Needled to Death

by Sefton, Maggie

  “She may have forgotten that we’re coming,” Jennifer offered, stretching, arms overhead. “Does she have a workroom or something?”

  “Yeah, in the back. She may be working and waiting for us to ring the doorbell. I’ll go check. You keep track of them,” Kelly suggested and started across the gravel driveway.

  She headed toward the front porch with its rough-cut pine beam posts and overhang that created an inviting, shady spot for the rocking chairs that were angled to enjoy the mountain view. A wide wooden deck also extended around the corner of the log home and along the side, creating a large, sunny patio.

  As Kelly’s foot touched the front step, she heard an altogether too familiar voice right behind her.

  “Why isn’t she out here to greet us?” Fussy demanded, catching up with Kelly. “Isn’t that her truck in the driveway?”

  “She’s probably in her workroom in the back and couldn’t hear us. Why don’t you wait with the others while I go get her, okay?” Kelly suggested as she crossed the porch, hoping Fussy would take the hint.

  She didn’t. “I’ve already seen the animals. I want to see those weavings the shop owner was talking about.”

  Kelly reached for the doorbell, then stopped when she noticed the door was ajar. She rang the bell anyway and waited. And waited. Fussy wasn’t good at waiting, she noticed, so Kelly rang again and waited some more while Fussy fidgeted.

  “Well, where is she?” Fussy demanded. “Don’t tell me we came all the way out here for nothing.”

  “Oh, she probably didn’t hear it, that’s all,” Kelly reassured. She pushed open the heavy door, and they stepped into the entryway. “I’ll go check her workroom. Why don’t you stay here and admire the décor, okay?” This time Kelly let her voice assume a formal tone, and she gave Fussy an I-mean-business look for good measure. Fussy stayed put.

  “Vickie? Hello?” Kelly called. “Jennifer and I are here with the tour group. Where are you?”

  No answer. Kelly stood for another moment, letting her gaze sweep over the spacious log home. One whole side of the living room was floor-to-ceiling windows, affording a gorgeous view of the canyon and the mountain ranges in the distance. Vaulted ceilings and skylights allowed light to flood the room, highlighting the furnishings, some rustic, some modern.

  Vickie had eclectic tastes as well as an excellent eye for art. Patterns and fabric and color were everywhere. A still life in the style of the old masters was separated from a colorful abstract by one of Vickie’s striking weavings. Everywhere Kelly looked she saw art—painted, sculpted, woven, or carved. It was a visual feast.

  Wishing she could simply stand and drink it in for several minutes like she did on her last visit, Kelly headed through the living room toward the back of the house. Once the touring group was enthralled in Vickie’s demonstrations, she and Jennifer could enjoy their surroundings. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed Fussy was edging out of the entryway.

  “Wait right there,” Kelly said, gesturing to the woman. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  When she skirted around the rust-colored leather sofa, however, Kelly came to an abrupt halt. Vickie lay on the floor, her dark hair spread out on the handwoven rug in stark contrast to her pale face. A pool of blood, blackish red, swirled across the intricate pattern woven into the gray and white wool.

  Kelly’s breath caught in her throat. What had happened? Why all this blood? Was Vickie still alive? Suddenly, she spotted an ugly red gash across Vickie’s neck. Kelly swallowed down her revulsion. Vickie’s throat had been cut.

  She knelt beside her friend and gingerly placed her fingers on Vickie’s wrist, hoping to feel a pulse. There was none. Vickie was dead. She’d bled to death. And hours ago, too, from the look of the blood. It was dried already in places where it had soaked into the fabric. The icy lump in Kelly’s throat sank to her stomach. Was this a suicide? Or was it murder? Who would kill Vickie?

  “Oh, my God!” cried Fussy, right behind Kelly’s shoulder. “Would you look at that! There’s blood everywhere!”

  That did it. Kelly snapped into command mode. She jumped up and wheeled on Fussy, pointing straight at her. “You! Out! This minute. Go get Jennifer and tell her to bring her cell phone right away!”

  “Well, I never—” Fussy huffed.

  Kelly dropped her voice two octaves into the I’m-warning-you-Carl range. “Do it. Now. This is a crime scene, and the police need to be called. Go!”

  Mention of the police clearly got Fussy’s attention, because all color drained from her pinched face. She turned and ran from the house. Kelly took a deep breath and forced herself to look at her dead friend once more. How was this possible? Vickie was always so full of life and energy. Who would kill her? It had to be murder. Vickie had so many plans for the future. Kelly remembered her friend excitedly describing how her baby alpacas were already sold to other breeders. As soon as they were weaned from their mothers, she’d be “playing stork,” as Vickie laughingly referred to her delivery trips. No. Vickie hadn’t killed herself. Kelly was convinced.

  She slowly walked around the great room, trying to absorb every detail she could in case she was asked later. She disturbed nothing but noted everything. There was no sign of a knife anywhere. Did the killer sneak up on Vickie? There was no way Vickie would stand still and let a crazed person slit her throat. So, what happened? Kelly wondered.

  As she circled behind the sofa, Kelly spied a bronze bust lying on the floor beneath an end table. She remembered that piece because Vickie nearly knocked it over when she was hauling a huge weaving into the room to show them on their last visit. The Mozart bust. Kelly glanced to the cherry wood bookcase where she’d remembered it last. The space was empty.

  Jennifer burst through the front door and raced into the room. “Kelly! Is it true? Did someone kill—?” She skidded to a stop when she saw Vickie. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, hand to her throat. She went almost as white as Vickie.

  “Jen! Jennifer, give me your cell,” Kelly ordered in a sharp voice to snap her out of it.

  Color started to rise in Jennifer’s cheeks, and she shook her head as if to clear it. “Here.” She offered the phone. “I’m not sure we’ll have a signal, though. I lose it a lot in the mountains.”

  Kelly snapped open the cover, and, sure enough, there was no signal. One of the downsides of mountain living. “Damn,” she said. “I didn’t want to use the landline.”

  “Why?” Jennifer asked, turning away from the gruesome sight.

  “There may be fingerprints. I don’t want to smudge any before the police get here.” She searched her pockets. “Do you have a tissue or something I can use?”

  “Yeah, here.” Jennifer dug in her back pocket and handed one over.

  Kelly approached the kitchen, searching for a phone. Spying one on the wall, she carefully draped the tissue over the receiver and used her T-shirt to cover her dialing finger while she punched 9-1-1. She sincerely hoped she hadn’t accidentally wiped off any other fingerprints in the process.

  When the police operator came on the line, she calmly reported what she had found, where they were, and identified herself. The operator informed her that an investigative unit would be on the scene right away. Kelly gave the woman the description of Vickie’s farmhouse as well as how far up the canyon it was located before she hung up.

  Turning back to Jennifer, she saw her hovering at the edge of the sofa casting furtive peeks at Vickie. Death held an undeniable fascination for most people. Kelly remembered how her father looked when he died, but he was barely recognizable having wasted away with lung cancer. It wasn’t the same. Vickie had been in the prime of her mature life, full of anticipation for the future and joyful, loving her work and her art. Kelly glanced at her dead friend. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same at all.

  “Do you really think someone killed her?” Jennifer asked softly, as if someone was listening.

  “It has to be murder,” Kelly declared, even more emphaticall
y now. “Vickie wouldn’t kill herself. But even if she planned to, she would have done it another way. If she’d wanted to bleed to death, she’d have done it in the bathroom or in the tub or something. Not on top of her gorgeous rug.” Kelly shook her head.

  Jennifer shuddered. “What a gruesome thought. I mean, I’ve been down sometimes, but never enough to do that.” She grimaced again. “Who in the world would kill Vickie?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t imagine—”

  Suddenly, voices. Voices everywhere as the flock of touring knitters swarmed into the house and scattered about the great room, tittering and squealing and shivering in turns as they pointed and peeked.

  Kelly and Jennifer stood rooted in the kitchen, both clearly appalled at the sight. Vickie had been their friend, Kelly fumed within. Her death was not a stop on the tour schedule.

  Fussy fluttered to the head of the flock and pointed to the victim. “There she is!” she proudly proclaimed. “I found her just like that!”

  “That does it!” Kelly exploded as she strode over to the women. They were just like a bunch of magpies. She purposely stood between the flock and her fallen friend, then pointed to the door.

  “Get out now!” she ordered. “Vickie was our friend and you have no right to invade her privacy like this. Out!”

  “That’s right, ladies,” Jennifer spoke up. “This is a crime scene. You could get in trouble with the police for disturbing it. Now leave.” She shooed them away.

  Jennifer’s stretching of the truth worked. The flock squawked and scattered out the door. Fussy, however, held her ground. She puffed out her chest in full huff. “What about you two? You have no right to be here, then.”

  Kelly was beyond the point of politeness. Manners be damned. She pointed right between Fussy’s eyes. “You. Not another word. I mean it, or you’ll walk back to Fort Connor.” If Kelly’s voice sank any lower, it would be in the river at the bottom of the canyon.

  Fussy blanched, then turned and stalked out of the house, feathers dropping in her wake.

  “Whoa, you go, girl,” Jennifer teased. “I’d hate to see you really mad.”

  Kelly released a huge breath. “It’s not a pretty sight, trust me.”

  Just then, the sound of a wailing siren pierced the air, farther away, then coming closer. The police. Thank God, Kelly sighed in relief.

  “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Jennifer prodded and motioned to Kelly.

  Kelly took one last look at her murdered friend and followed Jennifer out the door.

  Three

  Kelly paced beside the pasture fence while she watched police detectives spread across Vickie’s property—interviewing visiting knitters, searching the barn, and hurrying in and out of the sprawling log home. Since Bellvue Canyon was in the county, not the city of Fort Connor, this case belonged to the county police. It was their jurisdiction, and Kelly was relieved to see the number of squad cars lining the driveway.

  The more cops, the sooner they’ll find whoever did this, Kelly told herself as she paced. The horror had worn off, and the sense of outrage that someone could snuff out a life as vital and worthwhile as Vickie’s took hold of Kelly now. Who could have done this awful thing?

  Uniformed policemen were scattered from pasture to front porch, each with a pair of overwrought visitors. The women chattered, and the officers dutifully wrote everything down. Maybe one of them had seen something Kelly hadn’t.

  Another policeman strode by with a man carrying a large video camera setup, and they both entered the house. Kelly imagined them photographing every inch of the great room. Who knew where clues might be hidden? She only hoped the flock of magpies hadn’t disturbed anything.

  She glanced toward the pasture and observed the alpacas scattered about, grazing and studying all the human activity. Kelly searched for any sign of agitation but wasn’t exactly sure what to look for. Her knowledge base about alpacas was pretty shallow. Vickie had been the one to educate most of them in the Tuesday evening group when she’d regale them with stories about the gentle beasts with the to-die-for soft wool.

  Fleece, she corrected herself. Kelly had learned that much, at least. Just like sheep, alpacas were sheared of their heavy coats in late spring or early summer. Once the wool was cleaned of debris, it was carded, then spun into yarn. She’d seen an alpaca shearing only last month, when Vickie had invited the knitting group to her ranch.

  Kelly’d been amazed how thick and heavy the fleece was, and how relieved the animals seemed to be when it was gone. Summer heat had already descended by early June. Kelly couldn’t imagine wearing her winter coat outside in those temperatures. No wonder the animals were glad to be rid of it, noticing how they carefully sniffed and inspected each other as they returned to the common pen. Kelly still remembered the loud buzz of the huge razor and the methodical, efficient, almost rhythmic way the female shearer moved around each animal.

  Jennifer’s voice sounded behind her. “Well, I told them everything I saw, and I was finished in two minutes. Your favorite has been enthralling that guy for at least ten.” She snickered and indicated Fussy across the driveway, still holding forth, gesturing animatedly to an attentive officer.

  Kelly turned away with a shudder. “I can’t look. Remember, you’re taking her home.”

  “I know, I know. You can have one of mine.”

  “A quiet one, please.”

  Jennifer laughed softly. “Boy, an afternoon with you without caffeine can sure turn ugly.”

  “Don’t even go there,” Kelly warned.

  “Too bad they won’t let us use the kitchen. I’ll bet Vickie has some coffee. Whoa, here comes another cop, heading for you, I’ll bet,” Jennifer observed. “I’ll make myself scarce and see if I can hunt up a cola or something.”

  “Please,” Kelly begged, watching a middle-aged, suit-clad policeman approach.

  “Ms. Flynn, I’m Lieutenant Peterson, the detective in charge. Can you go over some things with me, please?” the man asked, his notepad already open and poised.

  “Surely, detective, uh, Lieutenant Peterson. How can I help?”

  He paged through the notepad. “You said you noticed a bronze statue or bust lying on the floor near the victim, is that correct?”

  “Yes sir,” Kelly replied. “I noticed it because I’d seen the bronze before on an earlier visit. It usually sat on the cherry wood bookcase against the wall.”

  He scribbled away dutifully, then looked Kelly straight in the eye. “Ms. Flynn, can you think of anyone who might have wanted Vickie Claymore dead?”

  Kelly met his gaze. “No sir, I cannot. I never heard her say a bad word about anyone.” Something in the back of Kelly’s memory sent a niggling thought forward. Oh yes she did. There was one person Vickie had spoken of harshly.

  The detective’s gaze narrowed. “Are you sure?”

  “Well,” Kelly hesitated, not sure how much she should say. “She did say some strong things about her husband. Or, soon-to-be ex-husband, Bob Claymore.”

  “They were divorcing?” he asked as he wrote.

  “Yes, they were, but it wasn’t final yet.”

  “Was he still living here, do you know, or elsewhere?”

  “Vickie said he was living in town. In Fort Connor. He’s . . . uh . . . he’s a professor at the university. That’s all I know about him.” That wasn’t entirely truthful, but Kelly was already feeling uncomfortable talking about her friend’s personal business.

  “Was it amicable? The divorce, I mean?” The detective fixed her with his tell-the-truth look, which Kelly felt all the way down to her toes.

  “Not exactly,” she admitted. “I recall Vickie complaining to some of us at the knitting shop about Bob and, uh, the situation.” Complaining put it mildly, Kelly recalled. Vickie had been in a white-hot fury when she discovered Bob was having an affair with a fellow weaver—a woman named Eva Bartok.

  “Complaining about what?” he continued to grill, scribbling in the notebook.

>   Oh, brother, Kelly sighed within. Better tell him. “Vickie found out he was having an affair with a friend of hers. And . . . and she was pretty irate, to say the least.”

  “She was angry?”

  “Oh, yeah. Furious is more like it. She filed for divorce the following week.”

  “Do you know the other woman’s name?” he continued.

  “Yes, Vickie said it was Eva Bartok. I don’t know the woman personally and have never met her, so I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” Kelly answered, hoping the detective would let her go. He was like a pit bull.

  “Was Ms. Stroud present when Ms. Claymore spoke of her husband and the divorce?”

  Darn. Now Jennifer would be grilled, too. “Well, yes, she was, detective. You see, we’re both part of the same knitting group that Vickie belonged to. We meet every Tuesday night at the shop in town—House of Lambspun.”

  The detective glanced around the grounds. Most of the visitors had finished their interviews, Kelly noticed, and she was grateful that Jennifer had corralled them together near the barn. All except Fussy, that is. She was still holding forth. Kelly closed her eyes. What was that woman saying?

  “Are all these women in your knitting group?” he asked.

  “Heck, no.” Kelly caught herself before emitting her first response. “The rest of these folks are visiting from out of town and wanted to see a working alpaca ranch.” She shook her head. “I guess they saw more than they wanted on this trip.”

  “Probably so, Ms. Flynn,” he agreed and lowered his notebook. Kelly almost sighed in relief. “Thank you for your cooperation. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “I hope so, detective. I want whoever did this awful thing to Vickie to be caught and put in jail,” Kelly declared.

  “We’ll do our best, Ms. Flynn, I promise,” he assured her. “Can you think of anyone else that we should interview?”

  Kelly paused for a moment but couldn’t resist. “See that woman over there, gesturing?” She pointed toward Fussy. “I had the dubious pleasure of riding into the canyon with her. I’m sure she’ll tell you exactly how to run your investigation, detective.” She gave him a wry smile.