Died in the Wool

by Mary Kruger

  “Yeah? I gotta go, Manny. Got work to do.”

  “Yeah. Say, where were you the other morning?” Manny’s voice moderated a little as the two men walked away. Josh left the counter to wander down an aisle, as if in search of something.

  “What morning?”

  “One day last week. I was on my way down to the fish market. Early, Joe, so where were you?” Manny dug Joe in the ribs with his elbow as he marched toward the door. “Don’t have anything on the side, do you?” he said, his voice moderating to what he probably thought was a whisper.

  “Hell, no. Diane would kill me.” Joe stood impatiently at the cash register, jingling change in his pocket. To Josh’s practiced eyes, he looked nervous.

  “Just giving you a hard time. Can’t see you going out with someone early on a Tuesday morning.”

  Tuesday? Josh’s head whipped around. Joe was gone, trailed out the door by Manny, whose voice was now only a rumble. Hell, he thought, considering the implications of what he had just heard.

  “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice said behind him, and he became aware that he was staring fixedly at women’s sanitary products. He gave the woman, who was looking at him with raised eyebrows, a weak smile and turned away. Hell, it was too good to be true. It was too coincidental to be real. If Manny whatever-his-name-was was right, Joe had been away from the Camacho farm early last Tuesday morning.

  He was still standing there, stunned, when he heard his name. Turning, he went back to the deli counter to get his sandwich. Tuesday, he thought again. The day Edith Perry had been murdered.

  ten

  “I DON’T WANT TO GET JOE INTO TROUBLE,” Manny Rego protested when Josh had him come into the police station for a talk the following day.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Josh leaned back in his chair. “You said you went by the Camacho farm,” he prompted.

  “Yeah, I went by there last Tuesday. Or was it Wednesday? Nah, Tuesday. See, I remember, ’cause that was the day I had to refuse some lobsters from one of my suppliers. Too quiet, you see. If they ain’t movin’, they’re close to dead, and I can’t sell dead lobsters. Anyways, I was going to the fish market—”

  “Which one?” Josh asked.

  “Mine. Says ‘Macklin’ on the outside, but that was the old owners. Thought I’d keep the name, seeing as everyone knew it. Anyways, it was early, like usual. I got a lot to do, what with the cleaning and the setup, and I got to get to the fish houses first.”

  “You drove by the Camachos’?”

  “Yeah, like usual, and then I thought I should talk to Joe.”

  “About what?”

  “What? Oh, nothin’ important. Joe was talkin’ about having a clambake. Kinda late for that, what with leaves fallin’ and all, but he usually puts one on for his workers. See, you can’t tell the weather this time of year,” he said, leaning forward. “Your basic clambake, you have on the beach or at a pit. You get some stones nice and hot, put seaweed on top of ’em, and then clams, and then more seaweed—”

  “Yes, I know,” Josh said, because he had a feeling Manny could go on for hours discussing the intricacies of a clambake. “What did he have to say?”

  “Nothin’. He wasn’t there. I was thinkin’, he could have a clam-boil instead.”

  “So that was it?”

  “Yeah, that’s all. Besides, Diane makes a hell of a cup of coffee.”

  Josh nodded. “What time was this?”

  “Eh? Early, like I said. Five o’clock, maybe? Naw.” He shook his head. “A little earlier, ’cause I got to the market at five, like I always do.”

  “You didn’t see Camacho’s truck?”

  “Nope. ’Course, he coulda been up and about at work someplace else, but I never known him to do that so early. During calving season, yeah, but that’s different.”

  So it was. Most farm animals had their young in the spring, not at the end of September. Again Josh waited as Manny delivered a few more rambling monologues, without telling him any more of substance. Finally he sent the man home. Where, he wondered, had Joe been at that time of the morning? He suspected he knew the answer. Christ, Joe Camacho. How would Ari react to that?

  Frowning, wondering why the answer to that question mattered, at last he got up from the desk. It was time to tell the chief, and eventually the D.A., about this.

  Josh pulled into the Camachos’ driveway that afternoon after his talk with Rego, a police cruiser behind him. Both the chief and the D.A. agreed that there was enough evidence to bring Joe in. He had motive and the means to kill Edith, even if it didn’t seem, to Josh, the kind of murder Joe would commit. Apart from that, though, that block of time when he’d been missing had to be explained.

  Joe’s truck was in the garage; Diane’s Jeep was in the driveway. That both simplified and complicated matters. Diane was already hostile toward him, and together the two of them could stonewall. On the other hand, the question stood stark and clear: Where had Joe been that morning?

  “Where did you go the morning Edith Perry was killed?” he asked Joe a few moments later. This time, instead of Diane’s workroom, they were in the formal parlor, as if the Camachos had already guessed the gravity of the situation. He was sitting in an old wing chair that needed major repairs to its springs, while Diane and Joe faced him from the humpbacked sofa, faces stony, united in their closeness. Outside in the hall were the two patrolmen Josh had brought along, as backup if Joe put up a fight.

  “He was here,” Diane put in swiftly. “I told you that. So did Pat Sylvia.”

  “That was around six, though.” Josh kept his gaze on Joe. “What about earlier?”

  “Yeah, I was out and about,” Joe said, not looking at Diane.

  “Anywhere in particular?”

  “Down to the beach. I like to see the sunrise.”

  That took Josh aback for a moment. “Do you do that often?” he asked, skeptical of the answer. Not only did Joe not strike him as a poetic type, but the sun rose much later now than five A.M.

  “Once in a while.”

  “Joe’s been working hard lately,” Diane put in.

  Josh glanced quickly at her. “On what?”

  “Just stuff,” Joe said vaguely. “There’s always a lot to do on a farm.”

  If that were so, it didn’t make sense that he’d left it early that morning. “Where else did you go?”

  Joe stared back at him, solid, stolid. “Nowhere special. I just drove.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  Josh paused. “I take it that’s a no?”

  “Yeah. No one saw me, far as I know.”

  “So you can’t account for your time?”

  Joe’s eyes, hostile and yet resigned, met Josh’s. “No.”

  “You were at the yarn shop.”

  “No.”

  “No!” Diane protested.

  “You had a key,” Josh went inexorably on.

  “No, it never left my key ring!” Diane said.

  “You had motive. And you had the weapon.”

  That made Joe and Diane look at each other in confusion. “What weapon?” Joe asked.

  “The yarn came from the shop, not here,” Diane put in.

  Josh shook his head. Though the town would have to turn the results of its investigation over to Joe’s defense, Josh had no intention of telling him about the window stop yet. “You had the weapon,” he repeated, “and you can’t account for your time.”

  Joe slumped. “I didn’t do it.”

  Josh looked at him as he rose, to signal to the patrolmen in the hallway. “I have to ask you to come with me,” he said, and reached into his inner pocket for the arrest warrant. “Joseph Camacho, you’re under arrest for the murder of Edith Perry.”

  “Did you hear?” Ruth Taylor said, flinging open the door of Ariadne’s Web a short time later.

  Ari, kneeling on the floor where she was straightening some yarn in a bin, looked up. “No, what?”

  “They
arrested Joe Camacho.”

  “What!” Ari shot up so fast that she lost her balance and hit her elbow against the counter. “Ouch. No! When?”

  “A couple of hours ago. Now, who would have thought that?”

  Ari busied herself with picking up the yarn that had tumbled to the floor when she jumped up. Not Joe, she thought, and at the same time thanked God that it wasn’t Diane. “He couldn’t have done it,” she said.

  “They must think so.” Ruth, her eyes avid, leaned her elbows on the sales counter, where Ari had taken refuge. “I wonder why.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know more about this investigation than anyone else. After all,” Ruth said coyly, “you and that Detective Pierce seem to spend a lot of time together.”

  “Mmm,” Ari said, ignoring Ruth’s implication that there was something between her and Josh, bothered more by the hint that she was in the know about the police’s thinking. She hadn’t forgotten Josh’s warning about possibly being in danger, should the wrong person find out what she was doing.

  “Mike Thomas saw Joe going into the station with that detective,” Ruth went on, “and then Carol Ferreira told me. Her niece is a secretary for the police, you know.”

  Of course. News like this would spread fast in Freeport. Troubled, Ari listened with only half her attention to Ruth chattering on, inserting a noise of feigned interest only occasionally. By the time Ruth left, she had a headache. By the time the door opened in midafternoon and Josh strolled in, Ari’s temper was at the boiling point.

  “I see you’ve heard,” he said mildly, apparently in answer to the look she threw him, and leaned his elbows on the counter.

  Ari nodded curtly and pretended to be interested in a yarn catalog. After a moment, though, she looked up. “You might have warned me.”

  Josh stole a quick look around the shop. For once it was empty of customers. The only other person there was Summer, who was in back checking a new shipment of supplies against a packing list. “We can’t talk here.”

  “No,” Ari agreed, and though she was still annoyed, some of her ire faded. There was something about his eyes. “Summer, can you come out front? I need to go into the back room for a while.”

  Summer came out, her eyes speculative and interested. “Okay, but if anyone wants to see you—”

  “I think you can handle things,” Ari said, and shut the door behind her and Josh. “Want something to drink?”

  “A Coke would be good.” He took the can she handed him from her small refrigerator, then watched as she filled the kettle for tea. “It’s been a day.”

  “I’ll just bet.” She slanted him a look as she sat at the table, more relieved than she wanted to admit. Her shop was safe. It was a disloyal thought to have when her best friend was in such trouble. There was no denying, though, that she’d been more nervous than she’d realized. “I really didn’t think it would be Joe. I thought Diane was the one who was in for it.”

  He shook his head. “No, her alibi held up. We can’t place her here.”

  “But you can place Joe? Here, of all places?” Her voice rose as her anger returned. “With his own wife’s yarn?”

  “People do irrational things.” He gazed toward the door leading into the shop. “God knows that. Stupid things. But…”

  She leaned forward. “You have your doubts.”

  Josh crossed his arms on his chest. “He looks good for it. He had access to a key, motive, and opportunity. And means,” he added.

  “The window stops you found?”

  “They match.”

  “And?”

  “You haven’t heard? He can’t account for his time.”

  “Oh,” she said, and rose to pour hot water into a mug. “What about Eric?” she asked, as she had once before.

  “Edith’s son?” Josh frowned.

  “You know that he could have done it. Oh, Lord, listen to me.” She briefly closed her eyes. “I’m blaming one friend to free another.” She sat down. “I didn’t bargain for this.”

  “Welcome to police work.”

  “I suppose. But what about Eric? He was in town that night, I told you that. And you know he had a motive. I don’t care that he claims he didn’t know he was inheriting. Where’s the proof of it?” She dunked her tea bag in the cup, and then rose to throw it away. “Does he have an alibi?”

  “None that we can find. He says he was out running that morning, but no one saw him.”

  “Well, then?”

  “He did tell me something interesting when I questioned him.”

  “What?”

  “His mother wanted to buy the Camacho farm.”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “You knew that, didn’t you?” he said accusingly.

  Ari let out her breath. “Yes.”

  “And didn’t tell me?” He sat back, steely-eyed, suddenly very much a policeman. “I could consider that obstruction of justice.”

  “I’m not on the case officially. You said so yourself.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to investigate.”

  “I know.” She looked down at her mug. “But doesn’t that lessen Joe’s motive?”

  He shrugged. “Do you really think they wanted to lose their farm?”

  “Mmm.” Partnership or no, she wasn’t going to tell him what Diane had confided to her concerning Joe’s attitude about the farm.

  “It’s better for them now. When I questioned him, Eric said he’s not going to develop the land.”

  “I know, but how could Joe and Diane have known about that? No one knew Eric was going to inherit it.”

  He studied her. “Are you holding out on me?”

  “No.”

  “You wanted to be in on this investigation, Ari. You know what that means.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “Except I still can’t believe it of Joe.”

  “I told you, he looks good for it.”

  Something about his tone made her look sharply at him. “You don’t believe it, do you?”

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “The evidence is strong.”

  “Evidence can be planted.”

  “C’mon, Ari.” He gestured impatiently. “Do you know how often that really happens? God knows I’ve seen a lot, but nothing like this.”

  “Didn’t you ever investigate this kind of killing in Boston?” she asked, momentarily diverted.

  “Once or twice.” He shifted restlessly in his chair. “Nothing like what you’re suggesting. Most criminals aren’t very smart. Usually there’s something they ignore, or they think we won’t find out about it.”

  “Like the window stop?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It could have been left there on purpose. Were there prints on it?” she asked suddenly.

  “Yes, but they’re smudged.”

  “But wouldn’t you expect Joe’s to be on it, since it came from his house? Did it come from his house? Did you take paint samples?”

  “Yes, but that’s a no-go. When the Camachos redid their windows, they repainted, too.”

  “So there’s no proof the board’s actually theirs.”

  “Chances are—”

  “You’re talking about a cold-blooded killing. Joe’s not like that.”

  “He’s smart enough.”

  “But not cool-headed enough. Especially when…”

  “When what?” he said sharply.

  “Nothing.”

  He regarded her in silence. “They had a fight that morning, didn’t they.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They did.” He nodded. “One of the workers said they were barely talking to each other.”

  Ari sagged in her chair. Oh, poor Joe. And poor Diane. Yet she might be able to help. “Say they did.” She set down her cup. “I know Joe. If they fought, he just slammed into his truck and drove off. I’ve seen him do it,” she said, before Josh could speak. “Wouldn’t he have had to go to the barn for the window stop?”

  “He cou
ld have had it in the truck.”

  “So when would he have made the arrangements to meet with Edith? I haven’t heard that anyone saw them together.”

  “We’re checking his cell phone records. Diane’s, too.”

  “You won’t find anything,” she said confidently. “And you still have to explain why here, and why with Diane’s yarn.”

  “She told me herself that he doesn’t like her having sheep.”

  “Oh, get real! Do you see that as a reason?”

  “People do stupid—”

  “Things. I know. This isn’t stupid. It’s hostile. Joe’s not like that.”

  He regarded her for a moment. “The problem is,” he said finally, “that we don’t always know what people are really like.”

  “I still don’t see it. I know Joe doesn’t like the sheep, but he wouldn’t do that. He’s just not that malicious.” It was her turn to study him. “You don’t think he did it.”

  Once again he took time answering. “Let’s just say I have my doubts.”

  “I knew it!” she crowed. “I knew you didn’t buy that load of malarkey.”

  “Malarkey?” he said, smiling for the first time.

  “Malarkey,” she answered firmly. “That’s all it is.”

  Josh looked thoughtfully at his soda can. “The evidence is strong, though. It’ll be hard to beat.”

  “Unless we keep looking for the real killer.”

  He looked up at that. “The case is closed.”

  “Does that mean you’re off it?”

  “Except for a few loose ends, yeah. It’s the D.A.’s now, not ours, and he thinks we have enough to go to trial.”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned.”

  He gave her a long look. “I hope you’re not planning anything.”

  “Maybe you can’t do any more looking, but I can.”

  To her surprise, he didn’t burst into protest. “Supposing you’re right.”

  “I am.”

  “If you are, do you realize what you’ll be up against? Someone who’s already killed.” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “Now, wait, hear me out.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “It may not be enough.” He sat back, arms crossed on his chest again. “You’ve already been a target.”