Knit One, Kill Two

by Maggie Sefton

  Mimi touched Kelly’s arm. “You go over to the police department and ask those questions, Kelly. I know you’ve been anxious. We’ll look for the quilt while you’re gone.” Gesturing around the bright, open rooms, she added, “As you can see, we’re almost finished here, so there’ll be plenty of eyes searching. Don’t worry. We’ll look in every corner of house and garage.”

  “Thanks, Mimi.” Kelly gestured to the others. “All of you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I . . . I . . .”

  “Go on. We’ll handle this,” Lisa pointed to the door. “Go talk to the cops. And if anybody’s rude to you, write down the name and Burt’ll go beat ’em up.”

  “Lisa,” Mimi scolded with a laugh. “Ellen’ll kill us if we get Burt all riled up. He’s here with us to relax, remember? Go on, shoo, Kelly. We’ve got it.”

  Kelly did as she was told, grateful once again for the outpouring of help and support Mimi and her “knitting shop regulars” had showered on her since her arrival. She wasn’t used to such support. It felt good.

  “I know how upset you must feel, Ms. Flynn,” spoke the grey-haired matron with the familiar sad voice. Kelly remembered that voice from the many phone calls. “Families suffer so much when a tragedy like this happens. But rest assured, the investigation into your aunt’s unfortunate murder is being handled with the utmost care.”

  Kelly glanced through the glass window of the small room she’d been ushered into when Officer Delahoy first greeted her. Outside, the main office of the police department looked no different from any business office, except that half the staff were in uniform, light-blue shirts and dark pants. Kelly wondered how many had worked on Helen’s case. Glancing back to Officer Delahoy’s kind brown-eyed gaze, she asked, “You said you weren’t part of the investigation into my aunt’s murder, right?”

  Officer Delahoy smiled modestly. “No, Ms. Flynn, I wasn’t. I’m a community liaison officer. I work with families who’ve been impacted by crimes, either directly or indirectly, like yourself. I direct them to grief counseling, therapy, whatever is needed. Did you want to see someone? I can arrange it.”

  “No, no,” Kelly deliberately suppressed a smile. She hadn’t come for counseling. She wanted answers. “No, I’ve got several questions about the suspect you’ve apprehended and—”

  “Oh, well, I can answer that for you, Ms. Flynn. He’s been a troublesome vagrant, an incorrigible drunk and disorderly for years. Been arrested for trespassing all over the Old Town area. He’s been incarcerated more times than I can count.” Her hand gave a dismissive wave. “He was seen near your aunt’s house and ran when he saw police. Our officers caught him, of course,” she said with a proud smile.

  Kelly took a deep breath and gave Officer Delahoy her most affable smile. “Yes, Officer, thank you, I remember you telling me all that on the phone earlier. But now I have some different questions about the investigation itself. Could I speak with one of the detectives who was directly involved? Is one of them here?” She glanced through the glass again, then back to the crestfallen officer.

  “Uh, well, I could check,” she said, frowning a bit. Clearly Kelly’s request was not a daily routine.

  “Would you?” Kelly enthused. “I’d be so appreciative.”

  “Wait right here, and I’ll see what I can do, okay?” Delahoy instructed as she turned to leave.

  Kelly nodded and reached for the weak coffee she’d been nursing for the last half hour. Swishing the remains in the small Styrofoam cup, she downed the last of the weak brew. Ack! How could people drink such stuff? she wondered, and screwed up her face as she tossed the cup into the trash.

  The tiny room was antiseptically clean, gray, and cold. Kelly wondered if they kept it that way on purpose. She shivered, as various scenes from movie police dramas started running through her head—interrogations, confessions, accusations—until the door opened and a tall, heavy-set man with bushy gray eyebrows entered. Kelly sat up straighter.

  “Ms. Flynn? I’m Lieutenant Morrison.” His deep voice seemed to resonate in the room. He sat down across from Kelly and leaned back into the metal chair, a black folder in his hand. “Officer Delahoy said you had some questions about the investigation. I was the lead investigator on the case. How can I help you?”

  Kelly took a moment before she answered the imposing detective. “Thank you for giving me your time, Lieutenant Morrison,” she started, flashing a charming smile. Morrison didn’t return it. “My first question concerns this suspect you’ve arrested. Exactly why do you believe he was responsible for my aunt’s murder?”

  “Well, to start with, he was seen near your aunt’s home by two officers and ran from them when they attempted to question him. He was intoxicated, well over the legal limit, and combative. Had to be restrained, in fact. This individual has been a particularly troublesome vagrant for a few years. Arrested for drunk and disorderly, trespassing, loitering, and public nuisance. So, we’ve had our eye on him.” Morrison tapped the folder against his dark-blue trouser leg. “But last summer his behavior turned violent. He attacked an elderly woman who resides near Old Town. Only about a mile from your aunt’s home. She walked out on her patio one summer night and saw him urinating on her rosebushes. She yelled at him, and he cussed her out.”

  Kelly wasn’t sure, but something suspiciously like a smile tugged at Morrison’s mouth. Surely not. It disappeared, and Kelly kept her rapt attention.

  “Well, some old ladies would have been shocked and run inside and called us. But not this one. She cussed him back, then grabbed her broom and started to swat him. Well, he grabbed it and whacked her in the head. Knocked her down, but not out. Then he ran away, and she called us, which she should have done in the first place,” Morrison said with a stern frown. “She was able to describe him well enough so that we recognized him. He denied it all, of course. Couldn’t remember a thing. Liquor has fried most of his brain, no doubt. His memory, anyway. But she picked him out of a lineup.”

  “Wasn’t he tried and sent to prison?” Kelly asked. “That sounds like assault.”

  Morrison’s bushy eyebrows moved in agreement. “It is, but the judge decided to try intervention instead and placed the individual in an alternative treatment facility. Rehab, you might say.” He flicked imaginary lint from his trouser.

  Kelly could tell Morrison did not agree with the judge’s decision, so she ventured, “Doesn’t sound like it took.”

  The detective grunted. “You might say that. Unfortunately for your aunt. This might not have happened if this guy was still doing time.”

  Clearly, Lieutenant Morrison believed he’d found his man. “You know, I’ve got some other questions about the money, Lieutenant. Why hasn’t more of it been found? I mean, I was shocked to learn from the lawyer that the amount was twenty thousand dollars, and yet none of it has been recovered.”

  “I’m afraid not, Ms. Flynn. Only her empty purse was found, thrown into the bushes beside the trail.”

  “You know, that doesn’t make sense,” she didn’t bother to hide her skepticism. “This guy runs off with twenty thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money scattered beside the river. Someone should have noticed and reported it, don’t you think? Some honest citizen, perhaps?”

  Morrison observed her in silence for a moment before answering. Kelly got the impression he was assessing her. “They’re a lot of people that use that trail, Ms. Flynn. Particularly late at night. And some of them aren’t exactly what you’d called ‘honest citizens.’ Their first instinct if they found a bunch of money lying under the bushes would be to grab it and run like hell. In fact, that’s what we think happened. One or two guys found the cash, grabbed it, and caught a bus out of town. There’s a midnight bus to Denver, you know. They’re long gone by now, I’m afraid.”

  “How would they even see the money? It was nighttime, right?”

  “There was a full moon that night and a slight breeze.
If those bills started blowing across someone’s path, believe me, they’d notice.”

  Kelly deliberately stared at the wall behind him as she considered what he’d said. It made sense. Why then did something nag at her inside?

  “I know this whole idea comes as a shock to you, Ms. Flynn, but we deal with individuals like this all the time. Some money comes into their lives suddenly, they grab it and disappear. Go wherever they think it’s safe. Drink it up, gamble it away, usually get the rest stolen from them. It’s sad, I know.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s all too coincidental, that’s what bothers me.”

  “Coincidental?” Bushy eyebrows argued with each other.

  “Yes. My aunt gets a loan from a sleazy lender even though we’d refinanced three years ago. Then goes to the bank and cashes the check for this huge amount of money. Huge to her, at least.” Kelly lets the frustration into her voice. “And then, the very night she has all this money in her purse, a vagrant just happens to walk in and robs her. And kills her!” She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Lieutenant Morrison. Helen lived in that house for the last four years, and I never heard her complain about prowlers or fear of someone even peeking in her windows, let alone robbing her. It’s just all too . . . too . . .”

  “Random?” Morrison supplied. “Crime often is, Ms. Flynn. I know that’s no consolation, but I’m afraid it’s all we’ve got to give you.”

  Kelly looked him in the eye. “Has this guy confessed yet?”

  Morrison shook his head. “No. Claims he doesn’t remember doing anything after he finished off the liquor. But that’s exactly what he said last year after the other assault. I told you, he’s fried his brain.”

  “Can you actually convict someone when they don’t remember the crime? How does that work?”

  “He’ll get a fair trial, Ms. Flynn. Rest assured. Now, do you have any more questions?”

  Not right now, Kelly thought to herself, but she knew when she was being dismissed. “I guess not, Lieutenant Morrison,” she said as she started to stand up. Then she remembered something that had niggled in the back of her brain. “Oh yes, I was wondering if you’d discovered anything damaged or broken in the house when you, uh . . . when you found her.”

  Morrison flipped open the file at last and scanned it. Kelly stared covetously at the folder.

  “There was an overturned chair near the dining room table, but no furnishings seemed to be damaged,” he said, scanning the report. “Victim was found facedown on the living room carpet, about six feet from the table. Victim was still wearing rings and wristwatch. On the floor beside her was one broken knitting needle, another knitting needle with a single loop of purple yarn, and a bundle or skein, whatever you call it, of the same purple yarn. That’s all we found near the body.”

  “A broken needle?” Kelly probed, her instinct buzzing. “Did you find the rest of what she was knitting? Knowing Helen, she was always knitting something.”

  “So we were told,” he muttered as he turned the page and read. “We were curious as well, so we searched throughout the house and outside, but we never found any separate knitted item that matched the yarn.”

  “Now, that’s strange, Lieutenant. Jewelry is left but Helen’s knitting is stole?” Kelly sharpened her skeptical tone.

  Morrison flipped through the pages before answering. “When a person commits a violent criminal act, sometimes they do strange things, Ms. Flynn.”

  “I’ve also discovered my aunt’s heirloom quilt missing. It hung on the wall for more than thirty years, and now it’s gone. We can’t find it anywhere. Why would the killer steal a quilt?”

  “What makes you think it was stolen?” Morrison said. “She may have given it to someone.”

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  Morrison stared at her but made no reply, his skepticism obvious. Then, he placed the folder on the table and folded his arms. “Do you have any other questions?”

  “Just one. Who was it that actually discovered my aunt’s body? I think Officer Delahoy mentioned an off-duty policeman.”

  “Yes, two of our officers had just gotten a midnight meal from a nearby drive-thru and drove over to the driveway between your aunt’s and the knitting shop to park and eat. They told me that driveway afforded them a good place to watch the shopping center across the street without being seen.”

  “And that’s when they found her.”

  Morrison nodded. “Yes, they noticed the front door open and lights streaming out, and knew that was unusual. You see, our officers knew your aunt’s habits, and they knew that an open door wasn’t normal for her. So, they went to investigate. It’s a good thing they did, too, because it was while they were checking around outside in the yard that they spotted this guy crossing the golf course, heading toward the river.” Morrison nodded in apparent satisfaction at his men’s efficiency. “They called out to him, and he took off.”

  Kelly, however, picked up a detail. “Golf course? I was told he was seen near my aunt’s house.”

  Morrison scowled. “The golf course borders your aunt’s property, Ms. Flynn.”

  “It’s a big golf course, Lieutenant, and it also borders two streets and Old Town. This guy could have been weaving his way toward the river,” she challenged.

  “We think not, Ms. Flynn. Why do you doubt our officer’s account?”

  Kelly grabbed her purse and skirted from behind the table, glad she was as tall as the detective. “I don’t necessarily doubt it, Lieutenant. I’m just concerned. I’m sure you understand. I want to make sure that my aunt’s killer is caught and punished. That’s all.”

  “So do we, Ms. Flynn.”

  “That’s very reassuring, Lieutenant,” she said as she opened the door to leave. “Thank you so much for your time. I’ll stay in touch.”

  Four

  Kelly caught sight of the moving shapes the moment she pulled in front of the cottage. Someone was in the backyard with Carl. What th—? she thought, slamming the car door. The sound of Carl’s growling reached her eyes. Oh no. What if someone jumped the fence and Carl decided to protect his newfound territory? Images of lawsuits flashed before her eyes.

  Racing around the corner bushes, Kelly came to an abrupt stop. It couldn’t be. No way. He was in San Francisco with his artist girlfriend. It was impossible, but the guy rolling around in the backyard with her Rottweiler bore a startling resemblance to Jeff, the Slime, her ex-boyfriend who’d dumped her after college.

  Now that she was closer, Kelly recognized the familiar sounds of rough dog-play. Jeff used to play with Carl the exact same way—rolling on the ground, apparently unconcerned his hand was in a Rottweiler’s mouth, laughing as if it were great fun. Kelly never quite captured that concept.

  “Hey, mister! Who are you and what’re you doing in Helen’s, uh, my yard?” she yelled at the moving shapes. “Carl, stop! That’s enough!”

  Carl ignored her, obviously enjoying himself too much with the tussle. “Carl! Is that your name, fella?” the guy said, reaching around the dog’s neck in a wrestling move. Carl responded with an excited yelp and more growling, as the guy laughed and rolled to the side. Carl darted after the rolling toy. For the first time, Kelly saw a glove in Carl’s mouth.

  Kelly noticed there was a big pile of dog poop not far away, and this idiot was headed right for it. What was it about rolling around with a dog on the ground that was fun? Gotta be a guy thing. “Hey, c’mon, mister!” she yelled again, heading toward the gate. “You may think it’s fun now, but if he accidentally bites you, then you’ll change your mind. And I can’t afford a lawsuit right now.”

  “Whoa, Carl. Let me up,” the guy protested, crawling to his knees. But Carl wasn’t finished yet, and jumped from behind, sending the guy sprawling. The guy just laughed, but Kelly saw dog poop at three o’clock and closing fast.

  “Carl, c’mon, let him up,�
�� she ordered in her stern attempt-at-dog-control voice. Didn’t work. But this time, the guy was able to dodge Carl’s lunge and scramble to his feet.

  In his disappointment at game being over, Carl barked and dropped the glove, which the guy snatched. “Got it!” he crowed. “That’s mine.” He shoved the glove deep into his jeans pocket as he strolled toward Kelly and the gate. Carl responded by dancing in front of him, clearly hoping for more play.

  “Did he grab your glove or something?” Kelly asked. “How did it get over here, anyway?”

  Now that the guy was closer, she could see the resemblance to Jeff was faint. Tall and lean, this guy had brownish-blond short hair instead of carefully cut, sun-streaked blond. His face was different, too. His was a square jaw line, sharp nose, and blue eyes, not the Slime’s almost too-handsome features. Although it was faint, the resemblance was close enough to stir old hurtful memories. She scowled at the guy out of aggravation at being reminded.

  The guy responded with a big smile and extended his hand. Kelly hesitated for a moment then took it. His grip was firm, but then, so was hers. “I’m sorry if I scared you. My name’s Steve Townsend, and Carl and I were just having a discussion over who owned the glove.” He reached down and rubbed Carl’s shiny black head. Carl barked twice and danced, hoping to incite more.

  “Well, I could see that, but how’d the glove get over here in the first place?” Kelly kept her interrogative tone.

  “Uh, yeah . . . well, I was practicing shots over at the greens,” he said, pointing behind him. “And one of the guys walked by complaining real loud about losing his golf balls to some dog.” He patted Carl, who obligingly stood beside him, just in case. “That caught my attention, because I’d noticed Carl in the yard when I drove by yesterday, so I volunteered to get the balls for him. That’s how the big fella got my golf glove. Must have fallen out of my pocket when I climbed over the fence.”

  “You climbed into the yard with a Rottweiler for golf balls?” Kelly couldn’t hide her shock. “You must be crazy, mister. Why would you do something like that?”