by Nancy Warren
I said, somewhat snappishly, “Well, we haven’t all had as much time to practice as other people.”
Like hundreds of years of practice. Naturally, we couldn’t debate this particular topic in front of Alice and Charlie, so he merely said, “You know what they say, Lucy, ten thousand hours of practice should give you mastery in most things.”
The thought of spending ten thousand hours knitting made my eye twitch. I preferred Teddy Lamont’s way.
Alice asked, “How are the other class members taking the news of the murder?”
“Surprisingly well. It was so nice of you to let us use Frogg’s Books today. We all sat around in shock, and then of course, the police were there interviewing all of the cast and crew one at a time. Obviously, everyone was shocked, but no one really liked Enid Selfe, so it wasn’t as sad as it might have been. I think, deep down, we’re all secretly relieved that the show can go on without her.”
Charlie seemed quite surprised. “They’re going ahead? That’s rather cold-hearted, isn’t it?”
I shrugged. “You know what they say. The show must go on. Especially when Teddy Lamont has a new book to promote and the production company has already sunk a lot of money into making this show. I suppose, so long as no one knows the details, the television viewing public won’t be any the wiser.” Charlie was right, though. We were practically going to be knitting over that woman’s dead body. Or at least over the spot where she’d died.
Alice glared at Charlie. “It will be good for you to have the shop full of people and life again, Lucy.”
“Yes.” I was going to have to do something about a new display on the wall. I didn’t think I could stand to look at those antique knitting needles anymore, especially now that there was a gaping hole in the arrangement.
Chapter 14
Charlie sipped champagne, but he looked longingly at his beer. He said, “I was surprised at how different knitters are. I should be used to it by now, I suppose. Alice and you and Violet aren’t exactly the typical grandmotherly knitters. Your Gran was that, of course. But the people they chose for the show were all ages. That rugged-looking Norwegian bloke surprised me the most. He looked as though he ought to be working in a butcher shop or driving massive machinery, not sitting knitting socks.”
I smiled at his description of Gunnar. “I’m sure that’s why the producers chose him.” I remembered his short bio without any trouble. “And you’re not far off. Gunnar used to work on oil rigs in the North Sea. According to his bio, he took up knitting to help him quit smoking. It’s fun to watch him knit with those big work-roughened hands. And his work is excellent.” I pictured him knitting away and then had to chuckle. “He’s a bit of a perfectionist though. And every time he makes a mistake, he says lort. And then he apologizes. Says it means ‘excrement.’”
Charlie looked at me in surprise. “Don’t you mean dritt?”
“I don’t think so.” The words didn’t even sound similar.
Charlie shrugged. “That’s odd. Lort is Danish for, um, excrement. I know because I used to have a Danish girlfriend. Like your friend Gunnar, although her English was excellent, she cursed in Danish. Dritt is the Norwegian term.”
Alice looked at him in a slightly offended way. “And did you learn that from your Norwegian girlfriend?”
When Charlie turned on his charming grin, he could take your breath away. “You weren’t my first, darling Alice. But I promise you’ll be my last.”
Then he got up and went over to kiss his fiancée while I puzzled over what he’d said.
“That’s odd, isn’t it? That Gunnar would curse in Danish?”
Rafe said, “One tends to curse in one’s native language.”
Since somebody involved with the production was a murderer, anything out of the ordinary was worth noting. “You mean Gunnar might not be Norwegian? Who lies about being Norwegian?”
“I have no idea. Gunnar’s certainly a Norwegian name.”
But now that we were doubting Gunnar, I remembered something else. “When Annabel mentioned that she had hiked Preikestolen, in Norway, I swear Gunnar didn’t know what she was talking about. And then he covered it up by saying he wasn’t a hiker. It just seemed odd, that’s all.”
Charlie was a man who lived more in books than anywhere, but he also had a practical streak. “He didn’t know Preikestolen? Lucy, I think you should tell the police about Gunnar.”
“I suppose you’re right. I just hate feeling like I’m tattling on people in school. Getting them in trouble.”
“Well, if you can stop a murderer, it’s probably worth being a bit of a telltale.”
“Maybe he did lie about being Norwegian, but why on earth would an oil rig worker from Norway, or possibly Denmark, kill Enid Selfe?”
“That’s a question for the police,” Charlie said.
“But any time someone is murdered in my shop, I also think it’s a question for me.” Besides, four brains were better than one. “You can’t tell anyone else, but I want you to know exactly how she died.” They glanced at each other and both leaned forward. I imagined they’d been very curious about the details and too polite to pry.
Charlie said, “Of course, we’ll be discreet.”
I told them how I’d gone downstairs this morning and found her with the knitting needles stabbed into her chest.
“Knitters really are a tougher bunch than I’d imagined. And this Gunnar character would have the brute force to kill a woman with steel knitting needles.”
“But that’s not what killed her.” I swallowed and, watching me, Rafe took over the narration.
“She was killed by a blow to the head. The back of her skull was bashed in.”
Alice went a bit green and sipped more champagne, but Charlie squinted as though picturing the scene. “With the right weapon, anyone of reasonable strength could kill her or at least knock her senseless and then finish the job.”
“Exactly,” Rafe said.
“But why do it in my shop? That makes it feel somehow personal. The killer had to arrange to meet her there. It wasn’t like they grabbed her on the street or in her house. This was premeditated, and they premeditated on Cardinal Woolsey’s.”
Rafe pushed his champagne aside and went back to his red wine. Seeing this, Charlie did the same and reached for his beer. Alice and I were most happy with our champagne, and both of us held out our glasses for a refill when William came out with hors d’oeuvres.
He said, “I’ve been experimenting with a few things that I thought might be nice for your wedding. I’ve got a whole list of ideas that we can go over, Alice, when it’s convenient.”
Alice nearly choked on her champagne. “William, you don’t have to cater our wedding. I’m hiring caterers.”
William shook his head. “I’ve discussed it with Rafe. It’s part of our wedding gift to you, if you’ll accept it. Of course, I quite understand if you’d rather have another caterer. But I don’t get much chance to use my talents. I’d be very grateful for the opportunity.”
Poor man, he really looked like he wanted to do this. Alice smiled at him in gratitude. “Thank you, William. I have to admit it seems such a daunting task to find the right caterer. You’d be perfect.”
William also looked pleased. “Wait until you’ve eaten, then you can decide.”
I looked at what was on that tray and thought that if I ever got married, William was going to be my go-to caterer. He offered the tray around, starting with Alice. “These are traditional potato latkes with smoked salmon. The Italian mayonnaise is my own recipe. Beside that are tiny Yorkshire puddings with rare roast beef. There’s a selection of fresh shellfish, each with its own sauce. The crepes are vegan, as are the gazpacho and chilled pea soups.” The soups were in shot glasses, and his presentation was gorgeous. There were tiny shepherd’s pies, a personal favorite of mine, and mini savory scones. He brought out a plate of cheeses, charcuterie and breads to round it all out.
After we’d happily pigged
out, Alice formally accepted his and Rafe’s generous offer.
“Good. That’s settled then. I’ve got lots more ideas and recipes. We can get together when you’re ready and make up a proper menu.”
While we nibbled on wedding delicacies, Rafe said, “I’ve asked Theodore to drop by later.”
Charlie glanced up. “Theodore the scenery painter?” Of course, that’s how he’d know Theodore. The multitalented vampire helped paint sets when the Cardinal College drama department put on its theatrical performances. But Theodore was also a private investigator. In life, he’d been a policeman, long before the invention of computers, forensics, or CSI. He was old-school, and he was excellent at what he did.
If he hadn’t been sleeping all day, he might even have some new information for us.
It was a lovely evening. When William brought out tiny cupcakes with C and A piped on them in icing, Charlie took one and, before he bit into it, said, “We’ve determined that Gunnar might not be quite the man he’d have us believe. Tell us about the rest of the knitters. Alice and I met them all, the night before that woman was murdered, so perhaps we saw something or we’ll remember something.”
I glanced at Rafe, who nodded. Nyx came padding up from the garden, looking pleased with herself. She sniffed all the corners of the terrace, and woe betide any mice who might be hiding there, but she appeared satisfied that we were in a mouse-free zone. With the satisfied yawn of a cat who’s been busy on secret feline business, she jumped up into my lap, circled a few times and settled herself for sleep. I managed to reach into my bag without disturbing Nyx and pulled out the sheet of bios. I had them nearly memorized by now, but I didn’t want to overlook the tiniest fact. I recapped what we knew of Enid and Ryan.
“Vinod is next on the list.”
Alice said, “I spoke to him at the book signing. Vinod seemed very nice. I can’t imagine he has anything to do with all of this.”
“You wouldn’t think so. I would say he had the least to do with Enid. He’s mostly kept to himself.”
“What do we know about him?” Charlie was obviously becoming interested in this amateur sleuthing business. I suspected in his wide range of reading, he’d consumed many a murder mystery. As though he’d read my mind, he chuckled. “Well, it’s rather like one of those classic mysteries, isn’t it? Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham, or even our old friend Agatha Christie. The room of suspects. All seemingly unconnected, but the deeper you dig, the more connections exist. Rather like underground roots that aren’t apparent from the surface, not until you get your shovel and do some dirty digging.”
He was right, of course. What did I know about Vinod? I thought back on our conversations and read over the brief bio. “He was born in India, but he lives near Birmingham now. He’s a radiologist.”
“Well, somebody who knows about the human body would certainly know where to maneuver a couple of needles into a person’s heart.”
It was a good point. It couldn’t be easy to bypass the ribs. Perhaps a medical background would’ve helped. “But again, where’s the connection? Was Enid Selfe hitting on him?” I asked. I’d definitely noticed her going after Rafe, but strangely, other than that, I hadn’t kept up with her movements.
Alice said, “I don’t think so. He seems like a devoted family man. He’s terribly proud of his son, his eldest. The boy’s seventeen and has been accepted into medical school here in Oxford.”
Rafe looked to me. “Didn’t you say earlier that Enid Selfe was hoping one of her daughters would go to Oxford?”
“Yes, but they live in Stow-on-the-Wold. How would they know someone from Birmingham?”
Rafe pulled out the printout of the bios and said, “Not Birmingham. It says on the bio that he lives ‘near Birmingham.’”
“Oh my gosh, you’re right.” I couldn’t believe I’d been so sloppy. “He mentioned the name of the town. I just kept reading ‘near Birmingham,’ and that’s what got stuck in my head.” I glanced around. “I’m not from here. What towns and villages are near Birmingham?”
They all looked at each other. Alice asked, “Leamington Spa? Coventry?”
“No.”
Charlie said, “Castle Bromwich?”
“Yes.” I snapped my fingers, making Nyx start. “That one. How did I not remember that? It had the word castle in it.”
Charlie asked, “Really? I had quite a long chat with a woman named Helen. She told me she taught science for some years in a posh school in Castle Bromwich.”
Wow, those roots were already being uncovered, just with a casual chat over a glass of champagne and canapés. And cupcakes. I leaned forward and chose one. “In the same way these letters are piped together so they connect, maybe Helen’s connected to Vinod? Maybe she taught his son?” Not that I had any idea what that had to do with Enid Selfe, but it was a connection.
However, Charlie was already shaking his head. “Most unlikely. She taught at Castle Bromwich Ladies’ College.”
“No boys?”
“No boys.”
“Still, it’s possible they know each other somehow. She taught in the same place where Vinod lives. And Castle Bromwich can’t be a big city.”
“Undeniable. It’s on the outskirts of Birmingham, I think. But what’s the connection with Enid Selfe?”
Alice reached for a second cupcake, and I thought if William was angling for the wedding cake as well, he was hired. “I went to a girls’ boarding school. We often had events with a similar school for boys.”
She had all our attention now. She blushed slightly. “Well, isn’t it possible that if Vinod’s son is going to Oxford that he went to a fancy boys’ school? And maybe through the schools having shared events, Vinod met Helen.”
“Good thinking, Alice,” Charlie said. She went quite pink with pleasure at the compliment. Then he looked at me. “And if that’s true, it’s very odd that they haven’t mentioned that they know each other. Still, I suppose that’s a bit weak to pass on to the police, isn’t it?”
“It is. But maybe I can find out more the next time the group gets together. There’s a lot of time to chat when you’re knitting. I’ll simply ask some innocent questions and see what I can find out.”
“Excellent idea, Lucy.”
“Be careful,” Rafe said. “Enid Selfe didn’t plunge those needles into her own heart.”
Chapter 15
The amateur sleuthing didn’t seem so much fun after Rafe’s buzzkill of a comment. After an awkward silence, Alice changed the subject. No doubt handling difficult social situations was a subject they taught at places with names like Castle Bromwich Ladies’ College. “I can picture our friends and families mingling in this beautiful garden, waiters circling with plates of food and drinks.” She glanced at me. “It’s going to be magical.”
“It will be,” I promised. I knew about magical, and I was determined that I would practice up some spells in case any extra magic was needed. Charlie and Alice deserved an enchanted wedding.
When William came out to offer coffee, we three mortals heaped compliments on him for the amazing delicacies he’d created. The poor man drank in our praise the way a parched and drooping plant drinks water.
The engaged couple didn’t stay too long after dinner. After they’d left I said, “You need to give William more humans to cook for. It makes him so happy.”
Rafe raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps you should spend more time here.”
So not where I was going with that comment. Fortunately, I was saved from fumbling some sort of answer when Theodore wandered onto the terrace. He’d come round the side of the house, making no noise whatsoever. “Good evening, Lucy. Good evening, Rafe,” he said formally.
“Hi, Theodore,” I said. Rafe merely nodded at him.
“I’m very sorry about the death in your shop,” he said. He didn’t add the “again,” but it was implied.
“Thank you.”
“I’ve made some progress in looking into this case. Not much, but a
little.”
“You have? You’re amazing. That woman is barely cold.”
He cast his eyes to the ground, looking bashful. “I have a lot of time.”
Rafe said, “Were you able to discover anything useful?” That was the trouble with sleuthing. So much of it was finding and then eliminating false clues and dead ends. Frustrating work, but necessary.
“I don’t know,” he answered Rafe. “I’ve been looking into Enid Selfe’s husbands and, um, other significant relationships, as you asked me to.”
I’d been so focused on the knitting class and the production crew that I hadn’t really thought too much about people in the woman’s personal life. “You think it could’ve been one of the husbands?”
Rafe was leaning back on the parapet, his long fingers resting lightly on the stone. He had a way of looking relaxed and alert at the same time. “What you have to remember about murder, Lucy, is it’s rarely an act committed in the heat of the moment. Or even if it is, the seeds have usually been planted long before.”
I thought of hot, angry words and violent deeds soon regretted. But when I thought about it, I could see what he meant. “You’re saying that one of her husbands, perhaps, was betrayed by her and over the years has just grown more bitter?”
“It’s possible.” He glanced at Theodore. “But is it likely?”
Theodore carried a tablet computer with him, but he also had file folders containing notes written in pen. He opened a file folder and took out some notes, but he barely looked at them. “Enid Selfe was born Enid Williams, December 12, 1970. She was married three times. Her first husband, Timothy Fielding, was a junior clerk in a bank. They’d known each other in school, and when he returned from university, they married and had a daughter, Amelia, who is now seventeen years of age. They lived a fairly modest life in London. Mr. Fielding rose very slowly in the banking world.”
I made a rude noise. “She thought she’d married Richard Branson and found herself shackled to Mr. Bean?”