A large gray cat shot out of the doorway and vanished beneath a bush.
Beryl stared after it. "Percy," she screamed.
Claire collapsed against her grandmother. She laughed so hard that she had to sit down on the curb.
Sook wiped tears from her eyes. "That bloody cat has been haunting this place for six years."
"Why haven’t they caught it?" Claire gasped.
Wilder smirked. "They tried. Not just the sheriff and different animal shelter workers, but us too."
"And?"
"It stole Gladys’s dentures."
Gladys pointed furiously at the bush. "That cat has a criminal record!"
Claire laughed even harder and she refused to step foot into the haunted house. By the time they left, Wilder had added another line to the sign.
WARNING: GHOST MAY BE A CAT NAMED PERCY.
The old women took Claire to the old harbor next.
Here, the noise of the market gave way to the rhythmic creaking of boats and the slap of water against the wooden piers. Fishermen mended nets, children chased one another between the stalls, and old men sat beneath a crooked awning arguing about the weather.
The gang stopped beside a man selling fried fish.
Mabel immediately straightened her sunglasses.
She smoothed her hair and puffed her chest. Then she sucked in her stomach so dramatically that Claire worried she might injure herself.
"Girls," Mabel whispered. "Nobody panic."
Beryl looked around. "Why? Is there a bomb?"
"Worse." Mabel pointed across the harbor.
A tall fisherman in a faded blue shirt was unloading crates from his boat.
He had broad shoulders, silver hair, and a face that suggested he had once been handsome enough to cause several maritime accidents.
Mabel pressed a hand to her chest. "That’s Harold."
Wilder sighed. "Here we go."
Claire looked between them. "Who’s Harold?"
"My future husband." Mabel said dreamily.
"You’ve barely spoken to him," Doris said.
Mabel smoothed her outfit. "That is a minor administrative issue."
"You’ve been calling him your future husband for nine years!" Wilder exclaimed.
"Because I have excellent instincts."
Beryl grinned wickedly. "Go on, then. Tell him."
Mabel looked horrified. "Tell him what?"
"That you love him."
"I don’t love him!"
"You wrote his name on your handkerchiefs."
"It was a laundry mistake!"
"You embroidered little hearts around it!"
"THE THREAD WAS ON SALE!"
Claire was laughing again because Beryl was determined not to let Mabel get away with her secret love today. Then, Harold finally noticed them!
He waved and smiled. "Mabel!"
Mabel squeaked. It was a tiny, high-pitched sound that seemed to emerge from somewhere near her kidneys.
Then she abandoned the group and strode toward him with the determination of a woman marching to war. "Harold, darling!"
Claire’s eyebrows shot up.
Harold smiled politely. "Hey, Mabel. Lovely weather."
Mabel’s cheeks suddenly blossomed with a shade of red brighter than a ripe apple. "Wonderful weather. Gorgeous weather. Perfect weather for--" She glanced desperately at the harbor.
"For fishing!"
Harold nodded. "Yes. I do a bit of that."
Beryl bent over, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
And just like that, Mabel turned and ran away, "Well, I’ll leave you to your fishing. Don’t work too hard, darling. We need strong men in this town." Unfortunately, she was not looking where she was going and ran straight into a stack of empty crates.
The crates toppled.
Harold arrived in time and pulled her back by the elbow. For one glorious second, Mabel was held against his chest.
Her eyes widened. Mabel’s face was red, as if it were painted with blood.
Then she whispered, "You can let go of me now, Harold. Unless you want to carry me into the sunset."
Harold released her immediately and Mabel escaped him as if he were a storm.
Mabel marched back, cheeks blazing. "Not. One. Word."
Claire didn’t understand why two people who were clearly interested in each other were playing hide and seek. At their age, could they afford such evasive, long courtship? But it was not her place to manage their relationship.
By evening, Claire had learned three important things about the Knitting Gang.
First, they could settle an argument with the efficiency of a courtroom and the language of a pirate ship.
Second, the town’s criminals were apparently terrified of old women who carried knitting needles.
And third, the gang had a remarkable talent for finding trouble even when nobody was looking for it.
Their next adventure began outside a small bakery.
A woman stood on the pavement, crying, while a broad-shouldered man in an expensive coat shouted at her.
"You should have known better! You can’t just demand money from me!"
The gang slowed.
Beryl’s expression changed. It was subtle, but Claire noticed it. The laughter faded from her face, and her eyes sharpened.
"What’s going on here?" Beryl called.
The man turned. His expression immediately soured.
"Oh, for God’s sake. Not you lot."
It was clear to see that he was not pleased to meet them.
"Well, hello to you too, you walking case of constipation," Wilder replied.
The woman wiped her cheeks.
The man pointed at her. "She works for me. She’s accusing me of cheating her out of her wages."
"Are you?" Ethel asked.
"That’s none of your business." He snapped.
"Wonderful," Beryl said. "Then you won’t mind explaining it to a group of old women with nothing to do and a great deal of free time."
The man looked at Claire, apparently hoping for a sensible person because she was not part of the gang. Instead, Claire looked at him with the same accusing expression as the old women.
"Listen," he said. "This is a private matter."
"Not in this town," Beryl replied. "Pay her what you owe her."
"I owe her nothing!" He spat.
The young woman finally spoke. "He promised me two weeks’ wages and paid me for only three days."
From there, the argument just escalated. The old ladies of the knitting gang were acting like detectives. White Snake, whose real name Claire had not yet learned, was taking notes as if she were recording a witness testimony.
A voice shouted from across the road, "THE KNITTING GANG’S HERE! They caught another one."
Within seconds, a small crowd had gathered.
Beryl folded her arms. "Now, what’s your name? You are a bit new to town so you must not be aware of how things work around here."
The man hesitated. "Peter."
"Peter what? Peter Donkey?" Wilder pressed.
He shot her a glare. "Peter Collins."
Doris pulled a little notebook from her pocket, recording his details. "Peter Collins. New bakery owner. Cheats his employees. Shouts at women. Probably puts olives in his fruit juice."
Peter looked appalled. "I would never!"
"Good. One crime less." Martel gave him a thumbs up.
Claire wondered how long it would take the sheriff to arrive. To her, it was amazing that the women had not yet been sued. Or maybe they had, and the diamond CEO made it go away. The ice cream CEO was not rich enough to get them out of the legal trouble they probably found themselves in often.
Beryl turned to the young woman. "You must be one of those out-of-town tourists on a working holiday. Always go to the town hall or Knitting gang headquarters when looking for information on who is looking to hire, who pays wages on time and whose son is looking for a fling. Now, do you have proof of what he owes you?"
The woman nodded and produced a small notebook containing her work hours. Wilder examined it, then asked two other employees to confirm the details.
Both did.
Peter’s face darkened. "Fine!" he snapped. "I’ll pay her!"
"Today," Beryl said.
"Fine!"
"And apologize."
Peter stared at her. "You’re joking."
Beryl smiled threateningly. "Do I look like a woman who jokes about injustice?"