A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery)

by Canadeo, Anne

  Maggie was afraid that Phoebe was getting hysterical. She took her arm and patted her hand. “Take a few deep breaths. Let the detective explain.”

  She glanced at Detective Reyes while Phoebe tried to compose herself. She also wondered how this could be. One minute Charlotte was stone-cold dead, staring into space like a broken doll. And now . . . she was presumably alive and well.

  But some other young woman was lying in there. That part of the story had not changed.

  “I’m sure this is a shock, Phoebe. You sounded so sure it was your friend. But when we searched the apartment, we found a pocketbook with a driver’s license and school ID. The photos match the deceased. Her name is Beth Shelton, and she’s also a student at Whitaker,” the detective explained. “Do you know her?”

  “It’s Beth? Not Charlotte?”

  Detective Reyes nodded. “So you do know her. Are the three of you friends?”

  Phoebe shook her head. “I just know Beth a little. She’s also an art major. But Charlotte and Beth are good friends. They’d been roommates last year or something. Before Charlotte moved to off-campus housing. But Charlotte did say that Beth’s roommates this year had gotten really weird and she wanted to move out. Maybe Beth knew where the key was, too, and she just came here to crash.”

  “Possibly,” the detective replied.

  Maggie still didn’t understand how this mix-up had happened. “Beth and Charlotte must look very similar for you to have mistaken her, Phoebe.”

  Phoebe swallowed hard, remembering. “I guess they do . . . I never really thought about it. But they do have the same sort of build and the same color hair. And Beth’s hair is long and gets wavy sometimes like Charlotte’s. Especially when it’s raining.” She turned to Maggie. “I was so shocked and freaked out. And she was mostly covered up. I barely looked at her before I panicked and ran out.” She turned to Detective Reyes. “I didn’t mean to tell you the wrong thing.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Detective Reyes replied. “But we still need your statement. Everything you can remember will help the investigation. I need to go back inside. This won’t take too much longer.”

  As Detective Reyes left them, Phoebe looked over at Maggie. Her expression was blank, but her dark eyes were wide and bright. “I’m like totally . . . stunned. I don’t know what to feel. I feel awful about Beth . . . but I am happy to hear Charlotte’s all right. I mean, as far as we know.”

  Maggie didn’t know what to say. The girl lying inside was not Charlotte. So could they safely assume Charlotte was alive and probably hiding somewhere after she’d run from the gallery because of Quentin? Maggie certainly hoped so.

  Phoebe turned to Maggie, a new look of dismay crossing her delicate features. “But if someone came in looking for Charlotte and killed Beth by mistake, that means someone is definitely after Charlotte. No wonder she ran away.”

  “Yes . . . no wonder.” Maggie had already thought of that.

  Of course the police had to consider the possibility that Charlotte killed Beth. The body was found in Charlotte’s apartment, and Charlotte was missing. She had to be considered, at this very early stage at least. Just as Phoebe is probably being looked at and needs to be eliminated as a suspect, Maggie realized, because she found the body.

  But Maggie was fairly certain that the police would eliminate Phoebe quickly and also find no grievance between Charlotte and Beth. Phoebe’s scenario was probably correct. Poor Beth had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had been mistaken for her elusive friend.

  Beth was having roommate troubles and either asked Charlotte for a place to crash or just assumed it would be all right if she stayed over. She let herself in, made herself comfortable in Charlotte’s bedroom, turned on the TV, and didn’t hear the intruder enter.

  Maybe Beth had even fallen asleep by that point. Or maybe she thought Charlotte had come in. Either way, in the dim light cast by the TV, the killer assumed Beth was Charlotte.

  As Maggie mulled over the sad situation, she saw another cat leap down from the porch railing, landing in a puddle of yellow light from the lamp near the apartment door. This feline had come from the other side of the house and landed with a thud. A much larger cat than Van Gogh, it strutted to the front door with a cocky manner, sounding a loud, demanding yowl.

  “That’s Pablo Picasso,” Phoebe told her. “He’s very bossy. He picks on Van Gogh.”

  “Just as well . . . rescuing one stray tonight is plenty. Charlotte might be back tomorrow. Or even sooner,” Maggie pointed out. “Or maybe you’ll get a message from her and she’ll tell you where she went tonight.”

  “Yes . . . I guess I might,” Phoebe agreed.

  Or maybe the police would catch up with her. Maggie had to add that possibility to the list. They had probably begun looking as soon as they discovered the true identity of the poor young woman lying dead inside.

  Picasso was startled by a sound inside the apartment and jumped back into the shadows. He was quick. Phoebe couldn’t have caught him anyway.

  An old saying came to mind—“All cats look the same in the dark.” As Maggie recalled, it was Benjamin Franklin’s nod to bedding older women.

  A little coarse and very misogynistic, Maggie thought. But something in the phrase seemed to ring true here, too—in regard to poor Beth Shelton being killed instead of Charlotte. And in the dark sleek coats and flashing eyes of Charlotte’s many pets melting in and out of the darkness.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Maggie rarely missed her scheduled hours at the shop. She felt that she owed it to her customers to be open as advertised. On various occasions through the years, she’d come in with a cast on her leg, a fever of one hundred and two, backaches, toothaches, and covered in poison ivy. Her friends teased her that she should have gotten a job at the post office. Neither snow, nor rain, nor gloom of night stayed her from her appointed knitting rounds.

  But after dealing with the police department for hours and getting home at nearly three, she’d only had four hours of sleep when the alarm sounded at its regular time on Monday morning. She allowed herself a bonus hour in bed but tossed and turned, thinking about the grisly events of the previous night and the random, unfortunate death of Beth Shelton. She finally pushed herself out the bed and into the shower.

  An hour late wasn’t so bad, all things considered. She knew the local news was probably full of the story about the young woman’s murder. But she couldn’t bear to turn it on, and she didn’t want to linger around the house anyway.

  She wondered if any of her friends had seen the morning news today. If they had, they would soon be calling her.

  Sure enough, when Maggie emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel, there was a text from Lucy on her cell phone.

  Did you see the news? Tried Phoebe. Not picking up. Hope she’s OK. Call me.

  Maggie quickly texted Lucy back:

  Long story. Not a happy one. Phoebe is OK. Come to the shop @ lunchtime. Or call later.

  Lucy often took a midday break if her work deadline wasn’t too pressing. She liked to stretch those long legs of hers and might walk downtown to hear Maggie’s—and Phoebe’s—sad story.

  After two mugs of coffee and some oatmeal, Maggie stood dressed and ready to go, her purse and knitting bag in hand. She peeked into the guest room, where Phoebe was still fast asleep; her newly adopted pal, Van Gogh, slept curled in a ball, his head burrowed into Phoebe’s knee. He was either snoring or purring in his sleep. He sounded like a little furry motor.

  Phoebe slept with a distressed expression on her fragile features. She certainly looked exhausted, and Maggie did not have the heart to wake her.

  After waiting at the crime scene for more than an hour and then sitting in the police station, giving statements to Detectives Reyes and Mossbacher for even longer, Phoebe was exhausted, alternating between free-flowing tears and a catatonic stare. When Maggie suggested that she come back to her house, Phoebe had only nodded numbly and allowed Maggie to ca
re for her.

  They were both very disturbed by Beth Shelton’s death. Phoebe even more so, since she had known the girl a bit and discovered the body.

  Maggie carefully closed the door and left a note for her guest on the kitchen table, then headed for town.

  Maggie should have guessed. A few hours later as lunchtime rolled around, she was expecting not only Lucy but also Suzanne and Dana, who had learned the bare bones of the story from the television news and wanted all the gritty, inside details.

  The police would be working on the case intensely, and Maggie guessed that Dana already had some inside information from her husband, Jack, who knew everyone on the force from his bygone days in law enforcement and heard a lot of inside gossip.

  Phoebe arrived first, at about half past eleven. She carried a large paper carton and set it on the counter. Maggie could hear something moving around inside and occasionally offering a plaintive meow.

  Maggie hoped this cat business worked out. She didn’t want to think about it right now, though. “How are you feeling? Did you get enough sleep?”

  Phoebe shrugged. “I guess so, but I had some really bad dreams,” she added quietly.

  “I’m not surprised.” Maggie glanced at the box. “I think the cat slept well. He was cuddled up right next to you, snoring away when I left the house.”

  Phoebe managed a small smile, one that seemed to draw on all her energy. She looked so drained. Maggie was sure a week of sleep could not make up for last night’s ordeal. Remnants of makeup ringed her eyes, and her dark hair, streaked with magenta and choppy on one side, was clipped in at the back of her head in an unattractive lump.

  Maggie had loaned her some clothes—a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt she found up in her daughter Julie’s room. Julie was smaller than Maggie, but Phoebe still looked as if she were wearing a collapsed tent.

  “Everyone is concerned about you. Suzanne, Dana, Lucy. They’re coming at lunchtime. But if you don’t feel up to seeing them . . .”

  “I want to see them. I want to stay down in the shop today and work. It will be distracting.”

  Maggie knew that was true. The steady stream of customers she’d dealt with so far had kept her from thinking too much about last night’s crime scene . . . and where Charlotte might be.

  Everyone wanted to know that.

  Maggie wanted to ask Phoebe if she’d heard from Charlotte yet. But of course, she would have said something if she had. The police were waiting, too. Phoebe had promised to let them know if she’d had any contact with her friend at all.

  Of course, the police weren’t going to wait for a message from Charlotte to Phoebe . . . or anyone else for that matter. Detective Reyes had told them last night that the search for Charlotte was well under way. Investigators were not only relying on the information from Phoebe and Maggie about last night but also looking for anyone on the Whitaker campus who may have spotted her as they tried to track her movements after the art show.

  They would find her soon, Maggie felt sure of it. Isn’t that the way it always went when you watched some detective show on TV?

  Phoebe went up to her apartment to shower and change her clothes, and get Van Gogh settled in. Maggie returned to the task at hand, following up on special orders with a few different yarn companies. The morning rush had cleared off, and there weren’t any customers in the shop, waiting for help. For once she hoped no one would come in. Not until her friends had come and gone.

  She was glad that they all wanted to see Phoebe and rally around her. Phoebe needed their support and friendship now.

  Maggie only knew a little about Phoebe’s family and background. She’d grown up in New Hampshire, and her father had left the house when she was about seven. Her mother, who had died a few years ago, had faced her own demons. Phoebe and her brother had been shifted around to stay with relatives and had more or less brought themselves up. Phoebe was close to her older brother, Sam, growing up. But he was in the navy now and always out at sea somewhere. He sent e-mails and letters. Sometimes they Skyped. But she was lucky to see him in person once a year. If that much.

  There may have been an aunt and uncle or a grandmother somewhere. Phoebe had never mentioned them. She seemed very much alone in the world for one so young. Maggie had realized that last night, at the police station.

  Phoebe was very independent, to be sure. But sometimes Maggie wondered if that was her true nature or simply a survival skill she’d picked up along the way. Ditto for her sometimes defensive, even prickly attitude. Maggie gave her a pass for that as well.

  Phoebe wasn’t in any trouble, Maggie hurried to remind herself. The police just needed to rule her out. It was all very routine. But the situation had been stressful, and most people her age would have called a parent. Phoebe called me, Maggie reminded herself. It was a great compliment . . . and a responsibility.

  No matter. She was happy to help Phoebe right now in any way she could, and she knew the rest of her knitting circle felt the same.

  * * *

  Dana and Suzanne arrived at the same time and, after a quick greeting, walked straight back to the worktable, where they set out their lunches.

  Dana opened her blue thermal pouch and began to set out containers. Maggie would be willing to bet at least one contained seaweed salad.

  “How’s Phoebe?” Dana asked. “She must be very upset.”

  “Yes, she is . . . She called me right after she called nine-one-one. At first, we thought it was Charlotte.”

  “Good Lord . . . that must have been awful . . .” Suzanne had opened a brown paper bag and now took out a plastic spoon.

  “She was very shaken . . . and only a little relieved to hear it wasn’t Charlotte. She knew the girl who was killed—Beth Shelton—but not very well. Phoebe said Beth was a really nice kid. Another art student.” Maggie sighed. It was all so sad and senseless. It was hard to ask the question, but Maggie wanted to know. “How was she killed? Was she smothered or something in all that knitting?”

  Detective Reyes had made Maggie and Phoebe promise not to talk about the investigation, especially the crime scene. But Dana obviously already knew, and Maggie was finding it hard—well, impossible actually—not to talk about it with her friends. It couldn’t be kept secret forever. It would soon be in the news, she rationalized.

  “I’m not supposed to tell,” Dana began, obviously wrestling with her conscience, too. “But they’ve pretty much pieced it together. Someone came through a back window while Beth was in the bedroom, watching TV. There were signs of a brief struggle, but the intruder overpowered her quickly with some fast-acting drug she inhaled, chloroform or something like that pressed to her face. Then the killer smothered her and . . . well, wrapped her in big sections of knitting. Most of her face was covered. That’s why Phoebe didn’t realize it wasn’t Charlotte.”

  Maggie nodded but couldn’t speak. The image was very unsettling. Poor Beth. What a tragic, senseless loss of life.

  “That is so weird . . . Why was the girl in Charlotte’s apartment?” Suzanne had unwrapped a container of soup and an apple but had put it aside. This conversation could take away anyone’s appetite—even Suzanne’s, Maggie realized.

  “Phoebe thinks Beth was having roommate problems and Charlotte invited her to stay over,” Maggie recalled.

  “I think police have confirmed it. One of Beth’s roommates told them Charlotte planned to leave town very soon and Beth was going to take over her apartment. Beth wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. But Beth and her roommates got into an argument and it came out. Needless to say, the roommates are very sorry now that they’d been so mean and driven the poor girl out that night.”

  “As well they should be,” Suzanne said huffily. “Alexis is quite a few years from college. But I’m already worried about her living on her own. My heart just breaks when I think of Beth’s parents. Did she come from around here?”

  Dana shook her head. She’d put aside her salad—seaweed, just as Maggie had susp
ected—and taken out her knitting. “No, she’s from Maine. Carlisle, I think. It will be a few days before the police can release her body. Her parents are already in town. Of course they want to be close to the investigation.”

  “My heart goes out to them. It’s a parent’s worst nightmare.” Maggie sighed. What else could one say? The very idea took your breath away. She sipped another cup of coffee. She’d had so little sleep last night, she’d need a whole pot by the time the day was through.

  “Where’s Phoebe? Is she still at your place?” Suzanne glanced at Maggie.

  “She came back a little while ago. She should be down soon.”

  They heard someone at the shop door. Maggie was relieved to see Lucy walk in. She really didn’t feel like taking care of a customer right now.

  “Hi, guys . . . Did I miss much?”

  “Not really. We were just talking about Beth Shelton and how sad it is for her family.”

  “What an awful shock. Have the police figured out yet if Beth was the intended victim or if the intruder had really been after Charlotte?”

  “They have to investigate both possibilities at this point. Jack said they’ll still have to rule Charlotte out as a suspect,” Dana added. “They have samples of Charlotte’s DNA in the apartment and can figure out if there’s any on Beth’s body. But so far, there’s no report of any ill will between the two girls. So there’s no real motive.”

  “Oh, I don’t think Charlotte had anything to do with it. Do any of you?” Before anyone could answer, Maggie added, “I think she’s running from someone who wants to harm her . . . not from the murder scene. And we already know Charlotte had plans to leave town and didn’t want too many people to know about it.”

  Lucy found a chair and sat down. “She did? That sounds important. Where was she going? Did she tell anyone?”

  “She didn’t want Quentin to know,” Suzanne cut in. “But she must have told Phoebe.”

  Maggie shrugged. “Phoebe said she doesn’t know why Charlotte was moving or where she was going. Just that she wanted to leave Plum Harbor.”