A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) (22 page)

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, some people knit very tight stitches, some looser. Some
give the yarn a twist here and there. It’s almost like . . . handwriting. Though maybe not quite that distinctive,” she clarified. “I don’t know if it would hold up in a court of law,” she added playfully.

“Doesn’t have to. But it might help us. Go on.”

Detective Mossbacher’s expression didn’t change on his fairly deadpan police-officer face. But his dark eyes lit up a bit. As if this information was encouraging. “So what do you think of the photos?”

Maggie held the pictures up to give them a closer look. She felt Detective Mossbacher looking at her but didn’t meet his gaze. She put the pictures down and took off her glasses again.

“I don’t see many similarities. This one is consistently tight. This one is much looser. And this is sort of . . . in between. The person who knit this last one drops a lot of stitches. Maybe on purpose, to give the fiber art more texture? But maybe just because they’re a sloppy knitter. Three different knitters, I’d say.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can guess.”

He nodded. “No need to apologize. That was very helpful.”

Maggie nodded. She wasn’t sure if Detective Mossbacher cared at all what she really thought, beyond looking over this knitting. But she decided to share her opinion anyway.

“Frankly, Detective, I know that you have to explore every lead. But the Knit Kats being behind this crime doesn’t make sense to me. If I were going to murder someone, would I smother them with yarn?”

The detective’s large brown eyes grew wide, his mouth twisting in a surprised smile. “I don’t know, Mrs. Messina. You might use anything handy . . . and you have plenty of yarn around here.”

Maggie shook her head. His smile was . . . distracting.

“This is not a situation where a murderer grabbed anything handy. This attack was planned. Everyone knows I’m a knitter, so why be so obvious? I’d be much smarter to knock the victim out with a golf club . . . or a bowling ball. Because I don’t like either of those hobbies.”

“You don’t like bowling?” He seemed surprised—and to take it personally in some way. She gave him a puzzled look. But before she could comment he said, “I get your point. Of course, we’ve considered that someone might be trying to frame the Knit Kats, or Charlotte Blackburn. Or just staging a ploy to distract attention. But you said it yourself, we have to investigate all the possible scenarios and eliminate them, one by one.”

“I understand. Sorry to be telling you your business.”

He shrugged and smiled. “You aren’t the first person . . . and won’t be the last. I’ll tell Detective Reyes what you said about the photos. I’m sure she’ll be interested.”

The comment was flattering. “I’m happy to help. Anytime.”

He picked up the photos and stuck them back in the envelope, then put his hat back on, preparing to go.

“You have a very nice shop. Very comfortable. My wife would have liked this place. She liked to knit.”

Past tense. He was a widower. The expression in his eyes confirmed it. Maggie met his gaze a moment. “I’m sorry . . . How long has it been?”

“Two years, in April.”

“It’s hard,” she said sincerely. “I lost my husband, Bill, almost five years ago. That’s part of the reason I started this business. For something new to do. I was a high school art teacher before that.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” Her expression must have shown that she wasn’t sure how he meant that. “Everything is . . . eye-catching and artistic.”

“Thank you. We try. Phoebe is a big help. She’s very creative.” She paused, not knowing if she should say more. “You don’t really think Phoebe is mixed up in this, Detective . . . do you? I mean, she’s not seriously a suspect?”

Mossbacher looked put on the spot. He seemed about to answer, then pressed his lips together and stared at her. Finally, just when he was about to answer, the shop door flew open.

“Maggie . . . you won’t believe what just happened to me . . .”

Phoebe slumped forward, looking breathless, bedraggled, and quite dramatic. Maggie could tell she was about to launch into a long story . . . or would have, if Detective Mossbacher had not been there.

He turned and greeted Phoebe with a nod. “Hello, Phoebe. How are you doing?”

Phoebe pulled back and squared her shoulders, then stared him down. “Pretty awful, that’s how I’m doing. You . . . you went into my locker at school and took
all
my stuff—my sketchbook and . . . and everything. That’s not right. That’s not fair! . . . I didn’t even know!”

“Calm down. It’s all right . . .” He made a conciliatory gesture, then glanced at Maggie for support.

She quickly came out from behind the counter. “Oh dear, is that what happened? Your locker was searched?” She’d wondered about that when they’d heard from Dana last night that Charlotte’s locker at school had been searched. She’d guessed Phoebe’s would be, too.

“It was like . . . gutted. I didn’t even know . . .”

Detective Mossbacher looked contrite. “I’m sorry, you should have been told, Phoebe. That was an oversight. Technically, the locker is college property so you didn’t have to sign a warrant. I guess they gave the voucher to someone at the college.”

“And I won’t get anything back until you’re all done and the investigation is closed, right?”

“That’s pretty much the way it goes. It does depend a bit on what you want back. Ask your lawyer to contact the district attorney’s office and see if they’ll return the sketchbook and art supplies. If they don’t think it’s evidence in the case, they’ll probably give it back.”

Phoebe looked greatly relieved. Maggie felt grateful to him. “Thanks, Detective. That helps. Right, Phoebe?”

She nodded quickly. “My computer? . . . A hamster’s chance in Hades, right?”

“Sorry . . . you’ll have to wait on that.”

“Whatever . . .” Phoebe seemed mad and glum but was trying hard to hold her temper. “Are you guys watching my e-mails to see if Charlotte gets in touch?”

Whoa . . . now she’d gone a little far, Maggie thought. But he didn’t seem offended. More like mildly amused.

“Not personally. The FBI probably is. Your friend is wanted for questioning in a homicide.” He tugged his hat down over his brow. “Besides, Phoebe, we don’t need your computer to do that.”

Maggie sighed. How true. Even Google ogled e-mails to see what sort of advertising they should sic on you.

Phoebe just twisted her mouth to the side.

“Has there been any further sign of Charlotte?” Maggie couldn’t help asking, though she doubted she’d get a straight answer.

“Further than what?” He tilted his head to one side, looking curious about her answer.

Maggie suddenly remembered that the information Dana had passed on was not common knowledge and she really wasn’t supposed to know.

“We heard she bought a train ticket in New Jersey. And the train was headed to Baltimore. That’s all.” She shrugged. “It’s a knitting shop. I hear a lot of gossip. Almost as bad as a beauty salon,” she added.

He didn’t reply for a long moment, as if measuring his words. “We believe Ms. Blackburn has not come to any harm. I can’t tell you any more than that.”

He glanced at Phoebe, and she looked down at her boots. It suddenly occurred to Maggie that Detective Mossbacher might think Phoebe was in touch with Charlotte, by some super-secret means, and was keeping her apprised of the investigation.

“Well . . . that’s something, I guess,” Phoebe mumbled.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, though she hadn’t really thanked him. “So long, ladies. Have a good day.”

Thank goodness he left, Maggie thought. Phoebe was so feisty today. She nearly smart-talked her way back to the police station.

Maggie was about to tell Phoebe that, too, when she heard her assistant give out an unholy gasp just as the door closed behind Mossbacher.

“You won’t believe what I heard at school! . . . Charlotte was a Knit Kat!”

Maggie wasn’t surprised. “I suspected that when you told us that she put the group in touch with you. But I guess it is a shock to hear it confirmed. I guess it’s her photo that’s crossed out?”

“I bet it is . . . but of course it’s hard to check with my computer being
confiscated
.”

“Mine is right here. Let’s take another look.” Maggie walked over to the counter and flipped open her computer, then searched for the Knit Kats website. But all she got was a page with an error message.

“Oh dear . . . I’ve messed it up somehow. You try.”

She turned the computer around so Phoebe could use the keyboard. But a moment later, Phoebe glanced up at her, looking annoyed.

“The website is gone. Someone took it down.”

Maggie wasn’t sure how these things actually worked. “Took it down? You mean . . . like a billboard or something?”

Phoebe nodded. “It’s gone. Maybe Professor Finch took it down, after she was outed . . . Oh, more big news. I was waiting to see Professor Healey, to complain about my locker being searched, and I overheard a shouting match between him and Professor Finch. It sounded like he was trying to fire her . . . but she wasn’t getting the message.”

“I’m sure she understood him. She just wouldn’t accept it,” Maggie clarified. She wasn’t surprised at that, either. “I think it would be hard to get rid of a tenured professor. And no one has accused her of a crime yet . . . a real crime, I mean, not just vandalism or littering.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. But Healey sounded like he has everyone at the school against her now—Dean Klug and
the whole board of trustees. He thinks it’s going to get worse for her, with the police . . . like maybe she’s really the
one
.” Maggie knew it was hard for Phoebe to say it more directly—the one who killed Beth Shelton. Phoebe looked worried, her dark brows drawn together in a frown. “Professor Finch always acted all sweet and supportive to Charlotte. But today it sounded like she really hates her guts. As if she’s jealous of her or something.”

“Charlotte was starting to get some attention for her artwork. And she’s young and beautiful,” Maggie added. “That scores high on the jealousy meter, in my book.”

“Enough to want to kill her?” Phoebe asked bluntly.

Maggie shook her head. “I get your point. But you just said Charlotte was a Knit Kat. Maybe there was some intense issue between them because of that.”

“Yeah . . . could be. Professor Finch kept calling Charlotte Healey’s little pet and talking like they had something going on.”

“Like . . . an affair? That type of thing?”

Phoebe nodded. Maggie could tell it was very hard for her to talk about Charlotte this way—and all the secrets she’d kept.

“That sort of freaked me out, too,” Phoebe admitted. “Charlotte told me she’d started seeing someone, after Quentin. But she never told me the guy’s name or much about him. When I asked her the other day how it was going, she sort of shrugged and said that it was over. He’d turned out to be a big nothing. A real jerk, not at all what she thought.”

“ ‘A big nothing’ . . . that’s a good one.” The brief phrase conveyed a lot. “So you’re wondering now if she was talking about Professor Healey?”

Phoebe shrugged. “I don’t know . . . He kept saying it wasn’t true and calling Finch insane. Which was also true. I thought she was going to stroke out.”

“Professor Finch might have heard gossip. It doesn’t mean it’s true. But she must have told the police and it’s the perfect way to discredit him and turn their attention his way.”

“Oh yeah . . . she had that all figured out. She said something like, ‘They’ll be coming for you next, Healey.’ ” Phoebe sighed and picked a bit of cat hair off one of her gloves. “I wish Charlotte was around and I could just ask her.”

“That’s just the trouble,” Maggie said quietly. “There are a lot of people who want to talk to your friend Charlotte.”

Phoebe nodded. Maggie hoped she hadn’t made her feel bad. That had not been her intention at all.

She suddenly looked up again. “Something else weird happened, too.”

“Really? You had some day.”

“I’ll say. I started with my empty locker and ended with being chased by Quentin Gibbs.”

“Quentin?” Maggie’s pulse quickened. “He chased you? Where?”

“Across the parking lot near the art department building. He kept shouting that he wanted to talk to me . . . but I do
not
want to talk to him.”

“I’ll say you don’t. You need to stay miles away from that guy.” Maggie didn’t know how to say it in a stronger way. “He’s not stable . . . or rational,” she said simply.

He could very well blame Phoebe in some way for Charlotte escaping his pursuit the other night, when they all chased one another through the studios. In fact, she wasn’t even sure
the police had totally eliminated him as a suspect in Beth Shelton’s murder.

“I think you should tell the police he tried to confront you, and then come home with me tonight.” Maggie tried to catch Phoebe’s gaze, but she could see her young friend wasn’t persuaded. “I’d be too worried about you alone here, Phoebe. Honestly.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine. He’s not going to bother me. Besides, I have a guard cat now.”

The joke fell flat. Maggie stared Phoebe down. “He’s a very persistent . . . obsessive personality. We don’t know what he’s capable of. And don’t tell me that he doesn’t know where you live. I’m sure he does by now.”

It had been all over the news the other night, just in case he had any trouble finding Phoebe’s address. Maggie didn’t say that. She didn’t want to rub it in.

Phoebe rolled her eyes. Before she could protest again, Maggie said, “Humor me on this. We’ll have fun. I’ll make waffles. We’ll play Scrabble or something.”

“Waffles? What kind?”

Maggie was pleased to catch her attention. “Apple. Banana. Whatever you like.”

“Okay, deal. But no Scrabble. You pound me with your forty-point words. I’ll just bring my knitting.”

Maggie smiled. “Sounds even better to me.”

*  *  *

Phoebe and Maggie closed the shop at six and left in separate cars. Phoebe had to pick up a new sketchbook and some other supplies at Alice’s Arts & Crafts, on the turnpike. She liked
to shop for her art supplies in a smaller store, an authentic art-supply store that was up in Newburyport—one that was frequented by working artists and didn’t display rows of glitter stickers and plastic fruit in every other aisle.