“Speaking of my husband’s ears, they must have been ringing,” she murmured just before she pressed the phone to her own ear. “Hi, honey . . . what’s up?” she greeted him cheerfully.
Dana’s expression suddenly flipped from warm and relaxed to surprised and excited. Maggie wondered what news had penetrated her typically unshakable calm.
“Really? . . . Wow . . . We’ll put it on right now. Talk to you later.”
She looked over at her friends, her blue eyes wide as saucers as she put her phone down. “The police have taken Sonya Finch in for questioning. It’s on the news right now. They think she’s connected to the Knit Kats.”
“Sonya Finch is a Knit Kat? I knew it!” Suzanne dropped her knitting and tossed her hands in the air.
“The thought crossed my mind . . . but I found just as many reasons to dismiss it,” Maggie admitted.
Lucy led the way to the family room and grabbed the remote. “Is it channel 25?”
“News Alive 25!” Dana said, finishing the jingle. “Maybe we’ll even get to see Chelsea Porter again.”
“Won’t that be a treat,” Maggie said drily.
She and Phoebe straggled behind a bit. Maggie quietly considered the update for a moment.
“For some strange reason, I’m not that surprised. Though when she came to the shop, Professor Finch claimed she barely knows how to knit,” Maggie told her friends.
Phoebe, however, was definitely surprised. “She acted as if she didn’t know anything about the Knit Kats. As if she didn’t even know their name. And she asked me like a million questions.”
“I noticed that, too. She was fishing for information, obviously. Trying to figure out what you’d told the police and if she was going to be picked up next,” Maggie said succinctly.
“Yeah . . . that was the only reason she stopped by, to snoop,” Phoebe added sharply. “What a big phony.”
“If it’s any consolation, Phoebe, I went for the bait, too,” Maggie told her honestly. “Looks like there’s more bad publicity for Whitaker College and the art department. Unfortunately.”
The television was on by the time Maggie and Phoebe reached the family room, which was just off the kitchen. Maggie saw Chelsea Porter on the screen, front and center, and in the background, the big gray building at Whitaker College where they had visited the art exhibit . . . and chased Charlotte and Quentin through the maze of studios.
“. . . a possible break in the murder investigation of college student Beth Shelton. Police have begun searching the office and home of Professor Sonya Finch, a teacher here at Whitaker College. As seen in this video from earlier this evening, Professor Finch was escorted from her campus office by homicide detectives presiding over the case.”
The TV showed a distant shot of Sonya Finch, with a big hood pulled up over her white hair and most of her pretty face covered by a scarf. She left the art department building beside Detective Reyes and was helped into the back of a dark sedan by uniformed police officers.
“College officials were taken by surprise. We interviewed art department chairman Professor Alex Healey, who gave a statement to the media.”
Professor Healey suddenly appeared, a microphone thrust into his bearded face. He stood alone in the art gallery, where one of Charlotte’s pieces could be seen in the background. He looked nervous and tense, his face shining with sweat. Maggie noticed he wore the same tweed sports jacket he’d had on at the art exhibit opening, but this time it covered a plain cotton T-shirt. As if he’d been caught by surprise without his dress shirt and tie.
“We are shocked and saddened by the recent events off campus, the senseless murder of Beth Shelton,” he said sincerely. “Whitaker College is fully cooperating with the investigation. Professor Finch is cooperating as well, and hopes to help the police in any way that she can. We support her totally, and do not believe she has any connection to this heinous crime.”
Chelsea Porter returned to the screen. “While Professor Finch is not charged with any crime, she has been deemed a person of interest in the case. Sources close to the investigation tell us that she is primarily being questioned in regard to her connection with the Knit Kats, an underground graffiti knitting group that has recently made its presence known in this area and may be involved in some way with this crime.”
Phoebe made a glum face. Maggie could tell she still felt annoyed at being “played” by the professor the other day. “Think of it this way, Phoebe. She was fishing, but you didn’t give her anything useful.”
Phoebe sighed. “I hope not.”
“. . . Police are releasing very little information due to the sensitive nature of this case. But you can see they are definitely gathering more evidence and clues . . .” Chelsea stepped aside so that the cameraman could get a good shot of police officers marching in and out of the building, like a line of worker ants, Maggie thought.
Practically the same footage had been shown the night police searched Phoebe’s apartment. She hoped this time their efforts would yield solid information.
The news continued with other stories, and Lucy waved the remote and shut off the TV. “That is big news. I hope this lets you off the hook, Phoebe. It sounds like Sonya might be a real Knit Kat. Not just auditioning.”
“Maybe even the top Kat. The police will be much happier with the real thing,” Suzanne agreed. “I wonder how they caught up with her. Maybe with more security video?”
“Jack heard there was more. But it was taking a long time to review. She must have been well disguised. She’s done it before and never gotten caught. But maybe her limp gave her away?” Dana added.
“That could very well be. The police may have questioned her early on and then someone recognized her on the video—her body type and uneven gait,” Maggie suggested.
“So if Sonya’s a Knit Kat, who do you think are the other two?” Dana asked.
“Good question,” Lucy replied. “I have an even better one. If Sonya was on the selection committee for that exhibit, why couldn’t she just pick the Knit Kats’ work for the show?”
“It wasn’t just up to her. I think Charlotte said Professor Healey was the one who nixed the Knit Kats’ entries,” Phoebe recalled. “He said he didn’t believe in anonymous group projects. And they weren’t ‘real’ artists. Just playing around, and giving fiber art a bad name. Making it seem frivolous and not worthy of serious consideration.”
Suzanne had started on her knitting again. “Whoa . . . He takes this stuff very seriously, doesn’t he?”
“He’s a serious guy,” Phoebe added. “He’s mainly a sculptor but does some work with fiber. He puts together these macho-looking things, not really knitting, more like weavings or something. With different kinds of ropes and knots and bolts and stuff hanging down.”
“Sounds like macramé on steroids,” Suzanne replied without looking up. “Remember all those plant holders and wall hangings people used to decorate with?”
“I still have a few of those,” Maggie admitted. “His version sounds interesting.” She didn’t like to dismiss anyone’s artwork without seeing it firsthand.
Lucy had disappeared briefly but now returned with a tray of coffee cups, a pot of coffee, and a plate of cookies that looked homemade.
She set the confections on the low wooden table by the TV and started filling mugs with coffee. “So without realizing it, Professor Healey was rejecting and insulting Professor Finch’s work. But she couldn’t complain about it, or she’d reveal her extracurricular activities. Interesting.”
“It is interesting,” Maggie agreed. “Makes you wonder why the Knit Kats didn’t try to get back at Healey. He was the one who had dismissed and belittled them. Not Charlotte.”
Suzanne leaned forward and grabbed a mug of coffee. “I’ll tell you what doesn’t make sense to me. If I was a Knit Kat and wanted to get rid of someone, why would I give myself away and throw my whole gang under the bus? Wrap the body in yarn graffiti? Duh . . . that’s not exactly covering you
r tracks,” she stated flatly.
Lucy sat down to join them again. She had her knitting, too, and was working on a red scarf. “Maybe they’re just so full of themselves, they did it as sort of an in-your-face statement? Maybe they think they’re so clever and anonymous, no one would find them?”
“Not in this day and age. No one is anonymous for very long. Case in point, the police have already tracked down one member and will likely figure out the others soon,” Dana reminded her.
“And they found the dumbbell who tried out for the vacancy,” Phoebe reminded them. “I agree with Suzanne. I don’t think the Knit Kats killed Beth. Even mistaking her for Charlotte. That just doesn’t make sense . . . It had to be someone trying to frame them.”
“Copycats . . . No pun intended,” Lucy added quickly, glancing at Maggie.
“Yeah, copycats. Exactly,” Phoebe agreed. “Someone who had a problem with the Knit Kats . . . and with Charlotte. That’s who the police should be looking for.”
Lucy reached out and passed the plate of cookies around. Maggie was full from the delicious dinner but took a small one. Home-baked chocolate chip cookies were her favorite, and Lucy’s were first-rate.
“How about someone who has a problem with Sonya Finch?” Lucy added as she walked by. “She’s the one spending the evening with Detectives Reyes and Mossbacher right now. Maybe someone is trying to frame her?”
“Very possible,” Dana agreed. “It will be interesting to hear what she tells the detectives.” She brushed a few crumbs from her fingers. “So far, it sounds like the Whitaker College art department has more passion and pathos than the season finale of Real Housewives.”
“Oh please . . . those women are so plastic. Their personalities and their body parts . . . I just can’t watch it anymore.” Suzanne crinkled her nose in distaste.
“Did you ever really watch it?” Maggie asked in amazement.
Suzanne looked up from her knitting, her face as rosy as her Valentine’s Day project. Everyone waited for her answer.
“I refuse to answer on the grounds it will definitely make me the butt of too many jokes around here. Don’t I get a phone call?”
Maggie laughed, but also wondered if Sonya Finch was delivering the same line to her interrogators.
But the news had reported that she was cooperating with police, and she did seem the talkative type. Maggie knew for a fact that Detective Reyes could be a very attentive listener.
CHAPTER TEN
Phoebe dreaded returning to her classes on Friday. But she dragged herself out of bed, got dressed, filled her Hello Kitty travel mug with coffee, and headed out.
Just like she’d told Maggie and Professor Finch, she didn’t see how hiding in her apartment was going to help anything. She had meant that, too. Though saying it had been a heck of a lot easier than actually doing it.
As she drove toward school, she knew she couldn’t quite deal with classes yet, seeing her teachers and other students, who would all ask a zillion questions. She decided to compromise with herself by just picking up her assignments and maybe hitting the library for a while.
She’d already fallen behind and had a lot of work to make up. Especially in Professor Finch’s studio course. Even if Finch didn’t show up—which was highly likely—there would be a substitute.
Phoebe knew she couldn’t handle setting up her easel in her usual place and seeing a big blank spot next to her, where Charlotte always set up, too. Or, worse yet, seeing some insensitive clod move in. As if Charlotte didn’t even exist anymore.
You can cut that class. Finch probably won’t even be there. For one thing, she’ll be too embarrassed to show her face on campus so soon after being dragged away by the police. For another, she might even still be at the station . . . in a jail cell.
That thought was surprising. And possible.
Though it was more likely that the detectives had gone through the same routine they’d used with her, Phoebe thought. Questions for hours, police picking apart her house and office but finally letting her go because they didn’t have enough evidence yet to do more.
Phoebe doubted Professor Finch had been behind the dirty deed. She wasn’t sure why, she just did. Though she didn’t trust her any farther than she could throw her. Which was . . . not at all, come to think of it. That expression was so dumb and meaningless, Phoebe wasn’t even sure why it had popped into her brain. Maggie’s antique way of talking was rubbing off on her . . . not good.
Had people ever walked around picking each other up and heaving them into the air? Was it some sort of bizarre tradition or ritual somewhere? She made a mental sticky to ask her anthropology professor sometime.
The gated entrance of the Whitaker campus came into view. Phoebe turned in and followed the campus road back to the Stimson Art Center. She parked in the lot and grabbed her knapsack, then headed toward the building.
She’d arrived between classes, and the lot and quad were quiet, nearly empty. Perfect timing. Everyone was in class. She slipped into the building and headed for her locker, just outside the ceramics studio, which was empty, she noticed.
And so was her locker, she realized, as she yanked open the door, which was missing its lock.
She stood there, staring into the empty black space. Then double-checked the number. Even the art postcards and interesting pictures she’d cut from magazines and pasted on the inside of the door were gone. All she saw in their place were wads of old tape.
Where the heck was her stuff? Her big black sketchbooks and pastels, paint box . . . brushes, pencils . . .
The police. They’d been here. They’d gone into Charlotte’s locker, too, Dana had told them all last night. The police had found a pile of money in there . . . but what did they want with her stupid art supplies? That pile of stuff had cost her a small fortune . . . money she didn’t have right now to replace it.
Phoebe kicked the door closed in frustration. Detective Reyes had never shown her a warrant for this. Or if she had, Phoebe didn’t remember. But maybe the college had given permission. It was on their property. And Professor Healey had kept repeating how the college was cooperating. He’d repeated the word more times than an episode of Sesame Street.
Well, they must have cooperated about giving all my stuff away. Phoebe felt so mad she was shaking. She thought about calling Maggie or Lucy but decided to march into the art department office first and ask Professor Healey about this, before she took the edge off her explosion by venting to her friends.
How dare the police just . . . just grab all her stuff. She had a ton of good artwork in there . . . assignments and everything. When would she ever get it back? Try never . . . It wasn’t right. Somebody should have at least called her and let her know what was going on.
Phoebe turned the corner in the long corridor and saw the office doors of art department professors and the department’s main office across the hallway.
The main office was empty. The secretary’s desk looked neat and bare, as if no one had been there all morning. But out in the hallway again, she heard Professor Healey’s voice behind the closed door of his office, talking to someone, probably a student.
She decided to wait and snag him when the door opened. He was a pain about seeing students if they had not made an appointment. But this was an emergency. Maybe he could help her get her stuff back.
Just thinking about her empty locker made her upset all over again. The burst of energy she’d felt moments ago suddenly drained away. Phoebe slid down the cool wall and sat on the linoleum, her knees hugged up to her chest.
She suddenly heard another voice in the office, a woman’s voice. It sounded like Professor Finch. She sure had a lot of guts to show up here today.
But it didn’t sound as if Finch was getting any points for good attendance. More like Professor Healey was firing her. Whoops . . . that is a bad hair day.
“How many ways do I have to say it? What part of the word ‘resign’ don’t you understand?” Professor Healey’s
voice grew even louder.
“You can’t do this, Healey. I have tenure. I’ll go to Dean Klug . . . I know people on the board of trustees . . . and the union.”
“Klug knows all about it. He’s the one who insisted. Listen, Sonya,” he said in a milder tone, “we go way back. I know how it is. I tried to fight for you . . . but there are grounds here. Even you can’t deny that.”
“Ha! The hell you did. You’re only interested in saving your own neck, Healey. I don’t believe a word of that.”
“All right. Gloves off. Did you really think you could weather this . . . this crap storm you’ve brought on? We simply can’t afford this publicity. Especially the art department. We’re hanging on by a thread . . . A student murdered off campus, another one on the run, wanted by the FBI . . .”
“But how can you blame me? It’s not my fault at all . . . There’s not a shred of evidence against me. If there was, do you think I’d be standing here? I’d be stuck in a jail cell somewhere.”
“That’s just what I mean. This isn’t over, Sonya. Who knows what will happen next? Do we have to turn on the TV and see you escorted to a police car every night of the week?”
“Ha! Very amusing. They’ll be coming for you next,” she warned him. “Ever think of that?”
Phoebe couldn’t hear Professor Healey’s reply. Professor Finch’s loud, brassy laugh, which Phoebe had always liked, drowned him out. This morning Professor Finch sounded like a cackling witch. It gave Phoebe chills.
“This all started with your little pet, Charlotte. Not me,” she goaded him. “I know all about the two of you. I told the police, too. Believe me, I gave them an earful.”
“Told them what? That I’m her adviser? Her mentor? I’d never in my life get involved with a student. And risk my entire career and credibility?”
A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) Page 15