A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery)

by Canadeo, Anne

  “The Black Sheep Knitting Mystery series has it all: Friendship, knitting, murder, and the occasional recipe create the perfect pattern. Great fun.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

  Praise for The Silence of the Llamas

  “Maggie and her group are as efficient with their investigation as they are with their knitting needles.”

  —Library Journal

  “Small-town crafty ambience. . . . This enjoyable tale is similar in style to the work of both Sally Goldenbaum and Cricket McRae.”

  —Booklist

  “The antics of Maggie and her friends will keep readers turning the pages. Tempting recipes round out the volume.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Praise for Till Death Do Us Purl

  “An entertaining mystery.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “[A] smooth fourth knitting cozy.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Intriguing mysteries and a slew of interesting characters.”

  —Single Titles

  “Enthusiastic, engrossing, and exciting.”

  —The Mystery Gazette

  Praise for A Stitch Before Dying

  “Sure to hook cozy fans.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Congenial characters and a mystery that keeps you guessing.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Sure to attract readers of Sally Goldenbaum and Barbara Bretton.”

  —Library Journal

  Praise for Knit, Purl, Die

  “The fast-paced plot will keep even non-knitters turning the pages.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An intriguing mystery with a few surprising twists and turns.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “An engaging story full of tight knit friendships and a needling mystery.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Praise for While My Pretty One Knits

  “The crafty first of a cozy new series. . . . Canadeo’s crime yarn [is] a charmer.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fans of Monica Ferris . . . will enjoy this engaging amateur sleuth as much for its salute to friendship as to Lucy’s inquiry made one stitch at a time.”

  —The Mystery Gazette

  “Delightful. Enchanting. Humorous. Impressive. Witty. Those are just a few adjectives to describe Anne Canadeo’s effervescent cozy debut.”

  —Book Cave

  “A unique murder mystery. . . . Fast-paced and electrifying. . . . A series you are sure to enjoy.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “The diverse group of friends and their heartwarming camaraderie is what makes While My Pretty One Knits an enjoyable read.”

  —Kwips and Kritiques

  Meet the Black Sheep Knitters

  Maggie Messina, owner of the Black Sheep Knitting Shop, is a retired high school art teacher who runs her little slice of knitters’ paradise with the kind of vibrant energy that leaves her friends dazzled! From novice to pro, knitters come to Maggie as much for her up-to-the-minute offerings like organic wool as for her encouragement and friendship. And Maggie’s got a deft touch when it comes to unraveling mysteries, too.

  Lucy Binger left Boston when her marriage ended, and found herself shifting gears to run her graphic design business from the coastal cottage she inherited. After big-city living, she now finds contentment on a front porch in tiny Plum Harbor, knitting with her closest friends.

  Dana Haeger is a psychologist with a busy local practice. A stylishly polished professional with a quick wit, she slips out to Maggie’s shop whenever her schedule allows—after all, knitting is the best form of therapy!

  Suzanne Cavanaugh is a typical working supermom—a realtor with a million demands on her time, from coaching soccer to showing houses to attending the PTA. But she carves out a little “me” time with the Black Sheep Knitters.

  Phoebe Meyers, a college student complete with magenta highlights and nose stud, lives in the apartment above Maggie’s shop. She’s Maggie’s indispensable helper (when she’s not in class)—and part of the new generation of young knitters.

  Thank you for downloading this Gallery Books eBook.

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  Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.

  ~ Benjamin Franklin

  The clever cat eats cheese and breathes down rat holes with baited breath.

  ~ W. C. Fields

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my dear friend Kathleen Caputi, for sending me a news article that set me on the path to writing this story, for her support and encouragement of my literary efforts, and most of all, for her cherished friendship—definitely Black Sheep quality.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Maggie left for her shop earlier than usual on Thursday. She faced a full schedule—teaching a new sock-making class, sorting out the picked-over winter inventory, and hosting her weekly knitting group in the evening. She wasn’t even sure yet what to serve her friends for dinner and considered swinging by the market to grab some ingredients for the slow cooker—conveniently stashed in the stock room.

  Better to get to work and figure out the menu later, she decided. A good dessert would go far. Something chocolate to cheer everyone up.

  Dense gray clouds hung low in the sky, and the forecast predicted flurries. She hated these long, bleak weeks after the holidays were over and spring was far from view. She hoped it would snow a little. The village streets, now dotted with dirty, melting patches, could use a fresh coat of white.

  Her assistant, Phoebe, called this in-between season “the butt end of winter.” Not a term Maggie would repeat, but the image fit, she had to admit. The town was so quiet and still, it seemed as if all of New England was hibernating. All of Plum Harbor anyway.

  She didn’t notice anything unusual as she turned onto Main Street. Did she have enough quarters handy for those infernal new parking meters? That was her main concern.

  She checked the cup holder next to her seat, where she stashed them. Just enough to get through the morning. Unless some eccentric customer hauled in a piggy bank to pay for a purchase, she’d have to run to the Schooner Diner later for more change. Edie Steiber, who owned the eatery, was testy at everyone coming in just to feed the meters lately.

  “Do I look like a casino slot machine to you?” Edie had complained only yesterday. It didn’t take much to get on the diner owner’s churlish side. Maggie thought it best to avoid that option for a few days.

  She could always shake down her friend Lucy and see if some quarters rolled out. Her good pal stopped by almost every morning while walking her dogs to town, to share gossip and get advice on her knitting dilemmas . . . and real-life problems, too.

  Maggie expected to see the trio trotting down Main Street any minute.

  The meters were such a grand nuisance. Most business owners in the village, herself included, had protested the proposal. Village shops had enough trouble competing with the big-box stores on the turnpike and at the mall. People didn’t like to shop where there were meters. The Plum Harbor Chamber of Commerce had even collected a petition to ban them with more than a thousand signatures.

  But a stalwart faction for raising town revenue had finally won, pushing the parking meters through by a narrow margin. None of the village trustees owned a business, Maggie had to assume.


  Main Street was practically empty at this hour except for a slow, rumbling school bus, a few parked cars, and a delivery truck down near the deli. Maggie could see all the way to the harbor, mesmerized for a moment by a swaying ribbon of gray-blue water that came into view. But as she pulled up in front of her store, she realized something about the street definitely looked . . . different.

  A round bag-shaped cover had been dropped over the top of each meter. Like a wrapper on a lollipop. Up and down the street, as far as she could see. Had the town finally given in to some protest she hadn’t heard about?

  Maybe it was a holiday she wasn’t aware of. I could save my stash of quarters, she thought with a smile.

  But no . . . the coverings were not village issue. She realized that as soon as she parked her car. She turned off the ignition and jumped out. Then examined the nearest meter with sheer amazement.

  The coverings were knitted, made of brightly colored yarn. A purple feline face—complete with a pert pink nose, red whiskers, pointed ears, and glowing yellow eyes—stared back at her. The jagged smile—stitched in blood-red yarn—was a comical, yet somehow unsettling, detail.

  For some reason, Maggie didn’t want to touch it.

  She stood back, gazing at the cat-face meter cover, taking in the variety of stitches and fibers. Then she pulled out her phone, snapped a picture, and sent it with a text to Lucy.

  Are you coming this morning? You have to see this. Before someone takes them all down. Me-ow-sky!

  Maggie walked a bit farther down the street and took a few more photos. Then she sent another text and photo to two more friends who also worked in town. Dana, a psychologist, had an office on Main Street just above the bookstore. She was also on staff at a nearby hospital, and her hours in town were scattered. No telling if she’d be in this morning, though Maggie hoped so.

  Suzanne worked for Prestige Properties on a side street off the main thoroughfare. She often worked from home or was driving around, showing houses to clients. But she might get a peek at the display this morning. Maggie knew they’d both be upset if she didn’t alert them.

  She heard her phone beep, signaling a text coming in. Lucy had answered first:

  Already on the way. Will jog last lap. This better be good.

  Maggie didn’t reply. What could she say? Yarn bombers had struck during the night, and the parking meters were covered with knitting graffiti . . . a parade of cat faces. Lucy was more of dog person but would appreciate this prank, though it looked like the unsanctioned decorations would not last very long.

  A dark-green pickup truck, marked with the official seal of Plum Harbor Incorporated Village, stood at the far end of the avenue alongside a blue-and-white police cruiser. Two men in hard hats, gloves, and matching tan jackets jumped out of the truck and chatted with a police officer through his car window.

  Did it take an armed law officer and two brawny guys in protective gear to handle the equivalent of teapot cozies? Yes, apparently.

  She heard another vehicle approach from the opposite end of the street, and she turned to see a large white van. Some apparatus on top looked like a satellite dish, and the lively red logo on the side left no mistake about who was inside. News Alive 25! was chasing down this hot story.

  Oh dear . . . let me out of here . . .

  If she didn’t beat a hasty retreat, some cheerful woman with fluffy hair and lots of lipstick was bound to hop out of that van and chase her down for a “person on the street” interview.

  “And I am not ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” Maggie mumbled.

  She quickly gathered her knitting bag and purse from the backseat and scurried up the walkway to the front porch of the shop. She unlocked the door and jumped inside, taking care to leave the sign turned to the closed position: “Sorry . . . Resting Our Needles Right Now. Please Come Back Soon.”

  The Black Sheep Knitting Shop covered the first floor of a Victorian house and was a perfect, cozy haven for knitters—and, very often, shopkeepers—hoping to hide away from the world for a while.

  Maggie felt instantly at ease as she dropped her belongings on the counter near the register and headed to the storeroom to make a pot of coffee. Her usual morning routine. Lucy would be expecting a cup . . . or two. That was for sure.

  The storeroom, formerly a kitchen, was still equipped with a stove, a fridge, and other culinary necessities. Maggie had considered pulling it all out when she’d opened the shop about three years ago. But she was soon glad she had not. She often held events at the store—book signings, afternoon tea, and even “Friday Night Stitching & A Movie.” Her own knitting circle, the Black Sheep Knitters, enjoyed sharing a good meal almost as much as stitching together. Maggie was sure now that if the shop had not come equipped with a kitchen in back, she would have been obliged to add one.

  A stairway in the storeroom kitchen led to an apartment on the second floor. There was an outside entrance as well, but the upstairs tenant—Phoebe Meyers—was Maggie’s part-time assistant and most often used the inside stairs for her coming and going. Maggie listened a moment for Phoebe’s footsteps but didn’t hear any signs of life. Nothing but the coffeemaker dripping and hissing.

  She was not surprised. It was not quite eight o’clock, the crack of dawn for Phoebe, who rarely appeared in the shop until ten. Maggie didn’t begrudge the college student her sleep, though she did wish Phoebe would lead a healthier lifestyle. Phoebe was up all hours, either studying for her courses or out with her boyfriend Josh’s band. Her second—unpaid—job was as unofficial manager, roadie, and number-one fan of the Big Fat Crying Babies. Phoebe had hinted that her romance with Josh had hit a few snags lately. But she hadn’t offered any details.

  Maggie wondered if the friction had to do with all the grunt work Phoebe did for the band. She wasn’t sure Josh appreciated Phoebe’s efforts, and maybe that had dawned on Phoebe, too. But last night Phoebe had helped with a gig out in Gloucester, and Maggie knew she wouldn’t be up for a while.

  Too bad. Phoebe, of all people, would love to see the meters tarted up in such a clever fashion. She would appreciate the absurdity and the artistry . . . and the subversive, radical attitude behind the display. Maggie appreciated that as well, having come of age in the 1970s . . . peace, love, and revolution. And all that. But she was still sure it was better not to wake Phoebe.

  A sharp knock sounded on the door, and Maggie looked out the bay window at the front of the shop, peeking around the winter display. Yes, it was Lucy . . . and not some early-bird customer or—heaven help her—the crew from News Alive 25! She hoped that group had worked their way down to the harbor by now.

  Maggie spotted Lucy’s dogs first. Mainly their big wet noses, fogging up the glass. She could not understand why the dogs needed to sniff and drool all over the shop window every morning. What possible scent there could be of any interest to them? Windex?

  She grabbed her coat and stepped out on the porch to talk with Lucy. “Did you see the meters? Isn’t it wild?”

  Lucy looked winded from her sprint and sufficiently shocked, two pink spots on her cheeks, her blue eyes bright.

  “Totally and completely wild. It’s absurd. And amazing. But creepy, too . . . in a way.”

  She unzipped the top of her jacket and pulled off her knit cap. Her long, wavy hair had been gathered in a hasty ponytail, and dark-blond strands came loose, curling around her face. “A little creepy, I agree.” Maggie nodded as they headed back down to the sidewalk to take in the bizarre needlework.

  “Someone . . . a group of people, most likely . . . went to some trouble knitting these things and sneaking out here in the middle of the night to cover the meters. I wonder if anyone saw them.”

  Lucy considered the question while staring at one of the cat faces. They weren’t all purple, Maggie realized. Some were blue or green or black as well. And on some, the ears were a different color from the face. As if several knitters had interpreted the same pattern. She’d taught enough knitting
classes to recognize that result.

  Lucy was looking them over, too, stretching out the black whiskers that graced a dark-red cat. “Main Street gets pretty deserted at night. All the shops would have been closed. Even the restaurants close early during the winter. And there are only a few apartments on this street.” Lucy looked over at Maggie again. “Who do you think it was?”

  “I’m not sure . . . but I have a good guess.” Maggie paused. “The Knit Kats. Who else could it be?”

  “Oh . . . right. They would do something like this.” Lucy smiled. “I never thought knitting graffiti artists would strike in our quiet little town. But you never know.”

  “Me, either. But you never know where the Knit Kats will strike next. That’s part of their mystique.”

  The Knit Kats did have a certain mystique. The group could be called fiber artists, but they displayed their work anonymously, in public places, always with a clever flair. They often poked fun at somber public works—statues or monuments. Or brought attention to wasted tax dollars, like an unsightly and unnecessary pedestrian footbridge that arched over a turnpike in Peabody. The crafty knitting circle had hit the news about two years ago, Maggie recollected, and had not been caught yet, their targets ranging from the city of Boston all the way out to Rockport, at the tip of the Cape Ann peninsula.

  Maggie pulled off the nearest cat face to check the stitching.

  “Nice work. Whoever did this is very accomplished. And creative. Looks like they took a pattern for a stuffed toy or child’s hat and just altered it here and there.”

  Lucy had pulled one off, too, and was looking it over. “Yes, it is nice work . . . Are the identities of the Knit Kats still secret?”

  “I took a look at the group’s website once, a year or so ago. They were anonymous then, and I’ve never heard that they’d come out of the closet.”

  Lucy dropped the cover over a meter again. “Perhaps the right term would be ‘bag’? As in cat is out of one?”