Knit One Murder Two

by Reagan Davis

  “Paul, I’m going to check your pulse,” I tell him.

  It’s been more than a dozen years since I’ve had any CPR training, but I remember the instructor saying it’s important to talk to the patient and tell them what you’re doing each step of the way.

  His hands are flat on the table, palms down, on either side of the bowl that contains his head. His cell phone is next to his left hand.

  I check his wrist for a pulse. No pulse. His skin feels warmer than room temperature, but not as warm as it should be.

  Maybe this just happened and there’s still time to help him.

  “Paul, can you hear me? I’m going to lift your head out of the bowl.”

  I hope he can hear me.

  I hope he’s had some kind of bizarre household accident or medical episode but will be all right.

  I put one hand on either side of Paul’s head, just above his ears and lift his head from the bowl. It’s heavier than I expect, and milk drips from his face into the bowl and onto the table. There are pieces of soggy cereal stuck to his nose and cheek.

  He’s not going to be all right.

  Paul is dead.

  Chapter 6

  I inhale sharply. The knot in my stomach has turned to panic and is emanating from my gut into the rest of my body. My heart is thumping in my ears, and I can feel my face flushing. I have to get help. I have to get out of here.

  Should I put his face back in the cereal bowl? Do I move the cereal bowl out of the way and put his head on the table? The CPR course didn’t cover this.

  How can he be dead? I just saw him this morning and he was alive. Controlling and bossy, but alive.

  Did he drown in a giant bowl of cereal? Was he strangled by the skein of yarn?

  I turn his head to the left so his nose and mouth won’t be submerged again and gently place his head on the bowl. I’m walking backwards to the door, watching him in case I’m wrong, and he moves.

  Please move! Please wake up, Paul!

  I grope for the doorknob behind me and back out of the apartment.

  Running down the stairs to the salon, I hear myself scream.

  “Kelly! Kelly! Call 9-1-1! Something’s wrong with Paul!”

  Kelly looks at me with a confused look on her face.

  My phone is in my shaky hand and I call for help.

  While I’m answering the dispatcher’s questions, Kelly is looking from me to the back of the store where the stairs are, then back to me again. I sense she’s about to run up to the apartment. Should I spare her from seeing her husband like this? What if it’s a crime scene? I position myself between Kelly and the stairs while continuing to answer the dispatcher’s questions. Kelly wipes her hands on a towel, then sprints from sink to the back room. She pushes past me and tears up the stairs.

  “Paul!” She screams.

  I run up the stairs after her. She’s kneeling at his side checking for a pulse. She’s checking the same wrist I checked moments before, and I hope she has a different outcome.

  When the dispatcher asks me to make sure the salon door is open, I run back downstairs and past the back door. I tell her it’s propped open with a rock. I keep running to the front door and turn the latch to unlock it, then I push it open about an inch to confirm it’s unlocked.

  I hear the crinkling sound of aluminum foil and turn to see Mrs. Pearson on her feet, removing the last of the foils from her hair. She bends forward into the sink and gives her short hair a quick rinse, then while rubbing her wet hair with a towel, walks over to me and tells me that she’ll take over door duty. I nod in response.

  I walk to the back door in case the ambulance pulls into the parking lot behind the salon instead of out front. I’m still holding the phone up to my ear, but aside from the dispatcher saying, “Are you still with me, Megan?” every few seconds, and me responding, “Yes, I’m here,” we aren’t saying anything.

  An ambulance pulls up in front of the Hairway To Heaven, and its lights create a red and blue strobe effect on the walls inside the salon. The dispatcher and I end our call.

  Within what feels like seconds, the salon is full of first responders. Paramedics, police officers, and a few firefighters rush around me.

  The back room is small, so I step into the salon and lean against the nearest wall to stay out of the way of the those who need to access the stairs.

  A police officer leads Kelly down the stairs, slowly.

  I go into the kitchenette and get her a glass of water. At least I’m doing something. I need to do something useful. Anything.

  The officer leads Kelly to a chair in front of one of the sinks and helps her sit down. I hand Kelly the water and place a box of tissues I found on the counter in the kitchenette on her lap.

  A second police officer guides me away from Kelly and over to one of the stylist’s chairs on the other side of the salon.

  I notice a third police officer with Mrs. Pearson at the reception desk.

  We’re obviously being kept apart on purpose.

  One of the things I’ve learned from many years of binge-watching murder mysteries and true crime documentaries while I knit, is that witnesses at a crime scene are kept apart so they can be interviewed separately without influencing each other’s statements.

  People are highly suggestible, particularly when they're in shock, and their recollection of events can be influenced by other people’s recollection of events. For example, if I think something at the crime scene is blue, but I hear another witness describe it as green, it might alter my recollection, causing me to believe the thing I saw was actually green.

  My police officer opens her notepad and starts asking me questions. I fiddle with my wedding ring, now on my right hand, and provide her with my name and contact information. Then I reach into my tote bag for my wallet so I can show her my identification.

  Inside my head, Adam’s voice is telling me not to answer any more questions without a lawyer, but I know I haven’t done anything wrong and I have nothing to hide, so I decide to cooperate, answer her questions, and help any way I can.

  She asks me why I’m at the salon and why I went upstairs. She also wants to know how I found Paul, where I touched him, and what else I touched while I was up there. I tell her everything starting from the moment when Connie and I noticed the skein of yarn that Kelly left behind at Knitorious earlier today.

  The firefighters seem to have left, but more people arrive to take their place, including a tall official-looking man in a suit.

  My police officer and I both notice the suit at the same time, and she excuses herself to speak with him. My experience as an avid viewer of murder mysteries tells me the man wearing the suit is a police detective.

  Like a mantra, I’ve been repeatedly telling myself that Paul had a medical episode, or an accident, and he wasn’t murdered. I don’t want to believe one of my neighbours could be a murder victim and a murder could happen in this cozy, sweet town. However, the arrival of a detective makes it difficult to keep fooling myself that either my medical episode theory or accident theory are how Paul died.

  If Paul’s death is a murder, I was at a murder scene probably mere moments after the killer fled. This realization makes me feel anxious and leaves a sick taste in my mouth.

  Suddenly, I’m hot, my breathing is shallow, I’m trembling, and my mouth is uncomfortably dry. I try taking deep breaths to control the trembling, but the chemical smell in the salon is working against me, so now I’m also nauseous. I close my eyes and put my head between my knees.

  “Are you all right?” asks an unfamiliar man’s voice.

  I raise my head to see the suit standing in front of me.

  “Would it be possible for me to step outside for some fresh air?” I gulp, hoping to swallow the wave of nausea washing over me.

  “Of course,” he replies, “follow me.''

  He extends a hand to help me up, leads me to the front door and onto the sidewalk where I inhale as much of the crisp, evening air as my lungs c
an handle.

  “Heavy shoulders, long arms,” I mutter to myself.

  "Heavy shoulders, long arms" is a relaxation technique to help release the tension from the neck and shoulders. I learned it in a yoga class in my twenties, and still use it all these years later.

  “Pardon?” the suit asks. “Did you say something?”

  I shake my head and lean against the cool brick wall of the salon, put my hands on my knees and take a few more deep breaths.

  Feeling slightly less nauseous and shaky, I stand upright and see the sidewalk across the street lined with friends and neighbours. There are police officers and barriers preventing them from coming closer.

  A uniformed officer comes running out and stands in front of me with a large white sheet. Is he trying to shield me from seeing the people across the street, or is he trying to shield the people across the street from seeing me? Either way it’s too late.

  “Someone is getting you a glass of water,” the suit informs me.

  I look up at him and nod.

  “Thank you,” I respond, “I’m feeling better. We can go back inside.”

  I return to the same chair I was sitting in before I left, and Mrs. Pearson, followed closely by her police escort, hands me a glass of water and begins rubbing my back reassuringly. This woman is good in a crisis.

  Just when I’m beginning to feel like this day will never end, my police officer appears at my side and asks me if there’s someone I’d like to call to pick me up.

  My first thought is to call either April or Connie, but it seems silly to ask them to escort me home when I can walk there myself in five minutes. Also, they’ll fuss over me and ask a ton of questions I’m not sure I’m ready to answer. I’m not prepared to relive this again tonight. I’m tired and hungry, and I just want to go home and put on my pyjamas

  My next thought is to call Adam. Not for emotional support, but because he’s a lawyer, and if ever there was a situation where a lawyer might come in handy, this would be it.

  Ultimately, I decide not to call anyone, and the police officer offers to drive me home. I accept.

  Walking through my front door, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Five minutes ago, I was exhausted and overwhelmed, and now I’m wide awake and wired. This must be what it feels like to be in shock. Tonight, I’ve learned that being in shock is a process with a wide spectrum of reactions ranging from panic, fear, sadness, and nausea, to energetic, hyper, alert, and overwhelmed.

  Vaguely, I recall once reading something about adrenaline and stressful situations, but I can’t remember the details.

  Adam isn’t home yet, and I’m relieved I don’t have to answer any questions about what happened or be reminded about the importance of not answering police questions without a lawyer.

  I put a piece of lasagna in the microwave and while it warms up, I retrieve my phone from my bag and unlock the screen to see dozens of texts from friends and neighbours wanting to know what’s happening, and if everyone is OK.

  I reply to April and Connie immediately, letting them know Kelly, Mrs. Pearson, and I are OK, but Paul isn’t. I also tell them that I need a few hours to process everything, and I’ll talk to them tomorrow. They both offer to come over and not ask any questions. I appreciate it, but I thank them and decline. Right now, I’m content to be on my own, and finally let this day end.

  Scrolling through the rest of the messages, I see Adam texted earlier in the evening to say I shouldn’t wait up, and he’ll be around in the morning to talk.

  I text him back and tell him that Paul has been found dead and the town is in shock. He’s going to find out anyway, and it may as well be from me. I don’t tell him that I was the one who found him or that it might be murder.

  He doesn’t respond.

  It’s much later than I would normally eat dinner, but I haven’t eaten since this morning, and I’m both starving and nauseous at the same time. As a result, I eat my lasagna faster than I should, hoping I won’t be up all night with indigestion as a result.

  I put my dishes in the dishwasher and make a mug of chamomile tea while I finish scrolling through the missed text messages.

  I lay in bed tossing and turning, tired and wide awake at the same time. When I close my eyes and try to be still, I relive it all over again. I see Paul hunched over the table. I see Kelly sprinting for the stairs. I smell the chemical odour in the salon, I see milk dripping off his nose and the pieces of cereal stuck to his face. I feel his not-quite-warm-enough skin. It plays over and over in my head like a movie I can’t pause.

  To distract myself, I turn on the TV and find a channel that only airs 1990s sitcoms and leave it on in the background until I either fall asleep, or it’s time to get up.

  With the theme song from Friends filling my bedroom, I close my eyes and take deep breaths.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday, September 11th

  I wake up to the voices of Paul and Jamie Buchman arguing about a pretty nurse on Mad About You. I know I slept for a little while because I dreamt I was running around the edge of a huge fountain of cereal, trying not to fall in while being chased by a giant skein of yarn.

  I turn off the TV, hurry through my morning routine, and rush out the door to Knitorious.

  Adam’s car isn’t in the driveway, and his briefcase, shoes, and coat aren’t where they usually are when he’s home, so I assume he hasn’t been home yet.

  I decide to walk into town because the police could still have Water Street closed in front of Hairway to Heaven, and I think I’m too tired to drive.

  As soon as I turn the corner onto Water Street, I see the yellow crime scene tape glistening in the light of the dawning sun and wafting gently in the breeze blowing off the lake. I cross the street because the police officer stationed in front of Hairway To Heaven probably won’t let me walk on the sidewalk in front of the salon.

  There aren’t as many bystanders this morning as there were last night, but still a good-sized crowd. As I thread my way through clusters of onlookers, I hear my name. I stretch my neck to look above the crowd and see April waving me over to where she and Connie are standing.

  We have a group hug.

  “How did you sleep, my dear?” Connie squeezes my shoulder with one arm and hands me a coffee with the other.

  “Thank you!” I immediately hold it under my nose and inhale its glorious aroma. The first sip tells me it's a hazelnut-French vanilla medium roast, and right now, it’s the best coffee in the world.

  April leans in and speaks quietly in my ear, “Phillip was here really early to receive a flower delivery, and he said he saw Kelly, wrapped in an afghan, get into the back of a police car and be driven away.”

  Phillip Wilde is the florist who owns Wilde Flowers which is next to Knitorious, and he also lives next door to me. We’re neighbours at work and at home.

  “Poor Kelly,” I say.

  I thought my night was bad. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.

  People start to notice me in the crowd and come over to ask how I’m doing. Some people are sincerely concerned, some are not-so-subtly trying to find out what I know, and some fall into both categories.

  In light of all the attention, Connie suggests we make our way to Knitorious, and we start walking away from the other onlookers.

  I’m not sure what I should say and what I shouldn’t. On one hand, I want to respect Kelly’s privacy and the police investigation, but on the other hand, I understand this is a small, tight-knit community and a tragedy like this affects everyone who lives and works here.

  After we’ve put some distance between us and the crowd, April asks if anyone official has declared that Paul was murdered and if this is a murder investigation.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “I answered a lot of questions last night, but I didn’t ask any. It didn’t look like he passed away peacefully in his sleep, but it also didn’t look like a gruesome murder scene.”

  This is the most I’ve
said to anyone other than the police officer who questioned me.

  “Not all murders are gruesome, my dear. Look at those murder mystery shows set in quaint British villages, they’re never messy.”

  Connie shares my enthusiasm for murder mysteries. We’re both experienced armchair murder investigators.

  Once we’re inside the store, I lock the door behind us. The store doesn’t open for another two hours, and I’m not ready to deal with more people yet.

  Connie excuses herself and goes up to her apartment for a shower, while April and I sit in the cozy sitting area finishing our coffees. Harlow runs down the stairs and nestles into April’s hip beside her on the sofa, settling in for his early morning nap.

  “I know Paul was a bully and rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but someone would have to hate him an awful lot to kill him. Especially in his own home with his wife in the same building,” April speculates, while absentmindedly stroking Harlow. “I mean, they risked being seen by Kelly unless they entered the apartment from the roof.”

  “If they were already in the apartment when Paul got home, they only risked being seen when they left,” I point out.

  I’m fiddling with my ring, still getting use to wearing it on my right hand.

  “The killer either knew Kelly would be working late in the salon and Paul would be alone in the apartment, or they intended to kill both Paul and Kelly, and since Kelly wasn’t there, they had to settle for only killing Paul,” she surmises.

  “Yesterday when Kelly was here picking out yarn, she told Connie and I that Paul doesn’t want her to hire The Wright Men For The Job anymore because he doesn’t trust Ryan. He told her he doesn’t want Ryan in the salon or the apartment ever again,” I tell her.

  “That’s interesting.” April nods and raises her eyebrows.

  “I wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Pearson were able to leave for their cruise?”

  “You mentioned her last night in your text, but we didn’t see her there. I don’t think anyone saw her there, and other than you, no one else has mentioned her,” April says.