Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery (29 page)

“The Spiveys. Oh.” When would I learn? “So it isn’t true. Sorry…”

He cut in. “There are questions. Apparently the truth awaits an autopsy.”

“But how can they tell? You almost tripped down the stairs yourself.”

“Inconsistencies with bruising, lividity, primary and secondary skull fractures. I’m not entirely sure of the vocabulary or the reasoning.” He paused. I tried to swallow. “Are you still there?”

“That’s horrible.”

“It is.”

“Homer, I’m sorry I didn’t call back sooner.”

“No apology needed. I told you to forget your problems for the afternoon. You were doing that. Now this adds to them.”

“It does? I mean, I know I sound callous, because it is horrible, but why would Max being murdered add to my problems?”

“It will mean there’s an extremely dangerous person out there interested in the Cobb family. We don’t know who. We don’t know why. But you’ve suggested a reason and if that reason proves to be true, then you’ve stirred up trouble. You have already agreed to keep quiet about that reason. But I want to make this crystal clear. Be very careful who you speak to and what you say from here on out.”

“I’m not a threat to anyone.” I wondered if he would consider encouraging the Spiveys to search Emmett’s boxes as stirring up trouble. Or playing good-cop, bad-cop with a ghost.

“I would rather you didn’t argue with me on this. Suffice to say, someone is feeling threatened.”

“If Max was murdered.”

“If—yes.” I pictured him nodding his concession to that qualifier and thought I heard the click of his pen.

“Will you call me if you hear anything one way or another?”

“Kath, I want you to keep safe. And quiet.”

“I hope ignorance isn’t your idea of safety.”

I left the office annoyed at myself for being short with the person who was trying to protect me, but I was not a little spooked by Homer’s intensity. Then I saw Geneva hovering behind the counter watching Ardis ring up a sale of self-striping sock yarn. “Spooked” didn’t begin to cover what was going on in my life. Geneva was fascinated by the electronic cash register and if she’d been corporeal, Ardis would have stepped on her. The only notice Ardis took was to shiver and take a shawl from under the counter.

“Someone walking on my grave,” she said, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders. Geneva made a rude noise and Ardis drew the shawl tighter. “What’s the word from Homer?” she asked when the sock-yarn customer left.

I broke the news about the questions surrounding Max’s death. She closed her eyes and said something I couldn’t hear. Maybe a prayer. Then I repeated Homer’s warnings and instructions. She thought about both, then came up with a more proactive plan.

“A sidekick might not be enough. What you really need is one of those other things. Not just a couple of goons. A whole group.”

“A gang?” I asked. “That sounds scary.”

“No, you know what I mean,” she said. “With horses and shotguns.”

That was even scarier.

“A posse,” Geneva said.

“A posse?” I repeated for the ghost-deprived.

“Exactly,” said Ardis.

“Like Marshal Dillon,” Geneva said. “Darling Em loved Marshal Dillon’s television show. If you have a posse, may I have a Colt single-action army revolver with a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel like Matt’s?”

“Hush,” I told Geneva, pretending to sneeze.

“Bless you,” Ardis said.

“Why do I need a posse?”

“Information,” Ardis said. “You need it and you need it fast and the more eyes and ears you have out there, the more likely you are to find it.”

“Except I’m not sure what ‘it’ is. And if Homer’s right…”

“Kath, honey, I’m a great believer in clichés and what Homer doesn’t know won’t hurt him. The Friday Fast and Furious subset of TGIF meets this afternoon. It’s one of the study groups, one of the smaller ones. Debbie will be there and you’ll know the others. Ask them for help. They’ll do it for Ivy, and I’d trust any of them. And remember, there’s safety in numbers. Oh, and hon? You still owe me a doughnut. I’ll take it anytime.”

Geneva stayed behind at the shop. I figured that was safe enough. If the worst she could do was make someone long for a wool sweater, she couldn’t cause too much trouble. And it was just as well she didn’t prattle along beside me. My walk to and from Mel’s was about as distracted as my drive with Ardis earlier. My thoughts went around and around about information. Gathering it. Analyzing, using, misusing it. Encoding it. Hiding it. Killing for it.

I bought three doughnuts, including one for Geneva. Thoughtless. Distracted. Mel was away from the shop; otherwise her banter and sharp comments might have brought me out of my fog. I paid, almost forgot the bag, stopped outside the door to remember where I was going.

Information. Ardis recorded it in the notebook she gave me. The Spiveys were looking for it in Emmett’s boxes. Joe Dunbar was after it the other night in what he thought was Emmett’s empty cottage. Someone wanted it badly enough to break into Granny’s house—and I was convinced it was information the sneak thief was after, not a television or an expensive camera.

I needed time to analyze the information I had, including the information I hadn’t shared with anyone else. And I needed more of both—more time and more information.

“Hon,” Ardis said when I got back, “information is power and access to information is more power.”

“Access this,” I said, dropping the doughnut bag on the counter.

“When do we saddle up the horses?” Geneva asked. I ignored her.

Access. While Ardis waited on customers and Geneva pouted, I thought about access. Seemed like a whole lot of access was going on in Blue Plum. Access to secrets. Access to houses. Access to a bottle of gin. And Ardis was right. Deputizing a group of people who knew Granny, who knew Blue Plum, knew how to gossip—the Friday Fast and Furious knitters of TGIF—that would give me access to more information. Information that might help fill in the gaps in the picture I was weaving. But if I wanted to ensure a complete picture, a complete, full-color, three-dimensional picture, then gaining physical access to a few places could be helpful, too. And for that I might need…

“Hey, Ardis.” Joe Dunbar stood in the hall doorway. “Can I get in the shed?”

…a burglar.

“I forgot to put the key back, didn’t I?” Ardis said. “Here it is. Hold up, though, Joe, before you start on the
roses.” She turned from him to me. “It’s entirely up to you who you deputize. But things might be getting rough and you already put one Dunbar out of commission. I think you’re going to need this one.”

“And guns,” Geneva said.

Chapter 30

I
left one doughnut for Ardis and took the other two and Joe up the back stairs to Granny’s study. Geneva came, too, doing her doleful hum. When I opened the door, revealing the controlled chaos I’d left the place in, Joe stopped short.

“I call it organizing,” I said to his raised eyebrow. “Come on in.”

He stayed at the door. “What did Ardis mean, you put one Dunbar out of commission?”

“Doughnut?” I held one up. It didn’t lure him any farther into the room. “The other things she mentioned, about deputizing and things getting rough—they didn’t pique your interest any?”

“That one stuck out.”

Geneva floated past him, her hum taking on the flavor of the theme song from
Bonanza.
He didn’t blink. “Why don’t you tell him about the guns and horses?” she said.

My recap of developments didn’t include guns and horses and elicited only minor reactions from Joe. The least understated was a bowed head for Max. Clod’s nose didn’t even get a wince. I told him my ideas about information and access, the need for more of both, about the Spiveys and the TGIF posse.

“No.”

“No, what? I haven’t asked you anything except about a doughnut.”

“You’re leading up to it, though. Look, I’m happy to pool information. That makes sense. But ‘access’? Like I said last night, absolutely not.” And just like that, he turned and left.

I hardly had time for an overstated reaction to his refusal and exit when he was back for another parting shot.

“And Emmett’s boxes? They’re a dead end. I’ve already looked.”

“Spurned,” Geneva said with swooning pathos.

Once again, only after Joe was gone did I think of what I really wanted to or should have asked. Like, if he and Granny were such friends, why hadn’t she mentioned him? Where had he planned to look for evidence at the cottage? Why shouldn’t he be the primary suspect for the house burglary? For all of it? And why didn’t I turn him in myself?

“I like this room,” Geneva said. “I enjoy hidden nooks and crannies. They’re ideal for waxing melancholic.”

“Good. You explore and wax. I need to make plans.” As I should have done before approaching Joe. Rushing and poor planning put the banana peel under many a promising analysis or project.

“I feel I should tell you something,” Geneva said.

“What?” I powered up my laptop.

“It’s very sad, but since I passed over, I frighten animals. Even the least of the mice and beetles.”

“Yeah?” I opened a new document; I didn’t want to know where she met mice and beetles.

“Here is the saddest part. The horses, no doubt, will bolt.”

“Geneva, there are no horses. There won’t be any bolting.”

“No horses? What about guns?”

“No. Please be quiet.”

I checked the time. An hour, still, before Friday Fast and Furious met. More than an hour since lunchtime arrived and left unheeded. That was something I could fix immediately. I ate the two doughnuts, then set about keying in and organizing the data I had, highlighting the gaps, planning how to fill them.

The basic information and questions were scary enough: Granny sold/gave her house to Emmett Cobb; someone poisoned Emmett with a bottle of gin; Cole Dunbar suspected Granny; Joe Dunbar was sure Emmett blackmailed Granny, which gave Granny a grand motive for Cole to chew over; blackmail—was Emmett blackmailing other people? Joe? Cole? Did Max Cobb inherit a blackmail business as well as the house? Did he kill his father to get the business? Now Max was dead—if he was murdered, did that mean he didn’t kill Emmett? Were there two murderers?

At the end of the hour, some of my notes scared me, especially the last question that suddenly occurred to me: Cole Dunbar was fixated on a connection between murdered Cobbs and Granny’s house, which I’d repeatedly told him I needed to get into. Would he try to pin Max’s murder on me?

And none of that touched on the break-ins. I made a quick list of the small things missing from the house: tapestry, tapestry cartoon, tapestry notebook, other notebooks/journals (maybe—who knew?), camera memory cards, thumb drive, cat. I hesitated, then added birthday present to the list. I refused to label any of the things inconsequential. And if someone had only taken Maggie for safekeeping, why didn’t anyone else know?

And where were all my suspects? Shouldn’t there be more than the Dunbar duo? Not if they were guilty. But
the guilt of either Dunbar felt like a bigger if than the if about Max being murdered. Because Granny trusted Joe and Homer said Clod was as honest as the next man. Too bad Max was gone. I had no reservations about suspecting him. What it finally came down to was the fact that I didn’t know enough to know who else to suspect. And that’s where I hoped Friday Fast and Furious would help. But could I ask them to help with something so potentially dangerous? I shook my head and shrugged. Why not?

By the time I’d made myself feel sick with questions and worries, Geneva had disappeared. I went to the door to make sure no one was within earshot, then called her. She didn’t answer. That made me uneasy.

The clicking needles of Friday Fast and Furious reached my ears before the low mumble of their voices. It was barely past three, but as I approached the TGIF workroom, their industry sounded serious enough to be mistaken for a sweatshop. Half a dozen furious knitters sat in a circle of eight chairs. They didn’t seem surprised to see me and there was nary a bobble in their speed when I joined them. I was surprised, though, to see one of them—Joe Dunbar, Mr. Suspect. How awkward.

“Hey, Kath.” Debbie smiled and patted the chair next to hers. “Ardis gave us a heads-up.”

“No slackers,” Mel said. “Where are your needles?”

“I have extras.” Ernestine held out needles and a ball of pastel green. “We’re knitting hats for preemies. Our goal is one thousand by New Year’s Eve. I’m happy to report we’re on target.”

Ruth waved. Her yarn was rosy pink. Mel’s matched her mustard hair. Joe’s was sky blue. The sixth member was the loud librarian, Thea. She held up a tiny red and white striped hat.

“Part of my early literacy outreach,” she said. “
The Cat in the Hat
.”

Ernestine handed me the needles and yarn. “Cast on seventy-two.”

“But we know you didn’t just wander in looking for a quick knit,” Mel said. “Ardis said you need our help.”

I looked at Joe. He shrugged in his minimal way. He kept the rhythm of his knitting but the other needles paused as if for a bated and choreographed breath.

“It’s going to be asking a lot,” I said, “and it might sound kind of unbelievable.”

Thea nodded. “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

“Spill it, sister,” Mel said.

“Okay. I think Emmett Cobb was blackmailing people. I’d like your help to find proof.”

The needles started clicking again.

“Blackmail is nasty,” Ernestine said with some relish. “We’ll need to ask any questions delicately.”

“And we’ll need to keep it quiet,” said Ruth. “That won’t be easy and will put some of us in difficult positions. I’m not really sure we can do anything. Or if we should.”

“And I’m not one hundred percent certain it’s true,” I said.

“Close enough,” Joe said.

The women, needles flying, darted glances around the circle at one another. Joe knit steadily and studied the floor.

“If he found people worth blackmailing, no question we can find them, too,” Mel said. “But it’ll take time, and snooping around like that might make us no better than Emmett.”