A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) (21 page)

“The Knit Kats make a statement. We open minds. Real art takes courage. Real art is radical, Healey. It challenges the status quo. But you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“That’s quite enough. You have no idea of what I know or—”

“Did you know that your sweet little Charlotte was a Knit Kat? Dressed in costume, a mask, and devised her own—what did you call it?—comic-book identity?”

Phoebe sucked in a sharp breath. Charlotte had been a Knit Kat? Why didn’t she just tell me? She knew I thought it was cool. At the time.

Professor Healey’s voice shouted back, drowning out her rambling thoughts. “That’s a lie! Why would she do a stupid thing like that? You’re just saying that to—”

Professor Finch’s braying laugh made it hard to hear him again. “Oh, to see your face . . . priceless. Yes, I know it’s hard to hear someone so dear has deceived you. It’s a blow. Cuts like a hot blade, right to the heart,” she added, her voice dripping fake sympathy.

“You’re vile . . . a vile, wicked woman. I hope the police put you behind bars for—”

Healey was saying more, but Finch shouted over him. “And you are a petty, pompous, soulless slug, Healey. With an epic ego and zero imagination. A very bad combination. My husband had more talent and artistic spirit in his little toe than you do in your entire—”

“Are you quite done?” he shouted. “Or do I need to have you dragged out of here kicking and screaming? You’d love that, wouldn’t you? More drama and attention. Providing another fine endorsement of Whitaker on the evening news!”

It was suddenly quiet. Phoebe thought she could hear someone breathing heavily, exhausted from the emotional explosion, then realized the sound might have been her own
breath. Her heart was pounding, and her legs were weak as water. She suddenly noticed she’d come to her feet, her back plastered flat to the wall.

One or both of them were going to come out of the office any second now, and she didn’t want them to know she’d been sitting here and had heard every word of their argument.

Phoebe grabbed her big bag and slipped lightly down the hallway, then turned at the next corridor. She quickly ran to the metal door at the end of the hallway and opened it.

She suddenly found herself in the gallery. Sun streamed through the long, tall windows that covered one wall, the pure winter light bouncing off the white walls, ceiling, and floor.

She took a few deep breaths to calm her nerves. Was security really going to drag Professor Finch out of her office and off the campus? Phoebe wasn’t sure why, but she felt sorry for Professor Finch. But Healey had been right. There was something pathetic about a middle-aged woman who ran around in a costume with this make-believe Knit Kat identity.

The gallery was empty, and she wandered a moment, looking at the artwork, then found herself in Charlotte’s section. Her work was so good, Phoebe felt a twang of envy, but pride, too.

The last few days she’d had to wonder if she really knew Charlotte as well as she thought she did. Charlotte had some heavy stuff going on that she’d never talked about. Why else would she run away or have a big stash of money in her locker?

Was there some clue in Charlotte’s artwork about this whole stupid mess? Some sign of where she’d gone? Phoebe studied each piece carefully, looking for a message. Maybe something Charlotte didn’t even realize she’d revealed?

She was standing in front of the sculpture called
Date Night
, gazing at the gag around the mannequin’s mouth, when she heard quick light footsteps coming closer. She turned to see Professor Healey’s wife, Gena, walking through the gallery.

It took a minute to recognize her. She looked like another student from a distance. The outfit helped—a short down jacket, jeans, tall brown boots, and a pale peach-colored scarf slung around her neck, a delicate, knitted-lace pattern that caught Phoebe’s eye. She was pulling it off, even the trendy accessories. She was younger than Professor Healey. That helped.

Phoebe had heard she’d been his grad assistant or something and they’d had this wild thing. And he left his first wife for her. Gena had also taught in the department. But now that they had kids, two little boys, she was staying home to do the Mom routine for a while.

She seemed really focused and hardly noticed Phoebe as she strode past. Phoebe wasn’t sure whether or not to bother her, then just blurted out a greeting.

“Hey, Mrs. Healey.”

Gena turned toward her, looking surprised, then smiled politely. “Oh, hello . . . It’s Phoebe, right?”

She looked eager to get the name right. She probably met so many of her husband’s students, it was hard to keep them all straight.

“Yeah . . . that’s right. We met at the opening. Hard to believe it wasn’t even a week ago.”

“Yes, I know.” Her expression turned serious again. She shook her head regretfully, pushing back her glossy hair with her hand. “It’s so awful about that poor girl who was killed.
And about Charlotte Blackburn . . . I hope the police find her soon, and she’s all right.”

“I do, too,” Phoebe said quietly.

“It’s caused quite a commotion here. Professor Healey has his hands full,” she confided.

“Oh, I bet.” Phoebe nodded again, thinking about the wild argument she’d just overheard.

Then suddenly she wondered if Mrs. Healey had seen her on TV, too, the night the police had come to search her apartment. If she had, she was polite enough not to say.

“Have you seen Professor Healey? He won’t pick up his phone. I was just heading for his office.”

Phoebe wasn’t sure what to say. She didn’t want to lie . . . but didn’t want anyone to know she’d been outside his office a few minutes ago, eavesdropping.

“I think he’s around,” she said vaguely. “I don’t think he’s teaching a class right now.”

“Thanks.” Gena smiled briefly. “I’ll run and catch him. He’s a fast-moving target these days,” she joked. “Nice to see you again.”

“Same here.” Phoebe turned to watch her go. She moved with a fast, swinging gait. She looked very fit, as if she worked out a lot. The opposite of her husband, who was getting that middle-aged doughy look, Phoebe thought. Though some of the girls she knew thought he was hot.

She liked guys her own age. She didn’t have a Daddy thing.

She walked toward the front entrance of the gallery and out to the campus. The campus seemed quiet, the sun slipping in and out from behind puffy clouds. It seemed colder out now, and Phoebe flipped up the collar of her coat.

No sign of Professor Finch, or any security cars outside the building. No TV crews, either. She sort of doubted that Professor Healey had gotten his way. For all his bluster.

Professor Finch was one tough bird. No doubt about it. Phoebe had no idea if she was involved in Beth’s murder or not. She was swaying mostly toward a vote of “not involved” right now. Even though Professor Finch was a Knit Kat.

But she and Charlotte must have been closer than either of them had ever let on—if Charlotte had really been a Knit Kat. Had Professor Finch just said that to get under Healey’s skin? She definitely knew how to push his buttons.

Something deep in Phoebe’s gut told her it was true. She wasn’t sure how she knew, she just did. Charlotte had been a Knit Kat and had dropped out of the group. Maybe it was her picture that had been X-ed out on the website.

She felt shocked and hurt. Maybe Professor Healey felt that way a little, too. Charlotte was sort of his pet. But she still didn’t feel that angry at her friend. If Charlotte was going to so much trouble now to hide, she must have a very good reason and, like Maggie said, maybe telling all this stuff would have been really stupid-dangerous for her. Maybe even for me, Phoebe realized.

Nah, she wasn’t mad at Charlotte. She just wanted to know where she’d gone . . . and if she was safe.

As she walked across the parking lot toward her car, she heard someone shouting her name.

“Phoebe! Hey . . . wait up . . .”

She looked across the lot and saw Quentin Gibbs. He wasn’t on his motorcycle, just on foot, and he began running toward her.

Phoebe froze for a moment, then made a dash for her car. When Quentin realized she was trying to get away, he put on the speed and came toward her even faster.

“Hey . . . give me a break, man . . . I just want to flipping talk to you . . .”

He shouted a few expletives that did not persuade Phoebe to stay and chat with him. In fact, his angry shouts only made her more frightened, and her hands shook as she clicked open her car door and jumped in.

She immediately hit the lock button and started the engine. Her car was old and finicky and sometimes didn’t turn over at the first try. Especially in cold weather. She jiggled the key and tried again. Quentin got nearer, his angry red face shouting at her, barely muffled by her car windows.

He waved his fists in the air, his leather jacket flapping like big dark wings. He had reached the car and banged his fist on the front hood.

“Hey! I’m
talking
to you! Don’t you blow me off like this . . . you scrawny little . . .”

The engine turned over. Phoebe shifted into reverse and hit the gas, speeding backward. Quentin lurched forward but caught his balance without falling down. He stumbled around the parking space a minute while she put the car in drive and raced out of the lot, hitting speed bump after speed bump that made her teeth rattle and her head hit the upholstered roof of the car.

Quentin chased her on foot a few seconds, then gave up. Phoebe saw his face, full of rage, in the rearview mirror.

Then stared straight ahead as she drove back to the village.

Why
did I go back to school today?

Phoebe couldn’t remember.

*  *  *

Fridays could be busy in the shop. Sometimes as busy as Saturdays. Maggie had never been able to figure out why. She taught a class on Friday, too. She tried to schedule the classes around Phoebe’s schedule at school, but that didn’t always work out. Phoebe had gone to school today, and it was hard to teach, help students one-on-one with their work, and keep an eye on customers.

Finally, around noon, the store magically emptied out. Maggie sat at the stool behind the counter and took a deep breath and then checked the day’s receipts to see how she was doing and catch up on the inventory book. The lull would not last very long, but she cherished the little slice of downtime.

She wondered how Phoebe had managed today at school. She hoped no one had confronted her about her apartment being searched or being questioned by the police. Maybe people would be a little kinder than to bother her, or were more interested in the fate of Sonya Finch now and her connection to the murder.

Not that Maggie wished Sonya Finch any ill will—well, not unless she was the murderer—but now that the police had focused on the professor, Maggie hoped they would cross Phoebe off their list.

But like a wise man once said, “It ain’t over till it’s over.” Maggie had a feeling there were many more threads to unravel before this story was done.

She realized later that it was funny she’d had that thought
just at the moment Detective Mossbacher walked into the shop. She looked up from a new knitting pattern she was studying and slipped off her glasses. He smiled at her briefly and removed his hat.

“Mrs. Messina, how are you today?”

“I can’t complain, Detective. What brings you this way?” She tried to hide an edgy note but wasn’t very successful.

He lifted his hands, a universal sign of harmlessness. “Just wandering around town. I have a question for you, actually. I thought you might be able to help us. Being a . . . What did they call you on the news? A knitting expert?”

Maggie’s mouth puckered a moment, as if she’d bit into a lemon. “Needlework expert, actually. And I don’t claim to be either. Though I do know my fair share.”

“Your fair share is plenty.” He had a pleasant smile, she noticed, even white teeth, and smooth skin for a man his age . . . which was about her age, she guessed. He looked fit, as if he kept himself in shape. But law officers usually did.

“So . . . what’s your question?” She tilted her head to one side, curious now.

“I have some photos. We have people looking at them back at the station. But I wondered if you’d take a look, too, and give us your opinion.” He was carrying a manila envelope and took out a few sheets of slick photo paper.

She didn’t even realize she was shrinking back until he glanced up at her. “Don’t worry. It’s not from the murder scene.”

She wouldn’t see the victim, he meant. Thank goodness. She put her glasses on again and looked down at the pictures, three close-ups of knitted patches. The strands were many
different types of yarn. Sometimes doubled and sometimes single. Cut and tied, a few rows in a thick weight, the next in a very thin one, random and unpredictable, with many long snipped strands hanging down here and there, like crazy sorts of tassels or fringe.

“What am I looking at again?” she asked curiously.

“I didn’t say.” He gave her a look, as if she’d been trying to trick him into explaining. “And if I told you, it would ruin everything. This is sort of a blind test. Just knitting samples. That’s all you need to know. What can you tell me? Anything that comes to mind.”

A blind test? Like in a food commercial? Was she supposed to pick the new and improved brand as opposed to the standard favorite? Maggie smiled, snapping her mind back to the task at hand.

“Oh, well . . . okay.” She looked back down at the photos. “Well . . . all the photos are fairly typical of pieces of fiber art. That’s all about mixing texture and color, with abstract patterns emerging from the random blend.”

“The Knit Kats, they call themselves fiber artists, right?”

Maggie nodded. “Yes, they do. This is very similar to the type of wrapping they’ve used on big projects. Like covering a statue. But you must know that by now.”

He nodded. “Do you think the same person could have done all this knitting?”

“Hard to say. But knitters do have characteristic styles. You can give five people in a class the same pattern, and each finished product will come out very different.”