“No, I certainly didn’t know him. How do I prove that, though? Besides, my not having a motive might not matter. Kyle was killed in my stockroom, with an item from my stock. Means and opportunity, isn’t that all they need?”
“Yes, you’re probably right,” Loralee Phillips, a diminutive, soft-spoken woman to Ina Mae’s right, agreed, nodding. She picked up a holly sprig and held it speculatively against her wreath. “And you certainly look strong enough to jam a knitting needle into someone, I’d have to say.”
“Loralee!” Javonne Barnett, the slim African-American woman across from Loralee, protested.
Loralee glanced up from her work with mild eyes. “I was only looking at it from the lieutenant’s point of view, Javonne. If Jo is going to defend herself, she’ll need to know exactly what from.”
“Loralee’s right,” Carrie agreed, calling out from the beginner’s knitting session she was conducting at the other end of the shop. She had obviously been listening to the conversation with one ear. She left her ladies practicing their cast-ons, to come over. “Jo needs to look out for herself. She shouldn’t just trust that the police will discover she’s innocent.”
“What do you suggest?” Jo asked. “Some subtle bribery with teddy bears for every police officer’s desk? Beadwork frames for their badges?”
“Russ Morgan’s single, isn’t he?” Javonne grinned slyly. “How about an ‘accidental’ encounter at the Brass Parrot. I’ve seen him hanging out there sometimes. Got any sexy red dresses in your closet, Jo?”
The ladies shrieked and cackled, and Jo rolled her eyes at Carrie. “Lieutenant Morgan didn’t strike me as someone who lets emotions get in the way of his work.”
“Lieutenant Morgan strikes me,” Ina Mae said, “as an overly busy man, with a very small staff at his disposal. He obviously needs help to look a bit farther than his nose for solutions. Perhaps you can provide it, Jo.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Loralee chimed in.
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Jo protested.
“Start by getting to know Kyle, why don’t you? Does anyone here know anything about the young man?”
“I know his regular job was working the tennis desk at the country club,” Javonne said. “My Harry recognized that picture they put in the paper. Harry plays doubles there Wednesdays when the office is closed.” Javonne’s Harry was a dentist. She had arrived for the class a few minutes late, explaining that her husband needed her help assisting with an emergency tooth repair. She had then gazed speculatively at Jo’s own smile and casually mentioned Harry’s office location and hours.
Loralee added, “Kyle was in a lot of the playhouse productions. I saw him in their last show, Biloxi Blues. He played the older brother, and was very good, I thought.”
“Bob Gordon wanted to talk to me about setting up a craft show at the country club,” Jo said. “If he hasn’t changed his mind, I suppose I could talk to some of the people that worked with Kyle when I go over there.”
“Oh, Bob is a great friend of ours!” Deirdre Patterson spoke up for the first time. Jo remembered her as the silk-suited woman Ina Mae had edged off that busy morning. She had been silent until now. “I could ask him to take you around if you like.” Deirdre wore a pink cashmere sweater set, and Jo feared for its life as Deirdre fumbled around with the wire and glue guns.
“Maybe it’s best if Jo does it on her own,” Carrie said. “People might open up more if their supervisor isn’t standing there listening in, don’t you think?”
The other ladies nodded. Jo was amazed to see how quickly they all assumed she would begin snooping around, searching out possible murderers. But she was just as surprised to realize how she was warming to the idea. It was, after all, much better than sitting around waiting for the handcuffs to be slapped on, and Jo had always thought of herself as a person of action. Unfortunately, her actions hadn’t always led to the best results.
Like that time in New York, when, after learning her usual delivery service was backed up, she decided to hand-deliver an order of her specialty jewelry to a town in New Jersey, and ended up lost, in a broken-down car, needing to check into a Bates-like motel on a foggy night. Mike, to say the least, had not been happy when she’d called to explain the pickle she’d got herself in, and she eventually promised him to never again jump blindly into uncharted territory. Was that, however, what she was contemplating doing?
Mike, she explained silently, somehow feeling the need, this is different. I’ll just be asking a few simple questions. It’ll be perfectly fine, I promise. One of Mike’s exasperated looks flashed into her mind, and she quickly turned back to her class.
“Now ladies,” she said, seeing them puzzling over the arrangement of their wreath decorations, “to get back to our workshop. I want you to be creative in how you place your trimmings since I think that’s half the fun of putting it all together. My suggestion, just to get you started, is to cross and attach these two curly willow branches at the base of your wreath, on a slight angle, then make and attach the bow onto it like this.” Jo demonstrated. “Then you can add your bird’s nest, the pinecones, and these other lovely items about the wreath to brighten and balance everything out. But play around with it before you glue anything in place. Rearrange until you’re happy with the design. You’ll see. Little by little it’ll all come together.”
You’ll see, Mike. It’ll be all right.
The women dug in, and Jo watched with satisfaction as their wreaths developed. She offered help here and there, and was about to compliment Loralee on her work when a wail snapped her attention to the opposite end of the worktable.
“Jo, help!” Deirdre cried. “I’ve glued my fingers together!”
Chapter 6
Jo stepped back and looked at the box she had filled with various craft items. It was the second of two. If she didn’t stop soon she’d have half her stock packed up to show to Bob Gordon at the country club.
“Charlie, I’m so glad you’re able to help out. There’s no way I could haul this stuff by myself.”
“It’s okay, Aunt Jo. I’ve got nothing better to do.”
That was the truth, Jo realized, with an inner sigh. Carrie had been confiding of late her continuing worries about her son and his apparent lack of drive. Since dropping out of baseball eighteen months ago, Charlie had done very little with his free time beyond the household chores his parents required of him. And those he had to be pushed and dragged through, according to Carrie, which only caused more tension between him and his father. Dan, once he’d accepted Charlie’s lack of interest in team sports, had tried to get him involved in some way in Dan’s home improvement business. But Charlie, while showing some budding skills in carpentry, had been such a source of aggravation with his reluctance to follow Dan’s precise directions that Carrie had insisted, for the sake of preserving what was left of their father-son relationship, that Charlie lay down his hammer.
That had left, however, large chunks of unfilled time in Charlie’s after-school hours, chunks that he had been occupying, when his parents weren’t around, with television and video games. Carrie feared his brain, which was capable in the past of generating As and Bs in school, was slowly turning to mush.
Jo, though not totally delighted with this current manifestation, was fond of Charlie and wanted to do what she could to bring back the brightness she felt sure still lurked there. His showing up to help with the store cleanup the other night, though it was at Carrie’s instigation, had at least got him moving. It gave Jo the idea to ask Carrie what she thought of paying him a modest sum to help out now and then with store-related things. Carrie was all for it, and Charlie, characteristically, neither cheered nor groused, but simply showed up. Jo decided to take that as a positive sign and put him to work helping transport her things to the club.
“Do you know much about the country club?” she asked Charlie as they drove out of the small parking lot next to the Craft Corner and onto the street.
&
nbsp; “Uh-uh. My folks don’t belong. Too expensive. Some kids I know have part-time jobs there, though.”
“Really? That might come in handy.”
“For what?”
“After I finish with the club manager, I want to talk to people who worked with Kyle Sandborn, the guy who was killed in my shop. See what I can learn about him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If you see anyone you know, maybe you could help me out there. You think?”
“Mmm.” Charlie’s enthusiasm was underwhelming.
The rest of the drive passed in silence until Jo pulled up to the entrance of the Abbotsville Country Club, marked by an ornate sign that hung from the arch between two open, wrought-iron gates. Jo drove in, and as she progressed up the long drive, she sized up the main building. The clubhouse had been built in the antebellum style, with tall white pillars and a second-story veranda. However, the white vinyl siding gleaming in the sun signaled its age was closer to 5 than 155 years.
Pseudo-historical had sprung up a lot in southern—and northern—Maryland, with developers aiming to appeal to the growing sector of nouveau riche. Carrie told her the country club had been flooded with applications within days of its opening, its high membership costs apparently not a problem for certain segments of Abbotsville and some of its newer, high-end suburbs.
Jo parked and climbed out of the car to open her trunk. As she did so, she heard the thunk of tennis ball against racquet that came from the high-fenced courts to her right. Golf carts creeping along the path leading to the distant greens gave off a soft whirr. She pulled out one of her boxes and looked around. So this was where Kyle Sandborn had spent his days. It was certainly an agreeable spot. What, though, had made him so particularly disagreeable? Well, Jo thought, as Charlie reached for the second box and slammed the trunk closed, that was one of the things she aimed to find out. But first she had to track down Bob Gordon and convince him she could put together a proper craft show. Even snoops, after all, had bills to pay at the end of the month.
Bob Gordon didn’t need much convincing. He positively beamed at having found someone willing to organize and set up the craft show, and seemed unconcerned with exactly how she went about it. A portly man of about fifty, he looked like someone who spent more time behind his desk or in the club dining room than utilizing any of the fitness or sports activities his club offered. He barely glanced at the various items Jo had so carefully packed up, and quickly bustled her over to the terrace, which held tables for outdoor dining.
“This is where you can set up,” he said. “We can rearrange these tables any way you like, take away the chairs, bring in larger, folding tables, whatever. If the weather gets damp, we can pull down the awning or, if worse gets to worse, move it all inside.”
Jo took in the spacious area, which faced the golf course beyond. “This will be perfect,” she said, delighted. She could hardly believe her luck, having half expected to be squashed into a dark corner near the gift shop.
“We like to include the ladies’ groups from our local churches and such too. They raise a few dollars selling their homemade cakes and doilies, and it draws more people to the show. Your task, besides setting up and selling things from your store, of course, would be to coordinate those groups, as well as bring in a few other types of professional craftsmen. You know, maybe decoy carvers, or potters, things like that. It means a lot of time on the phone and can sometimes seem like herding cats. Think you can do it?”
“No problem. Just give me your list of names, and I’ll get right to work on it. Thank you so much for this opportunity, Mr. Gordon.”
“Call me Bob. And it’s my pleasure. I’ve had to oversee this in the past, and it’s just not my kind of thing. The board, however, feels it’s good community relations for the club, and the members enjoy it.”
“It’ll be great exposure for my new shop too. Plus, in a setting like this, all the items can’t help but look amazing. Your grounds and facilities are beautiful.”
Gordon’s smile broadened. “We try our best. Look around some more, Mrs. McAllister, if you like. Get familiar with the layout. I’d take you myself, except I have prospective members coming. I’ll have someone get you a copy of our file—names, phone numbers, lists of things we did in the past. If you have any questions after you look it over, just give me a buzz.”
With that, Bob Gordon trotted off, surprisingly light on his feet for his size and clearly delighted to have delegated away a necessary but somewhat burdensome task.
Jo turned to Charlie, who had shadowed her mutely the entire time. “Guess we didn’t need to bring all this stuff after all, huh? Let’s drop it back in the car and take up Mr. Gordon’s carte blanche.” At Charlie’s puzzled look she rephrased. “Let’s look around.”
From the car they headed toward the tennis area, with Jo remembering what Javonne Barnett had said about Kyle working at the tennis desk. She led Charlie along the winding walkway past the tennis courts and found the door to the tennis shop. On entering, they encountered several women of various ages in tennis togs milling about, apparently gathering for scheduled matches. The young woman behind the desk, wearing a green polo with the country club’s logo, was showing a new racquet to one, and a college-aged boy knelt on the floor farther back, unpacking cans of balls.
The players heads swiveled toward Jo and Charlie, but not recognizing prospective opponents, quickly turned back to chatting with each other. Jo sensed Charlie’s reluctance to wind through this unfamiliar, overwhelmingly feminine scene, and encouraged him with a smile. “We can hang around the apparel shop over there,” she said, “until things clear out a bit.”
They lingered over tables stocked with visors, sweat-bands, and tennis socks, Jo fingering idly through racks of tennis shirts, shorts, and warm-ups, Charlie shifting from foot to foot, until finally the lively group drifted out to the courts and the prospective racquet customer left. Jo headed over to the desk as the young woman there was rehanging the demo racquet. She turned and flashed Jo a smile.
“Hi. Can I help you? Need to reserve a court?”
“No, we’re kind of just looking around.”
“New members?”
“Actually, I’ll be handling the fall craft show here this year for Bob Gordon. I’m Jo McAllister. I own Jo’s Craft Corner.”
Jo paused, watching as the young woman, whose name tag identified her as “Tracy,” connected the dots. Her pale complexion flushed. “Jo’s Craft Corner. That’s where Kyle . . . ?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it was.”
“God, that must have been awful.”
Jo nodded. “It was.”
Jo gave the girl a moment. As Tracy’s cheeks faded back to her normal shade, Jo noticed the fellow working on the tennis balls looking over at them.
“Were you a friend of Kyle’s?” Jo asked the girl.
“Um, yeah, I mean, he worked here and all. We weren’t always here at the same time, though. But I knew him. Not real well, though.”
“I met him for the first time on that day,” Jo said. “He didn’t seem very happy to be working a clown gig.”
Tracy smiled. “No, I wouldn’t think so. Kyle, I think, was planning to be the next Johnny Depp or Leonardo Di-Caprio, or something. He was always talking about his latest role at the playhouse and how it was going to be a springboard to a career in New York or Hollywood.”
“So working here was pretty much a stopgap for Kyle?”
Tracy’s coworker behind the counter snorted loudly. “You could say that,” he said, picking up the now-empty packing box and sauntering over as he compacted it. “That is, if you could call it working at all.”
“Ryan! Kyle’s dead!”
“Yeah, and it’s too bad and all. But it doesn’t make him any less of a jerk when he was alive.”
Tracy winced at the harshness of Ryan’s words, but Jo noticed she didn’t correct him.
“You didn’t care for Kyle, I take it.”
“Who would? He
was a pain in the butt most of the time, always talking like he was some big-deal actor getting ready for his next role, putting up with all us little people. He only actually worked when Mr. Gordon happened to be around.”
“That’s not true,” Tracy protested. “I know for a fact he stayed late sometimes when he didn’t have to, if the mixed doubles teams finished late.”
“Yeah, and you know why?” Ryan planted one elbow on the counter and leaned toward Jo. “He was spying on them.”
“Spying?”
“He called it ‘doing character studies,’ which was a load of crap. He was sneaking around, eavesdropping on everyone’s conversations.”
“For future roles?”
Ryan laughed. “Yeah, right. Plus he dramatized everything, turning the stuff he picked up into some kind of soap opera plot, like he was directing a movie or something, and everyone around him were actors in some screen-play.”
“Yeah, actually, that’s right,” Tracy joined in. “Kyle tried to convince me once that a couple of the mixed doubles people were having an affair. I couldn’t see it. These were two really nice people who just happened to need partners to play in the league. They liked tennis, not each other. I mean, not in that way. It seemed pretty over the top.”
Ryan grinned, nodding. “He once told me Mr. Gordon must be embezzling funds from the club, and you know why?”
Jo shook her head.
“Because he showed up one day driving a new Lexus. Like Gordon couldn’t afford it? He makes, well, I don’t know what he makes. But it must be enough to afford a Lexus. Kyle said he was keeping an eye on him.”
Wreath of Deception Page 5