Josie laid out each doily, finding several sets of two or three that matched, as Evelyn had predicted. As she sorted, her mind wandered.
Doilies would just look silly in any modern home. But she wasn’t going to let someone’s hard work go to waste. And they were so pretty.
What if she repurposed them? They could be sewn down on the back of a sweater or jean jacket. She liked this idea so much, if she’d had her jean jacket with her, she would have threaded a needle right then and there.
Josie chose one of the matching sets, then moved around the flat, lacy circles with the palm of her hand, one large and three smaller ones, identical in pattern except for the size, until they made a pleasing arrangement. What if these were tacked onto throw pillows? They could even be framed and hung as art on a wall. Her skin started to tingle, and her mind started to race with possibilities, the reactions she always had when her creative juices were pumping. Could she get more of these? She could sell the home décor items through her future online shop. And charge a nice price for them too.
“Are you playing with those doilies again?” Evelyn said from across the room. “I brought you the dish soap and starch.”
“Just brainstorming what to do with them. Eb said he’d put up a clothesline for me today. I’ll hang them out when I get home.”
“Good idea,” Helen piped up. “Hang them out dry. If you hang them out wet, they’re liable to shrink, or at the very least get pulled out of shape.”
Josie picked up the box, preparing to put them away again for the second time in as many days. They weren’t smelling any fresher, and she didn’t want the mustiness to spread to her inventory. Which she wished she’d thought of yesterday, but no harm seemed to have been done. There was some writing in black block letters on one side of the box. Ryder House. That confirmed it, then. These were Beatrice Ryder’s things.
“Helen,” Josie said. “Would you like any of these?”
“Whatever for? I mean, thank you, of course, but I still have my mother’s put away in the cedar closet. I don’t need any more.”
“Well, I know Bea Ryder was your friend. And it looks like these came from her house. I thought you might want one as a memento.”
Helen made a small sound. “Oh, dear, that is so sweet of you.” She set down her knitting and approached the counter. “I wish I could say I recognized any of these.” She peered at several of them in turn. “I’m not even sure Bea made them. I never saw her crocheting, only knitting. Though she was older than I was and could have given it up before we became friends.” Helen looked over the array on the counter, then picked up the small, odd piece. “What’s this?” She held it up to the light. “This piece is knitted, not crocheted like the rest.”
“I noticed that one too,” Josie said. “To me it looked like a mistake, or a practice swatch. See how the pattern is all off-kilter?”
Helen adjusted her glasses and looked closer. “The pattern may be off,” she declared. “But this was made by an expert knitter, which Bea was. Each stitch is perfect.”
Helen handed the piece back to Josie. “You can keep these, but again, I thank you. I don’t need things to remember Bea. She was special.”
Josie began to repack the box. “I’d love to hear about her.”
“So would I,” Evelyn said. “Let’s have tea while we talk.” She got up and went behind the counter, then switched on the electric kettle. “Let’s try this lemon meringue flavor Lorna concocted.”
Josie closed up the box and put it by the front door. When the water was hot, Evelyn poured mugs, and they all sat down, Evelyn and Helen in their usual spots and Josie in the second armchair. She looked around and smiled. Every day couldn’t be like this, of course, but it was awfully nice to be able to take a break when she wanted. Not that she’d worked particularly hard this morning. But that time would come. Business would pick up eventually, as some of the limited advertising she’d done started to pay off and more people from the surrounding area learned about the shop. And with an online component, the sky was really the limit. Maybe she was being overly optimistic, but if she didn’t have a positive attitude, who would?
“Now,” Evelyn said. “Tell us about Bea.” She set her tea down and picked up her knitting again, holding it up and examining it. “I like this new yarn,” she said. “It has a nice hand, and it’s tightly spun, so it won’t pill.”
Helen sipped her tea, then turned her head slightly to the side and closed her eyes. “Bea and I met, it must have been forty-five years ago now, though it pains me to say that number. She had her dress shop across the street, had been in business a long time, and I took some dresses in for alterations. She did all her own tailoring. Hems, taking in, letting out, adjusting darts. Clothes were much more fitted back then.”
Josie nodded. “Some of those styles are coming back. I love the way they look—so elegant—but I’m not sure how comfortable they are. People now are used to more forgiving fabrics and cuts.”
“I know I’ve gotten used to the stretch. I don’t know what I’d do without yoga pants, which are a gift straight from God.” Evelyn pulled up an arm’s length of yarn and began to stitch again.
“So I took the dresses in, and we started talking. And we got to be friends. Our age difference didn’t matter.” She smiled at Josie, who smiled back.
“Bea grew up in the old Ryder house, which her family had owned for many years, maybe even a century or more. She never had any brothers or sisters, and according to her, she broke her father’s heart and made her mother proud when she joined the WAVES.”
“The WAVES? Wasn’t that a branch of the military?” Josie didn’t know much more than that the women had been volunteers in World War II.
Helen nodded. “I believe it stands for ‘Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service.’ Basically, it was the women’s division of the United States Naval Reserve. She had a college degree already, so she was accepted to officer school and did her training at Smith College, up in Massachusetts.”
Josie felt a little swell of pride, even though she’d never met Bea. “She must have been brave—and adventurous.”
“She told me stories about when she was stationed in Hawaii, working in radio communications. It sounded as if she had the time of her life. Just before Pearl Harbor, she was reassigned back to the Connecticut shore.”
“Which may have saved her life.” The rest of Josie’s thought she left unsaid, but she knew her friends were thinking the same thing. Bea Ryder had survived active duty in World War II, only to be killed—maybe—in her own hometown.
“Bea—” Helen’s voice caught, and she cleared her throat, then sipped her tea before continuing. “Bea came back from the war. But she had left a fiancé in Hawaii. And he didn’t come back.”
Josie felt tears well up in her own eyes. Evelyn’s were dry—she was far less emotional than Josie or Helen—but she might have emitted just the tiniest sound. “Poor Bea. How awful,” Josie said.
“When the war ended,” Helen said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, which she then replaced in her sleeve, “she came back home. Opened the dress shop, and took care of her parents until they died.”
“And she never married?”
“No,” Helen said. “She never did. Although a good portion of her business was making wedding and bridesmaid and flower girl and mother-of-the-bride or mother-of-the-groom gowns. The irony wasn’t lost on her. But war had made her tough, she told me. She couldn’t seem to get enough of needlework, whether it was sewing or knitting. She even took up embroidery for a while. I think having her hands constantly busy kept her from thinking too much, if you know what I mean.”
“What a story. I wish I’d known her,” Evelyn said. “But I’d just moved here when she disappeared. And I always did all my own alterations, or had my sister in Granby do them for me.”
“One day, the awnings didn’t go up over the shop windows and doors. In all the years I knew her, she never failed to open on time and close
on time, Tuesday through Saturday. The WAVES had made her hyperpunctual. So I thought she must be sick. I called, and when I didn’t get an answer either at the dress shop or her house, I drove out to Ryder Road in my wood-paneled station wagon. Her car wasn’t in the driveway, but I went up and knocked on the door of the house anyway. No answer. No sign of her anywhere.”
Helen took a deep breath. “And I never saw her again. Nobody did. She was just . . . gone.”
Josie gave Helen a moment, then asked, “Did the police ever find anything?”
Helen shook her head. “Nothing. When they opened up her house, it was as though she’d just teleported out. Food was still in the refrigerator. Her closet was still full. No note, no evidence. The only thing they did find eventually was her car, which had been abandoned on a city street in Bridgeport. By the time the police identified it, vandals had stripped it clean.”
Evelyn shook her head emphatically. “Bea didn’t just walk away. She didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered.”
“Why do you think so?” Josie asked.
“Because women would have confided in Bea. When you stand in front of someone in your bra and girdle and trust her to pin fabric around you, touch your body to get a fit just right, you trust her with your secrets. I’d bet money Bea knew something. About someone. And that she was killed because of it.”
Chapter 11
The room was silent as Evelyn’s words settled around them like snowflakes in April. Cold on the way down, but melting into nothing by the time they hit the ground. Because what was there left to say? Bea’s house was being renovated, turned into a new business that, if successful, would bring much-needed revenue and even a few jobs into Dorset Falls. Her business across the street had been closed for as long as she’d been gone.
And she’d been gone for more than forty years, would have been in her nineties if she were still alive. If she had been killed over some secret, chances were good that her killer was long dead too.
So did it matter if she was ever found, or the murder solved? It wouldn’t change anything. But Bea had been a real person, with friends, a family. If nothing else, it mattered to Helen. And that was enough for Josie.
Not that there was anything she could do about it. Even if she wanted to help, where could she start? The second best thing she could do would be to honor Bea’s memory by doing something useful with these possessions of hers. The first best thing would be to continue to be a friend to Helen. Josie rose and gave Helen a hug.
“Thank you, Josie. Now let me finish this swatch, and you can take a look.” She picked up her knitting and began to loop and twist. Josie had seen it before, this ability of knitting to soothe and relax.
“You want a lesson?” Evelyn said. “Now’s a good time, while the shop is quiet.”
Why was Josie being so stubborn? She couldn’t explain the need to figure it out herself to herself, let alone to Evelyn. The landline rang. Saved by the bell.
“Miss Marple Knits, may I help you?” Josie said when she reached the phone.
The caller inquired about the shop’s hours and whether they carried a particular brand of yarn. She promised to come in, in the next few days, and check out the shop. Excellent. Hopefully, she’d bring a friend or two.
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Gwen Simmons came in for a couple of skeins of novelty acrylic to make a spring hat and scarf for her daughter. Evelyn and Helen gave the new yarn they’d tested a thumbs-up, so Josie placed a small order. Just because a yarn tested well didn’t mean it would sell, and at this early stage of business ownership she couldn’t afford to overbuy.
“You two want lunch?” Josie asked. “I’m going to the g.s.”
“You’re kidding.” Evelyn laughed, and Josie grinned sheepishly.
“I’m that predictable, huh?”
“Well, we do recognize that it’s the only place to eat in town. But you go. Helen and I will watch the shop.”
Josie didn’t have to be told twice. It was a beautiful spring day. She took two extra turns around the block, waving to her friends each time she passed Miss Marple Knits, before heading into the g.s.
Feeling virtuous after getting a modicum of exercise, she ordered a sparkling water and a salad with grilled chicken. Lorna assembled the salad, then asked, “Should I add the toasted walnuts?”
“Load ’er up. They’re healthy, right? How are things?”
“Since yesterday? About the same. Say, Josie, I hate to ask. But I need a favor.”
“After all the culinary joy you’ve given me, and the number of evenings you’ve helped me feed Eb, I probably owe you my firstborn.” Not that any firstborns or borns of any kind were going to be appearing anytime in the foreseeable future. Her thoughts bounced to Mitch Woodruff. Which was ridiculous. She barely knew him.
Lorna set the salad and a package of utensils wrapped in a napkin on the tray, then wiped the condensation from a bottle of fizzy water. She glanced in both directions before leaning across the counter. “Dougie wants me to cook a dinner for him and his prep-school buddies at his father’s place at the lake. And I could use some help.”
Josie hoped her surprise didn’t show. Somebody wanted her help cooking? Well, she’d mastered spaghetti, and she wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. “Sure. What do you need me to do?”
Lorna laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s only prime rib for a dozen men. Not that big a deal.” For Lorna, maybe. “But I could use some help serving, and clearing dishes and, well—”
“You need some female support in a sea of testosterone. I’ll be there.”
“It’s just, I don’t know all these guys, if you know what I mean. I’d feel better if you were there with me.”
“Understood. Do you need help prepping the food? I’m willing to learn.”
“That would be great. I’ll let you know the details.”
The door to Dougie’s office opened, and out came Dougie, followed by Rick Steuben. “You’re in charge,” he said to Lorna. “Don’t screw it up.”
When they’d gone, Josie said, “Seriously. I will type up your resume myself. Put me in charge of your job search. What an ass.”
Lorna smiled. “He is. And he’s showing off in front of Rick, who’s quite a bit more successful than he is. Of course, when old Alden kicks off, Dougie will be set for the rest of his unnatural life.”
A woman came up to the counter with a basket full of items. Josie stepped to the side so Lorna could ring her up. A slip of paper whirred out of the credit card machine. Lorna felt around on the counter for a pen, and, coming up empty, apologized, as the woman felt in her own purse. At the same moment, another customer queued up behind the first. “Josie, would you mind running into Dougie’s office and finding me a pen? There should be a cup of them on the desk.”
“No problem.” Josie hadn’t brought a purse, had just put her wallet in the pocket of her coat, so she couldn’t offer a pen herself.
Dougie’s office was decorated with sports memorabilia. A football jersey, conveniently labeled Brewster over the number forty-seven and the words Collingswood Academy, was framed and hung behind the desk. An actual football sat on a pedestal on the credenza, next to a leather-bound book labeled Collingswood. A yearbook, if Josie had to guess. Dougie must have peaked in high school, since there didn’t appear to be any college items. Tempting as it was to poke around, she needed to hurry. Stacks of papers obscured the surface of the desk. It was rather familiar, actually, reminding her of Eb’s paper-strewing tendencies. Moving some stacks around, she found the cylindrical container and pulled out two pens, which she quickly tested by scribbling on one of the papers on the desk. He’d probably never notice.
When she returned to the counter, the first woman was gone. Presumably a pen had been found in Josie’s absence. Josie handed the pens to Lorna anyway. “I should go relieve Evelyn. Let me know what you need.”
“I will, and thanks. I owe you.”
She didn’t, but the sentiment was ni
ce.
* * *
Josie closed Miss Marple Knits at five o’clock on the dot. She’d finished all her paperwork and sent Evelyn home a half hour ago. Business had been slower than overboiled maple syrup that afternoon.
When Josie got home, Jethro barreled off the porch, once again threatening to knock her over. She tossed him a dog treat, and he ran off to get it, freeing her to make it to the front door. He couldn’t have more than a couple or he’d be sick, and they didn’t always distract him long enough for her to get into the house, but today luck was with her. He wagged his tail furiously and devoured the treat. She tossed him one more for good measure. He could stay outside for a while, just in case.
The house was quiet when she went in, but the wood stove was blazing. “Eb? I’m home.” She set her box of doilies on the kitchen counter, then opened the door to the workshop.
“Clothesline’s up,” a voice said from somewhere in the depths. “And now that you mention it, I prefer my Fruit of the Looms smelling like fresh air.”
“It’s my pleasure to serve you,” Josie said. “Fresh skivvies coming right up.”
There was still an hour of daylight left, so she decided to take advantage of it before starting dinner. She grabbed the box of doilies and headed out the kitchen door.
A line was now looped around the metal pulley attached to the back of the farmhouse. It ran doubled to a similar pulley, which extended from a pole inserted into the ground about twenty feet away. The setup could hold a lot of laundry, which she didn’t plan on testing. Ever. She liked to do the minimum of housework to get by. But then again, it had been a very long time since she’d slept in sheets that had been line dried. Like since she’d moved away from her mom’s house, more than a decade ago. The memory of that scent rose up, and somehow she didn’t blame Eb for the underwear comment, even though he’d said it just to needle her.
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