by Hannah Reed
“I need a name, Andrea,” I pressed.
“Then ye’ll have tae get it from Lily.”
“Was it Harry Taggart?” I asked.
Andrea looked shocked. “Harry? He has a very good and trusting nature, and wouldn’t be part o’ something sordid such as that. Now, I best be off.”
“We’re almost finished, please, another minute. I hear Senga Hill worked with the books at one point.”
“She did, but only fer a short time, and she left quickly under stressful conditions. If ye be thinking Senga had anything tae do with the missing funds, it’s possible but I doubt it. She wasn’t with the hospice very long before she was removed from the office, so she couldn’t have been tampering with the collections.”
I nodded, out of questions for the time being. “If you think of anything else that might be useful,” I said, “please feel free to contact me. Oh, and before you go, I’ll need your yarn kit. I promise it will be returned after our investigation is completed.” Meaning, once we have the killer in custody, and assuming your skein wasn’t the murder weapon.
“Of course,” Andrea said. She returned, climbed the steps, unlocked the door, and disappeared inside. I walked up to the top step and received her kit when she reappeared. As several of the other members had done, she’d already begun knitting the socks.
The only kit left was Harry’s sister’s. The skein of yarn from that kit must have been used to strangle Isla. I thought of Harry sitting at the table in my cottage, answering questions. He’d seemed so honest when he told me he’d sent the kit off with his sister. If her kit had been missing the skein, wouldn’t his sister have noticed? As bad as it looked, there had to be a logical explanation.
“You’re still looking fer missing yarn from one of the kits, then?” Andrea asked.
Reluctant to divulge that information (though obviously she was right since I was requesting that she relinquish hers), I nodded.
“How many still need tae be checked?” she wanted to know next.
I really wished she hadn’t asked that question. “Several,” I answered vaguely. “Next, I’m collecting the one Harry Taggart picked up for his sister.”
Surprise registered briefly in Andrea’s eyes and expression, and her body stiffened for a moment before she regained her composure and started down the steps. I followed closely.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, it was definitely something. What was it?”
We stopped at the bottom of the steps.
“I dinnae want to cause trouble fer anybody, especially my friends,” she said.
“Keeping quiet when you should be speaking up would cause the most trouble,” I told her, winging it. “So, tell me what it is.”
“All right, but first, are ye absolutely sure about the yarn being fer Harry’s sister?”
Something was off.
“Of course,” I said. “He told me himself that she picked her kit up from him, and took it home with her to Glasgow. She’s mailing it back to us now.” A pit opened up in my stomach as Andrea looked like she’d rather be any place but here with me. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t like sayin’ it.”
“Saying what?”
“That Harry Taggart doesnae haff a sister.”
CHAPTER 22
The Glenkillen Hospice impressed me. It was a large version of a home, with warm brickwork and well-tended, attractive gardens leading to the front door. As I waited impatiently in the parking lot for the inspector to arrive, memories of my mother’s final days came rushing back to me. Especially the end-of-life support from our local hospice in Chicago—how skillfully the nurses assigned to her home care had helped manage her pain, and how they’d assisted me in coping. My mother had been fortunate: she’d been able to remain in her apartment. Some aren’t so lucky. The terminally ill don’t always have family members who are able or willing to tend to their needs. That’s why having a place like this for them to receive treatment is so important.
I reaffirmed that I’d made the right decision when I decided not to renew the lease on the Chicago apartment I’d shared with her toward the end. It was time to move on, leave the past and the darkness of those final days behind me.
I turned my thoughts to the case and Harry Taggart’s nonexistent sister.
Why had he lied? Did he really think he’d get away with his deception? It certainly made him look guilty. Had he lied about the whole “Isla was stealing” story he spun for me? Could Harry have been the one who was skimming, and Isla the one who was about to rat him out? Had he killed her to keep her quiet?
I got out of the Peugeot when Inspector Jamieson pulled up and parked next to me.
“Ye can’t let yer emotions take hold,” he said when he unfolded from the seat and saw the expression on my face.
“Harry almost ran me down,” I said, although the inspector had already been apprised of that fact when I’d called him after leaving Andrea. “I thought it was an accident at the time, but now . . .” I left the rest hanging.
“It might well haff been just that. Carelessness on Harry’s part. When we go in, it would be best if ye keep yer personal opinions and thoughts tae yerself, and just observe. Ye cannae assume the man is our killer right yet.”
“Of course,” I snipped, annoyed that he felt it necessary to advise me on proper conduct. Wasn’t that plain common sense? Although I had convicted Harry in my mind only a few minutes earlier.
“We’ll wait a bit until ye pull yerself taegether,” the inspector said.
That annoyed me even more, but I made an effort to shake off any preconceived ideas about Harry’s guilt. Or at least get them in check for the time being, no matter how damning the evidence against him.
Inside, the hospice had a pleasant, homey atmosphere, with plenty of natural light, radiating peace and tranquility. We walked past a large meet-and-greet area that opened up to a courtyard and passed by several other rooms, then the kitchen and dining room.
The inspector was acquainted with the layout. “Across the courtyard, in another wing,” he informed me, “are private rooms occupied by those living out their end days.”
I couldn’t help worrying about what would happen to the hospice or its reputation if the head of the organization went to prison for murder. The thought made me sad.
The sight of Harry just made me mad.
I studied him across his desk as we appeared in the doorway to his office. He rose and offered us seats.
“We haff a problem,” the inspector told him as soon as we were seated, foregoing any semblance of small talk and getting right to the point of our visit. “It seems that all the other yarn club member’s skeins have been eliminated as havin’ been instrumental in the death o’ Isla Lindsey. Except the one ye sent off with yer sister.”
I understood the inspector’s reasoning. Hit Harry with a shocking statement coming out of left field and he won’t have time to concoct alibis and excuses.
He was shocked, all right.
Harry blanched as white as one of the MacBride’s hill sheep. Even his eyes went wild, like the sheep’s do when they’re cornered and frantically searching for a way out.
The inspector didn’t appear to notice the change in Harry’s composure, or if he did, he hid it well. “Tell us aboot this sister o’ yers,” he continued.
Harry looked about to keel off his chair. “Wha’? Wha’ about her?”
“The one you don’t have,” I piped up and said, not able to control myself any longer. Watching him sweat was only satisfying to a certain degree. After that, I wanted the truth.
The inspector shot me a warning with his eyes.
I shrugged a weak apology while a gurgling sound came from deep inside Harry’s throat.
“I was going tae come forward,” he managed to g
et out.
“Were ye now?” the inspector said. “And when were ye goin’ tae do this?”
“It’s . . . awkward.”
“Awkward?” I exclaimed. “I can just imagine!”
“Now, Constable Elliott,” said the inspector, resigned to playing the good cop, “we need tae give Harry a chance tae explain himself properly without jumpin’ tae conclusions.”
Taking the bad cop role was fine with me. Since I felt out of sorts anyway.
Except, watching Harry, I was suddenly having a hard time picturing him killing Isla. For one thing, he’d signed his imaginary sister up at least a month prior to the September distribution. He’d concocted this “sister” much earlier than Isla’s murder had occurred. That meant major premeditation on Harry’s part, which didn’t explain why he would pick such a public crime scene.
Besides, he must have realized that his deception wouldn’t hold up; it’s not as if it would be difficult to prove that he didn’t have a sister.
“I can explain,” Harry said, taking a drink from a glass of water on his desk, his hand shaking so violently that he spilled more than he drank. “I apologize fer deceiving ye. It’s just that what started out as a little white fib turned into a whopper after Isla was murdered. And by then, I didn’t know how to make it right.”
“This is a fine time tae make it right,” the inspector suggested.
Harry hung his head. “Ye see,” he said, “the yarn kit was fer meself.”
Harry was a closet knitter? Really? Did I look as surprised as I felt?
“Um . . .” was all that came out of my mouth.
“I don’t dare knit in public,” Harry said, quickly glancing up, “thinkin’ my mates would never let me hear the end o’ it.”
I could understand his decision to hide his hobby. Maybe he wasn’t as confident in his masculinity as he might be and so kept his knitting a secret. I could imagine bullies—like Isla—picking on this tall, thin man whose round shoulders gave him a slightly bent posture. Put knitting needles in his hands and he might very well be judged harshly by shallow, narrow-minded people.
Had I ever seen a man knitting? No, but I was open to the idea. Certain men might mock him, but I bet women would welcome Harry with open arms. Manly knitters. Hunh. I glanced sharply at the inspector, trying to gauge his reaction, but he was as unreadable as always.
“It was me da who taught me when I was a wee lad,” Harry explained. “He was a sailor, and he’d picked it up while at sea. But at school a few o’ the biggest bullies made fun o’ me. Da said tae ignore them, but it’s a painful thing tae be picked on at such an early age, and it scarred me.”
The inspector maintained his neutral professional manner. “So ye say yer father was a sailor?” he said when Harry finished. “I’ll be checking all the facts so ye best be telling the truth this time or we’ll be hookin’ ye up to a lie detector test and putting ye through the paces.”
“It’s true! I swear it. When I found out about the yarn club, I made up a sister so I wouldnae haff to go through the teasin’. How was I tae know that some o’ that same type o’ yarn would be used for murder? And now ye say ’tis me own yarn as well?”
Elbows on the desk, Harry buried his hands in his face. Either he was a skilled actor, or he really was terribly upset.
“Where’s yer kit?” the inspector asked.
Harry shook his head, but didn’t answer.
“Are ye refusing tae tell us?”
Harry stared down at the desk, silent.
An idea came to me, one that would test the truth of Harry’s claim that he could knit. I rose and said, “I’ll be right back.” Then I rushed through the hospice and pushed through the entryway doors while I placed a call to Vicki.
“I need a little information on male knitters,” I told her when she answered, outside now and almost to my car. “I’m in a hurry though. Do you know any?”
“Ohhh . . . I just love a man who knits,” she said, practically gushing. “In California I knew so many! It was much more common there than here. There were men’s groups with the best names—Bros and Rows, Knitty Gritty, and my personal favorite, Knit Like a Man.” Then she laughed. “I remember what the male crocheters used to say—real men don’t knit, they crochet. Give me one who does either, and I might fall in love.”
“What about here in Scotland?” I unlocked the Peugeot, grabbed Andrea’s yarn kit, and retraced my steps while listening to Vicki. “Any men’s groups in the Highlands?”
“Not that I’m aware of, which is a shame. Knitting was once a male-dominated occupation in Scotland, did you know?” she said. “The sailors and sheepherders would knit sweaters and such in their spare time. It wasn’t an uncommon sight. But now that you mention it, I don’t think I’ve seen a single man knitting here.”
That fit with what Harry had told us about his father. I thanked Vicki for the information and disconnected right as I walked into the office and deposited Andrea’s yarn kit on Harry’s desk, saying, “Show us your stuff, Harry. Add a row to this.” Then I sat back down, feeling pretty pleased with myself.
Harry stared at the heap. “Now?”
The inspector waited without comment. So did I.
Harry picked up the needle with the looped stitches, looked at it, and said, “I’m left-handed. Whoever did this was right-handed.”
Harry was left-handed? Interesting. The inspector, incidentally, was left-handed as well—that had been one of the first things I noticed about him. So was I, which was the main reason I’d struggled with learning to knit. I hadn’t been able to find a left-handed teacher, and most of the ones I’d had just wanted me to learn right-handed, since, as they put it, “that would be easiest.” Easiest for whom exactly? Not for me, that was for sure.
I removed the needles and undid the rows Andrea had already started.
“Now try,” I said to Harry.
With that, he picked up the yarn and the needles and cast on (one of the few terms I remember from my failed lessons), then hooked a piece of yarn around his thumb and wove the needle deftly through a loop, tightening the new stitch onto the needle. I might not know the first thing about knitting, but I’d watched Vicki enough to confirm that Harry wasn’t a novice knitter.
At least that much was true.
As he continued to work the row, I realized that—assuming we didn’t have to send him to prison for murder—I had found myself a qualified knitting instructor. As another tidy row appeared, I had visions of gorgeous knits dancing in my head.
“Hang on a tic,” Harry said, placing his handiwork on the desk. He pulled open one of his desk drawers and reached in. The inspector was on his feet before I could react.
“Careful, Harry,” he warned, moving around the side of the desk.
“I’m only wantin’ tae show ye my latest project.” And with that, he withdrew a brown scarf that was almost finished.
“We believe you, Harry,” I said, realizing I’d tensed up right along with the inspector when Harry had made the unexpected move. My voice had an edge to it. “You do know how to knit. That’s obvious now.”
“That’s all fine and good, but the crucial thing at the moment is yer own yarn kit,” the inspector told him, once Harry placed his handiwork back in the desk drawer.
Jamieson remained on his feet.
Harry went back to looking nervous and sweaty. I was willing to accept his reason for deceiving us with a trumped-up sister, but he shot back up on my personal suspect list when he said, “I don’t have it.”
“Why not?” I asked, thinking that was convenient.
Harry had that drowning look again—various shades of unnatural coloring, frightened eyes, gasping for air. “It’s gone missing.”
The inspector didn’t look neutral any longer as he said, “Ye won’t be getting out o’ this that easily. Start explaining
.”
Harry had a pleading expression on his face. “I picked up the yarn kit from the welcome table and placed it on the seat in my truck. After that I didn’t give it another thought. I was judging the trials, keeping busy with the run-off fer winner, and then Eden here and Oliver Wallace found Isla’s body. Ye can’t blame me fer not thinking about the yarn kit. It wasn’t until the next day that I remembered it. When I went out tae the truck, it was gone.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of this new development. Perhaps if I wanted Harry to teach me to knit it would have to take place behind bars after all. “You told me your sister would mail it back? What was the point of lying about that? Wouldn’t that have been the perfect time to come clean?”
“I didn’t know wha’ tae do.”
“This doesnae look good, Harry,” the inspector said.
“Ye have tae believe me.”
“I’ll have more questions fer ye later,” the inspector said abruptly.
“I’m not arrested?” Harry asked, as surprised as I was that he was still free. “I didn’t kill her, ye know. I had no reason tae kill her. Isla did a good job with the volunteers and sure, she could be overbearing at times, but she took care o’ business as though it were her own.”
Harry would have done himself a big favor by keeping quiet for the time being. He was off the hook for the moment and he should have taken advantage of it. Instead he gave the inspector more food for thought.
“Yet ye had words with her after the meeting,” Jamieson said. “Over discrepancies and by then ye knew from the audit that she’d been embezzling from the hospice. That sounds like a possible reason tae me.”
“But why would I murder her? All I wanted was the money returned. I was willing tae look the other way once that happened. No sense destroying the woman. She was misguided, was all.”
All the while we’d been in Harry’s office, I’d wanted to mention Bill’s accusation, even though I was certain that the drunk had misread the meaning of the discussion between Harry and Isla. But Harry had been beside himself as it was, without that particular rumor raising its ugly head. Was I exceptionally sensitive to hurtful gossip and its lasting effect on others? Was that why I had been reluctant to broach it? Since the inspector hadn’t, either, I had to assume that I’d made the right decision to let it go.