Phoebe handed Gena a box of tissues. “Thanks.” She took a handful and dried her eyes.
Phoebe had a vague idea where the Healeys lived, in a section of Plum Harbor with stately old homes and long green lawns called Shady Hills, where many of the faculty owned homes. She headed in that direction.
She decided not to talk unless Gena did. She didn’t want to bother her with a lot of questions . . . though her brain buzzed with more than a few.
Gena stared out the passenger-side window and let out a long sigh. “It’s been a nightmare. You have no idea.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s been awful,” Phoebe replied quietly.
“Alex and I . . . we have our differences, but I hate to see him like this. Locked up in jail . . . You know what he’s like . . . It’s just . . . unthinkable.”
She cried into the handful of tissues again. “I’m sorry, every time I think of our boys . . . He is a good father. No matter what else they try to say about him.”
“I’m sure,” Phoebe murmured, glancing over at her passenger a moment. “The police questioned me,” she admitted. “They searched my apartment and my locker at school and took all my stuff. But they didn’t find anything and they finally left me alone. Maybe it will go like that for Professor Healey.”
Gena turned to her with a sad smile. “I’d love to think that . . . but it’s gone too far the other way,” she said quietly
Phoebe looked over at her. “What do you mean? Did they find something?”
Gena took a breath and nodded, staring straight ahead. Phoebe didn’t think she was going to answer but finally she said, “You’ll probably hear this is on the news tonight anyway, so I guess I can talk about it. The police say they found some yarn in Alex’s studio that matches . . .” She paused and swallowed hard. “That matches the wrapping on Beth Shelton’s body. And some shoes . . . The tread and the dirt match footprints they found outside a window . . . where they say the murderer broke into Charlotte Blackburn’s apartment.” Gena gasped and covered her mouth with a wad of tissues.
“They did?” Phoebe looked over at Gena again, then reminded herself to keep her eyes on the road. Holy enchiladas. That was bad news . . . the very worst.
Phoebe felt a giant lump in her throat. She suddenly felt like crying, too. How could this be? How could good old Professor Healey be a murderer? Pompous and full of himself, yes. A bit of a lech? Definitely. But capable of killing somebody, a girl like Beth Shelton? No way . . . she just couldn’t get her brain around that.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Healey. I don’t care what the police say. I just don’t think Professor Healey is the guy. No way could he ever do anything like that. He’s just not . . . not that type of person.”
Gena nodded and blinked, trying to smile, her large eyes full of tears. She touched Phoebe’s arm lightly. “I don’t think my husband could ever do anything like that, either. But . . . there’s more. More reasons the police say it’s got to be him.” She paused and sighed, then stared out the side window again, covering her mouth with a tissue. “I really can’t talk about it.”
Phoebe didn’t want to ask her more questions, either. She could guess what some of those reasons might be. He was having an affair with Charlotte, for one thing. She sure wasn’t going to ask Gena Healey about that. If there was something else, well . . . Dana would fill in the blanks later at the shop, she thought.
“We’re going to stick by him. And fight,” Gena said finally. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“I’m sure a lot of people at Whitaker will help you,” Phoebe said sincerely.
“I hope so . . . Oh dear, I forgot to tell you where to turn. It’s the next left, Birch Way. Third house on the left,” she added.
Phoebe made the turn and quickly noticed the News Alive 25! van and two others like it parked on the street in front of the Healeys’ house.
“Oh . . . no. They won’t leave us alone. It’s not right.” Gena was about to start crying again. Phoebe wasn’t sure what to do.
“Put your head down, I’ll just drive by,” she said. Gena did as she was told, and Phoebe hit the gas, cruising by the news van. There were a few media people standing near the vans and near the front lawn, but no one paid attention to her car.
She turned at the first corner, and Gena sat up. “Just go around the block and stop at that white house,” she instructed as they came down the street. “My neighbor who lives behind us will let me go through her backyard. I’ll get in that way.”
Good plan, Phoebe thought. She pulled up to a white Victorian, and Gena pulled her hood up and put on her sunglasses again. Then she jumped out and grabbed her bag and papers from the backseat.
She stood with her arms full and looked inside the car. “Thank you so much, Phoebe. It was so good of you to go out of your way like this to help me . . .”
“No big deal. I . . . I hope things improve for Professor Healey. You never know. It could totally turn around again,” she offered, trying to sound hopeful.
Gena Healey didn’t seem encouraged. Her expression bleak, she nodded quickly. “I appreciate your concern . . . thanks again.”
She closed the car door and quickly turned to walk up the path that led to the backyard. Phoebe felt a pang in her chest. Wow, what a big mess that family was in now.
It did look bad for Professor Healey. Real bad.
* * *
“There you are. Was it difficult to file the report? They must have asked you a million questions.” Maggie was relieved to see Phoebe. She’d encouraged her to report Quentin and now worried the process had been an ordeal.
And they’d been waiting for Phoebe to return—she, Lucy, and Suzanne. Dana had taken a yoga class but had just sent a text that she was on the way.
They sat in the small alcove near the front of the shop, a cozy knitting niche Maggie had set up for small classes and customers who wanted to knit and chat, and make new friends. There was a camelback love seat, two armchairs, and a velvet-covered rocker, with a low marble-topped table in between.
“It wasn’t so bad. But I didn’t come straight back to the village. Guess who I met at the police station and then ended up giving a ride home?” Phoebe sat down in the velvet rocker and dumped her big bag on the floor. She smiled mysteriously. “And she gave me the inside scoop on Professor Healey.”
“Detective Reyes?” Maggie guessed.
“Nope . . . why would I give her a ride? She has like a whole parking lot of police cruisers at her command,” Phoebe reminded her.
“Oh, right.” Maggie hadn’t thought of that. It was early. She needed more coffee.
“I got it . . . Gena Healey.” Suzanne pointed her finger at Phoebe.
“You are good, Suzanne. Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” Phoebe recited, sounding silly.
Lucy gave her a look. “Are you all right?”
“Never mind that, how did you end up as Gena Healey’s driver?” Suzanne followed up.
“Long story. She came out of the station ahead of me and started dropping all her stuff. And crying all over the place.”
“Poor woman, anybody would be unhinged in her place,” Maggie said.
“Once we got outside, a pack of news hounds came stampeding across the lot, badgering her. So we jumped in my car and I did this amazing super-reverse move and like nobody could even follow us. I could be like a stunt driver in the movies after that.”
“That sounds like quite an adventure,” Maggie commented. “Oh, look . . . here’s Dana. Let’s wait until she gets in before you tell us the rest.”
Phoebe shrugged. “No problem. It gets even better.”
Maggie smiled. For once Phoebe had the inside story. But she didn’t think Dana would mind at all. It was a refreshing change.
“Good, I’m glad you’re here,” Maggie greeted Dana. “Phoebe had to visit the police station this morning and ended up giving Gena Healey a ride home. She got an earful, too.”
“Really? Let’s hear what the wife has to say
before I tell you what Jack found out.”
Dana quickly slipped into an empty chair and took out her usual breakfast, a big green smoothie. She set it on the table and unwrapped the straw.
“Well, we get in my car and she just starts talking,” Phoebe began. “She was like hysterical. She used up a whole box of tissues. The back of the car looks like a wastepaper basket.” Maggie wanted to laugh but didn’t want to miss any of the story. “Having your husband in a jail, being questioned about a murder, and being all over TV is bad enough. But the worst part is that the police told him this morning they found yarn in his studio that matches the covering on Beth Shelton’s body, and his shoes match footprints from the yard. So . . . they think they’ve got him. And,” Phoebe added, “Gena Healey says that’s not the only thing they’ve got on him. She says there’s more, but she couldn’t tell me.”
“More? Isn’t that enough to put him away for a long time?” Suzanne shook her head and flipped the lid of a tall paper cup. Maggie spotted milky foam, Suzanne’s usual latte.
“There is more,” Dana told them. “He doesn’t have a good alibi for the night of the murder.”
“Where was he Sunday night? The reception ended at eight,” Suzanne recalled. “Didn’t he go home with his wife?”
“That’s just it. Seems there have been some tensions in the Healey household. Healey has been having an affair with Charlotte, and he’s been sleeping in his studio the last week or so.”
“So it is true. That’s what Professor Finch said, but he kept denying it,” Phoebe told her friends.
She sounded disappointed, Maggie thought. A bit disillusioned with Charlotte, perhaps, as well as her mentor.
Dana had picked up Phoebe’s reaction, too, Maggie realized. “If it’s any comfort to you, Phoebe, the relationship didn’t last very long. He told the police that Charlotte broke up with him a week or so before the art show. After the reception, he said, he went to the studio alone and went straight to bed. Well, to his futon. He thought Charlotte might go there, to hide from Quentin. But she never did. And he doesn’t have anyone to confirm that he was there. Especially at the time of Beth’s murder.”
“Where is the studio, someplace on campus?” Suzanne asked.
“No, it’s in the village. Not too far from the train station. But there’s not much on that road, an old warehouse and a storage place. The area is very deserted at night, and there aren’t any security cameras at the entrance or anything like that.”
“So he’s sort of stuck trying to prove he was there all night,” Lucy said. “Why did he think Charlotte would go there for protection—did he say?”
“Just a fantasy, I think. He thought they would get back together again after the art show and she’d just been overwhelmed by the pressure.” Dana took a sip of her green drink. “But of course, Charlotte vanished. So we don’t know if that’s true.”
“I have a good guess.” Phoebe put down her own yogurt-and-berry smoothie and sat up in the armchair. “Healey must be the guy she told me about. No way Charlotte was getting back with him. She called him a big nothing and said he’d just used her. Talk about optimistic. Maybe just egotistic.”
Now Phoebe sounded angry and disillusioned with Healey. It was hard to see the secret, unseemly side of people you admire, mentors and role models. Like turning over a beautiful stone and seeing all the squirming bugs underneath.
But everyone had their squirming-bug side. That didn’t negate the whole person. It didn’t mean his teaching had been without value. But it would take time for her to realize that, Maggie knew. A long time, perhaps, and this saga wasn’t over yet.
“I agree,” Maggie said finally. “I think Professor Healey is the man Charlotte was talking about. If we discount Quentin’s villainous-lawyer theory,” she added.
Maggie had already told the others about Phoebe’s confrontation with Quentin and his theory about Charlotte being chased by nefarious attorneys from Dylan, Garland & Doyle. It had seemed plausible last night, but faded to the background now, in light of Healey’s apprehension.
“So his wife knew about Charlotte?” Maggie asked Dana.
“No, he claims the marriage had other problems and had not been happy for a long time. Wait . . . he used this great euphemism—I have to remember it for my practice—he said they suffered from ‘perennial tensions and anguish.’ ”
“Oh brother. Sounds like one of those ailments you never knew you had, and they describe all the symptoms in a drug commercial? Twitching eyelids, restless legs, vertigo, rashes . . .” Suzanne put her cup down and was left with a foam mustache.
Everyone laughed quietly.
“What? What did I say?” she asked, gazing around. “It wasn’t that funny.”
Maggie made a motion at her lip. “You have a little . . . froth.”
“Mustachioed-lady latte thing? I hate that.” She whisked it away with a napkin. “I never drink a cappuccino with a client . . . or eat spinach,” she added. “So? What else did Healey say?”
“He said the breakup wasn’t about Charlotte at all. He said his wife didn’t even know about the affair. Though she probably does now,” Dana added.
“I couldn’t tell one way or the other,” Phoebe cut in. “She never mentioned Charlotte.”
“Oh, puh-leaze . . . of course she knew. Women can sense these things. We can sniff it out. He might have a huge vocabulary, but he’s still a dumbbell.” Suzanne went back to her cup, patting her mouth with a napkin after each sip.
“He wouldn’t be the first man—or woman—to think he was fooling his spouse.” Maggie picked up her knitting and sat back against the love seat. “So, along with the yarn they found in his studio, his goose is cooked.”
“Not entirely . . . but the DA likes this guy,” Dana noted. “Healey has no alibi and a strong motive for the murder with Charlotte breaking up with him. His bad blood with Sonya Finch gives him a reason to frame the Knit Kats, too. He was close to Charlotte and must have known she was a Knit Kat. Maybe he tried to make it look like the group turned on her? And if that’s not enough, he’s done some fiber art. You already told us that, remember, Phoebe?”
“Yeah, that’s right. He’s mainly a sculptor. But he’s done these big wall hangings. But it’s not really knitting,” she pointed out.
“I’m not sure the prosecutor is going to worry about whether it’s knitting or weaving . . . or plastic lanyards that kids make at day camp.” Dana slipped her glasses on and took out her knitting. “So far, Healey is the best they can come up with. And they’ve connected him to the crime scene.”
Maggie checked the time. On Saturdays she didn’t open until ten. They still had a few minutes before customers came in. She wanted to hear the rest about Healey.
“Is he still in custody?” she asked.
“Last I heard. The police can hold him for twenty-four hours without charging him. But he has a good lawyer, Richard Scherer, who’s trying to get him out.”
“Gena Healey mentioned that—she seemed to trust the lawyer they found,” Phoebe added.
“How about Gena? Is she going to stand by her man? Or let him swing in the wind? She must be in total shock from all these nasty revelations about her husband. Even if they were estranged.” The latte was drained, the cup covered with the plastic cap again. Suzanne took out a slim compact and began reapplying lipstick with the aid of a tiny mirror.
“She was flipping between hysteria and staring into space,” Phoebe recalled, “so it’s hard to tell. She did say she was going to stick with him and fight. But she didn’t seem very hopeful.”
“There isn’t much to be hopeful about right now.” Maggie sighed and counted out the stitches on the top row of her work. She wasn’t sure she’d reduced this row properly, she’d gotten so distracted by the conversation.
“They have kids, right?” Lucy asked.
“Two boys,” Phoebe replied.
“That’s too bad. It’s always hardest on the children.” Suzanne shook he
r head as she put her lipstick away.
“Yes, it is.” Dana’s tone echoed Suzanne’s sympathy. “Some new information may come to light. But it’s hard to see how Healey can talk his way out of this now.”
Maggie was about to speak when she heard someone’s phone ring, playing lilting bars of classical music. One of the Goldberg Variations? A speedy one, though she couldn’t identify it by number.
Dana pulled her phone out of her pocket and checked the screen. “A text from Jack.” She opened it and read it quickly, then looked up at her friends, her expression somber. “ ‘Latex glove found at crime scene matches Healey’s DNA. Police due to charge H. soon.’ ”
Suzanne gasped. “Game over.”
Lucy seemed less surprised. “You called it, Dana. You said they needed to find physical evidence that ties him to the crime scene. I can’t see how he’ll talk his way out of this now.”
“Now a glove? Gee . . . I’m like blown away,” Phoebe admitted. “I know it might be him. I mean, it sort of makes sense. But I can’t believe it. He was always so nice and encouraging . . . and so . . . not that guy who would kill someone. And not in such a crazy way . . .”
Phoebe’s shock and delayed reaction were understandable, Maggie realized. She knew the man personally. He was her adviser and mentor. It was hard for her to believe her mild-mannered professor was capable of murder.
Before this horrible situation, the worst offense one might have accused him of was giving a boring art history lecture. Or wearing a checkered shirt with a tweed sports coat.
“Of course you’re shocked. You knew him well. He was your adviser and you saw him at school almost every day. Everyone at Whitaker is going to have the same reaction. Especially in the art department,” Maggie reminded her.
Phoebe nodded, looking a little sad and confused. “It’s funny, I didn’t feel the same when the police were questioning Professor Finch. She has that weird laugh . . . and I always had the feeling she had a secret mean side.”
Maggie could relate to that assessment. She’d felt the same about Sonya Finch ever since they’d met.
A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) Page 20