Raspberry Tart Terror (Murder in the Mix Book 30) Unknown (christmas read aloud .TXT) 📖

news. Carlotta has a knack for making a bit of a mess of things. Trust me, things will move a lot smoother without her.”

“But the way Carlotta was telling it, you work as some sort of a dynamic duo. She said you weren’t the greatest sidekick, but that the fates had spoken and she was stuck with ya.”

I roll my eyes at that one.

“In fact”—Teddy is quick to continue—“she was telling the girls at bingo last night that she’s kind enough to let you tag along on her investigative adventures, but that, well, you were sort of a hot mess.”

“What?” I squawk and a small group of women walking down the street turn my way. “Good evening,” I hum as I put a little pep in my step as I hustle my way toward Juliet’s knitting shop. “Listen”—I whisper to Teddy as I cradle her in my right arm as if she were a baby, and she feels every bit as adorable—“I’m not Carlotta’s sidekick. It’s the other way around,” I say as we come upon the shop. Not that I’d give Carlotta the coveted title of sidekick. She’s the hot mess in the investigative equation. “I’ll explain everything later. But we’re going to have to make this visit super quick before Noah and Everett get wind of where I am.”

The Social Knitwork is light and bright inside and is lined with what looks like bookshelves covered with skeins of yarn in a rainbow of colors. And it’s those balls of colorful yarn that give this place a cozy feel that makes me want to stay and linger.

To the right there’s a tall silk ficus tree that hugs the shelves, and in the middle of the shop there are tables set out and chairs as if encouraging the patrons to sit and knit for as long as they like. Easy music plays from the speakers, and the scent of cinnamon lingers in the air. To the left there’s a counter with a register, and sitting behind it is a rather bored looking teenager with a pair of earbuds plugged into her head as she stares vacantly on her phone.

Teddy gives my tresses a tug. “Oh, let’s look at the yarn, Lottie. We can’t just zoom in here and start with the hard questions. Carlotta says you have a bad habit of throwing the horse before the cart.”

A choking sound emits from me. “For Carlotta’s information, that’s how you’re supposed to do it.” I head over to the shelves, pull out a couple of fuzzy mauve skeins, and sniff them. “Oh wow, these are scrumptious.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t eat them, Lottie,” Teddy says as she hooks one of her long dark claws into the ball of yarn and I help detangle her. Since she’s a ghost and has the ability to slice right through anything, I know for a fact she’s willingly tangling herself up with the yarn.

“But they look so delicious.” I steal a moment to snuggle with it, drawing it ever so close to my lips. “I think I’ll buy a few and see if my mother will knit me a scarf. Oh!” I chirp as another far more delicious skein catches my eye. “Look at that butter yellow. That would make the perfect baby blanket whether it’s a boy or a girl. Who doesn’t like butter?”

“Carlotta was right. You’re as hungry as a horse twenty-four seven.”

“What’s with all the horse analogies?” I wrinkle my nose as I pull a few fuzzy yellow skeins my way, too.

“Say”— Teddy reaches over and gives a branch of the ficus tree a tug—“this reminds me of home.”

“Speaking of home”—I glance through the window at the bakery across the street, and thankfully, there’s still no sign of Noah or Everett—“I’d better speed this up.”

“You do that,” she says, slinking over to the ficus. “I think I’ll do a little reminiscing.”

I pull a few more skeins off the shelf in that Granny Smith apple green color I plan on painting the nursery and take my loot to the counter.

There’s a sign hung on the wall behind the register that reads to knit or not to knit? Is there really a question?

Just below that is a slender white shelf with a row of dark Mason jars, and next to them sits a small handwritten sign that reads jams and jellies, locally sourced from Jax Farm.

And just like that, I have a craving for both jelly and yarn.

The teenager in question glances up from her phone before scowling over at me and hopping off her stool. Her long auburn hair hangs down to her waist, and she has delicate features and a smattering of freckles.

“Welcome to the Social Knitwork. Will that be cash or charge?” She begins scanning the balls of yarn without so much as looking up.

“Actually, I was hoping to speak with the owner, Juliet? We’re sort of friends. I was going to ask her advice on which yarn would go best with which project.”

“So you don’t want them?” She stops midflight from ringing up the third skein.

“Oh no, I do,” I say as I reach for my purse. “It’s just I thought I should get her opinion. You know, she’s the expert around here, right?”

The girl gives a slow blink. “Juliet’s not here tonight. She’s holding a special workshop across town.”

“Across town? Where would that be?” A mild panic sets in. How am I supposed to have a relaxing buffet with Noah and Everett and be across town at a knitting workshop questioning a suspect?

“It’s the party with the knitwits event at the Rendezvous.” She says party with the knitwits in air quotes.

“The Rendezvous Luxury Resort?” I can hardly believe it. “And by nitwits, I presume you mean the owners of that bawdy establishment.” That was more or less a rhetorical question.

The girl sputters with a laugh. “The two bubble-headed blondes? They came in yesterday talking about some investigative services. Really set everyone on edge.”

“Featherby Sleuths?”

“That’s it.” She snaps her fingers my