A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) (23 page)

But Alice’s was an easy option for a quick, basic purchase. She really hoped the police would give her back her art stuff. She’d bought a ton of supplies for this semester’s courses. It was so stupid and pointless that they took it.

Phoebe could feel her hair practically catching fire just thinking about it. She focused on her list, looking for the few items she needed most. She picked up a big sketchbook and some soft charcoal sticks. The sepia pencils she preferred, which gave her sketches a sort of Leonardo look, she thought. A gummy eraser and a box of pastels.

Maggie had been nice enough to give her a bunch of store coupons, so she still had a little money after checking out to make a stop at Pet Palace, which was right next door

For a little cat, Van Gogh could eat a lot, and the food was way cheaper at the big discount store than at the supermarket. She filled her cart with cans and two bags of fish-shaped nuggets, and tossed in a few cat toys, a scratching post, and a bed that she found in the mark-down bin.

When she reached her car and put all the bags in, Phoebe realized part of her must really believe that Charlotte was not coming back. Or why would she be buying all this stuff for Van Gogh? As if he was her cat now?

Charlotte is fine, she reminded herself. Mossbacher said so. Or almost said so.

She left the parking lot and headed for Maggie’s house.
When Charlotte comes back, I’ll just give her all Van Gogh’s new things. Or maybe she’ll let me keep him. She has about a million more cats. Maybe she won’t miss one.

It was a cold, clear night. The kind of frigid, dry air that cut to the bone and was a little painful to breathe. Phoebe couldn’t help wondering what was going on with Charlotte’s cats. Was anybody putting out food for them?

How many days had it been since Beth’s body was found and Charlotte had disappeared? Phoebe counted back. Five days. The art show had been on Sunday, so it wasn’t quite a week yet.

They were outdoor cats mainly and used to catching their own “fast food” in the wild. But Phoebe knew she’d promised herself to come by and check on them when she’d taken Van Gogh. She felt guilty about that now and headed for Charlotte’s house, which was not far from Maggie’s and not out of her way at all.

Here I am with a carload of cat food, besides. Yes, it was getting late and Maggie was probably firing up the waffle iron by now. And it was colder than a penguin’s butt out there. But “a job begun is a job half done.” That’s what Maggie always said. It would only take two seconds to put out cat food and find a dish for some water. She definitely had a bottle or two in her knapsack.

Phoebe pulled up to Charlotte’s house and parked in the driveway. The windows of the front apartment were dark, though the light by the front door was on. She walked toward the back of the house, to the little porch at the entrance of Charlotte’s apartment. Yellow crime-scene tape was still strung
around the porch railing, like sagging strips of crepe paper left over from a party.

Phoebe hesitated a moment, then decided not to cross the tape and go up on the porch. She was getting so spooked out from this whole miserable deal, and already felt like her every move was being watched. Especially after what Mossbacher had told her today about police looking at e-mails and Facebook and all that stuff. They could have a camera hidden out there, waiting to see if the culprit returned to the scene of the crime. Didn’t that always happen in the movies?

Well, let them watch. All she was doing was putting out cat food. That wasn’t a crime yet . . . was it?

The question was where to put it. She didn’t want some helpful dumb person coming back here and cleaning it up before the cats could find it. Charlotte’s pals probably wandered around behind the house mostly, out of view. Or maybe even around the unattached garage that stood at the end of the drive. Both spots would be good places to set up the feline smorgasbord.

With grocery bags full of pull-top cans and water dangling from each hand, Phoebe made her way around the corner of the building, to the backyard. It was a small square of property, partially covered by snow and bordered by a high wooden fence. A feeble outdoor lamp, hanging above the garage doors, cast a bit of light. She saw a broken-down wooden picnic table with a bench underneath and a few beer cans scattered on the ground, reminding her again that this was off-campus housing.

It was so dark she could hardly find the pull tops on the cans of cat food.

She pulled opened one can and then another, carefully saving the metal lids for the recycle bin at Maggie’s. She was working on a third when she heard a rustling sound in the dry, bare bushes at the fence. She looked up to see Picasso trot out of the darkness. He boldly jumped on the table and began gulping down the tuna—chewing loudly, Phoebe thought.

“Hey, guy. Good to see you. Glad you could stop by for a bite,” she said quietly.

Another light-footed form darted out of the shadows from some hidden space behind the garage. So the cats do hang out there, Phoebe thought. Good guess. I’ll hit that spot next.

A sleek calico ran up to the table. Frida Kahlo. Another one of Phoebe’s favorites. Frida jumped on the picnic bench and rubbed herself on Phoebe’s jacket.

“Hello, sweet girl. I should have taken you home, too, right?” Phoebe reached down and gently stroked her head. “Do you want some food? What a question . . .”

She set another can on the bench for Frida and was about to take out the water bottles when she heard heavy footsteps just behind her.

Phoebe turned quickly, expecting to see someone who lived in the building. Or maybe even a police officer who’d come back to check the house.

But it was Quentin. His intense expression horrified her.

“AAAAaaaaa! . . .” Phoebe’s thin voice trailed off on a terrified note as she turned to run. She was quick. But he was faster and totally focused on her.

She’d barely made it to the fence when she felt a big hand come around her head and cover her mouth. One big arm
wrapped her middle like a steel band, and they fell together onto the ground. Phoebe kicked and struggled. She tried to slam her knee into his groin or kick his shin, as she’d learned in a self-defense course. But Quentin’s heavy leg easily kept her own legs pressed to the ground. Tears filled her eyes as she tried to scream and then bit down on his hand. He cursed, but his hold only tightened. With her strength ebbing, Phoebe sadly realized that even had she been three times her size, Quentin still would have been stronger and she had no chance of getting away from him.

“Give it up, Phoebe . . . I’ve got you now,” he hissed into her ear.

I
t was Quentin, after all. He killed Beth in some crazed, angry rage . . . mistaking her for Charlotte . . . and now he’s going to kill me!

The truth crystallized in Phoebe’s mind in a single, horrifying instant as she lay with her head pressed to the ground, her eyes bugging out. Quentin’s big hand remained plastered over her mouth.

A surreal feeling dropped over her, like a heavy mist. As if she were trapped in a dream—her worst nightmare. Quentin loomed above her, blocking out the meager light from the lamp on the garage.

“Stop fighting me . . . You’re like a squirming little bug. I could snap your bones with a flick of my wrist, don’t you get it? So just shut up and listen to me!” he shouted down at her.

But I haven’t been talking! You have your hand over my mouth, remember? she wanted to scream back. But maybe in his head, she
had
been talking?

Phoebe stared up at him. Her head was about to burst with
all the words she wanted to shout into his stupid face. Finally, she stopped struggling and just nodded, her chin bobbing up and down like a little doll.

She saw his expression relax a bit, and so did his grip. He still held her down, but he wasn’t hurting her anymore.

“I need to talk to you about Charlotte . . .”

Phoebe gulped. Was he going to make some sort of confession now . . . about killing Beth? She didn’t think she could stand hearing that. She squeezed her eyes shut, but he kept talking. She had no choice but to listen.

“Do you know where Charlotte is? Did she get in touch with you?”

Phoebe shook her head, trying to say no.

“You’d better not lie to me, Phoebe. You’re the only person she’d get in touch with. She must have tried, a text or Instagram or something?”

Phoebe didn’t know how to indicate “I’m not lying!” while being unable to speak. She stared back at him, her eyes bugging out of her head.

“Okay, listen . . . the night I chased her, at the gallery, I wasn’t going to hurt her. I knew she was in trouble with some guy she’d been seeing after me. That’s who killed Beth Shelton. He was trying to get Charlotte and I wanted to help her. To protect her . . . but she wouldn’t let me. I told that to the police,” he added, “but they didn’t believe me. So now you have to tell them. Understand?”

Phoebe blinked. She really didn’t understand. She mumbled against his hand.

“All right . . . all right. I’ll take my hand off your mouth . . . but you’d better not scream. Or try to get away. I’m warning you.”

His tone was so severe, any thought of calling out for help immediately dissolved.

When he finally took his hand away, Phoebe gasped for air.

“So talk already,” he said impatiently.

“I don’t get it . . . You want me to lie to the police and tell them Charlotte told me something that she really didn’t say? That she’s in trouble with some boyfriend?”

“It’s not a lie. It’s the truth. It could save her freaking life. Don’t you want to save her life?” he practically screamed at her. “Hey, this dude is powerful. He knows people. He knows how to find someone and shut them up for good. He can hunt someone down as good as the police. Even better.”

So . . . Quentin Gibbs was paranoid, too, on top of all his other quirks? That figured.

Phoebe quickly nodded, mainly to calm him down. Making Quentin more excited and angry was not a good idea. He had loosened his grip considerably, though he still held her to the ground.

She tried hard to focus and keep her voice calm.

“I’m sorry . . . I still don’t get it. What do you want me to tell them?”

Quentin seemed frustrated, his skin flushed right up to his scalp and the edge of his Mohawk.

“You just say like . . . you suddenly remembered something. Charlotte told you she had some guy, an older dude. And you think he’s out to get her for some reason. I’m thinking now it’s a guy from that law firm in Boston. Where she had the proofreading job. That’s who wants to get her . . . I just don’t know why.”

“The law firm?” Phoebe had never thought of that. When he’d said “older dude,” she’d immediately thought of Professor
Healey. But all that money in her locker . . . Some big corporate lawyer would be rolling in dough. A lawyer made more sense than a college professor once you figured in the stash of cash. Still, Phoebe wanted to know why Quentin thought so.

“What makes you say the law firm?”

“I’m a freaking fortune-teller, okay? . . . And I’ve been keeping an eye on her. Ever since we broke up,” he admitted. “I followed her to the train station a few times—her car is like always in that lot. Even overnight. And I know her. Inside out. All right?”

Phoebe decided it was not smart to ask any more questions. “Just wondering,” she mumbled.

Charlotte went into the city from time to time, just like everyone else. Maybe even more so, to visit galleries and go to the law office. Seeing her car at the station didn’t mean much, Phoebe thought.

So on top of being paranoid, he’d also read too many John Grisham novels? No . . . check that. Seen the movies. He probably had not read a book without pictures for a few years now.

Her lips felt bruised and swollen from being smashed by his hand for so long. Maggie was going to think she’d stopped off for some quickie Botox injections.

Quentin’s voice broke into her wandering thoughts. “So . . . are you going to do it or what?”

“Or what” was not the answer he was looking for. Phoebe knew that.

“Okay . . . I’ll do it. I mean, what the heck. The police are fairly clueless, if you ask me. They should look into any leads they get. I don’t know why they ignored you.” It was hard to deliver that last line with a straight face, but somehow she managed.

“That’s what I thought. But they laughed me off. Like I was just pushing the blame on someone else to save my own skin. Hey, I didn’t kill Beth Shelton . . . and I’d never hurt a hair on Charlotte’s head . . .”

Right . . . that’s why she had to get a court order to keep you away, Phoebe wanted to remind him. Skip that reply.

“I love Charlotte. And she loves me . . . deep in her heart. We’re soul mates. When she comes back, she’s going to face that, and we’ll be together again.”

His tone was matter-of-fact. And totally deluded. Phoebe didn’t dare challenge him. If Charlotte did return, she’d need more than a restraining order to keep this guy away.

Phoebe sucked in the sharp cold air, but it was hard to get a full breath with Quentin’s arm still wrapped across her body, holding her down.