Wool Over Your Eyes Read online

  Wool Over Your Eyes

  A Desert Oasis Cozy Mystery

  Violet Patton

  Illustrated by

  Mariah Sinclair

  Copyright © 2019 by Violet Patton

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Family, friends and pets are my inspiration. Be careful. What happens to you might end up in a book.

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  Desert Oasis Cozy Mysteries

  Alpaca My Bags

  Wool Over Your Eyes

  Ain't No Llama Drama

  No Prob Llama

  Bathhouse Row Cozy Mysteries

  Bath Bombs & Beyond

  Found Dead in the Red Head

  Dogs Riding Hogs

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  The Gilda Gardener Cozy Mystery Series

  Afterword

  Chapter One

  Yarn Crawl

  “You ready?” Minette asked, settling a wooly hat on her salt and pepper hair. She and Hugo had returned early from their Colorado jaunt because of the yarn crawl.

  “You bet. Rearing to go.” Why Minette invited me on a yarn crawl, I’ll never know. Since I’m such an Oasis newbie, I couldn’t turn down her invite.

  Back in Odessa, if a person did not accept invitations, soon people stopped inviting you. Eventually, I’ll land on the Oasis’ do not invite this cranky old woman list. People might believe I am anti-social, but I’m not, I just don’t like gossipy backstabbing women.

  “You’ll adore the wonderfully crafted pieces,” Ann clucked, tsking. “The skill it takes to knit or crochet. I don’t have it.”

  I raised a brow and nodded. Don’t they know I’m not crafty? The closest thing to yarn I ever used was a rope, the lasso I snagged Philly with decades ago. I still love to tie him up.

  Madonna, Ann and I stood in the furrow in front of Minette’s park model waiting to crawl. A yarn crawl couldn’t be worse than a quilt show.

  Once mama’s friend, Maddie, entered her pieced quilt in a quilt show in Amarillo, Mama wanted to go, and she wouldn’t go without me. She wasn’t a world traveler, but I was a youngish bride, leaving my betrothed home alone for the first time. Me and mama nearly froze to death because that weekend a blizzard hit town, the temperature dropped to minus zero something. A warm wooly hat on my head then would’ve been fine, but here in Arizona, wool isn’t a wise fabric choice.

  Poor Maddie didn’t win diddly for her quilt, and she cried the whole way home. I never much cared for Amarillo, winter or summer. Between San Fran and Odessa, I’ve memorized all the best places to pee, important information for a gal with a peach pit sized bladder. In case you need to know, Big Tex Steakhouse on the interstate has the cleanest bathrooms in the panhandle; their steaks are all right, too.

  “Good thing they postponed the alpaca hike, we wouldn’t have been able to crawl,” Ann said, wincing.

  “Up Mount Diablo. I don’t think so. Neither a hiker nor a crawler be.”

  “Oh, stop it, would you?” Madonna asked, but giggled.

  I didn’t want to burst Ann’s hiking bubble, but postponing hiking with llamas and alpacas was a big relief. I’d rather crawl around the asphalt jungle than hike up Mount Diablo. I’ve got enough willies creeping up my spine without purposely seeking out the devil on a mountaintop. When I informed Philly of the hike postponement, he hadn’t acted disappointed. I know my man well, if he stopped his Arizona room project to hike with an alpaca to find the devil, with me and a bunch of other women, he’d be madder than a hornet who had its nest whacked.

  Ann was lucky we’re yarn crawling, instead of hiking with grumpy Philly.

  “How’s the project going?” Minette asked, coming down her veranda steps.

  “Do you mean the Arizona room?” I asked, knowing what she meant.

  “What else?”

  “Don’t ask.” They know how the remodel is going, slower than Santa frozen in an Odessa blizzard. West Texas blizzards make Christmas seem like it’ll never come. Santa’s laid up in a Motel 6 praying for a sandstorm to blast the ice off his reindeer.

  Ann sniffed, “Hiking would’ve been fun, but I love the crawl.”

  Madonna adjusted a knitted scarf she wore even though it was nearly 75 degrees. Minette had knitted us snappy little wooly scarves, and Madonna wore hers faithfully. Seeing how the Others—what I nicknamed the residents who I don’t know and don’t care to know—consider 70 degrees an Arctic blast and wear thermal underwear and sweaters.

  My cutesy scarf was too itchy and hot, and it clashed with my ensemble of cutoff blue jean shorts and T-shirt. I’m sporting a new pair of dressy and clean red Keds with white soles. Here in the asphalt jungle, shoes turn black from walking on the asphalt. You don’t dare wear your shoes inside because they turn your carpet black.

  “Do I look okay to crawl?” I asked Minette. I hope I haven’t offended my only Canadian friend by dressing casually for the crawl, but wrapped in wool, I might melt.

  Minette glanced at the crawl map.

  “You’re fine. We have thirteen stops to make. Let’s go,” she said, guiding our clutch of hens into the furrow. “I’m glad Hugo doesn’t hike. I’d much rather crawl.”

  Thirteen? Geez, an unlucky number. Joy of joys.

  Earlier, I grumbled over the walking plan but Minette gently reminded me of the Oasis’ parking rules. So many parked golf carts jamming the streets in front of the individual trailers would be a nightmare. Security Chief, Mack Riggs, would get writer’s cramp from writing parking tickets.

  “Bunny!” Madonna hollered over her shoulder. “This way.”

  I had been walking the wrong way. “Oh! Sorry.”

  I turned, catching the tail end of our group and leisurely strolled beside Minette. “At the end, we’ll vote on the prize-winning projects. Snacks will be available.”

  “Votes? Snacks sound delicious.” Most likely, Canadian snacks, but if they are free, I’ll suffer through them.

  Our little foursome chitter-chatted, stopping at first one knitter’s park model then another.

  Dutifully, after Minette introduced me, I repeated the talented knitter’s names trying to remember them. I shook their hands saying sugary niceties like nice to meet you or I love what you’ve done with the place.

  It’s hard to do something with a park model. They were the same inside and out and a
ren’t big enough for a goatsucker to give birth in. (Note: I don’t believe goatsuckers give birth. They hatch from the gullets of West Texas witches.)

  Most of the fancy knitting projects were over my head, but I gushed, saying uh-huh and how darlin’ at the appropriate time. All the while, I prayed they wouldn’t draw me into a conversation about knitting techniques. I don’t know the difference between knitting needles or fiddlesticks.

  One particular yarn crawl stop fascinated me. Delbert, a burly lumberjack dude wearing a red plaid shirt, had matching brightly colored crochet cozies on his toaster and coffeemaker. Even his bananas wore cozies, which I found strangely repulsive. My gray matter bubbled with nasty banana cozy thoughts, but I did not verbally voice my opinion of Delbert’s oddball choice of crochet. I did not shake the crochet cozy guy’s hand.

  To each his own, right?

  My new Keds rubbed blisters on my heels, and I should’ve known better than to break-in new canvas shoes without socks. The crate with my missing socks must be in our storage unit, along with everything we couldn’t fit into our humble sardine can.

  Limping, I held onto Ann’s arm grateful to see the community room. I was in dire need of a beverage and would settle for any Canadian snack. Here in the sanctuary, the Others take refreshments up to an art form. These women are the bakingest gals I’ve ever met. Surely soon, there will be a baking contest. I’d love to enter my prize-winning lemon pound cake in a baking crawl. Back when, I loved Odessa’s fall festivals with bake sales and cake walks. Technically, I haven’t won a baking prize for baking, but Philly says my lemon pound cake is the best he’s ever tasted. A girl can dream, can’t she? Come January when the citrus ripens, orange cakes and lemon bars will flow from the Oasis’ ovens.

  As our group approached the community room, Minette asked, “Are you going to vote?”

  “For what?” The knitters were putting me to a test? Was I supposed to learn something? “Nobody told me about voting.”

  Madonna opened the community room door and held it for our foursome. “Yes, we did. Best of show. We’ll pick the winners this afternoon.”

  “Oh, pooh. I don’t know what’s best. I best get out of these shoes.”

  New Keds rub and chafe, until you break them in, then they are comfy and best until they fall apart.

  Ann guided me toward the knitting displays. “It’s easy. You don’t need to know the technique. Just vote for which project catches your eye or the one you think is prettiest.”

  “Okay. Is it a closed ballot?”

  The Oasis has a big political showing. Not for politics since we’re such a diverse bunch, but competition for best tennis, pickleball, quilting or woodworking and such. In the clubhouse, there’s a wall of photographs with grinning folks holding a trophy or a certificate and placards naming the prizewinners.

  An open ballot would mean the Others might know how I swayed. I’m too new to vote, a single misplaced black check mark might damage my fragile popularity. For example, I checked the driver’s license test instead of coloring in the square; I failed the test and checking changed my life forever. I dread taking the driver’s test over worse than I dreaded moving to the Oasis.

  “Oh, silly goose! Nobody will know unless you tell them.” Minette calls everyone a goose. It’s because she lives where Canadian geese summer. Personally, I don’t much care for honking geese and their slippery gunk. I have a better word for their gunk, but I best not offend by saying what I really think.

  “I won’t tell.” I pretend zipped my lips shut.

  “Sure. Right!” Madonna smirked. “You’re always the first person to blab.”

  Chapter Two

  Lucky Seven

  Inside the community room door, a pudgy pound cake stuffed gentleman sat behind a table. “Welcome ladies.” He gestured at a box of sawed off pencils and slips of cut notebook paper. “If you bring back the pencil, I’ll give you a kiss.”

  Ann and Madonna giggled, but I couldn’t lead him on. I took two slips in case I screwed up voting and pushed them into the pocket of my cutoffs. The gentleman wasn’t getting his pencil back even if I had to eat it.

  Easels, tables and pole stands of many beautiful pieces of knitted or crochet art set around the community room. Maybe fifty knitting fans mingled, walking among the entrants’ best work, whispering and nodding in reverence like visiting a museum or a funeral home.

  I broke off from our group, jerking my head toward the ladies’ room. “I gotta make a quick trip.”

  “Okay. We’ll meet up soon.” Minette pointed into the room.

  There was a line for an empty stall but I waited sweetly like a good girl. Standing in line meant I’d have to nod and smile at Others I don’t know. We exchanged pleasantries to the tunes of the flushing toilets. At the sink, I washed my hands, smoothed my hair and practiced a happy smile in the mirror. Drying my hands, I gazed at my image, letting my regular frown creep until I felt satisfied. Just to make sure it was me, I gave my turkey neck a little waggle.

  Yep, it’s me all right. Skinny and mean to the bone. A psychic Texan misfit awash in a sea of crafty Canadians.

  Mingling and admiring the pieces of stringy artwork, I found Ann calmly taking in the scenery.

  “Hey you,” she said. “What do you think?”

  “Beautiful.” I reached for a charming ocean blue-green shawl. “Reminds me of San Fran.”

  Ann swatted at my hand. “Don’t touch. The oils from your hands will soil it.”

  Soil? Sounds nasty. How does she know I use olive oil as a moisturizer?

  “Sorry, I didn’t know.” My faux pas was proof of knitting ignorance. Need I say more?

  Minette caught my eye, and she nodded for me to join her.

  “Minette wants us over there.” I pulled on the back of Ann’s shirt, and we scooted toward her.

  “Hey y’all.” Minette smiled, using my Texas greeting like it was free to use. “I want to introduce you to Trudi.”

  Trudi put out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Me too.” I glanced as Ann exchange hugs with Trudi, smiling they muttered niceties like they knew each other.

  Minette clucked, fawning. “Trudi has won more knitting awards than anyone.”

  Trudi waved at her wonderful white knitted afghan.

  “It’s so beautiful. I want to touch it.” I reached out grinning, knowing I wouldn’t touch it.

  Minette gently deflected my hand, not slapping at me like Ann had.

  “Oh! Please don’t.” Trudi begged.

  “I’m joshin’.” I wasn’t joshin’. The urge to smudge my greasy paws over the prize afghan surged through my veins, but Madonna arrived saving me from making another terrible mistake.

  “Hey girls. Nice to see you Trudi.” She grimaced like she was gassy. “Tell us about your piece.”

  Trudi’s gaze sparkled. “Well! It’s a...”

  Winded, she talked on until she bored me crazy. I couldn’t repeat what she said no more than recite the Constitution, but I acted interested. If my opinion counts, these knitters are as crazy as quilters.

  “Have you joined the knitting group?” Trudi asked.

  “Oh... no... I... haven’t.” Knitting group sounded dreadful. “Do I have to get wet?”

  From a small table behind her display, Trudi grabbed a clipboard, tittering gleefully. “No water. We’d love to have you in class.”

  I glared at Madonna and she shrugged. Ann nodded at the clipboard like she was a voter registrar.

  My neighbor ladies had set me up. If I wasn’t good at water aerobics, how on earth did they think I would knit? My hand took the clipboard even though my heart shrieked no! With little thought, I scrawled Bunny Winters on the next line available and gave the clipboard back to Trudi.

  She read my name. “Oh. I make the connection. You’re Hunny Bunny, the psychic, aren’t you? Gale told me about your abilities.”

  “I’m not really a psychic.” I cringed clinching my jaw, shrinking two inch
es, because I couldn’t avoid my former slip-up. Here in the Oasis, rumors multiply like roaches in a cabinet full of sugar. (Texas roaches are hardcore sugar addicts and you can’t get rid of them.)

  “Could you do a reading for me?” Trudi offered her palm.

  “Oh, heavens no. I don’t read palms.” Came out of my mouth, but I couldn’t stop myself from looking at her palm. Ann and Madonna giggled.

  “What do you see?” Trudi asked.

  I touched her fingers and bent them over gently, stretching out her palm.

  I should’ve known better, but I see you winning a big prize slipped right between my lips. Worse things have escaped my mouth, but I instantly regretted saying she’d win a big prize. What happens if she doesn’t win grand prize? When will you learn? You’re such a dunce.

  Minette chuckled. “Me too. It doesn’t take a psychic to see she’ll win best of show again this year.”

  I dropped Trudi’s hand smiling. “I agree. Such beautiful craftsmanship.”

  Can they tell I don’t know stitches from witches about knitting? I’m a big believer in faking it until you make it.

  “Have you voted yet?” Trudi asked.

  “Not yet,” I fiddled with my neckline. “Last thing, I haven’t seen all the pieces yet.”

  Trudi gestured toward the paper pinned to the afghan. “Lucky number seven. Easy to remember.” She beamed.

  “Boy, I need some iced tea?” My blisters burned, seeping into my Keds as I backed up. “And cookies! I need Canadian cookies.”