Crewel and Unusual

by Molly Macrae

  “I have a short report on the bank building, then,” Thea said. “It was for sale off and on for years. The corporation that owned it finally deeded it over to the town. The town is leasing it to the Arts Council for a hundred dollars a year. I wondered if anyone was angry about that, or if anyone’s still angry. It seems like someone always is in situations like this, someone feels cheated or thinks the town is playing favorites. So maybe Gar’s death was a reaction to that kind of anger or resentment? I got no sense of that, so far, but I’ll keep looking.”

  “What if that kind of baloney led to Gar’s death,” Mel said, “but Gar’s death didn’t get the killer what he wanted, so he went after Belinda?”

  “But did her death get him what he wanted?” Ernestine asked. “If it didn’t, are others in danger?”

  “Kath’s tablecloth was in danger,” John said. “What if destroying it was act two and Belinda’s death was act three?”

  “The beginning of a pattern,” Ernestine said. “Rip one, kill two. You can have that line for your book, Thea.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How does stealing the shreds fit in?” I asked. “That theft is minor compared to the murders, but it happened. If nothing else, it’s weird.”

  “Call that act three, scene one,” Thea said. “Simon’s books are scene two.”

  “What about his books?” Ardis asked.

  “Someone boosted a few that same afternoon,” Thea said. “Have you heard of anyone else losing anything?”

  We hadn’t.

  “Have you learned anything useful about the tablecloth, Kath?” John asked.

  “Nervie says it was stolen. The Spiveys say Nervie slashed it because of a vendetta.”

  “So, no, nothing useful,” Mel said. “Does it matter where the tablecloth came from?”

  “It does, because it’s part of the puzzle,” John said. “If you’d like, I can summarize an article I read about archives leading from one to another and the value of the resulting accumulation of facts and artifacts to a research project. It’s a wonderful theory.”

  “Email it to me,” Thea said. “Someone in my Library Nerd Club will love it.”

  “Is Library Nerd Club a thing?” Mel asked.

  “Sure,” Thea said. “None of the members know they’re in it, though.”

  “John, have you ever heard this?” Joe asked. “‘Exploring all the little by-ways, / Sighting all the distant stars, / And I was not far from home.’”

  “A sailor’s song,” John said. “That’s the idea exactly. Wandering and wondering are fine, as long as we keep our destination in sight.”

  “A Pete Seeger song,” Joe said to me. “I’ll sing it for you sometime.”

  “We only made the assignments last night,” I said, “but does anyone else have a report? Anything on Russell, Rogalla, or Nervie? No? Then we’ll plan to meet, as usual, for Fast and Furious on Friday. If anything comes up in the meantime—anything—let us know.”

  “You’ve heard my report,” Thea said. “Now here’s my theory: Russell, Rogalla, and Nervie aren’t W, or we wouldn’t still be talking about them.”

  “I’m not sure that follows,” Mel said, “but here’s my theory. It comes from working in restaurant kitchens, but I’m sure John noticed the same thing in the navy when he faced down hurricanes. Some people need to look at the chaos around them, to keep an eye on it in order to keep it at bay, be ready to help, fix, resist, whatever. Other people need to ignore the chaos so they don’t become paralyzed. Red’s in that first group when it comes to investigations. It’s why we look up to her. She’s in the second group when it comes to knitting.”

  “I have a theory about people and chaos, too,” Ernestine said. “We all know people who attract chaos, and some who enjoy it. But I think this killer has taken it many steps beyond that. He’s looking at the chaos he created, he likes it, and he’s adding to it.”

  “Or they,” Joe said. “Thea asked how a guy strolls into a storeroom, kills someone, and strolls out again. Maybe he strolled in expecting to find the body, and he was making sure his partner did the job right.”

  “What about your rat-faced McDougals?” John asked.

  “Cole’s given them a pass,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m willing to do that, but those guys weren’t exactly subtle, and the guy in the sketch seems to have traveled under the radar.”

  “Maybe the McDougals provided misdirection,” Ernestine said.

  I told Ernestine I liked the way she thought. They all stayed to hear Ardis call Darla, and then Mel, Thea, John, and Ernestine took off. After that, it didn’t take Darla long to get there. Ardis ushered her to the kitchen, as I put the four used tea glasses in the dishwasher.

  “Hey, Kath. Joe.”

  “Hey, Darla.”

  “Iced tea?” Ardis asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  Joe offered Darla a seat. She declined that, too.

  “We’ll get right to it, then,” Ardis said. “We’re acting on behalf of a third party—someone who saw a man leaving the storeroom shortly before Kath discovered the body. We have a sketch of that man. In order to protect the witness, we hope you’ll treat this like a Crime Stoppers tip with no questions asked.”

  I handed Darla the sketch.

  “When and how did you obtain this drawing?” Darla asked.

  “That’s a question,” I said.

  “I have a whole lot more.”

  “Darla, hon,” Ardis said, “sit down and have a glass of tea. We understand your concerns, we truly do, but we need to move forward. No resentment, no recriminations.”

  “No bullshit,” Darla said. But she pulled out a chair and sat and took a sip of tea. “And don’t think I don’t know why you called me instead of Cole. You think I’ll go easier on you for withholding evidence.”

  “We called you because we know you’ll listen,” I said.

  “And we withheld nothing,” Ardis said. “I called in a tip as soon as I heard about this man. It wasn’t a great description of him. But we’re dealing with a frightened witness. Believe us when we say, if W—we’re calling the witness W—could stand here before you, they would. But that isn’t going to happen.”

  “It really isn’t,” Joe said.

  “You drew this?” Darla asked him. “It looks like your work. How, if the description wasn’t great, did you end up with portrait-quality art?”

  “I can’t account for how W’s memory works,” Joe said.

  “But I’m sure you’ve heard of leading a witness. Did you make suggestions while you drew? Can you tell me for a fact that this image is from W’s head and not a product of your own artistic license?”

  “Well,” Joe ran a finger along his jawline a few times as he thought about that. “If you think the image is more mine than W’s, then it’s useless and you can toss it, and we haven’t wasted your time at all. That’s my take on it.”

  “That’s actually pretty good,” Darla said. A dimple came and went. “But you’re playing around—”

  “You have the picture,” I said, “fresh from Joe’s pencil. We don’t know if it’s accurate, because we don’t know this guy. Wait, do you know who this is?”

  “Not a clue. Tell me what W said.” She took out a notebook and pen, and while I repeated what I’d told the others, she wrote. “How tall?”

  Ardis, Joe, and I looked at each other.

  Darla glanced up from her notebook. “What are you, a bunch of amateurs? Did you ask what he was wearing?” Her dimples came and went again as she shook her head.

  “I’ll ask W and let you know,” I said. “But, Darla, the picture scared W. I think it looked more like the guy than they expected it to. And W doesn’t scare easily. W loves the idea of doing dangerous things.”

  “Really?” Joe said.

  “Say something about six-shooters and horses and see what happens,” I told him, then turned back to Darla. “The point is, we couldn’t force W any further or faster than we did. We seriously
thought about looking for this guy on our own, first, so you wouldn’t waste your time on a tip from an unreliable witness.”

  “Now you’re saying W is unreliable? Which is it?” Darla asked. “Eyewitness or unreliable witness?”

  “That’s the problem in a nutshell,” Ardis said. “That’s why we did our civic duty and turned it all over to you.”

  “Do you suppose that was a rookie mistake?” Ardis asked after Darla left. “She didn’t ask if we kept a copy of the sketch. And that could account for why she also didn’t tell us not to show it around.”

  “We can start first thing tomorrow morning.” Joe held up his phone. “Text from Sierra. She’s having a ‘breakfast and renewal of spirits’ meeting. Want to come?”

  “Ardie?” Hank’s reedy voice called from the family room. “Ardie? Did I remember to put gas in the chain saw?”

  “Daddy and I will be renewing our breakfast right here,” Ardis said.

  “Kath?” Joe asked.

  “I’m hungry already.”

  TWENTY

  I didn’t think Sierra’s renewal of spirits meeting would do much for mine. The breakfast part might fulfill its promise, but generally speaking, at seven A.M., my spirits preferred turning over and snoozing for another half hour or so. I ignored the sweet talk from my pillow and only yawned every half-block on my way to meet Joe outside the Vault. I yawned again for him.

  “Special delivery from Mel’s, it looks like,” he said, nodding his chin toward someone coming down the street behind me.

  I turned to see. “Hey, Angie. How’s it going?”

  For years, fairly or unfairly, people had referred to Angie as Mercy Junior. Hooking up with Aaron, though, and taking the job at Mel’s seemed to be setting a new pattern for her life. “Can I hand these to you so I can get back?” She’d juggled two pastry boxes and a to-go box of coffee the few blocks from Mel’s.

  Joe took the coffee, and I took the boxes. “Don’t let Mel run you ragged,” I said.

  Angie looked up and down the street. “Mel offered me time off. I asked for extra hours.”

  “Everything all right?” Joe asked.

  “Oh yeah. Mom and Aunt Shirley are a little overexcited about the babies. Aaron asked them to back off a bit, and Mel declared the café a Mom and Aunt Shirley–free zone.”

  “How’s the Riley and Taylor show?” I asked.

  “We’re up to episode six or seven. I just hope we can skip a disaster scene.”

  I patted her shoulder without comment. She rubbed her belly and left.

  The door opened behind us, and Sierra stepped out. She gazed after Angie and tucked a few bills in her pocket.

  “I guess that saves me a delivery tip. Good morning, Joe. And Kath. How nice. I’m so glad I planned for extras. You can take that on up to the gallery.”

  I yawned my response and felt we were even. “I wasn’t exactly invited, was I?” I asked Joe as we climbed the stairs.

  “Will you watch my booth for an hour on Friday morning?”

  “I can probably do that. Why?”

  “That makes you staff. Let’s eat.”

  Five or six of the merchants were already there, looking uncomfortable. Martha and Floyd stood near a table set with plates, cups, and napkins. We opened the boxes there.

  “From Mel’s,” Joe announced.

  Mel’s reputation did its magic. Her spinach-and-egg muffin cups broke our fasts, and her wedges of apple kuchen renewed our spirits. Her coffee broke the ice. Between sips and mouthfuls, we talked and shared a few laughs. When I was on my second muffin, I heard Sierra coming up the stairs with more people: Simon and Nervie.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve already started,” Sierra said. “I did want to say a few words about Belinda, though.”

  “You still can,” Martha said.

  “And we’ll toast her memory with coffee,” Floyd said.

  “Someone give me coffee, please,” Simon said, “and I’ll do the toast.” He blew on the cup Joe handed him, tested it, and then raised it. “In Belinda’s memory, kind thoughts, thoughtful prayers, enduring sorrow. Rest in peace.”

  Sierra looked up from her phone. “Lovely. Thanks, Simon. I wanted to say something about coming together over food in fellowship, too.”

  “You just did,” Martha said.

  Floyd clapped, everyone joined in, and then went back to eating and talking. Joe and I mingled. Talk mingled, too, ranging from “Mmm” to discussions of sales, to the expected, “It’s still such a shock.” I ate a slice of kuchen slowly so that listening with a full mouth appeared more polite than nosy. My mind wandered a bit, too, wondering what “the expected” talk might be after introducing a friend to a ghost he couldn’t see or hear. Joe hadn’t said anything, and I hadn’t brought it up.

  Martha dropped a few platitudes into conversations while she sipped her coffee. When she put down her cup, she checked the time and muttered, “I hope we aren’t making a habit of gung-ho fellowship.”

  Joe showed the scan of the sketch on his phone around, saying it was someone at the grand opening. “I lost the scrap of paper with his contact info and can’t get it to him.”

  “Display it in your shop,” Simon said. “Maybe he’ll come back through.”

  No one recognized him.

  Not surprisingly, Russell didn’t attend. A few people mentioned him being in their thoughts and prayers and wondered about the shop space.

  “He plans to keep it open,” Nervie said.

  “We’re still discussing it,” Sierra said. “I told him not to rush it.”

  “He’s ex-military, like my late husband,” Nervie said. “Having a plan isn’t rushing. It’s how you do things.”

  “He’s coming in tomorrow morning,” Sierra said. “Nothing’s been decided.” She sidestepped further discussion by turning around and joining Floyd and Simon.

  “I’ve been wrong before,” Nervie said with a shrug.

  “Was Belinda local?” I asked.

  Nervie shook her head. “Russell’s mother’s family was, a ways back. He and Belinda retired here, and for some reason Belinda saw fit to stay after the divorce. She stayed in the house, too. Said he never cared for it.”

  “You knew her well?” Joe asked.

  “Well enough to know she stayed in that house out of spite.”

  Martha, listening from a few feet away, moved closer when Nervie went back for more coffee. “To be efficient, I’ll let you know that Floyd and I can give each other alibis.” With another show of efficiency, she called goodbye with a full-arm wave to cover everyone in the room and then headed down the stairs.

  “Were we that obvious?” Joe asked.

  “I didn’t think so. Being suspicious makes it hard to be friends, though.”

  After Martha took off, others trickled away. Nervie circled back around before she left to let us know she regretted speaking ill of the dead.

  “It isn’t my way,” she said.

  “I’m sure you didn’t mean—”

  “But speaking ill of her as she was in life doesn’t bother me a bit. She spit at me like a cat that afternoon.”

  “Which afternoon?”

  “Friday. After she found the tablecloth ripped to shreds.”

  I tried not to stare. “I didn’t see you here.”

  “And I didn’t see you. Although I’ve seen you more often than I’d expect, so I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again.” And she dashed away.

  I sent a text to Ardis asking her to change the question to Nervie’s students— when did Nervie leave the Cat, not if.

  A text from another textile colleague had come in. I skimmed it and started to get excited. She’d heard about a collection of Arts and Crafts textiles at an estate sale in Alexandria and thought she’d also heard that part of the collection went missing. But that’s where my excitement died (and truth be told, relief set in for the sake of those textiles). “Not the textiles,” she wrote. “They’re fine.” They’d been sold to a museum
in Massachusetts.

  Joe walked me to the Cat after Sierra’s breakfast, suggesting we take the long way. Breakfast at seven, no matter how slowly we ate or how long we chatted, still gave me loads of time before work. Joe’s long way included a walk up Vestal Hill.

  “Is that Belinda’s?” I asked as we slowed our walk past a Carpenter Gothic. “Do you think Belinda was right, that Russell never cared for it?”

  “Hard to believe he wouldn’t.”

  “We didn’t hear that from Belinda or Russell, anyway. We heard it from Nervie.”

  “It’s quiet up here,” Joe said. “Probably gets a nice breeze on the porch.”

  “Belinda got awfully quiet while Cole was around Friday afternoon. Then she told him to drop the search. But I can believe she did spit at Nervie like a cat. It seems like there was more real animosity between Nervie and Belinda than between Cole and Rogalla.”

  “Unless Cole hit a fatal nerve with the new nickname. Possum fits, though. I like it. Does Geneva have a nickname?”

  “She said her daddy called her Ginger, not because of her hair, though. She must have loved ginger. She can’t touch or taste or move anything, but oddly enough, she can still smell ginger. I thought, over time, I’d be able to make sense of ‘ghost.’ In some kind of scientific way, I guess. It’s been seven months, though. I could say only seven months, but by now it makes sense that Geneva just is, even if I don’t know why. When it comes down to it, I don’t know why any of us are.”

  “Works for me,” Joe said. “I’m not the Dunbar with the badge. I don’t have to understand everything in terms of possible and impossible.”

  “That’s an interesting take on law enforcement. Huh. Works for me.”

  Geneva enjoyed hearing about Darla’s reaction to the sketch. She drew her imaginary rapier from its scabbard and cut a Z in the air. She was less happy to hear that, so far, no one recognized the man or remembered seeing him. Rapier forgotten, she watched me feed Argyle and then followed me to the front room.

  “But villains return to the scene of the crime,” she said as I opened the cash register.

  “Not always.”