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The Knitting Fairy: A Crabapple Yarns Mystery

By Jaime Marsman

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Prologue

My life is hanging on the door of my refrigerator, and it has been for years. It lives under a little magnet shaped like a worm that says, “Let the Book Bug Bite.” The magnet shouldn’t surprise you. After all, I am a librarian.

Did you know that some people go their whole lives without a plan? They never know when they’re happy because they don’t know what makes them happy. They never know if they’re successful because they have no idea what success looks like. So pathetic. People with no sense of purpose. So often, they are drifters blowing in the wind - and, like the song says – hoping that the answer is blowing in the wind with them. Personally, I think the only thing that is blowing in the wind is dust, and the only thing it inspires me to do is sneeze.

To my eternal relief, I do know where I am going. And if I ever start to wonder, all I have to do is look on my refrigerator at “The Plan” (a.k.a., my blueprint for life success). Of course, getting the rest of the world to conform to The Plan can sometimes be a challenge. For instance, I am 27-years-old, and between you and me, I’m a little behind on several key elements of The Plan. It’s not worrying me too much, though. Not yet, anyway. It’s just a little odd that something so well thought out and well-written would have trouble translating to real life. Of course, when I wrote The Plan, there were several variables I did not (and frankly could not) figure into the equation. One of them being Mrs. Goldmyer. But, we’ll get to her in a minute.

So, here I am. The Plan has moved me along nicely for years, and now I’m just waiting for Phase II to get off the ground. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been going to the refrigerator a little more than usual lately. There is, in my brain, a very tiny, little, horrible and sneaking suspicion that it may be possible that I may have missed something important along the way. Possibly. It’s only a wisp of a fear that perhaps I wasn’t as thorough as I had thought I was. Perhaps The Plan has a fatal flaw that I won’t see until it’s too late. And, sometimes, just sometimes - I catch myself studying The Plan and wondering… is it for me or against me? But then The Plan winks at me from its perch on my refrigerator, and I relax. It’s all good. The Plan has everything under control. I just need to stick to it.

***

My name is Molly Stevenson, and I live in Springgate. I wasn’t born here. I was actually born in a small town about 20 minutes north, but I love it here. It’s a fairly good-sized town. You can (and believe me, I have) get lost in Springgate, so clearly it is not too small. Actually, I would call it a “baby bear” town – you know, not too big...not too small...just right. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, there’s a certain children’s book you should dig out and read again.

All in all, I guess, it doesn’t really matter where I live because I’m the sort of person that nothing much ever really happens to. Ha! I know exactly what you’re thinking right now… “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that a million times before.” And you probably have. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true for me (and really you shouldn’t be so quick to jump to generalizations either). In all honesty, though, it’s not like I spend a lot of time looking for things to happen either. I like my life the way it is. It’s all in The Plan.

You could say that I live a quiet life. I say quiet life mainly because I am a librarian, so naturally, my days are spent in a library, a place of infamous quietude . Where one does try to be quiet. I’m not completely sure why that is, though. Books are worlds within worlds. Don’t you think that’s something to get excited about? I do. And take it from me (and everyone that has ever gotten shushed by a librarian), it’s a little hard to get excited and stay quiet at the same time.

I can’t help the thrill that runs from my head down to my toes when I enter the library every morning and I see all the rows and rows and rows of books, waiting like silent friends for me. Isn’t it a wonderful thought that no matter what you do or who you are, you can for about 300 pages be someone else, see life through someone else’s eyes, and even experience the nearly impossible
Every morning before Mrs. Goldmyer comes in, when I am supposed to be preparing the library for the day – which means that I am supposed to make the coffee (which I don’t drink), turn on all the computers, open the doors, check the drop off box and dust the front desk – I walk down one or two rows, running my fingers along the cracked and worn spines, trying to imagine what wonderful story awaits in each one...never dreaming that my story would ever be as interesting as the ones I could find here in a book. But...all that changed on one soft, almost-spring day in April when I met Mother Goose, and my life changed forever. And now we’re getting ahead of ourselves again. Let’s start at the beginning.

Chapter 1
Overdue. Way Overdue.

It was just one of those days. Have you ever had a day where you wake up and everything that you think should happen during the day doesn’t? And everything that shouldn’t happen, happens? A day where you find yourself doing something so completely out of character that you’re sure you must be still in bed dreaming? A day where you can no longer see your carefully constructed life charted out in front of you? A day that changes everything? This was one of those days although I didn’t know it yet. It was very sneaky as it began like any other day, and so I suppose that I was a bit smugly confident that it would end like the others as well. But, as most people know (and I was about to find out) you can plan and plan or you can let it go and live the life you’re supposed to live...

It truly was a wonderful day – the kind that you wished would go on forever. A day where you felt like hugging every person in sight just because the smell of spring was in the air and you were filled with so much love you felt that you might just possibly burst if you didn’t share it with someone else. Of course, people don’t do crazy things like that, but that didn’t stop me from thinking about it. It was a day where you could even ignore the little piles of dirty snow melting in the corner of the parking lot because you knew they would soon be gone. One of those kinds of day.

You know what? I’m not usually this verbosely dramatic. Sorry about that. It happens when I get excited. I’ll try to control myself and stick to the facts...

The air was cool against my cheeks as I made my daily hike from my little apartment across town to the Springgate Library where I am Assistant Librarian. Quite an impressive title, is it not? The truth is, I am little more than gopher-girl to the tyrannical Head Librarian, Mrs. Goldmyer. Her first name, you ask? I don’t think that she has one. Oh, and if you’re thinking that it’s a little rude to label someone tyrannical, it’s okay...you just don’t know Mrs. Goldmyer.

I do love this library, though. And no matter how cruel and demanding Mrs. Goldmyer could (and would) be, the library itself more than made up for it. It was actually a former church and still retained the peace that many old churches have. The rows and rows of books standing squarely on their shelves lined the former sanctuary in a great square with consecutively smaller squares of shelves within the square. The circulation desk was the former narthex. It was quaint and charming. And absolutely stuffed with books. It was my favorite place in the whole world – even with Mrs. Goldmyer there. And that’s saying something.

Thankfully, the ancient oak doors that opened onto the street, although beautiful and hand-carved, now had another row of more practical doors behind them. I said thankfully because it tended to be quite chilly in the cooler months as patrons entering and exiting the library let in the most delightful drafts that you can imagine. I had once foolishly suggested to Mrs. Goldmyer that we move the circulation desk farther away from the front doors so that we could stay a bit warmer. When I say, “we”, I actually mean “me” because she, as Head Librarian, very rarely has time to do the more mundane tasks of the library. She has a nice cozy office just off of the narthex that used to be the pastor’s office, with a little space heater under her desk. Did I have a space heater? Uh, no. And yes, in case you were wondering, that was also considered a foolish question. When I presented this particular silly question to Mrs. Goldmyer, I was informed (in her usual nasty and brisk manner) that such idle questions only proved how wasteful I was as a person and such things would not be tolerated, and that, should I persist in making imprudent statements and asking senseless questions, she was sure there were a great deal many more people “out there” who were more qualified and experienced for the job than I was, and she was sure that they would be easier to work with as well.

Whew. (Did I mention that she was also the Queen of Run-On Sentences? It was actually quite a problem, because sometimes, by the end of the sentence, I had forgotten how it all began. This made responding a little difficult. I would take notes, except she might get the wrong idea.)

She was probably right – but only about the experienced part. I had a college degree in Librarianship, which was why I was even considered for the position, but other than working at the circulation desk for my college, I had no other experience to speak of. That’s why I had practically jumped at the chance for this job.

When I think back now, remembering my excitement when only two days after my interview I was offered the job, I cannot help but feel a little foolish for being so naive. At the time, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Now looking back, I realize that I was probably the only person who, after having met Mrs. Goldmyer, would even consider the job. And, she, on the other hand, was getting pretty sick of not having a gopher girl. I guess we were just destined for each other.

“Excuse me?” the soft comment startled me from my daydreams. I quickly straightened away from the desk where I had been slouching in order to greet...well...Mother Goose.

Of course it wasn’t Mother Goose. It couldn’t possibly be Mother Goose. Everyone knows that Mother Goose is a literary character from a children’s book.

I firmly repeated this (in my head, of course). Twice.

But, if Mother Goose was real – which we all know she is not – she would look just like the figure currently staring down her unfortunately long, crooked nose at me. Her (suspiciously) white hair shone in the fluorescent lights like a halo, and it was neatly coifed under a large straw hat decorated with tiny little fruits and flowers that jingled and bounced with every movement. The hat tied under her chin with a large pink ribbon. Her little periwinkle blue eyes twinkled behind dainty wire-rimmed glasses that were perched somewhat precariously on the aforementioned elongated, crooked nose. She wore a flowing, pretty dress the color of irises in the springtime. A wispy white shawl was tucked around her shoulders.

My jaw must have dropped at some point, because her expression turned a little wary. She took a small step back and looked up and down the desk. “I beg your pardon,” Mother Goose said, “I thought that this was the circulation desk.”

Giving myself a mental shake, I forced a smile, “Of course it is,” I said, slipping easily into my ‘Librarian mode’. “How can I help you?”

Her confidence restored, she stepped to the edge of the desk. “I would like to return this book,” she said. And with that, she produced a fairly large, hard-covered book from the basket slung over her arm. It landed with a slight thump on the desk, emitting a small cloud of dust from between its pages. I wiggled my nose and willed myself not to sneeze.

“I see,” I said, logging into the computer, “and did you enjoy it?”

“Oh yes,” she said happily, “I most certainly did. I read it over and over. It’s really just like an old friend to me.” She smiled at me, and her face erupted in little wrinkles.

Ah...a kindred spirit. I smiled back at her, “I know what you mean.”

She leaned conspiratorially over the desk. “Actually,” she whispered, “I almost forgot that it belonged to the library and wasn’t my own.”

“That happens,” I reassured her. Picking up the barcode scanner, I flipped the book open, my fingers automatically searching for the back page. “That’s strange,” I muttered, “the barcode must have fallen off.”

I looked up at Mother Goose who looked back at me innocently – perhaps a little too innocently?

I set the barcode scanner down and flipped the book back over to its front side. Instead of the usual card holder pasted on the front title page there was an old, antiquated version of the same. Frowning slightly, I pulled the worn card from its slot with some care, as the paper looked like it might crumble. Squinting, I tried to read the return date. I blinked and read it again. The card fell to the spotless counter as I gaped at the old lady in astonishment.

Did I imagine it or was Mother Goose now looking the tiniest bit guilty? She wrinkled her nose and shook her head slightly, giving me the benefit of watching all the fruit jump alarmingly. “I’m afraid it is a trifle overdue—” she began.

“A trifle?—” my voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I’m afraid it’s 45 years overdue.”

She put a hand to her mouth, “Oh dear, how time does fly.”

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