A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery)

by Canadeo, Anne

  Phoebe and Charlotte finally came downstairs. Maggie had heard them moving all the furniture back in place. “Ready for dinner, girls? Help yourselves. There’s plenty.” She stood by the sideboard, making sure there were two plates and place settings left for them.

  Charlotte had her coat on, a big leather tote hooked over one shoulder. “It looks delicious, Maggie. But I just got a text from someone at school, and I’ve got to get back to campus.”

  “Charlotte’s artwork was chosen for an exhibit in the gallery on campus. The opening is Sunday night. So everything has to be ready,” Phoebe explained.

  “What kind of artwork do you do, Charlotte?” Lucy asked.

  “I’m working with fiber and found objects right now. The pieces are sort of conceptual settings . . . That doesn’t really explain it, right?” Charlotte laughed.

  She was so pretty, Maggie noticed, though not for the first time. Tall and thin, with long, naturally blond hair, large, luminous eyes, and fine features. Charlotte often reminded Maggie of the ethereal beauties in works by Botticelli.

  “Charlotte’s work is really good. You have to see it,” Phoebe said quickly.

  “I’d love to,” Maggie replied. “May I come to the show?”

  “Oh . . . wow. Sure. That would be great. It’s Sunday night. I’d love you all to come.” Charlotte glanced around at the knitting circle, her gaze resting on Phoebe. “Phoebe’s going to be there. She can tell you what time it starts and all that. Just let her know if you can make it, and I’ll put you on the guest list.”

  Looking pleased to have more friends at her reception, Charlotte waved good night, then slung her long purple scarf around her neck twice. Phoebe walked her to the door but soon returned.

  “You might get ideas at that show for a fiber class, Maggie. There will be work by other artists, too. But Charlotte is the star.” Phoebe stood at the buffet and returned to the table with her dinner—a few bits of salad, some lonely-looking pita chips, and a dab of hummus.

  “I’m free on Sunday. Count me in.” Dana flipped her knitting to the other side and smiled at Phoebe. “Jack has poker night. I was just going to hang around the house and do paperwork.”

  “Matt will be watching the Patriots with his pals. He’ll never miss me,” Lucy told the others.

  “It’s a little tough for me to shake loose on Sundays,” Suzanne admitted between bites of stew. “But if you’re all going, I will, too.”

  With three children—a daughter and twin boys—and a full-time job in real-estate sales, Suzanne was a classic juggling mom. Her husband, Kevin, ran his own construction business, and his hours were fairly flexible, so they somehow worked it all out.

  “Great. I’ll tell Charlotte to put us all on the guest list. Done,” Phoebe added.

  “Stick with Phoebe. She’s our ticket to the hip events in this town,” Lucy told the others.

  “Charlotte is jumping-out-of-her-skin excited . . . but she didn’t have too many people to invite,” Phoebe added. “Her mom died when she was in high school, and her dad lives in Arizona with a new family. Charlotte will like seeing us all there.”

  Maggie nodded. She’d always had the sense that Charlotte was a lot like Phoebe that way—no strong family ties and not a large circle of friends at school, either. An artist and a loner. It made sense that they’d connect and be close friends.

  “Mmm . . . this stew is really good. What’s in it besides chicken?” Suzanne took a second taste of her dinner, savoring the forkful.

  “Some white beans, carrots, and onions. A little chopped tomato. Garlic, of course. Oh, a handful of raisins and chopped almonds. I just sort of winged it,” Maggie said honestly. “I’ll try to remember and write it down for you sometime.”

  “Very tasty. I like the spices,” Dana agreed.

  Maggie was pleased her experiment had worked out. “And we have Suzanne’s dessert to look forward to. Must be good, it took up two cake holders.”

  “Was that what you carried in? Did you make a cake for each of us?” Dana asked with a laugh.

  “One of Alexis’s school clubs ran a bake sale today, and she brought home the leftovers.” Suzanne had finished her dinner and picked up her empty plate.

  “What was the charity?” Lucy asked curiously.

  Suzanne shrugged. “I’m not sure . . . Carbs for a Cure?”

  Maggie laughed. “I’m sure it’s some worthwhile project. We should make a donation. I don’t mind helping Alexis’s club.”

  The rest of her friends agreed and helped to clear the dinner dishes. Maggie soon served the brownies and cupcakes—just as crumbled and squashed as she’d expected—with coffee and tea while her friends settled down to work on their knitting in earnest.

  Maggie sat down again and opened a folder she’d brought over from the sideboard. “All this dreary weather gave me an idea. The next bright spot on the calendar seems to be Valentine’s Day. I thought that was a worthy knitting goal, small gifts for your valentine?” Maggie showed the group pictures of projects she’d found. “Here are some little felted hearts and a knitted greeting card. A cup warmer, very cute, and a case for a phone or iPod. Everyone needs those. Oh, there’s a heart scarf, and I found two choices for mittens, moderately challenging and this very simple pair. You can sew a heart as an embellishment. The pattern was created by Eleanor Roosevelt. She was an avid knitter,” Maggie noted.

  “If they were good enough for FDR, they’re good enough for Matt,” Lucy said decidedly, looking over the instructions.

  “Just what I thought.” Maggie smiled at her. “And how about two-hour fingerless gloves and heart-covered socks?” She slid the pages directly to Phoebe. “Hard to resist.”

  Her friends passed around the pictures and patterns. “I think Kevin would use the mug warmer. It’s a fast one, too.” Suzanne was fairly slow and easily distracted from her projects. The mug warmer did seem a good choice. “And every time he sips from a travel mug, he can think of his sweetie pie.” She made a silly romantic face.

  “Same for Jack . . . though I think I’ll sew the top and turn it into a golf-club cover,” Dana decided with a laugh. “Do you think he’d be embarrassed on the course?”

  “It might make him feel better after he hits a bad shot to remember somebody loves him anyway,” Maggie replied.

  “Oh, this one is cute.” Lucy held up the picture of a pink bear with a red heart sewn on its chest. “Too bad Isabel and Regina are past the stuffed-toy stage,” she said, mentioning her nieces, whom she often knit for.

  Phoebe took the page and looked it over. “It is cute. And doesn’t look hard, either.”

  “It’s fairly simple,” Maggie said. “I stuck that one in because I thought we might make some extra gifts and share the love . . . and the knitting. There’s a shelter for homeless women and children in Newburyport. I thought we could make some bears and other things, and drop them off for the residents.”

  “What a lovely idea. I’d love to do that.” Dana was the fastest knitter in their group. Maggie knew she could churn out a few of these projects by Valentine’s Day.

  “I’ll try to make at least one extra,” Suzanne offered. “That is a nice idea.”

  Suzanne was generally slow with her work, short on time and patience, Maggie knew. But she did a lot better with a goal, and Maggie knew she’d come up with something.

  Lucy and Phoebe quickly agreed to make gifts for the shelter, too.

  “So, heart-covered socks for Josh? Or maybe you’ve already made him a pair?” Maggie teased Phoebe.

  Phoebe looked confused for a moment, then blinked and shrugged. “Yeah, he’s stocked with socks. He’s not getting any more out me, that’s for sure.”

  Phoebe seemed upset. She and Josh must have had a fight. But before Maggie could decide if she should probe any further, the shop phone rang—the loud, shrill sound catching the group’s attention.

  “Want me to get that?” Lucy was sitting closest to the counter and about to jump up.
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  “Oh, no . . . let the machine get it. Some customer checking on an order or something,” she guessed. Her friends sat quietly, waiting to hear the message.

  But there was only silence. A long, empty silence. Then a very strange sound . . .

  It sounded like a cat—an angry cat yowling. Then a muffled voice said, “Maggie Messina? Needlework expert? We have our eye on you!”

  Then an odd laugh and a loud click.

  “What in the world was that?” Suzanne’s brown eyes bugged out.

  “It sounded like a . . . a cat. And some sort of prank caller?” Dana’s voice was calm and even, but Maggie could tell from her expression she was as surprised and chilled as the rest of them.

  “Whoa . . . that gave me the creeps.” Lucy turned to Maggie.

  “Me, too,” Maggie admitted. “Dana is right. Some sort of silly prank. See? I told you I didn’t want to be on TV. Now every nut job in town is going to call me.”

  “Let’s check the number. You have caller ID, right?” Suzanne jumped up and picked up the receiver, then turned back to the table. “Restricted. I should have guessed.”

  “It does give new meaning to the term ‘catcall,’ ” Lucy suggested, making them all laugh.

  Dana looked up from her knitting and glanced at Maggie. “Maybe the Knit Kats saw you on the news, and that’s their review.”

  “I don’t know . . . That was weird. Maybe you should tell the police,” Suzanne said quietly.

  “The police? Don’t be silly. It’s just a stupid joke.” Maggie shrugged and picked up her knitting, trying to shake off a creepy feeling. “If I get any more calls like that, I guess I will,” she added. “Someone saw the news and is acting silly. Let’s get back to knitting, shall we?”

  Her friends nodded, all quietly agreeing.

  What a strange day this had been . . . from start to finish. Time to shake off these odd feelings and wind down on a comforting, familiar note. Chatting and knitting. Even the mysterious Knit Kats could not possibly enjoy themselves more than she and her own knitting pals did on these Thursday nights together. Or anytime, for that matter.

  As she picked up her needles again, she glanced at the phone, sitting innocently on the long counter.

  No reason to think about that silly call twice. Was there?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lucy had offered to drive everyone to Charlotte’s art exhibit on Sunday night. Maggie sat up front; Dana and Suzanne were in the backseat. Phoebe had left earlier in her own car, but promised to meet them at the gallery before six. The reception ended at eight, but they planned to leave before that and go out to dinner.

  Phoebe had also invited Charlotte to dinner with them. Charlotte had a lot of friends on campus, but none very close, Phoebe told them. Charlotte had recently broken off with a boyfriend, and Phoebe was worried she had no one to celebrate with.

  “Of course she can come with us. We’d be honored,” Maggie had replied immediately.

  It was only half past five as they drove onto the campus, but the sun was already low in the winter sky. A rosy hue tinted the horizon, just visible through bare branches.

  The Stimson Art Center, named for a wealthy benefactor of the school, was located at the edge of the Whitaker College campus, a few minutes north of Plum Harbor.

  A mixture of old buildings and new, Whitaker College was quite pretty, Maggie thought. The grounds had once been the estate of a prominent New England family. They’d owned a foundry or textile mill in the area. Some dark industrial enterprise, she recalled. In the early 1900s, the family set up a college for the children of their local workers and eventually donated the estate to Essex County, along with an ample endowment so the school could be expanded.

  The tuition was reasonable, and Phoebe had been enrolled as a part-time student for a few years now—though she did not seem any closer to earning her degree, Maggie noticed. But she was happily finding her way. Majoring in philosophy one year and art the next. She was still quite young, only twenty, and had her whole life ahead of her.

  Young people rush themselves so much these days, Maggie thought. Racing toward some invisible finish line with blinders on. So focused and directed, they miss all the scenery, the simple joy of the journey. When the truth of it is, there is no finish line. No final goal to life. Just important stops and milestones along the way. That was her impression anyway.

  “Looks like we turn left here,” Dana said from the backseat. Maggie noticed a sign on a lamppost, advertising the exhibit.

  “I think the gallery is in that building up ahead,” Lucy announced. A large warehouse-like building came into view. She parked nearby.

  Lucy led the way as they walked together up a gravel path. “I think Phoebe said the gallery is on one side and some art studios are on the other.”

  “I see a lot of lights on. I think we’re in the right place,” Dana added.

  “And there’s our own little Phoebe . . . right on time.” Maggie spotted her assistant standing just inside a set of glass doors in the middle of the building.

  Phoebe stepped out and waved. “Hi, guys. You made it.”

  “Wow! Look at you . . . I didn’t know this was such an elegant affair. Should I run home and change?” Suzanne leaned back theatrically, taking Phoebe in from head to toe.

  Phoebe wore a sweeping black maxi skirt, a lace tank top with a long, lacy pink knitted scarf around her throat, and black fingerless gloves that extended up her slim white arms, over her elbows, though the gloves did not cover a small heart-shaped tattoo on her slim upper arm. Her hair was gathered in a puffy washer-woman-style knot that seemed about to tumble down very stylishly at any second. Her eyes were ringed with liner, shadow, and mascara, and sparkling studs dotted her ears, matching the tiny stone in one nostril.

  “No worries. I think you’ll see mostly jeans and hoodies in there. I just felt like glamming it up a little.”

  “You look very glam to me,” Maggie assured her.

  Phoebe smiled shyly and led them inside. The large entrance, painted pure white, was decorated with a smooth white stone sculpture on a black pedestal. A large poster, balanced on an easel, announced the opening of the exhibit. The photo of a piece of fiber art was featured on the sign—tarnished spoons and half-broken teacups dangling from a colorful tapestry.

  “That’s one of Charlotte’s pieces, Granny’s Parlor. It was chosen for the poster,” Phoebe said proudly.

  “Very interesting. Can’t wait to see the rest.” Maggie shrugged out of her coat. The group left their things at a checkroom and followed Phoebe to the gallery entrance. Another student, also dressed in black, though not quite as dramatically as Phoebe, checked a list for everyone’s name.

  As she stepped into the gallery, Maggie decided she’d surrendered her coat too willingly. The vast, open space was quite chilly. With ceilings as high as an airplane hangar, it was, she guessed, a hard space to heat and not often occupied. But as these events often went, a throng of warm bodies would soon fill in the emptiness and quickly raise the temperature.

  The floor was wood, bleached white, the walls whitewashed as well, covered by artwork. A few partitions, painted pearl gray, broke up the area, making it look less like a gymnasium sans basketball hoops. Waiters, who Maggie strongly suspected were more dressed-up students, circulated with trays of white wine and sparkling water in plastic cups. Others offered bits of cheese and crackers.

  “We’re a little early. But you can get a better look at the artwork without a crowd here. And talk to Charlotte. She’s around here somewhere . . .”

  While Phoebe gazed around for her friend, a woman about Maggie’s age sailed up to them. “Phoebe . . . you look lovely. Are you helping out here tonight?”

  “Hello, Professor Finch . . . No, I’m just here to see Charlotte’s work. She invited me and my friends.”

  Not very tall and a bit stout, the professor made the most of her assets with her outfit, Maggie thought. She wore slim black pants with a billowing c
hiffon top, a blue-gray color that matched her large eyes, dramatically kohl-lined and shadowed. Her short hair, a shock of white, stood out in stylish spikes. Large silver earrings, studded with random stones, matched a pendant and thick cuff bracelet. A tag on her blouse revealed her name: Professor Sonya Finch.

  Phoebe turned to the group. “Professor Finch is one of my teachers this semester.”

  Maggie introduced herself and extended her hand. “Maggie Messina. Very nice to meet you, Professor.”

  “My pleasure. I think Phoebe mentioned that you own a knitting shop in the village? Where she works?”

  Maggie nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “I saw you on the news the other night. That little prank really stirred up the town, didn’t it?” Professor Finch laughed, sounding very amused. At the Knit Kats, Maggie hoped. Not her interview.

  Was the art professor poking fun at her—or someone—for making such a fuss over the knitting graffiti? Chelsea Porter should take the flak for that, Maggie thought.

  “It did cause a stir. But we’ve kept calm and carried on,” she replied drily.

  Sonya Finch had a loud, bold laugh and obviously appreciated the volley. “I’m sure you have. You look like the calm type . . . Phoebe is so talented,” she added, suddenly changing the subject and resting her hand lightly on Phoebe’s shoulder. “I’m so glad she’s in my sketching and painting studio this semester. She’s doing some fine work.”

  “Is that your area of expertise?” Dana asked curiously.

  Sonya shrugged. “Not really . . . but in a small department you have to be flexible. I just jump in wherever needed. I usually know enough to push them in the right direction,” she added with a smile.

  Before Maggie could ask the teacher more, Charlotte appeared. She usually dressed down in jeans, adopting the tattered, drab look that was the local art-student style. But she was quite glammed up tonight, too. A knockout in a beaded black minidress, lacy stockings, and high black boots. She looked very much the guest of honor and arrived at their circle flushed and breathless.