by Molly Macrae
“Our scissors?” Ardis and Geneva asked.
“You didn’t notice?” Clod looked only at me.
I shook my head. How? Who?
He kept looking at me but didn’t say anything else—so of course I did.
“You know very well why I didn’t notice. There were more important details to notice. Like whether or not she was breathing. Whether or not there was any hope. And there were more important things to do than notice a small label on a murder weapon that I really, really didn’t want to look at.”
Ardis or Joe might have tried to say something. I didn’t let them.
“So now I have a quick question for you, Deputy. How long has she been dead? You must have some idea. And did those scissors really kill her? Because that would have to be an awfully lucky jab. In the upper back like that? With all the bones that could have stopped the blades? Belinda was a big woman—and the blades on those scissors aren’t very long.”
“That was at least two questions,” Geneva said.
“More long-winded than quick,” said Shorty.
“How do you know how long or short the blades are?” Clod asked.
“If they’re from the Weaver’s Cat, as you claim, then I have some knowledge of blade length.”
Geneva hovered between Clod and Shorty, making them look like a weird trio again. She was enjoying herself, and she leaned a smug elbow on Clod’s shoulder.
“We’ll all know more when the official statement is released,” Clod said. He didn’t know Geneva was there, but from the way he rolled his shoulder and then rubbed it, he felt the chill of her presence. He stood up, leaving her hanging in the air. She rubbed her elbow and stuck her tongue out at him.
“Good for you,” I said. I meant that for Geneva, but I was happy to let Clod interpret it any way he liked. He chose to turn his back on me. Good for him.
So what was going on? What trail was Clod chasing? Were his questions and this strange après crime conference only to do with Belinda’s death, or was he casting a wider net?
And what about Belinda’s wonderful tablecloth? Did she die because of it? I had no reason to believe that, but more than ever, I wanted to know the history, the story, the secrets of the poor shredded thing. And that showed how callous I was. Did I really feel more hurt and sorrow over the tablecloth than I did Belinda? I closed my eyes and tried to see one of the cloth’s peaceful, playful squirrels.
“You’ve been dismissed,” Geneva said in my ear, making me jump. “You’re sitting there, taking a nap, and your menfolk are standing over there yukking it up over some manly pursuit.”
Joe, Clod, and Shorty were only standing five or six feet away. I wanted to tell her they were quietly talking, not yukking, and that they weren’t my menfolk, but I didn’t want to miss any more of what they were saying than I already had. And I wanted to know why Joe and Clod were both rubbing the backs of their necks. Shorty seemed to be immune to that ailment; he stood with his hands in his pockets, his fists ruining the lines of his already droopy uniform. Sierra and Ardis were lost in their phones.
“I didn’t get much of a look,” Joe said. “They weren’t interested in flies or watercolors, so they didn’t interest me.”
“Who are they talking about?” Geneva asked.
I put a finger to my lips to hush her. It didn’t work; she wasn’t looking at me.
“Do you see how your beau mimics his brother? When that happens on television, it often indicates an attempt to prove sincerity.”
I tried quietly shushing her. That didn’t work, either.
“Some sort of hilarity usually follows,” she said, “but the brothers don’t look like they’re about to break into guffaws or start capering.”
“He didn’t hike much these days,” Joe said. “I doubt he’d be out there hiking by himself.”
“Now who are they talking about?” Geneva asked. “Why do they keep leaving out vital details?”
“Or that he couldn’t find a better or more comfortable place for a roll in the hay if that theory’s right—” Shorty cut off the rest of that and squinted at me. I’d just tried getting Geneva’s attention again. It might have looked as though I’d been practicing semaphore. I slapped my hands together, catching an imaginary mosquito for good measure. The clap shook Ardis away from her screen.
“Men,” she said. She put away her phone and got to her feet. So did Sierra. “Elderly men in particular,” Ardis added. “Daddy’s got it into his head he has a date with Mama at the roadhouse tonight. Dancing. And you three”—she pointed at the men—“can quit your grinning. Your senile days are coming, and you’ll be lucky if you have someone as tolerant as I am to put up with all your natural-born foolishness. The way you switch gears from somber to snickering isn’t decent.”
“If you need me to take Hank off your hands this evening, I’ll be happy to,” Joe said.
“You’re kind, Ten, but I can wrangle the old devil.”
“Switching back,” Clod said, “did you happen to notice a couple of men this morning, one with a beard, Ms. Buchanan?”
“That’s so generic a description as to be useless,” Ardis said. “Kath? Are you going back to the shop? I want you to call me if you hear anything or if you need anything. Or if anyone bothers you further about dustpans or scissors. I might have to bring Daddy along, but you call me.”
“Don’t you worry, young ’un,” Geneva said, flapping around her. “I’ll make sure she gets back safe and sound through the mean and wild streets of this den of iniquitous Blue Plums and pandering buffoons. Danger won’t know who it’s messing with if it tries waltzing past me.”
“Thank you. Thanks, Ardis, I appreciate it.”
I did sincerely appreciate the offers, but I also wanted to bat them both out of the way. I’d forgotten about the rat-faced McDougal, and I’d forgotten to tell Clod what the Spiveys said about seeing him, too. “Deputy Dunbar, I saw—”
“I saw them,” Sierra interrupted.
We all looked at her, Geneva stopping mid-flap and looking like a large, lacy bat.
“You described them better to Joe,” Sierra said. “I’m sure I saw them, though, doing just what you said. Walking around, not really shopping. Do you know who they were? Why do you want to know?”
“Curiosity more than anything,” Clod said. That was pretty much what he’d told me, too, but now it sounded more like a brush-off—as smooth and uninformative as his poker face.
Sierra must have felt the brush-off, too. “You’re sure?” she said. “Because you know what they say about curiosity, and I’d hate to think you arrested the wrong man for this murder.”
“Thank you for the info, Ms. Estep,” Shorty said. “That you happened to notice them, out of all the folks here, proves you’ve got a good eye. You’re asking good questions, too. Never stop asking questions. My daddy taught me that, and that feller Einstein backed him up. Best thing to do, now, is let us handle things. We’ll keep you posted.”
“Sure,” Sierra said, not sounding as sure as she had the moment before. But Shorty’s name dropping might have thrown her. His friendly twang made it sound as though Einstein might be a good old boy living down the road a piece. “I’ve got a few more questions, then. When you say you’ll keep me posted, do you mean you’ll call and let me know when we can reopen? Because, otherwise, how will I know where and when to find the official statement you keep talking about?”
“We won’t leave you in the dark, Ms. Estep,” Clod said. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you. When?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you.”
“Now may I go?”
I waited until Sierra was gone before asking if she’d be staying in her apartment upstairs. “Isn’t the building a crime scene?”
“Her apartment isn’t,” Shorty said. “She can come and go by the outside stairway ’til we give the all clear.”
“Until the official statement is released?” I didn’t try very hard to sound super impress
ed. Or even slightly whelmed.
“You started to say something, Ms. Rutledge,” Clod said. “Just before Ms. Estep said she saw the men I pointed out to you.”
“Oh! Right.” I told him about seeing the men again and then what the Spiveys had told me about seeing one of them watching the house next door to Angie’s. But as soon as the name Spivey left my lips, I knew I’d made a mistake.
“Huh,” Clod said when I finished. Talk about a lack of whelm.
“Huh, what? Huh, and that’s it?”
“I’ll look into it,” he said.
Two could play the huh game. I huhed right back at him and narrowed my eyes for good measure. Maybe he would look into it. Or maybe he’d treat the Spiveys with the same disdain I so often did.
FOURTEEN
Joe had been promising to clean Ardis’s gutters for several weeks, but somehow had never found the time. “And now you have a whole unexpected afternoon free,” she said as we left the Vault through the back door. “How convenient!”
Joe laughed and gave in. And that was why he and Ardis—why he and almost everyone—got along so well. Easygoing Joe. After he helped her into his truck, he and I got along well for a few warm seconds. Then I assured him his brother’s questions didn’t worry me.
“What about the scissors?” Joe asked.
“That freaks me out. But anyone could’ve picked them up at the Cat and brought them here. The killer used them, but that doesn’t mean the killer came in the shop. Or tried to frame someone from the shop.”
“Your logic’s good and steady,” Joe said. “Hold your hand out.”
I did. “See? Nary a quiver.”
He kissed my steady hand and then hopped into the truck. He knew better than to fuss and get all protective. Ardis could get away with it, though. She lowered her window, and I assured her, again, that I would call if I needed her. When they drove off, I realized I didn’t see Geneva. No glints, nothing at all like a shimmer of water vapor. No fruit flies.
“Geneva?”
She didn’t answer. Had she actually come out the back door with us? I tried the door. Locked. Sierra and Clod would be happy about that. Had she gotten into Joe’s pickup with Ardis? That seemed unlikely. I called Ardis, anyway. Caller ID gave her a jump on jumping to conclusions.
“Hon, do you need me? What’s happened? Should I tell Ten to turn around? Stop the truck—”
“No, no, no, Ardis, it’s okay. I just wondered if Geneva’s in the truck with you?”
She must have put her hand over the phone, because I heard a muffled, “Nothing to worry about, Ten.” Then she spoke into the phone again. “Not that I can tell. Did we leave, um, it inside?”
“Hang on. I think—” Something flickered near the back door. Flickered and disappeared, and then Geneva was beside me. “She’s here. It’s okay. Talk to you later, Ardis.” I disconnected but kept the phone to my ear so I could “talk” to Geneva. “Hi, are you okay?”
Geneva wavered beside me, preoccupied, pensive, and watery. No flickers or glints now.
“I’m heading back to the shop,” I said. “Coming?”
She didn’t answer, but when I started walking, she came along like an odd, localized patch of fog on an otherwise sunny day. By the time we’d gone a block, she’d started humming.
“That’s a nice tune,” I said into the phone. “What is it?”
“Something I’d forgotten. My mama used to sing it when she made biscuits.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”
“Why would you? Mama never taught you to make biscuits, did she?”
“No, and that’s too bad, because I’m pretty hopeless at biscuits.”
“I used to help Mama make them. Did you see how well I helped the deputies?”
“You were very helpful.”
“I’m also helpful because I keep my eyes open. I’m constantly noticing what goes on around me.”
“Oh, hey, did you see those bearded guys at the Vault?”
“I heard so much and so little about them, I almost think, and certainly wish, that I had seen them. But if I said I did, then that would be a lie and unhelpful. Just like Sierra Nevada’s story. Did you see how well she pretended that she knew what she was talking about when she talked about them?”
“How do you know she pretended?”
“The same way I know your burglar beau wasn’t entirely truthful when he said he didn’t notice them. The mimic trick I pointed out to you—they mimicked Deputy Dunbar’s posture while they lied to him.”
“Sierra didn’t notice them, but Joe did?”
“I believe so, even though I don’t have a degree in body language. Why would Sierra Sonoma lie about noticing those men?” Geneva asked.
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t a helpful answer.”
“No, but it’s why we ask questions.”
“Like Einstein.”
“Sure.”
“I didn’t know he and Deputy Monroe were friends.”
“Neither did I. So I wonder if Deputy Dunbar also thought Sierra was lying? And if he didn’t, I wonder if he’d believe me if I told him?”
“During my television heyday, I watched a documentary about Deputy Monroe’s buddy and probability. I would say that the probability of Deputy Dunbar believing you, if he hasn’t already thought of it himself, is something like this.” She made a circle with her arms. “A big, fat zero.”
“You’re probably right.” I put my phone away and listened to Geneva hum her mother’s song the rest of the way back to the shop. When I opened the Cat’s front door, she stopped in the middle of the sweetest part of the tune.
“Do you know what I just remembered?” she said as the camel bells on the door jingled our arrival. “You promised to bring me a present. How sad that you forgot.”
Debbie waved from where she was helping a customer at the pattern display.
“I’m glad to be home, though,” Geneva said. “And aren’t you glad the deputies didn’t go all huff-and-puff and blow-your-law-and-order-down when they found our scissors at the dead center of the crime scene? I’m glad I won’t have to visit you in the hoosegow. And I’m especially glad that I got such a good look at the murderer.”
“What?”
Debbie and her customer startled and turned. I pretended to have a phone at my ear, waved, and quickly whipped around. Geneva whipped around, too.
“What is it?” she asked. “What happened? Who are you talking to?”
“You,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I’m talking to you. Calmly, though, okay?”
“Calmly.”
“Did you just say you saw the—” Murderer was too terrible a word to let loose into the colors and soft wool surrounding us. “Did you really see the person who did it?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think to say that sooner?”
“Sooner,” Geneva mused. “It’s such a relative term.”
There was no point in arguing.
Debbie’s customer brushed past me. I smiled and nodded and waited until the door closed behind her before continuing. “I want to hear all about this,” I said quietly into the phone. “It’s extremely important. Let me check in with Debbie, and then I’ll go up to the study.”
“Shall I meet you there?” Geneva asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Sooner or later?”
“About as long as it takes for Argyle to eat his breakfast.”
“Cat time. Purrrrrfect.” She floated up to the ceiling and disappeared.
When I turned back around toward Debbie, she looked suddenly busy shaking out and then folding a length of fabric. She’d witnessed other odd snippets of conversation since I’d been at the Cat, but she never asked, never commented. Maybe because she’d worked with and been so fond of Granny. In her letter to me, Granny had said she’d never discussed her “talent” with anyone. . . . not at the Weaver’s Cat or anywhere else. There are inklings and “q
uiet understandings,” shall we say, at the shop, in town, and around out in the county, but I’m quite good at leaving them unacknowledged and going about my business. I’d become fairly good at it, too.
“Sorry about that squawk,” I said. “Have you heard about the opening?”
“Ernestine and John stopped in. They didn’t have any details other than someone passed away. Ernestine said you’d know more.” Debbie only had to look at my face before deciding for herself. “You do, and it isn’t good.”
Abby, our tame teenager, came down the stairs and into the front room with an effusively thankful customer.
“She helped me conquer my fear of French knots,” the woman said. “Why did I think they were so mysterious?” She piled a rainbow of worsted embroidery yarn on the counter. “And add one of your T-shirts, will you?”
Abby delighted in designing fiber-related T-shirts, and we delighted in selling them for her. Her latest model showed an embroidery hoop, with work in progress, and the saying, “There are worsted ways to spend your days.”
My day felt kind of worsted so far. I told Debbie I needed a little time to process what had happened at the Vault and that I’d be down later to tell them what I knew. She was a gentle soul, and I didn’t like leaving her hanging like that, but she was also a young widow and a farmer, and she knew how to be realistic. She nodded and went to ring up the next customer.
I went down the hall to the kitchen. As I climbed the back stairs to the study, I thought about the concepts of time, mortality, and home. Kind of a lot to cover in three flights, but they weren’t new thoughts, and when I reached the top, they’d plied themselves into a single strand. Geneva—time-challenged and not-quite-mortal—was right. It was good to be home where the comfortable smells of wool, cotton, and coffee mingled with the familiarity of worn floorboards, high ceilings, and friendly voices. Home softened the real world.
I’d expected to find Geneva brimming with excitement or self-importance when I got to the study. At the very least, I thought she’d be hovering in the middle of the room, vibrating with her information. But she crouched in the window seat with her knees drawn up to her chin. If I could take a picture of her, it would make a good illustration for “hopeless.” An awful thought occurred to me. I scooped Argyle from the cushion beside her and sat cross-legged next to her. Argyle went back to sleep curled in my lap.