A Knit before Dying

by Sadie Hartwell

  And she did have her denim jean jacket upstairs. She could hand sew a doily onto the back—maybe two or three, layering them on in a pattern. If it came out the way she pictured it, she could make these all day long. And they’d go for a nice price if she found the right market.

  She set the box on the kitchen table, then headed upstairs to find the jacket.

  When she returned, showered, shampooed, and denim in hand, Eb was at the table, eating his breakfast and still working on his crossword. Though he might have moved on to one of the other word puzzles by now. Jethro sat at his feet, panting slightly and staring at Eb’s cereal bowl. The fact that Jethro had a full bowl of food and water not ten feet away was apparently lost on him. Eb reached down, scratched him between the ears, and set the cereal bowl, which was still half full of milk, down in front of him. The dog began to lap madly, slopping milk over the side of the bowl and onto the linoleum. Ugh. Josie wondered how many bowls she’d eaten from that the dog had also. This one, at least, she’d spend some extra time washing.

  Josie topped off her own coffee and held the pot out to Eb. “You want some more?” Her uncle didn’t look up, but held his mug out expectantly. She rolled her eyes and poured. Maybe she was a servant. She sat down at the table.

  “What are you up to today?” Josie asked. “I’m going to open the shop for a couple hours, remember? Evelyn thinks it will be good for business.”

  He flinched, almost imperceptibly, when Josie said Evelyn’s name. Evelyn had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she was interested in Eb. Of course, Eb was Dorset Falls’s Most Eligible Senior Bachelor, due to the fact that he had inherited a good amount of money from his late wife, Cora.

  “She-coyote,” he said. Josie rather thought Evelyn would like that term.

  “So what are you doing today?” Josie repeated. “What do you want for dinner? It’ll have to be something I can pick up at the g.s. I don’t think I have the energy to go into Kent to the real grocery store today.”

  He stared at her over the tops of his cheaters. “Taking down my antenna. Thanks to you.”

  “Don’t blame me because you—”

  Coco chose that moment to race through the kitchen. Jethro jumped, knocking over the cereal bowl in the process and spilling milk onto his snout. Before Josie realized what was happening, Eb reached for the box of doilies and began to wipe Jethro’s face with one of them. He finished, then dropped it to the floor into the pool of milk. Josie jumped up, grabbing paper towels and bringing them back.

  “Eb, seriously? Do you know what it takes to clean those things? Now I’ll have to do that one all over.” She blotted up the rest of the liquid, then placed her milky, doggy doily inside another paper towel, and carried the whole mess over to the sink. She threw away all the paper towels, then turned on the water to rinse out her doily.

  It turned out to be the odd piece. The one with the random pattern of holes and ridges. She rinsed it, then spread it out on a towel. She could bring the special soap back to the shop with her this afternoon and clean it properly. Though really, what was the point? Even though someone—probably Bea Ryder—had put some effort into making the piece, it just wasn’t very attractive. Josie couldn’t see herself using it for anything saleable.

  Maybe she should just toss it. Then she wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

  But suddenly, this little scrap of knotted string was all she could think about. She smoothed it out on the counter and gave it a little stretch into a more or less square shape.

  Josie ran a finger over the ridges, put the tip of the same finger into one of the eyelets, and let it bump along the pattern.

  Eyelets and ridges.

  Xs and Os.

  Clicks and Taps.

  Eyelets and ridges.

  Dots and dashes.

  She stared at the piece of knitted lace in her hand. It couldn’t be. But what if it could?

  Josie crossed the floor and flung open the door to Eb’s workshop. “What the—” she heard Eb yell, as if from a great distance even though it was only a few feet. She retrieved the Morse code manual and set it down on the kitchen table.

  “I told you,” Eb said, clearly exasperated. “I’m taking the thing down today.”

  “Yeah, good,” Josie said, her mind elsewhere. She found a pen and paper and got to work translating: eyelets for dots, and ridges for dashes.

  When she wrote down the last letter of the first word, Josie let out a gasp. There was no mistaking it:

  H-E-L-E-N

  Bea and Helen Crawford had been friends, despite their age difference. Had Bea been making this as a gift? Josie went back to translating, and this time she didn’t stop until she’d written down every word.

  HELEN. THREATS AGAINST ME. MAYOR STEUBEN.

  BEATS WIFE. SAW BRUISES. BEA.

  Josie sat back in her chair, taking in a deep, long breath to replace what she’d been holding. She hadn’t realized it, but sometime in the process Eb had come to stand next to her, reading over her shoulder.

  “Damn,” was all he said.

  Bea Ryder had owned a dress shop. What was it Evelyn or Helen had said a few days ago? Dressmakers know secrets. Of course Bea could have seen bruises on Mrs. Steuben. It required no leap at all to think that Mayor Steuben had found out that his wife had been to see the dressmaker—he could have seen her go into the shop, looked at a bill, found out any number of ways. And to keep Bea quiet, he killed her.

  And now the mayor’s son, Rick, was in town. Josie thought back to the dinner party. Suddenly, it was easy to imagine what kind of “agreement” Rick and Dougie might have had. Rick must have told Dougie about the murder. Even if Rick didn’t know for sure, he could have suspected his father was involved. And they’d been keeping it quiet all these years.

  “Eb,” Josie said, looking up. “Do you remember Mayor Steuben?”

  “He was an ass.” Not exactly helpful. Eb thought pretty much everyone was an ass.

  “Okay. What do you remember about him?”

  Eb’s prodigious eyebrows drew together. “Thought he was better than the rest of us. Sent his little brats to that prep school. Somehow kept getting elected.”

  “Whatever happened to him?” Josie fingered the wet doily again. Bea. I think we’re gonna get you some justice.

  “Dead. Heart attack maybe ten, fifteen years ago. Wife’s dead too.”

  Chapter 29

  So, as Josie had suspected all along, both Bea and Bea’s killer were long dead. Mayor Richard Steuben was beyond prosecution, but it was satisfying to have a name she could take to the police. No question, she was giving this one to Sharla. Josie put the damp doily into a plastic zip bag and put it into her pocket. That thing was not leaving her sight until she’d turned it over to Sharla.

  They still didn’t have a body, but at least Helen, and anyone else who remembered Bea, would have some measure of closure. It would have to do.

  Unless . . . Rick Steuben knew where his father had dumped her. Suddenly, it all made sense. Bea had to be buried on her own property somewhere. Was Rick afraid of what the construction crews at the old Ryder house were going to find? Josie would give that information to Sharla too, though it was a bit more tenuous. But the police could check it out.

  Josie pulled her cell phone out of her other pocket and dialed Evelyn. “Emergency meeting of the Bond girls at Miss Marple Knits. Skip church and meet me there in twenty minutes. Bring Helen.”

  Evelyn’s excitement was nearly palpable through the receiver. “We’ll be there. The sermon today looks boring anyway.”

  * * *

  Josie parked in front of Nutmeg Antiques & Curiosities, leaving the spaces directly in front of Miss Marple Knits for Evelyn and Helen. Inside her store, she filled the electric kettle with fresh water and set it to heat. There’d be some tea drunk here this morning, that was for sure. Then she pulled the doily out of her pocket and out of its bag and laid it out on the counter.

  It was only a matter of
moments before both Helen and Evelyn came in. Josie could see Evelyn’s big Buick out front, so she must have picked up Helen. They bustled in, eyes sparkling. “What have you got?” Evelyn said. “New evidence in Lyndon’s murder?”

  Helen set down a small round tray covered in plastic wrap. “I made these for fellowship hour after church, but I imagine they won’t miss them.”

  “Take off your coats and come on back here to the counter,” Josie said. “Oh, before you do that, Evelyn, would you lock the front door and make sure the CLOSED sign is turned out?”

  Evelyn eyed her. “This must be good.” She did as she was asked, then met the other two women at the counter. Evelyn frowned when she spotted the doily. “That old thing? They’re so old-fashioned. You,” she admonished, “got our hopes up for nothing.”

  Helen looked at Josie expectantly. “That’s one of Bea’s. I remember examining it a few days ago. Is that what this is about?” At least Helen was polite about it.

  “Hear me out,” Josie said. She explained what she’d discovered. When she gave the two women the translation, Evelyn seemed fascinated. Helen went pale.

  “You mean, this was meant for me?” Helen whispered. Evelyn took one look at her friend, then grabbed her arm and marched her to the couch and sat her down. “Bring her tea,” she ordered Josie.

  Josie complied, bringing three mugs of steaming Cherry Almond. She set them down in front of her friends and took one for herself as she sat down.

  “I don’t understand,” Evelyn said. “Why wouldn’t she just call you? Or send you a note?”

  Helen sniffled, and Evelyn handed her a tissue. “Well, a lot of us had party lines back then, though I don’t remember if she did at home or at the shop. But remember, she’d been a radio operator in the war. She knew how easily communications could be intercepted, because she’d done it herself. And if Richard Steuben was threatening her, she already knew she was in danger.”

  “So she wasn’t taking any chances,” Josie said. “She spoke to you in a code she knew you’d understand: knitting.”

  “She was taking a pretty big chance,” Helen said. “I didn’t know Morse code then, and I don’t know it now. The chances of my deciphering this were pretty slim.”

  Evelyn looked thoughtful. “But she did send you a subtle clue. Bea was an expert knitter. She would never, ever mess up a lace pattern this badly and keep the project. As soon as she figured out it was too gone to fix, she’d frog it and start over.”

  “Frog it?” Josie had no idea what the term meant.

  “It means pull the stitches off the needle and undo your work. It’s a method of last resort. And it’s a pain in the butt,” Evelyn said.

  “And you knew she’d been a WAVE,” Josie said. “It was reasonable for her to think that you’d be able to figure out she’d done it in Morse code.”

  “I think,” Helen said, thoughtful. “I think this was meant to be an ‘If anything happens to me’ message. Because otherwise, why wouldn’t she just go to the police?”

  “I know why,” Evelyn said. “Because you remember, Helen, Mayor Steuben and the chief of police back then were tight. Makes you wonder what else Steuben got away with.”

  “We have to give this to Sharla,” Josie said. “It’s a cold case, but she could still make some points with the higher-ups by solving it.”

  Evelyn frowned. “This doesn’t really prove anything, of course. It’s just circumstantial.”

  “It’s good enough for me,” Helen said.

  “Me too,” Evelyn agreed.

  “And me as well,” Josie said. “So what do we do now?”

  “I’ll text Sharla to come over,” Evelyn said. “I think she’s working today anyway.”

  So they had Bea’s killer. Josie should have felt satisfied, happy even, that she’d had a part in solving the old mystery. So why did she feel uneasy? When she thought about it, she knew. Dougie Brewster, and Rick Steuben, and all their football cronies were in town. What would happen when the information they—or at least some of them—had been hiding all these years came to light? When Sharla got here, Josie would tell her about the unsanctioned reunion and what she’d heard at the lake house. It was all she could do.

  Or was it? She knew the names of four of the men who’d been at the dinner party: Alden, Dougie, Rick, and Trevor. That left seven unidentified. Seven who might know something, be able to lead the police to conclusive evidence. Maybe even lead them to Bea’s body. There’d been no guest list, at least not one that had been shared with her and Lorna. Some of the men had had numbers on their too-small football jerseys, but that wasn’t helpful without . . .

  A yearbook. Dougie had had a yearbook in his office at the g.s. It might, or might not, have been the same one that she’d seen on the end table at the lake house. She could hardly go over to Dougie’s office and start snooping around, though it was tempting.

  But she’d seen another yearbook recently, hadn’t she? In the antique store next door. She had no idea if it was from the same year, but it was worth a try. She couldn’t remember the numbers the guys had worn at the party, but the names would give Sharla somewhere to start.

  Evelyn and Helen were staring at Josie when she looked up. “You’ve been lost in thought,” Evelyn said. “What else have you got?”

  “Uh, nothing yet. Maybe something that will help Sharla. Can you two watch the shop for a few minutes? I need to go check something out. I’ll only be five minutes.”

  Evelyn and Helen looked disappointed. “Okay. Five minutes. We’re timing you.”

  Josie put on her sweater and grabbed her keys. She unlocked the front door and headed to Nutmeg Antiques & Curiosities.

  Chapter 30

  Josie entered the antique store, which was dark and gloomy. It didn’t get as much natural light through its big front windows as Miss Marple Knits did, being located in the middle of the block of brick buildings, whereas the yarn shop was on a corner.

  The yearbook she’d seen had been in a box of other books in front of the bookcases in the back, waiting to be shelved. She threaded her way through the makeshift aisle and quickly located the box. The yearbook was there, and she retrieved it, now wishing she’d brought a bag of some kind. Even though Main Street was generally deserted, and even more so on a Sunday, why advertise what she was doing? She looked under the counter until she found an empty flat box with a lid, which would do. She loaded up the yearbook and headed for the front. If she had to guess, she’d say she was at about the three-minute mark. Not bad.

  Before she could make her escape, a figure darkened the doorway.

  Kai Norton, holding a camera. And right behind him, Taylor Philbin. Kai turned to Taylor and aimed the camera at her. She let out a dramatic gasp as her creamy white hand flew to her mouth. “What are you doing here?” she said.

  Josie stood up straighter. She had every right to be here. She didn’t have every right to be taking a book, or a box for that matter. But since she hadn’t actually left the premises, she didn’t think it would count as theft. Yet. “I could ask you the same question,” Josie said.

  “Go ahead,” Kai said, defiant. “We were about to shoot some more scenes outside when we saw you go in. The door was open, so we followed. Now we can get some interior shots.”

  Taylor gave her magnificent hair a toss. “What have you got there?” she asked, pointing to the box.

  “Whatever it is, it isn’t yours,” Josie said.

  “What are you, a probate lawyer now?” This woman was insufferable. Josie had planned to just take the yearbook and return it later. But now she had an audience.

  “Kai, you can stop filming right now. I’m not giving you permission to show my face on your show, so there’s no point.”

  He grinned, showing huge, perfectly straight teeth that looked extra white against his tanned skin. “If I don’t show your face, I don’t have to have you sign a release. But I can show the rest of you without one.” Jerk.

  “Well, how’s this
?” Josie said. “I own this building, and neither of my lessees are in a position to give you permission to be on the premises. So you can leave right now, or I can call the police. Your choice.” Josie’s stomach tightened. She could talk a good tough-girl game, but her body sometimes didn’t feel quite so fearless.

  “I—” Taylor began.

  Josie pulled out her cell phone and ran her hand up and down the screen, as if scrolling through her contacts list. She didn’t really have the Dorset Falls PD on her speed dial, though she did have Sharla’s personal number.

  “Come on, Taylor,” Kai said. “I’ve got enough that I can put together something here. Let’s go finish filming outside, the way we rehearsed.”

  He took her arm and led her outside. They’d given up awfully easily. But Josie didn’t have time to worry about them right now. She took the box back to the sales counter, in the deepest, darkest corner of the store, removed the book, and opened it.

  It didn’t take long to find the pages containing the sports teams. In those days, Collingswood had only been open to boys—she had no idea whether girls were now admitted, but it seemed likely—and there had been only a few teams. Baseball. Basketball. Football. Swimming.

  She located the football team and let her eyes run over the photo. These were just kids, and she didn’t recognize any of them. It was possible that none of them had grown into the men she’d met at the lake house. She had no idea what year this book was from.

  She moved on to the names underneath. Bingo. Douglas Brewster. Richard “Rick” Steuben, Jr. Matching the names with the faces, she realized that she could just barely see the resemblances to their decades-later selves. Was Trevor there? Yup.