Knit One Murder Two

by Reagan Davis

  Knit One Murder Two

  A Knitorious Murder Mystery

  Reagan Davis

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2020 by Reagan Davis/Carpe Filum Press - All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-9990435-3-7 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-9990435-2-0 (print)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Killer Cables

  Also by Reagan Davis

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday September 10th

  I toss the last pillow onto the bed then stand back, squint, and scan the duvet cover for creases and bumps. One small bump catches my eye. I give the edge of the duvet a gentle tug and run my hand across the smooth surface, pleased with my neatly made bed. What feels more satisfying than climbing into a comfortable, well-made bed at the end of a long day? Not much.

  In theory, making half a bed should take half the time it takes to make an entire bed, but that isn’t how it works. At least not for me. I take the same amount of time to make half a bed as I do to make an entire bed. My bed-making skills are an example of Parkinson’s Law: "Work expands to fill the time available for its completion." In other words, I expand the time it takes to make half of the bed into the time that it takes to make the entire bed.

  See also: the junk in my junk drawer expands to fill the entire drawer, my yarn stash expands to fill all the available storage in my house, and my wardrobe expands to fill the entire closet when my husband and his wardrobe move out of the master bedroom and into the guest bedroom across the hall.

  I pull my favourite jeans from my drawer and my plum-coloured top from my closet. I get dressed, return my housecoat to its hook in the washroom, then open the washroom window to let the fresh air clear the lingering steam from my shower. I apply tinted moisturizer with SPF 30 to my face, a bit of mascara around my hazel eyes, and smear on some lip balm. My chestnut-brown hair is still wet from the shower. It’s too early to tell if today will be a good-curl day or a bad-curl day, so I slip a hair band on my wrist in case it’s a bad-curl day. I unplug my phone and leave my bedroom with coffee on my mind.

  Walking past Adam’s room, his unmade bed catches my eye, and I close the door so I don’t have to see it. “Just a few more weeks, Megan,'' I mutter to myself. “I just have to hang in there for a few more weeks.” Now that Hannah has graduated from high school and we’ve dropped her off at university, he can focus on finding an apartment. With any luck, he’ll be out of here by the first of the month.

  Like a woman on a mission, I walk into the kitchen and straight to the coffee maker, pop a pod of caramel coffee in the machine and place my I’d rather be knitting mug under the spout.

  While waiting for the coffee to brew, I walk over to the kitchen table and open my planner to today’s date. I have a 10 a.m. fundraising committee meeting at the Animal Centre, and I work from 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. I’ve been working part-time at Knitorious, Harmony Lake’s only knitting store and my second home, for just over five years.

  I check the clock on the microwave and see it’s 8:30 a.m. now, so I have an hour to enjoy my coffee and some knitting before I leave.

  I collect the full mug from the machine and settle myself in my favourite corner of the family-room sofa, cross my legs, and tuck my feet under me like a little kid in kindergarten who’s waiting for story time. I place my phone on the armrest.

  “Oscar, play my playlist,” I announce to the empty room.

  “OK,” Oscar replies.

  A few seconds later, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, Gwen Stefani’s voice fills the previously quiet space.

  Oscar is a digital voice assistant. Hannah and Adam gave him to me for Mother’s Day. They both love technology. Most holidays I can look forward to getting their new favourite gadget. They make me look more tech-savvy than I actually am.

  Oscar is useful. He can play music, keep my grocery list, give weather updates, read news headlines, remind me when the laundry is finished, look up phone numbers, and other Internet-based tasks. He is the size of a hockey puck and sits stoically on the end table beside my sheep-shaped yarn bowl, waiting silently for someone to say his name and ask him to do something. He’s like a useful pet that never needs to be fed or watered.

  I take a moment to savour my much anticipated first sip of coffee. I follow the warmth as it travels down my throat and spreads through the rest of my body. I put the mug back on the coaster and take my knitting from the yarn bowl.

  Ding!

  The vibration of my phone makes the sofa shake. It’s a text message from a number I don’t recognize. I pick up my phone and use my fingerprint to open the screen.

  Mystery texter: Hi Mrs. Martel. My name is Fred Murphy. My wife, Stephanie, works with Adam and they’ve been having an affair.

  I didn’t see that coming. How did he get my number?

  He sends a second message, a screenshot of a rather intimate text conversation, presumably between Adam and Stephanie. I know text conversations can be easily faked, but my instincts tell me there’s something to this.

  Our marriage has been over for months and Adam is home less than ever, even for a workaholic lawyer. Since Hannah left home a few weeks ago, some nights he comes home so late and leaves so early in the morning that I’m not certain he came home at all.

  A third text:

  Can we meet to discuss? I have more proof but I’d like to discuss it with you in person. I can come to Harmony Lake. Let me know when and where.

  I immediately text my best friend, April:

  Adam’s having an affair!

  I attach the screenshot of the steamy text exchange that Fred sent to me and hit send.

  Me: Her husband wants to meet me. Says he has more tell me.

  April texts me back right away:

  Wow! Do you want to meet him?

  That’s a good question. I’m not sure. My curiosity is piqued, that’s for sure, and there must be a reason he’s reaching out to me. I feel like I should meet him.

  April: Somewhere public. Meet him at the bakery so T and I can keep an eye on him.

  April and her wife, Tamara, own Artsy Tartsy, the bakery up the street from Knitorious. Tamara is a talented pastry chef, and I stop by to taste her creations every chance I get.

  I reply to Fred:

/>   Noon at Artsy Tartsy?

  Fred: See you then.

  I put my phone down on the armrest of the sofa and pick up my knitting. I’m working on a sock in plain stockinette stitch, a perfect project for knitting in front of the TV or trying to process your feelings about your soon-to-be-ex-husband possibly having a girlfriend. A married girlfriend.

  I find my rhythm quickly, and I’m automatically working one stitch after another while thinking about the text conversation I just had with Fred Murphy.

  Is there an appropriate reaction to finding out your soon-to-be-ex-husband might be seeing someone? I’m not angry. I don’t feel betrayed. I’m shocked. It hadn’t occurred to me that Adam might be seeing someone, much less someone who’s married.

  Ding! Dong!

  After about twenty rounds of knitting and navel gazing, the sound of the doorbell brings me back to the here and now. It’s April. I know before I put my knitting back in the yarn bowl and get to the door that it’s her. I know because I would do the same thing in her shoes; I’d rush straight over to her to make sure she’s OK.

  April and I have been friends for sixteen years. We met at a mommy-and-me group when Adam, Hannah, and I first moved to Harmony Lake. April and Tamara’s daughter, and my Hannah are the same age and best friends. The girls both just started university in Toronto. As difficult as it is to send your child off to school in the big city, April and I find comfort knowing both we and the girls have each other to make the transition easier.

  I open the door. April comes in and I close it behind her. We have a tight hug, and when we pull away from each other, she hands me a small white confectionery box.

  “It’s a maple carrot cupcake with pecans, topped with maple cream cheese frosting. T is thinking of adding them to the fall menu and wants your opinion.”

  “Halfsies?” I ask her over my shoulder.

  I’m already halfway to the kitchen to get a plate.

  “No, thank you! I’ve had at least a dozen of them while she’s been perfecting the recipe. I’ve eaten so many, I dreamed I was being chased by maple carrot cupcakes, and they were pelting me with pecans.”

  “All the more for me!” I sit down at the kitchen table and open the box. “She’s outdone herself, April. It’s almost too pretty to eat. Almost.”

  I carefully start to peel the paper liner away from the cupcake, and April takes a seat at the table across from me.

  “So,'' she asks, “how are you doing? Have you heard anything else from Fred?”

  My mouth is full, so I shake my head while I chew.

  When my mouth is empty, I say, “I knew it would happen eventually. It’s not like I expect him to spend the rest of his life alone because our marriage didn’t work out. I’m just shocked he didn’t wait until he moved out, you know? And she’s married.”

  April nods her head and looks at me intently.

  April and I are physical opposites. I’m short with an hourglass figure. She’s tall and lean. I’m a curly-haired brunette with hazel eyes, while she is a straight-haired blonde with blue eyes. I have fair skin, but she has a perpetual, year-round sun-kissed glow.

  “We haven’t even told anyone yet,” I say. “Other than Hannah, the only people who know we’re separated are you and Connie.”

  Connie is my boss at Knitorious, but she’s more like family than a boss.

  I finish my cupcake and ask April to please tell T to add it to the menu. It's fabulous and needs to be shared with the entire town as soon as possible. I put my plate in the dishwasher and get a glass of water, then I walk back to the table and sit down.

  “I’m not in love with him anymore.” This is the first time I’ve said it out loud, and as soon as I say it, it feels honest and I feel a little unburdened. “I love him because he’s Hannah’s dad, and the three of us will always be a family, you know? But our marriage is definitely over.”

  My lack of intense feelings about Fred’s texts help to confirm this for me.

  I’m mindlessly twirling my wedding ring with my right hand. I’m a fidgeter, and if I’m not knitting, my hands find something else to do to keep busy. April reaches across the table and takes my hands.

  “OK, Megan, but can I ask you one question? If your marriage is over, and you’re OK with that, why are you still wearing your wedding ring?” She picks up my left hand and shows it to me as if she’s trying to prove I’m wearing it.

  The ring is a thick band of white gold with a row of square and marquis-cut amethysts—my birthstone—in the centre and a row of diamonds above and below it.

  “We’re both still wearing our rings. We decided we’d wear them until we start to tell people. It was part of the plan not to ruin Hannah’s senior year of high school.” I shrug. “Also, I love this ring. I designed it myself. When we got married, we were so young and poor that we couldn’t afford an engagement ring. We had simple white gold wedding bands. Adam always wanted to upgrade my ring, so for our 10th anniversary he told me to pick a ring, and I designed this one.”

  I slip the ring from my left hand to my right hand, and surprisingly, it fits perfectly, like it’s meant to be worn there.

  “Better?” I ask, holding my right hand in front of April’s face.

  “As long as you’re happy.” She smiles and stands up. “Are you ready to head to the bakery and meet Fred?”

  Chapter 2

  It’s a beautiful, sunny day, so we decide to walk to Artsy Tartsy. The breeze coming off the lake is just cool enough to be refreshing, and the warm sun on my face is a reminder that soon the weather will change. I’ll miss walking to Water Street without having to bundle up in a coat, mitts, and winter boots.

  Water Street is to Harmony Lake what Main Street is to other small towns. It’s our main drag, our downtown, and where many of the town’s businesses and stores are located. Most of the buildings on Water Street are on the north side of the street. The south side is a strip of park in front of the boardwalk and lake front.

  Weather permitting, I prefer to walk to work because it’s only about a ten-minute walk from my house. Harmony Lake is a small town, both geographically and in population, so almost anywhere you need to go is within walking distance. The town is nestled snugly between the lake on the south, and the Harmony Hills mountain range on the north. Nature left no room for expansion but provided the town with the perfect foundation for a tourism-based economy.

  The Harmony Hills mountain range has two popular ski resorts that are usually fully booked all winter with skiers and snowboarders, and fully booked again in the summer with city-escapees who flock to the lake front.

  Except for a few weeks in the fall and a few weeks in the summer, the town is full of tourists. During the busiest weeks, I think there are more visitors than locals in Harmony Lake.

  Autumn is my favourite time of year here because the town is so pretty with the fall colours on the trees. The storefronts also have their fall window displays set up, and arrangements of pumpkins and fall flowers are dotted throughout the town. The weather isn’t too hot or too cold, and since the summer tourist season is over and the winter tourist season hasn’t begun, for a few precious weeks, we locals have the town to ourselves.

  When we get to Water Street, we cross the street on the south side and go through the park. A few boats dot the lake near the horizon line, and the park is full of neighbours who are out and about enjoying the beautiful day. I can feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. It’s Adam. I don’t have the mental bandwidth to deal with him right now, so I clear the notification from my phone and return it to my pocket.

  I glance to my right, across the street, and spot Paul Sinclair walking along the sidewalk in front of The Pharmer’s Market, the local pharmacy.

  “Shoot!” I say.

  I duck back behind April, then leap to her left side where I’m hoping her height will shield me from Paul’s view.

  “What is it?” She asks, confused by my sudden ducking and weaving around her.

  “It’
s Paul Sinclair,” I reply. “I was supposed to attend a fundraising meeting at the Animal Centre this morning, and with all the kerfuffle, I totally forgot. I didn’t even think to call and let them know I wouldn’t make it. You know how he is.”

  I crane my neck backwards to sneak a peek across the street behind April’s back, hoping Paul has moved along without spotting me. I’d rather deal with him after this meeting with Fred.

  It’s too late. Paul is crossing the street. He saw me, and now he’s catching up with me, probably to scold me for my thoughtlessness and lack of respect for the other committee members who did attend the meeting. I can already hear it, and he’s not even here yet.

  In addition to being a member of the Town Council, Paul Sinclair is also the president of the Water Street Business Association (known by the locals as the WSBA), the town council representative on the WSBA board, the WSBA representative on the Town Council, and a member of every other committee, organization, and community group in town. To say he’s involved in the town is an understatement.

  He’s also the town’s self-appointed, unofficial bylaw officer. He has the remarkable ability to recite any town bylaw by heart and takes it upon himself to enforce them whenever he deems anyone to be violating one, no matter how small the violation or how justified the action. Basically, he’s the town bully. He doesn’t seem threatening at first, but if you violate a bylaw, miss a committee meeting, or otherwise displease him, he’ll make sure you know it.

  He’s tall with perfect posture, a year-round tan, and unnaturally white teeth that are almost always on display with a carefully molded, wide smile that reminds me of the smile a fairy-tale wolf has before he eats you or blows your house down.