The counter in this shop was similar to the one next door at Miss Marple Knits. The wood was dark, with deep grooves and scratches here and there attesting to the fact that it had been well used over the years, though not anytime recently. Josie had no idea what this shop had been before it had been abandoned. Evelyn or Helen would know. Not that it probably mattered, but now she was curious.
Under the counter, facing the back wall, were some low shelves set alongside a metal safe painted in 1960s utilitarian green. The safe had not been here when she and her friends had cleaned the store in preparation for Lyndon’s arrival, so he must have installed it sometime during the moving-in process. She reached out and tried the handle. It scraped, but only moved a fraction of an inch. Then she jiggled the handle until she heard it engage. The door opened.
Was this how successful safecrackers felt? But she couldn’t give herself too much credit. The safe wasn’t locked, just had a sticky door. Josie bent down, a little thrill of anticipation running through her. When her eyes adjusted to the relative gloom, she realized, with disappointment, that the safe was empty.
Which only made sense. What had she been thinking? That a safe that had been installed in a building where a murder had taken place would not have been opened and investigated by the police? The shelves next to the safe were empty too. She straightened up. This was a waste of time, and if there was any evidence here of who’d broken in, she’d probably destroyed it. She sat down on a wooden chair to wait for Sharla.
A box of books sat to her left. The top was open, so she looked in. An old Life magazine stared back up at her. Or rather, the Max-Factored eyes of Elizabeth Taylor did. She pulled out the magazine and angled it so the light struck it. Yup. Those eyes were violet, or at least they were in this photo. She set the magazine back down into the box on top of a hardbound book. Collingswood Academy was embossed on the front.
Why did this look familiar? Right—there’d been a similar one in Dougie’s office. She hadn’t looked closely enough to remember what year Dougie’s yearbook dated from. This one had a shield with Founded 1878 under the name, so Collingswood had a long history, and there were probably a fair number of these books out there somewhere. Josie replaced the book when she heard the front door open.
“Josie?” Sharla called.
“Behind the counter,” Josie answered, rising from her seat to greet the cop.
“You want to show me the back door?” Sharla crossed the floor of the shop quickly. “Just a formality. I’ve been here before, unfortunately. You okay?”
“I’m fine. This way.”
When they reached the door, Sharla pulled out her flashlight, which she shined in a narrow arc around the door frame and the handle. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves, then swung the door the rest of the way open to examine it. “The lock’s been jimmied,” Sharla declared.
“I figured as much.” Josie pointed to the wire. “Is it hard to pick a lock?”
Sharla took hold of the wire in the keyhole and gave a gentle pull. She placed the wire into a plastic evidence bag and sealed it, then filled out some information on the outside of the bag. “I doubt we’ll get any usable prints from this. And to answer your question, it’s not as easy as it looks on television, that’s for sure. This isn’t the best tool for the job, either. But this is an old lock—which you might want to consider having replaced with something more modern. With Google access and some persistence, it could be done. Obviously. I don’t see any actual damage to the lock.”
A memory struck Josie. When the murder had happened in her shop a few weeks ago, someone had had a key. As far as she knew, the only people who had keys to this shop were Lyndon and herself. At least, she’d only been given two sets of keys when Eb signed the building over to her. But Diantha’s son Trey had owned this building before Eb bought it. What if there was another set of keys out there?
Lyndon had had a key since he signed the lease. Josie had overnight mailed it to him herself. He could have made any number of copies and given them to anyone he wanted. Harry. His niece, Taylor. “Sharla?”
“Yes?” Sharla shined the flashlight on the floor in front of the door, presumably looking for more evidence.
“Could that piece of wire just be for show? To throw us off the scent?”
Sharla turned to her. “You mean, could this have been staged? I suppose it’s possible. But why?”
“What if . . .” Josie took a moment to organize her thoughts. “What if someone had a key, but wanted to make this look like a random break-in? So we wouldn’t suspect him. Or her?”
Sharla dropped her gaze to the evidence bag, then looked at Josie. “That’s not a bad theory. Why would someone want to get into this shop? The site’s already been investigated, and we have a suspect in custody.”
“I can only think of two reasons,” Josie said. “One, some random burglar realized that the police were done with their investigation and decided to break in and see if he could make off with some antiques. Though how we’d know if anything is missing, I have no idea. The place is full.”
“Or two,” Sharla continued, “someone connected with the murder—not Harry Oglethorpe, obviously—was looking for something, but didn’t want anyone to know about it.” Sharla set down the evidence bag and pulled out a small spiral-bound notebook and a pen and made a few notes.
“Which brings us back to the reason I texted you earlier. Taylor Philbin stopped by the yarn shop yesterday, demanding to be let into this building. She said she was looking for a copy of Lyndon’s partnership agreement with Harry.”
Sharla looked thoughtful. “I’m thinking a visit to Taylor might be in order.”
Josie thought so too.
Chapter 16
Evelyn already had Miss Marple Knits open and was waiting on a customer when Josie arrived from next door. Where’ve you been? Evelyn mouthed while the customer was signing her credit-card slip.
Josie had to smile. Evelyn was like her second mom, and Josie didn’t mind at all.
“Stop in again,” Evelyn said. “And bring your friends!”
“I will,” the woman said, placing a knit hat over her straight dark hair. “Do you have a mailing list?”
“We sure do,” Josie said. Evelyn slid a clipboard across the counter. “Just write your name here and your e-mail address here,” she said, pointing. Josie could almost, but not quite, hear Evelyn’s foot tapping in anticipation. Evelyn loved her gossip.
The woman wrote down her information and left. “Marilyn Deni, from way up near the Massachusetts border. That’s good. We’re attracting customers from a bigger area.” Evelyn put her hands on her hips. “Well? What’s going on? Sharla’s cruiser is parked next door. That customer came in, and I couldn’t go out to see for myself.”
Josie took off the heavy sweater she’d been wearing—another of Cora’s beautiful handmade garments. This one was made of a bulky wool and knit with a heavily patterned yoke, cuffs, and waist in shades of gray.
Evelyn’s eyes softened. “I remember Cora knitting that sweater. It’s a traditional Icelandic pattern. If you look around the house, you’ll probably find a matching hat and mittens. I remember her making those too. The set hung in the shop a few years ago.”
“I will.” Josie pulled the crocheted cozy off the teapot behind the counter and poured herself a cup, then inhaled the fragrance. “Is this chocolate mint? That’s a tea flavor whose time has come.”
Evelyn pursed up her lips. “Yes, it’s another of Lorna’s creations. Now stop stalling. What in the world is going on?”
Josie took the couch, and Evelyn chose the wingback chair. “The antique shop was broken into,” Josie said.
“What? Why?” Evelyn demanded. Josie told her what she knew, which didn’t seem like much when she laid it out.
Evelyn sipped her tea. Her mug read Knit Happens. She set it down and picked up her knitting. It was a large piece, perhaps a lap throw or even a full-sized afghan. A few stitches later, she spoke. �
�What would someone want over there? It’s full of antiques, of course, but unless the items being taken were small, there’d be little chance of getting anything valuable out of there without being seen. Without having a truck. Dead as this downtown is”—Josie winced at Evelyn’s choice of words—“the police do patrol the street out back and Main Street.”
Josie saw no reason not to tell Evelyn her suspicions about Taylor, and did so.
“Makes sense,” Evelyn said. “That girl doesn’t seem all that broken up about her uncle’s death.” She gave a vigorous stab into the knitted fabric and wrapped the yarn around the end of the needle before pulling it back through the loop.
“No, she doesn’t.” Josie watched Evelyn’s hands as she worked. The rhythm was soothing, even if Josie wasn’t doing the work herself. Since her ill-fated attempt the other night, she hadn’t picked up her own needles. It hadn’t been deliberate avoidance, but it was avoidance nonetheless. She was off the hook for tonight, though. Dougie’s dinner party was scheduled to start at seven, but Lorna needed Josie at five. It was a toss-up which was less appealing: failing at knitting, or spending an evening with Dougie and his prep-school friends. But she’d promised to help Lorna, and help she would. At least she’d be in the kitchen for the most part.
“Speak of the devil,” Evelyn said. “Look who’s here.”
Josie owled her head around to look out the front window. She could just see a slice of dark red hair. “Taylor. Is she coming in or not?”
The bells over the door chimed as Taylor finally entered Miss Marple Knits. Taylor seemed momentarily flummoxed, staring at the counter, before she finally spotted Josie and Evelyn. She strode over, picking up speed as she neared the sit-and-knit area. “You want to tell me why I just got a phone call from the police? What kind of a landlord are you, anyway? Didn’t you have an alarm next door?”
Taylor was quickly working herself into a froth. There were a number of reasons why she’d be so upset about a simple break-in, when she’d barely registered a single emotion over her uncle’s death. One, she’d been awakened from her beauty sleep and was not a morning person. Two, she considered the contents of the antique shop hers now, and was angry over what might have been taken. Three, she’d broken into the shop herself, and was putting on a good show for Josie’s benefit. Or four, she hadn’t broken into the shop, and was now kicking herself for not taking advantage of the open back door to look for Lyndon’s partnership agreement with Harry.
Josie’s years in the New York fashion industry had armed her with plenty of experience dealing with temperamental types. Best thing was not to feed into Taylor’s snit, but to be firm. “Settle down, Taylor. You want a cup of coffee? Tea?” Say no, Josie willed her.
Taylor shook her head so that her glorious Celtic curls bounced around her shoulders. “What I want is for you to tell me why I’ve been called down to the police station. I don’t have time for this. I have to meet with the funeral home today about Lyndon’s ashes, and I don’t even know the town it’s located in.”
Josie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. All four of her ideas still seemed equally likely. “I found the back door open this morning, and I called the police. End of my part in this story. What’s your part?” She took a calm sip of her tea, which seemed to infuriate Taylor more. Taylor’s eyes narrowed into those catlike slits Josie had seen before.
“Are you accusing me of breaking in? To my own shop?” She glared at Josie, her face turning that shade of strawberry Josie had seen before.
“I’m not accusing you of anything.” And it wasn’t Taylor’s shop now, and maybe never would be. According to Harry, the shop and its inventory were now his except for Lyndon’s personal stash of antiques scattered all over Connecticut. Which was certainly going to throw a monkey wrench into a couple of peoples’ reality-show plans.
“See that you don’t,” Taylor said, her voice better controlled now, crisp and precise. “Because as it happens I have an alibi. An all-night alibi.”
“Don’t tell me.” Josie really didn’t need to know any more than she already did about Taylor’s love life, but was still interested in the information. Taylor had to be talking about Kai, whether it was true or not. “Tell it to the police.”
“I will. And my . . . friend will back me up. So you can stop looking at me like you think I did this.”
“If you didn’t do it, who do you think did?” Evelyn piped up. Good old Evelyn. Josie had been about to ask the same thing.
“How should I know? It was probably some random theft. Though who’d want any of that junk except to resell it is beyond me.” Josie hoped Taylor would be a good actress if that reality show actually happened. The woman didn’t seem to have antiques or curiosities in her blood. “Why don’t you let me in now, so I can take a look around and see if anything’s missing?”
Nice try, Taylor. Dollars to donuts she’d tried both doors of the antique store and found them locked up before she came into the knitting shop. “Taylor, you know I can’t let you in.” And there’s no possible way you could know if anything was missing—unless you took it yourself. “So you should probably head on over to the police station and give your statement.”
Taylor gave that hair a toss over her shoulders. “You might want to be nice to me. Think about your own business. You’ll get some free advertising—national advertising—when my show happens. If we decide to base it out of the store next door.”
Tempting, but not quite tempting enough. Especially considering that, if what Harry said was true, Taylor had no claim to the business. Harry might be in jail, but he hadn’t been convicted yet. And if—when—he got out, he didn’t owe Taylor anything. She might be completely out of luck.
“Thanks for the advice.” Josie’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket. “I have to take this call.” It was really a text, but Taylor didn’t need to know that.
“Fine. I’m leaving anyway. But think about what I said. And FYI, I’m meeting with a lawyer later today. About Lyndon’s estate. So I’ll have that court order letting me into the shop shortly. Have a set of keys ready.” Taylor turned and left.
“Good luck with that,” Evelyn said, giving Josie a smile. “Today’s Friday, and I happen to know that the closest probate judge is opening her cottage at Old Saybrook this weekend. Not a chance Taylor is getting any kind of order before next week.”
“If she can at all,” Josie said. “I don’t know how the process works, whether Lyndon’s will will have to be probated here where he died, or where his permanent residence was, assuming he hadn’t changed that yet.”
“Me neither,” Evelyn said. “My second husband’s estate was done here. I don’t remember about the first one, honestly. I’d have to think about it.”
Someday Josie would ask Evelyn about her husbands, but right now Josie pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and looked at the display. Margo had sent her a text. Saw Taylor leaving Kai’s room this morning. Don’t know if she was there all night. Heard about the break-in. U OK?
Josie responded. All’s well. Thanks for update. Police will probably contact you.
Already done, Margo texted back. Sharla worked fast.
Chapter 17
Josie looked at her watch. “Close enough to lunchtime,” she said. “It’s clam chowder day at the g.s. You want some?” Josie couldn’t pay Evelyn a lot, but she could spring for lunch most days they didn’t brown bag.
Evelyn, who had resumed her knitting, nodded. “In a bread bowl,” she said. “Can you have Lorna sprinkle on some extra pepper? I’m feeling spicy today, after our last visitor.”
Josie laughed. “Coming right up. You want to walk over with me?”
“Go on ahead. I’m almost at the end of my pattern repeat, and I want to finish these last couple of rows. It’ll be a nice stopping point before I begin the lace panel.”
Josie was a long way from any kind of repeating patterns or panels of anything. Guilt, or fear, or some other emotion she couldn’t quite identify
prodded at her again. Shut up, she told it. I’ll learn.
The sky was a brilliant blue over the rows of mostly vacant three-story brick buildings lining either side of Main Street when she stepped outside. Just as the local weather guy on Channel 8 had predicted, the day had turned out warm and sunny. Josie’s mood instantly lifted as she breathed in the spring air, then took a little dive as she passed Nutmeg Antiques & Curiosities. If she could even call it that, since the store had never officially opened for business.
Poor Lyndon. She’d barely gotten to know him before he died, but had a feeling he would have been a great addition to Dorset Falls, both as a downtown business owner and a member of the community. And there was Harry, sitting in jail for a crime he might or might not have committed. The police clearly had enough evidence to arrest him, but did they have the right guy? Even if he did manage to get himself cleared, would he want to stay here? If she were in the same position, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. Just being arrested might be enough to taint the town and make her want to leave.
But no. If she’d been in the same situation, she’d be determined to stay and prove everyone wrong. Which she had to admit was sort of, kind of what she was doing by moving back to Dorset Falls and running Cora’s yarn shop. Was Harry made of the same stuff? She knew even less about him than she did about Lyndon.
The tables at Dougie’s General Store were mostly full, which was to say there were about a dozen people sitting at them, and another three standing in line at the counter. Josie took her place behind Darrell Gray, Margo’s husband. He turned. “Hey, Josie.”
“Hi, Darrell. How are things?”
The woman at the front of the line raised her voice. “There’s only one piece of bread in here,” she said, huffy.
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