Knit One Murder Two

by Reagan Davis

  “Connie offered to wind one of the skeins for me,” Kelly explains, "so I can cast on between clients. I doubt I’ll get the chance, though, I’m fully booked for the rest of the day. And...oh….look at the time!”

  Kelly checks the time on her phone, then retrieves her wallet from her purse.

  “I have to get back to the salon, Mrs. Willows is coming in for roots and highlights at 2 p.m., and the plumber said he’d be over to clear the drains in the hair sinks sometime after 1:30. I should pay and get out of here before I’m distracted by more yarn!”

  “Is Archie or Ryan who’s coming to unclog your drains?” I ask.

  Archie and Ryan Wright are Harmony Lake’s local father-son handyman service. Most of the businesses on Water Street, and residents in the rest of the town, call them for handy work and repair jobs. Their white van with the words, The Wright Men For The Job, painted on the sides in red letters, is a common sight in and around Harmony Lake.

  “We don’t hire Archie and Ryan anymore.” Kelly’s smile disappears, and is replaced with a solemn, serious expression. “Paul says Ryan isn’t trustworthy, and he doesn’t want him in the salon or the apartment ever again.”

  “Oh. Did Paul say why?”

  I’ve never heard anyone complain about either Archie or Ryan.

  “No, just that he doesn’t trust him and doesn’t want me to hire him.” She shrugs and pulls her credit card from her wallet.

  Connie stops winding and grabs a pair of large knitting needles from the needle display. The 15 millimetre wooden needles look more like drum sticks than knitting needles. But big needles are needed for bulky yarn.

  “If you don’t get gauge with these, Kelly, just bring them back, and we’ll exchange them for a different size.”

  Connie hands me the needles and I ring them up. Kelly pays, I put her yarn and needles in a paper bag with handles, and she rushes out the door to beat Mrs. Willows and the plumber to Hairway to Heaven.

  “What do you think that’s all about? Paul not trusting Ryan?” I ask Connie now that we’re alone.

  Connie waves her hand in front of her face as though waving away a bad smell. “Who knows? Paul is always picking on someone, and if he’s not picking on them today, he’s looking for a reason to pick on them tomorrow. You know how he is, I’m sure it’s something from nothing.”

  I reach under the counter and grab my knitting bag from my tote bag.

  I’ve been carrying this purple yarn around for a week waiting for the chance to cast on a new hat and cowl for Hannah.

  I take my knitting to one of the sofas and settle in to knit while I tell Connie about the texts from Fred, the encounter April and I had with Paul Sinclair, my meeting with Fred, the blackmail scheme, and the weird argument I saw between Fred and Paul on my way to work. I’m trying to knit while I talk, but Harlow decides that napping on my lap is more comfortable than napping on the table, so I put my knitting aside to stroke the purring, sleepy, cat.

  Connie is a great listener and often a source of sage advice. I know she worries about Hannah and me, especially with Adam and I separating. I don’t want to make her worry any more than she already does, but not telling her would feel like lying. I tell her and April almost everything. She even introduces me to people as her daughter-friend, and I call her my mother-friend.

  Despite being only sixty-eight years young, Connie is smart, sophisticated, and wise in the ways of the world; yet, the concept of sending intimate text messages seems to elude her. She keeps asking how I can be certain it’s Adam in the photos if his face isn’t in any of them.

  Without being explicit, I assure her it’s definitely him in the photos. She’s worried the photos are fake, and we’re being conned, so she asks to see them for herself. Obviously, that can’t happen, so to stop this conversation from becoming more awkward, I tell her I know it’s Adam because his tattoo is in some of the photos. Thankfully, she accepts this and stops asking. I quickly change the subject, and we discuss ideas for the fall window display.

  I’m pretty sure this isn’t a lie. I think I recall seeing his tattoo featured in one of the photos, but I’m not certain because I haven’t looked at them since Fred sent them to me. In fact, I’d like it very much to never see them again. Adam has Hannah’s birth date tattooed in roman numerals over his heart.

  When Connie gets up to answer the phone, I pick up my phone to see more notifications of calls and texts from Adam.

  I have to tell him that I know, but I’m at a loss for words so I send him one of the screenshots of a text conversation between him and Stephanie. I’m careful to send him the least-intimate thing that Fred sent me. As soon as I hit send, I see three dots on the screen and know Adam is typing a reply.

  Adam: I’m sorry. This will be taken care of today. You spoke to Paul?

  What does taken care of mean? Does that mean he’s going to leave the firm, or does it mean something else? And how does he know Paul was looking for me? I miss one meeting in sixteen years and Paul calls my husband? Seems like a bit of an overreaction on Paul’s part, but OK.

  Me: Yes, he found me on my way into town.

  I want to tell him about my meeting with Fred, but I’m a bit paranoid about putting it in a text since I’ve now got a phone full of incriminating photos and screenshots of text conversations. I hit send and no dots appear. Instead my phone rings and it’s Adam’s number on the call display.

  “Hi,” I whisper, aware Connie is on the phone in the kitchenette in back of the store.

  I stretch to look through the doorway and see her back is to me, her sleek, shoulder-length grey hair bobbing around as she talks on the phone.

  Connie is an animated talker. She uses her hands and facial expressions to add emphasis when she speaks. If people were books, most of us would be novels, but Connie would have full colour illustrations. She uses gestures to add context to what she’s saying.

  “Meg, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know any of this would happen.”

  “Which part didn’t you know, Adam? That your girlfriend is married? That dating an employee is against the company policy that you wrote? That you’re technically her boss? That those photos could be used against us? That sleeping with an employee might hurt your career? That I might see a bunch of photos I wish I didn’t know exist? You’ll need to be more specific, Adam.”

  There’s a long angry silence. Well, angry for me. For Adam it might be an awkward silence.

  “I know I messed up, Meg, and I’m fixing it. I’ve been in meetings with the other partners for most of the day, and I’ll be here late tonight taking care of it. If you’re still awake when I get home, I’d like us to talk, so I can explain some things to you. If it’s too late tonight, maybe we can talk tomorrow.”

  He’s telling me he’ll be late like it’s a rare occurrence, like he hasn’t been working late and bringing work home with him on weekends for the better part of fifteen years. We do need to talk about this, though, he’s right about that.

  “Fine,” I agree. “Let’s talk either tonight or tomorrow.”

  Just as I’m about to ask him what "taking care of it" means, I’m interrupted by the jingle of the bell over the door. A local yarn dyer is struggling to hold the door open while carrying a tub of yarn that Connie must have ordered. I tell Adam I have to go, end the call, and rush to hold the door for the dyer.

  In between serving customers, helping a knitter recover a stitch she dropped about three hundred rows ago, and petting Harlow on demand, I unpack the tub of yarn, add the skeins to the store inventory, take photos of them for the shopping section of the store website, and rearrange some shelves to make room for the new, fall-coloured skeins.

  Harlow and I both look up when we hear the clinking sound of dishes. Harlow’s pupils dilate, his tail is twitchy and his ears are at attention. He’s on full alert. The fffffffffpp sound of the lid being pulled off a can of cat food confirms his suspicion; his dinner is almost ready. He runs to the back of the store, and into t
he kitchenette where I hear the tinking sound of the spoon tapping his plate as Connie doles out the gross-smelling loaf of cat food onto his dish.

  How is it dinner time already? A quick glance at the clock on the cash register tells me it’s twenty minutes past six. We should have closed twenty minutes ago. I go to lock the door and turn the sign to CLOSED, but the door is already locked and the sign is already turned.

  “I closed up twenty minutes ago, my dear.” Connie is out of the kitchenette and sitting at the harvest table. “You were so focused on what you were doing that you didn’t notice.”

  “I was focused on keeping myself busy, so I wouldn’t have time to think about Murphygate. It didn’t work.”

  I credit April for coming up with the name, Murphygate. She used it a couple of hours ago when she texted me for an update.

  “Have you heard anything more from Adam or the Murphygate people, my dear?”

  Hearing Connie say the phrase, Murphygate people, makes me smile.

  “You know I would tell you if I did. I’m hoping no news is good news, and I’ll never hear from them again.”

  “You should stay for supper tonight. We’ll make tacos and drink wine. We can watch that British murder mystery show you like and have a sleepover! We haven’t had a girls' night in ages.” Connie claps her hands together in front of her chest as if she’s just come up with the best idea ever.

  Connie dotes on me. I know she’s choosing tonight for a girls' night to help keep my mind off Murphygate, and so she can stay close if there’s another dramatic development.

  “I’d love a girls' night, but can we do it another night? Today has been exhausting and I think I’d fall asleep before I finish my tacos and wine.”

  I’m moving around the store, picking up mislaid skeins of yarn, and returning them to the proper shelves when I notice the half-wound skein of "Breathless" yarn at the winding station.

  “Kelly paid for that skein but was in a rush to get back to the salon and left without it,” I say to Connie, while nodding toward the winding station behind her.

  “Oh mothballs! I completely forgot to finish winding it.” Connie turns her chair around and starts cranking the ball winder.

  I tidy the store while Connie finishes winding the skein of yarn.

  “I can drop it off to her on my way home,” I offer. “I have to walk past the salon anyway.”

  I place the ball of yarn in a small bag and drop the bag in my tote. Connie follows me to the door so she can lock it behind me.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.” I open my arms for a hug.

  Connie squeezes me and rubs my back.

  “Call me tonight if you need anything.” She pulls away and points at my nose. “I mean it. I don’t care how late it is.”

  “I will, I promise! Goodnight.”

  I open the door, listening for the jingle, step onto the sidewalk, and hear the door lock behind me as I start to walk down the street.

  Chapter 5

  I’m about to turn up the alleyway next to the salon that will take me to the back door that leads to the upstairs apartment, when I notice the lights are still on inside the salon, so I go to the salon door instead.

  I reach for the door handle and read the business hours posted on the door. The salon closes at 6 p.m. on Tuesdays, and It’s almost 7 p.m. now. I pull the door but it’s locked. I try pushing it anyway, because I’ve made that mistake before, and determine the door is definitely locked.

  I bring my right hand to my forehead to reduce the glare of twilight reflecting off the salon window, and squint, looking inside.

  I see the back of Kelly’s head. She’s standing at one of the sinks with a client. I pull the bag of yarn from my tote bag and knock on the window. When Kelly turns and sees me, I wave, smile, and hold up the bag, so she can see it. She turns back to her client, then turns back to me and walks toward the door, smiling, and wiping her hands on a black towel with a pink, embroidered salon logo on it. Kelly opens the door and I step inside.

  “One of your lovely skeins of yarn was accidentally left on the ball winder,” I tell her.

  The chemical smell inside the salon burns my nose and throat. I wonder if Kelly is ever bothered by the fumes, or if she’s used to it. I hand Kelly the bag, and she looks inside.

  “Thank you for dropping it off. I’ve been too busy to notice it’s missing. I don’t usually work this late, but Mrs. Pearson and her husband are leaving for a cruise tomorrow to celebrate their forty-fifth wedding anniversary, and this was the only time I could fit her in before she leaves.”

  Kelly looks toward Mrs. Pearson who is waiting in a semi-reclined position with her head in the sink. “We want to make sure your hair looks sun-kissed in your vacation photos, don’t we Mrs. Pearson?” Kelly asks in a raised voice so Mrs. Pearson can hear her from inside the sink.

  Mrs. Pearson raises a freshly manicured thumb in acknowledgement.

  Still looking toward Mrs. Pearson and holding the yarn bag up high enough for Mrs. Pearson to see, Kelly says loudly, “I’ll be right back to finish taking out your foils, Mrs. Pearson, I just need to run this upstairs to the apartment.”

  Mrs. Pearson again raises her thumb in acknowledgement. Kelly turns to me and wrinkles her nose.

  “I don’t want to leave it in the salon where it can absorb the chemical odours,” she explains, her voice back to its normal volume.

  “I can take it upstairs for you,” I offer. “You finish getting Mrs. Pearson’s hair cruise-ready, and I’ll take the yarn up to your apartment.”

  I smile and take the bag from Kelly’s hand.

  “Thanks Megan, you’re a star. Paul is probably at a meeting somewhere, but if he’s up there, just give him the bag. If he’s not, the rest of the yarn is on a table just inside the door. The door should be unlocked.”

  By the time she finishes speaking, she’s already back at the sink with her fingers in Mrs. Pearson’s hair, and I can hear the crunching sound of the foil strips Kelly is removing from her hair.

  I walk to the back of the salon and turn on the light in the small back room. This back room is smaller than the back room at Knitorious and has towels, bottles of shampoo, conditioner and other salon products neatly organized on floor-to-ceiling shelves along two walls. The back door that leads to the parking lot is directly in front of me and is propped slightly ajar with a unique, heart-shaped grey rock. I assume Kelly opens it to let fresh air into the salon to combat the chemical smell. The stairs that lead up to the apartment are on my left.

  From the top of the stairs I can hear a TV or radio from inside the apartment, so I assume Paul is home. I’m not looking forward to ending my day with another conversation with him.

  I knock on the door hoping I’m not about to be greeted with a reprimand, lecture, or any other lengthy conversation. I can feel my stomach rumbling, and I’m thinking about the leftover lasagna waiting for me at home in the fridge. I can be at home and have it in the microwave within ten minutes of leaving here.

  He doesn’t answer my knock, so I knock again, louder. Still nothing. I put my ear to the door. There’s definitely a TV or radio on, but I don’t hear any other sounds. Maybe he went out and left the TV on? Or maybe he’s asleep?

  I tentatively turn the doorknob to confirm the door is unlocked. It is. I open the door slowly, just enough to poke my head inside the apartment.

  “Hello? Paul? It’s Megan. I’m just dropping off some yarn for Kelly,” I call out.

  I wait a few seconds. No response. I feel a sense of chilly apprehension about walking into the apartment, but I brace myself and go over my plan. I'll open the door, step inside, and put the yarn on the table where the other yarn is sitting. Then I'll leave and tell Kelly on my way out that Paul didn’t answer, so I left the yarn on the table.

  Deep breath.

  I open the door slowly and step inside the apartment, and just like Kelly said, there’s a small table next to the door on the right. The top of the table has a bow
l of keys, two pairs of sunglasses, a wallet, and the paper bag I handed to Kelly at Knitorious this afternoon. I place the new bag of yarn on the table next to the other bag of yarn, feeling relieved I’ve avoided another possibly unpleasant, confrontation with Paul.

  I turn to my left to leave and see Paul sitting at the kitchen table with his back to me. He’s slumped forward, and I can’t see his head. I assume it’s on the kitchen table. What an odd place to fall asleep.

  “Hi Paul.” I watch him to see if he wakes up, or twitches, or something. He doesn’t.

  I hesitantly take a step toward the kitchen table.

  “Paul?”

  No response, no movement.

  Ignoring the rapidly growing apprehension I feel, I continue carefully toward the kitchen table. I stop when I feel my knot. I get a familiar knot in my stomach when something isn’t right. It’s one of the voices my intuition uses to communicate with me. In almost forty years, the knot hasn’t been wrong yet.

  Now that I’m closer, I can see something blue around Paul’s neck. I squint in case my eyes are playing tricks on me. Is that a skein of yarn? Why would he have a skein of yarn draped around his neck? I recognize the yarn immediately; it’s a skein of "Breathless," the same yarn I admired at work today, and the same yarn that Kelly bought four skeins of today.

  The skein is untwisted and wrapped around Paul’s neck like a back-drop necklace, tight in the front with the excess yarn draped down the back of the white undershirt he’s wearing.

  I bend over to look at his face, except I can’t see his face because it’s immersed in a large bowl. I check for signs of life. He’s eerily still, and his body isn’t rising and falling like a body does when it inhales and exhales.