by Molly Macrae
“Do we know what was stolen?” Ernestine asked.
“No,” I said. “And it wasn’t a good time to hang around and ask or listen.”
“Mel didn’t say boo about it when she was in the library yesterday,” Thea said. “What?” She’d caught the startled look I couldn’t help at the word “boo.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Nothing.”
“It isn’t nothing, though,” Ardis said, misinterpreting my answer. “The theft might be another twist of yarn worth following. I wonder if that’s why Cole showed up.”
“Good point.” I made a note in the palm-sized spiral notebook I’d brought along. “And if he thinks the theft and the shooting might be connected—”
“The ifs and mights are piling up fast,” Thea said.
“It wouldn’t be a good investigation without them,” said Ernestine. She pushed the bottle of wine closer to Thea. “Pour yourself another glass and they won’t bother you so much.”
I put my hand over my own glass when Thea offered to pour more for me. “Anyway, if Deputy Dunbar thinks the theft is worth following up, then we will, too.”
“You’re always so proper when you talk about him,” Thea said. “Deputy Dunbar. Do I detect a little deflection of elemental emotion? A subconscious squashing of flowering feelings? Now, what’s that look for?”
“It would go with a kick to your shins if you were sitting close enough.”
“Why? He’s obviously got a thing for you.”
“You and Coleridge, Kath?” Ardis looked at me. “Really? I thought Joe was angling to be your beau.”
Thea snorted and I chewed over her comment. Over both their comments. I called him Deputy Dunbar so I wouldn’t slip and call him “Clod” instead of “Cole.” He, the clod, had asked me out once, but that was a complete nonstarter with me and I’d been pretty sure my response had put an end to it. Joe, on the other hand . . .
“Let’s move on,” Ardis said. Were her mildly disapproving look and tone of voice for me?
“Yes, let’s,” Ernestine said. “These ‘what-ifs’ and ‘might bes’ of murder are much more interesting than Kath’s love life. Oh my. I’m sorry, Kath. I didn’t mean that quite the way it sounded.”
I laughed and it felt better than a second glass of wine would have. Ernestine looked pleased enough with herself that I was pretty sure she’d meant it exactly the way it sounded.
“I take it no one has come forward to admit responsibility for the shooting?” she asked.
“Not unless someone has in the last hour or so,” Ardis said. “But if that happened, I wonder how soon we’d hear about it.”
“The police will have to tell us something at some point,” I said. “They have to let us know when we can get back in the shop and reopen. If someone comes forward, maybe that’ll happen sooner.”
“And if someone comes forward, Ernestine is all dressed up in her tweeds with nothing to detect,” said Thea.
“But we don’t have to worry about that, because no one will come forward,” Ardis said. She crossed her arms, daring Thea to contradict her.
Thea didn’t. “Fine. Good. Got it,” she said, raising her hands. “We don’t believe there’s anyone out there who was involved in the skit, who was also stupid, is now afraid to come forward and admit just how stupid, but who will eventually do the right thing.”
“We do not,” said Ardis.
“Even though that’s what the cops think happened and what sounds kind of, oh, I don’t know, reasonable, if you think it through from a to b to c.”
“We’re working on a parallel strand,” I said. “You could call it aa to bb to cc. We’re operating on the theory that someone targeted Reva Louise specifically.”
“You’re kidding,” Thea said. “Why would anyone do that? Pardon me for speaking ill of the dead, but who cared enough about Reva Louise Snapp to kill her? She was annoying, sure. Why do you think I quit coming to Fast and Furious? But you don’t kill someone because she’s as irritating as a horsefly.”
“‘Why’ is one of the things we’ll be looking into,” I said.
“Hold up, there.” Ardis uncrossed her arms, planted her hands on the table, and leaned toward Thea. “You said you had meetings you couldn’t get out of. Do you mean to tell me you lied to the Fast and Furious?”
“My meetings were perfectly legitimate. They were meetings I arranged, but they were valid. If sparsely attended. Has Joe been showing up for Fast and Furious lately?”
“No.”
“Mm-hmm,” Thea said. “He probably arranged to go bother fish up some obscure creek. But that doesn’t mean that either he or I or any of the rest of us killed Reva Louise so that our group could reunite and knit happily ever after.” She sat forward, too, pushing her plate aside and leaning on her elbows. “Look, you know I’ll help with this investigation. It doesn’t matter to me if I liked the woman or not. But tell me why we’re bucking the official story. Where’s the motive? I’m a librarian. I want logic.”
“We have literary logic a librarian can love,” I said. “Ardis spotted it right off.”
“Lay it on me.”
“First, did you catch any of the pig skit?”
Thea nodded.
“What did you think of the acting?”
“Ham acting at its finest and most painful, and I’m not referring to the pig when I say ham.”
“Exactly what I thought,” Ardis said. She and Thea sat back and exchanged smug looks. Thea was also a member of the Blue Plum Repertory Theater.
“Glad you guys agree,” I said. “So let’s use Sherlockian logic and investigate ‘The Curious Incident of the Ham Actor in the Weaver’s Cat.’”
“Are you saying there was an actor in the shop?” Ernestine asked. “John and I both thought back, and neither one of us remembered anyone like that coming in. And we would have, wouldn’t we?”
“Yes, you would,” I said. “That’s the curious incident. Because if there was an actor in the shop, as the sheriff contends, then that actor was so far out of character as to be sneaking into the shop and sneaking back out again.”
“Like a ghost,” Ernestine said.
I opened my mouth but caught myself before I said anything peculiar like “I don’t think a ghost could actually pull the trigger of a gun.” Instead I asked Thea if that answered her question about why we were bucking the official story.
“Definitively, although we’re still short on motive and it leaves me with another problem.”
“What?”
“I don’t own a deerstalker.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ardis said. “We’ll all play Watson to Kath’s Sherlock.”
“I don’t have a deerstalker,” I said.
“But you’d look good in one,” Ernestine said. “That’s what counts.”
It was a step up from Nancy Drew, anyway, a character to whom I felt malignantly allergic. And wouldn’t Clod Dunbar be pleased that I’d been promoted from Drew to Holmes? That thought put a bounce in my metaphorical step. “Anyone for more salad or another burrito or should we move on to the de—”
“Debriefing,” Ardis said, thumping her hand on the table. “Sherlock, you’re always one step ahead of us.”
I smiled to hide my disappointment. I’d been thinking “dessert.”
“Ernestine,” Ardis said, “we need to know everything you told the deputy who interviewed you this afternoon. Everything you told him and everything you didn’t tell him but that you will tell us because you know we aren’t such sticklers for clear-cut evidence and proven facts.”
“Excuse me,” Thea said. “I have another rather large question.” At an explosive sigh from Ardis, she grew defensive. “Hey, you can’t hold it against me. Librarians thrive on questions and answers. The bigger, the better, okay? So tell me this, if the sheriff is so sure a yellow-bellied idiot shot Reva Louise by accident, then why did he shut down the festival? That was a huge and unpopular step to take.”
“It’s the time
s we live in.” Ernestine clucked her tongue. “They probably felt they had to.”
“But it does raise questions,” I said, “and this is where my head begins to spin. Maybe the answer is as simple as an overabundance of caution. But if that’s the case, then why did the sheriff and the mayor make their announcement on the courthouse steps, with a microphone, to dozens and dozens of people? Talk about attracting a flock of sitting ducks. Did they really think that was a smart idea? But that made me think they aren’t worried about anything else happening. Unless it turns out they know something we don’t, which they probably do, because they are, after all, the police.”
“Or they only think they know something,” Ardis said.
“Stop there,” Thea said. “Please. By now we’re all getting dizzy.”
“What do we do, Sherlock?” Ardis asked.
The three of them looked at me. Expectantly. And the phrase “as usual” ran through my mind. When had investigating murder replaced inspecting eighteenth-century woolens for vermin as my “as usual” activity? Talk about parallel strands. I felt as though I’d jumped to an alternative and parallel strand of my life.
“Sherlock?” Ardis asked.
“I think I’d feel better if we stick with ‘Kath.’”
“Why?”
“You don’t want me suffering impostor syndrome, do you? Besides, every time you start to say ‘Sherlock,’ for just a nanosecond, I think you’re going to call me ‘Shirley,’ and that makes my skin crawl.”
“What a horrible thought.”
“Mercy me,” Thea said. “Surely not.”
I closed my eyes and massaged the bridge of my nose.
“Would this be a good time for me to tell you what I told the deputy?” Ernestine asked.
“It would, Ernestine. Thank you. What we need—as usual—is information. We don’t know enough of it about anything. So let’s start with what you can tell us. Then we’ll see where we can go from there.”
Ernestine reached for her handbag. “Sometimes it takes my memory a few minutes to catch up with a question,” she said. “But I’m a diary keeper from way back and I find the act of putting pen to paper helps. When I got home I did this.” She pulled her own small notebook out of her purse. The notebook was an accessory suitable for her Miss Marple getup, something a golden age amateur sleuth would carry. It was chocolate brown and about the size of a deck of playing cards. It looked like real leather and it had an elastic band bound into the cover to snap around it and keep it closed. Half an inch of dark red ribbon bookmark hung from the bottom edge. I wanted to hold that notebook and pet it. I wanted one of my own.
While I was busy coveting the notebook, I missed the rest of what Ernestine said, but it didn’t take long to catch up. She handed the notebook to me and patted it. “I thought you would like to have this, Kath. You don’t mind that I wrote my notes in it, do you?”
“It’s mine?” I sounded almost breathless. How ridiculous. But what an excellent notebook.
“Oh dear, you do mind that I wrote in it,” she said. She reached to take the notebook back.
“No, no.” I moved it out of her range, slipping the elastic band off and opening it. “I don’t mind at all. Thank you, Ernestine.” The first few pages were covered with precise, tiny handwriting.
“In case you’re wondering, I used my magnifying loupe. I didn’t really have much to report, so I wanted to make sure what I did report is clear and legible.”
“Ernestine, you’re the cat’s pajamas. Thank you for the notes and the notebook.”
“Quit mooning over it,” Thea said, “and read it to us. I’ve got places to go. Like home and to bed.”
I read Ernestine’s few paragraphs out loud. She and John had taken turns running the cash register and helping customers find the yarn or fabric they were looking for, or in the case of many of them, the yarn or fabric they hadn’t known they were looking for until they saw it. John did most of the stair climbing. She mentioned Reva Louise stopping in to collect money for the “free” lunch and me coming in later with Sally Ann to pay for the lunch again. Customers, as we’d expected, were mostly visitors from out of town.
“Did you know that John kept track of how many people came in who only wanted to use the bathroom?” Ernestine asked.
“That’s an irritating fact of life during Blue Plum Preserves,” said Ardis. “It’s why God created the Porta Potti, but I don’t blame people for trying to avoid them.”
Ernestine went on to report the phone calls they’d had asking if we were open or asking if we carried particular brands of yarn or sizes or styles of needles or other notions. Business stopped almost completely when the skit began. The skit’s opening gunshots startled both John and Ernestine. Then Ernestine was surprised at how quickly the shots stopped making her jump. She worried about the children who came and sat on the railing at the end of the porch to watch the skit when the actors and the pig moved into Depot Street.
I stopped reading and looked up. “What about my phone call? You didn’t include it.”
“You already know about that, dear. You made it. Would you like me to add it now?”
“No, this is fine. You did a good job.” There was something about that phone call, but I couldn’t think what. Drumming my fingers on my lips didn’t help me remember. “Did you tell the deputy about my call?”
“At this point I can’t be sure,” Ernestine said. “Although I don’t suppose it matters. Your movements are accounted for, aren’t they?”
“Sure,” I said, “plenty of witnesses all afternoon.” But not for the morning. No one had asked me anything about who came in and out of the Cat before the skit and the shooting started. I wondered if anyone would ask. If Clod would think of that. Or if it mattered. Could someone have come in during the morning and stayed hidden? Or hidden a gun and come back later? Those were chilling thoughts.
“What else did you write down, Ernestine?” Thea asked. “Kath isn’t sharing anymore.”
“Hang on, hang on.” I made a note to think back through the morning and then went back to reading Ernestine’s entry.
Her brief paragraphs were followed by two lists. One was labeled WHAT I REMEMBER ABOUT PEOPLE I DIDN’T KNOW. The other was labeled PEOPLE I DID KNOW. The first list consisted of notes such as Woman with fussy child—lime green marabou and Teenagers, nose rings—five skeins from sale bin. When I read, “Young woman, large glasses—travel wheel,” Ardis clapped. Anytime we sold a substantial piece of equipment was cause for celebration. There were a few more brief descriptions of customers and what they bought. Nothing about a villain with a sneer and a rifle putting oodles of handspun worsted on his or her credit card.
“What are you writing?” Thea asked. “No secrets.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Making a note before I forget. I just realized we don’t know what kind of gun it was.”
“We don’t know a lot of things,” she said. “That’s why we’re investigating.”
“No, but that’s it,” Ardis said. “The gun. The police are going to find out it wasn’t some reproduction antique blunderbuss or whatever. In fact, I bet that’s why they got hinky and canceled the festival. They already suspect there’s something funny about the firearm.” She hesitated. “Did I use the word ‘hinky’ right? I’ve never liked that word, but if that doesn’t describe Haynes and his ‘Find your cars and go home’ and Weems and his ‘We shall have answers,’ nothing does. Go on and finish reading, Kath. We’re getting somewhere. I can feel it.”
Neither of Ernestine’s neatly printed lists was long, but the second was shorter than it should have been by at least three people—Reva Louise, Sally Ann, and me. She’d mentioned us in one of her paragraphs, but omitting us from the second list made me wonder how complete the list was and who else she might have left off.
The last name on the list bothered me.
Chapter 15
“Mel came into the shop?” I asked.
Mel’s name on the lis
t bothered Ardis and Thea, too. Ernestine didn’t think there was anything to worry about.
“A quick visit,” Ernestine said. “In and out. You know how busy they are at the café during the festival. She asked for you, Kath. It might have been about the mix-up over paying twice for the box lunches. I didn’t like to keep her by asking. She was like a tornado, whirling through, hair on end. She said something about ‘fixing it.’ I assumed she meant the mix-up, not her hair.”
“I’ll clear it up with her tomorrow,” I said.
“I did try to tell her you would, but she was moving too fast. She ran upstairs, ran back down. When she didn’t find either you or Reva Louise, she said, ‘Shoot fire,’ and slammed out the back door. After she’d gone, John checked to make sure the window in the door hadn’t cracked. That might be when he noticed the windows could use a wash.”
“Shoot fire?” Thea’s eyebrows couldn’t have risen higher.
“It’s an approximation of what she said,” Ernestine explained. “Would you like me to write down her exact words? I’d rather not say them.”
I shook my head, but Thea didn’t let it go.
“Under the circumstances, you might have chosen a different euphemism. Have you got something going on in your subconscious, Ernestine? You’re not thinking Mel had anything to do with this, are you?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Ernestine said. She touched her hands to her head, maybe checking her subconscious for disloyal thoughts, her eyes big behind her thick lenses. “I hope not. I like Mel.”
“We all like her,” I said. “Don’t worry, Ernestine. Mel didn’t do this. But you said, ‘When she didn’t find Reva Louise.’ Was she looking for Reva Louise in the Cat? Did she ask if Reva Louise was there?”
Ernestine shook her head. “I’m sorry. She might have asked, or maybe because I assumed she was there to fix the mix-up between you and Reva Louise, I also assumed she was looking for both of you. I’ll have to think.” She clucked and put her folded hands to her chin, rocking slightly with the effort to remember. She looked tired and older and grayer.
“What do we do?” Ardis asked.