Fleming’s frown deepened. Harry’s tone was even, a bit flat, and not at all accusatory, but the officer was clearly taking note of Harry’s words and demeanor. “We can get you a ride,” he said.
Harry shook his head. “Thank you. But I suppose I can walk, now that I’ve had a chance to recover myself. It can’t be more than a few blocks.”
Josie didn’t blame him. She’d rather walk than ride in the back of a police cruiser too. If the police were letting him go, they must not think he was a danger, so she decided to make an offer. “I’ll take you to the Gray Lady. Assuming you don’t mind a bit of cat hair on the seats.”
Harry gave a wan smile. “I’ll accept. Cat hair and all.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, they stood on the porch of Dorset Falls’s only hostelry, the Gray Lady Bed and Breakfast. The house was huge, with a three-story turret on one end and an excessive amount of white-painted gingerbread trim. The shutters were forest green, which looked lovely against the dove gray of the rest of the building. The door opened, and Margo hustled them inside.
“Are you both all right?” Margo asked, ever hospitable. “The police have been here and sealed off Lyndon’s room. They’ve already been through yours,” she said to Harry, apologetically. “And released it. But if you’d rather move to one of the other two rooms we have, it’s no problem.”
Harry shook his head. “Where I am is fine. I guess I have some . . . decisions to make, and this is as nice a place as any to make them. And I can’t leave town.”
“Come out to the kitchen, then, and let’s have a bite to eat. You look done in,” she said to Harry. “Not that that’s surprising in the least. Josie, why don’t you come too?”
They dutifully followed Margo past the ornately carved staircase, down a papered hallway, and through a dark oak door. The kitchen beyond was bright and cheerful. Margo sat them down at the table in the center of the room and went to the fridge.
After several minutes of silence, during which Harry stared out the window and Josie discreetly watched Harry, Margo set sandwiches and glasses of lemonade in front of her guests. “Eat something, Harry,” Margo urged.
Josie took a bite of her sandwich. Turkey on wheat bread with lettuce and a thick slice of avocado. Delicious.
Harry picked up his sandwich and took an unenthusiastic bite. He chewed, swallowed, and set it down again. “I’m afraid I’m not very hungry,” he said.
“Understandable,” Josie said. “But unless the police gave you something from a vending machine down at the station, odds are you haven’t eaten all day. And it would be a shame to waste this.”
“You’re both very kind,” he said. “As soon as I get my car back, I guess I’ll be heading home to my condo in Wethersfield. But I expect that won’t be for a few days at least.” He nibbled at the sandwich again, then sipped at the drink.
Josie wasn’t quite sure how to bring up the subject, and now probably wasn’t the time, but she decided to go for it. “What, uh, do you plan to do—”
“About the shop?” he cut in. “I can see you feel bad about asking, but don’t. We’re all businesspeople here.” He set down his glass. “I don’t know. Lyndon was always the face of the business, better at sales, and I did most of the buying. Behind the scenes.”
“Well,” Josie said, “the rent is paid for six months in advance.” She mentally crossed her fingers and rubbed an imaginary rabbit’s foot. Even though she wasn’t legally obligated to return any money, she’d feel morally obligated to at least offer.
Harry waved his hand. “I’m not going to try to get out of the lease. I have a feeling tenants aren’t exactly knocking at your door looking for rental space. Nothing personal,” he said apologetically.
“Dorset Falls isn’t a hotbed of commerce, that’s for sure,” Margo said.
Yet, Josie amended. She had a gut feeling about this town, but wasn’t about to say anything aloud.
Harry rose, placing his napkin on the table. “Margo, I believe I’ll go upstairs now. I have a lot to think about.”
Margo rose. “Of course. I’ll put the rest of your sandwich in a bag in the fridge, then if you get hungry later you can come back for it.”
When he was gone, Margo inclined her head toward the door. Josie could hear the footsteps ascending the staircase to the rooms above. Still, Josie lowered her voice. “What do you think about him?”
Margo’s expression was thoughtful. “Not much to think. He showed up here last night after I got home and went straight to his room. That was the first time I met him.”
“Harry seems . . . reserved,” Josie said. “Standoffish? Although he did find his business partner dead this morning, so I suppose his demeanor today might not be an accurate reflection of his usual personality.”
“You also found a body this morning,” Margo pointed out. “What about you?”
“It was a shock, of course. I wish I could unsee poor Lyndon lying on that floor.” Josie gave her lemonade a stir and took a sip. “Just out of curiosity, what time did Harry arrive last night?”
“Just after the eleven o’clock news started. Darrell had dozed off in his recliner, so I had to let Harry in and take him upstairs.”
“Lyndon was still at the antique store when we left last night—or at least the lights were on over there. Did he come back?”
Margo eyed her. “I see where you’re going with this. I don’t know. I didn’t see him, and Darrell didn’t mention it. But all guests have a key to the outer door, as well as keys to their rooms. So Lyndon could have come in quietly after we went to bed.”
“Was his bed slept in?”
“Hard to tell. When I looked in after the police left, the covers were off. Whether the police did that looking for evidence, or Lyndon did, I can’t say.”
So Harry had come into town after Josie had last seen Lyndon alive. Or at least he’d shown up here at the Gray Lady then, which wasn’t quite the same thing. And he could have left anytime during the night. Or, assuming Lyndon did come back to the Gray Lady last night, Harry could have followed Lyndon to the antique shop early this morning. However it happened, and whether Lyndon was killed last night, or this morning, Harry could have managed it.
Don’t speculate, she reminded herself. The police are handling it. Still, she couldn’t help but ask, “Did the police find anything?”
Margo shook her head. “Not that they told me. As far as I know, Lyndon only had a few clothes here, which they took along with them. The detective wasn’t here long collecting evidence in either Lyndon’s or Harry’s room, so I’m assuming there wasn’t much of anything to find.”
“What about Lyndon’s car? Did the police take that too?”
The timer buzzed on the oven. Margo rose. “Rusty Simmons brought the tow truck over himself a little while ago and took it away.” She pulled a hot casserole from the oven. The heavenly fragrance of homemade lasagna wafted across the room and filled Josie’s nostrils. As nicely as she’d settled into the rural life of Dorset Falls, there were some things she missed, like her favorite little Italian restaurant around the corner from her Brooklyn apartment.
“Which reminds me,” Margo continued, placing the hot dish on a trivet on her granite countertop and setting the potholders beside it. “Maybe Rusty can rent Harry his loaner car. Then Harry can at least get out of the house and drive around town. Not that there are all that many places to go. You want some of this to take home?” She pointed to the dish on the counter.
Tempting. Oh, so tempting. “Well, I was going to get dinner from the g.s. tonight. Truth is Eb’s been needling me about not cooking. Much as I hate to admit he’s right . . .”
Margo gave a little chuckle. “I understand. Your countrifica-tion process has begun. Take this.” She opened a cupboard and pulled out a Mason jar filled with a dark red substance. “Homemade sauce. Can you use a knife? A frying pan? Can you boil water?”
Josie nodded. “I even know how to turn the knob and light the
burner.”
“Then you can handle this.” Margo rummaged in a drawer until she found a piece of paper and a pen. She wrote down some instructions and handed them to Josie, who read through them.
“Thanks, Margo. I’ll cancel my order from Lorna. I can’t wait to see the look on Eb’s face when I set a mostly home-cooked meal in front of him.” Oh, he’d find something else to bug Josie about. That was just his nature. But it would be satisfying just the same.
Chapter 6
Josie scrubbed out the last pot, gave it a rinse, and put it in the dish drainer to her right. She’d probably used more utensils and dishes than were strictly necessary, but the spaghetti and meat sauce had been quite tasty, if she did say so herself. Eb had merely grunted as he walked past her from his workshop and through the kitchen while she’d been sautéing onions and ground beef. When they’d sat down to eat at one end of the dining room table, which she’d had to clear of mail and newspapers yet again, he’d looked at the meal skeptically. “Needs garlic,” he’d said, mopping up sauce from his second helping.
Buoyed by her relative success in the kitchen, she turned on the small light over the stove and left the room. It was time to tackle something she’d been avoiding.
Eb was sitting in his ugly but comfortable velour armchair by the window as she passed the dining room—at least, she supposed it was comfortable. She’d never sat in the thing. It felt like an invasion of his privacy, somehow. “Did you beat your time on the crossword yet?”
Her great-uncle grunted. “No. What the hell’s a ‘stet’ anyway?” He penciled in a couple of letters. “Gotcha, you little devil.”
“I’ll be in the morning-borning room.” Eb gave another grunt. He was extra talkative this evening.
Josie walked through the adjacent living room, which was furnished with another rust-colored velour armchair and a couch covered in a floral slipcover. That must have been Cora’s doing, as Josie couldn’t see Eb choosing that particular pattern. She paused long enough to fold up a knitted afghan and rearrange the throw pillows—also Cora’s handiwork. Was there anything else to be tidied up? She gave herself a mental flick on the head. Stop avoiding and just do it, Josephine.
The door to Cora’s room was tucked into a corner of the living room, and Josie made her way toward it. In actuality, Cora hadn’t occupied the space for that long. She’d only lived in this house for six months or so before she died. But like Miss Marple Knits, the house retained traces of her. In the old days, this was what was called the borning room, where generations of Lloyds had entered the world and where they’d been brought in their final illnesses. Cora had used it as an office and a sort of private knitting salon—no doubt to get away from Eb’s predilection for outdoorsy reality shows. Not long after she’d moved in, Josie had dubbed it the morning-borning room, and the name had stuck.
And now it was hers.
She crossed the room to the desk and sat down, then opened the lid of her laptop.
And took a deep breath.
While she waited for the video to load, she reached into the deep bottom drawer of the desk and pulled out a pair of size 10.5 knitting needles and a ball of chunky, cream-colored yarn she’d wound herself at the shop. Coco leaped up onto the desk and settled onto a stack of paper.
A well-manicured and bejeweled pair of hands appeared on the screen as the words Learn to Knit scrolled across. A friendly, disembodied voice spoke.
“You say you want to learn to knit? Well, you’ve come to the right place. Or the right video, at least.”
“Okay, lady, let’s do this.” Josie watched the screen. She’d mastered the initial slipknot and placed one on the needle. But that was as far as she’d gotten in quite a few tries. Casting on still eluded her. From what she’d been able to determine, there were several different methods of getting those initial stitches on the needle. And none of them had worked. Yet.
Josie wasn’t sure why she was so determined to do this on her own. It would have been a simple matter to have Evelyn teach her. In fact, they’d talked about offering classes, but that was for sometime in the future. Dorset Falls didn’t seem to have a nonknitting population large enough to make it worthwhile. But as their out-of-town business grew, they could revisit the idea.
Maybe it was just a matter of pride. She’d been to fashion school—and had the student loans from her MFA to prove it. Sewing was no problem, though she didn’t do much of it anymore. So she wasn’t totally without skills. And she had a sneaking suspicion that knitting wasn’t as difficult as it looked, though knitting well clearly took some practice.
Maybe . . . maybe she just wanted it to be hers. The Miss Marple Knits business, the building at number 13 Main Street, her comfy room upstairs here at the farmhouse, all these things had been given to her. And she was beyond grateful for the new direction her life had taken. So maybe that’s all it was. She needed to own the knitting itself. And she was determined to figure it out.
Josie realized that while she’d been ruminating, the hands on the screen had not only produced a line of cast-on stitches, but had knit a couple of rows. She ran the video back to the beginning. This time, she’d pay attention.
A half hour later, Josie blew out a frustrated breath. This was ridiculous. How hard could it be? And yet she still hadn’t managed a single stitch. She tossed the needles and the yarn back into the drawer and tapped it closed with her knee.
“Who says a yarn shop owner needs to know this stuff anyway?” Coco didn’t answer, just looked at her with one eye. Josie gave her a long stroke, from ears to tail, and Coco gave a contented purr.
Josie leaned back in the office chair. It was too early to go to bed. The television in the living room blared. Eb—who was the slightest bit hard of hearing, though he’d never admit it—must have quit crosswording and turned it on. It was a pretty good bet he wasn’t watching Project Runway or America’s Next Top Model or even a costume drama on PBS.
Josie might not be able to knit, but there was one thing she could do. She closed out of the video and typed in www.missmarpleknits.com . She’d bought the domain name just after she took over the shop, and had begun building a website, using a template provided by her host. It had been surprisingly easy. The blog portion of it was up and running, even if she didn’t have any yarn or tools and supplies up for sale yet. That would come.
It didn’t appear that anyone other than a couple of people in Malaysia had read her previous posts. But she wrote another one anyway, describing the new opossum-blend yarn that had just come in. Josie hadn’t been the world’s greatest fashion designer—at least, that’s what Otto Heinrich had repeatedly told her—but she’d been good at writing about it. She scheduled the post and closed out.
Coco padded along behind her as she made her way through the living room. Odd. The television was on, but Eb wasn’t there. That was unlike him. He didn’t like to waste electricity. Or words, or anything else. She carried her mug through the dining room to the kitchen and deposited the cup in the sink, running some water into it. Eb’s workshop door was ajar, and a thin line of light shone around the edges.
“Eb? You want me to leave the TV on for you? I’m going upstairs to read, then go to bed.”
Eb’s gray head poked out from around the stack of junk barricading him into his worktable. “Turn it off.” He disappeared again. A faint whirring noise was just barely audible.
“What are you doing in here so late?” Eb was a taciturn creature of habit. In the time she’d lived here, she’d never seen him do anything in the evenings other than solving a crossword, reading the newspaper, or watching shows about how to catch sometimes nasty giant animals that lived in bodies of water.
There was a silence, then he poked his head around again. “Idea for a thingamajig hit. Had to start.” He stared out at her from under his iron-gray brows. “G’nite.”
Well, fine. The old coot. See if she ever showed an interest in his work again. “Good night, Eb.”
A grunt ca
me from behind the junk wall, followed by an answering howl from Jethro, who must have been at his master’s feet.
Ten minutes later, Josie had washed and moisturized her face, brushed her teeth, changed into fleece pajamas, and settled under the quilt with a mystery novel. The lamp gave off a soft glow as she read herself to sleep.
* * *
On her way into town the next morning, Josie decided to take the long way around and drive past the Woodruff farm. The feathered ladies in her chicken coop had laid a few more eggs than usual, so it was only neighborly to drop the excess off next door. Oh, who was she kidding? She hadn’t seen Mitch Woodruff in a few days and, well, she wanted to. Not caring to analyze her wants any further, she pulled into the driveway by the barns, in front of a large, fenced enclosure.
More than a dozen curious, adorably goofy faces appeared on the other side of the fence. Some were dark chocolate brown, others were creamy white, or pale gray. But she was looking for one in particular. She exited the car and approached the fence.
“Stella! There you are, sweetie. You’ve grown.” Josie reached her hand through the mesh of the fence and patted the cria—the one who’d been born the day Josie had officially opened Miss Marple Knits as her own, and whom she’d named—on the soft fluff of fawn-colored fiber that crowned her little head. The other alpacas, females only as the males had a separate enclosure, crowded round Josie, staring. Stella held her own against the herd.
Josie pulled back her hand, wishing she’d brought Stella a special treat. But she had no idea if alpacas could even have treats, or what a treat would consist of. Footsteps sounded behind her, coming from the direction of the barn. She turned.
Mitch Woodruff strode toward her, wearing a hooded Cornell sweatshirt under a canvas Carhartt jacket. Her heart, the treacherous thing, fluttered as he flashed a big grin at her. “Hey, Josie,” he said. “Come to visit Stella?”
This was ridiculous. Good-looking men were a dime a dozen in New York City. In fact, she’d turned down advances from more classically beautiful guys. Though perhaps they shouldn’t count. Most of them had been more interested in her connections at the Haus of Heinrich than in her.
A Knit before Dying Page 5