Crewel and Unusual

by Molly Macrae

  “Geneva, were you there in the storage room? Did you see it happen?”

  “Do I look like someone who’s recently seen a murder take place?”

  It was hard to tell. Even as close as we sat, she didn’t look like much more than an animate wisp of fog. “But you saw the murderer and you can identify him?”

  “Or her.”

  “You couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman?”

  “But I can describe her,” she said. “Or him.”

  “Is it someone you’ve seen before?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Here in the Cat?”

  The shop was the logical place. She was a homebody. Or, as she liked to say, a home-disembody. That morning, though, she’d gone to the Vault, either tagging along with Ardis and me, or on her own. And there were the “fruit flies” that morning—and the day before when a “possum” distracted Bruce. Argyle saw Geneva and liked her, but she’d told me that mice and beetles ran away. She hadn’t answered my last question, so I asked the next carefully.

  “The weather’s been beautiful lately. Have you been getting out and about a little bit?”

  If she’d ever been good at avoiding questions or lying, that art had faded over the decades of her solitude. She didn’t look at me. She wavered where no breeze crept in.

  “It’s okay, you know, if you have. There’s nothing wrong with getting out and seeing things, Geneva. Did you come to the Vault with me and Ardis this morning?”

  “And a few times on my own.”

  “Good for you, Geneva. I think that’s great.”

  “Three or four. Maybe half a dozen.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “I watched the man unpack his antiques.”

  Bingo. Bruce showing his jazz hands in Floyd’s.

  “And I try to remember,” she said.

  “Has going there helped?” I asked. She wavered again, and I decided not to press her. Besides, there were more important questions. “Geneva, do you think I know the person you saw this morning?”

  “You might. You seem to know any number of sketchy people.”

  “Is it someone you’ve seen before?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “Also at the Vault.”

  “Good! There were fewer people there yesterday. We should have a better chance of identifying him.”

  “Or her.”

  “Do you remember where you saw her at the Vault? If it was morning or afternoon?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did your person talk to anyone?”

  “A murderer is not my person.”

  “No, sorry. That was poorly worded. Did you see him working with anyone? Helping anyone?”

  “I didn’t know yesterday how important she would be today.”

  “That’s okay. That’s perfectly understandable.” Also frustrating. “But you recognized her today. Can you describe her?”

  “Or him? Of course.”

  “Good.” If surprising. Of course and Geneva’s memory rarely went together. “What was he wearing? How long was his hair?”

  “And what’s the shape of her ears? Or his nose? They’re important features. Do you remember what I said a moment ago? That you know many sketchy people?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “This is like being in an episode of Dragnet.” She shifted around to sit cross-legged, facing me. “You’re more like Bill Gannon, so I’ll play Sergeant Joe Friday. That’s because Bill Gannon is warmer and fuzzier, without literally being fuzzy like the men Detective Dunbar is so interested in. Bill Gannon is also not as bright, but don’t take offense at that. We each do what we can in life.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And in death. So here is what we will do—we will sketch the villain. Grab a piece of paper and a pencil. I’ll describe. You draw.”

  “Bill Gannon wasn’t much of a sketch artist, was he? I know I’m not.”

  “Pencil! Paper! Chop-chop!”

  It was worth a try. Maybe the exercise would bring some of the details she thought she’d forgotten bubbling to the surface. I transferred Argyle back to the window cushion and went to sit at the desk. But after half a dozen attempts, and as many wadded-up pieces of paper (and three times as many rude noises from Geneva), she announced that drawing was something I couldn’t do.

  “Go get Ardis,” she said.

  “She isn’t here.” And if she were, she’d know better than to try.

  While Geneva billowed her frustrations, I doodled a tiny squirrel in the corner of a paper I hadn’t wadded. Granny had drawn pictures of her cats in the letters she sent me. I gave my squirrel an acorn.

  “At least you can draw a recognizable squirrel,” Geneva said. “I would surround it with forget-me-nots, though.”

  I tried to doodle a wreath of flowers around the squirrel.

  “Those look no more like forget-me-nots than the ugly mugs you drew looked like the villain.”

  “I did warn you.”

  “Your faces are as hopeless as your biscuits.”

  “Faces are hard to draw at the best of times.” And no way was trying to follow her descriptions of the killer’s ears, nose, lips, forehead, hair, and chin the best of times. The clearest part of her description, and the only part I was sure of, worried me.

  “Thin, like so many of the men who came home from the war,” she’d said. She meant the Civil War.

  “Thin doesn’t describe Russell Moyer at all.” So what could I, or should I, do with that information? Geneva wasn’t a witness who could be questioned in any traditional way. Most sane people wouldn’t believe she existed. “Why couldn’t you tell if it was a man or a woman?” I asked.

  “Trousers. They throw me every time. I didn’t get where I am today by wearing trousers.”

  “Too bad. You’d love them. Did you listen in when the deputies questioned Russell?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy they talked to in Sierra’s office. The guy I just said thin doesn’t describe.”

  “I can’t say that I did.”

  “Why not? Where were you?”

  “Alternatively, I can’t say that I didn’t. I might have peeked in.”

  “Did you hear them caution him? Do you know if they actually arrested him?”

  She shrugged.

  To avoid fussing at her, I checked the time and my messages. Nothing about the vaunted official statement yet.

  “Now that we’re discussing trousers,” Geneva said, “we should also talk about hats. If I were to wear trousers, I would also like a fedora. One like the mannequin’s, only dark gray to match the rest of me. They would give me an air of authority when we interview people in our effort to track down the perp.”

  “I’m not going to wear a fedora.”

  “I don’t blame you. On you it would look silly. But you do need to practice asking questions.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. It can get tricky. I have to be careful not to ask leading questions.”

  “Or annoying ones, because you do that.”

  “But as you pointed out, the other day when you compared me to Deputy Dunbar, sometimes annoying gets results.”

  “But you also ask vexatious questions. And distressing ones.”

  “Thanks. I’ll work on that.”

  “There’s more.”

  “I’m sure there is, but why don’t I start there?”

  “And you can work your way up to eliminating obnoxious and repellent questions.”

  I swallowed several obnoxious and repellent words. “How about a question that might require some thought?”

  “I’m good at those. What is it?”

  “How do you know the person you saw was the murderer?”

  “I saw her go in the storage closet, and then come out. Then I went in, and when I did, I found Belinda.”

  “How do you know she didn’t just go in and find Belinda like you did?”

  “When you find a dead body,
do you look like you’ve done nothing more than take a stroll?”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but not usually, no.”

  “That’s how I know. She didn’t look like someone who just found a dead body.”

  “But did she look like someone who’d just killed a woman?”

  “Do the successful murderers, walking among us, look any different than you or I?”

  “Again, I can’t believe I’m saying it, but not the ones I’ve known.”

  “Makes you think, doesn’t it?” Geneva asked.

  “Makes me shiver. You’ve been saying she. Are you clearer on that? Do you think it was a woman?”

  “There are several things that befuddle me about the villain. That’s one of them.”

  “What are the others?”

  She wavered back and forth. “Befuddlement doesn’t clear up for the asking.”

  “That’s okay. If things clear up, will you tell me?”

  “You will be the first to know.”

  “Good. Geneva, why did you go into the storage closet?”

  “I was . . . curious.”

  That could mean she really had been curious. It could also mean she’d forgotten why she went in and curiosity made a handy excuse. But during my short, intense indoctrination into the habits of ghosts—this ghost, anyway—I’d learned she was a lot like Argyle, especially when it came to curiosity.

  “You should be happy,” she said. “I solved the case.”

  “But we’ll have a hard time proving it. We don’t know who it is, and you didn’t actually see it happen. Did you hear anything?”

  “You mean like a gasp? A scream cut off by death?”

  My hopes rose.

  She shook her head. “My ears are exceptionally good. For instance, I heard when the guitarist broke a string. That caught my attention, and I missed any sounds coming from the storage room. It would have helped if I had paid more attention. It also would have helped if I had not waited before going in. Also if I had X-ray vision. But I’m not Superwoman. I’m not even a normal woman. Or an effective ghost woman. You think you feel useless as an old person?”

  “I don’t feel useless, Geneva, and I’m only thirty-nine.”

  “And I’m forever twenty-two. Trust me. You’re old. Try being an unseen, unheard ghost who can’t do so much as pick up a pencil, turn the page of a book, or tickle a cat under his bored chin. If you don’t believe me about feeling old and useless, go ask Ardis’s ancient daddy. I shall now remove myself to my coffin-like room and contemplate my useless eternity that you so kindly reminded me of.”

  I wondered if I had the world’s most unreliable witness on my hands.

  FIFTEEN

  Argyle came down to the kitchen with me and asked politely for a snack. I gave him a couple of crunchy things that were supposed to be good for his teeth. He ate them, and then rubbed his chin against my ankle, thanking me for looking after his dental hygiene, I assumed.

  “But how’s your mental hygiene, old boy? Are you bored? Or just yellow cat mellow?”

  He listened and blinked at me. That he didn’t glance at the top of the refrigerator or make cat eyes toward the dish drainer, both places Geneva liked to sit, convinced me she hadn’t followed us downstairs.

  “Do you ever feel like getting out and about?” I asked him. “Our friend does. And she has been. Much more than I realized. Did you know that?” I picked him up, and he purred as we rubbed foreheads. “Yup, that’s what I’m beginning to think, too. If I can project my thoughts onto you, so can she.”

  I set him on the floor, and while he tidied his fur, I got a drink of water at the sink. Then I called Ardis to fill her in. She listened without comment, and I pictured the cogs and wheels in her head readjusting as she thought over this new information.

  “Unreliable.” She let out a long breath. “That takes care of why she didn’t tell us sooner. Boredom can explain her trips to the Vault. Curiosity, too. And when you mix boredom and curiosity together you’ve got a powerful combination. I saw that over and over in the classroom. Kiddos operating on that combo caused plenty of trouble. But if I could tap into the boredom and curiosity, I’d often find the best imaginations. I’m telling you this, because I want you to think, hon. Geneva loves cop shows and Westerns. She’s excitable and likes being part of the action. So, did she really see this person, or is she fabricating?”

  “Her description makes me believe she saw someone. Look, we know there’s nothing wrong with her imagination. If she invented this person, she’d know the number of freckles on his or her nose and there’d be a scar—she loves scars. And she would know if it was a man or a woman.”

  “You know her better than I do, hon.”

  “She saw someone. It might not be the killer, but it’s someone who saw the body and didn’t report it.”

  “All right then. What’s our next step?”

  “Find out who it is.”

  “It’ll be difficult with that description,” she said. “Risky, too, if anyone knows who we’re talking about—including the killer. Killers aren’t so keen on being identified. Why not get the professionals to handle it? Call it in to Crime Stoppers.”

  “And say what? My friend saw a thin person wearing pants leave the murder scene shortly before that snoopy woman found the body?”

  “They must get all kinds of cockamamie tips. If that’s all we have, then that’s all we can give them. At least they’ll know there’s someone else out there they need to find and talk to.”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  “Since when do we let long shots stop us?” Ardis asked. “Let’s not invite bad karma by talking about shots, though. And let me make the call. I’ve never called a tip line before.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll say I’m calling for a friend with laryngitis. They won’t believe it, but that doesn’t matter. And they say it’s completely anonymous, but I think I’ll disguise my voice, just in case. Give me the description, again. I’ll write it down.”

  “Medium height, thin as a vet from the War Between the States, ears flat to the head, narrow nose and chin, small mouth.”

  “Hair?”

  “She didn’t know.”

  “Hoo boy.”

  “Yeah. Try drawing that. With her hanging over your shoulder.”

  “But she saw this person at the Vault yesterday, too? Coleridge needs to know that. They need to get a list of everyone who was in and out of there yesterday.”

  “We should get one, too.”

  “And do what with it, hon? Remembering risk. Whoopsie there, Daddy. Got to go. Honest to—”

  She disconnected, leaving me to wonder what risky thing her daddy was up to and how we could follow up on Geneva’s information without being too risky ourselves. No further inspiration struck. I stared out the window at the back wall of the business across the service alley. The brick wall stared back—old bricks with imperfections and character, but still a blank wall. Like my mind. I tried exhaling one of Ardis’s long breaths. It didn’t help.

  When I turned around from the sink, a man appeared in the hall doorway. Appeared? Or had he been standing there? It was the rat-faced McDougal. I probably stared.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you.” He pointed at the back door. “On my way out.”

  “Sure. Thanks for coming in.”

  He said nothing else. The electronic sheep at the back door only said baa. And then he was gone. I walked—wanted to run—to the front room.

  “You saw that guy?” Abby asked. “Did he leave?”

  I nodded, and she pretended to collapse in a fit of giggles on the counter. “Biggest fish-out-of-water moment I have ever witnessed,” she gasped. “I don’t know what that poor guy was looking for, but it wasn’t knitting needles and embroidery hoops.”

  I went out on the front porch and looked up and down the street. Debbie, who hadn’t laughed, followed me.

  “Did he take something?” she asked.

&
nbsp; I didn’t see him or the second rat-face. “Did he say anything when he came in?”

  “I was helping another customer. Abby talked to him.” Debbie followed me back inside.

  “Are there other customers here?” I asked.

  “It’s been busy off and on,” Abby said. “There are a couple of women knitting upstairs.”

  “Did that guy come in with anyone?”

  “No. Why?” Debbie asked. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.” Hard to tell if they believed me. I listened for footsteps or voices approaching but didn’t hear any. “It’s just that he and another guy were at the Vault this morning. Deputy Dunbar pointed them out and asked me to let him know if I saw them again. No particular reason, except he didn’t know them. Abby, did the guy just come in, look around, and leave?”

  “Pretty much,” Abby said.

  “Pretty much?” I asked. “Is that a yes or a no?”

  Abby didn’t look or sound ruffled, so maybe I hadn’t really snapped at her. “He said no when I asked if I could help him find anything,” she said. “Then he walked through the rooms down here, went upstairs, walked around up there, came back down, asked if we had a back door, and left.”

  “I wonder what he thought of the electronic sheep?” I said. “He kind of surprised me, and I missed the look on his face when it said baa.”

  “Kind of surprised you? Is that a did or a didn’t?” Abby asked, still unruffled and looking innocent—until she made a fish-kissing face at me.

  “I love you, too, Abby. He and his buddy walked around the Vault the same way this morning. And fish out of water is exactly how Deputy Dunbar felt about them.”

  “Walked around looking for what?” Debbie asked.

  “Or looking for who,” Abby said.

  “Who. It definitely could’ve been who,” I said. “But why here?”

  “Call Deputy Dunbar,” Debbie said.

  The camel bells at the front door jingled, and Abby went to greet the women who’d come in. I stepped into the office behind the counter and called the non-emergency number at the sheriff’s department. Debbie came and stood sideways in the door, one ear on me, the other alert for customers in need. The sheriff’s dispatcher put me through to Clod’s voicemail. Irritating, but not unexpected. I left a short message summarizing the rat-faced McDougal’s visit to the shop and hung up. As soon as I did, I remembered the official statement and called back. The dispatcher told me they were still waiting to release it.