A Wicked Yarn

by Emmie Caldwell

“I can’t?”

  “No, you can’t,” Lia restated firmly. “If the police haven’t, neither should the rest of us.”

  “It was her ex-husband, my dear. If she hadn’t married the scoundrel in the first place and then divorced him, he wouldn’t have had the least interest in buying this barn. He wouldn’t have been anywhere near this barn to be murdered in it. Her stupid decisions have had far-reaching consequences. For all of us!”

  Lia was stunned into silence by the woman’s convoluted logic.

  Joan took Lia’s silence as victory and smugly turned away.

  Hayley drew Lia away from the artist’s booth with a head jerk. “What an awful woman,” she said once they were out of earshot, “which is so weird, ’cause her artwork is really beautiful. It’s like everything good in her got used up in her paintings, isn’t it?”

  “She has a point, though.” Ginny Norton’s voice coming from her left startled Lia, who hadn’t noticed her there. “I mean about Belinda’s marriage—or rather, her divorce—bringing on a lot of this trouble. But, you know, Joan and Belinda have always had their problems.”

  “They have?” This was the first Lia had heard that, though with two such bullheaded women it wasn’t hard to believe. “What, exactly?”

  “You’d best ask Belinda about that,” Ginny said, suddenly prim. “Not really my business.”

  Lia, though frustrated, nodded. Better to get information from the horse’s mouth. Ginny wandered off in the direction of Lou Krause’s metal creations, and Lia turned to Hayley.

  “Mind taking over my booth for a minute? I’ll see what I can pry out of our very closemouthed manager.”

  Lia headed down the side hall to Belinda’s office and knocked once before trying the knob. The door was locked. She knocked again.

  “Go away!” Belinda barked.

  “It’s me, Belinda. Let me in.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “You’re always busy. I’ll just take a minute. Let me in.”

  Lia waited, then heard a chair scrape and the clomp of footsteps. The lock clicked and the footsteps retreated, leaving Lia to open the door herself.

  “Nice welcome,” she said, walking in. Belinda’s face showed signs of fatigue, including dark circles under her eyes, which helped Lia overlook the rudeness. She got straight to the point. “What are the problems between you and Joan Fowler?”

  Belinda looked up from her seat behind the desk. “Problems?”

  “Yes, you know, disagreements? Bad feelings? I understand they’ve been ongoing.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just want to understand what they are and how serious.”

  Belinda scowled. “Joan’s a major pain, but she’s been a good draw for the craft fair so I put up with her. She runs her booth; I run the fair. We keep out of each other’s hair.”

  Lia studied Belinda’s face. “No hassles, no major arguments?”

  “No.”

  “Did she have any connection to Darren? Personal or business related?”

  “How should I know?” Belinda snapped. She rubbed at her eyes and sighed. “Sorry. But I really don’t know. Who or what either of them did was the last thing I cared about.”

  “You understand I’m only trying to help, right? The more information I have, the better I can do that.”

  “I know.” Belinda exhaled loudly. “And I appreciate it. Really.” A small smile curled her lips. “This is your kind of thing, isn’t it?” When Lia cocked her head questioningly, Belinda explained. “Remember that time back in elementary school? When kids were missing cash from their book bags? You were the one who figured it out.”

  Lia smiled back. “It wasn’t too hard. Tara . . .” Lia wrinkled her nose. “Was that her name? It’s been so long I can’t remember exactly.” She pulled over the visitor’s chair to sit. “I remember that she started wearing fairly expensive stuff to school, small things like earrings or bracelets that I suppose she could hide from her parents. So I kept an eye on her during recess until I spotted her slipping back into the classroom. I caught her going through other kids’ bags that were kept in the cubbies.”

  “Yeah, but she was someone no one would have suspected, wasn’t she? One of the so-called good kids.” Belinda made finger quotes along with an eye roll. “And I was one of the many that little witch stole from. But wasn’t there also something similar at the hospital?”

  “You mean the missing equipment? Well, yes. Again, it was just a matter of keeping my eyes open.”

  “My point is you’ve always been pretty sharp about reading people and picking up on things. So I’m glad to have you in my corner, Lia.” She grinned lopsidedly. “Even if I don’t always show it. But I can’t tell you anything more about Joan than I have. She’s a miserable person, but I don’t see her murdering Darren for any reason, if that’s what you’re thinking. Besides, how would that be a good thing? Pinning it on one of the craft fair vendors isn’t going to help me keep it running, is it? It’d be just one more nail in the coffin.”

  Lia shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m thinking about Joan or anyone yet. I’m just trying to get a clear picture.”

  “You could try looking outside the craft fair, though, couldn’t you?”

  “Any suggestions?”

  Belinda stared over Lia’s shoulder for several moments. “There’s Martin Brewer.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s been Crandalsburg’s unofficial historian for as long as I know. He’s always putting together exhibits about past stuff and writing guest columns for the paper. He’s a retired professor from somewhere. I can’t imagine he would have been thrilled over Darren wanting to tear this barn down, what with its Civil War connection.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  Brenda started fumbling through the papers on her desk. “He was giving a talk. I have a flyer about it here somewhere. Ha! Got it.” She pulled out a yellow sheet and looked it over. “It’s tonight at the library.” She handed it over.

  Lia read the title: “‘The 1863 Battle of Crandalsburg.’ Sounds interesting.”

  “Yeah,” Belinda said, sounding totally uninterested.

  “Maybe I’ll go to it. Want to come?” The stricken look on Belinda’s face made Lia laugh.

  “I would,” Belinda protested. “Because I know you’re going for my sake. But I’m so darned worn-out. I haven’t been able to sleep.” She added dryly, “Maybe I should go. His lecture might do it for me.”

  “No, go home tonight, try to relax. Drink some chamomile tea. I’ll be fine on my own and try to get this professor’s measure.”

  “Thanks.” Belinda sank her head tiredly in her hands, and Lia left to relieve Hayley from guard duty at her booth.

  As she picked up and began knitting on an afghan square, she hoped Belinda was being totally open with her. Lia didn’t believe for a minute that Belinda had murdered Darren, but she also knew that for an outspoken woman, her friend could be very good at holding her cards close to her chest. Unfortunately, this was not the time to do that.

  Chapter 9

  Lia drove to the library, a charming building that had been somebody’s grand home a century or so ago, with a columned entryway and a warren of interior rooms, one of which was used for public meetings. Hayley had begged off, wanting to do a little research on basketmaking. She hadn’t said much yet about her reasons for wanting to leave her job, but Lia hoped to gradually nudge her in that direction.

  Lia parked in the side lot among a dozen or so vehicles and headed inside, picking up the pleasingly familiar scents of books and floor polish. An added aroma of coffee led her to the meeting room at the back. As she entered, she saw a scattering of people of all ages, some obviously couples, and she felt a twinge, reminded of the many times Tom had accompanied her to events of this sort and how she had taken his
comfortable presence for granted. She saw an empty seat beside another lone woman and headed toward it, pleasantly surprised, as she closed in, to recognize her neighbor Sharon Kuhn.

  “If I’d known, I would have given you a ride,” Lia said, plopping down next to her.

  “Lia!” Sharon looked up from her cell phone and shook her head, smiling. “I decided at the last minute. If I’d had my wits about me, I would have checked with you.”

  Sharon and her husband, Jack, had been good neighbors from the day Lia moved in, approximately her age and sharing several interests. Sharon, petite and with no-nonsense short-cropped hair, was a bundle of energy and a font of highly useful information for a newcomer, things like the best local dentist or hairdresser. Jack had willingly stepped in when Lia’s electronics needed setting up, something Tom had always handled before.

  “Jack didn’t come?” Lia asked, glancing back in case he was wandering about.

  “He’s dealing with a cold. Thought it best not to spread it around.”

  “Tell him I appreciate that and hope he feels better soon.”

  “Will do. So, this must be your first Martin Brewer lecture.”

  “It is. But not yours?”

  “Not at all. I try to make as many as I can. He’s good, and I like learning about our area’s history.”

  “Are his topics always about Crandalsburg?”

  “Mostly, and it’s always something new.”

  “He sounds passionate about his subject.”

  “And about historic preservation.”

  “Oh?

  “Ah, there he is.” Sharon pointed out a tall man in a sports jacket, open shirt, and slacks walking in with a woman whom Lia recognized as one of the librarians. His neatly trimmed white goatee and wire-rimmed glasses gave the sixtyish man a scholarly look. His lecture still needed to confirm that for Lia, but Sharon was obviously convinced, and her opinions had so far not steered Lia wrong.

  The smiling librarian introduced Brewer, beginning with, “a man who needs no introduction in our community,” and continuing with a list of his credits, which included published books on Pennsylvania history and a past professorship at Penn State. Lia was properly impressed.

  Brewer rocked back and forth on his heels as the librarian went on, obviously eager to take over, and he did so with vigor once the welcoming patter of applause died down.

  “Thank you, Miss Morgan; thank you, all. It’s good to see many of you here again. Let’s get right down to business: the 1863 Battle of Crandalsburg. I’ll go through it along with several photos from the time that should help. Please hold your questions until the end. Now then . . .”

  Brewer launched into his topic with the enthusiastic energy of a man who had much to say with a limited time to get it all out, clicking through the PowerPoint slides. The photos were of the town, taken before and after 1863, the later ones showing buildings and houses that had been burned by Confederate troops during the Gettysburg campaign. Then there were posed photos of the generals involved and a few of the citizens of the time. It was all very interesting to Lia, who had thought herself reasonably well informed about the Civil War but had never known about this particular event.

  She was forming a highly positive opinion of Martin Brewer, but it was dampened when she saw him shoot a glare at a white-haired woman sitting up front. The woman had pulled out her knitting to work on during his talk. She’d done it discreetly and worked her circular needles quietly as she stitched, but Brewer clearly disliked it. Perhaps he thought she should be taking notes of his every golden word instead of knitting? But that was her choice, wasn’t it? And it was one of which Lia totally approved. She herself often found it easier to concentrate on a discussion while knitting at the same time. But Brewer obviously wasn’t a knitter.

  When he wrapped up his talk, a few hands shot up for questions, which he answered fully. After the questions petered out, Miss Morgan stepped forward to thank him and invited everyone to visit the refreshments table at the back.

  “Go ahead,” Sharon said to Lia. “I just got a text from Jack that I’ll answer first.”

  So Lia headed back, keeping an eye on Martin Brewer as he spoke with an attendee while packing up his equipment. She picked up a paper cup of what looked like cherry-flavored punch, along with an oatmeal cookie, then glanced around. The knitting lady stood nearby, recognizable by her cloud of white hair and the tote at her feet that had knitting needles poking out. Lia went to join her.

  “What are you working on?” she asked, nodding at the tote, which brought a smile.

  “A shawl for a friend of mine,” the woman said in a soft enough voice that Lia needed to lean closer to hear her. “It’s my third one for her. They wear out or get lost because she takes them with her everywhere, especially during warm weather. She likes to have something to slip on indoors. So many places set their air-conditioning to freeze.”

  Lia nodded knowingly, having shivered at many a restaurant under a stream of icy air. “I should do that.” She sipped at her punch, which was indeed cherry. “Professor Brewer didn’t seem to approve of your knitting.”

  The soft-spoken woman’s eyes twinkled saucily. “The professor forgets that he’s not teaching in his university classroom but in a public library. He doesn’t get to make the rules here. After the first time he gave me the evil eye, I’ve made a point of bringing my knitting every time and sitting up front.”

  Lia grinned. This soft-spoken lady wasn’t anyone’s doormat.

  “He does know his stuff, though,” the woman added. “I’ll give him that.”

  “Yes, there was quite a lot of—” Lia stopped when her companion suddenly put a hand on her arm.

  “Excuse me, dear, I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid there’s a lady I’ve just now spotted who I urgently need to speak to. Melanie!” she called, raising her voice slightly. “Hold up a minute.” She smiled apologetically at Lia and picked up her tote.

  Lia nodded genially and stepped out of the way. As she did, she saw that Brewer had finished his packing and come over to the refreshments table. Lia took a bite of her cookie and moved closer, overhearing him receive compliments on the evening’s talk from several people. One man asked about particular buildings in Crandalsburg and if they had been built after the Civil War or had survived the 1863 attack.

  Lia was impressed to hear Brewer rattle off a list of structures that had been constructed post 1863, those that had been partially destroyed during the attack and rebuilt, and the few that had managed to survive unscathed. Assuming it was all correct, which Lia didn’t doubt, the man had a phenomenal memory for historical details.

  “What about the Schumacher barn?” the man asked, which perked up Lia’s ears. “Was it around at that time?”

  Brewer paused, and a woman who’d been listening inserted herself into the discussion. “Oh, that’s where the murder happened!”

  “Was it?” Brewer asked. He turned to study the library’s selection of cookies.

  “Yes, it was.” The sharp-faced woman leaned forward to continue her point. “It definitely was. It’s where they hold those craft fairs every weekend. A murder there, of all places! Who knows what could happen next? It’s shocking that—”

  Brewer turned back and found himself blocked in. He looked annoyed and began to squeeze his way out. “I’m afraid I haven’t kept up with . . . Excuse me, I need to . . .” He pushed past the original two and others who looked ready to speak to him, brushing them off and only pausing for a brief word with Miss Morgan, the librarian. He then snatched up his bag and disappeared out a side door.

  Lia stared after him. For a man who’d shown a remarkable retention of history-related details, he’d just claimed surprising ignorance of a subject that had been all over the news. In addition, he’d passed up a chance to expound on the Schumacher barn and its historical use as a military hospital.


  Interesting.

  Chapter 10

  Sharon came up to Lia as she stood mulling over Professor Brewer’s sudden departure. “Oh, he’s gone!” she said, following Lia’s gaze to the meeting room’s side door. “Shoot! I wanted to ask him something.”

  “For a while there, he seemed ready to hang around. Then he suddenly skittered off. Does he often do that?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Sharon thought a moment. “Actually, probably never,” she added with a grin. “What did you do to scare him, Lia?”

  Lia smiled. “Not a thing. But the subject of the murder at the craft barn seemed to—”

  “I thought I saw you here.” Maggie Wood, the craft fair’s quilting vendor, engulfed Lia in a hug.

  Surprised but delighted to see the tall, heavyset older woman, whose mass of unnaturally bright red hair seemed a perfect fit to her ebullient personality, Lia explained to Sharon, “Maggie and I often gaze at each other across the barn at the craft fair but don’t get that much of a chance to actually talk to each other.”

  “Oh, I know you avoid me like the plague, you sly thing, don’t give me that.” Maggie jabbed Lia lightly with an elbow and said to Sharon, “She knows once she gets within three feet of me I’ll start talking and never let her go.”

  Lia laughed. “Not at all.”

  “Then why didn’t you bring that pretty daughter of yours around to say hello today?”

  “I should have,” Lia acknowledged, “and I will next time, promise. We made it halfway around the barn but kind of hit a wall with Joan Fowler.”

  “Ah yes, Joan.”

  “Is she the artist?” Sharon asked.

  “She is,” Maggie said. “And an excellent one. But she had her back up today. You don’t want to get too close to Joan when that happens. Poor Mark.”

  “Mark Simmons has a photography booth next to Joan,” Lia told Sharon.

  “What was Joan upset about?” Sharon asked.

  “The low turnout today. All the publicity about the murder probably scared people away. But Joan first blamed it on Belinda’s bad management of the craft fair, which was totally unjustified. Belinda has always done a great job. Then Joan claimed the murder wouldn’t have happened at all if Belinda hadn’t married and divorced Darren Peebles in the first place.”