Knot the Usual Suspects (11 page)

“The names will come,” Ernestine said. “Try the imagination thing, like I did. Did he say how long he was staying in town?”

“Did he say
where
was he staying?” Mel asked.

“Oh, that's a good question,” Ernestine said, “and it makes me wonder. If I were to wear my Miss Marple, do you think I could convince whoever's in charge of wherever he was staying to let me have a look at his room and belongings?” Ardis might be a lifetime member of the repertory theater, but Ernestine was a born-again Golden Age sleuth.

“Let's hold off on entering places under false pretenses,” Thea said.

“At least for a day or two,” I added. “What other questions have we got? What else do we need to know?”

“Does
his
vehicle backfire?” Ernestine asked.

“Where
is
his vehicle?” John asked.

“And if it's old enough to backfire, is it also old enough that we can use a coat hanger to unlock it?” Ernestine asked. “I used to get such a kick out of that.”

Thea tsked.

“It isn't all that hard,” Ernestine said, “and it's very satisfying being able to get yourself out of a pickle.”

“Or into one,” Thea said. “I'm trying to be the voice of reason and responsibility here.”

“I appreciate that. But you can find out a lot about a person by what he keeps in his car and how neat or messy it is. And I wouldn't mind having a chance to practice with a coat hanger again. It was a useful skill.”

Ardis hadn't said anything more. I glanced at her a few times as I caught the questions bouncing back and forth around the circle and got them down in the journal. From the furrow between her eyebrows and the return of thin lips, she was either thoughtful or unhappy. But if she was thinking, or trying to remember something, the usual energy of her thought process was missing—there was no jostle of knee, no pencil, foot, or finger tapping. None of the wrestling between one point and another that might be going on in her head was visible on her face. I tried to catch her eye, but she continued to stare at her lap. During the next lull, I nudged my way into her silence.

“Ardis, after you and Hugh had lunch together, you came back here to the shop alone. Did he say where he was going? Anything about his plans for the afternoon?”

“No.” The single syllable was a tangled knot of frustration and self-recrimination that she had to force out.

“Take it easy,” Mel said gently. “If he didn't tell you, he didn't tell you. Lots of people don't volunteer their plans to me. I only know Kath's plans for tonight because I asked Joe.
She
didn't tell me.”

“I could have asked Hugh,” Ardis said. “I didn't. I don't know why he was here. I didn't ask how long he was staying. I didn't even ask him to come for supper. I wanted to. I meant to.”

“You aren't the prying type,” Ernestine said.

“I thought I was.”

“You're the caring type,” Ernestine said, “sometimes mistaken for the prying type. But you care, and that's why you're beating yourself up now. Please don't. You
were happy to see him again and to know that he remembered you.”

“He remembered some of the lines from the play I wrote for the class. After all these years, he remembered that. I could've asked him if he'd ever done any more acting. I didn't.”

“Because you're also the perceptive type,” Ernestine said.

“You'd know that if you were more perceptive, Ardis,” said Thea.

Ernestine shushed her. “If he'd wanted to let you past his facade, you would have known, Ardis. That's what I'm saying. But he hadn't been back to Blue Plum for years. There was a reason for that, and whatever the reason was, it wasn't something he was giving away over lunch with a favorite teacher.”

“It was lunch,” John said. “You were happy. He was happy. You didn't need to know more to be enjoying yourself. He wasn't letting more out. Equilibrium. Stasis. Let's move on.”

“Wait.” Ardis' chin came up. “Was he happy?”

I jotted that question down and watched her lips shift left and then right—her thoughts creaking back into motion.

“Okay.” She rolled her shoulders and neck. “Yes. We need to find out what Hugh did yesterday afternoon and evening. And yes, let's break that down into specifics. Where did he go? Who did he see? Who saw
him
? Did he spend time with anyone?” She gained momentum and my notes began to sprawl. “The bagpipe incidents—both of them—what prompted them?”

“We can't get inside his head,” Thea said. “That's a good question, but we need another entry point.”

“His car or his hotel room.” Ernestine's eyes lit with the possibilities of coat hangers and tweed skirts.

Ardis wasn't finished. “The piece of paper with my name on it. Was anything else on the paper? What kind of paper? A whole piece? A scrap? And the book where they found it . . . they found it in his sporran . . . what book? Does that even matter? And you—” She pointed at me. “You said something about him being a tourist. What made you think that?”

“The camera around his neck.”

“A camera, not a phone. Does that tell us anything? And where is his camera? And who, and/or what, did he take pictures of?” She stopped talking, but her eyes—not focused on any of us—moved as they prodded each corner of her memory.

I shook out my writing hand, ready to begin again.

“That paper . . . there's something else about that piece of paper. You were there, Kath. What is it?”

“Name, book, sporran.” I shrugged.

“His sporran,” Thea said, rolling the word out. “What else does a man keep in his sporran?”

“Very good question,” Ardis said. “Cole wouldn't necessarily tell us everything they found in it. In fact, he
wouldn't
tell us. But it might be important.”

“It's definitely important if we're going to get a full picture of the man and the situation,” John said. “Whether or not it has anything specifically to do with the crime. We need to talk to someone.”

“Idiot,” Ardis exploded. “No, sorry, John.
I'm
the idiot. Not you. Cole said they'd send a deputy around to
interview me about the paper. That's what I was trying to remember, and they haven't done it yet.”

“Low priority,” Mel said.

“No priority, as far as I'm concerned,” Ardis said. “I have no idea why my name was in the sporran.”

“I think I'll try penning a naughty Nancy Drew,” Thea said. “The Clue in the Splendid Sporran.”

I scribbled a note in the margin about Thea's fascination with sporrans. If I could find one that wasn't too expensive, it would make a good Christmas present for her.

“As long as the sheriff hasn't already sent a deputy over,” Ardis said, musing in her own way, “I wonder if I can request one. A
specific
one. A woman one.”

“One who's almost one of us?” I liked where this was going. “One who has come over to the fiber side?”

“Yes, indeedy.” Ardis rubbed her hands, then mimed putting a phone to her ear and said, “Calling Deputy Dye. Calling Deputy Dye.”

By weird coincidence, my Batphone buzzed in my pocket. At the same time, we heard a light step in the hall, the floorboard at the door creaked, and the newest member of the sheriff's department, and the only one with an unshakable enthusiasm for everyone she met, stepped into the room. Deputy Darla Dye smiled at us. “Hey, ya'll. You rang?”

T
he buzz of my phone was a text from Debbie letting me know Darla was on her way up. It wasn't much of a warning, but for Darla it didn't need to be. Argyle liked her, too. He trotted down from the study and gave her ankles an extra circuit.

“Deputy Darla, come on in and sit yourself down,” Ardis said. “I was just about to call Sheriff Haynes and see if I could track you down.”

“Then I've had a nice walk on this beautiful afternoon
and
I've saved you a call. What's your pleasure, Ardis? Official business of the peace officer type or official business of the knit and crochet type?”

The pleasure and interest Darla took in her job and the people around her had a reflective quality to it. What radiated from her smile and the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes was returned in kind. She wasn't a member of TGIF—she said her work schedule was all over the place and she didn't like to join an organization and then never show up—but she was a passionate knitter of long, bulky scarves. Ardis told me that as far as she knew,
no one ever saw the scarves again after they were wrapped and presented to their new owners. I liked Darla even more for that. We'd had a hard time making ourselves keep the yarn bombing a secret from her, but we thought it best, considering the organization she owed her paycheck and bulky yarn money to.

Darla dropped herself into one of the comfy chairs, making it look as though she'd come home and was happy to be there. The only thing out of place about her was the lack of needles and yarn in her hands. That and the holster and gun on her hip. Her khaki and tan uniform and regulation footwear weren't typical knitting circle couture, but they didn't call any more attention to themselves than Mel's chef pants and aprons. Or Thea's holy terror heels. Darla was single, mid-thirties, had a teenage son more interested in NASCAR than needlework and, if rumors could be trusted, a crush on Clod Dunbar. She nestled her shoulders into the chair, planted her elbows on the arms, and clasped her hands across her midriff. Argyle invited himself onto her lap and she helped him settle with a few strokes down the back of his neck.

“What can I do for you, Ardis?”

“It concerns Hugh McPhee's murder, and a piece of paper, one with my name on it, that someone in your department found with his body.”

“In his spittoon?”

All eyebrows rose, even Darla's.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm so sorry. That just slipped out. It was an insensitive and uncalled-for joke at the deceased's expense and the expense of anyone who knew and loved him. I don't find it funny myself, but the
boys in the department, well . . .” She chuckled softly. “They will be horses' patooties, God love 'em.” She marveled at her fellow deputies' patootiness for several more seconds, then burst into another smile. “But, Ardis, this works out perfectly. I saw Debbie downstairs and she said you might still be in a meeting, and did I want to wait? She offered to show me some of your new Incredible Bulk yarn, but I said no, I'd just come on up. And the reason I did is that piece of paper.”

“Wonderful!” Ernestine said, caught up in the sunny bubble surrounding Darla. “And you certainly don't mind if the rest of us—”

“Take off?” Darla said. “Not at all.”

“Sorry?” Ernestine said.

“I'm sorry you have to go, too,” Darla said. “We don't see enough of each other these days, do we? John, Thea, Mel, Kath.” She nodded to each one of us. “I'll see you another time.”

Between us we gathered project bags, notebooks, and Mel's coffee carafe, and trooped out of the room—Ernestine looking confused by our eviction. At the door, I looked back to catch Ardis' eye. I caught Darla's, too. As soon as we'd left, she and Argyle had moved over to the chair next to Ardis'.

“Debbie and I'll lock up, Ardis. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, now,” Darla said with a wave.

“She's a trip,” Mel said on the way down the stairs. “And if the rumors are true, and Cole is of the opinion that she makes khaki and tan look cute, then he'd better watch his step. He's dallying with someone smarter than he is and, I bet, someone who knows what she wants and
knows how to wrap it up, tie it with a bow, and send it to herself.”

“It might be the best thing that ever happened to him,” John said.

*   *   *

I looked for Geneva before I left the shop for the day, but didn't see her. She often made herself scarce at closing time, though. She'd told me she didn't like good-byes because she'd had too many permanent ones. I'd invited her home with me, any number of times, but she'd never taken me up on it. I was just as glad of that, since Joe and I were seeing more of each other, both figuratively and literally. Having a doleful, gray, canoodling-averse ghost hanging around could only put a damper on a budding relationship. Even if—or maybe especially if—only one of the pair knew of the ghost's existence.

My phone buzzed on the walk home. I expected it to be Ardis with an update. Instead it was Joe breaking our dinner date. The floor plan used to assign spaces for booths at Handmade Blue Plum—agreed upon by the craftspeople as they registered for the weekend—was being called unfair by half a dozen newcomers. Joe had spent the day making calls, making assurances, making changes, and making no headway on putting together his own booth. Considering he was usually more of a booth-half-built person than a booth-half-in-a-shambles guy, he sounded pretty down. To take his mind off his own worries, I told him mine about Darla questioning Ardis.

“You didn't find a way to eavesdrop?” he asked.

“Nope. Not even tempted.”

“And you didn't need to be. Ardis will fill you in.”

“True enough. I'm willing to bet I couldn't have done it and gotten away with it anyway. Not without Darla finding out. She doesn't miss much. Hey, you know what might be fun? We should double-date with Darla and Cole.”

Joe must have taken a drink as I said that. I hoped his phone was spatterproof.

“They're dating?”

“You didn't know that? Actually I don't know for sure, but Mel and I have each heard it and John thinks it'll be good for Cole. If it's true.”

Joe was quiet and I could picture him thinking over that new information, a finger of his left hand stroking the beard on his lean face. “Do you really want to?”

“Double date? No. Well, maybe, but only if Darla drops Cole off at the Burger Barn and meets us at Mel's on her own. How much more do you have to do tonight?”

Joe was quiet and I could picture him gesturing with a finger at the Handmade Blue Plum floor plan. “You'd better go ahead and eat without me.”

Being civic-minded, I didn't say anything; I was passing a young couple pushing a stroller, and no G-rated thoughts were rolling around on my tongue.

“You still there?” Joe asked.

“Yeah.”

“What I just said?”

“Yeah?”

“It was said pathetically.”

“If I bring something by in half an hour or so, will you be able to take a break and eat?”

“Can you bring it by the school? To the gym? If I'm going bombing with you tomorrow night, and spending
all day tomorrow holding hands with a hundred craftspeople putting up their own booths, I'd better get mine set up tonight.”

We closed out the conversation, him sounding less pathetic, me beginning to worry about Ardis. How long could it take Darla to describe the paper for Ardis and then ask a few perfunctory questions? Ah, but maybe silver-tongued Ardis had charmed enthusiastic Darla and they were having one of Ardis' patented chin-wags. And even now, while I needlessly worried about Ardis being cautioned that what she blabbed might be used against her—even now, Darla might be passing along information vital to the case. Information that, although it was being withheld from the general public, was willingly being entrusted to a strategic, completely trustworthy few. At least, I hoped my worries were needless.

I tried calling her, but got her voice mail. “Call me,” I said, and went back to worrying. Maybe she was down at the sheriff's office helping with their inquiries, leaving her ancient daddy to get his own beer and change channels for himself.

The call from Joe and my return to worrying about Ardis took most of the walk home to the yellow frame house on Lavender Street. I'd inherited the house from Granny along with the Weaver's Cat. I loved walking home to that house where I'd spent happy summers with Granny. I was an incredibly lucky person to have the house and the shop, and to have people I cared about in my life. I knew that. I did. But I repeated it to myself as an antidote to the slow seep of uneasiness that made my feet pick up their pace.

I exchanged a hurried “nice night” with the woman
two doors down from me who spent as much time in her garden as her garden gnome did.

The days were growing shorter, but it wasn't dark yet. More like twilight, or gloaming. “Glooming,” Geneva would probably say. She didn't like going out at night. She said she was afraid of the dark. I wasn't usually afraid of the dark, but my uneasiness had me feeling jumpy—and remembering a few surprises I'd found waiting for me on my front porch. Surprises in the form of Clod Dunbar or Shirley and Mercy Spivey. But despite the gloomy gloaming, I didn't see anyone sitting on the porch swing or standing in the shadows and trying to blend in like twin chameleons.

The lid to the mailbox screeched hello when I lifted it, and I marveled over a day without junk mail. I let myself in, shed purse and shoes, and pulled the drapes at the front window. If I changed without dawdling and hopped into the car, then I could swing by Mel's, grab something tasty, and still be at the school within the half hour I'd promised. If I called Mel's and asked for a to-go order, even better.

A pair of jeans and a long-sleeved tee later, my taste buds were yammering for some of Mel's new lentil salad and a side of flatbread. While I called the café, I went through to the kitchen. Mel's was hopping. I said I'd hold and congratulated myself for calling ahead. While I waited, I took a pitcher of tea from the fridge and poured a glass. Sweet tea made with honey and mint from Granny's—my—herb garden in back. I looked out the window over the sink toward the garden. There was less light in the twilight now and not many features visible in the yard.

Except . . . a strange car backed up near the garage so
that it was facing the house, but in such a way that it couldn't be seen from the street.

And there I was, standing in the kitchen window, lit up as though onstage. If I'd been smart, I would have doused the lights or moved away from the window. But I was too busy squinting at the car. I could only make out a silhouette, but it looked as though someone was sitting in the passenger seat. Did that mean someone else was prowling? In the yard? Around the house?
In
the house? But I hadn't noticed anything missing or out of place. I hadn't heard noises, stealthy or otherwise.

That was when the voice speaking into my ear scared the bejeebers out of me and I screamed.

And I lost the connection to Mel's, because the guy taking phone orders had answered and then wisely hung up when I screamed into his ear. In my defense his
“how can I help you?”
had sounded exactly like
“don't move or I'll slit your throat”
—to my hyperventilating imagination. In addition to screaming, I'd whirled around, sloshing sweet tea in a wide arc as I went.

As someone who'd grown used to a ghost floating up behind her and saying “boo” (and as someone who should have remembered she had a phone pressed to her ear), I shouldn't have been so startled. But there was still a strange car backed up to my garage.

And a face, framed by two hands, peering in the window over the sink.