Valerie Rankin has come home to Gasper's Cove, a small coastal Nova Scotia town where the fishery has slowed and just about everyone makes something: they knit, crochet, carve, sew, throw pots. Her plan is simple. Get all those crafts out of people's houses and into a co-op on the second floor of the family's general store. How hard could it be? Crafting for Murder is the first book in the Gasper's Cove Mysteries, a warm, funny Canadian cozy mystery series about ordinary people, the things they make, and the trouble that finds them anyway. Here is Chapter One to get you started.

CHAPTER ONE

Gerry Richards, CKGC Gasper’s Cove’s “Voice of the Waves”, spoke into the mic, but his eyes were on me.

“Valerie Rankin, are you saying you tricked the province into believing in a business that doesn’t exist, selling merchandise you don’t really have?”

He sat back and waited.

The roots of my hair prickled, hot under the tight leatherette headset. The tiny wood panelled room closed in on me. It smelled of Old Spice and burnt coffee. The last time I’d been in a radio station I was working as a night cleaner at the CBC offices in Halifax. When my third cousin here said he could set up an interview because the announcer owed him rent, he didn’t tell me it was going to be this hard.

“Gerry, it’s not the way it sounds. The Department of Tourism wanted businesses owned by women for the ‘Out and About’ guide. I went online and applied. Wasn’t expecting to hear back, to be honest.” Had this man never had nothing to lose? Never done anything on impulse?

“You told them about a grand opening of some kind of crafter’s co-op, am I right?” Gerry was awfully smug for a man in a one room radio station above the Credit Union on Front Street, in an office chair missing one wheel, duct tape holding it all together.

“Look, this is rural Nova Scotia,” I said. “All I want is to get crafts out of people’s houses and into a central location.” How hard could it be? “Everyone in Gasper’s Cove makes something. It’s all there is to do, now the fishery’s slowed down. We knit, crochet, carve, sew, make pots, jewelry.” I looked up at the foam egg cartons stapled to the ceiling.

Gerry leaned towards me, pilled fleece vest, zipped and straining over a worn poly-cotton shirt. As a garment sewer, I knew this was a tough body to dress well. Gerry wasn’t even trying.

“Where’s this co-op of yours, this consignment shop thing, located?”

“It’s not exactly located yet Gerry. We’re in the process of setting it up on the second floor of our store, you know Rankin General, down the street.”

“Not ready?” Gerry let his rich baritone linger, letting the folks at home appreciate the gravity of my situation.

“The space will be ready, no problem,” I said. “We’ve just got to clean it up a bit and start collecting crafts.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Gerry asked.

“I’ve told my sewing students to spread the word,” I said, catching Gerry’s smirk at the mention of what, to him, was a mundane, female, activity. “We’ve put up notices around town, and I thought anyone listening can contact me.” The next part I’d rehearsed. Speaking slowly and carefully I recited my cell phone number and email address and asked anyone interested to drop off samples at the store.

It was a relief when Gerry turned from me to his mic, raised a finger for me to wait, listened to something only he could hear, and flicked a switch. The faint beat of the “Guess Who” echoed in the room.

I was done.

Sliding his headset off and down his neck, Gerry reached for mine. “The warden’s got a bigger head than you, more ways than one, had to adjust this. First time doing radio?” he asked, as he leaned into me, brushing his hands over my hair as he freed me from the earphones. He’d had bacon and onions for lunch.

I tried to keep steady in my own tippy chair. “I’ve been in studios before, but only behind the scenes.”

“Thought so. Got to do these community interest spots, but investigative journalism is more my beat. Plus, I’ve got a face for radio,” Gerry chuckled, enjoying the worn joke. “I send young Noah out to do the human-interest stuff. He’s off now covering the plot to replace the crossing guard at the school with a bucket of flags. Technology, displacing the honest worker,” Gerry paused, waiting for a reaction.

“What’s next? Robots for teachers?” I asked, weakly attempting humour.

Gerry stared at me in silence. Wit was his job, not mine. “Whatever. I handle the big stories. Had the warden in to talk about himself a while ago, didn’t get what he expected.” Gerry looked pleased with himself as he walked his chair over closer to me.

“We’ll air this in the next day or two. Why don’t I have you in every week over the next month, help build momentum? With my help, you might pull this off.” The announcer reached out a moist hand to squeeze my wrist and held on. “We’ve been like ships passing in the night, Val. You left for the city about when I moved here. Now you’re back, we should go out for beer, make up for lost time,” he leaned in. “Talk business.”

I’d rather replace a zipper in a pair of jeans I thought. “Sure. Maybe. When I’m not so busy.” I said, extracting my arm from Gerry’s grip, my watch catching on the heavy links of the gold-plated bracelet on his wrist. Pulling myself free, I stood up too quickly, and knocked a chair, with a crash, onto the studio floor.

And I left.

But before I closed the door behind me, I turned and looked back. There he was, the “Voice of the Waves” himself, classic rock in the background, electrical cords tangled around his feet, a broken chair in his hands.

My mind snapped a picture. I’d remember this.

Crafting for Murder, Gasper's Cove Mysteries Book 1, is available in paperback and ebook wherever books are sold. Find it here.