A Farewell to Yarns

evidence to speak of. And I wouldn’t think much more is likely to turn up, unless someone has a violent attack of conscience and confesses,“ Jane said.
    “So you still don’t think it’s Chet?“
    “I don’t want to think so. Didn’t you see how devastated he was by it all?“
    “I did. And I also saw how he pulled himself out of it in seconds to confront Bobby. It was almost like watching a multiple personality kick in.“
    “Kinda spooky, wasn’t it?“
    “That’s putting it mildly. I think the one person most capable of violence, from what we saw last night, is John Wagner. If his father hadn’t stopped him, I think he’d have reduced Bobby to a grease spot without a second thought,“ Shelley said.
    “Could you blame him?“
    “Not a bit.“
    “But I still can’t imagine anybody working up that kind of animosity toward Phyllis. Poor Phyllis. What do you think?“
    “I think we better get over to Fiona’s and concentrate on getting the bazaar set up.”
    Jane bundled up the afghan so Willard wouldn’t sleep on it and sighed. “Did I actually volunteer for this, or is it all just a nightmare?“
    “Both.”
    Jane went to her kitchen radio and tuned in an FM station that played Christmas music. “Why turn that on? We’re leaving,“ Shelley said.
    “Partly so it’s playing when I get home, and partly—I know this sounds dumb—so that the sound will soak into the house.“
    “Do you think if you create enough atmosphere, a tree, complete with decorations, will appear in your living room?”
    Jane laughed. “Anything’s possible.“ -
    The nightmare qualities of the Christmas craft bazaar became more apparent when they got to Fiona’s. The rental company that was supposed to deliver the folding display tables at eight hadn’t arrived yet. “I’ve called three times already,“ Fiona said, her usual English calm, if not shattered, at least crumbling around the edges. “They swear they’re on the way and we’re the first delivery.“
    “Then there’s nothing we can do?“ Jane asked. She had hopes that she could escape and go home to get in a few more frantic minutes of crocheting.
    “Wrong!“ Shelley exclaimed. “We can start pricing. It’s the worst job of all.“
    “There are degrees of worseness in this?“ Jane asked.
    Fiona laughed. She had a delightful, bubblylaugh that broke the tension. “Let’s get it over with.“
    “Fiona, you really don’t have to help,“ Jane assured her. “When you offered your house, we swore you wouldn’t have to do anything else.“
    “Jane, have you gone mad?“ Shelley asked. “If you start turning down offers to help, I’ll just have to slap some sense back into you. Let’s start with...“ She looked around the room full of boxes, and her shoulders sagged. “... with the pillows. They were purchased; we just have to figure out the markup. No personalities involved.”
    Jane soon discovered what the remark about personalities meant. Many of the volunteers who had provided sale items had affixed a suggested price. These prices were almost universally inflated beyond reason. Someone had sent over a box of flower paintings done on wooden shingles. While not great art by any means, they weren’t bad, and Jane felt she could probably find some out of the way wall in her house where one might fit nicely—until she noticed the note saying they should be priced at forty dollars each.
    “Forty dollars!“ she exclaimed, clutching at her heart. “I was thinking seven or eight.”
    Shelley, her head buried in a box, emerged. “Oh, those. That’s easy. The woman who does those always comes first thing in the morning to see if we’ve marked them right. As soon as she goes, we mark them down to something reasonable. She’s never caught on yet. She makes them every year, and they go like hotcakes at five dollars.“
    “What about these?“ Jane had opened a dress box full of little wreaths. They were green yarn crocheted in a sort of ruffle on a curtain rod ring. With the addition of bright red sequins and a tiny satin bow, they made nice little ornaments. But a note in the box said: “I saw these for sale in New York last year for fifteen dollars. I think ten would be reasonable, don’t you?”
    Shelley came over to look at the wreaths and then at the signature on the note. “That’s a bit tricky. She’s a big contributor to the church, and we don’t want to piss her off.”
    Fiona looked over her shoulder. “Oh, she’s