Crewel and Unusual

by Molly Macrae

  “But if he does, I might be the only one who will definitely recognize him.” No swirling or pulsing bravado.

  “This guy might be too smart to go back, Geneva. But I’m going back tomorrow morning, to see if I can talk to Belinda’s husband. Do you want to come with me?”

  “If he’s smart, my plan will have to be smarter. I’ll stay here and work on it.”

  “Okay. Oh, before I forget, Darla wants to know how tall the guy is and what he was wearing.”

  “Dark suit. White shirt.”

  “Height?”

  She puzzled over that.

  “Compared to me or Ardis?” I prompted.

  “I don’t know.”

  I spent the rest of a busy day talking knit and purl, fingering weight and worsted, roving and in-the-grease wool. Some customers needed reassurance that buying patterns and supplies was a fine hobby on its own, regardless of how many projects they completed.

  In between sales I wondered what it meant when people didn’t behave as expected. Sierra had been quieter, less frantic, when Clod arrived to see the vandalized tablecloth. But maybe she put her best professional foot forward for the deputy and the fireman. Belinda had also been subdued instead of exploding when the tablecloth shreds disappeared. But maybe she was in shock, the disappearance one blow too many.

  “Or Belinda discovered something,” Ardis said when I ran my thoughts past her. “Or she heard something that shut her up.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ve got me. As for Sierra clamming up when Coleridge arrived, that’s not so unusual. I tend to do the same when he’s around.”

  I waited for a laugh to follow that statement, but it didn’t come. She went to help a customer pick out embroidery floss.

  “If she believes that, she’s living in an alternate universe,” Geneva said, appearing on the mannequin’s shoulder.

  The door jingled with incoming customers, or I might have told her that odd beliefs seemed to run in the family.

  One of the new customers said she was on “a crochet-cation,” stopping in as many yarn shops as she could along her route. “May I take pictures to document this stop? I’ll identify the shop when I post them.”

  “Sure. Upstairs, too. Let me know if I can help you find anything.”

  Geneva posed in each of the pictures the woman took in the front room and followed her into the next, which set me thinking about photographs.

  Belinda hadn’t wanted pictures taken of the tablecloth. Was that so odd? As Ardis had pointed out, plenty of craftspeople didn’t allow photos at shows or in shops because they didn’t want copycats. Of course, all the copycats had to do was buy the pieces and then copy to their heart’s content. They would have paid for that privilege, though. And if someone had bought the tablecloth, Belinda couldn’t have stopped the new owner from taking boatloads of pictures and posting them anywhere and everywhere. But what if Nervie was right and the tablecloth was stolen? Pictures could lead back to Belinda. Although, again, once sold, she’d have no control over who saw the tablecloth or who recognized it. If it was stolen. Big if.

  I went back to thinking about people behaving in ways I didn’t expect. Had Belinda discovered something or heard something? A threat? Nervie was there Friday afternoon. Who else? Our mystery man?

  “Can I run something else by you?” I asked Ardis while we closed shop for the day.

  “You know you can.”

  “What did Nervie’s husband look like?”

  “I didn’t know him well, and it’s hard to picture him after all these years.”

  “Could he be the guy in the sketch?”

  “Oh, now.” Her eyebrows were skeptical of the idea, but she thought about it anyway. “Peter was rounder.”

  “He could have lost weight.”

  “What’s put this idea in your head? People do change, but Nervie would know him, wouldn’t she?”

  “What if she did?”

  “And they did this together? Why?”

  “We don’t know why anyone would do it. Why should that rule them out? No one’s seen the guy in the sketch since the murder. What if he came to town, did this for—or with—her, then left again?”

  “Are you even listening to yourself? Or worse, have you been listening to Spiveys?”

  That acted like the bracing slap of a cold, wet washcloth. “Thanks, Ardis. I needed that.”

  “Anytime, hon. Keep your wits about you when you talk to Russell in the morning. What did John say? Little byways are fine, but don’t get dumped in the drink. That’s close enough.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Simon smiled from behind the Vault’s information and sales desk when I arrived the next morning. “Kath, nice to see you today! You’re becoming a regular customer. Do you know how nice it is to think we already have regulars?”

  I didn’t tell him I’d yet to buy anything; it was only a matter of time. “You make a great old-time shopkeeper, Simon. The bowler and sleeve garters are just the right touch.”

  “Leftovers from a production of The Music Man a few years ago. When Sierra asked me to fill in for her here, I couldn’t resist looking the part.”

  “Perfect.”

  Customers came in behind me, so I told him I’d see him later and moved on. Classical music played in the background. I let the strings and piano carry me past Joe’s booth. He wasn’t there, but a couple of customers chatted while they leafed through his watercolors. As I climbed the stairs, I saw Floyd walking a customer toward the sales desk, each of them carrying a straight-back chair. Someone coughed up ahead. Someone else laughed. Happy sights and sounds as the Vault settled into a comfortable pattern of commerce.

  I stuck my head in Martha’s shop to say something friendly and not at all suspicious-sounding, but she wasn’t in. Russell was in Belle’s, though. So was Nervie. Had I jumped when I saw her?

  “Kath might be just what you need, Russell,” she said. “She’s some kind of textile wizard.”

  Russell didn’t show any sign of recognizing me. Why would he, out of all the people who’d passed through Belle’s Saturday morning? He also didn’t seem to recognize Nervie’s sarcasm.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “I’m sorry for hers,” he said. “This place gave her something to look forward to.” He lifted the corner of an embroidered hanky and let it drop. “I hate to see all this go to waste.”

  “I’ll see you later, Russell,” Nervie said. “You have my number?”

  “You gave it to me yesterday.” When she’d gone, he added, “And the day before. Do you know how many single women have given me their numbers in the past few days?”

  “Really? So soon? And haven’t you been divorced for a while? It seems kind of insensitive.”

  “Nothing says it’s over like death, I guess.” He stared at nothing for a few moments, then touched the embroidery on the handkerchief. “What’s a textile wizard?”

  “Nervie’s joke.” I gave him the abridged job description of a textile preservationist—caring for historic fabrics, usually in a museum or conservation lab setting. Not too lecturey; Geneva would approve.

  “You might be interested in this, then.” He bent, brought a deep, flat box from under the display table, and handed it to me. “Take a look. Think you can preserve that?”

  I swallowed. Probably gulped like a brown trout. I’d held this box before. To be sure, I lifted the lid enough for a peek.

  “Are you OK?” he asked.

  “Yeah, yeah.” The lid settled back down. Be cool. Don’t ask leading questions. “When did this turn up?” Probably leading.

  “Sorry?”

  “This box. Friday afternoon, it was . . . missing. First Belinda found the tablecloth in it cut to shreds, and then the whole thing—box and shreds—disappeared. Belinda didn’t tell you?”

  Definitely leading.

  He shrugged. “We were exes for a reason.”

  “But y
ou were helping out in the shop on Saturday.”

  “Exes but not enemies,” he said.

  “Do you know anything about the tablecloth?”

  “Only that it doesn’t look like one now.”

  “Do you know if she kept records or notes about any of the pieces? Like where she got them?”

  “You make it sound like she was organized or something. To tell you the truth, I don’t know.”

  “If you find records, will you let me know?”

  “Why?”

  “I may not be a textile wizard, but I’m a full-fledged textile fool, and this tablecloth was something special.” I might have stroked the top of the box a few times. “Um, can I have it?”

  “A box of rags? Do you know something about it I don’t?”

  “Only that it can’t ever be fixed, but I can’t stand the idea of it being thrown away.”

  “Whatever. Look, I told Sierra I’m happy to keep the shop open until the stock sells down. But I don’t know crewel work from a crawdad, and I’ve got zero interest in learning.”

  “Where did the box turn up?”

  “Martha somebody, the woman across the way, gave it to me.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Something about a storeroom.”

  “Thanks.”

  I carried my treasure across the gallery to Martha’s shop. Still no sign of her, but she’d conveniently left a stack of business cards on a table near the door. I took one. When I turned to go, I nearly ran over Nervie. That time I did jump.

  “In a hurry?” she asked.

  Like a pro, I made use of her leading question. “I am, so I’ll make this fast. Do you have any idea where the Arts and Crafts tablecloth Belinda showed us came from?”

  “No.” She eyed the box.

  “You said it was stolen. How do you know that?”

  “I heard Belinda say so.”

  As soon as the Vault’s front door closed behind me, I tried Martha’s number and started walking. The call took less than thirty seconds.

  “Hi, Martha, this is Kath Rutledge.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Have you got a minute? Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Did you really find the scraps in the storeroom?”

  “What scraps?”

  “The box of scraps you gave to Russell Moyer this morning.”

  “I didn’t find anything. Sierra handed me a box on her way out. She asked me to give it to Russell and tell him she found it in the storeroom. I didn’t ask her what was in it, and I didn’t open it. I’m hardly ever that nosy. I have another call.”

  She disconnected before I could tell her about all the fun she missed with a Spartan attitude like that toward nosiness. Then I found Sierra’s card and called her. That conversation lasted less than twenty seconds.

  “Hi, Sierra, it’s Kath Rutledge. Martha told me you found the box with Belinda’s shredded tablecloth in the storeroom. That’s amazing.”

  “Not really. It was sitting on a shelf.”

  “Russell said Martha found it.”

  “Russell’s confused. Belinda must have been confused, too.”

  “Confused about what?”

  “Where she left them. Sad to say, but that shop might be the Vault’s first fatality.”

  We disconnected, and I wished she hadn’t used the word “fatality.” By then I was only a block and a half from the Cat, but I called Ardis, anyway.

  “We didn’t cover all our bases,” I said. “We need to add Martha the enamelist to the list, and Sierra. As sources, but it won’t hurt to look at them, either.”

  “What’s happened?” she asked. “Where are you? Is Joe there with you?”

  “I can take care of myself, Ardis. But thank you for worrying. I’m on my way back. Almost there—and I have the shredded tablecloth. Sierra said she found it in the storeroom.”

  “You don’t believe her?”

  “It’s convoluted, but I think we should look at her and Martha the way we’re looking at the others on our list. Look for connections to Belinda, to Gar, to whatever we had on the whiteboard.” I ran up the Cat’s front steps and opened the door, still speaking into the phone. “Do you mind if I take the box up to the study? I won’t be long.”

  “I’ll contact the posse with an update,” Ardis said. “Take your time.”

  I pocketed my phone, waved, and carried my treasure to the attic. Geneva and Argyle, hearing my feet running up the stairs, were upright and alert in the window seat when I arrived.

  “The shredded tablecloth,” I said a little breathless.

  I set the box on the desk, and curiosity brought them over. Geneva sat on a corner of the desk, and Argyle hopped up beside her. When I took the lid off the box, Argyle sniffed delicately above the shreds and then jumped down.

  “He didn’t hiss,” Geneva said, “but he isn’t impressed.”

  “It isn’t much to look at anymore.”

  “We can’t all look our best. What does it feel like?”

  “I held some of the pieces at Belinda’s, the day she found it like this, and I didn’t feel anything.” I didn’t really want to feel that nothing again, either.

  “It’s okay,” Geneva said. “Argyle and I are here.”

  I brushed a shred with a fingertip. Nothing. I picked up a handful. Nothing. Not even a ghost of the feelings remained, and I felt as though I was in mourning. The tablecloth had had a life, a story, and I’d missed my chance to know it. I laid the shreds back in the box, closed it, and went downstairs.

  “Were the shreds in the storeroom all along?” Ardis asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t how we’ll find out, either.”

  John sent an email to the posse later that morning. He’d located an interview with Sierra in an alumni newsletter and summarized it for us:

  She loves the job and the apartment—low salary but no rent. When asked if choosing artists and merchants for the limited number of spaces was difficult and how she’d avoided hard feelings, she replied, “I assumed anyone applying for a space was professional enough to deal with rejection.” Notable quotes: “It’s a small beginning, but it’s my show.” “I can make it terrific.” “It’ll be a stepping-stone or a launchpad. I am going places.”

  “She sounds enthusiastic and professional,” Ardis said.

  I agreed. “But I wonder where she plans to launch herself to? And how soon?”

  “And how do you suppose it’ll look on her résumé that someone was murdered on her watch? Or two people? That would hardly be fair, though.” After a moment she added, “Of course, it was less fair to Gar and Belinda.”

  I agreed with that, too.

  “Where does this put us in regards to the man in the sketch?” Ardis asked.

  “Maybe it’s time to shake things up. See what falls out.”

  Friday morning, while Argyle and I spent quality time with belly rubs and rumbling purrs, I asked Geneva about her plan to catch the killer.

  “It’s an excellent plan,” she said. “If I weren’t terrified, I would go to the Vault this minute to put it in action.”

  “What part of it scares you?”

  “The catching the killer part.”

  “But that’s—”

  “I know. A tragic situation.”

  “I was going to say that’s the whole point of the plan. But it is kind of tragic. This isn’t really like you. You’ve been ready to take on bad guys over and over. You have taken on bad guys.” The only things I’d ever heard her say really scared her were the dark and ghosts . . . ghosts . . . a ghost? Oh my goodness. “Geneva, did you know that we haven’t heard anything from the deputies about the man in the sketch? You’re the star witness—the only one who saw him—and no one’s seen him since.”

  “Vamoosed, did he?”

  “That’s a reasonable conclusion.”

  “So my plan
to catch him in another evil act is useless.”

  “But that means you can go to the Vault and not worry about him. And revisiting the scene might trigger your memory, bring back more details. It would be a different way to catch him. What do you think?”

  “Why, if I had a horse, I’d say saddle up.”

  “Let’s hold our horses until Ardis comes in.”

  When Ardis came in, she raised a skeptical eyebrow. “This is your plan for shaking things up?” She watched Geneva pretending to examine the mannequin with a magnifying glass. “Is she likely to remember anything else useful enough to crack the case?”

  “I’m willing to try,” Geneva said. “What more can you ask of your ghost, stout-hearted and true?”

  “It can’t hurt,” I said. “Do you mind being the responsible shopkeeper, again, while we go sleuth?”

  “You know I don’t. And I won’t think of suggesting you aren’t careful by telling you to watch your step and be careful.”

  She did, however, call Joe. He met us at the Vault.

  “How’s this going to work?” he asked.

  “I’ll follow her and ‘talk’ to her when I can.” I held up my phone. “You stick with us and act natural.”

  “Sounds easy enough.” He squinted, peering to either side of me.

  “If you’re wondering, she’s beside you, mimicking every move.”

  Geneva hooted. I winced.

  “What just happened?” he asked.

  “She thinks she’s hilarious. She’s serious about this, though.”

  “And it’s working already,” Geneva said. “I know where I saw him before.”

  I put the phone to my ear. “Hi, Geneva. Who?”

  “The killer. He didn’t look evil then.”

  “Where did you see him?”

  “In the antique shop.”

  “Do you remember when?”

  “Before.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. We’ll see you in the antique shop.” I looked at Joe. His face showed an interesting mix of bemusement and shell shock. “See? Easy enough.”

  “I’ve heard you two ‘on the phone’ before, haven’t I?”

  “This ain’t our first rodeo,” Geneva said. “Git along, cowboy.”