by Anne Canadeo
“I don’t get it. Why does he need money if he’s got enough to loan it out?” Suzanne was confused.
“Good question,” Lucy replied. “I didn’t get it at first either. But you have to figure that even a compulsive gambler like Sutton is winning some of the time. Instead of using his extra cash to pay his debts to bookies and the like, he’s using it to make even more money by handing out short-term loans at sky-high interest rates. Probably hoping he can make enough from the loans to pay his debts down faster. Before the shady types he’s dealing with lose patience with him.”
“That’s right, Lucy. That’s pretty much his scheme, and his sideline worked for a while. But Jack says that the real professionals in that business don’t like freelancers. They not only closed his shop, but must be pressing him for the profits he stole from their business.”
“Scary,” Phoebe said. “That’s like serious organized crime you see in the movies.”
“Serious enough to leave him with one arm in a sling and walking with a cane at the memorial service,” Dana pointed out.
“When I saw him at our office last week, he was bandage free,” Suzanne recalled.
“How do Jack’s police friends know all this?” Lucy asked.
“They talk. Someone who works in Sutton’s restaurant was brought in for using stolen credit cards, so he traded information about Sutton for a lesser charge.”
“So now the police are after Sutton, too, for loansharking?” Maggie asked.
“They could be. But it’s hard to prove. His customers are reluctant to come forward and make formal complaints.” Dana spread her knitting across her lap.
“Understandably.” Suzanne wondered how this information could help her. She looked at Lucy, gazing into space, her knitting hanging slack in her hands. Suzanne could practically hear the wheels turning.
“So, desperate to save his skin, Sutton went to Liza for help, but she wasn’t in the office,” Lucy began. “Maybe he eventually found her, but she refused to help him. So he can’t pay his debt and gets beat up, as a warning. He thinks his goose is cooked, but he figures out how to kill Liza and blame Suzanne. By Friday morning, Liza is dead. They’re not officially divorced, so he makes a claim on her estate, thinking he’s saved.”
“Wow, Lucy. That was impressive.” Suzanne sat up and nearly clapped.
“When was Liza’s car vandalized? Do you remember, Suzanne?” Maggie had come out from behind the counter and stood by Suzanne’s chair. “Ruth talked about it and said Liza was unduly upset, and we think we know why.”
Suzanne thought back. “I think it was Thursday morning, the day she died. The police would love to tie me to that car damage. But that’s one piece of their argument that doesn’t fit. Her car was vandalized sometime between eight-thirty and ten. I didn’t get back to town until one.”
“This might help, too.” Lucy reached into her knitting bag. “We found it last night. It’s a note that may have been on her car. I think it’s from Sutton.”
Lucy handed Suzanne the plastic bag and she read the letter out loud. “‘Keep your mouth shut or you’ll be sorry. Think of Emma.’ ” Suzanne looked up. “What did he want her to keep her mouth shut about?”
Lucy shrugged. “Maybe he threatened her about giving him money and she was going to tell the police? Or maybe he told her the real reason he needed the money but knew if she told anyone, he’d be in even more hot water.”
“So you think Sutton vandalized her car to scare her into helping him?”
“I think it fits.” Lucy nodded. “When she still wouldn’t give in, he put Plan B into action.”
“Kill Liza and frame me,” Suzanne said.
“That part was trickier,” Dana conceded. “He could have known about the allergy and even the office rivalry. And could have gained access somehow to plant the drink. He knows people with questionable skill sets.”
“But how about the computer files? I can’t see him going that far into the weeds. Though he could have hired someone to do that for him.” Maggie had set up her yarn swift on the table and fitted a skein of yarn on the contraption. Suzanne could tell that Maggie wasn’t convinced.
Phoebe was still behind the counter, working on her laptop. Suzanne wasn’t even sure she’d been listening. Phoebe suddenly looked up and glanced around at her friends.
“I know Sutton is totally shady and pathetic, and he would probably kill his own granny for five bucks. But something about this theory doesn’t work for me, sadly.”
Lucy turned to her. “What is that, Phoebe?”
“Well . . . last I heard, Mafia hit men don’t go around poisoning people with diet drinks. They have more direct methods.”
Lucy seemed unhappy that her theory had been challenged. “Wait a second. A Soviet spy was killed not too long ago with a piece of poisoned sushi. It was all over the news. You can’t be more professional than the KGB.”
Suzanne was unhappy to see a hole poked in Lucy’s theory, too, but Phoebe had a point. “Sorry, Lucy. As much as we want to believe Sutton did it, it doesn’t quite fit. Like those thousand-dollar designer shoes that are half price, and then another twenty per cent off with a coupon. But when you try them on, your toes fold in half? You want to buy them so bad, but you’ve got to leave them.”
Phoebe leaned over the counter. “You’d really pay four hundred dollars for a pair of shoes?”
“Nice math, Phoebe. But what if Sutton had help. Maybe even someone in the office,” Dana said.
Suzanne had wondered about that, too, and was about to speculate aloud about his possible inside man . . . or woman, when Lucy waved the plastic bag that contained the note.
“I still think the police need to see this. Maybe Sutton didn’t leave it. Maybe Liza was being threatened by someone else, who isn’t even on our radar. But a note like this could lead to her murderer.”
Suzanne tried not to bite on the tempting nugget of optimism. She didn’t want to get hopeful again and disappointed later. “Where did you get it? Ruth Devereaux?”
Maggie and Lucy exchanged glances. “Not exactly,” Maggie said. Suzanne could see she felt self-conscious about explaining how it had all come about. “We were talking to her for a while, about how we were sure that you’re innocent. She said she wanted to help find the real killer. So she gave us a key to her house, where Liza and Kira have been living. She told us we were free to go there and look around, in case the police missed something.”
“It was all her idea, honestly,” Lucy added quickly.
“It was?” Dana blinked with surprise. “And you went there last night?”
Lucy nodded, her stitching speeding up a bit, Suzanne noticed. “It seemed a wild goose chase and we were about to leave. But we found that note and a key to a safety deposit box hidden behind a picture frame.”
Maggie fitted another skein on the wooden arms and tightened the apparatus to the table. “Kira was supposed to be in Maine. Or we would have never gone inside. But she came home earlier than Ruth expected and had a fit when she found us there. Not that I blame her one bit.”
“The house is still in Ruth’s name.” Lucy sounded as if someone was arguing with her. “It’s her property and she gave us permission. Kira didn’t see it that way.”
Dana still looked shocked by the story. “You’re lucky she didn’t call the police when she saw the lights on and knew someone was inside.”
“We are lucky. But she must have realized burglars usually don’t drive around in a dumpy Subaru with a bumper sticker that says, ‘I’d rather be knitting,’ ” Lucy pointed out.
Suzanne was surprised by the story, too, and felt genuinely grateful. “Wow, you guys really go the limit. I can’t believe you went to all that trouble for me. What did Kira say about the note? Did she have any idea who wrote it?”
Lucy winced. “I forgot to show it to her. She was making such a fuss, all we could think of was getting out of there.”
Dana started knitting again. “Maybe that was for the best. She m
ight have held on to it. It sounds like she thinks Suzanne is guilty and she may not want the police to look further.”
“Good point. I didn’t think of that.” Suzanne turned to Maggie. “Can you pass it to Charles?”
“I’m sorry, Suzanne, but I doubt that would work out.” Maggie’s gaze was fixed on the yarn swift.
Suzanne didn’t like the sound of her reply. “I hope you didn’t have a fight with him about my . . . situation. I know it’s nothing personal. He’s just doing his job. Though, he could do it a little differently, from my perspective.”
Maggie looked up but didn’t answer.
“I think you should give it to your attorney,” Dana said. “Let her bring it to the police. She can say it’s from a source who wants to remain anonymous right now, for their own safety. The threat is enough to raise questions. Reasonable doubt and all that?”
“Good idea, Dana. But please don’t use any courtroom talk. I’m not ready for that. And I’d look like a pumpkin in an orange jumpsuit.”
Dana looked sorry for the slip. “It will never come to that. Please don’t worry.”
Maggie was gathering up the balls of yarn she’d rolled with the swift. Suzanne guessed a class was starting soon. “I agree. Don’t fret. It will never come to orange outfits. Give that note to your attorney. She’ll know what to do. Tell her we’ll sign a statement if she wants our word on how and where we found it.”
“I’m good with that plan, too. Though happy to remain an anonymous source for now.” Lucy handed her the note and Suzanne slipped the plastic bag into her purse.
Was this slip of paper her golden ticket? Was it enough to send the police looking in a new direction?
Two women walked into the shop, both in their thirties and dressed in leggings and big tunic tops that stretched to cover pregnant bellies. Maggie greeted them cheerfully. She stood up, holding the basket filled with pastel balls of yarn.
“I’m almost ready. Please take a seat at the table in the back. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“What to Knit When You’re Expecting?” Lucy asked, naming a popular class.
“That’s right. The project is a simple hat, but I’m going to tell them about our charity goal and see if anyone wants to help.” She started toward the back of the shop. “I think they’ll be sympathetic to the cause.”
Suzanne had to agree. Motherhood was definitely a wide and level playing field. Once you were a member you felt a bond with mothers of all kinds, no matter how different the women were from you.
As Maggie got busy with her class, her friends headed off to start their workday. Suzanne wished she was going to her office, too. She promised herself she wouldn’t procrastinate, or worry, but would do some real work once she got home.
She walked outside with Lucy and Dana, accepting their hugs and words of encouragement as they were about to part.
Lucy’s dogs had been waiting on the porch and she held the leashes short once she untied them, to keep the friendly canines from shedding on everyone’s clothes. “When are you going to talk to Helen about the note?” she asked.
“I’m going to her office right now. This could be important.”
“Good luck, Suzanne. I hope it shakes the police up a bit. They know you have a solid alibi for the car vandalism.” Dana met her gaze with a serious expression.
Suzanne felt excited and anxious, too. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, but the note was a new development. Maybe Helen could spin it just the right way? Pushing the police to look for new leads?
She drove down Main Street toward Helen’s office, which was near the harbor, taking deep breaths to settle her nerves. A white car pulled out from a space without warning and Suzanne hit the brakes just in time. She glanced at the license plate and a lump jumped into her throat.
It was Liza’s car. Suzanne could tell from the license plates. AMEYMOXI. The car suddenly slowed and pulled into a parking spot. Suzanne glanced into the car as she passed by. She saw Kira behind the wheel and Emma in back, in a big car seat.
The sight of Kira at the wheel of Liza’s car was totally unnerving. The only difference between them was the way they dressed and Kira’s shaggy haircut. But today Liza’s twin wore a plain tan raincoat and had tied her hair back, as Liza often did. Suzanne felt as if she’d just seen a ghost.
* * *
Maggie called Charles around noon, but he didn’t call her back. It was not a good sign. Even if he was totally overwhelmed with a case, he always managed to send a text or two.
She didn’t feel good about his silence, and a few times during the day, considered trying again.
But by closing time, she had not made another call to him or even sent a text message. As she straightened up the shop and closed out the cash register, she thought of him again and felt sad and uneasy. But there didn’t seem to be anything she could do. Or should do. If he wanted to keep his distance during this investigation, maybe that was the best route right now. She’d live with it and try to sort things out later—when Liza’s real killer was found and Suzanne’s name was cleared.
A heavy knock on the shop door broke the spell of her rambling thoughts. She’d already turned the sign to SORRY, RESTING OUR NEEDLES. COME BACK SOON! But it could have been a customer. Some got very desperate when they’d planned a night of knitting and had run out of the yarn they needed.
“Coming, one minute,” she called out.
Her expression set in what her friends called her “shopkeeper’s face,” Maggie opened the door to find Charles. She felt a catch in her breath.
“It’s you. Come in. I’m glad you stopped by. I called you this morning. Maybe you didn’t get the message.”
Already giving him excuses? He’s the one who should be explaining, she reminded herself.
“Hello, Maggie. I saw the light on. I need to talk to you.”
Charles walked in, his hands jammed into the pockets of his long, loose raincoat. He wore a hat with a brim, a brown canvas fedora with a leather band, the type men seldom wore these days. She called it his detective’s hat, though never out loud. It made his features look sharper and his expression even more serious. His dark eyes peered out at her from under the brim.
Being well mannered, a trait Maggie valued, he always took his hat off indoors. But tonight, he kept it on. That did not bode well.
He stared down at her. “You and Lucy broke into the Devereaux house? What in the world were you thinking?!”
He wasn’t yelling. Exactly. But his words had the same effect. Maggie took a step back, alarmed. “It was Ruth Devereaux’s suggestion. Her name is still on the deed. She gave us the key and permission to go inside.”
She nearly added, “. . . and look around.” But caught herself. The detail would not help.
“Ruth Devereaux is an old, possibly senile woman in a nursing home. Overcome by the loss of her daughter. Do you really believe she’s capable of a rational decision about such a thing?”
“She is grieving,” Maggie conceded. “But she seemed very sharp otherwise. And it’s assisted living. Not a nursing home. That’s very different.”
Charles pulled off his hat and tossed it on the counter. A gesture of frustration more than etiquette, she realized.
“Don’t quibble with me, Maggie. That is not the point and you know it.”
She bowed her head and nodded. “I do. And I get your point, honestly. But we didn’t feel as if we were trespassing.” Maybe a little, she thought, recalling her pangs of conscience. But he didn’t need to know that. “We certainly didn’t break in. I don’t know who told you that.”
“Kira Devereaux. She made a full report. You and your pal came this close to being picked up and charged with breaking and entering.” He formed his index finger and thumb into a tiny pinch of space. “A lot of crooks get their hands on house keys. That doesn’t make it all right, or lawful, to enter private property.”
She hadn’t thought of that. It was probably true. She persisted pleading he
r case. “Ruth promised to call Kira and let her know. And she told us that Kira was away. We thought the house was empty. We would have never gone in otherwise.”
He stared at her a moment. Then looked down and shook his head. When he looked up again, he was yelling. “I don’t know why you went in at all—No, I do know. That’s what makes me so frustrated. After I’ve asked you time and again to stay out of police business. You just won’t respect my wishes.”
Wishes? More like orders, she wanted to say. But knew that was the wrong direction to take.
“I do consider your feelings, Charles. I don’t mean to disrespect you, honestly. But this time is different. It’s about Suzanne, and I’m so torn, weighing one priority against the other.”
He didn’t answer for a moment. She hoped her honest admission had softened his anger, just a bit?
Then he said, “I can see where I come in. Second place, at best. I just don’t know, Maggie. I just don’t know—”
“What don’t you know?” she cut in.
“I would take myself off this case, the way you asked me to. But I can see now you still wouldn’t let it go. You and your friends would keep snooping around and compromising the investigation. I’d be the dupe, sitting it out on the sidelines.”
Maggie wanted to tell him he was wrong. That’s not how it would go. But the words wouldn’t come. She knew in her heart he was right. She and her friends wouldn’t give up until the real culprit was found and Suzanne was shown to be innocent.
“It’s hard not to help Suzanne. I’ve never seen her like this. She’s so upset. Ashamed to even show her face in town.”
She could tell from his reaction her bid for sympathy had backfired. “That’s how guilty people act, Maggie. Apparently you don’t know as much about this business as you think you do.”
His cold comment made her angry. Not the slight to her. That didn’t matter. But the insinuation about Suzanne. That was the part she could not abide.
“Suzanne is totally and completely innocent. I know enough to guarantee that the police department will be very embarrassed when it turns out that the professional investigators on this case didn’t even entertain the theory that she’s been framed by bits and pieces of circumstantial evidence.”