Page 12 of Ghostridden
I narrowed my eyes. “Needlework and occult are not exactly two words I expect to find sharing shop space.”
Taryn sighed. “They didn’t used to. They used to be two separate shops, but Ghost businesses have been struggling a little since the bypass out of Richdale opened a few years ago. We don’t get as many beach-goers stopping on the way to the coast anymore. Patrice’s mother owned the needlework place and her aunt owned the occult shop. But after Mrs. DeHaven passed, the aunt moved to Portland. Patrice didn’t want to deprive Ghost of two businesses at once, so she combined them and hired a manager to run them for her.”
“Someone adept at psychic knitting?” I asked dryly.
She grinned. “You’d be surprised. But while Patrice kept the businesses open, she’s a dyed-in-the-wool introvert. When she’s at home, she keeps to herself to recharge for teaching her classes.”
I suppose I could sympathize. My grandmother had been an introvert too, and spent much of her last couple of years happily never leaving her apartment. “Well, it’s a little freaky, her peering out the window. All I can see is those round glasses glinting behind the window, like—”
“Mrs. Who,” we both said simultaneously and grins broke out on both our faces.
“You readA Wrinkle in Time?” she asked.
“From the time I was in grade school. I was so excited when they announced the movie, and the casting for Meg was perfect. But—”
“But not the three ladies.” She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. I wonder if the name actresses refused to play the parts if they couldn’t glam it up.” She shook her head. “Tangents aside, was there anything else?”
“Some throw pillows were tossed around in the family room, and a painting is askew. But otherwise, the only thing”—there went those spiders again, my own personal arachnid Rockettes—“was on the typewriter in the attic.”
She frowned. “Typewriter in the attic? The only time I was in the attic, it was packed to the rafters with dusty cardboard boxes and chairs with their cane bottoms broken. Granted, that was when I was thirteen.”
“They must have cleared it out when they did the renovation. Now, it’s cleaner than my old apartment, and the only thing that’s in there is a Smith Corona electric with no ribbon on top of a Mission-style secretary.”
Something flickered in her eyes. “Show me.”
“The typewriter? Or the paper that was on it?”
“Did you remove the paper?”
“Yeah. I brought it downstairs.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” she murmured, then sighed. “Okay. Show me the paper.”
I led her into the kitchen and pointed to the paper on the counter. “There. The typewriter didn’t have a ribbon, but the keys still made an impression.”
She didn’t touch the page, just stared down at the freaky message:
no no no no no no no no no
When she looked up at me, her dark eyes shone with excitement. “Maz, I don’t think you had a burglar.”
“Are you kidding? Then how do you explain the mess in the library?”
She rolled her lips together, clearly weighing her response. “Could you discover how they got inside?”
I huffed. “The only thing I can figure is that they came in through the garage. Which reminds me—thanks for arrangingthe cleaning service, but could you return the garage opener to me?”
Her forehead puckered. “Cleaning service?”
“Yeah. The place was spotless—and I meanspotless. Even the refrigerator and oven sparkled like new. So whoever you hired did a great job—unless one of their employees got it into their head to stage a little mayhem.”
She took a deep breath. “Maz. I think you should sit down.”
For some reason, her gentle tone freaked me out nearly as much as Patrice peering through her curtains. I scooped up Gil and cradled him against my chest for comfort. “Why?”
“Please? Sit?”
I huffed again, but stalked over to sit at the breakfast table, settling Gil on my knee. “Okay. I’m sitting.”
