Knit One Murder Two

by Reagan Davis

  He even manages to maintain his smile when he’s in bully-mode, which is confusing and insulting when you’re his target. I’ve only ever seen him wear a suit, and his dark hair is always perfectly coiffed, probably because his wife, Kelly, is also his hairdresser, and the owner of Hairway To Heaven, our local hair salon.

  “Megan!” He’s almost caught up to us now. April and I stop and turn around.

  My phone is vibrating. It’s Adam again. I reject the call and drop the phone in my tote bag.

  “Hi Paul.” I sigh. “Listen, I’m sorry I missed the fundraising meeting at the Animal Centre this morning. There’s been a...”

  I’ve drawn a blank. What do you call an unexpected text message from your husband’s potential girlfriend’s husband?

  “...family emergency...and it took over my day. The meeting completely slipped my mind.”

  You could call it a family emergency; that seems about right to me.

  “Oh no! Is Hannah OK? Is anyone hurt or anything damaged?” He asks, somehow managing to sound compassionate and concerned even when he’s making me feel like an irresponsible loser.

  His smile stays constant. Not a wince.

  “Yes,” I reply, knowing full well this is a set-up. “Everyone is fine, no one is hurt and nothing is damaged. It isn’t that type of emergency.”

  I attempt my own toothy grin and tilt my head as I look up at him.

  “Well, that’s a relief! If someone was hurt, I could understand you failing to keep your commitment, but surely you could’ve called to let us know you would be absent. I mean, imagine if we all just stopped being accountable, and didn’t show up when we say we would, and just did whatever we want. It would be chaos, and I’m sure you don’t want to contribute to chaos, do you, Megan?”

  Still smiling. Him not me.

  I transfer my weight from one foot to the other and try to muster the mental fortitude to defend myself, even though my mind is focused on this meeting with Fred.

  “I’m fairly certain this is the first meeting I’ve missed, Paul. Ever. I always follow through with my commitments, except for this morning which was unavoidable. I’m sure you and the other committee members were able to have a productive meeting, despite my absence. Please forward the meeting minutes and notes to me and I’ll look them over before the next meeting,” I declare sternly.

  I’m not in the mood to be bullied right now.

  “But will you have time to read the minutes with this emergency you’re dealing with? Maybe if you told me what the emergency is, I could help?”

  He’s not trying to be helpful; he’s being nosy and condescending.

  “Actually, Megan, I was hoping to speak with you alone after the meeting about a different matter. Do you have a few minutes now? Or we could meet later, as long as it’s today. I’ll go over the meeting minutes with you and we can talk about the other thing.”

  “Today isn’t good for me, Paul. You can email the minutes to me along with whatever else you want to discuss.”

  I sneak a peek at my phone and see it’s almost noon. We need to get to Artsy Tartsy.

  “Just fifteen minutes later today?” he implores.

  He won’t let this go.

  “Paul, we’re in a hurry.” April holds her right hand up between Paul and me with her palm facing Paul in a stop position. “She told you why she missed the meeting, she apologized, now let it go. Email the meeting notes to her and if she has any questions, she’ll call you.” As April finishes speaking, she grabs my hand and starts walking fast up the boardwalk toward the bakery and away from Paul, dragging me along behind her like an annoyed mother pulling a defiant toddler away from the toy aisle in a store.

  Her long legs take wider strides than mine, so I do a kind of shuffle-walk-jog to catch up with her.

  “Thank you,” I say, giving April’s hand a squeeze.

  She squeezes my hand in return, looks down at me, and winks.

  “The only way to deal with bullies is to stand up to them,” she states firmly. In a softer voice she adds, “You’re going to be OK, you know. You and Hannah always have T and I, and whatever happens today with this Fred person, we’ve got your back.”

  We’re more than friends, we’re family.

  Chapter 3

  When we open the door to Artsy Tartsy, the intoxicating and soothing aroma of freshly baked pastries and bread envelop me like a hug. I inhale deeply, letting the comforting smell fill me with warmth.

  I smile and wave to Tamara who is serving a customer from behind the long, glass counter. Tamara smiles and waves back. Then without turning her head, she raises her eyebrows and moves her eyeballs to the left toward a man who is sitting alone at one of the bistro tables, focused on his phone screen.

  April wishes me luck under her breath and hovers a few steps behind me as I approach his table.

  “Fred?”

  I instinctively extend my right hand for him to shake. He looks up at me from his phone.

  “Megan?”

  We shake hands.

  “The owners have offered us the use of the office so we can speak privately,” I say.

  I gesture toward the back of the bakery and Fred stands up and follows me to the office with April following us.

  The office is a small, windowless room with a simple white desk, two chairs, and a low profile, white filing cabinet. The walls, floor, and ceiling are also white, which makes the room feel less small and dark. There are accents of teal on the upholstery and teal office supplies. Photos of April, Tamara, and their two kids also dot the white walls in teal frames.

  I intentionally choose the chair closest to the door, leaving Fred no choice but to sit in the other chair.

  He’s tall and thin, with a wiry physique, light brown hair, a receding hairline, and glasses. I’d guess he’s in his early thirties. He’s dressed casually in jeans, a leather belt with a large, metal buckle, running shoes, and a button-down plaid shirt. He wears a plain gold wedding band.

  Standing in the doorway, April asks us if we’d like anything to drink. Fred declines, and I tell her I would like a glass of water, partly because I’m thirsty, and partly because I want her to have a reason to come back in a few minutes to check in. She closes the door behind her when she leaves.

  Fred unlocks the screen on his phone and shows me more screenshots of alleged text conversations between his wife, Stephanie, and Adam. I’m about to ask him how I can verify the texts are real when he swipes the screen and shows me an intimate, revealing photo of Adam.

  Despite the photo being headless, I know it’s Adam. This photo would be more difficult to fake than a screenshot of a text conversation.

  I’m in shock and while I’m momentarily speechless, Fred scrolls through a few more intimate photos of Adam, and explains he learned about the affair two days ago when Stephanie accidentally sent him a photo of Adam instead of a photo of their cat sitting in a cardboard box.

  He says he confronted her, and she told him everything and let him look through her phone. Fred then texted the photos to me, along with the screenshots of the text conversations.

  How could Adam be so stupid! I can’t count the number of times we sat down with Hannah and warned her about the dangers of sending photos to people on the internet because you never know when those photos can come back to haunt you. Yet here he is, sending compromising photos of himself to some random woman, who has shared them with her husband, who then shared them with me. How many other people have seen these? Or, heaven forbid, have copies. Unbelievable.

  A gentle knock at the door distracts me from my silent rant. April has a tray with water and a small plate of pastries to sample. She strategically stands just behind Fred where he can’t see her.

  “Are you OK?” She mouths silently, exaggerating her words so I can read her lips.

  I smile and nod. She asks if we need anything else, then reminds us that she’s just outside. She leaves and closes the door behind her.

  I cross my legs a
nd lean slightly toward Fred.

  “What do you want, Fred?” I ask. “You could’ve sent these to me without a face-to-face meeting, so you must want something.”

  “We want Adam to leave the firm,” he replies.

  He said we. His wife, Stephanie knows he’s here; they’re working together. He’s waiting for me to speak, but I stay silent, purse my lips, and continue to look him in the eye.

  “Stephanie and I want to work it out, but that can’t happen if she sees Adam at work every day,” he explains. “Stephanie is a junior associate and Adam is a senior partner. It would be easier for him to find another job than it would be for her.”

  He takes a deep breath and adds, “Their relationship violates the firm’s fraternization policy. Also, as a senior partner, Adam is in a position of authority over Stephanie and it could appear to the other partners that his influence as her boss coerced her into having an affair with him.”

  I feel anger bubbling up from deep inside me. My mouth is dry and hot and I can feel my face flushing. I take a sip of water and try to calm myself down.

  I’m well aware of the firm’s fraternization policy, and so is Adam since he wrote it. It simply states employees cannot date or engage in intimate, personal relationships with other employees.

  Did Adam use his position as partner to coerce her into having an affair? For years, I’ve watched him passionately represent the victims of workplace harassment, and I’ve seen how disgusted he is with the perpetrators. The Adam I know could never do this, but I guess that’s what the wife always says when stories like this become public.

  “Are you saying my husband forced your wife to have an intimate relationship with him?”

  I’m trying to sound calm and composed, but I’m afraid I sound more accusatory, hostile, and threatened.

  Fred shifts in his chair and averts his eyes to his lap, seeming suddenly uncomfortable.

  “No.” He shakes his head, still looking at his hands in his lap. “According to Stephanie, she made the first move, and I believe her.”

  He sits up, composes himself, and adds, “But that doesn’t change the fact that the firm has a strict policy prohibiting employees from dating each other. Adam is technically her superior, and the firm regularly represents victims of workplace harassment, so the optics of this relationship wouldn’t be good for the firm’s reputation, or your husband’s.”

  There it is. The reason he wanted to meet in person. Fred and Stephanie Murphy are using the photos and screenshots to blackmail Adam into leaving the firm. Fred is correct when he says this could damage or even end Adam’s career.

  It could also ruin us financially at a time when we have university expenses and are about the add the cost of a second household to our family budget. How would we explain this to Hannah?

  “You said ‘we want Adam to leave the firm.’ Do you mean ‘we’ as in you and Stephanie? She knows you’re here today. Are you speaking on behalf of both of you?”

  “Yes.” He nods. “She knows I’m here. She told me to speak to you in person so there wouldn’t be any evidence or technological trail someone could follow.”

  That’s rich. I stop myself from laughing out loud at the irony. They don’t want any technological evidence, yet they’re using a technological smoking gun to blackmail us. She’s a lawyer for goodness’ sake, an officer of the court, and she’s participating in blackmail.

  I believe him. I don’t think the Murphys are bluffing. I believe they’re prepared to follow through with their threat if Adam doesn’t leave the firm.

  “What EXACTLY are you asking ME to do?” I ask.

  I don’t want any more details or explanations. I want to find out what I need to know so I can get out of this tiny office and away from Fred Murphy, before I throw up.

  “We want today to be Adam’s last day at the firm. Steph called in sick yesterday and today, but she’s going back to work tomorrow, and if Adam is still there, she’s going straight to the partners. I spoke with Adam earlier today, and he knows what we expect. I thought you had a right to know. You’re a victim, like me. You and I are collateral damage. But you might want to encourage him to do the right thing, so you and your daughter don’t have to deal with the fallout if he doesn’t.”

  “Does Adam know you’ve contacted me?” I ask, wondering if this is why Adam has been blowing up my phone with calls and texts all morning.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Fred shakes his head. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  “I see.” I stand up and put my hand on the door knob. “I’d say it was nice to meet you, Fred, but it wasn’t. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Fred stands up and I step out of the office and into the bakery so he can walk past me and leave. I pick up the water and plate of pastries, follow him to the front of the bakery, and watch him leave.

  The bakery is empty except for me, April, and Tamara who comes out from behind the counter and locks the door behind Fred. She turns the OPEN sign to CLOSED and comes back to where I’m standing at the counter and wraps her arms around me. Feeling safe now that Fred has left, I start to cry.

  I tell April and Tamara about my conversation with Fred, compose myself, dry my tears, and thank them for letting me use the office and always having my back.

  It’s almost time for me to start my shift at Knitorious, and I need to tell Connie about everything that’s happened today.

  After a group hug, I turn to leave. Tamara accompanies me to the door, and as she unlocks it she makes a joke about flipping the CLOSED sign to OPEN before Paul Sinclair hears Artsy Tartsy is closed and comes rushing over to recite and enforce the many bylaws that are probably violated when a Water Street business closes in the middle of a business day. We chuckle and I step into the warmth of the midday sun.

  So much has happened today. It’s not even 1 p.m., and it already feels like the longest day of my life.

  I turn left and start walking toward Knitorious. I reach into my tote bag and retrieve my phone. Adam phoned and texted again while I was meeting with Fred.

  I’m trying to work out what to say to Adam, when I notice Paul Sinclair and Fred Murphy sitting in a car together in front of a parking meter having an animated discussion. Two people who’ve both tried to bully me today are sitting together and shouting at each other.

  I lower my sunglasses from the top of my head to my eyes to hide my gaze and slow my pace as I pass the car in an effort to hear what they’re saying. I can’t hear them, but it looks like they’re both speaking at the same time, and their facial expressions and hand gestures indicate they’re arguing.

  This is a stark contrast to the soft-spoken, calm Fred I just met at the bakery, and to the cool, composed wolf-like Paul that I’m used to seeing around town.

  What would they be arguing about? Maybe Fred parked wrong, or didn’t put enough money in the meter, or violated a bylaw, and Paul is reprimanding him. I’m so distracted thinking about their heated discussion that I almost walk right past Knitorious.

  Chapter 4

  I open the door and listen for one of my favourite sounds, the familiar jingle of the bell over the door. Other than home, Knitorious is the only place that makes me feel both relaxed and inspired at the same time.

  The store is spacious with dark wood floors and yarn-filled, white shelving along the walls. The counter is in the centre of the store. Behind it there is a long wooden harvest-style table with ten chairs where we teach classes and sometimes sit for knit night. In front of the counter, and off to the side, there are two sofas, two overstuffed chairs, and a coffee table arranged in an intimate, cozy sitting area for knitting. As far as yarn stores go, Knitorious is classic yet contemporary, just like Connie, the owner.

  I spot Connie at the winding station, a small wooden table with a yarn swift and ball winder attached to it. A yarn swift is a wooden contraption that holds a skein of yarn while it’s being wound into a ball. We wrap the skein of yarn around the yarn swift, then attach one end of the yarn
to the ball winder. We crank the ball winder so the swift spins and pulls the yarn from the skein to the ball that’s being wound. Aside from knitting itself, winding yarn is one of the most meditative knitting activities there is, at least in my opinion.

  I start walking toward Connie, but I’m stopped at the Harvest table by Harlow, Connie’s cat. He’s lounging on the tabletop and exposing his belly for rubs. He purrs loudly as soon as I touch his soft, warm tummy.

  “It’s been a heck of a day so far!” I declare to Connie.

  I’m eager to fill her in on the events of this morning, but she turns, raises her left index finger to her closed lips in a shushing gesture, then bends her finger to point to her right. I look in the direction she’s pointing and see Kelly Sinclair browsing in the bulky yarn section. I nod to Connie. Message received, we aren’t alone in the store.

  I stash my tote bag under the counter and admire the ice-blue bulky yarn that’s sitting on the counter.

  “This is beautiful,” I say while petting and squishing the yarn. “Is it new?”

  The yarn tag says it’s a bulky weight, merino-cashmere blend, and the colour is called "Breathless."

  Kelly turns from the shelf of yarn where she’s browsing and walks toward me.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?! These skeins are going to be a new wrap for my sister. She’s always complaining it’s freezing in her office, and this colour is perfect for her!”

  She joins me with her perfectly manicured hands in petting and squishing the skeins of yarn.

  Kelly owns and operates Hairway to Heaven. She’s married to Paul Sinclair, and they live in the apartment above the salon. Kelly is nothing like her husband. Kelly is pleasant, lovely to talk to, and genuinely nice. She’s not imposing or prone to bullying like Paul.

  She’s one of the most glamorous women in Harmony Lake. Her long, blonde hair is always perfectly blown out so it’s smooth and bouncy, her make-up is always applied with professional precision, her nails are perpetually manicured, she wears classic, elegant clothes, and her smile lights up a room. She’s a walking testimonial to the salon’s services. I sometimes wonder what she and Paul have in common. They couldn’t be more different; they’re living proof that opposites attract.