A Knit before Dying

by Sadie Hartwell

  A flowered pillowcase had been fashioned into a bag, which was suspended from the line by what appeared to be a coated wire hanger. Whose handiwork had that been? Cora’s? The bag wasn’t old or faded enough to go back to Eb’s mother, Josie’s great-grandmother. Whoever had made it, it was useful, full of wooden clothespins. Josie pulled out a couple and began to hang the doilies. It didn’t take long to figure out that if she pulled on the top line, the bottom line moved toward the pole.

  She was nearly at the bottom of the box when the line refused to move. She gave it another tug, but it was still stuck. The problem appeared to be at the other end, so she headed in that direction. The line had slipped out of the groove in the wheel of the pulley. The weight of the doilies, even though they were dry, made it more difficult to reposition, but she managed to fix the mechanism. She gave the post a little punch. “Behave,” she told it. Something wiggled at the top. There was another wire coat hanger stuck into the pole, this one twisted out of shape. If this was one of Eb’s thingamajig sculptures, it was one of his less successful ones. Perhaps it represented some of his early work.

  The doilies could stay out all night. As long as it didn’t rain, the worst that could happen was that they’d be a little damp with dew in the morning. She didn’t think that would ruin them.

  After dinner, Eb disappeared back into his workshop and shut the door. He was going to have a good-sized inventory, at the rate he was working. Was he planning to open a gallery? Some kind of roadside attraction?

  Josie took her tea into the morning-borning room and opened her computer. First, she did a search for ideas for repurposing doilies. As she’d suspected, her ideas hadn’t been original—there were only so many things that could be done with the lacy squares and circles, no matter how creative someone was. But with the right marketing spin, she could give them her own brand. Country chic. Modern Victoriana. If nothing else, she could sew them on jewel-colored velvet pillows and call them Christmas décor.

  Next was another blog post to write: Sticks and the Single Girl: My Life in the Country. If it worked for the Pioneer Woman, it could work for her. She checked her stats. Excellent. They’d increased. Someone from the Ukraine had read her last post, in addition to her friends from Malaysia. Things were looking up.

  The yarn and knitting needles sat in the drawer to her left. Figure me out, they taunted. But before she could feel guilty, or frustrated, or give the inanimate objects a snappy mental comeback, her cell phone beeped with a text message: Can you talk? Call me. The sender was Margo Gray.

  “Josie?” Margo said when she picked up. “It was getting late, so I texted rather than called.”

  “What’s up?”

  “The police were just here. Harry’s been arrested.”

  Chapter 12

  Josie felt her mouth drop open. “Harry? What happened?” She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised, but somehow, she hadn’t really considered him a viable suspect.

  “Well, of course Mark Denton didn’t read off the evidence when he put Harry in handcuffs. But he did say he was taking Harry in on suspicion of murdering Lyndon Bailey.”

  “I wonder what they have on him,” Josie mused. But when she put together what she knew, maybe it added up to enough. Harry now owned the entire antique business, including all the inventory, except for, apparently, some pieces that Lyndon had bought himself, which would presumably go to his heir or heirs. Harry was clearly disgruntled about being cut out of the television show. Had he secretly been so angry that he decided to take matters into his own hands, effectively canceling the show before it even got started?

  “Well, I can tell you that he and that television producer, Kai Norton, had a huge argument here around dinnertime. By the time Darrell and I heard the raised voices, it had already escalated to the point where Darrell had to grab Harry to keep him from going after Kai. We only heard part of the argument, but Kai almost seemed to be baiting Harry.”

  “Baiting him?” What a jerk. Kai didn’t want Harry for the reality show, and then was teasing him about it? Josie didn’t like her next thought, but it had to be asked. “Uh, he wasn’t filming it, was he?”

  There was a short silence on the other end of the line. “I never even thought of that. I don’t recall seeing a camera, but those things can be pretty small these days. If he filmed me or Darrell, I’ll tell you right now we are not signing any releases. Our faces will be blurred out if that footage ever airs.”

  Josie wasn’t sure how she should react to the news of Harry’s arrest. Relieved that Lyndon’s murderer had been captured? Or enraged that an innocent man was now behind bars?

  “And now, to make things especially awkward,” Margo continued, “guess who called and asked me to rent her a room?”

  Josie ran through the possibilities and said the only name she could think of. “Taylor . . . what’s her name. Lyndon’s niece?”

  “Yup. Taylor Philbin. So what am I supposed to tell her? ‘Sure, love to have you. By the way, the guy who’s accused of murdering your uncle? Yeah, he could be out on bail and back here any minute.’ ”

  Margo was in a tough spot. It wasn’t as if she could turn down business. But on the other hand, she couldn’t put these two people under the same roof. If Harry came back, which was not at all certain. He might not be granted bail, or he might not be able to raise the money. “So what did you tell her?”

  “I told her she could stay tonight, at least. Even if Harry does get out, I’m not sure I can let him stay here. A man is innocent until proven guilty and all that, but there’s the safety of myself, my husband, and my guests to think about. Harry’s paid through the weekend, so I’ll just lock his door and keep the room as is.”

  “And deal with it if he gets out. Makes sense. Thanks for calling, Margo. And if you hear anything else, let me know.”

  “I will, and you do the same.” Margo disconnected.

  Josie leaned back in the office chair and blew out a breath. Coco seemed to know she was needed, as if Josie had flashed the Cat-Signal in the sky, because she jumped up into Josie’s lap and began to purr, a feline superhero.

  In her gut, Josie didn’t think Harry was capable of murder. But what did she know? The first time she’d met him he had been standing over a body. She knew nothing about him, really, or about what kind of relationship he and Lyndon had had, what animosities there could have been between them.

  From a practical standpoint, she now owned a building with a shop full of antiques, a shop that didn’t look like it was opening anytime soon. If ever. Her thoughts went back to when she’d first arrived in Dorset Falls, with no other tasks than helping Eb recover from his broken leg and closing up Miss Marple Knits. The idea of packing up the inventory of the yarn shop had been daunting enough. What if she had to pack up the inventory of the whole antique store? Of course professionals could be hired, but that would cost a fortune, and there would be storage fees on top of that. There was no guarantee she’d ever get that money back. Even considering she’d been paid six months in advance, storage fees for that amount of stuff would eat up the advance fast. It seemed a little insensitive to think about, when a man was dead, but she had to be practical too.

  Coco jumped to the ground when Josie leaned forward and shut the lid of her laptop. “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens, I guess.” But Coco was already gone.

  * * *

  When Josie delivered her eggs to the general store the next morning, Mitch’s grandfather, Roy Woodruff, was sitting at a table by himself. He seemed nervous—his eyes darting around and his fingers drumming on the table. “You okay, Mr. Woodruff?” Josie asked, wondering if she should call Mitch. Which, she had to admit, would not be a chore.

  “Huh?” Roy looked up, but didn’t seem to recognize her. His flannel shirt hung open over a thermal undershirt and under a red-and-black buffalo-plaid wool jacket. Thick silver-white stubble lined his chin.

  “It’s me, Josie. Eb’s niece? From next door?” Agi
tation was rolling off the old farmer in waves.

  Josie glanced toward Lorna behind the counter. Lorna returned the gaze and inclined her head slightly in a “come here” gesture. “Roy?” Josie said. “You want a glass of water or a coffee or something?” An untouched blueberry muffin sat on a plate in front of him.

  “What? Dad-burn it, leave me alone, will you?” He broke open the muffin and jammed some into his mouth.

  She knew a thing or two about dealing with cranky old men. Leaving them alone when asked was generally a good strategy, so she approached Lorna and raised an eyebrow in question.

  “What’s going on with him, do you know? Mitch said he was acting strangely.”

  Lorna smiled. “So, we’ve been talking to Mitch, have we? Do tell.”

  Josie held up a hand. “Nothing to tell, I swear.” Though, she rather wished she had had something to tell. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

  Lorna leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. “I don’t know. It’s unusual enough to see him here this time of morning. He’s a farmer, so you’d think he’d be doing farm chores, right? But he’s been here for an hour, either staring off into space or jumping at every little noise or movement.”

  The front door opened and in walked—oh joy—Diantha Humphries. It was questionable which was colder, the breeze she let in or the stare she leveled at Josie. What had she ever done to this woman? Other than take over the knitting shop Diantha wanted to buy and send someone she loved to prison, that is.

  Diantha made a beeline for Josie. “You—” she spluttered. “You’ve only been in town a few weeks, and you’ve already managed to ruin it.” Her face began to fluoresce into the shade of neon purple Josie knew so well.

  Josie was fairly certain she was not personally responsible for the decline and fall of Dorset Falls. Maybe that of Diantha’s empire, though. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”

  “You rented a building to a criminal.” Diantha’s breathing was faster than normal.

  “Well, sure. It’s all part of my master plan. I’ll have Dorset Falls under martial law in no time.” Josie knew she wasn’t her best self when Diantha was around, but the mother of her high-school boyfriend could get under her skin like almost no one else. The woman had some nerve. Or was delusional.

  Roy Woodruff chose that moment to abruptly get up. He looked around the store again, then hurried toward the front door. Diantha was saying something, no doubt something nasty, but whatever it was barely registered. Josie’s eyes were fixed on Roy. Should she follow him to his truck? Roy’s normal was taking care of his farm and pranking Eb. This behavior wasn’t normal.

  Diantha was still blabbing when Josie cut her off. “Yeah, okay, thanks for letting me know how you feel. I have to get to work. At my yarn shop. So much new inventory to unpack, you know.” She followed Roy out the door and into the parking lot.

  Roy got into his truck and peeled out. Impossible to say where he was going, and she wasn’t about to follow him. But she did pull out her cell phone and call Mitch.

  Chapter 13

  Evelyn and Helen were both at Miss Marple Knits when Josie arrived. Evelyn was running a feather duster over the counter, pausing to straighten things up as she went. Helen was in her favorite armchair, knitting away on a good-sized tubular piece with a complicated pattern of colorwork. If Josie had had to guess, she would have said it was the body of a sweater, sans arms at this point.

  Josie set her box of doilies back on the counter. As she’d suspected, they’d picked up some dew from being on the line overnight, but that didn’t matter. They were being washed today anyway. She took a deep whiff. Definitely fresher smelling. Sunlight would have helped even more, but she and Evelyn could reevaluate once the washing and drying were done.

  She was just hanging up her coat when the shop bells chimed. A twenty-something woman paused in the doorway, then stepped inside. She gave her head a toss, and her glorious mane of dark auburn waves undulated with the movement. Josie felt like an extra in a shampoo commercial. “Welcome to Miss Marple Knits,” Josie said.

  The woman approached the counter. Her eyes were a deep olive green, and her complexion was creamy. Flawless. Josie amended her prior assessment. Not a shampoo commercial. She half expected the woman to whip out a fiddle and start playing vigorous Celtic music while simultaneously dancing.

  “Are you the owner?”

  “I am. Josie Blair.”

  “I need a key to the antique store. Please get me one.”

  What a snot. “And you are?”

  The woman let out a little huff. Not just a snot. A princess, used to getting her own way. “Taylor Philbin. That store is mine now, and I want to go in.”

  If the woman thought she could intimidate Josie, she had another think coming. “Well, Taylor, first off let me say how sorry I am that you’ve lost your uncle.”

  “Yeah, it was a shock.” Her tone made it sound as though the news of her uncle’s being stabbed with a pair of antique sheep shears was anything but shocking.

  “But I can’t let you in. The lease agreement I signed was with Nutmeg Antiques & Curiosities. So unless you’re a partner of some kind, it wouldn’t be ethical of me to give you a key.” Actually, Josie was no contract lawyer, so she had no idea what Taylor could or couldn’t do. But, well, she didn’t like the woman’s attitude. If Taylor was entitled to entry onto the premises, she would have to prove it.

  Taylor eyed Josie, then apparently decided to change tacks. “Look. My uncle is dead. I’m his only heir. Harry Oglethorpe is in jail. So the business is at least half mine. I need to get in there and find the partnership agreement with Harry so I know what my rights are. It wasn’t in Uncle Lyndon’s apartment, so it must be here. You understand the position I’m in, right?”

  Taylor’s new girlfriendly tone was lost on Josie. “I do. And you understand the position I’m in, right? Sorry.”

  From the corner of her eye, Josie could see that Evelyn wasn’t even pretending to dust shelves anymore. She and Helen were watching the exchange intently.

  Taylor narrowed her eyes into glittering green slits. “That shop is mine now. What do I have to do, get a court order? I can do it, you know, as Lyndon’s executrix. So why not just save us all the trouble and give me a key now?”

  “You get your court order, and I’ll be happy to comply. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have a shop to run.” Josie pretend-busied herself with straightening up things on the counter that Evelyn had already straightened.

  Whereas Josie had the ability to make Diantha Humphries’s face go purple, she apparently had a different power over Taylor Philbin, whose face was now the color of a June strawberry.

  “There’s plenty of rental space in this town, you know. I don’t have to stay here.” She turned abruptly and stormed off, her spectacular hair swinging as she exited.

  “Helen,” Evelyn said. “You’ve got Bea’s old shop across the street available. Why don’t you chase after her?”

  The three women burst out laughing.

  Josie was about to suggest that Evelyn show her how to clean the doilies, when the door bells tinkled again. Three women—not regular shop customers, so they must have been out-of-towners—came in. They dispersed to various parts of the shop and began to touch the inventory. One even held a skein of silk/rayon blend up to her cheek and gave a gentle rub. Josie glanced at her watch. The average yarn shop visit, which she’d determined unscientifically by simple observation since she’d opened, was forty-five to sixty minutes. Longer if the customer decided to chat or to look through the pattern books and three-ring binders for inspiration. But the longer they stayed, the more they tended to buy.

  Helen continued to knit away, while Evelyn hovered discreetly, ready to make suggestions or answer questions. Josie busied herself at the counter, also keeping an eye on her customers.

  By the time the women left, they’d spent a few hundred dollars combined and promised to bring their friends back on a field tri
p. Josie was pleased. She could now make her student loan payment this month without worrying.

  “Come on, then,” Evelyn said. “Let’s get to work on your doilies.”

  “I’ll help too,” Helen said.

  They took a half dozen of the lacy squares and circles to the bathroom. Evelyn and Josie crowded in around the sink, while Helen stood in the doorway, ready to let them know if anyone came into the shop. Evelyn tested the running water with her finger. “Lukewarm,” she said. “Perfect.” She fitted the plug in the drain and let some water accumulate in the bottom before squirting in some white liquid dish soap. “This stuff is mild,” she explained. “We’ll start with this, then if any stains remain after drying, we’ll try some other techniques.” Josie handed her the stack of doilies, which she submerged and swished around gently.

  “These can sit for a few minutes, then we’ll drain and shape them. You’re not planning to use them on tables, right? So we don’t need to use the starch. But it’s here if we ever do want it.” She pointed to a can under the sink. Josie couldn’t imagine ever wanting spray starch for, well, anything. But Evelyn knew best, and Josie never minded Evelyn’s being a little bossy.

  “Now,” Evelyn continued, “set up that plastic table in the storeroom. We’ll lay them out there.” When Josie came back after complying, Evelyn showed her how to gently squeeze out the water and roll the wet fabric up in a white cotton towel. They took the whole roll out to the table, and Evelyn laid the doilies out on several templates. “We could pin them, but they’ll keep their shape well enough if we don’t disturb them.”

  “So that’s it? Just like hand washing a sweater.”

  “Right. In another hour or two, after some of the moisture has evaporated, we’ll put a press cloth over the top and hit them with some heat from the iron I brought. That’ll set the shapes. Now go open the back door a crack. We want to get some—but not too much—air circulating in here.”