A Knit before Dying

by Sadie Hartwell

  “Lady,” Darrell said over the head of the person in front of him. “She’s busy. It doesn’t take any more effort to be nice, you know.” The woman glared at him. Lorna shot Darrell a grateful look and dropped another roll into the bag. One piece of bread was the norm, but Lorna probably just wanted to get rid of the woman.

  Darrell turned back to Josie. “Can’t complain. The bed-and-breakfast and the construction businesses are both doing well.” He dropped his voice. “And the lovebirds kept it quiet last night, so I slept well.”

  Josie smiled. There wasn’t much else she could say in public about that subject, so she changed it. “How’s the work coming on the old Ryder house? Have you met the new owners?”

  “Good, and yes, though they haven’t moved to town yet. It’s a lot easier now that we don’t have to work around all the contents of the house and barns. That’s all been cleared out.”

  “At least some of the items are in the shop next door to mine.” Josie thought about the box of doilies she’d bought, the contents currently drying in the storeroom of Miss Marple Knits and on the kitchen table back home. And the sheep shears she’d seen sticking out of Lyndon’s chest. She swallowed hard, then had a thought. “When did the barns get cleared out?”

  “Let’s see. Maybe a couple of weeks ago? I was there putting together an estimate when the antique store van came. It wasn’t Lyndon who was driving it. It was Harry Oglethorpe. Why do you want to know?” Darrell turned toward the counter and took a step forward, since the line had moved up, then turned back toward Josie.

  “Just curious, I guess.” She didn’t really know why she’d asked the question. Harry would have had access to the shears anytime during those two weeks, but so would any number of other people who might have been onsite before the barns were emptied. And the shears didn’t seem like a thing someone would use for premeditated murder. Ooh, lookie! Rusty antique sheep shears. I know just who I’ll kill with these. Had Lyndon’s murder been committed on impulse? Perhaps there’d been an argument and the murderer had used whatever was handy? That made more sense.

  Darrell turned around again and ordered. “Ham and cheese on pumpernickel, lettuce, tomato, pickles, yellow mustard. And a can of root beer,” he told Lorna. Josie peeked around Darrell. Lorna was looking a bit frazzled. Not surprising, considering she was working both the register and the prep counter singlehanded. A loud guffaw came from the direction of Dougie’s office. There were at least two of them in there, based on the volume of the laughter.

  What a jerk. Too cheap to hire Lorna some help, and too lazy to come out and help himself. It would serve him right if this place went under. But then Lorna would be out of a job. Which might not be a bad thing. She’d said she was close to having enough money saved to start a little restaurant of her own. Josie wouldn’t be able to help her. Cora’s yarn shop had been losing money while Cora was alive, and Cora had been keeping it afloat with her own money. Not great business sense, but it had been her money to spend how she wanted, and she’d apparently loved the place. Josie was turning a profit, but barely. Fortunately, her expenses were low, living with Eb. But there wasn’t any extra. Eb, though, had a nice nest egg thanks to Cora’s insurance and the proceeds from selling her house. If it came down to it, Josie would ask Eb to invest in Lorna. Lorna was a great cook, and it would benefit Eb—or at least Eb’s stomach—to keep her in business.

  While Darrell was waiting for his lunch and checking out, Josie surveyed the store. The Charity Knitters Association table was looking a bit forlorn. Not surprising, now that Diantha Humphries was the only member of the association. Josie didn’t know if Helen Crawford and Evelyn had quit officially, but it seemed pretty clear that no one was knitting new stock for the group. There were only a couple of pairs of mittens, a couple of scarves, and a stack of knitted squares wrapped in a ribbon, which Josie assumed were coasters. She felt a little stab of guilt, then squelched it. It wasn’t her fault the Charity Knitters were in trouble. Diantha Humphries could heap that blame squarely on her own shoulders. Maybe, when Josie finally learned to knit, they could do some projects at the shop to donate. . . wherever such things got donated. Evelyn and Helen would know.

  Josie glanced around the tables. Roy Woodruff was sitting by himself again, a cup of coffee in front of him. He wasn’t drinking it, just staring at the plastic lid. Based on the increased length of the stubble on his jaw, he hadn’t shaved since the last time she’d seen him. He started when the front door opened. Josie had only met him a few times, but she’d never known him to be so jumpy.

  “See you around, Josie,” Darrell said, paper bag in hand. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Bye.” She stepped forward, gave another glance at Roy, then faced Lorna. “Hey, friend. How’re you holding up?”

  Lorna blew at a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail. “It’s Friday. We’re always busy—or at least busy by Dorset Falls’s standards. What’ll you have?”

  “Two clam chowders in bread bowls, one with extra pepper, to go. I know you’ve got other things to do, but have you noticed Roy Woodruff? He’s . . . not well.”

  “You mean, he’s acting paranoid? Yeah, I noticed that too.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Rumor is that he thinks he’s been hearing aliens.”

  Whatever Josie had expected Lorna to say, that hadn’t been it. Josie made sure no one was in earshot before speaking again. “Aliens? Like little green men? You’re kidding, right?”

  Lorna sliced the tops off two boules, releasing the lovely fragrance of warm yeast bread, then scooped some of the insides out and placed the innards into a bowl that was already mounded up. “For bread pudding later,” she said. “I wish I was kidding. He says they’ve been communicating with him. And he’s been talking back. On his short-wave radio.” She set each bread bowl into its own deep to-go container, then ladled in two scoops of thick, creamy chowder. She placed the lids, then put both containers into a small box. “This’ll be easier to transport. I heard him telling Rusty Simmons about it. Not sure what he thought Rusty could do.”

  Josie wondered that too. “Maybe he spoke to Rusty because Rusty’s in the volunteer fire department? Or because he runs the auto repair shop, so he knows about machinery. Does Mitch know? I wonder if Roy’s medication is off or something.” She looked back over at him. He was twisting a piece of paper, perhaps a straw wrapper, into a tight rope, then untwisting it.

  Lorna smiled. “You should probably call Mitch. He’s gone to New Haven for something or other. He stopped in for a coffee before he left. Roy came in a half hour later and hasn’t left.”

  “Doesn’t want to be alone out at the farm? I don’t blame him, if he’s really afraid of aliens. You’ve seen the movies. That’s where people always get abducted from.”

  Lorna gave a little snicker. They shouldn’t laugh. The poor man was obviously ill. But aliens? Still, it would be a good excuse—er, reason—to call Mitch.

  Josie paid Lorna, dropping a five-dollar bill into the tip cup when Lorna’s eyes were on the cash drawer. Josie took her change and the box. “I’ll meet you at five at your place, then we can load up and head over to Dougie’s father’s lake house for the dinner tonight?”

  “See you then.”

  Chapter 18

  From outside the general store, Josie could see a couple of figures standing on the street near Miss Marple Knits. That was unusual enough, but there also seemed to be people congregated on the other, more vacant side of Main Street. She quickened her steps—not too fast, or she’d spill her lunch, and it smelled too good to risk that—until she was close enough to see what was going on.

  Kai Norton stood outside Nutmeg Antiques, holding a camera, which he had trained on Taylor Philbin. He was talking, and she was responding, so it appeared to be an interview. Josie moved closer so she could hear the conversation.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Taylor said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “First my uncle dying here, and then a break-in
. It’s like the place is”—she looked directly at the camera—“cursed.” A collective gasp went up from the small crowd that had gathered.

  Oh for the love of Prada. What was going on in this town? First aliens, now a manufactured curse. Designed, no doubt, to make the show more interesting. Was this going to be their angle? Cursed antiques, or a cursed store? Josie’s opinion of Kai and Taylor, not high to begin with, took a dive. And if people actually believed this curse business, how would Josie ever attract a new tenant?

  The other question was, could Kai and Taylor somehow be responsible for Roy’s condition? Could they have singled him out for some reason and managed to make him think there were aliens here? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, and it made a kind of sick sense. The rumor was that Roy was hearing or talking to extraterrestrials, not that, according to Lorna, he’d seen any. Kai had sound and recording equipment with him. It would probably be easy for him to rig up something he could use to torment Roy. Take one cursed antique shop, throw in a dash of crazy townspeople, and you might have the makings of a hit show.

  “I’m thinking of calling in a priest,” Taylor went on. “But at the moment the woman who owns the shop won’t let me in. I just can’t stand to think of poor Uncle Lyndon’s soul trapped inside this awful building.” She worked up some more tears.

  You’ll never get in that shop now as long as I have something to say about it, Josie thought. Even if Taylor eventually produced some kind of order, Josie would have it scrutinized by her own lawyer. She could—and would—make Taylor wait a long time.

  “Perfect, baby,” Kai said. “That’s a wrap for now.”

  Taylor smiled, her grief and fear clearly forgotten. “I can’t wait to see how I look on camera.” She didn’t seem to care that other people were listening. The crowd—well, by Dorset Falls’s standards it was a crowd—dispersed. Josie walked up to the filmer and the filmee.

  “Did you get good footage at the expense of your dead uncle?” Josie knew she shouldn’t bait Taylor, but she was angry and couldn’t help herself.

  “Hello, Josie,” Kai said, answering for Taylor. “Do you want to be in this segment? I can get my camera back out.” His self-satisfied smile was insufferable. Taylor’s was even worse, if that were possible.

  “I wonder how the police will feel when I tell them to look into this. It’s awfully convenient, the shop’s getting broken into just before you two decide to start filming.”

  Taylor shot Josie a withering look. “We’ve both already been to the police station today, thank you very much. Why don’t you do something useful, like put an alarm on the doors? Or go knit something.” Taylor and Diantha Humphries, though not related as far as Josie knew, were cut from the same cloth.

  Her words hit the mark, even though Josie was pretty sure Taylor didn’t know about Josie’s temporary inability to master the craft on which she based her livelihood.

  Kai tapped into the tag-team ring. “We don’t really need this shop, you know. We can just say the priest got here and refused to go in, and this outside footage will be enough until we get Taylor a home base. It could be any of these stores.” He swept his hand down Main Street. “Or we could go to some other town.”

  As much as Josie wanted, even needed new enterprises to open in Dorset Falls, she couldn’t quite see these two as members of the chamber of commerce. Not that Dorset Falls had one, since there were only a handful of businesses. “Suit yourselves,” Josie said. “But if I find out you two deliberately broke in to give yourselves material for the show—if there really is a show—I’ll send the repair bill to you, Kai, since you were nice enough to give me a card with your address on it.” She strode past them and entered Miss Marple Knits.

  She set the tray with the soup on one end of the sales counter. She’d be doubly angry if her lunch was cold after her encounter with those two.

  “What’s happening out there?” Evelyn asked. “I was going to go out and see, but a customer called and kept me on the phone.”

  Josie filled her in.

  “That ungrateful little witch,” Evelyn said. “And poor Lyndon barely cold yet.”

  “That’s what I thought too. Here, let’s eat. I lost my appetite for a while there, but now I’m starving again.”

  Josie unwrapped her spoon, then took the lid off the container and stuck the spoon in. The handle stood straight up. That was the way New England chowder was supposed to be, she’d found since she moved here. She spooned up a piece of clam coated in thick cream and scored a chunk of potato in the process. Heaven. A few more bites, and Josie felt substantially better. Which probably meant she had some kind of psychological issues with food. Or maybe her blood sugar had just been low.

  “Lorna does make some delicious soup,” Evelyn said. “The clams seem extra tender today.” She broke a piece off her bread bowl and dipped it into the liquid.

  “She does. So who called?” Josie said when she came up for air.

  “Someone from Litchfield. Wanted to know if we had a Sunday drop-in.”

  Josie followed suit and tried her own bread. It was whole wheat, slightly sweet, and the perfect accompaniment to the salty clams. “Do we?” She wasn’t quite sure what a Sunday drop-in was.

  Evelyn laughed. “Not exactly, but we might want to start one. We could open the shop for a couple hours on Sunday afternoons. Customers can drop in to chat and knit—and shop.”

  “Just for a couple of hours?” Josie wasn’t all that enthused about opening on Sundays. She already worked a lot of hours every week, and she needed Sundays to catch up and relax.

  “Yes. Most yarn shops have a Sunday drop-in. It would be similar to the informal circle we’ve been having, just with regular hours. I wouldn’t mind coming in after church. I knit every day anyway, and I can do it just as well here as at home. You’d only have to be here if you want to.”

  Josie did a quick calculation. She’d need to pay Evelyn, but if these drop-in people also made purchases, opening the shop would pay for itself. “Let’s try it out. Take this Sunday off, and we’ll start next week.”

  “Deal.”

  Josie gave her soup a stir, then took another bite. Lorna had thoughtfully included a couple of pats of butter. Josie opened one and spread some on a chunk of the bread bowl, then dropped the rest on top of the soup, where it melted into a luxurious yellow pool. She clamped down on her clamoring conscience. Weren’t the experts now saying butter was good for you? If she looked hard enough, she could probably find one.

  “Evelyn, have you heard anything around town about Roy Woodruff?”

  Her friend set down her own lunch and eyed Josie. “Heard anything? Like what?”

  “He’s been acting . . . odd.”

  Evelyn wiped her lips with the paper napkin included in her lunch sack and put the top back on her soup. “I’ll save the rest of this for tomorrow’s lunch. Now that you mention it, I did hear a rumor that he wasn’t feeling well. I was planning to take a casserole out to him. You want to come? You could talk to Mitch while I evaluate Roy.” Evelyn’s tone was all innocence, but her eyes sparkled behind her glasses.

  “You’re not trying to play matchmaker, are you?” Josie didn’t need any help figuring out that Mitch Woodruff was the kind of man a woman could settle down with. She just wasn’t quite sure yet whether she was the kind of woman who wanted to be settled down with. Her life had done a one-eighty in the last few months. It was too soon to think about anything like a serious relationship. But she had to admit, if she were in the market, Mitch would be a serious contender.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Evelyn said. “Now, I can tell you’ve heard something about Roy. What is it?”

  There was no reason not to tell her what Lorna had said. If Evelyn didn’t hear it from Josie, she’d hear it from someone else, so it made sense to cut out the middleman. Or middle-woman. “I just heard at the g.s. that Roy thinks he’s been communicating with aliens.”

  Evelyn stared for a moment, then burs
t out laughing. It took her a moment to get herself back under control. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time.” Her face grew serious. “Does Mitch know about this? Roy’s not getting any younger. Could he be having some episodes of dementia? I’m sorry I laughed. That could be extremely serious.”

  Evelyn fixed her gaze on the back wall where the movie still of an elderly Miss Jane Marple hung. Was Evelyn thinking about a friend or family member who had suffered the same fate, intellect and consciousness and free will wasting away while the body hung on longer? Or was she thinking about her own mortality? Evelyn, too, was not getting any younger.

  Josie thought about giving Evelyn a hug to comfort her, no matter where her thoughts were, but refrained. Evelyn was a no-nonsense woman who didn’t care much for overt displays of affection. “I don’t know if Mitch knows the specifics. He knows Roy’s not acting like himself.”

  “Well,” Evelyn declared. “Tomorrow’s our half day. I’ll make a casserole, and you and I will both take it over there tomorrow afternoon.” It apparently didn’t occur to Evelyn that Josie might have had other plans for her half day off. Not that she did have any other plans, but still. “Sometimes when people are close to a situation, like Mitch is, they don’t recognize when professional help is needed. I’ll talk to Roy myself, then I’ll be able to make a recommendation to Mitch.” Good old Evelyn. She was not only an expert knitter, she apparently thought she had medical qualifications. Still, she had a point. Another set—or two—of eyes on Roy couldn’t hurt.

  Josie closed up her soup, marked the top with a J, and replaced it in the tray. She put Evelyn’s next to it. “I guess my eyes were bigger than my stomach. I’ll go put these in the fridge for tomorrow.”

  “Yes, and why don’t you head home? I can handle the shop by myself this afternoon, and you have a long evening in front of you.”

  Josie felt guilt and gratitude at the same time. It would be so nice to go home and maybe take a short nap before the dinner party. “Are you sure?”