Macramé Murder

by Mollie Cox Bryan

  Shards of fear and disgust moved through her. Were they killing animals to make crafts? She’d have to find out, wouldn’t she? She absolutely could not profile a person on her blog who was killing animals.

  Rue opened the door. “Cora!” she said. “Pleased to see you again.” Her smile was broad across her face and welcoming. A confident charm oozed from her.

  Her skin was a light mocha and was radiant. Her eyes were dark and almond shaped. She was a large woman who moved with grace and assurance. She wore blue jeans and a light blue peasant shirt. Beads hung around her neck and earrings that matched dropped from her ears.

  “Please come in,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Cora replied. “This is my colleague, Jane Starr,” Cora said after they were situated.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Rue said. “Can I bring you iced tea or something?”

  “No, please,” Cora said. “We want to hear about your chimes and take some photos. How does that sound?”

  Rue’s eyebrows lifted. “Honestly? It sounds like heaven.”

  Chapter 40

  “First, let me say how sorry I am for your loss,” Cora said.

  “Thank you,” Rue said. “She was a wonderful woman who would have made an excellent daughter-in-law.”

  “How is your son?” Jane asked.

  “He’s not handling things well at all. But what can you expect? It’s an awful thing,” she said. She frowned and folded her hands on her lap.

  “Let’s change the subject,” Cora said. “Let’s talk about the spirit chimes.”

  Rue brightened. “Well, I grew up making them,” she said. “I’m one of the few Sea Glass Island natives who are actually from here. There’s fewer and fewer of us remaining.”

  “Any idea how it began? Who started it?”

  She shook her head. “No. Sea folk are superstitious,” she said. “Hence the tales you sometimes hear. Fishermen and their wives founded this island. Generations of fishing, until the tides shifted, I suppose. But in any case, the spirit chimes are supposed to keep the bad spirits away and invite good spirits to stay around. It’s that simple.”

  “I wouldn’t want any spirits around,” Jane said.

  Rue leaned in to her. “Oh, my dear, they are everywhere. And you . . . you have such goodness around you.”

  Cora shivered slightly and cleared her throat. “Let’s get back to the chimes, shall we?”

  “Yes, of course,” Rue said. “I try to use found items. Sea glass. Seashell. Bits and pieces of driftwood. Feathers. Bones that I find.”

  Whew, Cora thought.

  “But, a few years ago I experimented using semiprecious stones, like amethyst, moonstones, and so on. People seem to like them,” she said.

  “Sometimes these stones have a folklore behind them,” Jane said. Cora could have kicked her. She didn’t want the conversation to veer in that direction at all. “Are you creating them with that in mind?”

  “Oh, yes,” Rue said. “I only use gems that attract the light.”

  “I wonder why you’re not teaching at the retreat this week,” Cora said. “You are gifted. Your chimes are an art.”

  Rue flushed. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve been asked a few times, but I have other obligations.”

  “Oh?” Cora said.

  “Yes, well, I try not to charge too much for my chimes. Only what I need. It’s a part of my belief system, you see. I have plenty,” she said, and gestured with her hand.

  It was true, mused Cora. The smallish house, simply decorated, held an aura of plenty. “We don’t need much in this world. We’re only passing through,” she said.

  “What does that have to do with the retreat?” Jane asked.

  “They charge too much,” Rue said. “For everything. And I can’t be a part of it.”

  “How well do you know Mathilde and, what’s his name . . . Hank?” Cora said.

  She grunted and said, “Too well.”

  Well, that answers one question, Cora thought.

  “I’d like to take you into my little studio,” Rue said. “I’ve got a couple pieces in progress.”

  “Oh, yes, I’d love to see your studio,” Cora said.

  They followed her into the small but tidy room, where there was a long table filled with small boxes brimming with stones, beads, glass, and so on. A window allowed plenty of light into the room. Several chimes were in front of it and the light played against the opposite wall—reflections of gold, red, sea-green, and orange.

  “Those are my love chimes,” Rue said, laughing. She placed her hands on the table. Cora snapped photos.

  “I’ve been working with copper wire now for some time. I like it,” Rue said.

  A doorbell interrupted Rue. “Excuse me,” she said, and left the room.

  “Well, we’re aware she knows Hank,” Jane said.

  “And we understand how she feels about the craft retreat. That’s all we know,” Cora said. “But this is going to make a great story for the blog.”

  “Agreed,” Jane said. “But don’t you think we need to wrap it up soon? We’ve gotten what we came for.”

  Cora nodded. “I suppose. It’s so lovely here. So warm and welcoming. I kind of hate to leave.”

  She heard an odd noise out in the living room—was Rue okay? It was a crashing noise, Cora realized. She and Jane ran out into the living room to find Rue lying on the floor and a man standing over her. Cora recognized him.

  “Step away from her,” Cora said.

  “Now hold on,” he said. “I’m a police officer. I’m trying to help.”

  Cora’s attention focused on Rue, who seemed faint. But she nodded. “I’m okay, sweetie.”

  The officer helped her to her feet.

  “I’m sorry,” Rue said to them, and turned back to the police officer. “Adrian Brisbane is not your man.”

  Cora’s heart lurched in her chest. “What?”

  “I sometimes consult with the local police. I’m a psychic,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Brisbane is the only one we have anything on,” the officer said.

  “Keep digging,” she said. “As I told you, I keep seeing a large woman.”

  Mathilde was a large, top heavy woman with big bones. Tall. Heavy.

  Maybe they were all barking up the wrong tree. The police. Cora. Cashel. Everybody. Maybe Mathilde was the killer.

  Cora swallowed. “I’m sorry. We need to head back to the retreat. I’ll be in touch about the post.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Rue said.

  “I’d love to. I like it here. It’s so comforting. But I need to head back to the retreat, unfortunately,” Cora said. So ironic. This place felt more like a retreat than the retreat.

  Chapter 41

  The ride back to the resort felt longer than ever and the sound of the tires, along with the movement of the car, lulled Cora into almost falling asleep.

  “It’s late,” Cora said, when they entered the resort. “I’m exhausted and going to bed.”

  “Okay,” Jane said. “I’m going to have a drink.”

  Cora lifted her eyebrows. “Don’t be too late. Your class is early.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Jane said, and smiled. “I’m so keyed up. A glass of wine might do the trick. Join me?”

  Jane understood Cora’s weakness was wine. Well, one of her many, many weaknesses.

  “Okay,” Cora said. “One drink.”

  They both were surprised to see Hank still sitting at the bar. Had he been here all this time?

  The two of them waved to him and sat in a booth. Jane recognized a few of the craft retreaters hanging around in clusters. A group laughed over in the corner. It was much too dark to see them, as they were too distant. A pianist played in the other corner. Something soft and bluesy.

  “We’d like some wine,” Jane said to the server as she came up to their table.

  “Here’s our list,” she said, and handed them a small menu.

&n
bsp; “We’ll take the Moscato,” Jane said.

  “Sounds good,” she said.

  Cora was wilting. She was quiet and her eyelids were heavy. One glass of wine and she’d be ready for bed.

  “So what do you think of Rue?” Jane asked.

  “I liked her,” Cora said.

  “That’s not what I asked. What about all that psychic business?”

  “Well, you know how I feel about all that. Most of the time it’s nonsense.”

  “Most of the time?”

  “I’ve met a few real psychics,” Cora said. “Most of them keep to themselves.”

  “Yes, but she’s trying to help. She told the officer that Adrian wasn’t their guy. That it was a large woman,” Jane said.

  “I thought about that,” Cora said.

  “Mathilde,” Jane said. The server came up and sat the glasses of wine on the small table. “Thank you,” Jane said.

  “Or Rue is trying to point us in another direction to sidetrack us,” Cora said. She sighed. “All I understand is Adrian didn’t do it.”

  “You two haven’t . . .”

  “Absolutely not,” Cora said. “When has there been time? Besides we are—”

  “Taking your time,” Jane said, and rolled her eyes. She took a sip of the wine. “Don’t look now. But you-know-who is heading our way.”

  “Hey, ladies,” Hank said as he sidled up to the table.

  “Hi, Hank. I’m surprised to see you here,” Jane said.

  “Why’s that?” Hank said.

  “Because you were fired or quit or whatever,” Jane said.

  “True, but I live here,” he said. “This is my home.”

  He slurred his words. He was a man who’d been drinking most of the evening. He was on the edge of being drunk. Jane thought she might take advantage of that.

  “Please sit down with us,” Jane said. “You live here at the resort?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Part of my employment package, you see. Of course, most of the time . . . I didn’t stay in my place. I stayed with . . . Mathilde. But that’s over. Way over.”

  “You mean . . . ?” Cora leaned across the table. “You mean you were more than her assistant?”

  He nodded. “I never should have let it happen.”

  Not gay then.

  Jane took a drink of her wine. Sweet. Delicious. Sort of like the news just now delivered. If Mathilde and Hank were together, it added a whole new layer of possibilities.

  “But I did. We did. And now what a mess,” he said.

  “This was all over one disagreement?” Cora said. “Maybe it’s not over.” Cora was now her counselor self. Jane recognized it.

  “Oh, it was more than that, actually,” he said. “We’d been spatting about the tiara and then the murders happened and it became too intense. I’m not as tough as she is. I suppose that’s why she’s so successful.”

  “Spatting about the tiara?” Jane said, grinning. She noted Cora had brightened a bit since Hank sat down.

  “Oh yes,” he said, slurring his S’s. “That damned tiara. Designed for Marcy. Worth a mint.”

  “What was there to fight about?” Cora said.

  “Well, I gave it to Marcy,” he said. “Mathilde was furious. I thought because Marcy was famous in some circles and well connected, seeing it on her head would elevate the design part of the business.”

  “And Mathilde wanted to charge her,” Jane said.

  He nodded. “But I was in charge of marketing and PR and I thought it was my decision to make. Evidently not,” he said.

  Jane didn’t know how she felt about that. She understood what he was saying—giving away items sometimes had far-reaching effects that you couldn’t put a price tag on. But as an artist herself, Jane needed the money for her own products she had put time, energy, and money into.

  “How entangled are you with her?” Cora asked. “Did you sign a contract?”

  “I’ll receive a severance package. Plus, I imagine I’ll take over the Drunken Mermaid,” he said. “She has hardly anything to do with that, as it is. But we’re both owners.”

  Jane’s eyes met Cora’s.

  “We’ve heard there’s a lot that goes on there,” Jane said.

  “What have you heard?” he asked.

  The server came up to the table. “Can I offer anybody another drink?”

  They all shook their heads no.

  When she left, Jane leaned in closer to him. “Drugs. That kind of thing.”

  His face reddened. “Well, you have that in any beach bar. But we’ve tried to keep it at bay.”

  “Our friend Cashel was drugged there earlier today,” Cora piped up. “What do you know about that?”

  He coughed on his drink. “What? You must be mistaken.” He stammered and hit his chest.

  “I don’t think so,” Jane said. “He was at the hospital most of the day.”

  “Must be some kind of mistake,” he said, again.

  “It’s not a mistake, Hank. Cashel was drugged at the Drunken Mermaid today, after researching the Marcy Grimm case for his client, my boyfriend Adrian Brisbane,” Cora said.

  Hank squirmed in his seat. “Well, obviously, I need to check into this. The police haven’t come to me yet. Maybe they’ve contacted Mathilde.”

  “We saw you there earlier,” Jane said.

  “And? I don’t like what you’re implying, Jane,” he said. He stood up. “And if I were you—both of you—I’d mind my own business.”

  Chapter 42

  That night Cora dreamed of her cat Luna, spirit chimes, and mermaids. She awoke early with mermaids on the brain. She made herself coffee and found her way to her laptop, where she prepared to write a blog post about spirit chimes. She downloaded the photos she’d snapped of Rue and her craft room. The photos were gorgeous and Cora thought that the blog post would be more of a photo essay.

  Rue was a gorgeous, formidable woman and her craft suited her. Cora looked over photos of boxes of colorful sea glass, wires, threads, and so on, with Rue’s long, delicate fingers resting near them or holding them. A cluster of sea glass and beads twisted into a macramé necklace hung from a shell behind Rue in one photo. She hadn’t noticed it before. Cora zoomed in to it—it resembled a necklace designed by Zooey.

  Nothing odd about that, was there? Rue was a creative, stylish woman and it wasn’t a long stretch of the imagination to think she owned some of Zooey’s macramé jewelry. She choked back the initial sense of dread she felt when she spotted it. Of course she felt dread. Poor Zooey, or Susan, or whoever she was, she was now dead, her body placed in a macramé bag in a last twist of a sick gesture, as if the killer was trying to be ironic.

  Zooey, the gifted macramé artist, killed and shoved into a macramé bag. Who could have done such a thing? Who would want to make such a statement? True, Zooey was taken with herself and Cora was not overly fond of the woman, but how could she have made such a vicious enemy? Why? Because she’d changed her name and found success—a rare success among crafters? Had she gotten above herself? Was someone from her past pissed enough and jealous enough to kill her?

  A pang of sadness tore through Cora. She herself was certain people from her past despised her for her success. But did anybody hate her enough to kill her? She hoped not. She hoped that people could be happy for her success—but she understood that wasn’t always the case.

  She mulled over Zooey. It wasn’t as if she were a movie star who everybody recognized when she went out on the streets. No, she was only easily recognized among crafters. So if the killer was not someone from her past, maybe he or she was a jealous, vindictive person—possibly another macramé artist. Several macramé artists were at the retreat. Several who had been taking her class.

  Cora tried to focus on writing her blog post and Rue’s story—how she grew up making the spirit chimes, how she used to sit with her mother and aunts as they made the chimes, how it became such a part of her culture, and how she moved the craft into something more: art. C
ora loved stories like this. Crafting was about more than making pretty and/or useful things. It could be about maintaining connections with your culture, as Rue was doing.

  Cora was certain Rue could have moved out of her tiny swamp home, but she chose not to. She was one of the people their guide was referencing when he said, “Some of the people have more money than God, but they choose to live here.”

  Home was home and sometimes money wasn’t enough to tear a person away from home.

  Images of Kildare House played in Cora’s mind. The stained glass window of Brigid, the Celtic goddess of crafts and poetry. Her window seat in her attic apartment. Jane’s darling carriage house. The backyard flower garden. Ruby’s herb garden. A sinking feeling came over Cora. Was she homesick?

  She zoomed in on the macramé necklace in the photo. She was still uncertain if it was one of Zooey’s pieces. But it was intricate enough to be one of hers. Macramé was an interesting craft, Cora mused. It was one in which the different knots went through historic phases. In the seventies, excessive knotting was popular. Now, macramé usually was a simplified, streamlined craft—of course depending on the artist. Some of the knots could be quite intricate. She wondered if that was always the case.

  It was certainly going through a phase of popularity again—but a woman like Zooey must have been doing it since she was a child. Wait. Cora wondered if she knew Rue as well. She must—it was such a small community. So that was one thing both Marcy and Zooey had in common besides being cousins: knowing Rue.

  Could Rue possibly have something to do with the killing of these two young women?

  A chill moved up Cora’s spine. Shame crept along with the fear. Of course Rue would not kill anybody. What a horrible, awful thought that was! But Cora was often surprised about who actually did commit murder. It could be any of them: Rue, Mathilde, Hank. She couldn’t say which. But Adrian was innocent. She felt it deep down in her bones.