Read Online Knitting Bones by Monica Ferris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Monica Ferris
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huge stretchy stocking pulled over the hard plastic “boot” on her left foot and lower leg to protect her sheets from its buckles and rough edges, but pulling it on had reignited the pain.
She had barely emitted a sigh of relief at successfully becoming horizontal when Sophie jumped up on the bed, on the other side from her usual landing spot, away from Betsy’s wounded leg. Funny how Sophie had immediately understood that her mistress was injured and in pain, that the pain was located in her right leg, and that she, Sophie, while seeking to comfort Betsy, must not step on or bump the injury.
The cat, a beautiful, fluffy white creature with tan and gray patches on her head, down her back, and up her tail, was also very solid, and she joggled the mattress—and Betsy’s leg—while making her way to Betsy’s left side, where she collapsed with a purring sigh. Very gently she put one paw on Betsy’s forearm. Betsy could not help smiling, and she stroked Sophie’s dense fur, eliciting a deeper, more rhythmic purr. Giving and receiving comfort, Sophie was good to have around, Betsy thought.
Betsy was also, for once, grateful that Sophie was probably the laziest cat in the state. Long ago, a friend who owned a more energetic cat was sick in bed, and the cat wore itself out bringing her freshly killed mice, gophers, and once even a squirrel, in an attempt to nourish her mistress back to health.
Sophie, the queen of nourishment, did not hunt even to nourish herself. Possibly it was not her fault, possibly she was taken from her mother before her mother could teach her to hunt; it was even possible her mother did not know how to hunt, either. In any case, Sophie did not seem to know food could come from elsewhere than a human hand.
Betsy’s thoughts had wandered off the topic, which was…what? The pain pill she’d taken after brushing her teeth was kicking in. Oh, yes, sleuthing. And Godwin’s willing, enthusiastic, but not very good attempts at it.
So what was she to do? She didn’t want to hurt Godwin’s feelings by telling him he wasn’t to do any more investigating. And, it wasn’t as if she could go out herself. Perhaps, hinted her weary mind, she should just call the matter off. She’d done what Allie had asked, found that the police were, in fact, looking into other possibilities than that her husband was a thief. Still, it was an interesting case, and she was intrigued by its contradictions. Could she use Godwin’s inept investigating somehow? Or was there someone else she could send out? Who did she know who might be more skilled at sleuthing than Goddy?
The pill began easing her gently into sleep. Her last conscious thought was: Jill.
Eight
I T was late the next morning. Godwin was just starting to think about lunch: Should he go first, or send Marti, the part-timer? It had been a slow morning, and he was sitting at the library table in the middle of the shop, stitching a model Christmas stocking. It was cut out of a piece of canvas and he was covering it in shades of red, white, yellow, and green yarns in a bargello pattern. Bargello is beautiful with its sharply curved lines, and not difficult—if the first line is done correctly. Also, once under way, the stitcher can put it down and pick it up again very easily, a nice quality if one is (hopefully) constantly interrupted by customers. One trick Janet Perry suggests is to begin that first row in the center of the line. Leave half the yarn hanging, parking its end at one end of the canvas, and work the line to the end. Then come back and pick up the loose end and finish the line in the other direction. Godwin was doing an illusion pattern, where the center section had steeper and narrower lines, making it look as if it were partly folded.
He’d done the first row and then quite a few more rows when the door sounded its two musical notes. He put his work down and stood to smile a greeting. And then smiled more warmly. A tall woman with a serene
She had barely emitted a sigh of relief at successfully becoming horizontal when Sophie jumped up on the bed, on the other side from her usual landing spot, away from Betsy’s wounded leg. Funny how Sophie had immediately understood that her mistress was injured and in pain, that the pain was located in her right leg, and that she, Sophie, while seeking to comfort Betsy, must not step on or bump the injury.
The cat, a beautiful, fluffy white creature with tan and gray patches on her head, down her back, and up her tail, was also very solid, and she joggled the mattress—and Betsy’s leg—while making her way to Betsy’s left side, where she collapsed with a purring sigh. Very gently she put one paw on Betsy’s forearm. Betsy could not help smiling, and she stroked Sophie’s dense fur, eliciting a deeper, more rhythmic purr. Giving and receiving comfort, Sophie was good to have around, Betsy thought.
Betsy was also, for once, grateful that Sophie was probably the laziest cat in the state. Long ago, a friend who owned a more energetic cat was sick in bed, and the cat wore itself out bringing her freshly killed mice, gophers, and once even a squirrel, in an attempt to nourish her mistress back to health.
Sophie, the queen of nourishment, did not hunt even to nourish herself. Possibly it was not her fault, possibly she was taken from her mother before her mother could teach her to hunt; it was even possible her mother did not know how to hunt, either. In any case, Sophie did not seem to know food could come from elsewhere than a human hand.
Betsy’s thoughts had wandered off the topic, which was…what? The pain pill she’d taken after brushing her teeth was kicking in. Oh, yes, sleuthing. And Godwin’s willing, enthusiastic, but not very good attempts at it.
So what was she to do? She didn’t want to hurt Godwin’s feelings by telling him he wasn’t to do any more investigating. And, it wasn’t as if she could go out herself. Perhaps, hinted her weary mind, she should just call the matter off. She’d done what Allie had asked, found that the police were, in fact, looking into other possibilities than that her husband was a thief. Still, it was an interesting case, and she was intrigued by its contradictions. Could she use Godwin’s inept investigating somehow? Or was there someone else she could send out? Who did she know who might be more skilled at sleuthing than Goddy?
The pill began easing her gently into sleep. Her last conscious thought was: Jill.
Eight
I T was late the next morning. Godwin was just starting to think about lunch: Should he go first, or send Marti, the part-timer? It had been a slow morning, and he was sitting at the library table in the middle of the shop, stitching a model Christmas stocking. It was cut out of a piece of canvas and he was covering it in shades of red, white, yellow, and green yarns in a bargello pattern. Bargello is beautiful with its sharply curved lines, and not difficult—if the first line is done correctly. Also, once under way, the stitcher can put it down and pick it up again very easily, a nice quality if one is (hopefully) constantly interrupted by customers. One trick Janet Perry suggests is to begin that first row in the center of the line. Leave half the yarn hanging, parking its end at one end of the canvas, and work the line to the end. Then come back and pick up the loose end and finish the line in the other direction. Godwin was doing an illusion pattern, where the center section had steeper and narrower lines, making it look as if it were partly folded.
He’d done the first row and then quite a few more rows when the door sounded its two musical notes. He put his work down and stood to smile a greeting. And then smiled more warmly. A tall woman with a serene
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