Needled to Death

by Sefton, Maggie

  “No problems that I know of,” Mimi said, shaking her head. “And she’s always so cheerful. Maybe I’m just worrying for nothing.”

  “You know, Mimi, when this ranch thing goes through, I’m going to really need your help,” Kelly said, deliberately changing the subject. “Both Ruth and Jayleen suggested I sell all those extra fleeces that are in storage to spinners and weavers online. I’m sure you do that already, so I’d appreciate any guidance.”

  “Of course, Kelly. I’ll walk you right through it.” Mimi patted her arm.

  The timer went off inside Kelly’s head, and she turned toward the door. “I’ll talk to you later, Mimi. I really should get more of my office work done this morning before I head into the canyon to help Debbie.”

  “How’s that coming, Kelly?” Mimi asked. I imagine Debbie is anxious to finish up so she can leave. She’s been here much longer than usual. I’m starting to worry about her. The last thing she needs is a bad asthma attack.”

  “I’d hoped to finish today or tomorrow,” Kelly said, pausing at the door. “But I had a voice message on my cell from Debbie yesterday. She said some investment statements came in by fax, and she has questions. So, it may take a little longer.” Smiling at worrywart Mimi, she added, “Don’t worry. I’ll finish as fast as I can so Debbie can leave.”

  Kelly reached for the door, but it opened on its own. Megan and Lisa stepped inside.

  “Hey, perfect timing,” Lisa said, heading toward the main room. “I want to hear all about yesterday. Megan already told me the scary part.”

  “You’ll have to fill her in on everything else, Kelly. After the bull, the rest is a blur,” Megan said, dropping her knitting bag on the library table.

  Kelly hesitated in the doorway, debating whether or not to stick to her regimented routine and go back to pore over client files, or . . . sit and knit with friends for a while. Friends won out. After all, she’d be spending the entire afternoon poring over Debbie’s accounts.

  “Go ahead, Kelly. I can tell you want to,” Mimi said with a knowing smile. “Those files of yours aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Don’t start reading my mind, Mimi,” Kelly warned with a grin. “My head can be a scary place sometimes. All those numbers and stuff.”

  She started toward the main room and her friends until she caught sight of a skein of the long-fringed fibers that had captivated her last week. Silky soft, wine-colored strands, rich purples from merlot to Beaujolais and rosé, spilling over into golds, the color of aged cognac and brash chardonnay. Kelly could almost taste the oak.

  Mimi’s soft laughter sounded behind her. “I’m not reading your mind this time, Kelly. All I have to do is look. Go ahead and start a new scarf. I’ve seen you lusting after that yarn for over a week. Do it.”

  “But I don’t have my needles with me,” she said. “I can run back and get them. Size fifteen, right?”

  “You take the yarn, and I’ll get you some more needles,” Mimi said, walking toward the front room. “If you go back home, you’ll feel guilty and sit down at the computer and work instead of knitting with your friends like you want to.”

  Kelly watched Mimi speed toward the front room and the knitting supplies. Brother, she really hoped other people couldn’t read her mind as easily as Mimi. How did she do that, anyway? Kelly selected a luscious skein and joined her friends.

  “Megan says you’ve got fleeces to spare,” Lisa said, her needles working another loose-weave vest. This fiber was different, not ribbons or fringe. It looked like feathery string.

  “Yes, and you’ll each get your own bag,” Kelly said, setting her mug on the library table as she pulled out a chair.

  “Wow, our own fleeces,” Megan said. A soft gray mohair was forming into a shawl in her lap. “I may have to take Burt’s spinning class again.”

  “Here you go, Kelly,” Mimi said, bustling into the room. “Use these for now, then you can transfer it to yours later. Or keep these. You can never have too many needles, you know.”

  “If you say so. Besides, it sounds tricky transferring onto other needles.” Kelly slipped the silky fibers from their wrapper.

  “Nope. It’s easy.”

  “I remember what happened the last time you said that,” Kelly reminded, winding a length of the wine-colored fibers around her hand in casting-on fashion. “Ohhhh, it’s so easy!” she taunted in a high-pitched voice.

  “Cast on ten, like your other scarf,” Mimi advised before she left the room.

  “Megan said the ranch is huge. Cows, sheep, even alpacas. Sounds fantastic, Kelly. I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Well, I’ll be going back up there on a weekend to sort through files. Help me sort, and I’ll buy dinner.”

  Lisa’s reply was drowned out by a booming contralto voice in the doorway behind them. “Returned from the wilds of Wyoming, have you?” Hilda exclaimed as she strode to the head of the table and sat down. “Jennifer told us all about your adventures. Thank heavens you’re safe and sound.” Lizzie fluttered in behind her sister and perched on the chair beside Kelly. “Goodness, dear. You had quite an experience up there, didn’t you? It was a very brave thing you did. But much too dangerous. Promise us you’ll be more careful next time.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Hilda said, peering over her glasses at Kelly. A frothy white shawl lay in her lap. “You’re too brave for your own good, Kelly. You don’t want to be foolhardy.”

  Kelly nodded dutifully as she cast on stitches. “I promise, ladies. I will never jump into a bull pen again. Megan will have to fend for herself next time.”

  “Megan, dear, you look in one piece. But I’m sure the experience was frightening,” Lizzie said in a hushed voice, her eyes wide. Lizzie’s nimble fingers were already working a salmon pink wool. Was that another baby sweater?

  Megan nodded obediently. “Oh, yes. I definitely plan to stay out of Wyoming, in case that bull has a memory.”

  “I have a sun hat for you, Megan,” Hilda added. “It ties under the chin. I suggest you use that when you’re out and about in the countryside.”

  “Why, thank you, Hilda, but I plan to stay in the city for quite a while.”

  “If it has a floppy brim, we can give it to Scarlett,” Kelly joked. “I’m sure she’ll use it.”

  “I heard that,” Jennifer said, pulling up a chair at the table. “And don’t make fun of Scarlett. She has great taste in hats.”

  “Beg pardon,” Hilda inquired. “Who is Scarlett?”

  “She’s one of the many personalities that Jennifer entertains us with periodically,” Kelly said, pushing the needle beneath a soft strand. The big needles and the silky-soft fiber made for slower going, she noticed. Like the boa eyelash yarns, it would be easy for extra stitches to “accidentally” creep onto the needle. Kelly vowed vigilance and counted the row.

  “There was a dear Southern lady in our altar guild several years ago,” Lizzie mused aloud. “Charlotte Something-or-another. Such a lovely, melodious accent, too. I loved listening to her speak.”

  “Why don’t you channel Scarlett for a couple of minutes?” Megan teased. “Lizzie would enjoy it.”

  Jennifer gave an airy wave of her hand. “I’m afraid Scarlett is busy right now and does not want to be disturbed. She’s sharing a julep with a handsome riverboat gambler. I’m sure you understand.”

  Lizzie giggled. “Oh, my, that does remind me. All the gentlemen used to flock around Charlotte, like flies to honey. Southern charm, I suppose.”

  “Nonsense, Lizzie. Her first husband left her a sizable estate, if I remember correctly,” Hilda remarked. “Money sets them buzzing.”

  “Well, there’s something else that sets men buzzing,” Jennifer said, a new sweater taking shape on her needles. “I learned that much in Wyoming.”

  Lizzie’s bright blue eyes lit up. “Really, dear. Do tell.”

  “Honestly, Lizzie. You’re incorrigible,” Hilda said, wagging her head in older sister fashion.

  “It’s bis
cuits,” Jennifer said solemnly.

  “Biscuits?” Lisa laughed. “What do you know about biscuits? You don’t cook.”

  “That’s precisely my point.” Jennifer heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I learned there’s a definite limit to sex appeal. Biscuits win out in the end.”

  Kelly noticed a flush creep up Megan’s pretty face as she concentrated on her knitting.

  “Okay, what’s with the biscuits?” Lisa demanded. “Megan didn’t say a thing.”

  “Megan made this fantastic breakfast for everybody at the ranch,” Kelly explained.

  “It wasn’t fantastic,” Megan demurred.

  “Was, too.”

  “The guys were all out roaming the range,” Kelly explained. “Jennifer, Jayleen, and I were working on ranch records, and we were all starving. So Megan goes into the kitchen and whips up this feast with bacon and eggs and homemade biscuits. She saved us all from starvation.”

  “Wow, homemade biscuits,” Lisa said. “I’m impressed.”

  “It was nothing,” Megan replied, cheeks tinged pink.

  “It was wonderful,” Kelly continued. “You should have seen her standing in the doorway calling us in to eat. She looked absolutely adorable in this cute apron—”

  “Oh, stop.”

  “Definitely adorable.”

  “—with flour on her nose,” Kelly continued with a grin.

  “Did not!”

  “Did, too.”

  “That’s all very charming, dear, but what does that have to do with sex?”

  “Lizzie! I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

  “I’ll tell you, Lizzie.” Jennifer turned to her with a wicked smile. “Scarlett was making progress with this handsome young cowboy named Chet. He’s the ranch manager. Anyway, things were coming along marvelously until Betty Crocker steps out on the porch and announces breakfast. With homemade biscuits, yet. Chet ran up those steps and into the house faster than you can say ‘Tara.’ He was gone with the wind.”

  “Enough,” Megan begged with a laugh.

  “Scarlett’s not exaggerating,” Kelly added. “Those three guys nearly killed each other trying to be the first one in the door. It was all we could do to find a seat at the table.”

  “I declare, it was so demoralizing,” Jennifer said, hand to breast. “I may be forced to take cooking lessons.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Lisa retorted.

  “Well, it all goes to prove what my mother said many a year ago,” Hilda intoned, fingers nimbly working the milky white froth foaming into a shawl in her lap.

  “Which saying was that, dear?”

  Hilda stared off into the yarn bins. “You can catch a man with cookies and cake, but you’ll hold him with good biscuits.”

  “Amen,” Jennifer said with a righteous nod.

  Kelly snickered. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not trying to hold on to anybody, because the biscuits I make come from a can.”

  “I didn’t want to hold on to Chet, just play with him for a little while.”

  “Jennifer!” Megan fussed, flushing brighter, as everyone else laughed.

  “I predict little ol’ Chet will be heading down to Fort Connor some weekend. Mind my words,” Jennifer said.

  “Well, he’s coming to see you, then,” Megan declared, picking up the knitting that had fallen in her lap.

  “Not on a bet,” Jennifer continued with a devilish smile. “He’ll be coming to see you. I may have nice buns, but he’s much more interested in your biscuits.”

  Kelly joined the laughter that rocked the table while Jennifer dodged every ball of yarn that Megan threw at her.

  Sixteen

  The curving road wound through the rugged, craggy ravine. Kelly steered easily around the curves as the road climbed up, up, up into Bellvue canyon. Thick pines clustered on both sides of the road, separated by boulders that looked like the slightest nudge would send them crashing down.

  She never minded this drive. Even though consulting for Debbie had doubled her workload, Kelly still looked forward to driving to the ranch. It was peaceful and relaxing. Of course, she’d never had to drive this road in the winter with snow and ice. Remembering some people’s stories, Kelly decided she definitely wouldn’t want to slide all the way to the bottom of this canyon.

  The road opened to patches of pine forests dotted with homes and fences. Modest bungalows perched beside a creek that cut through the canyon. Log homes, sturdy, two-story framed houses, and more elaborate construction appeared one after another along the road. Some sat side by side, others were separated by acres of pastures.

  Now that she’d climbed higher, Kelly could glimpse the vistas through the opening in the pines. It would be nice to have a mountain home here, a stray thought teased. Kelly pondered the idea for several minutes as she guided her car around the familiar bends and twists.

  That could only happen if she quit her Washington, D.C., job and stayed here permanently. But she couldn’t afford to quit. She’d been over this again and again in her mind and always came back to the same place. Still, the question danced through her mind like a feather on the wind, darting about when she least expected it.

  Another thought teased. What would happen if the Wyoming ranch turned out to be an income producer? Would she be able to quit the D.C. job and stay here? She’d already been away from the corporate accounting atmosphere for so long, Kelly wondered if she’d ever be able to “suit up” again and live in such a regimented fashion as before. These few months here in Fort Connor had given her a taste of something she’d forgotten, something she didn’t even know she lacked: freedom. Kelly had never thought of her former life as lacking freedom, until she came here. Until she came back home.

  What would she do, Kelly mused, if she had the choice? That thought played in her mind while she drove through the alpine scenery of the upper canyon. The images her imagination created were intriguing enough to hold her attention until she turned a bend in the road and approached Vickie’s ranch. Then, the unwelcome sight of police cars in the driveway scared every pleasant thought away.

  Kelly drove down the driveway, her heart pounding. What happened? Had a burglar broken in at night? Where was Debbie? She screeched her car to a halt and jumped out, slamming the door. Debbie was nowhere in sight. Kelly surveyed the pastures. Vickie’s alpacas were grazing normally. They didn’t look perturbed at all, Kelly noticed. Maybe Debbie had heard a prowler.

  She spotted a uniformed officer heading her way, and Kelly sped toward him. “Officer, what’s happened here?”

  “Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to leave,” the young man said. “When we have more information, we’ll answer questions, but not right now.”

  Kelly’s breath caught in her throat. “Officer, I work with the owner of this property. My name is Kelly Flynn, and I’ve been working with the ranch owner, Debbie Hurst.” Kelly caught sight of Lieutenant Peterson standing on the front porch. “There’s Lieutenant Peterson,” she said, pointing. “He knows me. Could I speak with him a moment, please?”

  “Lieutenant Peterson is very busy right now,” the officer replied in a perfunctory tone. “When we have—”

  “Officer, I was the one who found Vickie Claymore’s body two weeks ago,” Kelly interrupted. “I believe Lieutenant Peterson will give me a couple of minutes. Please.”

  The young man’s expression changed instantly. “I’ll be right back, ma’am,” he said and scurried off.

  Kelly watched him speak with Peterson and saw the detective turn her way. To her relief, Peterson walked toward her. “Lieutenant Peterson, you remember me, don’t you?” she asked as he drew near.

  “Yes, I do, Ms. Flynn. What brings you out to this ranch today? You’ve got incredible timing,” he said.

  “I’ve been helping Debbie Hurst sort through her mother’s business records and create financial statements so the estate can be settled. Usually, I meet Debbie here in the office in the back.” Kelly pointed toward the
other side of the house, even though she had a sinking feeling Lieutenant Peterson already knew where it was.

  “Ms. Flynn, when was the last time you spoke with Debbie Hurst?” he asked, slipping a familiar notepad from his pocket.

  The cold feeling that had been creeping into her gut claimed Kelly now. “Where’s Debbie, Lieutenant? Is she all right?”

  Peterson caught Kelly’s frightened gaze and held it. She could feel his probing. “No, Ms. Flynn, she’s not. I’m afraid she’s dead.”

  Kelly froze for a second. She was sure her breath was frosted. “How . . . what . . . what happened?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to discover, Ms. Flynn. Ms. Hurst was found on the floor of the office last night. She was not breathing. Apparently, she suffered a severe respiratory attack, so we’re trying to determine the exact cause of death. Now, back to my question. When did you speak with her last?”

  The ice in her brain started melting. “Yesterday, I had a message from her on my cell phone. I was in Wyoming with some friends all day yesterday, then I was playing softball last night, so I didn’t speak with her personally. It was the day before when I spoke with her. We were here working in the office together.”

  “Did she seem upset? Or did she look as if she were having trouble breathing?”

  “Well, she always has difficulty breathing up here at the ranch, because of the grasses and all. That’s why she uses an inhaler. But she was acting normally. I mean, she’s been very anxious to get these records finished so she could leave for her home in Arizona. This whole trip has been stressful for her, and all of her friends have been worried.”

  “Was she disturbed about anything? Anything recent?” Peterson asked, scribbling in his notepad.

  “No,” Kelly answered, surprised at the question. Then she remembered Debbie’s voice message. “The only thing I recall was the voice message she left yesterday. She said the faxed bank statements had some discrepancies, and she wanted to go over them with me. That’s why I’m here,” Kelly added in a plaintive voice.

  “What time was that call? Can you check your phone?”