Jo noticed a subtle change at the craft shop the next day. Customers were coming in, which was a good thing. And many were buying – a very good thing. However, during their browsing periods Jo found she was picking up on a lot of whispering. And from the glances thrown her way she couldn’t help but assume the whispers were about her.
There was nothing overt enough to counteract. When merchandise was brought to the front counter – small bunches of dried flowers, a scrapbooking paper or two, or ribbons – the faces of her customers were always blandly smiling, where earlier she was sure she had detected furtive, suspicious looks. Carrie noticed it too, having come in to check her yarn stock.
“I’m getting the feeling of being watched,” she said to Jo during a quiet time, “but when I look up, whoever’s nearby is busy examining whatever’s in their hands.”
“I have that feeling too,” Jo said. “And have you noticed, most of our customers today are people we’ve never seen here before? It’s as if they suddenly heard about the Craft Corner and drove across town to check us out.”
“Yeah, but check us out for what?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. I suspect there’s less interest in my craft supplies and plenty in whatever gossip they might be hearing about me.”
As if to illustrate her point, two young women, strangers to Jo, entered the shop and paused just inside the doorway to stare at her.
“Can I help you?” Jo asked.
“Oh, ah,” the taller of the two stammered, “are you the owner? Jo McAllister?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh! Well,” she said, grinning somewhat nervously, “we just wanted to look around. Okay?”
“Go right ahead. If you have any questions, just ask.”
The two scurried off to the stamping section and began picking up stamps and papers and embossers, turning them about in their hands but looking back toward Jo more than at the merchandise. Jo sighed and wished she could just hang a sign around her neck that said, “Ask me if I did it!” Instead, she tossed a weary glance to Carrie who had moved off to tidy up the rack of knitting needles. Carrie responded with a shrug and a look of her own that said, “hang in there.”
The pair eventually left without buying, after having wandered over nearly every inch of the shop. Jo was glad to see them go, though she bade them a good day with a courteous smile.
“This is getting me down, Carrie,” she said. “I don’t know which is worse – no business at all or business of this sort.”
“No business is definitely worse,” Carrie said. “These people might be coming for the wrong reasons, but at least some of them are plunking down their dollars to step in here. Once things are cleared up, they’ll come back, having remembered what nice things they saw here.”
Jo wasn’t sure she agreed, though she appreciated the sentiment. The phone rang, and she went to answer it, hoping mightily it wouldn’t be a “Get out of town!” call.
“Jo McAllister?” a male voice asked. It sounded familiar but Jo couldn’t immediately place it.
“Yes?” she asked, warily.
“Patrick Weeks here.”
“Oh! Hello. What can I do for you?”
“I’d appreciate it, Ms. McAllister,” he said, his tone laced with barely controlled anger, “if you’d stop sending your spies over here.”
“My spies! What are you talking about?”
“Don’t give me that. You and that woman with her baby came here to check me out because of Linda. That was bad enough, with Abby here and all. But then a third one of your band showed up. That’s more than I’ll put up with. I want it to stop. Do you hear me?”
“I didn’t send anyone there, Mr. Weeks. Who was it?”
“I don’t know, but I know very well what she was after. It’s harassment, and I won’t put up with it. I’m warning you.”
“What did she look like?” But Weeks had slammed down the phone.
Jo looked at Carrie who had caught enough to stare worriedly. “Linda’s ex-husband,” Jo explained. “He thinks I’ve sent a spy to watch him.”
“What! No way!”
“Of course not. At least,” Jo hedged, “I hope not. He knows Dulcie, so it couldn’t have been her. And I can’t see Loralee running there on her own. You don’t suppose Javonne or Ina Mae would have taken that on themselves, do you?”
“Oh, dear. It doesn’t seem likely, but do you think you should check?”
Jo did think so, just to be sure. She called Javonne first.
“Me?” Javonne asked. “When would I have the time to do that? No, Jo, it sure wasn’t me. Besides, you know I’m convinced the murderer is Ewing. I wouldn’t waste the time – if I had any – on spying on the ex-hubby.”
Ina Mae’s response was similar. “It wasn’t I. And frankly, I think it’s possible it wasn’t anyone. Mr. Weeks just might be blowing smoke to throw you off track.”
“He sounded pretty steamed up.”
“I’m sure he did. But was his anger over a supposed spy, or was it because he fears you’re getting too close to the truth?”
“You’re right. The woman from the café – Shirley – could have told him what she said to us.”
“Quite possible.” Ina Mae’s voice grew serious. “Jo, you know I’m hoping this man isn’t the murderer, for the child’s sake, but this latest development doesn’t sound good. You need to be on guard. A murderer who knows you are suspicious of him can be very dangerous – as you’ve learned before.”
Jo nodded. She had learned that, and didn’t particularly want to repeat mistakes from the past. She thanked Ina Mae and hung up.
“Neither of them?” Carrie asked.
“No, and Ina Mae suggested that Patrick Weeks may be trying to scare me off.”
“Oh, Jo,” Carrie said. “I think you should go speak to that sheriff.”
Jo didn’t have a chance to answer just then because more customers entered the store, one of whom stared curiously at Jo.
“May I help you?” Jo asked.
“Just looking,” the woman said, smiling somewhat smirkily. She wandered off to join her companions who had started whispering to each other.
Jo closed her eyes, shook her head, and sighed.
Later that afternoon, Carrie was just getting ready to leave when the phone rang, and since she was nearest, she picked it up.
Jo paused at the doorway of her stockroom, waiting to hear if she was needed, and saw Carrie’s face growing more and more distressed over whatever she was hearing. Jo’s heart jumped to her throat with the dreadful thought that it might be about Russ. She hurried closer, fearing the worst when she heard the words “hospital” and “ICU”. But Carrie never looked her way. Finally she hung up and turned toward Jo.
“Meg Boyer’s husband is in the hospital. It sounds critical.”
“Meg’s husband! What happened?”
“I don’t know except that he suddenly took very ill. Oh, Jo,” Carrie said, her face a picture of woe. “He met with Bill Ewing today, remember?” She sank onto the high stool beside the register and looked up at Jo dolefully. “And,” she said, “we sent him there!”