Crafting an Alibi: Gasper's Cove Mysteries Book 5 by Barbara Emodi

CHAPTER ONE

“We need cash,” Joyce said, prim and upright in her seasonal cardigan, knitted maple leaves accented by a gold cat brooch she’d worn for sixty years. “And fast.”

“We have a business proposition for you,” Bernadette added. “We have no one else to ask. You’re my great-niece. I told the girls you’ll keep this a secret.”

Next to her, Minnie, the third member of the group, nodded. “That’s right. We know people say you’re quick to fly off the handle, but we know you never let anyone down. And not many folks would understand our situation. We think you will.”

I put my china teacup down. I laid the tiny silver spoon on the saucer. This was not what I had expected when the ladies of Seaview Manor invited me for tea.

“I am not sure I understand,” I said. I’d known these three women my whole life. Each of them must be close to ninety. If I was going to get more information, I would have to be
delicate about it. “Isn’t everything here covered?” I asked. “By the province and your Canada pensions? Accommodations and meals?” What financial worries would these ladies have at this stage of their lives? The community had and would always take care of them. We’d built the Manor so our seniors could stay with us, here on Gasper’s Island. No one wanted grandparents too frail to live with family to go across the causeway to Drummond or, even worse, somewhere else down the road in mainland Nova Scotia.

Minnie waved my question aside with her hand, her rings loose on her fingers. She’d dressed up for this meeting in a well-preserved red wool flannel jacket she’d made herself. Above her covered buttons, a rhinestone brooch and heavy clip-on earrings glinted in the sun that slid in sideways from windows that faced the bright waters of the North Atlantic.

“We’re fine, thank you,” Minnie said, snapping the crimson bows of her lips shut. I had insulted her. “The money’s not for us, it’s for the young people.”

Bernadette leaned forward, the fringed tie of a crocheted vest skimming the surface of the tea in her cup. “Between us, we have twenty-three grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”

Joyce picked up the teapot and poured. Minnie put another butter tart on my plate. It looked homemade, the top of a crispy raisin visible in a crack of a filling made of butter,
brown sugar, and eggs. I was being bribed. It was working. I took a bite and
listened.

“And that’s not counting the nieces and nephews, and some of them are grandparents themselves,” Joyce continued.

“It all adds up.”

“You bet it does,” Minnie nodded. “Birthdays, Christmases, graduations, bridal showers, christenings. These days, cards cost more than the five dollars you put in them.”

“And the cats,” Joyce reminded the table. “Let’s not forget the SPCA.” She pushed her chair back, and as if it had been waiting for an entry line, a rangy gray cat jumped up on her lap.

“Who’s that?” I asked. “It looks like Shadow’s cousin, exactly the same shade of gray.” Shadow was our store cat who lived down at the family store I managed, Rankin’s General. Originally brought in to chase away visiting mice, Shadow spent most of her time dozing on the quilts we sold upstairs in the Crafters’ Co-op.

“He could be related,” Joyce agreed. “Gasper’s Cove cats tend to be gray. Passed on, one generation to another, all got the same look about them.”

“Like us,” Bernadette observed. “Valerie here’s got the Rankin eyes, one blue and one green. Dark curly hair. A touch of the fey, the curse to feel premonitions. Our childbearing hips. There’s a word for it. What is it?”

“Genetics,” I said, reaching out to stroke the fine, soft gray fur. I wouldn’t have described my figure quite like that. “I didn’t know you had a cat in here.”

“Maybelline sent him,” Joyce said, referring to a long-gone black cat I had seen in Joyce’s tearoom and alteration shop when I was a child. In those days, Joyce used to read the leaves in her customers’ cups. She claimed that Maybelline had been her spiritual guide and that, one way or another, the cat had never left her.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said. It was the best I could do.

“What’s this one called?”

“Max Factor,” Joyce said, as if stating the obvious. “He’s a boy.”

“Keeps us all company,” Bernadette said. “Now, back to the money. Family costs,” she looked sideways at Minnie, “and some of us have inventor grandsons.”

“A good investment.” Minnie was proud. “Big Bob is a thinker. Why did you think Alexander Graham Bell spent his summers here and moved to Cape Breton when he retired? Nova Scotians are deep thinkers. We have given the world its best ideas.”

“And those are?” Joyce asked, giving me a wink. I had a feeling this was not the first time they had had this conversation.

I was right. Minnie was quick to answer. “One, we invented the portable ironing board. Two, a man in Halifax came up with the idea for backup lights for cars. Three, well, three was the big one.”

“Which was? Don’t tell me it was something Bob came up with,” Joyce said, teasing Minnie for my benefit. 

“No, it wasn’t his idea,” Minnie admitted. “It could have been, but someone else got there first.” She paused. “Number three is hockey. Invented in Windsor, Nova Scotia, 1800.”

“You got a point there. That’s one idea that caught on,” Joyce conceded. She scanned the empty dining room for eavesdroppers. “This is all very educational for Valerie, but we should get back to business. Our proposal.”

“I’m listening,” I said, distracted and impressed by the butter tart. It wasn’t easy to make a pastry strong enough to contain a heavy filling and keep it this flakey. “Who made these?” I asked.

“My niece,” Joyce answered, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ll get her to make you some. But listen. We have inventory we want to unload.”

“Something we’ve been hiding for years,” Bernadette added.

“Keeping it for emergencies,” Minnie said.

“We didn’t want to touch the capital.” Joyce reasserted herself as chief negotiator. “But at our age, with our expenses...”

“It’s time,” Bernadette interrupted. She had the most grandchildren. “You are the only person we trust to sell it.”

“Sell what?” I asked. Did they mean at the store in the Crafters’ Co-op? What were we discussing? Knitted socks? Tatted doilies?

“We’ll get to the what in a minute.” Bernadette looked to her partners for reassurance before she continued. “But whatever we tell you today has to stay between us.”

I looked outside at the view. It was a beautiful crisp day, one of the last of the summer. Perfect for a dog walk. Toby and I could drive to the north shore of the island and walk the beach. Agreeing to sell mitts shouldn’t take long.

“Between us,” I promised.

“Good,” Joyce said. “Because there’s one little problem with our goods.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

Joyce hesitated.

Minnie stepped in. She’d never had a business like Joyce, but she’d run a household for more than half a century on a fisherman’s wages. She wasn’t shy about talking dollars.

“What we’re looking to get onto the market is valuable. But the thing is,” she sighed, “we stole it.”

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Excerpted from Crafting an Alibi: Gasper's Cove Mysteries Book 5 by Barbara Emodi. Copyright © 2025 by C&T Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.