A Knit before Dying

by Sadie Hartwell

  Lorna answered. “This is Josie Blair. She owns the yarn shop now. Josie, this is Alden Brewster.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Brewster. Are you Dougie’s—”

  “Father. You Eben Lloyd’s niece?” He looked Josie up and down and apparently liked what he saw, because he waggled an eyebrow at her.

  You should have seen me in New York, Pops. “Yes. He and my grandfather were brothers.”

  “He’s a mean old bastard. But I can respect that.” He pointed a finger at Lorna. “You. Girl. Open up that door for me so I can go talk to my son.”

  Lorna rose and did as she was asked. He followed her through the opening in the counter and wheeled himself up to Dougie’s door. “Let me in, moron,” he yelled. The door opened, and Alden rolled through.

  When Lorna returned, Josie said in a low voice, “We really have to get you out of here. Nobody should have to put up with that.”

  Lorna smiled. “It’s okay. Well, it’s not really okay, of course. But for right now, this job is a means to an end.” She clearly didn’t want to talk about what that end was, which Josie knew was her right.

  “I didn’t know Dougie had a father. I mean a living father,” Josie amended. “I haven’t seen him around town.”

  “He goes to Florida every winter and just got back. He’s not in town much anyway. Lives in a big house out by the lake and only comes into town to torment Dougie.”

  The door to Dougie’s office opened. “I have to get back to work,” Lorna said quickly.

  “Understood. I’ll talk to you soon.” But Lorna was already back behind the counter by the time Alden, Dougie, and another man paraded out. Josie remembered she’d seen him the other day. What was his name? Rick . . . Steuben, that was it. Dougie’s prep-school friend. He must have been pretty proud of his alma mater, because he wore an athletic-style jacket with Collingswood Academy emblazoned on the left side of his chest. He appeared to be the same age as Dougie, which only made sense if they’d gone to school together, but appeared to be in better shape. Better looking too. He was wearing his age well. Josie thought of her mom, who, to her knowledge, hadn’t been on a date in years. But no. Any friend of Dougie’s was bound to be a jerk. And maybe her mother already had a secret dating life she hadn’t mentioned. The three men filed out the front door without a backward glance.

  Josie waited till she was sure the coast was clear, then approached Lorna at the counter again. “I should get back to the shop. Two goulashes, please.”

  Lorna ladled out two cups of soup, topped them with lids, and put them into a bag. “There’s extra bread in there.” She smiled.

  “Not that I need the extra bread, but I appreciate it. I’ll talk to you soon.” Josie headed back to Miss Marple Knits.

  When she got there, Officer Sharla Coogan was leaned up against the back counter. She and Evelyn were staring at a cell phone, broad grins on each of their faces. They looked up when Josie approached. Sharla looked a bit apologetic, but Evelyn just looked proud. “We’re watching a video of Andrew. He’s learning to ride a bike.”

  “Sorry, Josie. We can do this later, not gush over my kid on company time,” Sharla said.

  “Don’t worry about it. Andrew’s adorable.”

  “I know,” she said. “Most of the time.” Sharla went into cop mode. “Mom says someone was here looking for Lyndon?”

  Josie reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the card, which she handed to Sharla. “He said he was Lyndon’s business associate. I wonder what a California television producer would want with a Connecticut antique dealer?”

  “I don’t know either,” Sharla said, “but I think I’ll give him a call.”

  Josie pulled out her cell phone and typed Norton Television Productions into her search bar. “It says here that they produce reality-type shows. Could Norton have been looking for Lyndon to supply him with antique set props or something?”

  “But Harry was the buyer in the partnership. Why wouldn’t Norton be dealing with him?” Evelyn asked. “Remember, Norton never said a word about Harry.”

  “But he did mention Lyndon’s niece, Taylor, right?” Sharla flipped open her notebook. “Taylor Philbin. Age twenty-seven. Runs a gift shop at the shore. I imagine she’ll be here to claim the body anytime.”

  Josie secretly willed Sharla to go on, but she had apparently said all she could. They already knew all this, except Taylor’s age, so it wasn’t as if Sharla was spilling anything she shouldn’t.

  “Sharla,” Josie said. “I’ve been wondering about something. What was the murder weapon? I’ve never seen anything like that. If you can say, of course.”

  “You saw the scene, so there’s no reason I can’t confirm it for you. Cause of death was exsanguination—bleeding out—due to a stab wound. The implement was a pair of antique sheep shears.”

  Sheep shears. Josie saw Lyndon’s body again, this time in her mind’s eye. She blinked, trying to clear the image.

  “And before either of you asks,” Sharla continued, “we’re still following leads. Not ready to make an arrest yet. Can I keep this card?”

  Josie nodded. She had no reason to call the television producer for anything. “He might be staying over at the Gray Lady,” she said.

  “Not sure that’s such a good idea,” Sharla said, and left.

  “What did that mean?” Evelyn said when she’d gone.

  “I’d say it means Harry hasn’t been cleared.”

  Chapter 9

  By the time Josie and Evelyn closed up Miss Marple Knits for the day, the crime-scene tape had come down next door. Josie decided to drive by the Gray Lady Bed-and-Breakfast to check on Harry and give him the news. And if she found out whether Kai Norton had taken a room there, so much the better. Curiosity was eating away at her over what his business had been with Lyndon.

  Dorset Falls was a pretty little place, if you didn’t count the mostly empty downtown. And the murders. Lawns in front of the saltboxes and Victorians and smaller ranch-style homes were still brown from winter, but here and there cheerful spots of purple, white, and gold appeared in the form of crocuses. It was still too early for tulips and daffodils, she supposed, though she didn’t have the gardening gene. She pulled in at the Gray Lady and put her car into park.

  Margo greeted her at the door. “I heard your car. It has a, uh, distinctive sound.”

  “If by ‘distinctive’ you mean ‘needs a tune-up,’ you’re correct.” Josie laughed. “I’ve got an appointment with Rusty next week.”

  “Thanks for sending that California guy. He decided to stay.”

  Josie felt a little nugget of worry form. “Just be careful, okay?”

  Margo held up a hand. “Noted. Two strangers in Dorset Falls at the same time a man dies suspiciously always ups the alert level around here. Come on in,” she said. “Let’s sit in the front room. I just mopped the kitchen floor.”

  Margo showed Josie into a room with ceilings at least ten feet high. Elaborate oak molding framed every window and door and lined the baseboards and the ceiling. The walls were papered in a design of exotic birds and elegant scrollwork. The over-the-top décor would have looked ridiculous at the farmhouse, but it was just right here. Even doilies would have worked.

  “I can’t stay too long, and I’m sure you’ll want to be getting dinner on the table. I actually wanted to speak to Harry, if he’s around. Not that I don’t want to talk to you,” Josie added.

  “No offense taken. And yes, Harry’s here. He’s been in his room most of the day. Not sure what he’s doing up there, but he asked for the Wi-Fi password, so he must have a computer with him. Work, maybe.”

  From off in the distance, a phone rang. Margo jumped up. “That’s the business line. You can go on up and see Harry. His door will be second on the right at the top of the stairs.” She hustled off as the rings continued.

  Josie ascended the grand staircase. There was a landing at the top. She paused. At the far end of the hallway, she could see Harry wit
h his hand on the handle of a door. He jiggled the knob, but the door was apparently locked. He moved in her direction and tried the next door, which also appeared to be locked. What was he doing? Unless Margo had misspoken about which room was his, he was trying to get into rooms that weren’t his own.

  He was bound to notice her eventually, so Josie decided on a preemptive strike. “Harry?”

  He started. “Josie. You gave me a fright. It’s nice to see you again.”

  Was it? He seemed agitated.

  “I didn’t have your cell number, so I thought I’d come by and let you know you can get back into the antique shop. At least I think you can. The crime-scene tape is down.”

  “They’ve released Lyndon’s room here, too.” Harry’s face was expressionless, but he still seemed on edge.

  “I hate to ask,” Josie said as they walked downstairs and back into the front room. “But have you given any more thought as to whether you’re going to open the antique store? Of course you have the place for six months, but—”

  “You need to know whether you should start lining up a new tenant. I wish I knew. Lyndon and I had a legally binding partnership agreement. We each owned half of the business, each to inherit the other’s half upon one partner’s death. But we’ve got stuff stored in several places around the state, and not all of it belongs to the business. Some of it I bought personally, and some Lyndon bought for himself. It’s going to take some time to get that all sorted out.”

  “I understand. And I wasn’t trying to rush you.” Josie had charged a high enough rent for the six months to cover herself for taxes, insurance, and utilities for a year. But she was more concerned about the unopened store. It was one thing for most of Main Street to have papered-over storefront windows. Somehow, it seemed worse to have a store full of stuff that no one could buy. Like a bait-and-switch scam.

  “Have you heard whether Lyndon’s niece, Taylor, has arrived in town yet?” Harry’s tone was neutral, but all the same, Josie had a feeling there was no love lost between the two.

  “Haven’t heard.” Should she go for it? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “You know who is in town, though? A television producer.” She watched him carefully.

  Harry’s jaw tensed. He knew something. Finally, he said, “You may as well know. Lyndon had just signed a deal with Norton to star in a new reality show called Diamond in the Rough. They were going to film Lyndon traveling around the country, buying antiques directly from people’s homes.” Harry’s voice held more than a touch of bitterness.

  “Wow. A reality show? That would be great for your business.”

  Harry scowled. “That’s just it. The producers didn’t want the business. They wanted Lyndon. And they wanted Taylor, so there’d be a young woman on the show.”

  It wasn’t hard to see where this was going. “And they didn’t want you.” She immediately regretted her blunt words.

  “Correct. I don’t have the camera presence, according to Kai Norton. Nor do I have the signing bonus the show was about to give Lyndon. He was poised to make a lot of money.”

  Poor Harry.

  Margo returned at that moment. “That was Darrell. He’s on his way. They made good progress out at the old Ryder house today. I don’t mind telling you I’m more than a little excited about a craft brewery opening up.”

  “The building is an authentic colonial saltbox,” Harry said. “It’s lasted three hundred years. It could last another three hundred.”

  Both women turned to Harry in surprise. “How do you know about the Ryder house?” Margo asked.

  “Because Lyndon and I bought the contents of the house. Most of it wasn’t worth anything, after tenants had been in there for years, but we found some salvageable things in the attic and out in the barn. Lyndon never got the chance to set anything up at the store.” The color drained from Harry’s face. “But unless I’m very much mistaken, somebody found something we brought back from there.”

  “What do you mean?” Josie said. But she thought she knew.

  Harry’s eyes caught and held Josie’s. “We had a box of old farm tools, including a pair of antique sheep shears.”

  Josie and Harry were silent, each remembering the rusted metal sticking out of Lyndon’s chest.

  “The murder weapon?” Margo asked.

  “We—” Harry gave a barely perceptible gulp. “We bought the thing that killed Lyndon. And I have no idea who could have done such a thing.”

  * * *

  Josie motored through the side streets of Dorset Falls on her way out of town. But she wasn’t headed back to Eb’s farm just yet, though the light was beginning to fade.

  Whether he knew it or not, Harry had just given himself a pretty good motive for murdering Lyndon. He stood to inherit Lyndon’s half of the business. No telling how valuable it was; according to Harry they had inventory all around the state. If they were also doing some kind of online business, which seemed likely, especially for smaller items like jewelry, coins, silver, or even art, Nutmeg Antiques & Curiosities could have substantial assets.

  Means and opportunity were clear as well. He had unquestioned access to the unopened store.

  And he was clearly disgruntled about being cut out of the television show. Some of those reality stars made thousands, even multiple thousands, of dollars per episode depending on the popularity of the show. Lyndon and his niece had apparently hit pay dirt.

  But Harry’s dirt was just . . . plain old dirt.

  Josie took a turn onto Ryder Road, just on the outskirts of town. Should she go to the police, tell Sharla about what Harry had just revealed? But the police had already questioned Harry. And Evelyn had told Sharla about the producer’s being in town, so all this stuff was probably already in the police file, or would be soon.

  Harry might have been uncharismatic in front of a camera, but he wasn’t unintelligent. And he could just as easily have kept the information about the business and the show to himself.

  So if Harry hadn’t killed Lyndon, which Josie was inclined to believe, who had?

  When she spotted the tall hops poles silhouetted against the sky, she slowed the car. This was the place she’d thought it was. A huge rectangle of a house, with white paint peeling off the clapboards, a wooden front door studded in nails, which were blackened by age and weather, and a pitched roof that slanted sharply back from two stories in the front to one in the back. It was a magnificent old place, even though the outside was a bit rundown, and she could understand why someone would want to renovate it.

  Who had Bea Ryder been? This was a big old house for one person, though if Bea had grown up here, memories could have filled much of the empty space.

  Helen had said Bea just disappeared one day. Perhaps she’d wanted to shake up her life. Move away, without a backward glance. Maybe she’d run off to Europe with a minor prince of some obscure region. Josie liked that story, hoped it was true.

  But the far greater likelihood was that Bea had been killed. As romantic as it sounded, the prince scenario was just wishful thinking. People didn’t just up and leave their homes, their businesses, their friends.

  Josie thought of her box of doilies. Had it come from here? Lyndon had said he’d just bought the box and hadn’t had time to sort through them yet, so it seemed likely. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Comforted, somehow, to have something that had belonged to the probably dead woman? Creeped out? Maybe a little of both.

  Josie backed out of the driveway and drove home.

  Chapter 10

  Eb had been uncharacteristically agreeable when she’d told him she wanted to put up a clothesline and asked where she could find the materials. He’d grunted and told her he’d do it, which was what she’d been hoping for. Not that she couldn’t have figured it out herself—setting up a line seemed far easier than knitting—but Eb had been spending a lot of time in his workshop lately. It would be good for him to get outdoors. He might not want her to screw something up—though any harm she could do wit
h a length of rope and a couple of pulleys seemed minute. More likely, he was anticipating a lower electricity bill due to her not using the clothes dryer. Her great-uncle was good with money, she had to give him that.

  Josie stood at the counter of Miss Marple Knits, opening the mail that had accumulated over the last couple of days. Other than a box of sample yarns from a new company, there was nothing of importance. Just circulars for the hardware store and supermarket the next town over, a credit card solicitation, and a request for a donation to a charity she’d never heard of. She placed the paper stuff into the recycling bin, then ran the credit card offer through the shredder in the back.

  When she returned to the front of the store, Evelyn and Helen had arrived and were hanging up their jackets. “Hi, Helen,” Josie said. “It’s been a couple days since you’ve been in.”

  “What am I? Garter stitch?” Evelyn said. She and Helen looked at each other and laughed. It must have been some private knitting joke between them, or maybe garter stitch was the equivalent of chopped liver. Who knew?

  “You were next on my greetings list, don’t worry.” Josie carefully sliced open the tape holding the box together. She dumped it out on the counter. Evelyn and Helen crowded round. “I’m glad you’re both here, actually. Let’s take a look at these samples. Maybe you two could knit up some swatches and tell me if you think we should order anything for the shop.”

  Evelyn and Helen dove into the pile as though Josie had just emptied a box of hundred-dollar bills in front of them. They each pulled up a skein, rolled the yarn between their fingers, and examined the color and label. It was like watching an Esther Williams movie on the oldies channel—the women were perfectly focused, perfectly synchronized.

  Having made their choices, Evelyn and Helen removed themselves to the seating area, one to the couch, one to the armchair, and got to work.

  Josie watched them fondly. She’d grown to love these two ladies. And she needed them. Josie armed the sample skeins to one end of the counter, then retrieved the box of doilies from under the counter. She hadn’t taken them home last night, after all. She dumped them out and began to sort again. It was either this or clean the tiny bathroom or sweep out the storeroom, so the choice was easy.