A Murder in Mohair (17 page)

She wanted to tell at least one of her friends about her disturbing visit to the antique shop. Maggie maybe? But it was almost noon and she had to call the police department and give her statement. A moment she'd been dreading. But a job begun is half-done, her mother always told her.

Lucy checked the number she'd jotted on a slip of paper on the kitchen counter and tapped it into the phone.

“Ruiz,” a pleasant female voice responded.

“This is Lucy Binger. You left a message on my phone to get in touch today.”

“Oh, Lucy . . . right. I was calling in regard to Cassandra Waters. You've heard about what happened to her?”

“Of course. Everyone in town has.”

“The police are interviewing all of her customers. I noticed your name here. Looks like you saw her last week, Thursday night, June eighteenth. Is that correct?”

“That's right. I booked a group session with her and she came to the knitting shop. She read cards for all my friends.”

“Oh, I see. Their names are in her notes, too. But I didn't realize you had seen her all together.”

Lucy had made the appointment, so that made sense. Maybe Cassandra kept separate notes about people she consulted with, bits of gossip she ferreted out, or information she looked up on the Internet?

If Detective Ruiz thought it uncanny that Lucy and her knitting circle were in the middle of another of her investigations, she didn't mention it. They had first met the police officer years ago, when a rival knitting store owner had been found murdered in her shop and Maggie became a prime suspect. Of course her friends had felt obliged to rally to Maggie's defense.

But a few years later, when a blushing bride—who had knit her own gown with Maggie's help—had been tangled up in the mysterious death of her husband, Lucy and her friends had again become involved in police business.

Actually . . . it happened fairly often, Lucy reflected. And seemed to come as natural as knitting. If the police were ever honest about it, Lucy knew that she and her friends had helped them far more often than they had messed up any investigations.

She hoped that would be Detective Ruiz's perspective today. . . .

“So, why did you consult Ms. Waters? Any special reason?”

“We were all curious, I guess.” Lucy paused. “And we were trying to do a favor for Edie Steiber. Her niece Nora Gordon had been seeing Cassandra very frequently but Edie didn't trust Cassandra. She thought the psychic was deceiving Nora, just to get her money. So we had a reading to see if we could debunk her.”

Detective Ruiz didn't answer for a moment. “Did you observe anything during your session that supported this suspicion?”

“It wasn't any one thing. It was more like a combination of techniques, we thought made her so convincing. Reading a person's appearance and body language, for example, and their reactions to questions. Maybe even doing a little research about them before the session.”

“That's generally how these hoaxes work.” The detective didn't accuse Cassandra of operating that way, Lucy noticed. Just spoke in broad terms. That's how police detectives
generally
worked, with well-chosen words, holding their cards close to their vest.

“I guess I need to speak to all of your friends,” Detective Ruiz said. “Did anything out of the ordinary happen at the session? Anything at all you thought was, oh I don't know . . . notable?”

“Nothing that remarkable. Her predictions and advice were pretty general and vague. Especially when we picked it over later.”

Detective Ruiz paused. “Is that the only time you ever dealt with her?”

“Actually, I met her a few days before the session at the Schooner Diner. She was there with Nora Gordon, and Edie Steiber introduced her to everyone. She spoke to us a little while. That's when we decided to book a session and help Edie. Right after she left.”

“I see.” Lucy heard papers rattling. “I understand you had contact with her another night as well—not contact exactly, but you saw Cassandra Waters and Richard Gordon together, on Friday night, June nineteenth. That would be the day after the session at the knitting shop. Do you remember that?”

“Yes . . . yes, of course I do. I was just about to mention it.”

“Good. Take your time. Tell me everything you can recall.”

Lucy took a breath. Richard must have gone to the station as he'd promised and told his story. That's how the detective knew to ask her about it. It should have made it easier, but she still felt put on the spot.

Lucy had been sitting on a stool at the counter and now rose and paced the kitchen floor, from the magnet- and note-covered refrigerator to the sink and back again, a very small space, especially considering her stride.

“I was walking my dogs. I guess it was about ten o'clock. I usually don't walk down Ivy Lane, but there was a big shepherd my dogs don't get along with on Fenwick, so I turned on the corner to loop around.” She heard her voice rambling on nervously and tried to slow down.

“Yes, go on.”

“I saw the sign near her driveway, advertising her services, so I knew it was Cassandra's house. I was standing across the street, a short distance down the street, when the door opened. I saw her in the doorway with a man, who was leaving. He had on a baseball hat and dark glasses, so that sort of caught my attention.”

“I see . . . go on.”

“They talked a moment and then he walked to a van that was parked down the street. When the van passed, he had taken off the hat and glasses and I saw that it was Richard Gordon, Nora Gordon's husband. But you probably know all this, right? Because I saw him this morning at his antique store, and he told me why he'd been there. And he said he was going to the police station to tell you, too.”

“Yes, he came in. I didn't take his statement, but I read it a little while ago. I'd like to hear the story from you, too, Lucy. I know you only saw them together for a few moments and it was dark. But how would you describe their interaction? Arguing? Friendly? Anything more than just talking?”

Lucy stared out the kitchen window, seeing just a blur of green lawn and blue sky. She pushed a strand of wet hair behind her ear. Of course, the police would want her side of the story, just to see if it matched up. Maybe, despite the poignancy of Richard's words, that was not really what he was doing there.

“It seemed . . . intimate in some way. But I'm not sure I could say friendly. She had on a sort of bathrobe-looking thing—a kimono. So that seemed intimate to me. I don't know if she was dressed underneath,” she said bluntly. “I couldn't tell at that distance.”

“All right, go on.”

“At one point, she leaned very close and whispered to him. Or even kissed him? He had his back turned to me, so I couldn't really see. But now I don't think they were involved that way. Romantically, I mean,” she added. “Because of what Richard told me this morning.”

“So you told him that you saw him that night. Just what you told me, more or less. What did he say when you confronted him? What was his explanation?” Detective Ruiz asked calmly.

Lucy guessed that she probably had a copy of Richard's statement in front of her, and was checking for any discrepancies in the two versions of the event. Lucy tried to remember exactly what he'd said.

“He told me that he had been in touch with Cassandra regularly, and gave her information about his son, Kyle, so that Cassandra could create messages from Kyle's spirit for Nora.” The disclosure was difficult to relate. Such a twisted hoax to perpetrate on one's grieving wife. “He told me that he'd gone to a session with Nora, when she'd just met Cassandra, and started giving Cassandra information very soon after that.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Yes, I did. For one thing, he seemed so regretful and disgusted by his own behavior. And what he said shows him in such a bad light . . . why would anyone make that up?”

Detective Ruiz didn't stop to answer that question. It occurred to Lucy that there could be possible reasons why such a tale would be contrived . . . to cover up something even more horrible?

“How did he sound when he told you this? Angry? Upset? Matter-of-fact?”

Lucy thought a moment. “He sounded sad. Pathetic. Burned-out. Like he was losing his grip. Disgusted with himself,” she said again. “And even embarrassed. Made a fool of. I may have smelled alcohol on his breath,” she added, “though I'm not entirely sure of that. He did look tired, as if he hadn't slept in days.”

“Why do you think he told you? Did you pressure him in any way?”

“No . . . not at all. I told him that I had seen him and had to mention it in my statement today. I didn't want to blindside the guy. But I also told him, a few times, that he didn't have to tell me what he was doing there. I didn't need to know. I didn't really want to,” she added.

“But he told you anyway.”

“He insisted. He said he didn't want me to go without hearing him out. I don't know the Gordons very well. Just by sight around town. And a little bit through Edie. But he seemed like he really wanted to get this off his chest. Maybe he would have told anyone who happened to be there at that moment,” Lucy added. “I think he wanted someone to hear his side of the story. I don't think he had any intention of hurting Nora. He sounded desperate to help her. He said the sessions made her so happy, it was like a miracle cure. Edie had said that, too. So he thought his interference was harmless. At least, at first. He also told me it had all been Cassandra's idea. She'd contacted him and suggested it. That's what he said, at least,” she added.

Lucy wondered now if Richard had told the police the same story.

“All right. I guess we're done. Unless you have something else to add,” Detective Ruiz replied.

“I know you can't tell me this, but I can't help asking . . .”

“Yes?”

“Do you have to tell Nora what Richard did?”

Detective Ruiz didn't reply for a long moment. “You're right, I can't tell you that, Lucy. Partly because I don't know. I can say that we need time to look into Mr. Gordon's story, and determine if his relationship to the victim is relevant to the investigation.”

“Yes, of course.” Lucy felt foolish now for asking. Luckily, the police were a little slower at jumping to conclusions than she and her friends were. And they also had this funny tic about needing to back up a story like Richard's with facts. No matter how convincing the delivery had been.

“Is there anything else you'd like to tell me? About the Gordons, or Cassandra Waters?” the detective asked.

“No. I can't think of anything.” Lucy was eager to end the call. She felt exhausted and distracted, and wondered how she was going to get any work done today.

“Thanks for your time. If I have any more questions, I'll be in touch.” The detective said goodbye and hung up.

As Lucy set down her phone, she realized she'd forgotten all about the dogs, still out in the yard. She found them worn-out from chasing squirrels and birds, and panting in the damp, cool shade of an overgrown holly bush. She brushed the dirt and leaves from their fur and with a collar in each hand, led them back inside, where they eagerly lapped at water bowls.

She picked out a ripe peach, grabbed her water bottle, and stomped up to her office, feeling frustrated about all the time lost in her workday.

If I never hear another word about any of those people, I'll be perfectly happy.

You say that now, a tiny voice chided. Let's hear what you say Thursday night, hanging with your pals.

As Lucy set about her work, answering e-mails and pushing along with the Bleckman directory, one part of her was tempted to at least send a quick text or e-mail to Maggie and give her a hint about Richard's startling confession.

But when she finally did, Maggie never texted back and Lucy got too busy again to contact any other friends. Matt came home early and she was happy to shut the computer and get up from her desk.

“So, did you get a chance to call the police back today?” Matt asked as they finished dinner.

“I did. I spoke to Detective Ruiz. She's very smart and easy to talk with, too. You remember her, right?”

“The woman detective, right? When that girl you know, who knit her wedding gown, got in trouble, she figured out who was really responsible, right?”

Maggie had actually figured that puzzle out. But Lucy didn't bother to correct him. “That's right. Rebecca Bailey. She still comes to knit with us sometimes, with her mother.”

“What did the detective think of your fortune-telling session? Any big clues jump out at her?”

He was teasing now, but Lucy didn't mind. She had not told Matt much about that session, all the unsettling tarot cards that had turned up, resonating with her worries about their relationship. The less said about that right now, the better.

“That part was pretty cut-and-dried. But I did have something unusual to tell her. About Richard Gordon.”

She quickly told Matt how she'd seen Richard and Cassandra a few nights ago while walking the dogs and what had happened when she'd gone to the antique shop this morning and told him.

“Wow . . . that's unbelievable. I only met Richard a few times. But he never seemed to me the type of guy who could lie that way. Sounds like he was desperate.”

“I think so. I think he's really telling the truth about the situation, too,” she said. “I felt awkward confronting him like that. But I didn't know what to do. I did have to tell the police when I called them. Even though he'd gone there and told them everything before I called.”

“That was a sticky spot. But I think you did the right thing.” He'd finished his dinner and took a last sip of wine. “Did Detective Ruiz remind you to not get mixed up in her case again?”