A Knit before Dying

by Sadie Hartwell

  Josie did as she was told. It would take at least twenty-four hours for the doilies to dry, so it was going to be a several-day process to finish them all. But now that she knew how to do it, she could take some home and do a batch there to speed things up.

  A fresh breeze blew in as she opened the back door. There was a narrow gravel parking lot along the backs of all the buildings on this side of Main Street, but she’d never seen anyone parking out here. Not that there was much call to. It wasn’t like the parking spaces out front were ever filled up. She was surprised to see a person—no, two people—about a hundred yards away, standing in front of a car. They were close together, but it was clear it was a man and woman.

  If she wasn’t very much mistaken, the man was California-Kai Norton.

  And there was no mistaking the burnished mahogany mane of Taylor Philbin.

  Josie pulled back from the edge of the door, but if she angled herself just right, she could watch through the crack between the frame and the jamb. Kai stroked Taylor’s magnificent hair, then pulled her into an embrace. Josie stepped back inside.

  Whoa. What had she just seen? Well, she knew what she’d seen, but what did it mean? That was no casual hug. There was some, uh, feeling behind it. According to Margo, Taylor had checked into the Gray Lady. Kai was also staying there. The question was whether this was a spur-of-the-moment hookup, or whether they’d already known each other and had planned to meet in Dorset Falls all along.

  And if this wasn’t just a casual encounter, what else were they up to? Harry had said that the television producers wanted Lyndon and his niece for the show, and after seeing her, Josie knew why they wanted Taylor. She was stunning. But no matter which way Josie looked at it, she didn’t like it. Lyndon—and Harry—were the losers in that game.

  Josie dialed Margo and filled her in. Then she called Sharla and left a message. Josie knew the police already had their culprit in custody, or so they thought. And Kai and Taylor’s affair, if that’s what it was, should have been their own business. But with Lyndon dead, the situation gave off just enough stink, like the old doilies she’d been working with yesterday and today, to make Josie think she should let Sharla know.

  Chapter 14

  Lorna lived on the top floor of a big Victorian house a couple of streets over from downtown Dorset Falls. Josie rang the bell, and Lorna met her at the door. “Come on up,” she said, leading the way up the stairs.

  The apartment was small, but comfortable, consisting of a living room open to a kitchen, with a counter with stools separating the two spaces. Two closed doors presumably led to a bedroom and a bathroom. A lovely abstract painting hung on the wall where Josie would have expected a television.

  “Home sweet home,” Lorna said. “Thanks for coming. There’s a lot to do before the dinner, and you’ll be a big help.”

  Josie shrugged. “If you needed fashion advice, I’d be a big help. But I’m willing to try this.”

  Lorna poured two glasses of white wine and handed one to Josie. The wine was cold and dry, just the way she liked it, not that she usually kept any at home. Eb liked a beer once in a while, so that’s what the Lloyd kitchen contained. “Fill me in on what’s happening tomorrow night.”

  Lorna took a sip and settled back into the couch. “Dougie’s class reunion is Saturday, at a restaurant near the school.”

  “Collingswood Academy,” Josie said. “Where is that?”

  “It’s a super-snooty place a couple of towns away. One of those places that’s so exclusive, you’ve never heard of it? These days celebrities send their kids there. It’s close to Greenwich and New Canaan, but not too close, for that optimal prep-school experience.”

  Josie laughed. “Was Dougie’s family that well-off?”

  “By Dorset Falls standards, yes. His father, Alden, made money in real estate, not just here but in Florida too. Lots of rental properties. I think Alden wanted Dougie to manage them, but when he didn’t have the talent or inclination to do that, his father eventually sold them.”

  “What about the general store? Is that one of his father’s properties too?” Josie took a sip of her wine.

  “Yes and no. From what I understand, Alden bought the store decades ago and rented it out. But when Dougie needed something to do, his father gave him the store to run. Which he’s not all that good at, as you can see. As far as I know, Alden still owns the store. We manage to stay in business because we’re the only show in town.”

  Josie was pretty sure that the reason they were able to stay in business was Lorna and her culinary talents, and told her so.

  “Well, I suppose I might have something to do with it. Which is why I’m torn. My dream is to open up a café of my own.”

  Josie felt like applauding. A few months ago, she would not have understood just how satisfying owning her own business could be. And now, she wanted Lorna to experience the same satisfaction. If that’s what her friend wanted. “I think that’s a great idea,” she said.

  “But at the risk of tooting my own horn, I’m afraid that if I leave, Dougie won’t be able to keep the store afloat. And Dorset Falls needs the general store.”

  Josie knew what Lorna meant. “It’s not just the things you can buy there. The g.s. is the center the town revolves around.”

  “Exactly. Not that I think I’m irreplaceable or anything—”

  “Other people might disagree with that, but go on,” Josie urged.

  “But it would take some time to find the right person. And can Dorset Falls support two eateries?”

  Josie thought it could. Dorset Falls-ites traveled to other towns to go to dinner. Why shouldn’t people from other towns come to Dorset Falls?

  “Lorna,” Josie said. “I’m not telling you what to do. But the general store will sink or swim on its own. You can’t take that kind of responsibility on yourself for the benefit of other people. If your dream is to own your own place, then you should go for it.”

  Lorna looked grateful. “I know you’re right, of course. I have a few more months before I’ll have enough money saved to move ahead. And the extra money from doing this dinner will shave another couple of weeks off. But just knowing that I will be able to leave makes it possible to put up with Dougie for now.”

  It occurred to Josie that she might be looking for a tenant in six months if Nutmeg Antiques didn’t open, but she kept that to herself for now. It would be awfully convenient not to have to walk a whole block to the g.s. for her tea and lunch. She chastised herself for being mercenary. And lazy.

  Lorna rose and headed for the tiny kitchen. “Shall we get to work?”

  Josie followed. “Ready, willing, and able.”

  Lorna began to unload contents from the refrigerator. She set two heads of romaine lettuce on a cutting board. “You want to start with the salad?”

  Lettuce. This she could handle, no problem. Lorna handed her a salad spinner, and Josie got to work. She filled the bowl halfway, then gave the greens a rinse and a spin. Lorna gave Josie a covered plastic container to store her handiwork. “You can make salad a day in advance?” Josie asked.

  “As long as you tear, rather than cut, dry it well, and keep it in the fridge, it’s fine. Romaine is fairly robust. Some of the other more delicate lettuces you should prepare just before serving.”

  They worked along companionably. “So who’ll be at this dinner?” Josie asked.

  “Dougie, his friend Rick Steuben—you saw him at the g.s., I think—Alden, and eight other men, so we’re cooking for eleven. The original count was twelve, but I guess somebody dropped out.”

  “The lake house must be good sized, if it can accommodate that many people.”

  “All the houses on that end of Lake Warren are huge, and so are the lots they’re on, which is why there aren’t that many of them. I haven’t been there yet, so I don’t know what kind of kitchen setup there’ll be, but Alden and Dougie assured me there’s a double oven and plenty of room to work. Just the same, I’m keeping the me
nu simple: shrimp cocktail in a sweet chili sauce, green salad with walnuts and bleu cheese, green beans, loaded baked potatoes, and a standing rib roast, with individual chocolate mousses for dessert.”

  Nothing about that menu sounded simple to Josie. She finished with both heads of lettuce, then moved on to scrubbing and drying a dozen raw potatoes. She might not be an Iron Chef, but she could clean vegetables like a pro.

  “I know I’ve said it before, but I really appreciate your stepping in,” Lorna continued. “Dougie said I could do the prep work at the house, but I honestly have no interest in being there alone with him, his father, and their friends any longer than I have to. So the more we get done now, the less time we have to spend there tomorrow.” She pulled an enormous hunk of beef out of the refrigerator, unwrapped it from its plastic shroud, and began to pat on a thick layer of a mixture of spices.

  “I enjoy learning from a master. Mistress? Whatever. You know what you’re doing. You heard about Harry Oglethorpe’s being arrested for Lyndon’s murder?” Josie washed her last potato and set it on a kitchen towel with the others.

  “Once those are dry, you can rub them with this vegetable oil and sprinkle them with salt and pepper, then put them in here.” Lorna pointed to a heavy metal pan on top of the stove. She had surprisingly professional equipment in this tiny kitchen. “And yes, I heard about Harry. I didn’t get a chance to meet him before he got arrested. Do you think he did it?”

  Josie rolled a potato around on the towel, then began to massage oil into the thick brown skin. “Honestly, I don’t know. My gut tells me no. But I may not know everything the police do.”

  “What about that television producer who’s in town? He came into the g.s. this morning, asking for fresh-squeezed orange juice and sprouted spelt bread toast. Maybe he didn’t like Margo’s breakfast.” Lorna replaced the plastic wrap, gave it a firm tug to seal it to the roasting pan, and replaced the meat in the refrigerator, where it took up a full shelf.

  Josie made the decision not to reveal to Lorna what Harry had told her about being passed over for the show. She wasn’t sure if Harry had intended that to be confidential, so it was better to err on the side of caution. “I met him. And I saw him with Lyndon’s niece, Taylor.” That was definitely not confidential, and Lorna might have some insight.

  Lorna poised her knife over the cutting board. She’d moved on to slicing onions. “What do you mean, saw them together? Like talking?”

  “More than talking.” Josie reached for the next potato. “Kissing.”

  “Whoa.” Lorna recommenced chopping her onions.

  “Whoa is right.”

  For a minute there was only the whap of Lorna’s knife on the cutting board. “The question is, what, if anything, did they stand to gain with Lyndon—and Harry—out of the way?”

  “Or, if the police are right, what did Harry have to gain with Lyndon out of the way?”

  “If this were a detective show on television,” Lorna said, “we’d know the answer in less than an hour.”

  Wouldn’t that be nice?

  Chapter 15

  When Josie got home from Lorna’s, Eb was seated in his armchair, doing one of his crosswords, Jethro at his side and quiet for once. Good. Eb had been spending too much time in his workshop. Although what was the difference, really? Tinkering with his thingamajig sculptures or tinkering with a crossword. It wasn’t like she could tell him to go outside and play.

  “Did you eat dinner?”

  “Leftovers. You’re late,” he said, not looking up. He penciled in something.

  “I called and left you a message. If you’re not going to check the answering machine, we’re going to have to talk about getting you a cell phone.” She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on a peg next to the front door.

  “Talk all you want. Lived my whole life without one. Ain’t getting one now.” Jethro gave a little whine, as if to underscore Eb’s words.

  “We’ll see. You’ve got a birthday coming up next month, don’t you? A cell phone would make an excellent gift.” Josie had no intention of getting Eb a phone, which would likely end up at the bottom of his personally stocked trout pond once the ice completely melted. But she enjoyed their repartee as much as her great-uncle did.

  Eb finally looked up, glaring. “Cake. Since you can’t bake one, you can buy me one. That’s it.” He went back to his puzzle.

  Josie looked at the clock. She probably could finish washing and shaping the rest of the doilies she’d brought home. Or it could wait till morning after she took care of the chickens. She’d have to clear space somewhere and lay out towels, which seemed like too much work right now. In fact, everything seemed like too much work right now. Fatigue had settled in, almost without her knowing it. An early night was just what she needed.

  “G’nite, Eb.” Coco appeared at her side, ready to take up her nighttime sentry position sleeping on Josie’s legs.

  Eb grunted.

  * * *

  The next morning Josie started laundry, accomplished her henhouse chores, and washed out the doilies, all before eight o’clock. The small, Formica-topped table in the kitchen, emptied of its covering of newspapers and boxes of old dishes, turned out to be the perfect spot to lay out the lace on a couple of mismatched bath towels. They’d still be damp by the time she got home, and she could give them a quick set with a hot iron then.

  She opened both kitchen windows a crack for cross ventilation—it promised to be a warm spring day—and made a mental note to ask Eb if the china and glassware had belonged to Cora or to some earlier generation of Lloyd women. She was pretty sure Eb had brought these things out, for whatever reason, after Cora died. The kitchen had almost certainly been Cora’s domain in the few months she’d lived here, and it seemed unlikely she’d have allowed that kind of mess. There were still plenty of rooms in this house that Josie had never explored, although Coco probably had. Someday, when Josie had some free time—and there wasn’t a lot of that these days—she’d take a better look around. Maybe even start helping Eb clear the upstairs—although “help” was probably a relative term. She might end up doing the bulk of the work herself. Her great-uncle had lived this way for so long, there was a good chance he might not see any need to change things.

  The old pipes gave their characteristic shudder before spraying out water from the kitchen faucet as she washed her hands. A few minutes later she’d spread some peanut butter on an English muffin and headed out the door with breakfast in hand. She left another muffin in the toaster for Eb, alongside a banana and a pot of coffee—she’d finally mastered the mysteries of the percolator, though she still wished for one of those one-cup-ata-time machines like she had at the shop. Maybe that’s what Eb would get for his birthday, though it seemed a bit self-serving.

  After delivering the eggs, she pulled up in front of Miss Marple Knits, but left the engine running. Sharla, she texted. Have you checked contract between producer and Lyndon and Taylor? Possible motive? As tired as she’d been last night, scenarios had played in her head until sleep finally came.

  Arrest already made, girl. But I’ll look.

  Josie was going to look too. Because the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if Harry really was guilty. Maybe. He had a motive. But so did that producer. Would he go as far as murder to hype his new show?

  And Lyndon’s self-absorbed niece. Maybe Taylor didn’t want to share the spotlight with her uncle. Maybe she wanted her inheritance now, and the show all to herself, without having to wait an inconveniently long time for Lyndon’s natural death.

  Josie replaced her phone in her pocket and pulled out her key ring, then exited the car. The crime-scene tape was down at the antique store, and she had every right, as landlady, to enter the property. So why did she feel as if she were trespassing?

  The store was dark, with a smell of old wood overlaid with a faint mustiness. It was probably impossible to get that completely out of upholstery and books. Shivers ran up her arms as she
entered. Not that she minded saving some heating costs by having the temperature set low, but she could see her breath. That couldn’t be good for antiques.

  The thermostat was located on the wall behind the counter, near where Lyndon had died. Back here the scent was of disinfectant, probably from the work of the cleaning crew. There was a noticeably lighter spot on the wood floor where someone had scrubbed it, erasing all traces of Lyndon’s body. Josie steeled herself and stepped over the spot. She had to believe Lyndon was in a better place.

  There was a cold draft back here, far colder than it should have been. Not being the superstitious type, she was pretty sure it wasn’t Lyndon’s ghost, and when she looked for the most likely cause, she found it. The back door was ajar. The lock appeared to be damaged, a piece of what might have been a wire coat hanger sticking out of the keyhole.

  “Dammit.” Josie texted Sharla again, then looked around. She had the same thought she’d had before: It was impossible to tell if anything had been taken, or even disturbed. The boxes had never been fully unpacked, the furniture never fully unwrapped and arranged. And Josie couldn’t possibly remember everything she’d seen the last time she was here.

  The obvious suspect was Taylor. She’d demanded entry to the shop yesterday, but hadn’t gotten her own way. Had she broken in and found what she was looking for, the partnership agreement with Harry? Had it ever been here in the first place?

  While Josie waited for Sharla, who’d promised she was en route, she poked around. If there was a partnership agreement here, it could be anywhere.

  Of course, there might not even be a paper copy, which would explain, at least partially, why Taylor hadn’t found it at Lyndon’s apartment. The agreement might just be in a digital file, in which case it would be on Lyndon’s computer. Something to ask Sharla about when she got here, although if a computer had been here at the shop, or back at the Gray Lady, the police presumably already had it.

  Josie scanned the store, thinking logically. If she had important papers, she’d keep them here in the back, not in a drawer of one of the antique dressers. There was no filing cabinet, no desk. She tapped a finger on her lower lip. The other option would have been upstairs, where Lyndon’s unmoved-into living quarters were. But since she needed to wait for Sharla, she decided to stay where she was.