“I understand. Sorry to be telling you your business.”
He shrugged and smiled. “You aren’t the first person . . . and won’t be the last. I’ll tell Detective Reyes what you said about the photos. I’m sure she’ll be interested.”
The comment was flattering. “I’m happy to help. Anytime.”
He picked up the photos and stuck them back in the envelope, then put his hat back on, preparing to go.
“You have a very nice shop. Very comfortable. My wife would have liked this place. She liked to knit.”
Past tense. He was a widower. The expression in his eyes confirmed it. Maggie met his gaze a moment. “I’m sorry . . . How long has it been?”
“Two years, in April.”
“It’s hard,” she said sincerely. “I lost my husband, Bill, almost five years ago. That’s part of the reason I started this business. For something new to do. I was a high school art teacher before that.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” Her expression must have shown that she wasn’t sure how he meant that. “Everything is . . . eye-catching and artistic.”
“Thank you. We try. Phoebe is a big help. She’s very creative.” She paused, not knowing if she should say more. “You don’t really think Phoebe is mixed up in this, Detective . . . do you? I mean, she’s not seriously a suspect?”
Mossbacher looked put on the spot. He seemed about to answer, then pressed his lips together and stared at her. Finally, just when he was about to answer, the shop door flew open.
“Maggie . . . you won’t believe what just happened to me . . .”
Phoebe slumped forward, looking breathless, bedraggled, and quite dramatic. Maggie could tell she was about to launch into a long story . . . or would have, if Detective Mossbacher had not been there.
He turned and greeted Phoebe with a nod. “Hello, Phoebe. How are you doing?”
Phoebe pulled back and squared her shoulders, then stared him down. “Pretty awful, that’s how I’m doing. You . . . you went into my locker at school and took all my stuff—my sketchbook and . . . and everything. That’s not right. That’s not fair! . . . I didn’t even know!”
“Calm down. It’s all right . . .” He made a conciliatory gesture, then glanced at Maggie for support.
She quickly came out from behind the counter. “Oh dear, is that what happened? Your locker was searched?” She’d wondered about that when they’d heard from Dana last night that Charlotte’s locker at school had been searched. She’d guessed Phoebe’s would be, too.
“It was like . . . gutted. I didn’t even know . . .”
Detective Mossbacher looked contrite. “I’m sorry, you should have been told, Phoebe. That was an oversight. Technically, the locker is college property so you didn’t have to sign a warrant. I guess they gave the voucher to someone at the college.”
“And I won’t get anything back until you’re all done and the investigation is closed, right?”
“That’s pretty much the way it goes. It does depend a bit on what you want back. Ask your lawyer to contact the district attorney’s office and see if they’ll return the sketchbook and art supplies. If they don’t think it’s evidence in the case, they’ll probably give it back.”
Phoebe looked greatly relieved. Maggie felt grateful to him. “Thanks, Detective. That helps. Right, Phoebe?”
She nodded quickly. “My computer? . . . A hamster’s chance in Hades, right?”
“Sorry . . . you’ll have to wait on that.”
“Whatever . . .” Phoebe seemed mad and glum but was trying hard to hold her temper. “Are you guys watching my e-mails to see if Charlotte gets in touch?”
Whoa . . . now she’d gone a little far, Maggie thought. But he didn’t seem offended. More like mildly amused.
“Not personally. The FBI probably is. Your friend is wanted for questioning in a homicide.” He tugged his hat down over his brow. “Besides, Phoebe, we don’t need your computer to do that.”
Maggie sighed. How true. Even Google ogled e-mails to see what sort of advertising they should sic on you.
Phoebe just twisted her mouth to the side.
“Has there been any further sign of Charlotte?” Maggie couldn’t help asking, though she doubted she’d get a straight answer.
“Further than what?” He tilted his head to one side, looking curious about her answer.
Maggie suddenly remembered that the information Dana had passed on was not common knowledge and she really wasn’t supposed to know.
“We heard she bought a train ticket in New Jersey. And the train was headed to Baltimore. That’s all.” She shrugged. “It’s a knitting shop. I hear a lot of gossip. Almost as bad as a beauty salon,” she added.
He didn’t reply for a long moment, as if measuring his words. “We believe Ms. Blackburn has not come to any harm. I can’t tell you any more than that.”
He glanced at Phoebe, and she looked down at her boots. It suddenly occurred to Maggie that Detective Mossbacher might think Phoebe was in touch with Charlotte, by some super-secret means, and was keeping her apprised of the investigation.
“Well . . . that’s something, I guess,” Phoebe mumbled.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, though she hadn’t really thanked him. “So long, ladies. Have a good day.”
Thank goodness he left, Maggie thought. Phoebe was so feisty today. She nearly smart-talked her way back to the police station.
Maggie was about to tell Phoebe that, too, when she heard her assistant give out an unholy gasp just as the door closed behind Mossbacher.
“You won’t believe what I heard at school! . . . Charlotte was a Knit Kat!”
Maggie wasn’t surprised. “I suspected that when you told us that she put the group in touch with you. But I guess it is a shock to hear it confirmed. I guess it’s her photo that’s crossed out?”
“I bet it is . . . but of course it’s hard to check with my computer being confiscated.”
“Mine is right here. Let’s take another look.” Maggie walked over to the counter and flipped open her computer, then searched for the Knit Kats website. But all she got was a page with an error message.
“Oh dear . . . I’ve messed it up somehow. You try.”
She turned the computer around so Phoebe could use the keyboard. But a moment later, Phoebe glanced up at her, looking annoyed.
“The website is gone. Someone took it down.”
Maggie wasn’t sure how these things actually worked. “Took it down? You mean . . . like a billboard or something?”
Phoebe nodded. “It’s gone. Maybe Professor Finch took it down, after she was outed . . . Oh, more big news. I was waiting to see Professor Healey, to complain about my locker being searched, and I overheard a shouting match between him and Professor Finch. It sounded like he was trying to fire her . . . but she wasn’t getting the message.”
“I’m sure she understood him. She just wouldn’t accept it,” Maggie clarified. She wasn’t surprised at that, either. “I think it would be hard to get rid of a tenured professor. And no one has accused her of a crime yet . . . a real crime, I mean, not just vandalism or littering.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. But Healey sounded like he has everyone at the school against her now—Dean Klug and the whole board of trustees. He thinks it’s going to get worse for her, with the police . . . like maybe she’s really the one.” Maggie knew it was hard for Phoebe to say it more directly—the one who killed Beth Shelton. Phoebe looked worried, her dark brows drawn together in a frown. “Professor Finch always acted all sweet and supportive to Charlotte. But today it sounded like she really hates her guts. As if she’s jealous of her or something.”
“Charlotte was starting to get some attention for her artwork. And she’s young and beautiful,” Maggie added. “That scores high on the jealousy meter, in my book.”
“Enough to want to kill her?” Phoebe asked bluntly.
Maggie shook her head. “I get your point. But you just sai
d Charlotte was a Knit Kat. Maybe there was some intense issue between them because of that.”
“Yeah . . . could be. Professor Finch kept calling Charlotte Healey’s little pet and talking like they had something going on.”
“Like . . . an affair? That type of thing?”
Phoebe nodded. Maggie could tell it was very hard for her to talk about Charlotte this way—and all the secrets she’d kept.
“That sort of freaked me out, too,” Phoebe admitted. “Charlotte told me she’d started seeing someone, after Quentin. But she never told me the guy’s name or much about him. When I asked her the other day how it was going, she sort of shrugged and said that it was over. He’d turned out to be a big nothing. A real jerk, not at all what she thought.”
“ ‘A big nothing’ . . . that’s a good one.” The brief phrase conveyed a lot. “So you’re wondering now if she was talking about Professor Healey?”
Phoebe shrugged. “I don’t know . . . He kept saying it wasn’t true and calling Finch insane. Which was also true. I thought she was going to stroke out.”
“Professor Finch might have heard gossip. It doesn’t mean it’s true. But she must have told the police and it’s the perfect way to discredit him and turn their attention his way.”
“Oh yeah . . . she had that all figured out. She said something like, ‘They’ll be coming for you next, Healey.’ ” Phoebe sighed and picked a bit of cat hair off one of her gloves. “I wish Charlotte was around and I could just ask her.”
“That’s just the trouble,” Maggie said quietly. “There are a lot of people who want to talk to your friend Charlotte.”
Phoebe nodded. Maggie hoped she hadn’t made her feel bad. That had not been her intention at all.
She suddenly looked up again. “Something else weird happened, too.”
“Really? You had some day.”
“I’ll say. I started with my empty locker and ended with being chased by Quentin Gibbs.”
“Quentin?” Maggie’s pulse quickened. “He chased you? Where?”
“Across the parking lot near the art department building. He kept shouting that he wanted to talk to me . . . but I do not want to talk to him.”
“I’ll say you don’t. You need to stay miles away from that guy.” Maggie didn’t know how to say it in a stronger way. “He’s not stable . . . or rational,” she said simply.
He could very well blame Phoebe in some way for Charlotte escaping his pursuit the other night, when they all chased one another through the studios. In fact, she wasn’t even sure the police had totally eliminated him as a suspect in Beth Shelton’s murder.
“I think you should tell the police he tried to confront you, and then come home with me tonight.” Maggie tried to catch Phoebe’s gaze, but she could see her young friend wasn’t persuaded. “I’d be too worried about you alone here, Phoebe. Honestly.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine. He’s not going to bother me. Besides, I have a guard cat now.”
The joke fell flat. Maggie stared Phoebe down. “He’s a very persistent . . . obsessive personality. We don’t know what he’s capable of. And don’t tell me that he doesn’t know where you live. I’m sure he does by now.”
It had been all over the news the other night, just in case he had any trouble finding Phoebe’s address. Maggie didn’t say that. She didn’t want to rub it in.
Phoebe rolled her eyes. Before she could protest again, Maggie said, “Humor me on this. We’ll have fun. I’ll make waffles. We’ll play Scrabble or something.”
“Waffles? What kind?”
Maggie was pleased to catch her attention. “Apple. Banana. Whatever you like.”
“Okay, deal. But no Scrabble. You pound me with your forty-point words. I’ll just bring my knitting.”
Maggie smiled. “Sounds even better to me.”
* * *
Phoebe and Maggie closed the shop at six and left in separate cars. Phoebe had to pick up a new sketchbook and some other supplies at Alice’s Arts & Crafts, on the turnpike. She liked to shop for her art supplies in a smaller store, an authentic art-supply store that was up in Newburyport—one that was frequented by working artists and didn’t display rows of glitter stickers and plastic fruit in every other aisle.
But Alice’s was an easy option for a quick, basic purchase. She really hoped the police would give her back her art stuff. She’d bought a ton of supplies for this semester’s courses. It was so stupid and pointless that they took it.
Phoebe could feel her hair practically catching fire just thinking about it. She focused on her list, looking for the few items she needed most. She picked up a big sketchbook and some soft charcoal sticks. The sepia pencils she preferred, which gave her sketches a sort of Leonardo look, she thought. A gummy eraser and a box of pastels.
Maggie had been nice enough to give her a bunch of store coupons, so she still had a little money after checking out to make a stop at Pet Palace, which was right next door
For a little cat, Van Gogh could eat a lot, and the food was way cheaper at the big discount store than at the supermarket. She filled her cart with cans and two bags of fish-shaped nuggets, and tossed in a few cat toys, a scratching post, and a bed that she found in the mark-down bin.
When she reached her car and put all the bags in, Phoebe realized part of her must really believe that Charlotte was not coming back. Or why would she be buying all this stuff for Van Gogh? As if he was her cat now?
Charlotte is fine, she reminded herself. Mossbacher said so. Or almost said so.
She left the parking lot and headed for Maggie’s house. When Charlotte comes back, I’ll just give her all Van Gogh’s new things. Or maybe she’ll let me keep him. She has about a million more cats. Maybe she won’t miss one.
It was a cold, clear night. The kind of frigid, dry air that cut to the bone and was a little painful to breathe. Phoebe couldn’t help wondering what was going on with Charlotte’s cats. Was anybody putting out food for them?
How many days had it been since Beth’s body was found and Charlotte had disappeared? Phoebe counted back. Five days. The art show had been on Sunday, so it wasn’t quite a week yet.
They were outdoor cats mainly and used to catching their own “fast food” in the wild. But Phoebe knew she’d promised herself to come by and check on them when she’d taken Van Gogh. She felt guilty about that now and headed for Charlotte’s house, which was not far from Maggie’s and not out of her way at all.
Here I am with a carload of cat food, besides. Yes, it was getting late and Maggie was probably firing up the waffle iron by now. And it was colder than a penguin’s butt out there. But “a job begun is a job half done.” That’s what Maggie always said. It would only take two seconds to put out cat food and find a dish for some water. She definitely had a bottle or two in her knapsack.
Phoebe pulled up to Charlotte’s house and parked in the driveway. The windows of the front apartment were dark, though the light by the front door was on. She walked toward the back of the house, to the little porch at the entrance of Charlotte’s apartment. Yellow crime-scene tape was still strung around the porch railing, like sagging strips of crepe paper left over from a party.
Phoebe hesitated a moment, then decided not to cross the tape and go up on the porch. She was getting so spooked out from this whole miserable deal, and already felt like her every move was being watched. Especially after what Mossbacher had told her today about police looking at e-mails and Facebook and all that stuff. They could have a camera hidden out there, waiting to see if the culprit returned to the scene of the crime. Didn’t that always happen in the movies?
Well, let them watch. All she was doing was putting out cat food. That wasn’t a crime yet . . . was it?
The question was where to put it. She didn’t want some helpful dumb person coming back here and cleaning it up before the cats could find it. Charlotte’s pals probably wandered around behind the house mostly, out of view. Or maybe even around the unattach
ed garage that stood at the end of the drive. Both spots would be good places to set up the feline smorgasbord.
With grocery bags full of pull-top cans and water dangling from each hand, Phoebe made her way around the corner of the building, to the backyard. It was a small square of property, partially covered by snow and bordered by a high wooden fence. A feeble outdoor lamp, hanging above the garage doors, cast a bit of light. She saw a broken-down wooden picnic table with a bench underneath and a few beer cans scattered on the ground, reminding her again that this was off-campus housing.
It was so dark she could hardly find the pull tops on the cans of cat food.
She pulled opened one can and then another, carefully saving the metal lids for the recycle bin at Maggie’s. She was working on a third when she heard a rustling sound in the dry, bare bushes at the fence. She looked up to see Picasso trot out of the darkness. He boldly jumped on the table and began gulping down the tuna—chewing loudly, Phoebe thought.
“Hey, guy. Good to see you. Glad you could stop by for a bite,” she said quietly.
Another light-footed form darted out of the shadows from some hidden space behind the garage. So the cats do hang out there, Phoebe thought. Good guess. I’ll hit that spot next.
A sleek calico ran up to the table. Frida Kahlo. Another one of Phoebe’s favorites. Frida jumped on the picnic bench and rubbed herself on Phoebe’s jacket.
“Hello, sweet girl. I should have taken you home, too, right?” Phoebe reached down and gently stroked her head. “Do you want some food? What a question . . .”
She set another can on the bench for Frida and was about to take out the water bottles when she heard heavy footsteps just behind her.
Phoebe turned quickly, expecting to see someone who lived in the building. Or maybe even a police officer who’d come back to check the house.
But it was Quentin. His intense expression horrified her.
“AAAAaaaaa! . . .” Phoebe’s thin voice trailed off on a terrified note as she turned to run. She was quick. But he was faster and totally focused on her.
A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) Page 17