Knit One, Kill Two

by Maggie Sefton

  “Knit on it?” Kelly repeated with a smile. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, whenever I need to think things over, I sit down and knit quietly for a while. It calms my mind, so my thoughts become more ordered or something. Anyway, that’s how I work through problems.” She smiled then headed toward her office.

  “Works for me, too, Mimi,” Megan piped up. “Even software code unravels as I knit.”

  Kelly picked up the oversized needles and half-finished scarf. “Okay, if you say so. Now, let’s see, where was I?” She slowly attempted a knit stitch and it cooperated perfectly. Good, she hadn’t forgotten and continued the stitches. After a few rows of colorful chunky stitches, Kelly did notice herself relaxing, just a little. She glanced up at Megan, who was intently working an edge. Strange. She didn’t feel the desire to talk. It was kind of peaceful just sitting there, knitting in the comfortable room with the morning sun pouring through the windows. It really was peaceful . . . until a man’s voice shattered the quiet.

  “Well, hello there, Ms. Flynn. The girl at the counter told me I could find you here.”

  Kelly jerked around and saw a man who looked vaguely familiar. “Yes, I’m Kelly Flynn. And you are . . . ?”

  The well-dressed man flashed Kelly a big smile and strode forward. “You probably don’t recall, but I was in the threesome that came looking for golf balls the other day. But I wasn’t the one acting like a horse’s behind.” A wicked smile claimed his face.

  It was a nice face, Kelly noticed. Tanned, ruddy complexion, topped off with wavy graying hair. Recognition sparked inside. He was one of the golfers, the well-dressed one, and he was even better dressed now. Kelly could tell a hand-tailored suit when she saw one.

  “Oh, yes, I remember now.” She peered at him, suddenly worried. “Carl didn’t steal your golf balls, did he?”

  The man threw back his head and laughed out loud for a second. “No, Ms. Flynn, he didn’t. Mainly because I don’t have a slice like Frank’s. So Carl shouldn’t see any of my golf balls. I wanted to introduce myself to you professionally.” He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a card, handing it to Kelly. “I’m Alan Gretsky. I’m a real estate broker with Metropolitan Realty. We’re the biggest in the area now.”

  Kelly relaxed as she read the card. Thank goodness. He was a realtor. Realtors she could deal with a lot better than irate golfers. “Ahh, thank you, Mr. Gretsky. I’ll keep your card.”

  “Well, Ms. Flynn, I was hoping we could schedule a few minutes to talk. I’m sure you’ve noticed all the new retail development that’s come to this area recently.”

  “It’s hard to miss, Mr. Gretsky,” Kelly relaxed against her chair, bracing for the pitch she could feel coming.

  “All that new building has made your property even more valuable, Ms. Flynn,” Gretsky said, shoving one hand into his pocket in a relaxed pose. “I spoke to your aunt about selling her place last year, but she wasn’t interested. And, believe me, I totally understood her position, Ms. Flynn.” He placed his other hand on his heart in apparent empathy. “At her age, moving would be a very traumatic experience. But you, I understand, already reside in another state, am I right?”

  He’d done his homework. Kelly nodded. “Yes, I do, Mr. Gretsky. I live in Washington, D.C.”

  “So, selling this property wouldn’t be out of the question, would it?” He cocked his head with studied casual-ness.

  Kelly decided to cut to the chase, so Gretsky would leave and she could get back to her knitting. “Normally, that would be true. However, I learned my aunt recently refinanced and the mortgage terms include very heavy penalties if the property is sold within two years. So, I’m afraid I’ll be renting the property instead of selling, Mr. Gretsky. But I’ll be sure to keep your card for the future.”

  Gretsky’s disappointment was clearly evident. “I’m, well, I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Flynn. There are some clients of mine who were most interested in this location.” He shook his head and frowned. “Listen, let me check into some things, and I’ll get back to you, all right?”

  Not really, Kelly thought, but replied, “If you wish, Mr. Gretsky, but I’m afraid it’s a waste of your time.”

  “Maybe not,” he said as he turned to leave. “Maybe there’s a way to work things out. Meanwhile, you have a good day now.” He flashed another bright smile and a wave as he left.

  Kelly exhaled a loud sigh as she returned to her knitting. “You gotta love salesmen. If there’s a breath left in a corpse, they’ll revive it to get a sale.”

  Megan giggled. “Well, at least he wasn’t too pushy.”

  “Give him time. I sense he won’t give up.”

  After a few quiet minutes, Megan asked, “Have you looked into the consulting ideas yet?”

  “No, not yet. I’ve been so involved in . . . in . . .” Kelly hesitated. How much should she reveal of Helen’s past? Would she be disloyal to Helen’s memory if she told her friends? Helen was dead. Murdered. And Kelly sensed the real killer was not the man in jail. Perhaps Megan and the others could help in her search for answers.

  “You don’t have to explain, Kelly. You’ve been up to your neck in trying to sort through Helen’s things and get yourself settled since you got here. Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time to check into the possibilities. Then maybe you won’t need Mr. Smiley’s services after all.” Megan looked up with a wicked grin.

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Meanwhile, there’re some other things I need—”

  “Hey, there! Missed you yesterday,” Jennifer declared as she breezed in and plopped into a chair beside Kelly. She pulled out the nearly finished emerald green sweater. “I’m on break so let’s do some quick catch-up. I assumed Megan has already told you about the wool found by the river, right?”

  “Yes, I did, and Kelly is just as suspicious as we were that it hadn’t been found before.”

  “Okay then,” Jennifer’s needles began moving quickly. “What I want to know now is how was your meeting with Helen’s cousin, yesterday? Was she as timid as she looked?”

  Kelly watched Jennifer’s needles and wondered if they could keep up with Jennifer’s quick tongue. “Actually, yes. She clearly doesn’t do well with strangers, but once I told her I was Helen’s niece, she relaxed. Sort of.”

  “Helen has a cousin?” Megan asked in surprise. “I never knew.”

  “Neither did I. So you can imagine my surprise when Lizzie told me last Friday. Helen never mentioned her.”

  “Lizzie was kind enough to show us this cousin for a price,” Jennifer added.

  Megan laughed. “Let me guess. She invited you to church.”

  “Yep. And brunch afterward at the Jefferson Hotel. Believe me, only the thought of those cinnamon rolls got me through the sermon.” Jennifer gave an aggrieved sigh.

  “Thanks to Lizzie, I was able to recognize Martha at the Monday morning service. There weren’t many people around, so she didn’t run away when I approached her. In fact, she invited me to her house in Landport yesterday afternoon for a visit.”

  “Really? That’s great. Did she know anything about why Helen needed money?” Jennifer probed.

  “Not a thing. In fact, when I told her, she was visibly upset.” Kelly saw their rapt expressions and leaned forward, lowering her voice, even though no one else was near. “She told me Helen had been bothered recently by something or someone from her past.”

  “Someone from her past had been bothering Helen?” Megan whispered, eyes wide.

  “What kind of someone?” Jennifer pried. “A good someone or a not-so-good someone?”

  “That’s what bothers Martha, and me, too. Especially now that she’s told me the rest.” She purposefully paused. Both Jennifer and Megan leaned forward simultaneously, obviously waiting.

  “Well?” Jennifer demanded. “You can’t tease us with this Helen-has-a-past tidbit, then drop us. You know we’ll pr
y it out of you eventually.”

  “You have to promise me you will absolutely keep it to yourselves, no one else. Except Lisa. I’ll tell Mimi and Burt this afternoon. Okay? I feel disloyal enough as it is.”

  “Disloyal? Why?” Jennifer challenged. “Helen’s been murdered. Maybe this someone knows something that can trap the killer. Heck, maybe he is the killer. Or she.”

  “That’s what I told myself,” Kelly admitted. “Okay, here goes. Martha confided that Helen had an illegitimate child right after high school. Her father sent her to Wyoming to live with Martha’s family until the baby was born and placed for adoption. Helen and Martha became real close during that time, because they were both the same age. Anyway, Helen’s father said she couldn’t come home unless she gave up the baby. So, she did as she was ordered and afterward, returned to Fort Connor. According to Martha, Helen met Uncle Jim that next spring and married him in the fall.”

  “Wow,” Megan breathed softly, even her knitting needles slowed.

  “Do you think your Uncle Jim was the father?” Jennifer offered. “Maybe they couldn’t marry until they were eighteen or something like that.”

  Kelly shook her head. “No. I remember Uncle Jim telling me he’d just come into town after getting out of the army, and he bought this piece of land for a sheep farm. Then he met Helen on a blind date. One of his army buddies introduced them.” She went back to her own knitting as she continued. “Martha said Helen never mentioned the baby again. Or anything about that episode in her life, until last month. Helen came over and looked really worried, according to Martha. She asked Helen what was wrong, and all Helen would say was ‘our sins come back to haunt us, don’t they?’ ”

  “Uh oh.”

  “Sounds like the kid found out who his mother was and showed up.” Jennifer said. “I’ve heard of that happening.”

  “Or the father came back into her life, maybe,” Megan suggested.

  “Yeah, I figured it had to be one or the other. Or both. Who knows? So I spent all yesterday afternoon going through every drawer and storage cabinet in the cottage, searching for some clues to this child’s identity. Or the father’s.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing about the child. No documents, birth records, nothing. But I did find something interesting in her senior yearbook.”

  “Ahhh, yes, those god-awful records of our socially challenged years. I burned mine.”

  Kelly had to smile. “Well, I’m glad Helen didn’t. Because I saw a great photo and personal inscription from this hunky cowboy, and I’m going to see what I can find out about him. Seems he still lives in the area. He’s a rancher, from what I found on the Web.”

  Megan grinned. “Let me guess. You googled him.”

  “Sure did. None of us can hide anymore. A simple Web search can track us down,” Kelly joked.

  “Forget the Web. I want to see the photo,” Jennifer demanded. “A hunky cowboy from Helen’s past. Sounds promising.” She glanced at her watch, then shoved her knitting into the tote bag. “Gotta get back to work. Talk to you folks later. And I expect to see that photo.”

  “Will do,” Kelly promised as Jennifer sped away.

  “Wow . . .” Megan said again. “This is all so surprising. I mean, it doesn’t change my feelings about Helen at all. If anything, it deepens my respect for her that she’d make that kind of sacrifice.”

  “That’s how I feel,” Kelly said, relieved to see her faith in her friends was justified.

  Rosa leaned around the doorway to the classroom area. “Megan, did you want to see the new designer magazines before I put them on display?” she asked.

  Megan nearly leaped from her chair. “You bet,” she exclaimed and dropped her knitting on the table as she sped from the room. “Be back in a minute, Kelly,” she called.

  Kelly continued knitting in silence, adding row after colorful row to her scarf, surprised how peaceful it felt. Soon, she’d finish this first skein and have to start the second. Now, how did Jennifer say to join those ends, she searched her memory?

  “Well, good morning, Kelly, I was hoping to see you here,” Burt’s deep voice cut through the quiet.

  “Hi, Burt,” Kelly said with a warm smile. “You here to teach a class?”

  “Naw, I’m here for my morning constitutional,” he joked. “Mimi probably told you I come every morning to spin some of her fleeces. Hafta confess I enjoy the spinning a heckuva lot more than that exercise regimen the doc’s got me on.”

  “I bet. Hey, can you do it out here? I’d love to watch. I’ve heard those classes going on in the background, but I haven’t had a chance to watch yet.”

  “Sure thing. Actually, this spot by the windows is my favorite. All the sunlight sure feels good,” he said as he grasped the spinning wheel in the opposite corner and carried it closer to the windows. “There, now,” he said, settling the interesting-looking contraption next to a rocker.

  “Boy, it sure doesn’t look like Martha Washington’s spinning wheel at Mount Vernon,” Kelly observed as she watched Burt open a bottom cupboard and pull out a large plastic bag. “Is that what you spin?”

  Burt settled into the rocker and grabbed two handfuls of the creamy white fibers in the bag. “Yes, this is a fleece. Straight from the sheep. Cleaned and carded, of course.”

  Searching her memory for Mount Vernon trivia, she found one. “Carding, that’s done on those square things with teeth?”

  Burt grinned. “Yep, you have to remove all the unwanted particles and stuff before you can spin it.” All the time he spoke, his fingers were pulling the puffy white cloud of fibers apart. “What I’m doing now is to get the fibers separated into what’s called roving so they’re easier to spin. Now, just watch,” he instructed.

  Kelly was already watching, fascinated by the intricate movements. Burt’s fingers wound the roving around a slender spool, then held it taut as his feet started the wheel turning. Slowly the fibers started twisting into a strand of yarn, which fed onto the wheel and wound onto a wooden bobbin.

  “Wow,” she said after watching the rhythmic motions for a few moments. “Look at how much you’ve done already,” pointing to the bobbin filling with yarn.

  “Yeah, and look how much is still in the bag,” Burt joked.

  Kelly settled back with her knitting, listening to the soft hum of the wheel, and sorted through the competing questions in her head. Which to ask first?

  “I guess you heard that the police brought some wool over here for Mimi to identify,” she ventured. “Apparently Helen was knitting a purple sweater when she was killed. And the killer stole it. Broke a knitting needle, too. Lieutenant Morrison told me they found the needles and remaining skein of yarn lying beside her body.”

  She watched Burt for a reaction, but didn’t see any. He continued to concentrate on his spinning for a moment before he spoke. “What else did Morrison say?”

  “Nothing. Other than they never found the sweater when they were searching the house or vicinity. I asked him straight out why would the killer steal a half-finished sweater? Morrison simply stared back and said he didn’t know.” Kelly shook her head. “He also told me they made an exhaustive search of the riverbank area at the time. But now, only yesterday, they find some pieces of Helen’s wool, burned no less.” She deliberately infused the last words with skepticism, hoping to incite a comment.

  Burt continued to spin without a word, so Kelly decided to simply pour out her concerns. She was tired of keeping it inside. “You know, Burt, that makes no sense at all. If this drunk really was the killer, why would he take time to steal Helen’s knitting? I mean, he’d already grabbed her purse full of money, right?”

  “That’s a good question,” Burt replied, minding the wool.

  Encouraged by the positive response, Kelly kept on. “Something else is missing from the cottage, Burt. Helen’s heirloom quilt is no longer on the wal
l where it’s always been. Mimi and the others searched every nook and cranny in the house and garage and never found it. I told Lieutenant Morrison, and he simply said Helen probably gave it to someone.” She gave a dismissive sound. “But Helen would never do that, Burt. She made the quilt and meant it for me. It’s a personal record of her family. No way would she give it away.”

  “Hmmmm,” was all Burt said.

  “And there’s no way I’ll believe that drunken vagrant stole it. After all, he’s got Helen’s purse in one hand and her knitting in the other. I mean, according to Lieutenant Morrison, that’s what happened.”

  Burt smiled. “Boy, I’ll bet Morrison’s ears are really burning about now.”

  “Well, they should be,” Kelly gave an indignant sniff. “It’s so illogical, it’s ludicrous. This guy is drunk and staggering, yet he’s able to do all these intriguing complex maneuvers. I don’t buy it, Burt.”

  “What do you believe happened?” Burt asked after a minute.

  Kelly took a deep breath and plunged in. “I don’t think that vagrant killed Helen. I think someone else did. And that someone else planted the burned wool near the river because that’s where the vagrant slept. Making him look more guilty. But I think someone else murdered Helen for the money. Someone either found out about the money or asked her to get it for them. Why else would she take out that loan? And why would she keep it secret from me?”

  The wheel finally stopped turning as Burt met Kelly’s gaze. “Do you have any idea who that someone might be, Kelly?” he asked, voice somber.

  “Not yet, Burt, but I’m going to find out,” Kelly swore. “Helen’s cousin told me yesterday that several weeks ago, Helen had been contacted by someone from her past, and she was very upset about it. She wouldn’t tell her cousin who it was. I think this person contacted Helen and wanted money.”

  “Then why kill her?” Burt countered. “She had the money right there.”

  Kelly glanced toward the sunshine. “I don’t know, Burt. Maybe something went wrong. Or maybe, it wasn’t enough money. Something happened, and Helen wound up dead. The money was stolen. And the quilt, too.”