A Fatal Fleece Read Online Free PDF Page A

planted. Sal, Beverly Walden, and Rebecca Early sat back on their heels, surprised they were being watched, and nodded a hello.
    But Davey’s eyes didn’t stay focused on the plants or on the gardeners mulching the flowers or on Ham, standing nearby, his fingers around the rototiller handle. Instead he focused on the slow-moving weeds that were swallowing up the fisherman, almost as if his look alone would make the old man disappear forever.
    Izzy hugged her aunt Nell and relieved her of one of the white bags that held the knitters’ dinner. She breathed in the familiar odor of garlic and lemon. It was the Thursday-night ritual that Izzy cherished as much as a shipment of vicuña yarn.
    “Am I the first one? I called Birdie to see if she needed a ride but didn’t get an answer. Have you heard from her?”
    “Not a word, and it’s killing me.” Izzy pulled the top of the bag apart and looked inside. “Clams? Lobster?”
    The banging of the front door interrupted, and Cass breezed in. She was across the room in seconds, taking the second bag from Nell. “I could smell it all the way down the street. It’s shrimp. Shrimp with wine, lemon, and garlic sauce.”
    Nell laughed. “For someone whose primary cooking skill is heating up a can of beans, you have a remarkable ability to discern odors.”
    “Thank you. And I’m right, right?”
    “Of course you are,” Nell said, and turned toward the back-room steps.
    Another banging of the door stopped her at the top step. Birdie. At last.
    “Birdie, what . . .” But it wasn’t Birdie who stood in a patch of late-day sunlight crisscrossing the hardwood floor.
    It was a young girl with the most amazing head of hair Nell had ever seen.
    Izzy and Cass glanced at Nell. Who was she? Clearly they didn’t know her, either, which meant she was probably a part of that first wave of vacationing families, those who came to Cape Ann when ocean waters were still too chilly for most, but the choices of cottages were greater and the beaches quieter.
    “Hi,” Izzy said. “May I help you?”
    The girl looked to be about nine or ten, with clear blue eyes and a broad smile. Her hair was blue-black, like a raven’s feathers, shoulder length, and wildly curly, blowing in a dozen directions. It was held in place—barely—by a crocheted green beanie with an enormous orange flower in the center of the brim. Long, skinny legs bore bruises of various colors and sizes, and hanging over one shoulder, held in place by a wide canvas strap, was the likely source of the injuries: a battered skateboard.
    “This is the yarn shop, right?” she asked. She looked over at a basket piled high with yarn.
    On top of it sat Purl, the shop’s calico cat. She looked at the young girl and purred a hello, then jumped from the pile to the floor and rubbed against her leg.
    The youngster giggled, then leaned down and scooped Purl up into her arms, hugging the cat to her chest. She stood back up.
    Izzy nodded. “Yes. This is the yarn shop. One of them, anyway.”
    “But the only one in this town?”
    “That would be true.”
    Purl rubbed her head against the girl’s cheek.
    “Whew. That’s good. I was supposed to meet her here and I promised I’d be on time.” She shifted Purl slightly and looked down at a large watch that was as big as her narrow wrist. “I’m early. That’s a first.”
    The laugh that followed was childlike and infectious, big andgenerous and spontaneous. Her face lit up, showing off a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. “I’m never early, not usually. I’m not very dependable, Heather says. That’s my current stepmother. But my uncle says being dependable isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes you have to just be spontaneous.” She stroked Purl’s back with two fingers. “Do any of you guys work here?”
    Her eyes went from one woman to the next, her look connecting with each of them. When she reached Cass, she paused, brows pulling together for a