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A perfect blend of knitting and cozy mysteries. Reagan Davis writes cozy mysteries set in small town Ontario. Her protagonist, Megan, owns a knitting shop; the perfect job for an amateur sleuth ;-) In the introduction I mention speaking (via zoom) with a university psychology class last week about my memoir about ten years I spent in a cult in the 1990s. The students were super engaged and thoughtful and it was a joy to chat with them and answer questions. I'm always thrilled to help educate anyone about how cults work and how even smart, self-aware people can get sucked into them. Today's show is supported by my patrons at Patreon. Thank you! When you become a patron for as little as $1 a month you receive a short mystery story each and every month. And the rewards for those who love mystery stories go up from there! Learn more and become a part of my community of readers at www.Patreon.com/alexandraamor This week's mystery author Reagan Davis doesn’t really exist. She is a pen name for the real author who lives in the suburbs of Toronto with her husband, two kids, and a menagerie of pets. When she’s not planning the perfect murder, she enjoys knitting, reading, eating too much chocolate, and drinking too much Diet Coke. The author is an established knitwear designer who regularly publishes individual patterns and is a contributor to many knitting books and magazines. To learn more about Reagan and all her books visit ReaganDavis.com Press play (above) to listen to the show, or read the transcript below. Remember you can also subscribe to the show on Apple Podcasts. And listen on Stitcher, Android, Google Podcasts, TuneIn, and Spotify. Excerpt from Twisted Stitches Monday July 6th “Megan!” The disembodied voice comes from nowhere. Just loud enough to hear, but not loud enough to recognize. There’s nobody around. This is the third time in fourteen hours the voice has called my name. Am I hearing things? Is this a neurological symptom? The disembodied voice comes from nowhere. Just loud enough to hear, but not loud enough to recognize. There’s nobody around. This is the third time in fourteen hours the voice has called my name. Am I hearing things? Is this a neurological symptom? The voice called out to me when I walked Sophie last night, again this morning during our morning walk, and just now, while I load groceries into my trunk at the Shop’n’Save in Harmony Hills. I make a mental note to search the internet when I get home, in case this is a symptom of a stroke, or a brain tumour, or something. Returning the empty cart to the cart corral, I see Mr. and Mrs. Willows across the parking lot. They’re getting into their older, oversize, white pickup truck that Mrs. Willows affectionately refers to as “The Beater.” They see me too. We smile at each other and exchange waves. Could one of them have called out to me? Like me, Mr. and Mrs. Willows live in Harmony Lake. They have a farm on the outskirts of town. It’s not uncommon to run into other Harmony Lake residents in Harmony Hills. Harmony Lake is a small town with limited amenities. Most of us who live there make regular trips to Harmony Hills to visit the big box stores, medical facilities, and other businesses and services we don’t have on the other side of the Harmony Hills mountains. Standing in an asphalt parking lot with no shade, at noon on a July day, with the heat from the hot pavement radiating up my sundress, makes a hot summer day feel downright scorching. I start the engine, turn the stereo down and the air conditioning up. A few uncooperative curls insist on hanging rebelliously around my face as I twist my hair into a bun and secure it with the hair elastic I wear on my wrist. I pull down the sun visor and open the mirror. With my sunglasses resting on top of my head, I check the mirror and wipe a smudge of mascara from below my left eye. I squint into the bright,