7 Madness in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  After a few more questions and more elaborate doodles, I took out my phone to call Jeanine. Most of Willie’s patrons this afternoon were older and I felt judged and embarrassed to use my cell phone in a restaurant, even though I was by myself and therefore not being rude to a companion. I held the phone on my lap while I entered Jeanine’s number and resolved to add texting to my phone plan as my whole family had been begging me to do. I finally saw the great value of texting: letting my thumbs do the work surreptitiously, while I could assume a meditative look, no phone blatantly attached to my ear to give me away. For now, I lifted the phone to my ear and gave anyone who was paying attention an apologetic look.

  “Mrs. Porter, what’s happening?” Jeanine asked. “It’s crazy here. Leo and Megan are back there arguing. Catherine is, like, gone, as you know. I’m the only one working and maybe I’m the only sane one here and that’s pretty depressing.”

  “Would you like some help?”

  “OMG, would I. It’s not fair to you, but really, I’m going nuts here. I can split my check with you.”

  “I’m just across the street.”

  “Okay, thanks a ton. See you in a few. I’ll prop the back door open.” Jeanine paused. “Oh, maybe not,” she said, probably remembering what had transpired the last time she propped the door open. “Just ring the buzzer, okay?”

  I downed the last bite of bagel and drank the last slurp of coffee, gathered my things, and headed for SuperKrafts. I wouldn’t dream of taking a penny from Jeanine’s paycheck, but I thought it might be nice to have a logo apron. I hoped I’d have a chance to spend as much time shopping in the store as I had preparing for its opening.

  * * *

  The imposing back door opened just as I was about to press the buzzer. The full bulk of Leo Murray stepped out and nearly knocked me over. My heavily laden purse fell to the ground with a clunk; I felt sorry for the ground.

  “Sorry,” Leo said, buttoning his suit jacket as if he were not about to walk out into one of the hottest days of the year. He continued on in a way that I associated with twelve-year-olds (not that Maddie would ever grow into that behavior). I made a wild guess that this would not be a good time to run after him and ask where he was during the Lincoln Point three-point-one.

  I straightened myself out, and grabbed the door before it closed and locked. While my eyes adjusted to the relative darkness inside the store another figure came toward me. Jeanine, looking more harried than a nineteen-year-old should.

  “See what I mean, Mrs. Porter?” Jeanine noted. “Leo storms out, leaving Megan practically in tears in the break room. Have you ever seen such madness? All I want to do is get the inventory on the shelves and have a few minutes with my boyfriend before we have to go to class tonight.”

  I snuck a look through the window into the meeting room and saw Megan with her arms forming a cushion on the table for her head. Except for Jeanine’s comment, I might have thought she was napping. Not a bad idea. I wouldn’t blame Megan for hoping her life at the moment was a bad dream. Her boss had been murdered; her colleague was in jail for the crime; her fate in her company was most likely up in the air.

  I gave Jeanine a bright smile; I needed to help her before she became the next one to give in to tears. I’d have been glad to talk to Megan also, but didn’t know her well enough to insert myself into her problems.

  Jeanine and I worked for about an hour, unloading pallets, opening cartons, discussing the best arrangement for the various yarns for knitting and crocheting. Not having kept up with stitchery lately, I was amazed at the new materials now available. Like the yarn with pom-poms woven into the skein approximately every two inches.

  “As you knit,” Jeanine explained, “the pom-poms fall into place.”

  I recalled the days when I had to form my own pom-poms, by pushing my needle six or seven times into the same stitch in an ever-tightening loop. Another skein that caught my eye was made of strands that were wide bands of lace, giving a cascade effect when worked into a scarf.

  “I can whip up a long, beautiful scarf in a couple of hours with this,” Jeanine said, expanding a length of the yarn. “And it looks like you worked a really complicated pattern.”

  “But the work has already been done for you at the factory,” I noted.

  Jeanine nodded. “Cool, huh?”

  We unloaded silk yarn, bamboo yarn, glittery yarn, textured yarn, and yarn so thick you could finger-knit. Now that so many options were available, maybe I’d pick up yarn crafts again. I smiled as I thought of the purists in my crafts group. The way they felt about kits for building dollhouses and furniture gave me a good idea of what serious knitters might think about the novelty yarns. I wondered if they might fall under the spell of the glorious new colors and decorative touches.

  Young women like Jeanine were always a pleasure to talk to, and for a while I put worry about Catherine and the whereabouts of Skip and Maddie out of my mind. I learned of Jeanine’s ambitious plans to transfer from community college to a state university and then on to graduate school.

  “I was going to major in psychology,” she said. “But I don’t know. What’s the point? Do we really know anything about human nature?” Fortunately, Jeanine didn’t pause long, and I didn’t have to answer, though I had little doubt what had prompted the heavy thoughts. “I keep thinking about Ms. Duncan. I can’t believe someone I’ve known for almost a year actually killed a person. Do you really think she could have done it, Mrs. Porter? Did she kill Mr. Palmer?”

  There was no way out of this one. We’d taken a brief break and were seated on two sturdy crates eating grapes from Jeanine’s lunch bag. Megan was still in the back room but was now working on her laptop. I thought of inviting her to join this conversation. She knew both Catherine and Craig better than either Jeanine or I did. I discarded the idea.

  “I know it’s hard to deal with, Jeanine. And we may never understand why people kill each other, after so many centuries of what we call civilization.” I took a breath, reminding myself that I didn’t need to be making speeches right now. “As far as what went on right here in this store on Saturday, I can’t bring myself to believe that Catherine, who was my student, is a murderer. Remember, we don’t have all the facts yet, so let’s just wait and see.”

  I couldn’t imagine a more pitiful performance, but I was as befuddled as Jeanine, leaning more toward acceptance than I’d let on to Jeanine, that the case was closed. And wasn’t that a good thing, no matter that I knew the accused? Wasn’t it time for me to go shopping with my sister-in-law and granddaughter for pretty shoes for all of us?

  “I’ve never known anyone who was murdered,” Jeanine said, possibly unaware of my comments, which wouldn’t have been a great loss. “My boyfriend and I were talking about it. It scares me that one of the people here could be a killer. Do you know that the other two girls who were hired were supposed to be here today? They called in sick, but I think they’re just too scared to work here. Do you think I should quit?”

  I asked myself, what would I have told Maddie? That the world was a mixed bag of good people and bad and that living scared wasn’t the best option? I said as much to Jeanine. “By all accounts, this wasn’t random. Someone wanted Craig Palmer dead and used the opportunity presented by the earthquake. No one broke in hoping to find a victim or wanting to steal a vase or some yarn. As soon as the police have analyzed the fingerprints and all the other evidence they’ve gathered”—the alleged evidence, I thought—“it will make some sense. Well, maybe not sense, but…”

  “I know what you mean, Mrs. Porter. And I’m not a quitter in general.”

  ‘’Who’s quitting?” Megan Sutley had come up behind us and now made herself known.

  “I’m just taking a short break, Ms. Sutley,” Jeanine said. “I’m not quitting.”

  Megan waved away Jeanine’s nervous explanation. “Mind if I pull up a crate?” she asked, while doing so. I’d noticed at the balloons-or-no-balloons meeting, and when I ran into he
r at the police station before her interview, that she’d shed her obsequious manner; she showed more confidence, almost relief, which was understandable given the kind of boss Craig Palmer seemed to be.

  “This is the first time I’ve been this far into the store,” Megan said.

  “Ever?” Jeanine asked.

  “Uh-huh. Remember I just got into town a couple of nights ago and then after the … the death, I couldn’t bring myself to walk farther than the meeting room. But I overheard you chatting and I needed a little company. This whole thing is certainly outside any experience I’ve ever had.”

  “It’s crazy,” Jeanine said, her position on many things, I noted. “Ms. Duncan in jail? I mean, I didn’t think Mrs. Mellon was guilty either. I don’t know what to think.”

  “Here’s what I think: The police around here are at a complete loss with an honest-to-goodness homicide on their hands,” Megan said.

  I threw my shoulders back, ready to pounce. I might have started with “What’s so honest or good about a homicide?” but Jeanine saved the day. Perhaps she knew what I was capable of when it came to defending the LPPD in public, and was afraid I’d be nasty to a woman who was currently one of her bosses. “We’ve had lots of homicides here,” Jeanine said. “Well, not lots, but we have the best detectives. Mrs. Porter’s nephew is amazing.”

  I could hear the town council in a frenzy at Jeanine’s defense of Lincoln Point, touting its ability to hold its own with a murder rate to be reckoned with.

  “I believe it was my nephew who interviewed you at the station,” I said, barely containing my pique.

  “The cute redhead?” Megan asked with what might have been interpreted as a flirty grin. (Hands off, I thought.) Unlike Catherine, she had not abandoned her New York wardrobe and had been in black every time I’d seen her. Today’s sleeveless linen two-piece outfit was the kind advertised as being able to go from the boardroom to the cocktail party with a quick change of accessories. Her purse was the third one I’d seen her with in as many days, this one black with enough silver grommets, rivets, and chains to support a small bridge.

  I wanted to tell Megan she was definitely not his type, but in fact Skip’s girlfriends over the years had all been of slight build with dark hair. They’d all been nice however, whereas Megan had been insulting, starting with her ridiculing the KenTucky Inn. So what if most residents also blushed at it; it wasn’t fair game for a stranger. I liked her better when she was a meek gofer, padding along behind her boss.

  “I guess we’ll never forget when it happened,” Jeanine said. “I’m afraid from now on every time there’s a quake, I’m going to think of the murder.” She sighed, resigned. “Did you feel it, Ms. Sutley? The earthquake, I mean?”

  “I did, and some things broke in my hotel room.”

  Megan had already told me that she was in her room, and had shared all she knew about Leo’s movements, that he’d stayed a little later at the store with Craig. How late, I wondered. I’d yet to find a way to determine Leo’s timeline. If only I knew someone on the LPPD force who would tell me, I mused. That is, in case I decided not to butt out.

  “What’s a killer like anyway?” Jeanine was back on her psychology track. I didn’t blame her. “I mean, do they look normal? Do they show up for class and work and all? Pay their tuition?” It was easy to figure out Jeanine’s stage of life.

  “I’m sure some of them do,” I said.

  “Unfortunately they don’t wear labels,” Megan added. “I read somewhere that under the right…or wrong…circumstances, anyone might kill.”

  Jeanine rubbed her arms. “That’s creepy.”

  “I agree,” Megan said.

  “Are you going to stay around, Ms. Sutley? I mean, not to be nosy, but I’m wondering…”

  “Who’s going to be your boss?”

  Jeanine nodded. “If you know and can tell and don’t mind.”

  Megan’s eyes seemed to cloud over as she looked out the tinted window. At what? Her future? It was hard to tell. “I really can’t even say who will be my boss, let alone yours, Jeanine.” Megan waved her hand in the direction of the back room, as if Leo were still there. “We’re trying to work it all out now. Ultimately, Corporate will decide, of course,” she said, as if Corporate were the name of the person who held her fate in his hands. Joe or Jane Corporate, I thought, amusing only myself. Megan stood and brushed the back of her skirt, which was smaller than some dinner napkins I owned. She threw back her shoulders. “But you can bet I’ll come out a winner this time.” I wanted to ask what kind of game they were playing, what the prize was, but Megan seemed ready to leave and I didn’t want to detain her. “Well, I’m going to take off,” she said. “Can you lock up, Jeanine?”

  Jeanine stuttered an “I guess so,” and gave me a frantic look.

  “I can hang around a while,” I said.

  “Beyond the call of duty, Gerry,” Megan said, chummy now that we’d chatted on crates together, and wandered off toward the back exit.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Porter,” Jeanine said. “Usually, I wouldn’t mind, but—”

  But a murdered man and his killer occupied this very ground about forty-eight hours ago. “No problem,” I said. “Let’s finish the job. One more box to unload, and when you come in tomorrow you’ll just have to put the finishing touches on the shelves. Tell me about your boyfriend. You say you met him at school?”

  “Oh, yeah, Ethan. He’s another story, Mrs. Porter. He writes poetry.”

  Uh-oh, I thought. Things were tough for people in the creative arts. I knew only a few people who could make a living at miniatures, for example. And even they had back-up finances handy, in the form of an inheritance or a partner with a more traditional nine-to-five job. The few miniatures stores that were left, shops my crafter friends and I would travel many miles to visit, had of necessity given over half or more of their space to other products, from soaps and sundries to vintage clothing.

  “Does he have a job, besides writing poetry?”

  “Uh-uh,” she said, removing spools of ribbon from a carton.

  Like the yarn, the ribbons were of many designs and materials. I read the names as I handed the products to Jeanine. Holographic, lacquered, metallic, moiré, flocked, raffia, and at least a dozen more coming up, all in different colors and widths.

  “He won’t even take any practical classes,” Jeanine continued. “I keep telling him he has to earn a living, you know, but he doesn’t seem to get it. He wants to follow his heart. He doesn’t understand why I take jobs like this.” Jeanine held up a spool of narrow red crimped curling ribbon as a sample of her job duties. “He self-published a couple of sets of poems. They don’t make any money, but you might like them, Mrs. Porter.”

  “How interesting,” I said. As a former English teacher, I hated to admit that I wasn’t a fan of any poetry published after the nineteenth century, with the possible exceptions of T. S. Eliot and Robert Frost. And some days, Sylvia Plath.

  “I’ll write down the names for you,” she said, stopping to take a small notebook from her pocket. As she wrote the titles, she explained that the Lincoln Point library refused to buy them, but Rosie of Rosie’s Book Shop had agreed to keep a few copies on the counter.

  I took the piece of paper she tore out of the notebook. “I’ll have to check them out,” I said, not mentioning when that might be.

  “So, what do you think? Should I encourage him? Maybe you need to read the poems first? I confronted him again this weekend about the need to earn some money. Like, I don’t mind paying for things when we go out, but he needs to start contributing.” She sighed. “Then I think, maybe I’m stifling his creativity?”

  This conversation wasn’t what I had in mind. I couldn’t face another lovers’ quarrel or another case of mismatched couples. Fortunately Jeanine simply wanted to talk, and did so as we emptied the ribbon carton. She didn’t wait for my advice, which was good, because I was fresh out.

  Chapter 13

  At three
o’clock on Monday, Jeanine clocked out and I guarded her while she locked up SuperKrafts. She hoped I’d like Ethan’s poems and thanked me again for my advice regarding her boyfriend. If the word “advice” had been replaced by “listening,” she’d have had reason to be grateful, but if she thought I did her some good, I didn’t want to talk her out of it. We said good-bye and I headed home.

  It felt good to have been productive in one area at least: preparing a retail store with my favorite kind of merchandise for business on Wednesday. I’d had a voice mail message from Skip telling me that he and Maddie were having a good day and would see me midafternoon. I thought “having a good day” might be code for “she’s not into boys” or something else. Or maybe they were simply having a good day.

  Not so Catherine Duncan, I suspected. I wondered how she was faring and if I’d be allowed to see her. Probably not a chance. I imagined some highly paid lawyer from the SuperKrafts staff was on a plane now, and that a criminal attorney would follow shortly. What if she’d already confessed? I couldn’t make up my mind. Should I continue to try to tie up all the loose ends in my head, or was it time to consider the Craig Palmer murder case closed and go back to my life? Making minis, tutoring, and getting ready for the wedding of the decade. I knew in the end I wouldn’t get much mental rest until I learned what evidence the police had against Catherine. It would also have been nice to know how Bebe was doing and if her brother was aware of her attempt to sacrifice her freedom for him, if indeed that had been what prompted her to confess.