by Mary Kruger
“No.”
“Oh. Well. I thought perhaps you might have. Eric is in town, you know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“That’s right. You were with him at Marty’s last night.”
Ari sighed inwardly. “That’s right.”
“Do you know, I heard he was here before Edith died?”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Mrs. Joseph told me.”
“Oh,” Ari said again, hoping her face gave nothing away.
“I know you’re friendly with Detective Pierce,” she went on, an arch look on her face.
“No, not really.”
“Didn’t you have lunch together yesterday?”
“Mmm.”
“Well? Did he tell you anything?”
“About the case, you mean?”
Ruth’s face was avid. “Yes. After all, you’re so involved with what’s been going on.”
“Not by choice.”
“No, no, I didn’t say that. But you and Diane…Well, I know you girls got up to some hijinks in high school, but I’m sure you never expected anything like this.” Ruth glanced around the shop. “Diane does make beautiful yarn. Of course, you’ve been cleared.”
Ari stacked together some papers. “Yes, I have.”
“I imagine Diane hasn’t.”
“Oh?” Ari said, wary again. “What makes you say that?”
“Why, haven’t you heard? The police are at the Camachos’ right now.”
seven
THE FIRST THING THAT JOSH NOTICED when he turned into the driveway at Diane Camacho’s farm was a flock of sheep grazing in the front yard near the door. Startled, he simply sat and stared. He was fast realizing he should expect the unexpected in this case.
Carefully, he opened the car door and stepped out, keeping a wary eye on the animals. They didn’t look like killer sheep. In fact, they ignored him as they continued to munch on the grass. The only problem was that they were blocking the door to the house. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get in.
Josh didn’t have much experience with animals. He’d grown up in a rural town, but he’d lived in a development of cookie-cutter houses that looked as if they’d been dropped into place by some giant hand. This house was different. He’d seen enough old ones to know that this one, a Federal-style farmhouse, was probably at least two hundred years old. It had the twelve-over-twelve windows typical of the time, and though the front was sided with red clapboard, the other walls were covered with weathered shingles. Some long-ago farmer had sited it so that it faced south, with a carriage house behind it, and barns and a silo beyond. Farther back were pastures where cows drowsed in the warm sun, while across Acushnet Road stretched fields covered now only by yellowing stubble. They must be cornfields that had already been harvested to feed the stock, he thought, though he’d noted a small wooden structure in front, an obvious farm stand. Right now it was filled with pumpkins and gourds and various types of squash. Everything was neat, tidy, and prosperous-looking. The Camachos appeared to have made a success of their farm. What might they do if that success were threatened?
The black front door opened, and Diane stepped out onto the flagstoned stoop. “Hello,” she called. “Come on around to the side door.”
Josh looked dubiously at the sheep. “All right.”
“Don’t be sheepish, Detective. They won’t bother you.”
“Yeah,” he said, and headed down the drive, embarrassed by Diane’s grin at his predicament. Skirting the flock, he climbed the wooden stairs that led to the door. In the back, the house had been bumped out into what he suspected was a somewhat more recent addition. A pleasant veranda stretched the length of it, with pots of colorful mums hanging from the top frame. Diane let him in, and after passing through a mudroom, he found himself in a surprisingly modern kitchen. An island stood in the center of the room; it had a cooktop set into it, surrounded by gleaming granite. The same granite topped the honey oak cabinets that ran along the wall. Above those were more cabinets. One of them had a mullioned glass door, behind which he could see various types of glassware. More glasses, for different kinds of wine, hung upside down from a rack placed over the island. He noted also a huge stainless steel refrigerator, and a large sink under a broad window. This room was used for serious cooking, yet it managed to be cozy, with its ruffled curtains, rag rug, and a drop-leaf table that looked old to his unpracticed eye.
“I was just going to have tea,” Diane said, taking an enameled kettle from the cooktop. “Would you like some?”
“Herbal tea?” he asked suspiciously.
“God, no! That stuff tastes like—well, I won’t say that. No, I prefer regular tea. Darjeeling, today. I get my tea from High Tea,” she added as she poured the water into a stoneware teapot. “You know, the tea shop in town.” She set out two mismatched mugs, one of which read SPINNERS DO IT BAA-AD. “I’ll let it steep for a minute. I like it strong. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.” She looked at him warily. “Would you like some?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’ve got coffee ready to brew, if you’d like that.”
“Actually, I’d rather have a soda, if you have any.”
“Of course. Diet Coke, or ginger ale?”
“Ginger ale.” He waited while she poured some into a glass. “Thanks.”
Diane picked up her mug and a plate of cookies. “We can talk in my workroom. It’s sunny this time of day.”
“Fine.” Josh followed her down the central hallway of the house, his steps echoing on the warped, wide floorboards. To his right as they left the kitchen he saw a dining room, furnished with a pine trestle table and Windsor chairs, with a matching hutch. Only valances were at the windows, which were outlined in a painted design. “Nice,” he commented.
“Thanks. I did the stenciling myself,” Diane said over her shoulder.
Stenciling? Before this case Josh had known little about arts and crafts, but he was learning. “And your office?” he asked as they passed another room. The furniture, consisting of computer desk, bookcases, and filing cabinets, was utilitarian, but the rest of the decoration wasn’t. Subdued burgundy-and-cream drapes were drawn at the windows, perhaps to filter out the sun, or to protect the worn, but still colorful, Oriental carpet.
“The farm office, though I keep my records there, too,” she said, leading him toward the front of the house.
“Oh.” A straight staircase, with a huge newel post and a banister worn smooth by the usage of years, rose to his right. The doorway to a formal-looking living room lay past it. Josh felt as if he’d had a tour of history, as well as a glimpse into quiet prosperity.
“Our bedrooms and family room are upstairs,” Diane said, noting his look at the stairs. “This is my workroom.”
Josh stopped in the doorway to the room, studying it unhurriedly. In contrast to the rest of the house, this room was cluttered and looked well used, with loops and cones of yarn everywhere. None of it was purple, he noticed. Across from him stood a large spinning wheel, its spindle wrapped in wool, ready to be spun. Near the window was a comfortable-looking brown leather sofa, set at right angles to a chintz armchair. “Do you spend a lot of time here?”
“Yes. I wanted it in the front of the house so I could have light from two windows.”
“Natural light?” he guessed, sitting in the armchair and setting his glass on a small round table.
Diane quickly slipped a coaster under the glass, though the table was battered and scarred. “That’s an antique. Yes, the natural light.”
“Why does that matter?”
“It’s full spectrum. Indoor light isn’t, unless it’s designed that way.”
“I see.”
She flashed him a quick grin. “You’re getting an education on this case, aren’t you? Do you mind if I work?”
“No, go ahead.” He frowned a little as Diane sat on a ladder-back chair and pulled a wooden contraption toward her. It was about as high as her waist, and had a spoke
d wheel that faced out. “Is that a spinning wheel?”
“Yes. You thought I’d use that big thing?” she asked, glancing at the large spinning wheel he’d noticed when they came in.
“Yes.”
“That’s a high wheel. I don’t know anyone who uses that type today.”
“Another antique?”
“Yes. What I’m using is called a flyer wheel. Do you see this part here?” She pointed to something at the top of the spinning wheel that looked like a fork with two tines. “This is a flyer. Do you see how it’s connected to the drive wheel by a band? When the drive wheel spins, the flyer turns, and that’s what makes the wool into yarn. Like this.” She took up some lumpy, uneven wool. “I’ve already started this. See how it’s wound around the bobbin in the flyer? Watch.”
Diane pumped a pedal at the bottom of the drive wheel. It began to spin, the flyer whirred, and the wool, which she held taut, twisted into fine yarn and wound around the bobbin. “There.”
Josh sat forward, fascinated. “I’ve never known how that was done.”
“It’s easy,” she said, going on with her work. “I could teach you how to do it.”
He sincerely doubted that. “You like this house, don’t you?”
“I love this house,” she said fervently. “I grew up in a three-decker in the south end of New Bedford, before my family moved to Freeport. Even then, we lived in a development.” She glanced around the room with pride on her face. “I always wanted an old house like this.”
“Have you owned it long?”
“It’s been in Joe’s family for two hundred years. It actually came from his grandmother.” She smiled. “I’m the granddaughter of Portuguese immigrants, but if I ever have a daughter she could be in the DAR.”
So Diane and her husband had more reasons to protect their farm than strictly financial ones. “You must have been upset when—what was that?” he exclaimed, as a tall, oddly shaped form passed by the window.
“Probably Salvador.”
“Salvador?”
“Salvador Dali Llama.”
He would have groaned in response, had she not been a suspect. “Why do you have a llama?”
“To protect the sheep. Llamas keep predators away.” She stopped spinning for a minute to frown at her yarn. “Not fine enough,” she muttered, and went back to work. “I wanted to start keeping llamas for their wool—it’s so soft and warm—but Joe put his foot down on that idea.”
“Why are the sheep on the front lawn, by the way?”
“I put them there whenever I need to clean out their field. I’d like to have another field for them, but Joe needs the land for the cows.”
“I see. Do you get enough wool from them for your yarn?”
“No. I still have a lot from the spring—that’s when we shear them—but I have to buy more from other producers. We’ve sold off lambs in the past, but next year I’m going to talk Joe into keeping some.”
“Why did you sell lambs?”
Diane glanced up briefly. “Money. We sell our milk to a larger dairy for processing, but it’s hard. Most dairy farms in New England are struggling these days. We can’t compete with the big dairies in the Midwest.”
So the farm’s profit was marginal, Josh thought. Again, it was a reason for Diane to want to protect it. “What did you think of Edith Perry’s plan to develop the property next to yours?”
This time Diane’s eyes were hostile. “What do you think? We were furious.”
“Were you?”
“Of course we were. We do as much as we can to keep down pests organically. That development would have changed everything. We’d have chemicals from road salt in winter, not to mention whatever people’d put on their grass. And let one septic system fail, and it would contaminate our ground water.” The spinning wheel spun furiously as she worked. “The land at the Robeson farm is marshy in places. My guess is a developer would build it up with soil so it would pass a perk test.”
Josh nodded noncommittally. He knew about perk tests, used to determine if land was dry enough for building septic systems. Building damp land up with dry fill was a common, if illegal, practice. “Did you do anything about it?”
Diane kept her eyes on the yarn winding on a spindle, her foot working the pedal vigorously. “The first we knew about it was when Edith filed the development plans. Joe tried talking to her, but all she would say was that it was her land and she could do what she wanted with it. I suppose that was true,” she added grudgingly.
Josh let the silence lengthen. Most people couldn’t handle silence, and usually rushed into speech to fill it. Diane didn’t disappoint him.
“Joe and I went to the public hearing and spoke up against it,” she said, and sat back, spinning abandoned for the moment. “I’ll bet you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this without a lawyer here.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“You’d find out about it anyway.” She took up the wool again. “I bet you already know. It’s no secret.”
No, it wasn’t. Did Diane realize how much she was incriminating herself, though? She had to know things didn’t look good for her.
“I know I’m a suspect,” she went on, as if she’d read his thoughts. “I have a key to the shop, which I’ve never used—not that you can tell—and I’ve got a humongous motive. But tell me something.” She looked directly at him. “Do you really think I’d use my own yarn as a weapon?”
“I don’t know.”
Diane’s lips firmed. “Well, I wouldn’t. Do you have any idea what it takes for me to produce it?”
“No.”
“We have to shear the sheep first. I have to hire someone to do it, and that costs. Then I have to pick the fleece. That means pulling it apart, and picking out dirt or leaves or other things. After that, it has to be washed, and I’m not talking about in a washing machine. When that’s done I dye it. I don’t use chemicals, you know.”
“No?”
“No, though I’ll buy chemically dyed rovings—those are fleeces that have already been processed—and use them. My wool is dyed naturally.” She turned to gesture to the yarns hanging on pegs on the wall. “See how the colors are all subdued? I tried making my own dyes, but it’s too much work, so I buy them. Dyeing can take a couple of days, especially if I want to get a certain shade. I do only a limited number of colors, and even then it takes a long time for all the wool to be dyed, and to dry, before I can spin it.”
“Oh.”
Diane again stopped to check the yarn she had spun. Nodding in satisfaction, she set the wheel back in motion. “The yarn needs to be plied—that means spinning two or more strands together,” she explained, before he could ask. “It’s more work, of course, but it makes the yarn stronger and thicker. Yarn this thin is good for socks, but most people want heavier weights for sweaters.”
Josh leaned forward, fascinated by the process. “I never realized there was so much involved.”
She gave him a sudden smile. “Yes, but I do enjoy it.”
“And then you put it into balls?”
“Yes.”
“That looks like a lot of work.”
“It’s all a lot of work. The last thing I do is put labels on the balls, and they’re ready. I charge a lot for them, but I have to. And guess what? They sell. So tell me, Detective.” Her gaze was steady. “Why would I jeopardize all that work to kill someone? My God, why would I use my own yarn as a murder weapon?”
That bothered him, too. Still, stranger things had happened. “Is it profitable?”
“It’s taken a while, but yes, I’m starting to turn a profit. People like what I do. If something happened to the farm, though, I couldn’t support us with it.”
“So it’s a supplement?”
“It’s what I love to do.” She rested her hand on the wheel, which, judging by the lack of varnish and the darkness of the wood, was not new. “You need to understand that about us. About me. I love what I do.”
&
nbsp; Would she kill to protect it? he wondered. Somehow he couldn’t see it, and yet she was the most likely suspect. “Mrs. Camacho, where were you the morning Edith Perry was killed?”
Diane gave a short laugh that held little mirth. “What are you basing your suspicions on, Detective—that my yarn was used? I already told you about that.”
“You have a key to the shop.”
“Had a key. Ari’s changed the lock.”
He looked at her steadily. After a moment, Diane looked away. “Where were you?” he asked again.
“Here.” She concentrated on her spinning. “You can ask any of our workers. They’ll tell you.”
“What time do they start work?”
“Around six. Ask them,” she repeated.
He nodded, and rose. “I will. Is now convenient?”
“No, but I suppose that doesn’t matter.” She rose and went into the hall, to a phone on a table there. “Pat Sylvia will be in to talk to you in a few minutes,” she said, after speaking briefly into the phone.
Outside, as he waited for Sylvia to come in from wherever he was working, Josh reviewed the conversation. Diane’s motive was strong. She’d had too much to lose if Edith’s project had gone through: the farm, their way of life, her yarn business. Oddly enough, that last struck him most of all. She was fiercely protective of her yarn. He also had no doubt that she had an alibi. He still had to consider her a suspect.
Pat Sylvia confirmed Diane’s alibi a few minutes later. He’d seen her getting ready to feed the sheep at around six o’clock, when he got to work. He was scornful of the idea that she’d kill anyone. Anyway, it was stupid to think she’d do anything to hurt the farm, or Joe. Both were too important to her.
All in all, Josh felt unsatisfied as he walked toward his car. He liked Diane. Her alibi wasn’t airtight; there was a small window of time for her to get to Ari’s shop and then return to the farm. Since she’d been taking care of her sheep at the time, though, he doubted it. It would take a stone-cold killer without nerves to act like that, and that didn’t fit his reading of Diane’s character. Motive or not, opportunity or not, he was beginning to doubt that she was his culprit.