Chapter 1

“With guns?” I stared at the man standing on the other side of the sales counter in the Weaver’s Cat, my fiber and fabric shop in Blue Plum, Tennessee. I’d only just met him—Mr. J. Scott Prescott as it said on the card he’d slid across the counter. He was slight and had a well- scrubbed, earnest face that at first glance put him anywhere from early twenties to mid-thirties. He wore an expensive suit and tie, though, and had the beginnings of crows’-feet at the corners of his eyes. Taken together, those details put him closer to the mature, successful end of that age range. He also came across as calm and operating on an even keel, despite the mention of guns. Unfortunately, much as I wanted to appear the competent, calm business owner so early on a Friday morning, I couldn’t help sounding more edgy than even. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Your town board already gave us—” Mr. Prescott started to say.

I interrupted, holding up my hand. “But they’re running through the streets with guns?”

“Only some of them will be running.” Again, the gravitas of his suit and tie helped.

“Okay, well . . .”

“Half a dozen. A dozen tops, and we reconsidered the burning torches and decided against them. Most of the rest of the actual participants will be posted at strategic points around town.” He gestured right and left, fingers splayed in his excitement. Thank goodness for the suit; otherwise he was beginning to look and sound like an eager Boy Scout. “We already have permission to use the park,” he said, “and the old train depot and the upper porch of Cunningham House. The main concentration will be in the two or three blocks surrounding the courthouse.” His hands demonstrated several concentric circles, then came together with a ghost of a clap and he leaned toward me. “Oh, and we’ve been given access to the roof of the empty mercantile across from the courthouse. Those locations are for the visible men; the rest will be hiding. As I said, the plans and permissions have been in place for several months, but one of the property owners was recently obliged to back out and that’s where you and the Weaver’s Hat come in.”

“Cat.”

“Pardon?” He straightened.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but we’re the Weaver’s Cat, as in ‘meow.’ Not hat.”

“Really? I’m embarrassed. Anyway, we’d love it if one or two of the men could sneak in here during the action and watch from the windows upstairs.”

“Hmm.”

“They won’t get in your way. They’ll watch at the windows and when they see the other men down in the street, they’ll stick their heads out and shoot. They might also do the famous yell, but I’ll tell them that’s optional, sort of as the spirit moves them, if you see what I mean. But a bloodcurdling yell like that really whips up the enthusiasm of the spectators, and between that and the shots erupting from unexpected places, it’ll keep things off balance in a realistic way so that the whole reenactment will have an incredible sense of authenticity and it’ll be great.” He stopped, eyes wide. I took a step back.

“At this point I should ask you not to divulge any of the details we’ve discussed,” he said. “We’re keeping the program under wraps. Looking for the big reveal, if you see what I mean. The wow. Also, I forgot to ask, do the windows upstairs open? Because there isn’t any point in trying to shoot out of them if they don’t.”

I’d processed his words and understood his gesturing hands, and it would have taken a harder history-loving heart than mine to ignore the excitement of a good- natured reenactment. The tourists flocking to town for our annual heritage celebration—Blue Plum Preserves—would no doubt love it, too. But my mind kept skipping back to my original question. “With guns?”

J. Scott blinked.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout,” I said. I surreptitiously wiped my mouth in case I’d also spit. “But the stories I remember hearing always made that whole episode sound more like a loud fuss between neighbors than a feud with guns.”

“But a feud is more fun. Plus, there’s historical precedent. A pig almost changed the course of American history in 1859. Look it up sometime. It’s fascinating. Of course, we’re switching the pig out for a piglet, because piglets are cute. People love them. I’d also like you to think of the marketing possibilities. If the event goes well this year, just wait until next. And I assure you it will be perfectly safe. No projectiles. No live rounds. No actual aiming at people. Your mayor and aldermen were extremely impressed by how thoroughly and carefully I’ve choreographed the event. It will be playacting at its finest. Verisimilitude and good fun. We’re taking Blue Plum’s worn-out skit and giving it the life it should be living. We’re giving Blue Plum’s history the voice and resonance it was meant to have. Believe me when I say this will take your festival weekend to the next level. Blue Plum Preserves is going to be on the map and on every heritage tourist’s itinerary. The result will be more visitors, more fun, and more money in the merchants’ pockets. Win. Win. Win. And here’s something else that will interest you. If I’m not mistaken, one of the originators of the festival, a founding mother, if you will, was, like you, a knitter.”

“Are you talking about Ivy McClellan?”

“Ivy?” He nodded. “Yes, that could be the name. I see you know your local history. That’s wonderful. She might be the one who dabbled on the original skit, too. The records aren’t entirely clear on that.”

“Ivy McClellan was my grandmother.”

“You’re kidding. Is she still . . .”

“She died four months ago. This was her shop. She and a couple of friends wrote the skit based on their research.”

“I am so sorry for you loss.” He gave his sorrow half a beat. “But then this will be especially wonderful. It could hardly be more appropriate for the shop to have a role in this year’s celebration. You will be honoring your grandmother’s memory and her vision by letting part of the action take place here. And that win, win, win I mentioned? It will go for you and the Weaver’s Cat, too. You’ll see. People eat this stuff up.” He smacked his lips and smiled. “Frankly, I’m surprised you aren’t already aware of the reenvisioning of what I believe is a cornerstone activity of Blue Plum Preserves.”

I opened my mouth—but to say what? That I’d been busy planning the shop’s own festival booth and related activities? Maybe. To tell him my life had been upended and my mind otherwise occupied since Granny died? Probably not, but it didn’t matter, anyway. He was primed and ready and got in ahead of whatever I might have said.

“Also, if you stop and think, I feel sure you’ll realize you’re focusing on the wrong component of the event.” He shook his head with a sad cluck of his tongue. “It happens, though. Mention guns and there are people who will misinterpret what you’re trying to do. But I think that, like the others, you’re missing the educational importance of this kind of event. You’re focusing on a small part of our tool set and missing the bigger picture of our message.”

“I could be.” I nodded, trying to give him the benefit of a snapless judgment. He was right. I was having trouble getting past the guns. Guns in the streets of Blue Plum. Guns fired out my second-floor windows. Guns in a little skit about a minor land squabble and wandering livestock. I gave myself a shake to jar my focus somewhere other than guns. Then, to give my judgment more time to flex and accommodate other interpretations, I picked up his card and read the fine print under his name. “You’re a piano salesman?”

He tipped his head and smiled. “High-end,” he said.

That probably accounted for the antique ivory color of the card and expensive feel of the stock. The name of the store and his position were expensive sounding, too. He was vice president for institutional sales at the Copeland Piano Gallery in Knoxville, about a hundred and twenty miles west of us. Interesting. I glanced from the card to J. Scott Prescott for a quick comparison between him and whatever my preconceived notion of piano salesmen was, high-end or otherwise. Before I got further than thinking his hands were smaller than seemed optimal for reaching octaves, a question occurred to me.

“What’s your interest in this, Mr. Prescott? Why are you involved in our ‘worn-out skit,’ if you don’t mind my asking?”

He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his smile warmed and he slid a second card across the counter. This one was a richer, almost edible butternut color and glossy with an embossed seal in the center. I ran my fingertips over the words running around the seal’s edge: “Prescott Preservation Realty.”

“Also high-end,” he said. “And I’ll let you in on a secret. The empty mercantile there across from the courthouse? I’m brokering a deal for an exciting new business and an eager tenant-to-be. That’s why we’ll have access to the roof. As a favor to me. The owner has been trying to rent or sell the place for years and is very happy I came along. I specialize in at-risk vintage and antique buildings. I am all about preservation. Of our history, our heritage, our homes. Our home.” He spread his arms wide, embracing the whole, heartwarming caboodle and with “our home,” he gave a slight bow. “So you see? I fit right in with the tenth annual Blue Plum Preserves celebration.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you’re from Blue Plum.”

“Well, no, actually I’m not. I was using ‘our’ and ‘home’ in the broader sense,” he said. “I also suspect I’m preaching to the choir when it comes to antique buildings. This whole row house is an architectural gem. Do you rent?”

“I own.”

“The whole row?”

“This house.”

“Well, the way you kept the feel of the original home when you repurposed it should be written up in one of the journals. No changes too drastic— it’ll be a snap for anyone to turn it back into a single-family residence. And having this unit is a plus. Windows on three sides, plenty of light. Are there any structural problems? Anything with the drains? The roof? If you ever want to sell—”

“No.”

He might have taken my interruption as a slap. I might have meant it that way. I felt like a cat with fur on end, claws exposed for a razor swipe across his nose if he took another step closer to my mortgage-free deed. This house had been my grandparents’ home. Granny had started the Weaver’s Cat right there in the corner of the room and let it grow and stretch until it had taken over the whole house. Granny’s inspiration and the love she had for all forms of needlework were intricately and inextricably woven into every inch of the Weaver’s Cat. This building—and all its accumulated fibers and fabrics and textures and colors and memories—this house was not a repurposed unit.

“It won’t be for sale any time soon,” I said after taking a deep breath.

“Message received.” J. Scott Prescott held up a placating hand and smiled. “And you just proved my point about preaching to the choir.”

“Huh. Okay. But I guess I’m still not following. How did you get so involved? Here, I mean, and in the skit? All the way from Knoxville?” It was tempting to add “in little old Blue Plum,” but only because I was beginning to feel perverse.

“We’re giving the skit a title, by the way,” he said. “Apparently it’s never had one, other than people calling it the pig skit. It’s now, officially, ‘The Blue Plum Piglet War.’”

He dipped back into his inside suit coat pocket and brought out a third business card. I reached for it, but he was ahead of me again, and he took my reaching hand, cupping it in his. If he’d actually gripped my hand, I would have yanked away from him faster than he could give a Blue Plum Piglet War yell. But all he did was lay the third card on my palm, tap it twice with a fingertip, and wink.

I ignored the wink and removed my hand from his. This third card was simple white cardstock with a stylized sketch of an ink bottle and a feather pen poised as though it had just finished writing the words “Prescott Preservation Plays.” I put the card on the counter next to its friends.

“You’re a man of many business cards.”

“I’m a man of many interests,” J. Scott said, “and by necessity a man of several streams of income. I blame the economy. But writing heritage plays for community celebrations is my true passion. If I may be allowed to put it in such high-flying terms, I feel a calling. I’ve written seven plays, to date, for communities from Darien in coastal Georgia to tiny Cumberland near Kingdom Come State Park in Kentucky. Each one has been well received and made a difference in the lives of the citizens.”

“But the—”

“And you can trust me on the gun issue,” he said. “The reenactors will not be just a bunch of good old boys playing with fantasies and popguns.” He grinned, showing me his ivories and also showing me that he could laugh at a stereotype as easily as the next good old boy. “So, Miss Rutledge, Kath, I know this is short notice, but may we have your blessing and permission to stage part of ‘The Blue Plum Piglet War’ from the upstairs windows of your charming place of business next weekend?”

“No. I’m sorry, but no.”