by Reagan Davis
“She was the client Kelly stayed late for. No one else knows that?”
“No. We only knew you were there because you came outside for air. The police held up sheets to block the view when anything, or I guess anyone, came outside.”
April leaves for Artsy Tartsy, so she can take over working the counter and Tamara can work her magic in the kitchen.
Now that I’m alone with my thoughts, my mind replays last night’s events on a constant loop, and I worry I missed telling the police something important, or I compromised something when I found Paul and tried to help him. Maybe I shouldn’t have lifted his head or put it back in a slightly different position.
Harlow wakes up and meows loudly at me.
“I know what you want, handsome. You only ever want one thing.” I pick him up, carry him to the kitchenette and put him on the floor. He weaves in and out of my ankles while I spoon his breakfast onto a dish and put it on the floor in front of him.
I walk back into the store and Adam is standing outside the window waving at me. I unlock the door and let him in.
“I knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear it in the back.”
He’s wearing a suit. He’s either on his way to the office, or on his way home from the office. We sit on the sofa, and he tells me he didn’t get my text about Paul’s death until this morning. I fill him in.
“You were dropping off yarn? I assumed you were there because Paul was blackmailing us. It was him who told you about Stephanie and gave you the screenshot, right?”
“No! Paul knew about you and Stephanie? How? And how did he get the photos?” I ask, shocked. “Fred Murphy gave me the photos, not Paul.”
I stop to take a breath and let this news about Paul having the photos sink in.
“Paul’s blackmailing us?” I ask. “Is this in addition to Fred and Stephanie blackmailing us, or are they all working together? Is there one blackmail scheme or two? I’m so confused.”
Seriously, what’s going on? I might need to make a list or draw a chart or something.
Adam brings his hands together in front of his chest.
“You spoke with Fred? Fred told you about Stephanie and gave you the photos?” he asks, then points to me. I nod.
“OK, Fred and Stephanie are blackmailing me to leave the firm. Paul contacted me early yesterday morning and told me to transfer a certain amount of money into his account by noon, or he would send the photos to you,” Adam explains. “There’s no way I was giving in to Paul’s demand, and I didn’t send him any money. I tried calling and texting you, but you didn’t answer. Then you texted me the photo, so I assumed Paul followed through with his threat and told you about Stephanie.”
I nod again. If Paul knew about Adam’s affair and had photos, that must be why he wanted to talk to me after the committee meeting yesterday.
“I have no idea how Paul got the photos,” Adam adds.
“I saw Paul and Fred together yesterday,” I tell him. “They were arguing in a car outside Artsy Tartsy just before 1 p.m. I assumed Fred was parked wrong, or didn’t use his blinker, or some such thing, but maybe they actually know each other and were talking about blackmail.”
“Meg, the texts and the photos on Paul’s phone, and his text conversation with me, give us motive to kill him. The police are going to want to talk to us. Soon.”
“Where were you last night?” I ask. “The police will probably want to know that, too.”
I’m genuinely curious where he spent the night. I know it wasn’t at home, and I assume it wasn’t with his blackmailer-girlfriend, Stephanie.
“I stayed in a courtesy suite the firm retains at a hotel near the office. I resigned yesterday, effective immediately,” he explains. “I stayed late updating notes on my open cases and tying up loose ends. It was late when I left, and I was too tired to drive home, so I stayed at the hotel.”
Wow. He left the firm?! This is the end of an era. Under normal circumstances, this would be a monumental event, but in light of everything that's happened since yesterday, it’s almost insignificant.
I want to ask him if his affair with a married woman that cost him his job, and being blackmailed twice over was worth it, but I bite my tongue. We need calm, level heads, not heated arguments and accusations.
Creaking floorboards warn us that Connie is coming downstairs. We stop talking and Adam stands up, smooths his tie, smiles broadly, and walks toward her to greet her as she enters the store.
Adam is a dangerous combination of handsome and charming, packaged in a well-tailored, expensive suit. He has a way of looking at you that makes you feel like you’re the only person in his world.
Even Connie isn’t immune to his charm. I see his charisma drawing her in like a moth to a flame.
Adam takes both her hands in his. They exchange cheek kisses and he compliments her perfume as they pull apart. Still holding both of her hands in his, he tells her how beautiful she looks, and she blushes like a schoolgirl. He can’t help it. He doesn’t know he’s doing it, and he doesn’t do it in a predatory way, he’s being totally sincere. This is just how he is. He’s oblivious to the effect he has on people, particularly women, and his naivete is part of what makes him so charming.
They’re talking about Paul and how shocking his death is for the entire community. He doesn’t mention Paul was blackmailing us.
After throwing a few more compliments at her, Adam leaves and Connie and I are alone in the quiet store. Except for Harlow's purring and the gentle clicking of our needles, we knit in silence until it’s time to open the store.
“It’s showtime.” Connie smiles at me, puts her knitting on the table and gets up to unlock the door and flip the CLOSED sign to OPEN.
Chapter 8
Water Street is busier than it would be on a normal Wednesday. But this isn’t a normal Wednesday. It’s the day after a member of our community was killed in his home.
People stroll up and down Water Street, meandering in and out of stores and trying to make sense of what happened to Paul. They find comfort in each other’s company, reassuring each other, and not being alone today.
As shocked people wander in and out of Knitorious, Harlow makes himself available to provide comfort, demand rubs, and selflessly takes on the role of self-appointed emotional support animal.
The store is busy with both knitters and non-knitters. Some of the non-knitters at least try to pretend they’ve developed a sudden interest in yarn and fibre arts.
Almost everyone asks me what I saw yesterday when I was at the salon. The ones who don’t ask me directly hover close by when someone else does so they can hear what I say. I tell them I can’t talk about it until the police tell me otherwise. Word must have gotten around that I’m not talking because by lunchtime the number of people slows down, and most of those who do come in don’t ask me to recount my experience.
Connie and I take turns having lunch. When it’s my turn, I go upstairs to her apartment and have a sandwich that she made for me. I don’t usually take a full lunch break. I’m happy to eat something in the kitchenette in the back room and then go back to work, but today I eat my sandwich slowly and take almost a full hour to myself.
I come back from lunch and find Connie dangling a string with a shimmery pom pom toy on the end back and forth in front of Harlow.
“Are you going to be all right if I leave for my appointment, my dear?”
I completely forgot Connie has an appointment today. She mentioned it yesterday before I went to Hairway To Heaven.
“Of course!” I say, “You go. I’ll be fine. Besides, Stitch-Fix is this afternoon, so I’ll be busy, and the afternoon will fly by.”
Stitch-Fix is a knitting clinic we host one afternoon each week where knitters bring in their knitting problems and mistakes, and Connie and I help fix them. I love the challenge.
“Only if you’re sure. I don’t mind rescheduling. I meant to reschedule this morning, but in all the excitement I forgot.” She shrugs and chuckl
es at her forgetfulness.
I know how much Connie hates being late, or rescheduling anything, especially at the last minute, so I tell her, again, that I’ll be fine. She pops up to her apartment to get her purse and leaves through the back door.
For the first time since we unlocked the door this morning, the store is empty. I take this opportunity to tidy up the shelves and return mislaid skeins of yarn back where they belong.
When I find myself in the bulky yarn section, looking at the remaining skeins of "Breathless," I feel a now-familiar wave of nausea wash over me. In my mind’s eye I can still see this same yarn wrapped around Paul’s neck while he’s hunched over the kitchen table, the yarn dangling down the back of his white undershirt like a back drop necklace. I decide to remove it from the shelf and put it somewhere out of sight.
While I’m contemplating which yarn to put in its place, the bell over the door jingles. I turn to greet the customer, and see a tall, fortyish-year-old man in a suit, standing just inside the store, looking around. He’s familiar, but I can’t place him. He’s not our typical demographic, and if he were a customer, I’d remember him for sure.
We make eye contact and walk toward each other, meeting at the harvest table.
“Hi,” I say, smiling.
“Hello, again,” he replies, also smiling.
He extends a hand and offers me a business card:
Detective Sergeant Eric Sloane
Ontario Provincial Police
Nippissing Detachment
He’s the suit I met at the salon last night.
“Of course. You’re the detective from Hairway to Heaven! I recognized you but couldn’t place you.”
I extend my hand, we shake, and I gesture for him to have a seat at the harvest table.
“Why the OPP? The Harmony Lake Police Department isn’t investigating this?” I ask.
The OPP is what the locals call the Ontario Provincial Police.
“Harmony Lake PD doesn’t have a major crimes division, so they’ve asked us to assist,” he explains. “Apparently there isn’t enough crime in Harmony Lake to warrant a major crimes division.”
“Not until yesterday,” I confirm.
It’s true. Compared to bigger towns and cities, Harmony Lake has a low crime rate. We have our share of speeding tickets, parking tickets, jaywalkers, the occasional drunk-in-public tourist in the summer, and a few years back there was a spate of wallet robberies at the ski resort, but nothing like murder ever happens here.
I didn’t notice yesterday, but Eric Sloane smells good. And, not to be shallow, but he’s kind of hot, if you’re into tall men with dark hair, brown eyes with flecks of gold, and nice smiles.
Don’t stare, Megan.
“How are you?” he asks. “I know yesterday was a shock, and you weren’t feeling well at the salon last night. Are you feeling better now?”
“It’s a shock, for sure, but I feel better today. Thank you for asking. I’ve been thinking about Kelly a lot today, how is she doing?”
“She has family with her, and we’re making sure she has access to all available resources to help her right now.”
It’s amazing how well he answered my question without actually answering my question at all.
“Well, please tell her that everyone is thinking of her and sending her lots of love and support.”
I doubt he’ll literally say those words to her, but hopefully he’ll relay the sentiment.
“How can I help you, Detective Sergeant?”
“Please, call me Eric.”
“Only if you call me Megan.”
Eric pulls a small notebook and pen from his breast pocket, and I notice he has nice hands. You know, if you’re into large, strong hands with clean, nicely-groomed nails.
Don’t stare at his hands, Megan.
“Can you tell me about the yarn that Ms. Sinclair purchased yesterday?”
He’s found a blank page in his notebook, and his pen is in his hand poised to write.
“Sure.”
I back my chair away from the table, walk over to a shelf and pick up a skein of yarn identical to the ones Kelly bought for her sister’s wrap. I return to my seat and place the skein on the table between us.
He asks me how many skeins she purchased, if they were all exactly the same, and if she purchased anything else while she was here. I print a copy of her receipt and give it to him, so he can see the purchase details for himself.
“Other than the yarn, did Ms. Sinclair leave anything else behind when she left yesterday?”
“Nope. Just the yarn that I returned to her in the evening.”
“Are you sure she left the store with everything else, including the knitting needles?”
“Yes. I put them in the bag myself. She definitely had the needles with her when she left.”
“Did she have both of them? Is it possible one of the knitting needles was left behind?”
I walk over to the needle rack and retrieve a pair of needles identical to the ones Kelly purchased. I return to my seat at the table and place the needles on the table between us, beside the skein of yarn.
“They’re packaged together,” I explain. “To lose one, the packaging would have to rip or be torn in two spots in a specific way to get one needle out of the package. Connie took the needles from the rack and I rang them up and put them in the bag, and there’s no way one of us wouldn’t have noticed the packaging if it were torn to that extent. And Connie wouldn’t have them on the rack in that state, never mind sell them.”
He’s nodding and making notes in his notebook. I try to read his writing, but it isn’t very neat. It’s small, and from my vantage point, upside down. All I can make out is the date at the top of the page.
“Can you tell me about the altercation you and Ms. Shaw had with Paul Sinclair yesterday at the park across the street?”
He looks at me closely to gauge my reaction.
“Hmmm…it wasn’t an altercation.” I shake my head. “It was a typical interaction with Paul. If you classify it as an altercation, then every interaction Paul has ever had is an altercation. I missed a committee meeting yesterday morning at the Animal Centre and Paul chased me through the park to reprimand me for missing it. He wouldn’t let it go, so April, Ms. Shaw, told him to back off, and we left.”
He makes a scratchy note in his book then looks up at me again.
“Why did you miss the meeting at the Animal Centre?”
I take a deep breath.
“My husband’s girlfriend’s husband texted me and asked if we could meet.”
Good luck connecting those dots, Eric!
“This is a new situation. It distracted me, pretty much derailing the rest of my morning,” I explain.
He’s nodding and writing in his book.
Harlow jumps onto the table, nudges his head against Eric’s pen, and steps onto the page Eric is writing on. Eric stops writing. He doesn’t really have a choice. He gives Harlow scratches between his ears. Harlow flops onto the notebook and purrs contentedly.
“I need to ask you some more questions, Megan. Can we set up a time to meet, so I can get a full statement from you?”
“Am I a suspect?”
Chapter 9
It feels like my heart and my stomach switch places while I wait for an answer.
“Everyone is a suspect until they’re eliminated, Megan, and your statement will help to eliminate you.”
Once again, he answers my question without actually answering my question. This must be a skill they teach at the police academy.
“I didn’t do it,” I insist. “I wouldn’t hurt anybody, never mind kill them. I don’t think I’d be strong enough to strangle someone, even with a skein of yarn.”
Eric raises his right hand to stop me from talking.
“Hold on. Why did you say that, about the yarn? Why do you think that’s how he died?”
“I’m the person who found him, remember? I saw the yarn around his neck. Also, if he�
��d died of natural causes, or an accident, I don’t think you and I would be having this conversation. Based on what I saw, he either drowned in a giant bowl of cereal or was strangled with a skein of yarn and then fell forward into the cereal. It would be really weird to be eating cereal while wearing a yarn-necklace, and if he was, it wouldn’t have been pulled tightly against the front of his throat with the rest of the skein dangling down his back. Therefore, he must’ve been strangled from behind, then left with his face in the bowl.”
I stop incriminating myself long enough to take a breath and realize that to Eric, it must sound like I just confessed to killing Paul by strangling him with yarn and letting his face fall into his huge cereal bowl.
This is probably why Adam is so keen on people having a lawyer present when they talk to the police.
The bell above the door at the front of the store jingles, and Harlow jumps down to greet the new arrival.
Eric closes his notebook, clicks his pen, and returns them both to his breast pocket. He pushes the skein of yarn and needles aside and puts his hands palms down on the table between us.
“Can you do me a favour please and don’t tell anyone else what you just told me? Can you please keep that completely to yourself?”
I nod. I’m terrified. If I wasn’t a suspect before, I am now. Why didn’t I stop myself from talking? What was I thinking?
“I think someone might be here for Stitch-Fix,” I tell him as I back my chair away from the table, stand up, then push the chair back in.
I walk to the front of the store and encounter a knitter with a frustrated look on her face holding a partially completed blanket with a large hole in it. I greet her, smile knowingly at her blanket, invite her to have a seat at the harvest table, and tell her I’ll be right back to help her with her knitting problem.
Eric is at the door, and we agree to meet tomorrow, so I can answer more of his questions. He says he’ll text me in the morning to arrange a time.