Till Death Do Us Purl (19 page)

S
ee . . . what did I tell you?” Edie Steiber slapped
the newspaper down on the counter in front of Lucy, practically sticking Lucy’s nose in it . . . in her usual, subtle manner.

Lucy had dropped in at the Schooner on her way home to the cottage for an extra dose of caffeine. She needed a boost to face the mountain of old clothes in the guest room waiting to be sorted out for charity and a mountain of work she had to finish over the weekend that waited in her office.

As she waited for the coffee, longer than she wanted to, she was not sure what Edie was ranting about. She looked down and gave the article a glance, knowing she wouldn’t be served until she at least feigned some interest.

“I knew that At-Las investment offer was too good to be true. My big toe was tingling. I’m glad I followed my own good advice and didn’t listen to that kid who handles my portfolio.”

While Edie squawked about airhead financial advisers and greedy, shameless hucksters robbing the life savings from vulnerable old people like herself, Lucy tried to translate
the business jargon of the news article.

It was a short but chilling report, on page three, about an investigation by state and federal authorities into the business practices of At-Las Technologies. Particularly the investments recently solicited for research and development of a new adhesive formula, which the company contends will be a groundbreaking technology.

Investigators question whether the funds, earmarked for R&D, were used improperly by the firm and question the substantial returns some investors have already received, though no product has been formally announced or so far produced for the marketplace . . .

The news story continued. But Lucy paused and looked up at Edie.

Before she could even formulate her question, the older woman said, “In other words, Philip Lassiter was running a shell game. Using the money he collected from one guy to give a profit to the other. So he kept attracting more investors, see?

“Meanwhile, hard to say if any of that dough was used to make the doughnuts. More like he needed some quick cash to prop the place up until his golden boy, Jeremy, could figure out that blasted glue formula. And we all know the sad ending to that story . . .”

“Yes, we do, unfortunately.” Lucy sighed. “Mind if I keep this copy? I don’t have time to read the whole thing now.”

“Sure, go ahead. I have a
stack of ’em.” Edie shrugged and rang up Lucy’s coffee, which she’d finally poured out, smacking on a plastic lid. “I’m going to throw in the newspaper for free, hon. As long as you look me in the eye and say, ‘Edie, you told us so. You were the first one that smelled something fishy in that deal.’”

Lucy was happy to comply. “You were the first one to sniff out that rat, Edie. No question.”

Edie seemed satisfied and handed over the coffee cup. She pulled down her handmade powder blue sweater vest over her large stomach. The garment had a spring theme, Lucy noticed, with a bright yellow sun embroidered over Edie’s right breast, a red bird in flight just below her left breast, and a row of multicolored flowers sprouting up from the bottom hem, tugged across her hips. She was a walking, talking garden of delights today, Lucy thought. Though she didn’t dare tell Edie that.

“You know what P. T. Barnum said,” Edie added. “There’s a sucker born every minute.”

Lucy could not argue with that. And didn’t have time to, either.

Maggie’s Saturday at the shop had been busy and passed quickly. Which was just the way she liked it. She’d taught a class in the morning and one in the afternoon and the fair weather had brought out more shoppers to Main Street.

The shop had not been overrun, as it was sometimes in the fall or right before the holidays. But there had been a nice flow of customers coming and going most of the day. She’d made a few very nice sales, too, and felt very encouraged
as she sorted a pile of button cards and returned them to their proper drawers.

Phoebe had left early to help Josh with a gig. But Maggie didn’t mind lingering to clean up. She liked the shop to be neat on Monday morning when she opened the door again. It was a far less stressful way to start the week. She did the same thing at night, before she went to bed, picking up around her house and setting up the coffeepot.

Besides, she didn’t have anywhere to go but home to eat her dinner and read a book, or maybe find a movie on TV worth watching. And work on her knitting, of course.

The sharp tap on a windowpane in the front door drew her attention. She had already flipped the sign to the
CLOSED
side but there was always some persistent customer who wouldn’t accept that message as long as there was a light left on or she could be seen through the window.

Her day’s totals hadn’t been good enough to miss a possible sale, so she wearily walked to the front and pulled open the door.

She was surprised to see Lewis Atkins standing there.

He looked very smart in a camel hair overcoat and dark brown muffler. The brim of a brown fedora was pulled low over his eyes. He wore his trademark bow tie and a look of satisfaction, she noticed. He was pleased to be surprising her.

“Mrs. Messina . . . hope you don’t mind me dropping by to say hello. I was just in the neighborhood.”

“No, not at all. Come right in.” Maggie quickly retrieved her usual poise and manners, stepping aside so her visitor could enter.

“My, what a lovely shop you have
here.” He politely removed his hat and walked in, gazing around at the interesting space she’d found for her store. He took in the groupings of antique furniture, couches and chairs, the armoire filled with yarn, and long worktable in back.

“What beautiful molding . . . and a bay window with a real window seat. This must have been some house in its day.”

“It must have been,” she agreed. “Fortunately, it was well preserved. The separate rooms suit my needs very well.”

“I can see that. It all looks very cozy. And functional,” he added. He appreciated the practical, logical side of things, she remembered.

He strolled over to the spinning wheel in the front room and gave the wheel a turn.

“’Round and ’round she goes. Where she stops, nobody knows,” he called out. Then he looked up at her and smiled
.

Maggie smiled back, just to be polite. Even though he had told her he would stop by sometime to see the shop and say hello, she found his appearance at this hour somewhat . . . odd. Even unsettling.

She watched him, her arms crossed over her chest.

“How’s business? I see you’re running a contest,” he tilted his head toward the window again. “Good idea. People always like something for nothing.”

His observation was true. Though Maggie wouldn’t have said it so plainly. “People like contests. At least I hope they do. I’m not sure if it’s bringing in more traffic.”

“Oh, I think it’s bringing in traffic. You’ve got me in here, right?”

He caught her eye and smiled again. She felt a chill. She suddenly wondered if he and Erica were connected in some way and Erica had sent him.

She didn’t feel comfortable asking him why he’d come. But a few other questions came to mind now that he was here.

“Terrible news about Jeremy. What a shock,” she began. “You knew him well. Did you ever imagine he could plan such an elaborate ruse?”

Atkins narrowed his eyes, his gaze shifting to the side. “Oh, he seemed sunny and bright. And for the most part, he was. But desperate times inspire desperate acts. Jeremy disappearing down that rabbit hole was an act of self-defense. Self-preservation. It was a prison break gone wrong. The boy was driven to it. By his father,” he said bluntly. “Philip Lassiter is the one to blame. No question in my book.”

Of course Philip Lassiter would be the villain in any of Lewis Atkins’s scenarios. But in this case, it was probably true.

“I never looked at it that way. Maybe you’re right.”

“No maybes about it,” he replied. “Any other questions?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, Maggie thought, grasping her courage. “Did Jeremy get in touch with you, from the motel? I’m just curious,” she added. “It seems like you two had a good relationship, in spite of everything that had gone on at his father’s company.”

“We did. I think so anyway . . . But curiosity was bad for the cat, Maggie. Remember? It was fatal.”

His reply was alarming. But Maggie hid her reaction well.

“So, you’re not going to answer me?” She shrugged. “That’s all right. I understand.”

He shook his head.
“What’s the difference? Sure, I’ll tell you. You’ll probably hear everything around town anyway. Jeremy did call me. He wanted to meet, to talk about the formula.”

“To sell it to you, you mean?” she asked quickly. She remembered how Rebecca had told them Jeremy said he could get a lot of money in a little while. But he didn’t say how.

“That’s right. He knew I was still trying to work it out. He told me he’d cracked it and he wanted to make a deal.” Lewis paused, making her wait for the punch line. “I didn’t go to meet him. I didn’t believe him.”

“You didn’t?” Maggie was surprised.

He shook his head. “I knew he wanted to get back at his father, and giving me the formula was the best way to do that. But I still didn’t trust him. I mean, it’s hard to trust a man who faked his own death. Don’t you think? No matter how nice a boy he’d always seemed.”

Maggie considered Lewis’s line of reasoning, and thought he was a wise person. Dispassionate, but wise.

“That does make sense.” Dana had said almost the same thing, when they had been talking about Jeremy’s possible disloyalty to Rebecca—we can’t assume anything about the moral code of a man who would fake his own death.

“I also make it a rule not to do business with people who are desperate. And Jeremy definitely fell into that category.”

Maggie nodded. “Yes, I suppose he did. I guess he was counting on the fact that the offer would be so tempting you’d lose all perspective.”

Lewis laughed. “Mrs. Messina, you say that as if you don’t think I’m smart enough to figure out the formula for myself.”

Had she really sounded
like that? She felt embarrassed. Well, maybe she was thinking that, a little.

“So, have you cracked it?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. But I’m getting there. Since we’re on the subject, I’ll tell you something else I told the police. I didn’t want it so badly I’d kill him for it. It’s just . . . glue. What would be the point of that anyway? Killing him after he gave it to me, or because he didn’t give it to me? No . . . I’m not their man. I have a rock-solid alibi, by the way. I was at an opera in Boston, sitting there the entire night.
Carmen.
All four acts and a very late dinner afterward. Were you curious about that, too?”

Maggie feigned an innocent stare. “Of course not. It’s just too tempting to talk about all this. With someone who knew him well.”

“Yes, it is. People are fascinating. And you’re also a very poor liar, Mrs. Messina.”

“Well, thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment, all things considered. And you can call me Maggie, if you like.”

“Thanks. Call me Lewis.” He smiled, looked around again, then put on his hat and adjusted the brim. “Nice talking to you, Maggie. I love the store. I’d imagined it a lot like this. Good luck with your business.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” she replied. And thanks for an enlightening conversation, she thought.

“No problem. I’ll be by again sometime. In the meantime, you really ought to curb that curious streak. There are still a lot of unstable chemicals in this mix. And unstable personalities. You don’t want it to blow up in your face, Maggie.”

“No, I don’t,” she agreed. A few moments later,
he said good night and walked out.

Maggie felt admonished by his words. But still curious. He seemed to have spoken freely with her. But she felt sure there was still a lot Lewis Atkins knew but had not disclosed.

On Sunday morning, Lucy found a long but interesting e-mail from Maggie, addressed to all her friends:

The bunch of you are always telling me I need to socialize more. Just want to report that on Saturday night, I actually spent some quality time with an attractive, intelligent man. Who even likes opera. How rare is that?

Too bad he’s on our short list of suspects. It was Lewis Atkins. He stopped by the shop. I’m not exactly sure why now. We had a long conversation. He’s quite intelligent and interesting to talk to. I’ve decided that I don’t think he killed Jeremy. And not because I’d like to go see him again. (Outside of a prison visit, I mean.) So don’t you all start getting ideas. I’ll explain next time you’re in the shop.

Till then—I think we can cross Atkins off the list.

I remain alone but not lonely. (Except once in a while, on the weekend.) Honestly.

XO, Maggie

Lucy only had time to write back a short note.

Interesting! I may call you later tonight or just drop by tomorrow. Am busy with moving Matt’s stuff today. Including the guitar collection.
:(

Lucy and Matt had decided
he didn’t have enough belongings to make it worth hiring a mover. He drove a small pickup truck and she drove a Jeep, so they figured it wouldn’t take more than two loads to bring all his belongings to the cottage.

Yet once they started packing up the vehicles, the boxes and odd pieces of furniture seemed to triple. Matt was not the best packer, either, and items like lamps and even dishes seemed to be flying out of haphazard containers.

Most of the boxes held his books, and while Lucy had always appreciated Matt’s literary interests, moving his library was definitely the downside.

“Remind me not to get involved with any brainy guys in the future.” Lucy grunted as she hefted another box up to the truck bed. “I’m getting you an e-reader for your birthday. No question.”

“You can leave those for me, Lucy,” Matt said gallantly.

“No, I can’t. I don’t want you to exhaust yourself and hurt your back.”

“That’s my secret plan. Then you’ll feel so sorry for me and give me a back rub.”