A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery)

by Canadeo, Anne

  “Are you Phoebe’s mother?” the officer asked.

  Maggie shook her head. Mother figure at times, yes. But of course, she couldn’t say that.

  “A good friend. And her employer. What’s going on, Officer? Where’s Charlotte Blackburn, the girl who lives here?”

  Phoebe heaved another sob and pulled back a bit, though she didn’t let go entirely. Her eyes were filled with tears. “She’s inside. In the bedroom. On the floor. Oh, Maggie, poor Charlotte . . . she’s . . . dead.”

  Maggie couldn’t breathe. Her heart skipped a beat. She stared at Phoebe and then looked back at the officer.

  That beautiful young girl. Maggie couldn’t speak. She couldn’t get her mind around it.

  “How can that be? We just saw her . . .”

  The officer met her gaze but didn’t reply. He took a pad out from his back pocket. “Your name, please?”

  “Maggie Messina,” she replied, watching him write it down.

  “Did you know Charlotte Blackburn?” he asked.

  “Not very well. But I’d met her a few times,” Maggie replied.

  “When did you last see her?”

  “A few hours ago. At Whitaker College, at an art show on the campus,” Maggie answered.

  He nodded. “Detectives will be here in a few minutes. They need to speak to Phoebe and may ask you a few questions, too.”

  “All right.” Maggie glanced at Phoebe. She seemed to be in shock, staring into space, blinking as the raindrops mingled with her tears. Maggie took her arm, thinking it would be best to wait in Phoebe’s car until the detectives came.

  But a dark-blue sedan had pulled into the driveway behind Phoebe’s VW. A man got out of the driver’s side, and a woman emerged from the other. The man wore a dark-gray trench coat and a baseball cap in lieu of a rain hat. Red Sox fan, of course. He was not very tall but had broad shoulders. Or maybe that was just the raincoat. Maggie guessed he was a detective from the county, but she didn’t recognize him. She was simply relieved to see it wasn’t Detective Walsh, who had once considered her a suspect in a case and made her life miserable for a few weeks.

  She did recognize the woman, a tall, slim brunette, Detective Marisol Reyes. Her path had crossed with the Black Sheep Knitters on a few occasions in the past few years. Maggie liked and respected Detective Reyes. She was very professional, smart, and fair-minded. She still strongly discouraged Maggie and her friends from getting involved in her investigations, but Maggie sensed Detective Reyes didn’t write off the knitting group as a bunch of cackling, vacuous women. The group had, in fact, helped her close more than one case.

  Though we never get the credit, Maggie reflected.

  “Look, Phoebe, Detective Reyes. She’s easy to deal with.”

  Maggie could tell Phoebe heard her, but Phoebe was clearly in shock. Maggie put her arm around her friend’s shoulder and felt her trembling.

  A uniformed officer came down from the porch and spoke to the detectives for a few moments. Maggie heard snippets of the conversation: “. . . forced entry . . . window in the back . . . footprints . . . victim . . . bedroom . . .”

  Detective Reyes looked over at Maggie and Phoebe, then finally walked toward them.

  “Detective Reyes, it’s so awful . . . Phoebe’s friend from school, Charlotte Blackburn. We’d all just seen her this evening, at an art show . . .” Maggie’s voice trailed off nervously.

  Not like her to ramble on. But the situation was unnerving.

  Detective Reyes gazed at Maggie in her calm, steady way, then looked at Phoebe, trying to catch her eye. But Phoebe was staring down at the ground, softly crying again and dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  “You found the victim, Phoebe?” she asked quietly.

  Phoebe nodded. “Yes . . . I did.”

  “Tell me what happened. How did you get into the apartment?”

  “The door was locked. But I knew where Charlotte left a spare key. I heard the TV and saw a light on. I thought maybe Charlotte was asleep and hadn’t heard me knocking.”

  “Did you hear anything else? Any sounds from inside, besides the television?”

  Phoebe shook her head. She took a deep breath. “No . . . I don’t think so. I listened at the door a while, thinking I’d hear her coming to open it. But I just heard the television.”

  Maggie could see she was trying to settle herself. She tried to talk again, then squeezed her eyes closed and pressed her hand to her forehead. Maggie put an arm around her shoulder.

  Detective Reyes waited a moment, then spoke again. “I know it’s hard to talk about this. You’re doing fine. Tell me, did you know Charlotte very long? How did you meet?”

  “We met at school, last spring in an art class. Professor Healey’s mixed media. We didn’t have any classes together this semester. But we stayed pretty close and hung out a lot at the studios.”

  “When was the last time you’d seen her or spoken to her?” the detective asked.

  “A few hours ago, at the school. Charlotte’s work was in an art show on campus. Maggie came, too. With the rest of our knitting group.”

  Detective Reyes marked this on her pad and nodded. She was familiar with the Black Sheep, but Maggie couldn’t tell if she was pleased to hear her friends were involved or not. Probably not, Maggie decided.

  “So you and your friends went to the gallery at Whitaker College to see Charlotte’s artwork. And she was there.”

  “She was . . . but the show hadn’t even really started yet and her boyfriend, Quentin Gibbs . . . ex-boyfriend, I mean . . . showed up, and she’s like totally terrified of him. So she just took off and Quentin chased her and we were all like chasing her through the art studios, trying to make sure Quentin didn’t hurt her. I caught up with him, and he pushed me into a wall,” Phoebe added.

  “That’s true. I was there. He pushed her down, could have hurt her badly,” Maggie chimed in.

  Detective Reyes glanced at Maggie. “Thank you, Mrs. Messina. We’ll ask you some questions later. Just let Phoebe answer now.” She turned back to Phoebe. “So Gibbs chased Charlotte. Then what?”

  “She like ran outside, onto the campus, and just . . . disappeared. Into thin air. We were all watching Quentin. He made a big scene taking off on his motorcycle. When I turned around to look for Charlotte, she was gone. We stayed at the gallery a little while; then I went home. I kept calling and texting her, but she never called back.” Phoebe took another deep breath. Detective Reyes nodded, but didn’t interrupt.

  “I couldn’t go to sleep. I was too worried. I got dressed again and came over,” Phoebe explained. “I thought I could get her to come back to my apartment. I mean, this is the first place Quentin would look for her. But maybe she didn’t have anyplace else to go.”

  Detective Reyes nodded again. “What time did you get here? Did you notice?”

  “I guess I left my apartment about half past eleven. I sent one more text, and she didn’t answer. I can check my phone . . .” she offered.

  “That’s all right. We’ll check later. Did you see anyone on the street or near the house when you arrived?”

  Phoebe shook her head. “No . . . nobody. I saw lights on back here, and when I got to the door, I heard the TV. I knocked a few times. But no one answered.” Phoebe paused and sighed, staring down at the ground again.

  “I know this is hard, but you have to tell me everything, Phoebe.” Detective Reyes’s tone was firm. “What did you do next?”

  “When she didn’t answer the door, I called again and sent another text. I told her I was outside and I just wanted to know that she was all right. When that didn’t work, I walked around the side of the house and peeked in the window . . . I didn’t know what else to do. I thought maybe Quentin was in there and he wouldn’t let her answer,” she added. “But I didn’t see him. I just saw the TV on in the bedroom. Which made me think she was there. I didn’t know what to do,” she said again, sounding overwhelmed. “I knew that Charlotte kept a spare key out here. In
a flowerpot. So I let myself in.”

  Detective Reyes stopped her. “When you used the key, the door was locked?”

  “Yes, it was definitely locked. I didn’t want to be that obnoxious, so I just like stepped inside and called to her. She didn’t answer, and I thought, well, maybe she went out and left everything on. Or maybe she was asleep. So I kept calling and walked toward the bedroom. Then I got to the bedroom door and looked in . . .” Phoebe paused and took a breath. Maggie noticed her chin start to tremble. “I saw her. On the floor. Wrapped in . . . it looked like a big afghan. But like patches that don’t really match.” Phoebe swallowed hard. “It looked like her own artwork. Her fiber art pieces . . . or . . . or some knitting graffiti,” she added quietly.

  Maggie felt a sharp stab in her chest. She hadn’t heard that part of the story before.

  Detective Reyes looked puzzled. “I’m not sure I understand you . . . but go on.”

  “I just stood in the doorway. I couldn’t make myself go in. There weren’t any lights on, except for the TV.” Phoebe paused and squeezed her eyes closed. Maggie could tell the awful image was imprinted now in her mind’s eye. She’d never forget it. “I could see her eyes. Wide open. Just staring. And her body was like frozen, one arm sticking up. I couldn’t get close to her. I’m sorry . . . I could tell that she wasn’t breathing. She was so stiff and just staring . . . I just knew what had happened . . .”

  Phoebe broke down and started to cry again. Maggie slipped an arm around her shoulder. Detective Reyes waited, her expression sympathetic but also intense. Maggie suddenly wondered if the detective had any suspicions about Phoebe. Her job did demand that she consider every angle. But the detective also knew the knitting group a bit and had excellent instincts about people and probably sensed that Phoebe couldn’t even kill a bug. She actually coaxed insects into cups or jars and then let them loose outdoors. And Phoebe had no possible motive. She loved her friend and had come here out of true concern.

  “So you didn’t enter the bedroom or touch the body?” Detective Reyes asked. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive. I started to go in. But when I saw her, I just stopped in the doorway and sort of backed out. I thought I might faint and pretty much ran out of the apartment . . . screaming,” she admitted. “I’m surprised none of the neighbors came out.”

  Maggie was, too. But it looked like the sort of neighborhood where people kept to themselves.

  Phoebe took a deep breath to steady herself. “I called nine-one-one. Then Maggie.”

  Detective Reyes nodded. She seemed about to ask another question when the other detective called down to her from the doorway. He had removed his cap to reveal a head of silvery white hair cut very short.

  “Sorry to interrupt. But I think you need to see this.”

  Detective Reyes turned and answered with a quick nod.

  “I have to go inside for a while,” she told the two women. “I know it’s been a long night. But you need to come to the station and make a full statement.”

  “Okay,” Phoebe said, “but I know who killed her. It was Quentin. Had to be. He’s like totally crazy and out-of-his-skull jealous of her. She told me the other night she got an order of protection against him. That’s why she thought he’d never show up at that gallery. But he’s been like stalking her . . .”

  “We’ll send officers out right now to find him and talk to him right away. But I also want you to think about anyone else who may have had a grievance with Charlotte—students at school. Or outside of school. Anything you can remember, even if it seems insignificant. Anything could be important.”

  “Phoebe isn’t exaggerating about that boy,” Maggie added. “Charlotte was truly afraid of him.”

  But if it had been Quentin, Maggie didn’t see how the knitting graffiti fit in. He seemed the type to commit a crime of passion. But the elaborate wrapping suggested an intentional plan, didn’t it?

  The way Phoebe had described the knitted wrapping on the body also suggested the Knit Kats. Could the group be linked with this horrible act? Maggie recoiled at the thought. She also wondered if Detective Reyes was familiar with the term “knitting graffiti.” But Maggie was sure Phoebe would explain that—and talk about the Knit Kats—when she gave her statement. Maggie decided to tell the police her impressions, too . . . and about that odd phone call she’d received the night of her TV interview. Probably not connected in any way, but as the detective had just said, any small detail could be important.

  Detective Reyes met Maggie’s gaze as she pulled a pair of plastic gloves from her coat pocket. “The medical examiner is on his way. We’ll know a lot more once he looks at the body.”

  She headed up the steps to the front door of Charlotte’s apartment. Her partner had already gone inside, and Maggie spotted him for a moment through a window.

  Maggie imagined them going into the bedroom to examine the crime scene. A lump formed in her throat.

  A gray-and-white cat sat on a windowsill, then paced from side to side, softly meowing. Phoebe was crying again but looked up at the sound. “One of Charlotte’s cats, Van Gogh. He wants to go inside. He doesn’t realize what’s . . . what’s happened.”

  She stared at Maggie, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Of course he doesn’t,” Maggie said quietly.

  Phoebe walked over to the porch and stopped at the yellow tape. She called to the cat, “Come here, sweetie. It’s me . . . Phoebe. Remember?”

  Van Gogh clearly did remember. Or he was very hungry and sensed Phoebe was a cat lover. He turned and came quickly on delicate white feet. Most of his face and the tip of his tail were white, too. His fur was glossy and thick—maybe a little Angora mixed in with his alley-cat ancestors? He was a pretty cat and seemed very friendly and gentle.

  Phoebe picked him up and held him in her arms. He seemed relaxed and obviously knew her.

  Phoebe walked back to Maggie, holding the cat, his paws pressed to her chest and his head at her shoulder.

  “I wish we had something to feed him. Maybe the police would give me some cat food from inside? I know where Charlotte keeps it.”

  “I doubt it. They’re still looking for evidence. They probably aren’t allowed to remove anything from here for days.” She rubbed Phoebe’s shoulder as she continued to stroke the cat.

  “How many cats did Charlotte have?”

  “I’m not sure . . . at least five. There was Frida and Georgia, Leonardo and Picasso.”

  All named for artists. That made sense.

  “That’s a lot of cats. That’s practically a herd,” Maggie noted.

  “They just come and go as they please. But they always come back for food, and if it’s really cold or wet. But now there won’t be anyone around to take them in or take care of them,” Phoebe said quietly.

  As if on cue, the cat clinging to Phoebe’s jacket turned and glanced at Maggie, his little head cocked to one side in a charming pose. She noticed that one ear was a little crumpled. A large portion had been bitten off, in a cat fight—or perhaps in the quest of winning over some female feline? His name fit well.

  “Maybe a neighbor or two will take care of them. At least they might feed them.”

  “Maybe,” Phoebe agreed with a sigh.

  Maggie didn’t say anything for few moments, then glanced back at Phoebe. “Maybe you should take Van Gogh and watch him for a while.”

  Phoebe looked surprised at the suggestion. She’d often asked Maggie if she could have a pet in the apartment, but Maggie always stuck to the terms of their lease: no pets of any kind. “Really? But you always said—”

  Maggie sighed, interrupting her. “I know . . . but this is an emergency. As long as the cat doesn’t come in the shop. I think it will be all right. Temporarily,” she clarified.

  She wondered if that last caveat had even registered. Phoebe was gazing down at her new charge with a small smile, momentarily distracted by the idea of taking in Charlotte’s cat, which had been Maggie’s i
ntention. She actually didn’t want a cat in the shop, or even on the floor above, but she didn’t know what else she could do to help Phoebe get through this.

  “I guess I can put him in my car. He should be all right in there. I think I have a towel in back. I’ll make him a little bed,” Phoebe said.

  Phoebe walked back to her car with the cat, and Maggie saw another car pull up and park across the street. Two men emerged. One took a large black bag from the backseat, and the other pulled some type of equipment from the trunk. It looked like large lights. She guessed that the medical examiner and an assistant had arrived. She watched them walk up to the apartment and show badges to the officer on the porch before they entered the house.

  “I think the medical examiner is here. Maybe we won’t have to wait that much longer,” Maggie said when Phoebe returned.

  “I hope they sent someone to look for Quentin,” Phoebe replied. “I hope they find him and put him in jail . . . and never let him out again.” Phoebe turned to Maggie. “Do you think it’s wrong that I didn’t check if she was breathing? I mean, I could see that she wasn’t. How could she be alive, staring up that way? She looked like . . . like a broken doll or something . . .”

  Maggie comforted her again. “There was nothing you could have done for her, Phoebe. Nothing anyone could have done. You did the right thing to call the police,” she assured her.

  It was actually better that Phoebe had not touched the body or anything in the bedroom. Her fingerprints and DNA would have been all over the crime scene . . . and that could have caused complications. As it was, just finding poor Charlotte had dragged her into this.

  Maggie saw Detective Reyes meet the medical examiner at the door. But instead of going back inside with him, she came out and walked over to Maggie and Phoebe.

  She took them in with a serious glance. “We’ve identified the victim. I think you should know that it’s not Charlotte Blackburn.”

  Phoebe stared at the detective, her mouth dropped open. She hugged her stomach, practically doubling over with shock. “Are you sure? . . . But I saw her . . . with my own eyes. How could that be?”