of income. I blame the
economy. But writing heritage plays for community
celebrations is my true passion. If I may be allowed to
put it in such high-flying terms, I feel a calling. I’ve
written seven plays, to date, for communities from Darien
in coastal Georgia to tiny Cumberland near Kingdom Come
State Park in Kentucky. Each one has been well received
and made a difference in the lives of the citizens.” “But the—” “And you can trust me on the gun issue,” he said. “The
reenactors will not be just a bunch of good old boys
playing with fantasies and popguns.” He grinned, showing
me his ivories and also showing me that he could laugh at
a stereotype as easily as the next good old boy. “So,
Miss Rutledge, Kath, I know this is short notice, but may
we have your blessing and permission to stage part of
‘The Blue Plum Piglet War’ from the upstairs windows of
your charming place of business next weekend?” “No. I’m sorry, but no.”
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