A Knit before Dying

by Sadie Hartwell

  “Are you all right?” she asked, heart racing.

  He opened his mouth as if to say something, then looked down. “Call 911,” he finally croaked out. Josie rushed around the counter, intending to find a chair and assist the man in sitting down while she called for an ambulance. She stopped short as she rounded the corner.

  Her paper plate of brownies dropped to the floor.

  Into a puddle of dark liquid that splashed thickly up against the wood counter.

  A body lay there, still as stone. Josie’s eyes went immediately to a rusty piece of metal—a tool of some kind?—that protruded from the man’s chest. She swallowed back bile, so sharp and bitter that it stung her throat and took away her ability to speak for a moment.

  “Lyndon,” she rasped, reaching for her cell phone.

  Chapter 4

  Josie kept her eyes trained on the man standing behind the counter, and backed out a few steps into the main floor of the shop. There were plenty of things to hide behind, and plenty of objects available to use as a weapon, if it came to that. Would she remember her self-defense training if she needed it? Like most self-respecting city girls, she’d taken those classes at the neighborhood YMCA, but now she wished she’d kept up on the skills she’d learned. Glancing down at the phone in her hand, she punched in 911.

  But based on the gray pallor of Lyndon’s skin and the amount of blood on the floor, she knew it was too late.

  The man behind the counter drew in a sharp breath, then blew it out again. He seemed to recollect himself. “Is help on the way?”

  Josie nodded, mentally calculating the distance to the door. She’d have to turn her back to the man to get out. There were too many things she could trip over on the winding path through the shop’s inventory to try to navigate backwards.

  The man seemed to have found his voice, though it broke when words finally came out again. “I just got here, and I found him like that. He didn’t respond when I tried to talk to him. Who—who could have done such a thing?”

  Josie continued to eye the man warily. He didn’t seem to be an immediate threat, and she could hear the sirens wailing in the distance. The police and fire departments were only a couple of blocks away. She realized who this man was.

  “You must be Harry,” Josie said. “Lyndon’s business partner.”

  He nodded. “Sorry. I should have introduced myself, but . . .” His voice trailed off as he turned his head toward Lyndon. He turned back to Josie, and his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped. “That can’t be an accident,” he finally said.

  Josie had to agree. She’d seen Lyndon only last night, and he’d seemed tired, but then again he’d been working all day. And a metal . . . thing didn’t ordinarily end up in a man’s chest. She squeezed her eyes shut. Would she ever get the pictures out of her mind? This was the second body she’d found since she’d returned to Dorset Falls. And it wasn’t getting any easier. She broke out into shivers.

  Harry came toward her. Josie stepped back involuntarily, the backs of her knees connecting with something, and she landed solidly in the armchair she’d noticed earlier. Was Harry concerned for her? Or was he coming after her? But that didn’t make sense. He’d told her to call emergency responders. Harry stopped in his tracks and looked up as a squad car pulled up out front, siren wailing. The door opened.

  Help had arrived. Officer Sharla Coogan entered the shop, hand on the butt of her service weapon. The cop’s eyes landed on Josie, then moved toward Harry.

  “Josie? What’s going on?” Sharla stood stock-still.

  “It’s Lyndon Bailey. The new owner of this shop. He’s behind the counter. I think he’s dead.”

  “Show me,” Sharla ordered, all business. “What’s your name?” she said to Harry. “You lead the way.”

  “Harry Oglethorpe. I own the shop with Lyndon. Over here,” he said, and made for the back of the room.

  “You okay?” Sharla whispered. Josie nodded.

  Sharla leaned over and examined Lyndon’s body when they reached him. Josie stayed where she was. There was nothing she could do, and she couldn’t bear to see Lyndon’s cold, sightless eyes again.

  “You stand over there,” Sharla commanded Harry. “I don’t want you contaminating the scene any more than you already have. The EMTs should be here any minute, but I don’t think they can help.” She straightened. “Now suppose,” she said to Harry, “you explain this.”

  Harry’s hands shook, and he shoved them into the pockets of his baggy corduroy trousers. “I—I got here about nine o’clock and found Lyndon.” He looked Sharla in the eye. “I don’t know what happened.”

  Sharla continued to stare him down. Josie was glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of that stare. Sharla was a good cop. Though she was being Bad Cop, or at least Tough Cop, right now.

  “I said I don’t know.” Harry held her gaze.

  “Why didn’t you call 911 yourself?” Sharla said.

  “I just got here!” Harry blurted. “I found him, and then a moment later Josie arrived. I—I guess I was in shock or something.”

  The door opened, and Detective Bruno Potts, Sharla’s superior, came in along with a cold breeze, followed by a couple of volunteer firefighters carrying a bag that presumably held medical equipment. Sharla shook her head at Potts in the direction of Lyndon’s body. He quickly assessed the situation and began to bark orders.

  Sharla herded Harry toward a Victorian-era couch and commanded him to sit. She returned to Josie.

  “You need a drink or anything?” The authoritative tone was gone from her voice.

  Josie shook her head. “I’m fine. Or as fine as I can be.”

  Sharla positioned herself so that she could keep an eye on Harry. “We’ll need you to give a statement. Are you up for that?”

  If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Josie might have laughed. Instead, she said, “Unfortunately, I’m kind of a pro at this by now. But I can’t imagine anything I have to say will help.”

  “Can you give me a quick rundown?” She nodded toward Harry. “I’ll have to get him down to the station, then come back and assist Bruno with processing the scene. It would help if I had a little background.”

  Sharla wasn’t exactly angling for Potts’s job, but she wasn’t averse to learning as much as she could about crime-scene investigation, either. If her mother-in-law, Evelyn, had anything to do with it, Sharla would be state police commissioner someday.

  “You know I own this building, thanks to Uncle Eb, right? Well, until yesterday, I’d only spoken to Lyndon once. On the phone. We e-mailed back and forth about the terms of the lease, that sort of thing. Lyndon showed up yesterday with a moving truck. He was alive and well last evening.”

  “Right. Evelyn said she was coming here last night.”

  Josie shifted in the armchair, trying to find a comfortable position. Clearly this was a chair that was meant to be looked at, not sat on. “You should join us some night after you put Andrew to bed,” Josie said. “Nonknitters of Dorset Falls, unite.”

  Sharla smiled. “Did you hear or see anything unusual?”

  “Not really. At one point we heard a loud noise, and Evelyn, Helen, and I went next door to see what had happened. Lyndon had knocked over an architectural column of some kind, but he was okay. As far as I know, he was alone here,” Josie said, anticipating Sharla’s next question. “All the girls and I left Miss Marple’s about nine thirty, and the lights were still on here when I drove by.”

  “And what happened this morning?”

  “I came here to bring Lyndon some leftover brownies. It must have been just after nine. Harry was standing over the body.”

  Sharla looked thoughtful. “That time jibes with what he said a few minutes ago. But is he telling the truth about what time he got here?”

  Josie knew Sharla didn’t really expect an answer. But Josie wondered the same thing.

  “Do you need me to stay? Should I go to the station now?”

  Sharl
a shook her head. “You can go on back to the shop and come in this afternoon once Evelyn gets there. No need for you to lose business over this, and there’ll be cops and CSI techs right next door for at least the rest of the day. You and Evelyn are safe enough.”

  That made sense. Josie’s gut feeling, for what it was worth, was that Lyndon had been specifically targeted, though she couldn’t imagine why.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know Lyndon’s next of kin, would you?” Sharla continued. “Of course we can find out, but you’d save us some time.”

  “Pretty sure he gave me the contact information for a daughter, maybe a niece, on his rental application. I’ll check the file and call you.”

  “Sounds good. See you later at the station.”

  Harry looked up as Josie passed on her way out the door. “His niece’s name is Taylor. Taylor Philbin. Lives near the shore. In Mystic, I think. She works at one of the shops near the Seaport Museum.” Josie couldn’t quite identify the emotion on his face. Sadness? Disbelief? Guilt?

  Sharla noted the name on her pad. “I’ll let you know if we need more information,” she said to Josie. “You can go now, if you’re ready.”

  Ready to leave another dead body? Josie was more than ready. “I’m sorry, Harry,” Josie called.

  “Me too,” he replied. That could mean a lot of things.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Josie put her key in the lock of the door of Miss Marple Knits, just as Evelyn walked up behind her. Josie started.

  “Sorry, dear,” Evelyn said. “What on earth is going on? I heard the sirens. And now here are two police cars and an ambulance out front.”

  Josie glanced back up Main Street, past the antique shop and toward the general store. Other than Josie’s ancient-but-functional Saab and the emergency vehicles, there wasn’t a car in sight. Which meant that Evelyn had parked her car at Helen’s house a couple of blocks over. Which meant that she’d probably been in Helen’s not-quite-empty building across the street again.

  Evelyn’s eyes followed hers, then landed on Josie’s face. “Yes, I was up in the Lair,” she admitted. “But I was only looking for my size-eight circular needle and checking my e-mail. We’re not doing . . . that anymore. No need.”

  Josie wanted to believe her. She really did. The women entered the shop.

  “So what’s going on next door?” Evelyn repeated. “Is Lyndon all right?” Evelyn hung up her coat and set her bag down behind the counter.

  “Lyndon’s dead.” At Evelyn’s stricken look, Josie wished she’d made the announcement with a bit more tact.

  “Dead?” Evelyn’s hand went to her throat. “Stroke? Heart attack?”

  There wasn’t really any tactful way to say it. “It looks like murder.” Josie filled Evelyn in on what she knew. “So,” she said, “if by chance anyone’s surveillance equipment happened to be turned on and trained toward the antique shop last night or this morning, that would be information that should be given to Sharla immediately.”

  Evelyn looked her square in the eye. “I’ve got nothing. I swear.” She held up her pinky and crooked it. “Helen either.”

  Josie bent her own little finger and linked it with Evelyn’s. “Pinky swear accepted. Let’s get to work, then.”

  Routine tasks at the shop soothed Josie’s jangled nerves. There were more customers than usual throughout the morning. It was pretty clear people were here to find out what was going on next door. Evelyn seemed more than happy to chat with everyone who came in. Josie busied herself tidying up, reorganizing yarn in the cubbies by color and manufacturer, and straightening up the knitting magazines and free patterns stacked on the coffee table in between ringing up sales. Finally, she paused. The last customer was just leaving the shop, bulging Miss Marple Knits bag in hand. Evelyn was a born salesperson.

  “Well,” Evelyn said as the door closed, “as awful as this is to say, death seems to be good for business. Though I’d rather make a few less sales and have poor Lyndon still be alive.” She retrieved her oversized purse from behind the counter, sat down in one of the chairs facing Main Street where she could see through the window, and pulled out her knitting. It appeared to be a different project from the one she’d been working on last night. Though Josie had been in business only a short time, she’d begun to know the habits of some of her regulars. Some, like Helen, worked on one project from start to finish. Others, like Evelyn, had several pieces going at any one time, and knitted on whatever they felt like or happened to pick up first.

  Josie’s cell phone rang. The display read Sharla Coogan. “We’re ready for you, if you can leave the shop,” Sharla said when Josie answered.

  “Might as well get this over with,” Josie said. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Heading for the police station?” Evelyn said, eyes intent on her knitting. “I’ll close up. You go give your statement, then go on home afterward. You’ve had quite a day.”

  Josie had to agree. It had been quite a day. And it wasn’t over yet.

  Chapter 5

  The Dorset Falls police station occupied one half of a two-story brick building a couple of blocks from downtown. The other half housed the volunteer fire department. Josie pushed open the door to the police station and crossed the black-and-white tile floor to the front desk. Perfect. Not. Officer Denton was on duty. He made no secret of the fact that he thought she was a kook.

  “Well, well. Miss Blair. What brings you by today? Inquiring minds want to know.” He smiled, revealing a deep dimple in each cheek. Which seemed incongruous considering his just-short-of-steroidal physique. The guy had a neck approximately the diameter of the column Lyndon had knocked over last night.

  Josie bit her tongue to keep from saying what was really on her mind. So what if she’d given the police an unusual theory about the last murder? It hadn’t been that far-fetched, even though it had turned out to be wrong. “I’m here to give my statement. About Lyndon Bailey’s death.”

  “I heard you found another body. Have a seat. Officer Fleming will be ready for you shortly.”

  Josie sat in a molded plastic chair with shiny chrome legs. She opened a magazine—Modern Fisherman—and put it back down. That would be more Eb’s style. Even though she ate fish, she wasn’t all that interested in knowing how they were caught.

  Her thoughts focused on Lyndon. He’d barely been in town a day. Who would want him dead? He hadn’t been here long enough to make any enemies. Helen said he’d lived in Dorset Falls as a child, but it was ridiculous to think that someone from his childhood had borne a grudge against him for the last fifty years or so and had waited all this time to make a move.

  Lyndon had arrived almost a week before he was supposed to. Not that there had been any secret about that—the moving truck parked on Main Street had been as conspicuous as a rhinoceros at a tea party, even in Dorset Falls’s moribund downtown, and it had been clearly visible from the general store, where most Dorset Falls-ites congregated at some point or another.

  Josie hadn’t known he was coming early, and if Lyndon hadn’t told her, his landlady, that he would be moving into the store before his lease officially started, it stood to reason he hadn’t told anyone else, either. But that was just speculation. He might have still been in touch with someone else here, and word could have gotten out.

  Still, it seemed far more likely that whoever had killed him had followed him from out of town. But why? Lyndon gave all appearances of being a sweet man, polite and genteel. There’d been no indication that his move to Dorset Falls was precipitated by anything other than perhaps a desire to live in a quiet country village, or nostalgia for his childhood home.

  Her thoughts went to Harry. He looked to be a few years younger than Lyndon, probably in his mid-to-late fifties, about the same age as her mother. He didn’t have quite the old-fashioned, courtly appeal Lyndon had possessed. Though that might not have been fair, considering the fact that the only time Josie had met him, Harry had been standing over Lyndon�
��s dead body. There was nothing appealing about that scenario.

  Could Harry have killed Lyndon? He’d said he’d arrived just before Josie had this morning and found his business partner dead. That could be true. Or not true. His shock had seemed real enough, but maybe he was just a very convincing actor. These two had been partners for some time, according to what little Lyndon had told her when the lease was negotiated. Why wait until now to kill him?

  “Miss Blair?” A voice brought her out of her musings. “I’m Officer Fleming. Please come with me.”

  Josie rose and followed the man into the nonpublic area of the building. He held the door of a sparsely furnished office open for her and motioned for her to sit. Another hard plastic chair.

  Officer Fleming appeared to be fresh out of the academy: barely into his twenties, clean shaven, possibly a little nervous based on the way he was drumming his pen on the metal desktop, where it gave off a metallic clink with every tap. Clearly Detective Potts didn’t think she had anything of importance to disclose if he was allowing Fleming to practice statement taking on her.

  The officer recorded her name, address, and phone number, and she told him what she knew.

  “Anything else?” He seemed less nervous, now that the end was in sight. Good thing the kid worked in Dorset Falls rather than New York. He’d be eaten alive there.

  “Not that I can think of at the moment.”

  “Then I’ll escort you out. You can call if you remember something.” He stood, and Josie followed him back into the vestibule.

  Harry Oglethorpe sat in one of the chairs, looking pale and a bit dazed. Officer Fleming frowned. “You’ve given your statement to one of the other officers, right? He just released you? You can go now,” he said to Harry.

  Harry looked up. “I don’t actually have anywhere to go, except for back to the bed-and-breakfast,” he said. “And you’ve impounded my car, looking for evidence.”