She continued on to Home Arts by the Sea. Francie Jenkins sat at a long, burnished aluminum table and was giving knitting lessons to a young woman sitting next to her. The shop had been set up as an open workshop with three twenty-foot worktables and chairs. There were towering wood cubbies spaced around the shop filled with yarn, embroidery thread, bolts of fabric, batting, and artists’ supplies. Across from the worktables were three tall easels holding works in progress. The two-story wall at the back of Home Arts by the Sea was adorned with art, including framed oil and watercolor paintings and three of Minna’s mixed-media collages on six-foot canvases. There were also natural wood bookcases that held items for sale made by members of the Home Arts by the Sea Collective, including knitwear, blankets, pottery, primitive-style hooked rugs, blown glass, and handmade jewelry.
Liz’s life in Manhattan left little time for leisure crafts. She’d learned to crochet as a teen from Betty, but she hadn’t picked up a hook in ten years. Maybe she would get back into it. She knew from watching Francie and Betty that there were many cathartic benefits to learning the needlecraft arts and that she should make it a point to take a few lessons in her downtime. Her nagging muse whispered in her ear, Another excuse, to not write, Elizabeth Amelia Holt. Darn muse.
When she passed by Home Arts, Liz called out, “Hey, Francie.”
Francie looked nervously at the young woman next to her, put her finger to her lips, and pointed at a stroller that apparently held a sleeping baby. Francie handed the knitting over to her pupil. Then Liz heard Francie whisper, “Go on, you’ve got it, Beth. I’ll be right back.”
Liz met her at the entrance to the shop. Francie grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the bench under the windows and they both sat. Francie focused her large, chocolate-brown eyes on Liz. Aunt Amelia and Liz had mutually christened Francie with the name Gidget from the television series starring Sally Field. Her dark brown hair was styled in a sixties flip with short, razor-straight bangs. Francie wore clothing that she handmade, using her own trademarked sewing patterns. She sold the patterns at Home Arts by the Sea, online, and at sewing centers across the country. She would take a vintage pattern and update the measurements for a modern woman’s silhouette, then add a flourish or two from her own imagination.
Liz looked at her apron. “Love the poodle.”
The apron was affixed with pink poodle appliques trimmed in gold sequins. The cotton print polka-dot dress under her apron had a buttoned-up bodice and a Peter Pan collar. The dress flared at the waist and was cinched with a patent-leather belt.
“Thanks. I copied the poodle from a skirt I bought from Books & Browsery by the Sea. Kate’s always on the lookout for vintage clothing I can duplicate.”
“You all set for the Spring Fling?”
“Yes. Minna and I are anticipating a big turnout.” She glanced toward Sirens by the Sea. “Do you believe that deadbeat, Brittany? This is the third time this week she hasn’t come in on time. She makes the rest of us look bad.”
“I’ll talk to Aunt Amelia. I don’t want to get involved. Brittany and I aren’t exactly on good terms.”
Francie stood, looked over the wall at her pupil, and gave her a thumbs-up. When she sat back down she said, “I’ve been giving the poor thing lessons since we opened the shop, and she still tends to make a mess of things. I must not be a very good teacher.”
“You are a great teacher, Francie. Every class you give is packed and usually has a year-long waiting list.”
“I’m determined to help her. That’s why I had her come in before opening.”
Liz stood. “Any more grumbling from Edward?”
“Edward wouldn’t be Edward without a little grumbling. You should hear the way he talks to his son. Speaking of grumbling, I heard Regina Harrington-Worth is a guest of the hotel. What hole did she crawl out of? I’m the vice president of the Barrier Island Historical Society, and there’s no way we’re letting her tear down Castlemara.”
“As far as I know, Regina sounds pretty confident she’ll be moving into her new mansion in five months’ time.”
“Oh my gosh. She’ll be staying here for that long?”
“I hope not.”
“Her father and mine were the cofounders of the historical society. They say she bumped off her father, Percival Harrington II.”
It was the second time today Liz had heard the rumors, and now that the Worths were staying at the Indialantic, she knew it wouldn’t be the last.
Francie leaned in closer to Liz. “I know her father must have had a clause somewhere in his will that would keep Regina from demolishing Castlemara. When I was in the office a couple of weeks ago, Regina burst in furious after finding out that after her own death, Castlemara would go to the Barrier Island Historical Society. I won’t let her tear down Castlemara. It’s a travesty. You should have Fenton look into it.” Francie had a pleading tone, tears pooling in her huge brown eyes.
“Another thing I’d better not get involved in. Why don’t you stop by my dad’s office later, though, and talk to him?”
“Maybe I will.”
As they talked, the young woman called Beth came toward them, holding what Liz, who wasn’t a knitter, could only describe by using Aunt Amelia’s term, a “rat’s nest” of tangled, variegated yarn. “Oops,” the woman said to Francie.
Francie stepped toward her and took the hot mess out of her hands, patting her student on the back. “No worries, there’s more yarn where that came from.” Prodding the woman back to the table, she turned back to face Liz and mouthed, “We’ll talk later.”
She thought about what Francie had said. If Regina’s father had put Castlemara in a
