Hi, I’m Kath and I’m haunted. No, I can’t believe I just said that. Scratch that, because I refuse to believe in the gho. . . the spiri . . . no. I’m just not. It’s the stress. I’m a textile preservation specialist and I believe in chemical analysis, fumigation hoods, and useful things like wiping out weevil infestations. Not the pitter-pat of paranormal feet. Although, come to think of it, she doesn’t walk around. Mostly she sits. Sometimes in a miserable heap in the dish drainer. Moaning. No. It’s not true. I haven’t seen anybody or anything acting like a damp, dismal dishrag. I am understandably stressed and the last time I thought I saw her I’d missed lunch and supper. She was a figment of my starvation.
I came back to tiny Blue Plum, Tennessee, to bury my dear grandmother and settle her affairs. Granny’s death was a shock. She was eighty, but she was still running her own business – The Weaver’s Cat – and living alone in her house on Lavender Street where she had her looms and dye pots. And after all these years, she’d finally started weaving her Blue Plum tapestry. It was going to be her masterpiece, all her love for Blue Plum woven into one picture.
Members of Thank Goodness It’s Fiber (T.G.I.F. – the group for fiber artists Granny started) held a small wake for her at The Weaver’s Cat after the burial. Everyone there wore something made from yarns Granny dyed or cloth she wove. It was a lovely, touching tribute. And, oh, the food – every bit of it had rosemary in it, for remembrance, including rosemary-infused watermelon lemonade and rosemary olive oil cake with dark chocolate. Both are incredible. If you’d like the recipes, let me know. T.G.I.F. shared with me and I’ll be happy to share with you.
You’d think losing Granny would be the hardest part of her death. Unfortunately, it was just the sad beginning and at this point I’m not sure what’s going on in Blue Plum. There are questions about who owns the house on Lavender Street. The Spivey twins, Granny’s unpleasant cousins, are grinning and stirring things up. Granny left me a very, um, interesting letter letting me in on a secret she’s been keeping for years. Oh, and there’s the small matter of a murder a few weeks back for which Deputy Cole Dunbar suspects Granny. No one else does, just Deputy Dunbar. He also gave me my first ever speeding ticket, the clod. And Maggie, Granny’s cat, is missing. Pretty little Maggie would as soon bite me as look at me, but she was Granny’s delight and, if I don’t find her, I know her unfriendly little mew will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Which brings me back to the ghos . . . the spir . . . that-in-which-I really-do-not-want-to-believe. Can anyone please tell me why, on top of everything else I’m dealing with, I suddenly have a depressed ghost on my hands? Something tells me my life isn’t ever going to be the same.
P.S. You can visit my author, Molly MacRae at her website and read about some of her other books, or find her on Facebook, or follow her the first Monday of every month on Amy Alessio’s vintage food and crafts blog.