A Knit before Dying

by Sadie Hartwell

  Dougie shoved her in front of him, twisting her arm across her back and holding on. “Downstairs,” he ordered.

  Not knowing what else to do, pain shooting up her arm and across her shoulder, she began to descend.

  Because they were locked together by Dougie’s iron grip, the descent was slow. Awkward. Could she use that awkwardness to her advantage? She had one free hand. But from her position below and in front of him, there didn’t seem to be any way to trip him up or land any kind of blow without falling down the stairs herself. There was no guarantee she’d end up on top, with the advantage. No, her best bet would be to wait until they were back on level ground.

  As they got closer to the basement floor, the air got danker. Heavier. It was thick with the moldy smell of damp bricks, and she found it hard to draw a breath. Or maybe that was the pain. Or the fear. Or all three.

  Finally, they reached the bottom.

  He gave her arm another twist, sending fresh pain searing through her body. “Take it easy, Dougie,” she forced out, sounding more like a breathy Marilyn Monroe than a tough girl.

  “Keep that mouth shut,” he ordered. “And keep moving.”

  Where was he taking her? This basement couldn’t be that big. She glanced around, looking for something she could grab and use as a weapon, but the dismal room was empty. He seemed to be steering her straight toward the brick wall of the foundation, but as they approached, she could see the outlines of a door. She did a quick mental calculation. Based on the size of the empty shop above, this door must lead into the basement of the adjacent building.

  He slid one arm around and in front of her and turned the knob. His sausage-breath was coming faster, shallower now, and she could feel moist heat radiating off his face. The door swung open. She ran through a self-defense scenario in her mind.

  And took her chance. Josie jammed the sole of her boot behind her in a donkey kick that connected solidly with some part of Dougie’s leg. He gave a sharp cry and stumbled backward, releasing his grip on her enough for her to twist away.

  But she lost her balance and fell through the door anyway, into the blackness.

  Chapter 37

  Josie shook her head and rose on all fours on the dirt floor, attempting to catch her breath. She must have stirred up something because she could taste grit. She stood, spat, then blinked as the light came on overhead. Dougie limped through the door, his face contorted with anger.

  “That was my bad knee,” he said. “I might sue you.”

  If she hadn’t been dirty, in pain, and, oh yeah, ripping mad, she might have laughed. “Dougie, you don’t have any reason to sue—or kill—me. I assume that’s what you’re planning to do. You heard Sharla when they arrested Rick. He was never legally obligated to report his father for murdering Bea, unless he helped kill her or helped conceal the body. And neither were you. So why—”

  A muffled noise came from behind Josie. Dougie’s eyes darted to the far corner of the cellar. Josie turned, and her heart leapt into her throat. “Helen?” Her friend was bound to a wooden chair, a gag tied around her mouth. Helen’s eyes were wide. She tried to speak, but only a muffled squeal came out.

  Arms grabbed Josie from behind. Dougie lifted her a few inches off the ground and carried her toward Helen, grunting. She bicycled her legs, but without having one foot anchored, she couldn’t repeat the donkey kick with any force behind it. “Let me go, you jerk!” She struggled against him. He couldn’t keep this up for long. Probably, neither could she. Suddenly, she didn’t regret the amount of Yankee food she’d been eating since she’d arrived in Dorset Falls, as those few extra pounds only helped in this situation. She twisted and shoved her elbow backward.

  It accomplished nothing.

  He tossed her to the ground next to Helen’s chair and pulled out a knife.

  “I didn’t want to have to use this. Now sit down, and shut up.”

  Josie twisted her body and sat up. The damp from the earthen floor was soaking through her jeans, but she barely felt it. “You don’t need to do this. Don’t you understand? You’re not liable. None of you were. You were just kids.”

  In the dim light, Dougie’s face looked like the devil himself had taken up residence inside. He’d gone beyond anger. He was now clearly unhinged.

  “You’re the one who doesn’t understand!” he screamed, waving the knife, which Josie could now identify as a chef’s knife, in a wide circle. “It’s not about me!”

  Helen made another muffled sound. Josie didn’t dare look up at her, just had to hope she was okay because there was nothing Josie could do at this moment.

  Josie kept her voice level. As controlled as she could make it, considering that her heart was now running a four-minute mile. “Dougie.” She drew a deep breath. “Whatever it is, we can figure it out. Just put the knife down, and let us go.”

  The knife made another swing. “It’s not about me!” he repeated, breath ragged.

  She watched him, calculating. She wasn’t about to go down without a fight. Helen might be helpless right now, but Josie wasn’t.

  “If it’s not about you, then who—”

  Suddenly, she knew who it was about.

  It was something to him.

  Dougie was beyond prosecution, even though he’d been keeping a secret for years about Bea Ryder’s death. She’d bet he’d always known that.

  But it wasn’t Dougie’s own secret he’d been protecting.

  It wasn’t Rick Steuben’s, or Rick Steuben’s father’s, either.

  Dougie had been protecting his own father. Alden Brewster.

  She had to be right. No one else had this kind of hold on Dougie, emotional, financial, or otherwise. And that meant that Rick had killed Lyndon to cover up a secret that wasn’t even true.

  “Your father killed Bea Ryder, didn’t he? It wasn’t Richard Steuben who’d beaten his wife, leaving bruises that only Bea saw when she fitted a dress. It was your father.” Josie’s mind raced with possibilities, but she could think of only one right now that made sense. “Mrs. Steuben and your father were having an affair, and it went sour, got physical?”

  Dougie stood stock-still. Only his jaw quivered.

  She’d hit her mark. “And when your father found out that Bea blamed Richard Steuben and was planning to go to the police, he killed her. Because even if Bea wasn’t right about who had hurt Mrs. Steuben, an investigation could very well reveal the truth. And your father couldn’t have that. Somehow you found out, and he made you keep his secret all those years.”

  “Shut. Up,” Dougie said through clenched teeth. He held up the knife in front of him.

  But Josie couldn’t stop until she’d said it all. “Once Bea was dead, Mrs. Steuben was afraid to tell the truth. Afraid of what her husband might do. Afraid of what she knew your father was capable of. And she took the secret to her own grave.”

  Josie didn’t know if she had it all worked out correctly, but it was close enough. Dougie stared at her. She stared back, waiting, her hand in her pants pocket.

  A split second after Dougie lunged, Josie threw Bea’s knitted doily and hit him square in the face. He jumped, and the knife dropped from his hand. The doily was too light, too small to do any damage, but it distracted him long enough for Josie to roll up hard against his legs and knock him off balance. He fell to the floor, breath pouring out of him in a loud whoosh.

  Josie reached for the knife and quickly stood over Dougie. She gave him a solid kick in his bad knee, and he sucked in a sharp breath, then began to whimper. Could she stab him if she had to? The thought sickened her—she could almost hear that knife cutting into flesh, like a scene from Psycho—but she’d do it to save Helen or herself.

  It turned out she didn’t have to make that choice.

  “Hands up!” a woman’s voice barked. “Drop the weapon.”

  Josie complied and turned around slowly. Gratitude and relief washed over her.

  Officers Coogan and Denton stood just inside the doorway, guns
drawn.

  Sharla gave a nod to Denton, who headed toward Dougie. Brewster was still groaning in pain but, wuss that he was, just lay there, defeated. Denton pulled a pair of cuffs from his belt and snapped them on Dougie’s wrists, then manhandled him to his feet. “Come along, Mr. Mayor.” Denton propelled him toward the doorway. “You’re going to have a hard time explaining this to your constituents.”

  “Stay here,” Sharla ordered. “I’ll be back once we get Dougie loaded and secured in the squad car. Is that Helen? Check on her if you’re all right yourself.” Sharla followed behind Denton.

  Josie didn’t need to be told to check on Helen. She brushed the dirt from her hands onto her jeans—they were probably so filthy now, a little more wouldn’t matter. “Helen? It’s over.”

  She pulled the gag from Helen’s mouth and threw it to the floor. “Oh, Helen! Did he hurt you?” Josie began to work at the knot securing Helen’s left wrist to the chair.

  “I—I’m okay,” Helen rasped. “I need a drink.”

  Josie pulled one end of the rope free, then began to unwind it. “I’d say you deserve a whole bottle of Chardonnay, after what you’ve been through.” When the rope had enough slack, Helen pulled her hand free, then began to flex it.

  Josie freed Helen’s other wrist, then unbound her legs. “Can you stand? Have you been here this whole time?”

  “Just let me lean on you, Josie.” Helen took Josie’s hand, then rose. Josie put her arm around her friend’s waist. “I’m not sure how long it’s been. A few hours, I think.” She swallowed. “I was up in the Lair, and he grabbed me, then dragged me down three flights of stairs.”

  “But why?” Helen’s knees buckled slightly, and Josie held on tighter to keep her upright. “Do you want to sit down until Sharla comes back?” Josie wondered what it would take to put out a hit on Dougie in his future home in prison for having hurt her friend, but reconsidered. She didn’t have that kind of money. Hopefully the sentence for kidnapping was a long one. And maybe the police could come up with some other charges against him. Attempted murder would be nice. He had pulled a knife on her.

  “I’ll stand,” Helen said, determined. “And to answer your question, when Dougie found out about the doily, he assumed that Bea had told me everything before she was killed. He’d been following me, and when he saw me go into this building, he grabbed me. He asked a bunch of questions about Bea, and about Francine Steuben, then left for a while and came back. He forced me to call you, knowing you’d come when I asked.”

  Josie frowned. It looked good in the movies when the villain put both his victims in the same room and confessed, but she had a feeling that didn’t happen in real life. Why wouldn’t he have killed Helen as soon as he took her? Why go to all the trouble of tying her up? Helen was surprisingly calm right now, but she might have been in shock. The question was hardly something she could ask her friend.

  “I think,” Helen said, standing up a little straighter, and unwittingly answering Josie’s unspoken question, “he never planned to kill me—or you—violently, even though he had that knife. He was always spineless.”

  “I sort of got that impression. Let me see your wrist.”

  Helen held one out. The delicate skin was raw from the ropes. Josie felt a fresh flare of anger. “We need to get you to a doctor. What do you think he planned to do with us, then?”

  Helen paused. “I think . . . I think he planned to lock the door and leave us here.” She cleared her throat. “To die.”

  Before Josie could respond, Sharla returned. “All set. He’s on his way to the lockup.” She strode over to them, hesitated, then threw her arms around both women. Josie felt her heart swell. In the few months she’d been back in Dorset Falls, she’d made friends. Real friends.

  Sharla stepped back and put on her cop face once again. “Are either of you hurt? It’s procedure to call an ambulance in a situation like this—not that Dorset Falls has had a situation like this, probably ever. We’ve certainly never made this many arrests in one day, as far as I know.”

  Helen shook her head. “I’ll be fine once I have a cup of tea and can get my hands on my knitting.” Before she came to Dorset Falls, Josie would not have understood what Helen meant about the knitting. But she’d seen the calming effect the rhythmic stitching produced. Tea and some yarn probably were all Helen needed.

  “And all I need is a shower,” Josie said. “There’s no statute of limitations on murder, right? You’re going to need to pick up Alden Brewster too. Dougie practically admitted to me that his father killed Bea Ryder all those years ago.”

  Sharla shook her head. “I can’t wait to hear the rest of this story. There’s hardly been a dull moment since you came to town, you know.”

  Josie wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing. “How did you know where to find us?”

  Sharla eyed Josie, then her lips turned up into a smile. “Diantha Humphries called me and said that she was checking the Charity Knitters table at the general store, and saw Dougie acting strange. She watched him put a chef’s knife into his briefcase, then followed him over here until he went inside. It took us a few minutes to find you,” she said, apologetic. “This is a good-sized building.”

  Josie felt her jaw drop open. “But I thought Diantha and Dougie were tight?”

  “I think,” Helen said thoughtfully, “they’re not tight so much as she wants Douglas Brewster’s job. He’ll have to resign as mayor over this, and there’ll be a special election. This time, Alden Brewster won’t be pulling the strings. I’ll bet you a couple of skeins of that new opossum-blend yarn you have in the shop that her name will be on the ballot.”

  “Come and get the yarn anytime, Helen. Why wait for the election? That’s a bet I know I’ll lose.” Josie turned to Sharla. “Alden Brewster will have to tell you where Bea’s body is buried, won’t he?”

  Sharla nodded. “I’m sure that will come out. But you should know there’s a chance he’ll never see prison time. He’s well into his eighties. The judge might sentence him to house arrest with an ankle monitor or something.”

  Josie could understand that Alden might be too old to go into the general prison population, but it would hardly be fair if he got to live out the rest of his days in his million-dollar lake house. She shook it off. Nothing she could do about that.

  Sharla eyed her. “Do you have any ideas about where Bea’s body is buried? You’re awfully good at figuring things out. You must have gotten the same puzzle-solving gene your uncle has.”

  Bea’s body. It was the last piece of this particular puzzle. “Well, I had thought she might be somewhere on her own property. And I still think that’s a possibility. But now, knowing that Alden Brewster killed her, I’m wondering if she might be out on his Lake Warren property somewhere. That place is huge, and there’s a special driveway that goes through the woods. She could even be in the lake.”

  Sharla frowned. “If that’s the case, we’ll probably never find remains.”

  Helen’s face, which was always pale, went even whiter. She let out a small cry.

  Josie reached for her. “Do you need to sit back down for a minute? I’ve been so insensitive, talking away while you should be resting.”

  “No, I’m fine. I can rest later.” Josie and Sharla exchanged looks over Helen’s head. “I think . . . I think I know where Bea might be.”

  “Where’s that?” Josie’s skin tingled. Had Helen had the answer all along?

  Helen looked around the damp stone walls of the basement. “I couldn’t have known. Not until the truth came out. So I shouldn’t feel guilty, right? But I do, a little.”

  “Helen,” Sharla said firmly. “You have nothing—nothing—to feel guilty about. Now where do you think Bea could be?”

  Helen drew a deep breath. “I think she could be right here. Under this dirt floor. Or maybe in the other basement room we came through. Dougie probably thought it was fitting to bring you and me here to die, Josie. Sick, poetic justice.”

>   “What?” Josie said. “Why?”

  Helen looked Josie in the eye. “Do you know who I bought this building from, twenty years ago?”

  Helen’s question took only a moment to register. There was only one possible answer.

  “Alden Brewster,” Josie and Sharla said together.

  “Let’s get you out of here,” Josie said. “And let Evelyn and everyone else know you’re all right.”

  Epilogue

  “The sign looks great, Harry.” Josie put a hand to her brow to shade her eyes from the bright early spring sun. NUTMEG ANTIQUES & CURIOSITIES was carved into the sign over the shop door, each letter painted in gilt so it gleamed. A removable banner underneath it announced GRAND OPENING.

  Harry smiled, but his eyes were misty. “I just wish Lyndon were here. This was his dream, to move back to his hometown.”

  Evelyn reached out and patted his sleeve. “Now, now. It’s time to look to the future. I’m sure he would have wanted that. And you’ve put a lovely picture of him in the front window.”

  “This business is just what Dorset Falls needs to bring in the tourists,” Mitch said.

  “You’re right, of course,” Harry said. “Opening the shop on schedule is the best way to honor Lyndon’s memory. Thank God there’ll be no television show. I never wanted that in the first place.”

  Last Josie had heard, Kai Norton had gone back to California, and Taylor had gone back to her job in Mystic. Taylor would eventually inherit her uncle’s personal belongings and accounts, but there was still a lot to sort through. Lyndon’s copy of the partnership agreement, which Taylor had wanted and which Harry had also been looking for at the Gray Lady when Josie found him upstairs just after the murder, hadn’t turned up yet. But Harry was able to retrieve his own copy from his apartment in Wethersfield. It proved that the antique business was all Harry’s.