by Molly Macrae
“I would like to know what a self-respecting great-great-niece of mine was doing consorting with the likes of a risqué man like that. I am scandalized.” She made a rude noise in my ear and disappeared.
“Regalia,” Clod said too loudly, as though he’d suddenly remembered the correct answer to a stumper and he’d expected a buzzer to sound, or a fourth-grade teacher’s ruler to smack a desk. “Regalia,” he repeated. “Socks, tassels, that, that hairy . . .” Vocabulary failed him again, and his hands took over trying to describe what he’d called a purse earlier, and where it hung below Hugh’s waist. He turned red and crossed his arms when Ardis looked at him over her glasses, eyebrows raised.
“Perhaps you’re talking about a spermin,” Ardis said.
“Sporran,” I said.
“Anyway,” Clod said, “it looks like McPhee was the ass—the um, the individual reportedly playing bagpipes in the middle of the night.”
“Reportedly? You didn’t hear them?” Clod lived around the corner from me—half a block closer to downtown.
“They were reported because they were heard,” Ardis said. “I heard them. I reported them. Do not use legalese or dismissive language with me.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Buchanan. And I am truly sorry about Hugh. I know you thought highly of him. Now, because we found your name in his . . . with him . . . someone will be contacting you later today to make a statement. In the meantime—”
“A statement about what?” Ardis asked.
“Whatever it is that you know about—”
“But I don’t know anything about Hugh,” she said. “Not really. Until yesterday, I hadn’t seen him or heard anything about him in years. I took him to lunch, we chatted, and that’s the sad sum total of what I know about Hugh.”
“You can explain that when you speak with the officer. In the meantime, what I want to know is—”
“Finding her name in his sporran doesn’t prove that she knows anything,” I said.
“I know that.” He might have briefly ground his teeth. “Thank you, Ms. Rutledge,” he said, teeth still gritted. “Ms. Buchanan, please, answer this one question—what did Hugh tell you about being in town for Half-baked Blue Plum?”
Silence followed his question. A silence louder than the clodhopping boots of ten thousand deputies. A silence into which Clod put his metaphorical foot one clomp further.
“What?” he asked, looking genuinely perplexed. “Half-baked—that’s what everyone calls it, isn’t it?”
“No, Coleridge, it isn’t.” Ardis used the tone of voice she’d perfected through her years of smacking desks with rulers. She’d told me she reserved it for answering questions that tested her patience and the validity of the phrase “there are no stupid questions.” “Many people love the craft fair,” she told him now. “Many of the craftspeople depend on their sales from weekend fairs like this one for the extras others of us take for granted—music or dance lessons for the children or grandchildren, for instance.”
“I meant no disrespect.”
“Of course you didn’t. Ten has a booth at the fair this year,” Ardis said, calling Joe by his childhood nickname for Tennyson, something she and very few others could get away with. “Did you know that? Flies, lures, and watercolors.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Kumihimo braiding, too,” I said. “He’s really good at it and it’s cool.”
Clod gave me a look.
“It is. And it’s not just a booth. He’s in charge of all the booths this year. It’s a big responsibility and a heck of a lot of work. You should stop by this weekend and check it out. Stop and say hey. I know he’d appreciate it.”
“Coleridge will no doubt be on duty all weekend,” Ardis said, “busy working on this terrible case. And that brings me back to your question, Coleridge. You asked what Hugh told me about being in town for Handmade Blue Plum?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Doesn’t it fall into the category of hearsay evidence?”
“It might be helpful to the investigation.”
“Hunh.”
“Ms. Buchanan, what did he say?”
“Not a blessed thing.”
* * *
“Do you think he believed you?” I asked after Clod left.
“Possibly not.”
“Are you okay? Do you need to take some time?”
“No, hon.”
“I’m sorry about Hugh. He was . . . he seemed . . .”
Ardis nodded. “That’s it exactly. We really don’t know anything about Hugh beyond ‘was’ and ‘seemed.’ I only knew him ‘when’ and you didn’t know him at all. And I wasted the time I spent with him over lunch yesterday wagging my own chin. Catching him up on people I do know something about.”
“Did Hugh say anything to you about being here for Handmade Blue Plum?”
“Do you think I would lie to Deputy Coleridge Blake Dunbar?” A glint of humor kindled in her eyes, then flickered out. She bounced the eraser end of a pencil on the counter as she became thoughtful. “No, he didn’t. It’s hard to remember if he said much of anything at all.” She bounced the pencil a time or two more. “So, what is it about the fair, or what’s going to be at the fair, that’s interesting enough to bring Hugh McPhee back to town after all these years?”
“Or who’s going to be there. If Deputy Dunbar is right—because we don’t know why Cole thinks Hugh did say something to you about being here for Handmade. Asking you implies that he knows Hugh did come for the fair, but that he isn’t sure why he came for the fair. But what if he just thinks that’s why Hugh was here? What if he’s assuming?”
“But why would he ask me if he didn’t know for sure?” Ardis let the pencil bounce one more time and then tossed it in the air. “Did I just say that? Did I just assume that because Cole believes something and says it out loud, then it’s true?”
The pencil had flown as far as the mannequin and stuck in the gray cowl like a dart. I went around the counter and carefully pulled it out. Ardis put out her hand for it. I didn’t give it back. She put her hands flat on the counter.
“You’re right, Kath. You’re right, and we don’t know if Cole is right. I’ll tell you what we do know, though. And knowing this brings me to a place of calm.” She took a deep breath in and let it out. Then she held out her hand again. “Please give me the pencil.” I did. She flipped the notebook open and saw my dabbling in detective work note from the day before. “Cole’s joke isn’t really funny anymore, and yesterday morning seems like a long time ago.” She turned the page. “We know the police at least think Hugh was here for the fair. That gives us another clue to work with.” She poised the pencil over the page, then swiveled it in her fingers and pointed it at me. “Because we are going to find who killed him.”
I nodded and watched as she jotted her own note. “You said that gives us another clue. What else have we got?”
“The slip of paper with my name. Why was it in his sporran?”
“Oh, right. How did I forget that?”
“You were distracted by Cole’s pantomime—and its location—as he searched for the right word,” Ardis said.
“Disturbed by it anyway.”
“Also, what book did Hugh have in his sporran? Is it significant? Or was the slip of paper with my name on it merely a bookmark in a random book?”
“Lost in a random universe?”
“That has a lonely, existential sound to it.” She made several more notes with slashing underlines, and then grew still. “I think Hugh was lonely. And now he’s lost forever.” She put the pencil down and stared at her hands.
“Ardis, I hate to say it, but maybe we should cancel the yarn bombing.”
“No.”
“Sneaking around so late at night, though? Out of caution, shouldn’t we at least consider postponing it?”
&
nbsp; “No. We’re going to have a dozen people. We’re working in groups. No one is going solo. It’s perfect the way we’ve planned it.”
“Postpone it out of respect for Hugh, then?”
“I asked him if he wanted to join us and he said yes. We need to do if for Hugh.”
“Okay. I was just checking.” I nudged her with my shoulder. “Here’s another clue—the bagpipes and the midnight concert. When was the last time something like that happened in Blue Plum?”
“And his whole ‘getup,’ as Coleridge so ineptly called it. The kilt, the sporran, the pipes—that’s not your typical east Tennessee ‘getup.’”
“Not upper east, anyway. All the way west, over there in Knoxville, maybe. Or out in the hinterlands in Nashville or Memphis. Do we know where he’s been living?”
“No.”
“Or what he’s been doing since—how long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“I’ll have to think.”
I put the pencil back in her hand. “You should write down what you know and what you remember about him, Ardis. If the police are going to come pick your brain, the posse should get first dibs.”
“Before the police pick it clean. Do you mind if I go in—” She nodded to the small office behind us.
“Good idea. I’ll reheat your coffee and bring it in to you. Then you’ll be able to concentrate.” And for a little while she’d be able to mourn one of her favorite students in private.
* * *
It was a very little while. As I pulled the door shut after taking Ardis the reheated coffee, Geneva swirled out of the office—through the door—and stopped in front of me.
“There are tears running down her face,” she said.
“I know. She’ll be okay, though.”
“What did you say to make my great-great-niece cry like that?” She crossed her arms and leaned in close.
“It wasn’t anything I said. If you were in there, didn’t you hear—”
“I was just passing through.” She turned away with a flap of her hand and went to sit on the sales counter. “Passing through is one of the perks for those who have passed on. I would not have paid the least attention to her, except that I am so sensitive to tears and sadness.”
“But you didn’t want to ask her what’s wrong? Or offer comfort?”
“I am too sensitive for my own good and did not want to risk being responsible for more misery.” She kicked her heels a time or two. “What is her caterwauling all about?”
“I don’t hear caterwauling. I think she’s being dignified in her grief.”
“Grief?”
“Didn’t you hear? You were popping in and out all morning.”
“Perks of being a ghost. I was feeling perky.”
“Geneva, Ardis is upset because Hugh McPhee died last night. That’s why Deputy Dunbar was here.”
“Kilt?
“Killed, yes.”
“No. Kilt. Are you talking about the man in the kilt? Was he the man Ardis was fawning over? With the bald spot, the scar, and bagpipes?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Argyle and I saw him last night before the hellish noise began and we had to take cover.”
“Where did you see him?”
“Although, come to think of it,” she said, “from the way Argyle sprang straight into the air, it is possible he was napping when the noise began. If that is the case, then he will not have seen anything more than one of his lives passing before his eyes like a comet. Poor dear. How many lives do you suppose he has to spare?”
“Geneva, where did you see Hugh?”
“The more interesting question would be with whom.”
Chapter 8
“You know who it was? Oh my gosh.” I couldn’t believe the luck—Geneva had been looking out the window at just the right time to see someone with Hugh—to see the murderer? “Who was it?”
“That is the stumper.”
“You didn’t recognize him?”
“Or her. Between trousers and kilts, the fashion world was topsy-turvy last night.”
“But can you describe the person? How tall? Or how tall compared to Hugh? The hair? Anything?”
“It would be helpful if I could.” Her shoulders rose and fell on a moan. “I am a terrible detective. I know that is what you are thinking.”
“No, I’m not. And don’t be hard on yourself. There’s no way you could’ve known we’d need to know anything about that person.”
“But the best detectives are always on duty. My skills have deteriorated and I am no longer among their ranks.” She paused. “Perhaps if I were allowed to refresh my memory by watching classic how-to documentaries such as Cagney & Lacey, my skill level would rebound. I could pick up tips to share with you, so that we can work better together as a detective duo. I might pick up hints for engaging in buddy-type banter. Also, any of the Law & Order oeuvre would be helpful for our ensemble work with the posse.”
The posse she referred to was the small group of TGIF members with whose help we’d solved several crimes. Geneva, although she’d made valuable contributions to our investigations, was the most excitable member of the group. As she might say, “excitable” was a good word meaning “unpredictable” or “volatile.” Because of that, and as much as it grieved her, it was probably best the others didn’t know she was a member. Ardis knew now, but investigating Hugh’s murder would be the first time they were both aware of working together. Given the uncertain chemistry between them, that could prove interesting.
Geneva hummed the theme music from Murder, She Wrote and smiled at me.
“If you throw in episodes of Miami Vice,” she said, “I could give you pointers for piloting a powerboat seized from drug smugglers and teach you to drive your car in a sportier manner. Not to mention make suggestions for a snappier way of dressing.”
“Sorry, no TV.”
“In that case, I will only agree that you are disagreeable,” she said, and she disappeared.
* * *
Bombing Blue Plum—yarn-bombing it—had been Thea Green’s idea. Thea, in addition to being an active and avid member of TGIF, was the director of the J. F. Culp Memorial Library—Blue Plum’s public library with a name almost longer than the sign for it on the lawn in front of the building. Thea was constantly looking for ways to engage more teenagers and twenty-somethings in library activities.
“It wouldn’t hurt to shake up TGIF, too,” she’d said back at the beginning of September during a meeting of the TGIF challenge knitting group known as Fridays Fast and Furious. We were furiously working to meet our goal of knitting one thousand baby hats for newborns by the end of the year.
“We might actually get a few bodies younger than geriatric to join,” Thea had said that afternoon. “Yarn bombing is cutting-edge stuff—or it would’ve been if we’d done it a few years ago. What could possibly be cooler than fiber graffiti? And it ties in perfectly with Handmade Blue Plum next month. And the kids will be out of school for the fall break with time on their hands. We can leave fun fiber surprises all over town for the visitors to find and enjoy. It’ll be like a knitting and crochet scavenger hunt. And it’ll help clear out everyone’s stash closet. If we start now, we’ll have time to prepare. It’ll be exciting. Edgy, even, depending on how we do it, and if you think this town can handle edgy. And if we do it, we can still claim to be on top of the wave, because yarn bombing’s never been done around here before. What do you think?” In her excitement, Thea stood up and waved her knitting needles so that she was in danger of losing stitches.
“Step over here and call me geriatric. That’s what I’m thinking,” Mel Gresham said. Mel and Thea were only a few years older than me, putting them in their early to mid-forties. Mel, with spiked lime-green hair, was slicing the tunnel of fudge cake she’d brought for refreshments, and she still held the knif
e.
“Are we geriatric?” Ernestine O’Dell—seventy-something—turned to John Berry—eighty-something. “Except for my eyesight, and a few more pounds, and a touch of stiffness first thing in the morning, and the occasional memory lapse, and shrinking an inch or two, and, of course, the white hair and wrinkles, I don’t feel any different than I did at fifty. And one of my great-grandchildren told me they aren’t wrinkles anyway. They’re ‘life experience lines.’ ‘Geriatric’ doesn’t sound as nice as plain old being old.”
“I like the words ‘spry for his age’ better than ‘geriatric,’” John said, “as long as they aren’t on my gravestone.”
Thea interrupted a growl coming from Ardis. “Relax, Ardis. And, Ernestine, you’re fine the way you are. John, I know you can dance jigs around me. I was just making sure I had everyone’s attention. Let me show you some pictures and everyone will feel better.”
She’d brought her laptop and she set it up in front of Ernestine. Ardis, John, Joe, and I put down the baby hats we’d been working on, and Mel laid down the cake knife. We gathered behind Ernestine while Thea showed us two or three dozen photographs of yarn bombing projects from around the world that she’d gleaned from the Internet.
Zealous and imaginative people had created cozies for fire hydrants, car antennas, mailboxes, and bollards. They’d crocheted bikinis for nude statues and given others leggings, hats, ties, and warm sweaters. Whole avenues of trees wore garter-stitched stripes. A tree in California had turned into a giant blue knitted squid. Bike racks had become snakes and hungry caterpillars. Lampposts put on socks and grew bird and monster feet overnight. Potholes and cracks in sidewalks were filled with coils and loops of yarn in intricate, multicolored patterns. Bicycles and whole vehicles were covered in rainbows of knitted and crocheted panels.
“What do you think?” Thea asked again, after the last picture.
“About practicing anarchy in downtown Blue Plum?” Joe asked. “Using knitting needles and crochet hooks?”
“That’s the general idea,” Thea said. “You can do macramé, if you want. Weaving, tatting. Cut up old sweaters and use the pieces. Tie giant trout flies and hang them from the trees. That would look incredible. Are you in?”