MW brought two big bags of yarn that someone gave him to last night's Friday Night Knitting get-together and shared it with his knitting friends. There was a bag of cotton and linen yarn that I have some of, it's good to knit washcloths with, some gray superwash wool (it doesn't shrink or felt), and a skein of baby alpaca (so soft!). There were a few skeins of worsted weight acrylic that I collected for the guild to use to teach a group of elementary kids how to knit. Purple, pink, orange, and royal blue--sounds like kid colors to me.
Yesterday I finally figured out how to fix that felted hat that was too big. I'd cut out a wedge but couldn't figure out how to sew the edges together. There was no way either of my sewing machines would be able to sew it up so I got out Mother Malcolm's old sewing box and used the darning thread to stitch it together. The hat is fuzzy enough that the seam doesn't really show. It's still a little big but it's warm and I like it.
It only took me three days but I also worked out how to pick up stitches and cast on stitches to knit square number two of the Modular Pillow. I also ditched the DPNs in favor of a long circular needle to do Magic Loop which means I'm only dealing with two needles instead of five. An improvement. I am hopeful that I'll get into the groove joining these squares because right now I'm wavering between keeping going and using the yarn for something else, like a sock.
This afternoon I took a shift at the Bay Lakes Knitting Guild booth at Artigras, the mid-winter art weekend in town. We have a lot of items on display but, since we're an informational booth, we can't sell anything. We're trying to attract more members. I meant to take pictures but I forgot. I'm going back tomorrow morning for another shift so I'll remember to take pictures then. Promise.
29 February--Barbara Malcolm, Three Cheers for Murder.
Dropping Cecilia at her home, Det.
Archibald drove to the home of Marcelle Durot, the woman Dwayne Neal used as an
alibi for the time Kimmy was killed. The
home was a large, Tudor two story house with lavish gardens. Parking his car on the street, he walked to
the door and rang the bell. Hearing the chime,
he consulted his notebook and waited to hear steps approaching. From right behind him a voice said, “Can I
help you?” Turning toward the voice
Archibald saw a small, red haired woman dressed in what are obviously her
gardening clothes, wearing a large straw hat, gardening gloves, and holding a
trowel. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Alan
Archibald of the Ashville Police Department.
I wonder if I might speak with you.”
Sighing, the woman gestured for him to follow her around the house to
the back where he’s amazed to see an enormous yard divided into flower beds, a
water garden, a gazebo. It looks like a spread
in an expensive house & garden magazine.
“This is a beautiful garden, ma’am.
Did you design it yourself?”
“Yes, Detective, I also did most of
the planting.” She ushered him to a
table under an arbor where there was a large pitcher of tea and glasses on a
tray. “Please sit down. Can I pour you a drink?” she asked.
“Sure. Ms. Durot...you are Ms. Durot, aren’t
you?”
“Yes, Det. Archibald, I’m Marcelle
Durot. Dwayne called me a few minutes
ago telling me to expect your visit but I didn’t expect you quite so soon. How can I help you?”
“As I’m sure Mr. Neal told you, I’m
investigating the murder of Mrs. Kimberly Neal last night at the tennis
club. Mr. Neal said that he was spending
time with you at the time of the murder and I need to get your corroboration of
his alibi. Now, I’m not happy that he
called you. I’d hoped to get here before
you spoke with him, but that can’t be helped.”
Turning the pages of his notebook
back to the information he got from the coroner last night, or rather early
this morning, he asked, “Ms. Durot, what time were you with Mr. Neal last
night? From when to when?”
“Before I tell you anything,
Detective, I need your assurance that this information goes no further. My
husband’s a jealous man. I can’t have him finding out about my other little
hobby. Gardening is an acceptable hobby;
Dwayne Neal is definitely not.”
“Ms. Durot, I’ll do everything I
can to keep what you tell me in confidence.
Right now, I’m just trying to establish Mr. Neal’s whereabouts at the
time of his wife’s death.”
“There’s a little club, Up on
the Ledge, about six miles north of the city where Dwayne and I sometimes
meet. It’s quiet and private. That’s where we were last night from 10 PM
until 1:30 AM. If you need further proof,
I’m sure the bartender can vouch that we were there, although it’s a popular
spot for people who indulge in that little hobby. She may be reluctant to verify our
presence.”
“Where were you sitting and what
were you drinking?”
“We were in the last booth on the
left as you enter and Dwayne always has Scotch and water and I drink Bourbon
and ginger ale, the real stuff, not cola and white soda mixed. She’ll remember me I’m sure. I always ask to make sure they have real
ginger ale.”
“Thank you for your cooperation,
Ms. Durot. I’ll do what I can to keep
you or your name out of this.” He stood
to leave. His gaze traveled around the
surrounding gardens. “This is a
beautiful place. So restful and relaxing
with the sound of the water. You sure
did a great job. Thank you for the
opportunity to see it and thank you for giving me this information.”
“You’re quite welcome, Detective. I’m glad you like my gardens. It keeps me busy.” She smiled, “At least during the day.” Marcelle Durot put on her gloves and picked
up her trowel, “Can you show yourself out, Det.? I need to finish planting my annuals.”
Giving one more sweeping glance
around the yard, he nodded his thanks and went back to his car and drove away.
It's supposed to be close to 50 degrees tomorrow. I'll believe it when I see it.
--Barbara
