by Molly Macrae
“Morning,” Floyd said when he saw us. He stuck the feather duster he’d been using in a vase. “What kind of damage can I do for you today?”
“What kind of damage does he go in for?” Geneva asked. “Tell the cowboy to keep an eye on him.”
“We’re fine, Floyd,” Joe said. “We might be meeting a friend.”
“I saw the killer looking at the rolltop desk,” Geneva said. “Opening drawers.”
A memory flashed of Clod and Rogalla opening those drawers. And Bruce more interested in a “possum.” Rogalla had showed up almost immediately after we found Belinda, too. Coincidence? But I was working on a different theory of Geneva’s suspect, one that made more sense and less at the same time.
“This is a gorgeous desk,” I said.
“Used by the first bank manager and every one since,” Floyd said.
“Cool.”
“The killer thought the desk was cool,” Geneva said, “but this is drop-dead cooler.” She floated over to the square, marble-topped table I’d wondered about on Saturday. “You’ll like what’s in the drawer.”
“What is this table?” I asked Floyd.
“A biscuit table.”
“Open the drawer,” Geneva said.
I pulled it open. A damask towel, white with a Turkey red band of oak leaves and acorns looked up at me.
“Go on,” Geneva said. “I dare you.”
I looked at her, looked at the towel, and took her dare. My fingers tingled when I picked it up.
“What do you feel?” she asked.
“I can smell warm biscuits and taste the butter melting on them,” I said.
“Well, you’ve got a better imagination than I do,” Floyd said. “I wish I could pipe that aroma in here. It might help sell the table. I have something else you might appreciate, Kath.” He brought over a small, lidded basket. It was dark wickerwork, about eight inches around and, with its domed lid, about four inches high.
Joe took the towel (and gave it a surreptitious sniff) when Floyd handed me the basket.
“Victorian sewing basket?” I said.
Floyd lifted the lid. “Complete with thimble, threads, etui, scissors, awl, and an embroidery project forever unfinished. A handkerchief, do you think?” He took it out and held it up. Someone had begun stitching a small heart of French knot forget-me-nots in one corner.
“It makes me want to make one of my own, Floyd.” I stirred the tools around with a finger. “I don’t see the awl, though.”
“It’s a beautiful silver thing,” Floyd said. “An embroidery stiletto. It should be there.”
“He just came in,” Geneva whispered.
“Where?” I saw a couple browsing nearer the door.
“There,” Geneva whispered. “Returning to the scene-before-the-scene of the crime. Time to ghost-up.”
“In the basket,” Floyd said. “Let me look.”
I shoved the basket at him and stumbled over his foot to get to Geneva. What was she doing?
“Why I oughta . . . lemme at ’em.” She blustered toward the desk. Toward . . . no one.
I caught a glimmer, a shadow. Not much more than the ghost of a fruit fly. And then she screamed like she’d seen a ghost.
TWENTY-TWO
Is she all right?” Floyd asked.
With my hands slammed to my ears, I probably didn’t look all right. And looking around wildly, when the screaming no one else heard stopped, didn’t help.
“Might be a migraine,” Joe said. He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. “Can you tell me?” he asked quietly.
“I will. But first I need to find her. I hope she’s gone back to the Cat. I’ll call Ardis.”
“And I’ll call Cole. I’m pretty sure he needs to find that embroidery stiletto.”
“Call him. But outside.”
We thanked a concerned Floyd and went outside and around the corner of the building to Postage Stamp Park. I stopped in front of the trompe l’oeil mural. Bruce had stared at it the first time I saw him do his jazz hands routine. Had he stared at the mural, though, or at the bricked-up door now painted to look open and inviting? Or had he watched someone float in and out through that ghost of a door, no possums involved?
I called Ardis and asked her to look or listen for Geneva. She said she’d call back, and did a minute later, puffing from the climb to the attic.
“She’s in the study, hon. Moaning. Oh, my word.”
“It can be hard to take, but she’ll be okay. Thanks, Ardis. I’m on my way.”
“Where’s Ten?”
“Calling Cole. I’ll tell you about it after I calm Geneva.”
Joe said he’d wait for Clod. I kissed him and almost, but not quite, ran back to the Weaver’s Cat.
By the time I got to the study, Geneva had stopped the worst of her moaning. Argyle waited on the landing outside. He came in with me and jumped up on the desk. I sat next to Geneva on the window seat. She hunched in the corner, rocking.
“When you scream at the sight of someone, and then flee in terror, it creates the wrong impression,” she said. “Even if that person is a ghost. It puts a damper on the possibility of having a ghost friend.”
“Why are you afraid of ghosts?” I asked. “I’m not afraid of you; I didn’t scream when we met. Argyle isn’t afraid. Ardis and Joe aren’t. And do you know who else isn’t afraid of ghosts? Rogalla’s dog, Bruce. He must’ve been tracking that ghost the whole time Rogalla bragged about possums.”
“I don’t have the bravery of a beating heart.”
“I don’t think that’s what makes the difference, Geneva. We have an advantage over you, but it isn’t that our hearts are still beating. It’s that we’re lucky enough to know a ghost. So we know that ghosts are people, too. Not were, but are.”
“Thank you.” She sat up straighter. “My mama never liked a sad-faced so-and-so.”
“Neither did my granny. They probably didn’t have someone with your situation in mind, though.”
“No, but there’s no use crying over spilt bones.”
“That’s good advice. It has a ring to it.”
“Or a clatter.”
“What did the ghost at the Vault do when he saw you?”
“Before I shrieked like a banshee, I’m sure he thought I’d be a lovely person to know. That was your first impression, wasn’t it? And you and I have been inseparable ever since.”
“Think carefully, Geneva. Did the ghost give any indication he knew you were there?”
“He didn’t. Not today or any other time. He just kept going about his business. How rude.”
“Maybe not rude, but unaware. I think he’s caught in a loop, and I think Bruce proved that when Deputy Dunbar and Rogalla had him sniffing for the tablecloth.”
“Stuck on endless repeat and can’t interact with a colleague? The poor thing.”
“Colleague is a nice way to think of him, Geneva. You have a good heart.”
Argyle nudged the tablecloth box an inch closer to the edge of the desk. I told him to cut it out. He nudged it again, then before I could get to it, he pushed the box off and watched it take a nosedive. It sprang open on impact, and he made himself into a neat loaf, paws tucked, looking smug.
“Thanks a heap, buddy boy. Thanks for the heap.”
I didn’t like the idea of scooping the shreds with my hands and feeling that nothing . . . but why couldn’t I feel it anymore? Why couldn’t I interact with this ghost of a tablecloth?
Geneva nudged my shoulder with hers. “I’m sorry it doesn’t feel the same anymore.”
The same anymore. “Geneva, that might be the answer. What if it isn’t the same? What if the feelings aren’t gone, because they never were? What if this isn’t that tablecloth?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“I haven’t looked that closely. I tried to feel, but I didn’t really look.”
“Then what are you waiting for? And be sure to thank Argyle.”
I rubbed Argyle
between the ears. Then I scooped up some of the shreds, sat down at the desk, and spread them out in front of me. I went back for some of the singed pieces.
“It’s brown linen. That part’s right.” I took a magnifying glass from the kneehole drawer. “The stitches aren’t . . . I didn’t study the stitching when I first saw it. But where they shouldn’t have been obvious, they weren’t. These are. The colors . . . these colors and materials and the workmanship are . . . pale. Watered down. I’m not sure that makes sense.”
“Is it a copy?”
“Maybe. I’d have to put it together like a jigsaw puzzle and compare the two.”
“Two,” Geneva said.
“Two. I’m pretty sure Belinda was duped into thinking her treasure was destroyed.”
“If she was a good actress, could she dupe everyone else into thinking it was destroyed?”
“Good question, Detective.”
When I went back downstairs I outlined my theory of the two tablecloths for Ardis. Then I told her about Geneva’s encounter with the “villain,” and the awl missing from Floyd’s sewing basket. She groped for the stool and sat down.
“An embroidery stiletto,” she said faintly.
“Silver filigree.” I glanced toward our display of needlework tools—utilitarian scissors, awls, and stilettos. “Why does the silver filigree make it sound worse?”
“It’s an abuse of an elegant tool,” Ardis said. “An abuse of art. And Geneva’s mystery man isn’t the killer? He’s a ghost? You do know how craz—no, I won’t say that.”
“It feels crazy, though, doesn’t it? Ardis, did Granny see ghosts?”
“I honestly have no idea. Have you ever seen anyone besides Geneva?”
“I saw a bit of a flicker where this guy was, but otherwise no.”
“How is Geneva? Is she pulling herself together?”
“She’s resilient.”
“I’d expect nothing less from Daddy’s side of the family.” Ardis took pen and paper from the drawer in the counter. “We’ll have a lot to cover at Fast and Furious this afternoon. I feel an agenda coming on. Incomplete information, hon—our investigation is drowning in it. Do you mind?” She pointed to the office door.
“Dive in.”
I sent Joe and the rest of the posse a text letting them know, in brief, that we no longer had a suspect. Then, between customers, I mulled the problem of incomplete information. I’d contributed to it by not asking follow-up questions a few times. No point in crying over spilt bones, though, and maybe I could get an answer to one of those questions by calling Martha the enamelist.
“Martha, hi, this is Kath.”
“More questions?” she asked.
Living right by being nosy. “Just one, if you don’t mind. The other morning, at Sierra’s breakfast, you said you and Floyd can give each other alibis.”
“And you took me seriously? How could we possibly give each other alibis? Our shops are on separate floors.”
“You might’ve slipped away together.”
Martha’s immediate and deep belly laugh told me where Floyd stood in the slipping-away department. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I’m pretty sure the police aren’t interested in me as a suspect, but go ahead and throw me into your pool, if you want. I had no reason to kill Belinda, though, and no opportunity, and I just plain didn’t.”
“What about Floyd?”
“Floyd’s on his own.”
Debbie came in for her afternoon shift, wearing a loose cotton top she’d embroidered with Jacobean flora. I told her how much I liked it; I didn’t dampen her spirits by telling her about the embroidery stiletto.
“I’ve got something to ask Nervie,” I said, “and I’d like to catch her before her class.”
“Call and ask her to come early so she isn’t in her usual mad dash.” Debbie looked at my face. “Ah. You don’t want to tip her off?”
“That sounds so—”
“It’s okay. You don’t need to explain.” She really didn’t want me to explain. Debbie knew about the posse’s activities but didn’t want to be part of them. She helped logistically, though, giving Ardis and me time away from the business. “Keep your phone handy,” she said. “If I see her and you don’t, I’ll call you.”
We were both busy with customers when Nervie dashed in. Luckily, Ardis emerged from the office in time to take over for me at the cash register. I caught up to Nervie on the back stairs.
“Nervie? Have you got a minute?”
She stopped and turned around. “I need to get ready for class.”
“I know.” I closed the gap between us so I could keep my voice low. “Do you mind telling me again how you know Belinda’s tablecloth was stolen?”
“Oh for— I heard her say it. You don’t get much better than the horse’s mouth.”
“Did she say it to you?”
“No, I heard her . . . okay, fine, I overheard her.”
“I’m the last person to judge anyone for overhearing, Nervie. Who was she talking to?”
“I don’t know. She was on the phone.”
“What did she say?”
“You know how loud she could get, right? Not for that phone call. She was in her shop with her back to the door. At first I didn’t see she had the phone. Then I heard her say, ‘It’s stolen.’ Those exact words.” With a thump, Nervie sat on the step. “Did this get her killed?”
Geneva materialized beside Nervie. “So many wonderful actresses.”
“She said ‘stolen,’ again,” Nervie said with a tremor, “and ‘took’ and ‘taking,’ but I didn’t hear the rest. I left. I really do have manners.”
“How did you know she was talking about the tablecloth?” I asked.
“She said something about Arts and Crafts, so she must’ve been.”
“Thanks, Nervie.”
She pulled herself up by the railing and looked a little rocky climbing the rest of the stairs.
Geneva floated down to me. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “Nervie could never act that well.”
Ardis finished her agenda and sent it to the posse so they’d have it ahead of our Fast and Furious meeting. I printed a copy, and when Ardis and I went up to the workroom shortly before the meeting started, I put it on the sideboard for Geneva.
“Will she join us?” Ardis asked.
“She might.”
“Ten?”
“Probably not.” I could have said probably fishing, but I didn’t want to stir her up. Joe had let Clod know our witness made a mistake about the man in the sketch. Fishing was a good antidote to Clod’s reaction.
The others arrived in short order, Mel bearing a square pan of brownies. “Because we’re back to square one,” she said as she cut them and passed them around.
“Aren’t we further back than that?” Thea asked. “We haven’t developed any other suspects. We put our eggs in one basket and then threw the whole basket at W’s mystery man. What happened?”
“The mystery man’s a dead end,” I said.
“W is mortified,” Ardis added. “But not dispirited.”
“We shouldn’t be, either,” I said. “The mystery man turned out to be extraneous. That’s the whole point of gathering information and looking at connections—to figure out what fits and what doesn’t.”
“Why aren’t we leaving it up to the deputies at this point?” John asked. “Not that I’m not enjoying myself.”
“Because they seem to think the two murders are connected, but I don’t think they’re looking at the right connection.”
“And we have our pride,” Ernestine said. “We do excellent work, whether we’re nabbing bad guys or knitting baby hats.” She tossed three hats with teddy bear ears on the table.
“What is the right connection?” Mel asked.
“The tablecloth,” I said. “I don’t know how, and the connection might be tangential, but it’s there. And I think the deputies are overlooking it.”
“You don’t think you�
��re just obsessed, Red?”
“I know I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
“Good enough for me,” Mel said.
“Agreed?” Ardis asked. The others nodded. “Then let’s hit the agenda. Item one: Developments.”
I wrote Developments on the board, and below that, weapon—embroidery stiletto. “Not confirmed yet.” I told them about that part of our visit to the Vault.
“Did Floyd engineer that discovery?” John asked.
“Does Nervie use an embroidery stiletto?” Ernestine asked.
“Excellent questions,” Ardis said. “We don’t know the answers, but this is why we have the posse.”
“I’m guessing yes to both of them,” Thea said. “Here’s a new connection: things missing, presumed stolen. The tablecloth, a couple of Simon’s books, a couple of the Main Street scarecrows, including ours from in front of the library—did I tell you that?” She shook her fist. “And now the stiletto.”
“Which brings us to this.” I wrote tablecloth under Developments and told them about the reappearance of the shreds. “They’re the shreds Belinda showed me. I’m positive of that. And at first glance, I believed it was the original tablecloth. But it’s not, and that’s a bona fide expert opinion.”
“Why the deception?” John asked.
“And deception on the part of whom?” Ardis asked.
“Good questions,” I said. “Let me get them down. Keep asking.”
They did, and I wrote:
Did Belinda know it wasn’t the original?
Did she shred it herself?
Why would she shred it?
A cheap publicity stunt?
To cause trouble for someone else?
“She accused Nervie,” I said, “but only to begin with. By the time Cole got there, she was so quiet I thought she might be in shock. Now I wonder if she’d realized there’d been a switch.”
“Destruction, disappearance, reappearance,” Ernestine said. “How interesting. Why do you suppose that sequence reminds me of Shirley and Mercy?”
“I don’t like it when I see them too often,” Ardis asked, “but I don’t like it when I don’t know what they’re up to. They stirred things up from the get-go. Where are they now?”