The lights were on in all the studios now, and they found their way back easily. As they emerged in the gallery once more, the space was crowded and noisy. Phoebe steered the group through the mass of guests over to Charlotte’s work. They wanted to see that most of all.
“Here it is . . . Isn’t it great? I love the way she blends all the textures. Then sticks it together with all these random objects and sort of tells a story. Or makes you imagine one.”
Phoebe was not the most eloquent or precise art critic, but Maggie thought her summation did capture a sense of Charlotte’s work.
The artwork was constructed of sections of knitting, most of it ragged, even torn. Pieced and patched together from a blend of yarns—thick and thin and all sorts of colors. She brought together random objects with loose themes.
Time Flies was the name of the first tapestry, in a similar style to the one featured on the poster. Maggie examined it closely. Quite interesting, she thought, with bits of broken clocks and wristwatches dangling down from different spots, and colorful feathers and beads woven into the knitting.
Another, called Date Night, was centered around a department store mannequin, her head and arms mainly. The blankly staring figure held out a hand mirror, gazing at her reflection. A length of knitted lace, blended with some rougher-looking weaving, was draped around her body and chest. Pieces of rhinestone jewelry glittered on her neck and wrists, and on her head, a pert retro hat with a veil covered her eyes. A small silk handbag overflowing with play money sat on a dressing table, along with a big perfume bottle. She could have been a woman checking her appearance before going out for the evening. Except for a single disturbing element, a roughly knit swatch tied around her mouth like a gag.
Interesting, Maggie thought. Was this a feminist statement?
A sweeter-looking piece, called Granny’s Parlor, had been featured in the exhibit poster. A large tapestry, what Maggie would call a parody of an afghan, was wrapped around a small white rocking chair. Broken teacups and tarnished spoons hung from the knitted swath. A pink cat made out of knitting sat next to a basket with needles and balls of yarn. Long scarves in bright candy colors were wrapped around everything, including a side table with a teapot and a dish of cookies, preserved by a covering of lacquer.
“Isn’t her work amazing?” Phoebe seemed cheered for a moment, showing off Charlotte’s pieces.
“It is,” Maggie had to agree. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect some of these . . . dark images. Charlotte always seems so cheerful,” she said honestly.
Of course, she didn’t know the young woman that well. They’d only met a few times, Maggie reminded herself.
And she well knew artistic expression was often an outlet for a person’s shadow side, for fears and anxieties. A way for some people to take control of complex feelings. Charlotte clearly had a few issues and used her art to work them out.
As it should be, Maggie thought.
“So, is this the type of fiber art you want to teach at the shop, Mag?” Maggie could tell from Suzanne’s little smile that she was teasing.
“Not exactly. Though I do like the way she’s blended all these yarns and random objects . . . and feathers and things,” she added, examining a patch.
“I like the mannequin . . . She looks so surprised. That’s supposed to be funny, right? I mean, a little?” Suzanne asked, glancing around at her friends.
“Maybe a little,” Lucy agreed tentatively. “The gag is a bit disturbing. But I thought it was clever,” she admitted.
“Quite clever . . . a provocative comment on feminine mystique,” another voice offered.
Maggie looked up to see a stranger had joined them. A man in his forties dressed in a tweed sports coat, his denim shirt, simple black tie, and jeans offering a youthful look. She had already guessed he was a professor; the tag on his jacket lapel confirmed it.
Maggie recognized the name, too. Professor Alex Healey. Phoebe spoke about him often. He was her favorite teacher and had come to be her adviser and mentor. She’d taken several classes with him and hoped to enroll in more.
Phoebe had returned to Granny’s Parlor with Suzanne, but quickly came toward them. “Professor Healey . . . did you hear what happened to Charlotte?”
“I did . . . What a shame. She worked so hard for this night. And everyone here is so impressed. I hope she’ll come back. Have you heard from her?”
Phoebe shook her head. “Not yet . . . I wish she’d send a text or something.”
“I hope so, too. Professor Finch and I are very concerned. Could you let me know if you hear anything?”
“I’ll let you know right away. I’ll send you a text or an e-mail,” Phoebe promised.
He nodded, looking into Phoebe’s eyes. He was not bad-looking, Maggie thought, in a soft, scholarly way. His dark-brown hair was thick and wavy, touched with a few gray strands that lent a distinguished air. He had a full beard, dark-brown eyes, and even features.
The type who encourages the crushes of female students to pump up his ego? Maybe, she thought. She hoped Phoebe didn’t fall into that category. Those situations never ended well.
He looked as if he wanted to talk more but was distracted when a woman approached and touched his arm. She didn’t spare a glance at the group but leaned toward him, speaking in an intimate tone. “Dean Klug is here. He’s looking for you.”
Professor Healey’s eyebrows jumped. He had some explaining to do to the dean, Maggie guessed, about the way Charlotte had run off and the school security had been called. He looked like he dreaded the interview. Understandably.
“Right. Would you please tell him I’ll be there in a moment . . . dear?” Suddenly remembering his manners he added, “This is one of my students, Phoebe Meyers. And a few of her friends. Ladies, this is my wife, Gena.”
Gena Healey turned to greet them with a brilliant smile. She was petite, with bright dark eyes and delicate features. Glossy brown hair cut short with long bangs that fell across her eyes. Sort of sexy for a professor’s wife, Maggie thought. But she was polished-looking as well. A black wrap dress, complemented by large, pearl earrings, was a perfect choice for the occasion and for her slim, lithe figure. She looked like a model—or former model—and at least ten years younger than her well-preserved husband.
“Enjoying the show?” she asked.
“Very impressive,” Maggie said.
“The art department must be proud of their students,” Dana remarked. “The work is very professional . . . especially Charlotte Blackburn’s.”
“Oh, yes, it is. Outstanding. I wanted so to meet her and congratulate her. But I understand she left early?”
Maggie cleared her throat. “Yes . . . she did. But she might be back. The instructors should be congratulated, too,” she added graciously, trying to avoid any more gossip about Charlotte.
“Yes, they should be. Including my husband. The department works very hard to get these results. It’s sort of his glory night, too,” she confided.
“And well deserved.” Maggie smiled back. She’d only taught at the high school level, but knew how much effort went into this type of event.
“Well . . . I’d better go find Alex. I’m not sure if he’s looking for the dean . . . or trying to hide from him,” she said with a laugh.
“We’re going to see the rest of the show. It was nice to meet you,” Dana said.
“Nice to meet all of you, too . . . and I hope Charlotte is all right and comes back to enjoy the party. Please let us know if you hear anything?”
“I will. Definitely,” Phoebe promised.
Once Gena Healey was out of view, Maggie turned to her friends. “I think we’ve done our duty here. Ready to go?”
Her friends agreed they’d all had enough art appreciation for one night and only glanced at the work of the other artists as they headed out. Maggie didn’t think any other pieces were as impressive or interesting as Charlotte’s. She had clearly been the star.
They collect
ed their coats but soon decided they were no longer in the mood to go out for dinner. It had begun to rain, an icy drizzle that collected on the car windows and caused Lucy to drive back to the village with care. Phoebe was driving her own car, a little VW Bug, back to town. Maggie watched her car disappear from view as they drove off campus.
“Quite a night. Not what I expected, I must say.” Maggie turned to her friends in the backseat to gauge their reactions.
“Do you mean Charlotte’s artwork . . . or chasing Quentin?” Suzanne asked.
“Both, I suppose.”
“I didn’t expect her artwork to be so complex,” Dana admitted. “She always seems so sunny and sweet.”
“Same here,” Lucy said. “I wonder if the gag on that mannequin was inspired by her relationship with Quentin? Phoebe said he was very jealous and possessive.”
“Could be,” Dana agreed. “Either way, she’s clearly done the right thing breaking up with him. He’s totally out of control. I hope she’s someplace safe. I’m going to ask Phoebe to give Charlotte my number, in case she needs any support. I’d be happy to help her without charge. Young women are so vulnerable.”
Maggie listened to the windshield wipers swish and slap. “That’s so true. These relationships can seem so romantic and passionate at first. They don’t even realize what’s really happening until it’s too late.”
Suzanne leaned forward, resting her hand on the back of Maggie’s seat. “Charlotte’s well rid of that guy. She woke up just in time. She has everything going for her—looks, personality, talent . . .”
“But inside, she must feel something is missing,” Lucy cut in. “Otherwise, why would she have let herself get involved with a guy like Quentin in the first place?”
Maggie sighed. “We’re all vulnerable in some way. We all have our confidence issues and blind spots. And some men can be so charming at first.”
Lucy glanced at her. “Sounds as if you’ve had a Quentin in your own life, Maggie.”
Maggie glanced at her. The darkness and patter of rain on the car roof invited confidences. “I did know someone like him once. Long ago. He was quite good-looking . . . and I was very flattered that he noticed me. I was sort of bookish and quiet back then. I know you all find that hard to believe,” she added with a grin. “He even had a motorcycle, which my parents strictly forbid me to ride.”
“So, naturally, you wanted to even more?” Dana prodded her.
Maggie smiled back. “Something like that . . . Luckily, he got bored with me. Too much of a goody two-shoes. Do people even say that anymore?” She laughed, recollecting. “He dumped me for one of my more adventurous friends. Which stung a bit. A blessing in disguise, I realized later.”
Lucy glanced at her. “Let’s hope Quentin gets bored chasing Charlotte and gives up on her, too.”
“Or someone—like a police officer—lets him know that would be the smart thing to do,” Suzanne added.
Maggie glanced back at her but didn’t reply. She knew that they all hoped this situation would resolve itself without Charlotte being harmed in any way. She hoped so, too, though she knew that was not how it always turned out.
It was past nine when she finally got home. She took off her wet coat and shoes by the door, then went straight up to her room and changed into pajamas, slippers, and a flannel robe. She was hungry but wanted to warm up first.
She put on some water for tea and heated a can of soup on the stove. She’d put in her time cooking for her family—her late husband, Bill, and her daughter, Julie, who was away at college. Now that she lived alone, Maggie felt relieved to cook just for one . . . or not cook at all, if she didn’t feel like it. Crackers, cheese, and a sliced apple were all she needed as a side dish.
She scanned a magazine while she ate, instructions for Valentine’s Day cupcakes, quickly followed by the latest miracle diet and homemade wrinkle and cellulite cures—all from ingredients she could find in her own kitchen.
No wonder women fall prey to controlling relationships. We’re brainwashed night and day into thinking there’s something wrong with us. Something always needs improvement and fixing. Some reason we are not worthy of love and respect. From our crow’s feet, to our saggy boobs and baggy thighs. As if a woman were a cellophane-covered package of chicken parts in the supermarket, to be critiqued and passed over. Or an old house always in need of repair and improvement.
Why do women give men this power? Let them judge us, define us? Why do we struggle so to feel lovable?
It was really sad in a way. Women had come so far in the last fifty years. She hoped to see the first woman president elected in her lifetime. But in some ways, women hadn’t made any progress at all. How could young women like her own daughter and Phoebe throw off the shackles, when popular culture reinforced these ideas every day?
This Valentine’s Day, she would send a card to all her women friends and tell them they were wonderful just the way they were. No improvement necessary. She didn’t have a romantic relationship right now and someone to celebrate with. But this idea was even better.
A mystery show was just starting on television—an episode of Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple. Maggie always enjoyed the subtle steps of Miss Marple’s deduction.
She set herself up in her favorite chair, with a mug of tea and her knitting bag, jangled nerves instantly soothed by the British accents and smooth pace of the plot. No car chases or scenes of bodies on a coroner’s slab. Miss Marple didn’t need any of that. She operated in cozy parlors or blooming walled gardens. Over silver tea sets and the occasional glass of dry sherry. She simply chatted and listened . . . and observed.
Miss Marple was also a dedicated knitter, another reason Maggie appreciated her. Maggie had noticed that, at times, the act seemed to make her invisible. She had overheard many very private—and interesting—conversations while riding in a train or waiting for an airplane. Just because she sat in public knitting. Maggie knit and sipped her own tea, watching and listening as Miss Marple set about solving another murder. It was all so relaxing, she didn’t even realize that her eyes had drifted closed.
* * *
Her cell phone was ringing. The sound was very loud and went on and on. Maggie woke with a start, and her mug toppled to the rug. The TV was still on, the digital clock on the cable box showing the time: 12:32. She must have fallen asleep before Miss Marple had caught her culprit.
The phone continued to ring, and she fumbled to pull it from her bathrobe pocket. Without her reading glasses she couldn’t see who was calling.
“Hello?” Her greeting came out in a startled croak.
“Maggie? . . . It’s me . . . Phoebe . . .”
Maggie sat up, instantly alert. The tone of Phoebe’s voice was alarming. “Phoebe . . . what is it? Is something wrong?”
All she heard was a deep sob.
“Phoebe? . . . Are you hurt? Where are you?” Maggie stood up, a panicky feeling rising in her chest.
“I’m at Charlotte’s apartment . . . I had to let myself in and I . . . I just called the police. Can you come here? I’m so scared. It’s just horrible, Maggie . . .”
Maggie felt her heart sink with dread. As much as she wanted more details, she knew there was no time to waste talking.
“I’ll be right there. I just need to throw on some clothes. What’s the address?”
“Thirty-three Nutmeg Street. There’s a pizza place on the corner.” Phoebe managed to relate the information between her sobs. “Oh, Maggie . . . come quick. I can’t believe it . . . I’m so scared.”
Maggie was scared, too. What if Quentin had gone there and hurt Charlotte? He could come back and hurt Phoebe, too. But she couldn’t leave. She had just called the police.
“Phoebe . . . get in your car and lock the doors. Don’t get out until you see the police . . . or me,” she instructed.
It wasn’t a foolproof plan, but it was something, she reasoned.
“Okay,” Phoebe said in a tearful tone. “I’ll be all righ
t . . . just hurry.”
“I will,” Maggie promised.
Maggie pulled on jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt over her pajama top, and slipped her down jacket over that. The rain had stopped, but the air was frigid. She didn’t have time to wait for the windows to clear and drove along warily, wiping her breath from the windshield with a gloved hand until the defroster kicked in. Charlotte’s apartment was on the outskirts of the village, less than five minutes’ drive. Maggie drove along the side streets as fast as she was able.
What was Phoebe doing at Charlotte’s? She must have gone over there to check on her . . . or maybe Charlotte had called her for help? Why did Phoebe say she’d called the police . . . and not an ambulance?
Maggie swallowed hard. A few possibilities came to mind. But she didn’t like any of them.
CHAPTER FIVE
Maggie soon turned onto Charlotte’s street and quickly found number thirty-three—a narrow two-story house with a flat roof. Something about the house just screamed that students lived there. Maybe the tired string of Christmas lights dangling around the door and the plastic flamingo stuck in the dirty snow. Or the flag of some distant nation that hung in an upstairs window in place of a curtain.
The windows in front were dark, but Maggie saw lights on in the back, where Phoebe had told her Charlotte lived. Two police cruisers were parked on the street in front, and Phoebe’s car was in the driveway.
She walked up along the side of the house and saw a small back porch. The door stood ajar, and a uniformed policeman stood in a patch of light. Yellow tape, printed with the words “DO NOT CROSS—POLICE LINE,” stretched across the porch and stairway, and from the house to a separate garage, sealing off the backyard.
Another officer stood at the bottom of the steps, talking to Phoebe. She was facing him and didn’t see Maggie approach.
“Phoebe? Are you all right? What’s going on?” Maggie asked as she drew near.
Phoebe turned, her face streaked with tears and melted eye makeup. She burst into tears and threw herself into Maggie’s arms. She was saying something, but Maggie couldn’t understand a word. Maggie just patted Phoebe’s back and stroked her long hair.
A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) Page 6