Strangers on a Skein

Book 4: Black Sheep & Co. Mystery

by Anne Canadeo

Genres: Animal Cozy Mysteries; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Romantic entanglements and handcrafted murder tie the Black Sheep knitters in knotswhen the local farmers’ market becomes a haven for a killer . . .
 
Phoebe Myers, Black Sheep Knitting Shop’s assistant manager, finally comes out from behind the counter to sell her own creations—Socks by Phoebe—at the Plum Harbor Farmers’ and Crafts Market, a lively, colorful venue that draws shoppers from miles around. But her excitement cools when she learns the previous tenant of her booth, farmer Jimmy Hooper, committed suicide. She’s barely raised her Grand Opening banner when Hooper’s death is upgraded to murder.
 
Phoebe worries that her stall is jinxed when things go from bad to worse. The last person she wants to see, her ex-boyfriend Harry “The Potter” McSweeney, appears in the stall across the aisle to sell his wares. The Black Sheep advise Phoebe to be strong and resist the handsome artist’s spell. But romantic sparks and tempers explode in a very public scene—and a pile of broken pottery. Before Phoebe can get back to business, her stall is trashed, her Facebook page hacked, and another vendor is found dead.   
 
The Black Sheep worry for Phoebe’s safety, especially when Harry becomes the prime suspect in both crimes. Phoebe refuses to believe he’s a killer and is determined to prove him innocent.  Her friends are not convinced, but for Phoebe’s sake—and her safety—the Black Sheep puts their wits together to catch the crafty marketplace killer who’s hiding in plain sight . . .

Release date: October 26, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Maggie—I’m scared. Correction . . . make that totally terrified.” Phoebe’s voice was low, her dark eyes large and luminous. “I can’t do it. No way. What was I thinking?”

Maggie had just arrived at the shop a few minutes before her customary eight o’clock appearance. She found the wide front porch covered with boxes and the front door ajar. As she stepped around the cardboard obstacle course, Phoebe appeared, another load balanced in her arms.

The poor girl looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink and was about to burst into tears. Maggie took the cartons from her hold and gave her assistant manager—and dear young friend—a reassuring hug.

“What’s this? You were over the moon about the news last night.”

“That was then. This is now?”

Maggie shook her head and smiled. “Chin up. A big change like this would make anyone nervous. You know what Eleanor Roosevelt always said—”

Well versed in Maggie’s favorite maxims, Phoebe cut her short with an eye roll. “ ‘We have nothing to fear but fear itself.’ ”

“That was Franklin, dear. Still applies. I meant, ‘You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.’ ” When Phoebe looked unmoved Maggie said, “I felt the same when I opened this shop. Honestly.”

How many years ago was that? Seven, at least. Not long after her husband, Bill, had passed away from a sudden heart attack. The impulse to act on her “someday” dream of owning her own knitting shop seemed the only path out of her deep grief.

But not a clear path. Not clear at all. There were many sleepless nights, when she felt sure that she was about to run her predictable, carefully planned life right off the rails. And toss away the better part of her savings, too.

She’d taken the leap despite those fears—perhaps Bill’s spirit had gently nudged?—and quickly discovered she’d made the right choice. The perfect choice for her. This was the right choice for Phoebe, too.

“How about, ‘Just do it!’? That’s the slogan in the sneaker ads, right?”

Phoebe smiled back. A small but hopeful sign. “If you say so.”

“I do. And I’m dying for some coffee. I’ll start a pot and we’ll talk more.” Maggie stepped inside, where she dropped her purse, knitting bag, and the day’s edition of the local newspaper on the front counter.

She continued to the back of the shop, to the storeroom which had once been a kitchen, before the little Victorian had been turned into retail space. She’d left most of the cabinets and appliances intact, which made it easy to keep a steady flow of coffee, tea, and tasty treats set out for customers and serve savory meals to her knitting group, who met at the shop every week.

Maggie wanted the Black Sheep & Company to be a comfortable place where knitters of every age and skill level could retreat and relax, as if visiting a good friend. She’d met that bar well, she thought. Her customers seemed to think so.

Maggie set up the coffee maker, while Phoebe stood at a big oak table in the back room, sorting through a carton of her knitted creations. Mostly, amazing and unique sock designs, hence the name of her brand, Socks By Phoebe. Phoebe had started with footwear, but offered much more now and had been selling the items at Maggie’s shop, at flea markets, and online for over two years. Her ultimate goal was to open her own shop one day in the not so distant future.

Maggie found her paralyzing bout of doubt surprising, considering Phoebe’s elation when she’d gotten word last night that a stall at Plum Harbor Farmers’ and Crafts Market was suddenly vacant and her name was next on a long list of waiting vendors.

It seemed to Maggie that the reality of running her own business—not quite a real retail store, but a training-wheels version?—had hit home during the night, and now Phoebe was afflicted by a classic case of “watch out what your wish for.” An observation Maggie held to herself.

The call had come a few minutes after six on Tuesday night. Maggie had just flipped the sign on the shop’s door to SORRY, WE’RE RESTING OUR NEEDLES. COME BACK SOON! She’d set about her usual nightly fiddling—clearing the register and straightening a display that had seen a lot of customer action—light and airy summer yarns, in refreshing Popsicle colors.

Phoebe had already gone up to her apartment on the second floor, but Maggie soon heard footsteps flying down the wooden staircase. “Mag? Are you still here? Wait! I have to tell you something . . .”

Maggie ran back to meet her, expecting the typical emergency—a leaky pipe, or a blown circuit breaker. Another field mouse? Phoebe had barricaded herself in the bathroom during that crisis, leaving her one-eared, adopted alley cat, Van Gogh, to deal with the intruder.

This news was a different kind entirely. “I can’t believe it! There are, like, a zillion people waiting for a stall. And I got it! Isn’t that not awesomely lucky?”

Maybe not a zillion, but a fair number, Maggie knew. Local artists and craftspeople, and farmers, too, were all vying for sales space at the busy village market. It was already late July and Phoebe had given up hope of a spot this summer. The turn of events was definitely lucky.

Not so lucky for me, Maggie reflected, though she quickly put her feelings aside. “That’s great news. When do you start?”

“I just have to sign some papers and pay the fee. The stalls are mostly canvas, with a wooden floor, but there’s a flap with a lock if you need to leave stuff inside. The guy who runs the market, Warren Braeburn, said I can open tomorrow.”

Maggie knew Warren a little. More like, knew of him. He was a local farmer who managed the market in Plum Harbor and another like it out in Rockport. It was a second job for him and very taxing, she imagined, on top of running his own farm. So many farmers struggled to make ends meet. There was something noble in the way they pursued their calling. How else could you describe coaxing things to grow from the rocky New England soil?

“Tomorrow? Goodness. Can you manage to set up by then?”

“That’s way too soon, even for me. But maybe by Thursday? I’ll go down in the morning—if you don’t mind?—and check it out. A ton of tourists are coming through the village lately, and I’ve missed so much time already.”

“Very true. The weather this weekend will be perfect.”

Setting up in time to catch the weekend’s high tide of summer tourists showed good business sense. Plum Harbor was not exactly a vacation destination, not nearly as popular or well known as Cape Cod or Martha’s Vineyard. But the classic New England coastal village attracted its fair share of visitors: those who preferred a spot off the beaten track, and weekend sailors who tied up at the village dock and strolled around visiting shops, cafes, and the large Farmers’ and Crafts Market that was set up near the village green from June through October.

The out-of-towners certainly helped business, but a large part of Maggie wished the charms of her hometown could remain a well-kept secret. Lately, it seemed the secret was out.

“Thursday still sounds tight to me,” Maggie said. “Can you manage it?”

Phoebe offered her trademark impish smile. “With a little help from my friends?”

She meant their close circle of pals—Lucy, Suzanne, and Dana—who met every Thursday night to knit, share good food, and ponder life’s mysteries. And put their wits and needles together to solve any mysteries around town, too.

“Of course we’ll help you. That goes without saying.” Maggie was already figuring out when and how she’d close the shop a few hours to help. “How large is the stall? Do you know?”

“Not that big, eight by twelve, I think. But mine is in a busy aisle, right near the food trucks,” Phoebe reported happily.

“That is a good spot. And your friend Robbie is nearby, right? Isn’t he working on a truck this summer?”

“The Mighty Green Taco,” Phoebe replied. “I doubt I’ll see him much. He’s crazy busy most of the time.” She paused, her smile fading. “Harry’s aunt Adele has the stall right across from mine, This & That. She’s always been really nice to me. It’s Harry I’m worried about. If he drops by to see her, I figure I can hide somewhere?”

Maggie was focused on packing her knitting bag for the evening. She wasn’t sure what to say. The possibility of Phoebe running into her former beau Harry McSweeney was not good news. Their breakup a few weeks ago had hurt Phoebe deeply. She’d been so downhearted, and was just coming back to her spunky little self.

“I doubt you’ll see much of him. Best not worry about things that might not even happen, right?”

“Absolutely.” Phoebe, who knew she had that tendency, looked grateful for the reminder.

Maggie did think a young man like Harry had better things to do than hang around a stall of kitschy garage treasures and piles of costume jewelry. Maggie knew that Adele had always liked Phoebe and was sorry to see the young people break up, so there would be no friction from that quarter.

“You’re right. I have more important things to think about than stupid Harry,” Phoebe declared as she’d headed back up the stairs. “I have to pull out my entire inventory and figure out what to sell.”

Maggie was cheered to hear that plan and headed home, feeling happy for her protégé. But wistful, too. Phoebe had come into her life initially as a customer, armed with basic stitching know-how and eager to learn more. But her startling aptitude and creative flare was unmistakable and she was soon coaching other students in the classes Maggie taught. And dropping in during her spare time for more tips and stitching comradery.

During her years teaching art in the local high school, Maggie had met many students like Phoebe, brimming with talent and potential, but very much in need of support and encouragement from a caring adult. Maggie had been happy to take Phoebe under her wing, and when Phoebe started looking for a new apartment and part-time job that fit her college schedule, the solution felt like synchronicity. Maggie hired her as an assistant and offered the apartment on the second floor at a bargain rent. Phoebe very quickly became essential to the Black Sheep Knitting Shop, and a very dear friend.

More than a friend, Maggie thought. Phoebe had lost her mother when she was only nine or ten. Her father had quickly remarried and started a new family. They lived in Arizona and Phoebe rarely visited. She’d always felt like an outsider in her stepfamily and left home right after she’d graduated high school. She was close to her older brother, but he’d made a career in the military and she rarely saw him.

With so few family ties or maternal guidance, Phoebe had become a daughter to Maggie, in a way. Her Knitting Daughter, she might say.

Maggie had a real daughter she loved dearly. Julia had settled in Chicago after college and didn’t come east nearly enough. But they were always in touch with phone calls and text messages, and ever close in spirit.

Maggie’s relationship with Phoebe was different, but just as lovely and important to her. Without question, she wanted to see Phoebe succeed. Even if it meant leaving the Black Sheep & Company Knitting Shop behind.

Phoebe’s cold feet about her new venture were the last thing that Maggie had expected this morning.

She emerged from the storeroom and handed Phoebe a mug of coffee—light, with two sugars, just the way she liked it. Then held out her own mug in a salute.

“We’ll have a proper toast soon. With everybody,” she said, meaning their close circle. “Until then, I’m wishing you great success. Best of luck with your new business. Though I’m sure you don’t need it.”

“Thanks, Mag. I hope you’re right.” Phoebe smiled as they clinked mugs. She sipped, then set her coffee down, her expression suddenly serious. “Something else spooked me last night. I called Warren back with a few questions and asked him why the stall was suddenly vacant. He said the person who was renting it just died. A farmer, Jimmy Hooper. He’s been there for years, selling fruit and vegetables. It really creeped me out. I mean, I used to buy stuff from him all the time.”

“Jimmy Hooper? I know him, too. Not very well, but his wife was an accomplished knitter. I would run into her all the time.” Before she had opened her own shop, Maggie meant. “I buy a lot of produce from him, too. Bought a lot, I mean.” Maggie corrected herself, adjusting to the past tense of Jimmy. She was surprised to hear this sad news. “When did he die? I didn’t hear a word about it.”

“Over the weekend. I’m not sure of the exact day.” Phoebe paused a moment, then said, “He committed suicide. That’s what Warren said.” She shivered, hugging the hot coffee in both hands. “It’s weird enough to take his space. But you know what they say about people who die in sudden accidents, or off themselves, and all that?”

Maggie didn’t like where this was going. She knew some people believed that the spirit of a person who passed away in unexpected or unhappy circumstances got confused about where they belonged, and might linger in a familiar place. Some people used the word linger, others said haunt.

Either way, it struck her as a silly, superstitious notion. Phoebe, with her active imagination and sensitive nature, was susceptible to such theories.

“I know what you’re going to say, Mag. It’s just plain silly and superstitious to worry about such a thing.”

Maggie had to laugh. “You’re a mind reader, as well as a talented mimic. I understand why you feel uneasy. It would be callous not to give the poor man a thought.” Maggie sipped her coffee. “I have to admit, I’m shocked to hear it. Jimmy kept to himself after his wife died, but he was an easygoing, cheerful man. Always very friendly and talkative at his stall.”

“He always chatted me up, too. He seemed like some happy farmer in a kid’s show.” An odd analogy, Maggie thought, but it fit Jimmy perfectly. “I’d never take him for the type to commit suicide.”

“I wouldn’t, either,” Maggie agreed. “I suppose we’ll learn the reason for his despair at some point.” Plum Harbor was a small town. Even the most private information went viral. “He’ll certainly be missed. I wonder if there will be a memorial for him.”

“I’d like to pay my respects,” Phoebe said. “Especially since I got his stall.”

“I’ll let you know what I hear. It’s kind of you to be concerned, Phoebe. But I think that Jimmy would have thoroughly approved of you inheriting his market space. He was an unconventional man. Plowed to his own drummer, you might say?” Phoebe winced at her wordplay. “Just like you knit to yours,” Maggie added. “Someone has to take over. I’d say you were the perfect choice.”

Phoebe tilted her head, considering Maggie’s words. “I never thought of it that way. That makes me feel better.”

“Good.” Maggie set her empty mug on the table. “We both better get rolling. Throngs of customers will be beating down the door any minute.”

An exaggeration, they both knew. Summer was a slow time, but Maggie still found a way to bring in customers. Kids Knit, Too was a popular class, where Maggie taught children a simple hand-knitting technique and they even made a toy. Her class for expectant mothers, and grandmothers, What to Knit When You’re Expecting, was sold out year-round.

At ten this morning, she would meet with a small but dedicated group who had signed up for Summer Knit-cation. For this eclectic group at different skill levels and interests, her role was more coach than teacher.

Like the famous fable, these knitters were Maggie’s worker ants. While the grasshopper knitters put aside their needles in the spring and played in the sun, the worker ants stitched on. Turning out ponchos, baby hats with animals ears, scarves with team colors, and mittens to match. Lap shawls, felted totes, and sweaters of all shapes, styles, and sizes. By the time the holidays arrived, their projects would be snipped, blocked, and gift ready.

She loved her worker-ant knitters. They kept her in business this time of year, that was for sure.

Phoebe headed up to her apartment. “I’d better see what else needs to go. Robbie is going to help me bring everything down to the stall. He’ll be here in a little while.” Maggie nodded. Robbie was not only Phoebe’s “he’s just a friend” male pal, but also Harry’s roommate. So far, everyone seemed to be navigating the complication well.

Halfway up the stairs, Phoebe turned. “Sorry to cut out on such short notice. I can check out the stall later if you need me here?”

The offer was tempting but Maggie shook her head. “I have to get used to this sea change, too. The sooner the better.”

She offered Phoebe a cheerful smile, though it did feel as if she’d been tossed in the deep end. At least Phoebe wasn’t abandoning her in the fall or winter. Best to look on the bright side, if you can find one, Maggie reflected as she headed back out to the porch.

As she stood among the cartons overflowing with Phoebe’s colorful and unique hand-knit socks, hats, hair bands, sweaters, scarves, bikinis, and who knew what else, her thoughts turned back to Jimmy Hooper.

Suicide? She could hardly believe it. Phoebe hadn’t said if the police had signed off on that conclusion. The market manager, who had passed along the news, may not have known for sure, either. Maggie knew that when a person died alone, even if the cause appeared to be accidental, a thorough investigation was required under law, including a medical examiner’s close inspection of the body and an autopsy. She’d be interested to know if that inquiry was concluded or still ongoing.

Maggie heard a familiar voice call her and looked up to find her friend Lucy coming up the walk. Lucy’s dogs, both rescues—Tink, a scraggly golden retriever; and Wally, a three-legged chocolate Lab mix—tugged her along at a swift pace. Lucy walked them into town almost every morning and the dynamic trio stopped at the shop on their way home.

Back in the spring, she and her fiancé, Charles adopted a dog of their own, an adorable Labrador and Portuguese water hound mix, a brown ball of fluff that they’d named Daisy. Ever since, Maggie had noticed she was not only more tolerant of Lucy’s panting four-footed companions, she also found their antics rather cute.

The happy hounds bounded up the porch steps, knowing they’d be rewarded with biscuits and cold water while they waited out the visit. But Lucy looked miffed. As miffed as the good-natured blonde ever got. More of a befuddled expression, Maggie decided.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re having a yard sale? We have a ton of junk to unload.” She followed the dogs up to the porch and tied the dog leashes to the railing. “Can I leave these guys a few minutes and grab some stuff from my garage?”

Maggie laughed. “You can if you like. But I’m not having a sale. This is all Phoebe’s. She’s opening a stall at the farmers’ market. She heard last night that a spot is free.”

Lucy’s expression melted into her usual sunny smile. “Wow, that’s great. She’s been waiting all summer for that call. She must be ecstatic.”

“She was at first. Until a bout of nerves and superstition set in. I think she’ll be fine once she’s down there.” Maggie shoved some cartons aside with her foot, to clear a path to the wicker love seat and chairs. “It’s a sad story actually. Do you know Jimmy Hooper? Hooper’s Organic Farm, out near the Piper Nursery?”

“Sure, I know that place. He grows the juiciest tomatoes. I always stop at his stall when I go to the market. He’s such a sweet man.”

“Was a sweet man. He died this past weekend. Suicide, Phoebe heard. That part rattled her. You know how she buys into those silly ideas about wandering spirits. This is the first I’ve heard about his passing, too. I was just going to check the Plum Harbor Times for some mention of him.”

“That’s so sad. He hardly seemed the type.”

“That was my reaction, too.” Maggie considered voicing her suspicions. Not suspicions, exactly, but her curiosity to know if the police had found any evidence of foul play. But she decided not to get on that track with Lucy. Though the question did tug at her.

“Is there a type? Who can really say?” Maggie finally replied.

“I suppose. Was he married?”

“Yes, to his high school sweetheart. They had a son and a daughter, though I’m not sure where the children live now. His wife, Penelope, had a long battle with multiple sclerosis. I know they struggled. There were fundraisers in town for her medical bills. After she died, he socialized a lot less. Maybe even started drinking more than he should have?”

“It’s hard enough to make a decent profit from a farm, without medical bills piled on top. That might drive anyone to drown their troubles.”

“True enough,” Maggie said, considering the sometimes-slim profits from her own business. “They do say men find it hard to seek help when they feel overwhelmed. That ‘strong, silent’ macho thing. It’s unfortunate.”

Lucy sighed. “You can see a person every day but you never know what they might be dealing with privately.”

Maggie agreed.. . .