But good-looking, kind, funny, and loyal guys, well, those didn’t just grow on trees. Or next door.
“Uh, yeah. And to bring you and Roy some eggs. They’re on the front seat. The hens have been working overtime.”
“Thanks.” He smiled again, showing either great genetics or great orthodontic work. “She’s getting big, isn’t she? Pretty soon, we’ll have to put her on a halter and start training. The spring alpaca shows are coming up.” He put his hands in the pockets of his Levi’s. Josie didn’t have to look at his back pocket, tempting as that was, to know his brand of jeans. Mitch always wore Levi’s.
“I was thinking maybe I’d go to one of the shows with you, sometime. To check out the yarns and see if I want to carry them in the shop.” Great. She’d just invited herself to horn in on his business.
Mitch didn’t seem to mind. “That’s a great idea. I’ve been selling the fiber to a collective, one that sells to a larger company that spins and distributes the yarn. But once I expand the herd, I might look into producing some small runs of artisan yarns. Maybe you could help me with that?”
The possibility was interesting. “Sure,” Josie said. “We could give it a test run through Miss Marple Knits. I want to start an online shop.”
Mitch nodded. “Good thinking. You’re a smart business owner.”
Josie didn’t know about that. There was so much to learn. But she was getting the hang of it. She looked out into the field beyond. “Is that a hops pole?”
Mitch looked in the direction she indicated. “Dorset Falls is becoming hops happy, isn’t it? But no. That’s Roy’s antenna. He bought a ham radio setup from Art Cote down the road. Art fleeced him, but it’s been keeping Gramps occupied.”
“Well, a hobby’s good.”
Mitch gave a slight frown, then looked off toward the animals. “Honestly, between you and me? He’s acting . . . odd.” He turned back to her. “Odder than usual,” he said.
Which was what Josie had been thinking the last time she’d seen him a few days ago at the general store. “You think he’s sick? I worry about Eb all the time, even though he’d kick me out if he heard me say it.”
“No, not physically sick. But have you noticed he and Eb have been in an unusually long truce?”
The legendary feud between Eben Lloyd and Roy Woodruff reached back decades. Even further in an ancestral sense, because it seemed their fathers had been enemies as well. No one knew what had started it—and if Eben or Roy knew, they weren’t talking. From what Josie had witnessed, and Mitch had confirmed, the two bachelor farmers were masters of pranking and sabotaging each other, but they always stopped short of physical harm.
“The last thing I knew, Roy had cut Eb’s maple sap lines, which you fixed, thanks, and Eb somehow managed to sign Roy up on an online dating site under the name ‘Farmer Fabio.’”
Mitch chuckled. “That was a good one. Eb was nice enough to include a phone number in the profile, and Roy’s still getting phone calls. We’ve stopped answering and just let the machine pick up now.”
“So it’s Roy’s turn, right? Maybe he’s . . . fresh out of ideas?”
“I’d like to think so,” Mitch said. “Though they don’t always stick strictly to the rotation.” Mitch’s border collie, Pepper, raced from around Josie’s car and stopped at Mitch’s feet. The dog looked up adoringly. Josie couldn’t blame her. Mitch reached down and scratched Pepper behind the ears. “But Roy seems . . . preoccupied. A little on edge.” He shook his head. “I’m just keeping my eyes and ears open. Whatever it is, it’ll either blow up or blow over.”
“If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.” Josie opened the car door and pulled out the disposable container of eggs, handing them to Mitch. “I should get to the shop.”
“And I should get back to work. I’m glad you stopped by.”
Josie was too.
Chapter 7
Evelyn was already at Miss Marple Knits when Josie arrived. As Josie hung up her jacket and scarf—the day promised to be warm, so she’d be overdressed by the afternoon—Evelyn poured a cup of tea and set the mug on the counter.
“You have to try this,” Evelyn demanded. “Lorna is a tea genius. See if you can tell what it is.”
Josie laughed. “Tea genius. We’ll have to tell her that.” She picked up the mug by the handle rather than wrapping her fingers around the middle. Fragrant steam rolled off the top, and Josie inhaled. “Raspberry?” She took a sip. “Definitely raspberry, but with something richer, almost buttery mixed in—”
“Hazelnut,” Evelyn interrupted. “It’s Linzer torte. Taste the cinnamon too, with just a hint of clove? This is magnificent.” Her expression dared anyone to disagree.
Which Josie did not. “Delicious.”
“She should be selling this and making money for herself, not letting Douglas Brewster take all the credit. And all the profits.”
Lorna must have thought about taking her tea business out on her own. Maybe she just needed some encouragement. Next time Josie saw her, not at the g.s., she’d butt in and mention it. In fact, that was a good excuse, not that she needed one, to schedule another after-hours knit-in here at Miss Marple Knits.
Josie booted up the shop’s electronics. “I saw the crime-scene tape still up next door. The police aren’t done?” Her eyes fell on a cardboard box at the far end of the counter. Oh, right. The box of doilies she’d bought from Lyndon the night before he died. She walked to the end of the counter and opened the box. At some point, she supposed, she’d have to pay Harry for them.
“You’d think I’d have some details, wouldn’t you, since my daughter-in-law is on the police force—underutilized, I might add.” Evelyn was just the slightest bit huffy. “But no, Sharla won’t tell me anything.”
“I wonder if there’s even a suspect.” Josie was still inclined to think it was someone who’d followed Lyndon here, maybe from Hartford. And hopefully whoever it was, was gone. And would be caught soon.
“If there is, I haven’t heard. From anyone.”
“Maybe it was a robbery gone bad. I wonder if there was anything missing from the shop,” Josie mused, opening the second set of flaps on the box. “Though I don’t see how anyone could tell, unless there was an inventory of some kind. The place was—still is—full of stuff. Harry might know.”
Evelyn considered. “But why would a thief try to rob a shop with all the lights blazing and the owner right there in plain sight, obviously just moving in? And with us right next door, unless it happened after we went home? Why not go down to the general store, which was closed and would probably have a bigger cash drawer? No, poor Lyndon was specifically targeted.”
“Yeah, I think so too,” Josie said. “But why? He seemed so nice. Of course, the other question is whether he was murdered last night, or early this morning. Not that I suppose it matters. The poor man is dead.” She dumped the contents of the box on the counter.
Evelyn leaned in. “Doilies,” she announced. “Don’t have much use for those anymore. Never cared for them myself, either to make them or have them in the house. Reminded me of my mother. Old-fashioned.”
Josie picked one up and held it to the light. “I think it’s pretty,” Josie said. “Such tiny stitches, and look at that intricate pattern someone had to keep track of. This must have taken hours and hours to create.” She laid it on the counter and gently smoothed it out. The heat from her hand released a faintly musty odor from the item.
“Yes, you have to pay attention when you’re crocheting them. It’s easy to lose your place in the charts. I always liked knitting better.”
Josie pawed through the pile. “Look, here’s a matching one.”
“They were often made in sets.” Evelyn took her big purse over to the couch and pulled out her knitting. Perhaps she needed an antidote to all the crocheted items she’d just seen. Josie had observed that while some knitters were also crocheters, most people preferred one discipline to the other. “I imagine you’ll find more,�
�� Evelyn said, stabbing and looping away at the knitted fabric. Josie watched her for a few moments. It always fascinated Josie to see a knitter get into her flow state. Josie herself was a long way from experiencing that, based on last night’s unsuccessful attempt.
She continued to sort through the doilies. “What’s this? I’m pretty sure it’s not crocheted. Or knitted.” What else could there be?
Evelyn didn’t look up, but pulled another length of yarn out of the ball she was working from. “Is it made of loops and coils, rather than stitches?”
“Yes, that’s exactly it. Loops and coils.”
“Tatting. It’s done with a shuttle instead of a needle or a hook, and it’s rather tricky to learn. Tension is super important. Almost nobody does it anymore.”
Tatting? Josie had never heard of it. She pulled another piece out. This one was definitely knitted. About six inches square, made of an ecru-colored thread, it didn’t seem to have an identifiable pattern like the others. In fact, the placement of the eyelets was quite random. Holding the doily up to the light, Josie refocused her eyes in case she’d missed something. Nope. The piece had a certain charm to it, despite the fact that it wasn’t nearly as attractive as the other doilies in the box. Perhaps it had been made by an inexperienced knitter, even a child. Josie shook her head. It was still miles better than anything she herself could produce. She tossed it back into the box.
“Say, Evelyn. What’s the best way to clean these? They have a funky smell. I don’t see any mildew or big stains, though.”
Evelyn deigned to look up from the project in her lap. “What are you going to do with those? You could have bought nice new yarn for twenty-five dollars.” Her tone was faintly accusatory, but Josie understood. “It’ll be a fair amount of work to launder, shape, and starch them. And it’s all got to be done by hand, no washing machine.”
Josie caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I don’t really know. But they’re pretty. Decorative.” And somebody had put a lot of time into each one. That needed to be respected.
“Decorative dust catchers. But you’re creative. You’ll think of something. To clean them, run a sink full of lukewarm water and squirt in some plain, white dishwashing liquid.” Evelyn said the name of the brand, which Josie remembered from her childhood but wasn’t sure they even made anymore. “I have to go shopping at the big supermarket in Kent, so I’ll pick some up for you. Then you’ll soak them for a while, gently swish them around, and then we’ll need to lay them out flat and pin them to shape on a template to dry. You can starch or not.”
“Will that take care of the odor?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Your best bet is to put them out in the sun and air, which you can do before you wash them. Does dear Eben have a clothesline back at the farm?”
Good old Evelyn. She hadn’t given up on Eben Lloyd. Josie pictured the backyard. There was some pulley-type hardware outside the back door, but no line attached. Eb had probably taken it down for the winter. Well, she could ask him to put up a line for her. If he was in a good mood, he might even do it. As long as she fed him first.
“Yeah. I’ll take these home tonight.” Josie put the doilies back into the box and stowed it under the counter, next to her purse so she wouldn’t forget it.
The shop bell tinkled, and Evelyn and Josie both turned their attention to the door. A man walked in. He wore a nice pair of Oakley sunglasses, dark-wash jeans, and a sport coat over a black T-shirt. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail. His skin was tanned. He clearly was not a yarn connoisseur, because his eyes went straight to Josie; he seemed not at all interested in the contents of the shop.
Josie opened her mouth to greet him, but he preempted her. “The shop next door. Where’s the owner? Why is there crime-scene tape across the door?” He was asking questions, but this was clearly a man used to giving orders.
She was familiar with the type, having lived and worked in New York for years, though she supposed the Big Apple hadn’t cornered the market on bossiness. Just look at Diantha Humphries. But unless Josie missed her guess, this guy wasn’t a New Yorker. His clothes, appearance, and attitude suggested West Coast. California, probably.
“And you are?” There wasn’t really any reason not to give him the information, but Josie wasn’t above making him work for it. From the corner of her eye, she could see Evelyn, whose lips were turned up imperceptibly as she watched the exchange.
The man seemed slightly taken aback, but recovered himself. “Forgive me,” he said solicitously. “Kai Norton. I’m looking for Lyndon Bailey. Isn’t that his shop next door? Was there a break-in?”
What was up with this guy? There was a touch of glee in his voice. He’d either not heard about the murder, or he didn’t care, or—
Her stomach gave a little clench. This guy was clearly from out of town, and now he was looking for Lyndon. Didn’t they say a criminal always returned to the scene of the crime? Evelyn must have had the same thought, because she was now sitting at attention and had put her hand into her big purse. Josie hoped she was holding her cell phone, ready to call for help if necessary.
“Are you a friend? Relative?”
“Business associate. Why all the questions? I just want to find Lyndon. Now more than ever, if there’s been some issue at the antique store.” His face held no concern, just more of that . . . glee. There was no other word for it.
“Well, Mr. Norton, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Lyndon was found dead in his shop.”
Norton’s face froze. “Dead?” he said after a beat. Impossible to say what the man’s emotions or thoughts were, but Josie could almost see the wheels turning. “Does Taylor know?”
Taylor? Right. Taylor Philbin. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that this guy knew Lyndon’s niece, but still . . .
“I imagine the police have notified her by now,” Josie said.
“Police? Then they suspect foul play?”
“I can’t tell you what they suspect. If you were doing business with Lyndon, I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you.” Time to get this guy out of here.
He handed her a card. “Here’s my contact information. Is there anywhere to stay in this town? I’d planned to get a room farther south, but now I’d like to be here when Taylor arrives.”
Josie gave him the address of the Gray Lady Bed-and-Breakfast. And hoped she wasn’t making a mistake.
When he’d gone, she looked at the card in her hand. “Kai Norton. Norton Television Productions.” Evelyn put her knitting into her bag and came to take a look.
“Television?” she said. “What would a television producer want with Lyndon? Or Lyndon’s niece?”
Josie wondered the same thing. She pulled out her cell phone to give Margo a heads-up. Margo and Darrell could make their own decision about whether to give the guy a room. He’d not seemed to be the world’s most compassionate guy, but he didn’t have Psycho Killer tattooed on his forehead either. While Josie waited for the call to connect, she said to Evelyn, “The bigger question, I think, is why didn’t Kai Norton ask about Lyndon’s business partner?”
“Harry,” they said at the same time.
Chapter 8
Josie left Evelyn in charge of Miss Marple Knits and dialing her daughter-in-law, Sharla, presumably to give her a heads-up. Through the crisscrossed yellow tape, Josie could see in the windows of the antique shop. The place appeared empty. She wondered what had happened to Lyndon’s body. The closest hospital was a thirty-minute drive away, and she didn’t know where the closest funeral home was, but she was pretty sure Dorset Falls didn’t have one.
As she walked toward the general store, her mind whirred. What was going on here? Lyndon was dead before he’d even opened for business. Harry had been standing over Lyndon, looking dazed, when Josie arrived. Was he dazed because his business partner was dead? Or because he’d caused the death? And what was that murder weapon, anyway? From the limited view she’d had, it appeared to be two flat pieces of rusty metal
, connected in a U-shape. It had looked old, and it was a reasonable assumption it was some antique thingie from the shop. Had Lyndon had an argument with someone that had turned violent, and the thing had been handy? If the death had been premeditated, wouldn’t the killer have brought a more traditional weapon, like a knife or a gun?
The general store was busier than usual when she entered. Every visible head turned, so she raised her hand in a group greeting. Josie made her way to the lunch counter in the back. The specials board listed Hungarian goulash and chicken tortilla soups, in addition to the usual tomato bisque and chicken noodle. It wasn’t quite lunchtime, but she figured she’d get it to go, then she and Evelyn could eat later.
Lorna appeared behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face broke into a grin when she saw Josie. “Tea? I’ve got a new flavor I’m testing.”
“If it’s Linzer torte, it’s a winner. Evelyn made me some earlier. We should, uh, talk more about that sometime,” Josie said, with a glance toward Dougie’s office. She could hardly suggest to Lorna here that she go into business for herself.
“We should.” Lorna turned her head. “Taking my break, Dougie,” she called.
“Make it quick,” came the response.
Lorna made two cups of tea, and they carried their mugs to a table in the farthest corner.
“He’s grouchy. Grouchier than usual.” Lorna kept her voice low.
“Tell me about it. I live with the King of the Grumps every day. You look tired.” Her friend’s eyes were ringed with dark circles.
“I am. Dougie’s got his friend in town, so I’m doing pretty much everything here so they have time to reminisce about their prep-school football days—oh, heck.”
Josie turned to see what had Lorna pseudo-cussing. An elderly man in a motorized wheelchair was whirring across the floor. He pulled to a stop in front of Lorna and Josie, then adjusted his glasses. “Who’s this?” he demanded.
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