by Reagan Davis
He’s laying out his argument using his lawyer voice, and I hate it when he uses his lawyer voice to argue with me.
“I’ll be fine, Adam. You can go ahead and leave. I’ll text you when I’m on my way. You don’t have to worry,” I insist and wave him away dismissively.
“Archie and some of the book club are coming back to the shop for tea after, so I won’t be alone anyway, but thank you, Adam.”
Connie reaches over and squeezes his hand.
“I’ll make sure she gets home safely,” Eric says, now standing beside the booth. “Megan, I’d like to speak with you before you leave. Then I can make sure you get home safely, if that’s all right.”
“Sure,” I say.
I look at Adam. “See, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at home.”
Adam says goodbye to the table, thanks Eric, and leaves.
“I’ll be sitting by the bar when you’re ready,” Eric says, and turns to walk toward the bar.
“Megan? Why are you Megan, and T and I are Ms. Shaw, and Ms. Shaw”?
“Dunno, he told me to call him Eric, so I told him to call me Megan.”
“I really need to figure out who killed Paul so everything can go back to normal, and I can get on with my life,” I say.
“Are you sure going back to normal is what you want, my dear? Everything to be exactly as it was?”
Connie places her hand on top of mine and gives it a gentle squeeze.
“I’m going to get us another round of drinks. Or possibly two!” April announces.
Chapter 20
With a slight buzz from having three glasses of wine over the course of the afternoon and no food, I wander over to the bar and find Eric sitting on a bar stool with a plate of wings and a drink that I assume is non-alcoholic because police on TV never drink while they’re on duty.
“Is that from the local microbrewery?” I point to his pint glass.
“Only if the local microbrewery brews ginger ale,” he replies, smiling. “Wing?”
He nudges a plate of wings toward me. I put a hand up and shake my head to indicate no thank you and sit on the stool next to him at the now almost-empty bar.
“I can’t believe how busy it was in here earlier. I’ve never seen so many people crammed into The Embassy,” I say, making an attempt at small talk.
“It was crazy,” he agrees. “It made it difficult to observe everyone. But I observed you racing out of here after Fred. How did that go?”
He gets right to the point. All business, this guy.
“I’m sure he didn’t tell me anything that you don’t already know. Like how you already knew that Stephanie and Kelly are sisters and that Stephanie and Fred would be here today, and I didn’t.”
It’s a relief to get this off my chest. One of the many, many things I’ve learned over the last week is that I need to speak up when I’m upset and not shove my feelings aside. It’s not my job to spare other people from having uncomfortable feelings at the expense of my own. I deserve to be heard, too, everybody does. As of today, I promise myself I will say how I feel and not ignore my feelings for the sake of not rocking the boat.
I will keep this promise at least until this wine buzz wears off.
“Actually, until I saw the look on your face when you saw them, I didn’t know you weren’t aware of the relationships there. Harmony Lake is a small town, everyone seems to know everyone else, so I assumed you knew. I’m sorry that was awkward for you, it wasn’t my intention.”
I guess he didn’t blindside me intentionally.
“Thank you,” I reply. “Why were you watching me?”
“I wasn’t watching you specifically. I was watching the condolence line. It was so busy in here that I had to narrow my focus, so I kept an eye on the condolence line from upstairs while a few non-uniforms wandered the crowd with their eyes and ears open,” he explains.
While Eric finishes his wings and ginger ale, I fill him in on my conversation with Fred and share the conclusions that Connie, April, Tamara, and I came to when we discussed it earlier.
“I really appreciate the information, it’s more helpful than you realize, but Adam is right to be concerned about your safety. There is a murderer in this town, and they probably know that you’re asking questions and talking to me. If that person thinks you’re getting too close, you could be in danger. I think it’s time for you to stop investigating and go back to your normal life.”
I feel like he’s being sincere, and not just trying to get my nose out of his case, though I’m sure that’s part of it.
“I need this murder to be solved because Adam and I are suspects. We have a daughter, and I don’t want her to think that her father had an affair with a married woman, we were blackmailed because of it, and one of us killed his blackmailer. Even part of it being true is bad enough, but it will be easier to explain to her when someone else is behind bars for Paul’s murder,” I explain. “Adam is a lawyer and that’s how we support our family. Being a suspect in a murder investigation could destroy his career. I mean, would you hire a lawyer who may have killed the person who was blackmailing him? The affair has already cost him his partnership at the firm.”
I’m getting choked up, and I can feel my cheeks flushing. Talking about how this would affect Hannah makes it too real. I take a deep breath, dab my eyes with a napkin from the bar and compose myself.
“If I tell you something, can you promise me that you won’t tell another person?” Eric asks quietly.
He makes a fist and extends his pinky finger for a pinky swear. I hook my pinky finger around his.
“Promise,” I say.
Then I use my other hand to make an X over my heart.
“I pinky swear and I cross my heart and hope to die, so spill.”
“Adam has been eliminated as a suspect. We were able to use video and his key card for the office building to verify he arrived at work early in the morning and didn’t leave his office until late Tuesday evening. From there he went to a burrito place up the street. We have video of him ordering food, leaving with his order, and entering a nearby hotel a few minutes later. We have proof that he registered and was given a key card for the company suite. We have footage of him and his burrito entering the elevator, then exiting on the floor where the suite is located. We have video of him unlocking the door with the key card. The door to that suite wasn’t opened again until the next morning. He couldn’t have done it.”
I tear up from the overwhelming relief I feel.
“Well…” I sigh. "At least with Adam eliminated, if I go to prison for Paul’s murder, Hannah will still have one parent on the outside.”
When I hear the words come out of my mouth, I realize I sound glib, but I’m seriously worried that I haven’t been eliminated as a suspect yet, and other people have, which means the suspect list is getting smaller and my odds of being charged are getting higher.
“As for you,” Eric says, handing me another napkin, “you were at work until less than ten minutes before you found the body, and you were with Connie all afternoon before that. While you haven’t been eliminated, you are, at best, an unlikely suspect.”
I nod. An unlikely suspect, but a suspect nonetheless.
“I was planning to stop by tomorrow and tell Adam, but we can tell him when I take you home if you want.”
I nod. “That would be great, thank you, Eric.”
“So, there’s no need for you to keep asking questions and putting yourself at risk, right?” he nods at me, looking for agreement.
“Right,” I say, nodding back.
We get up to leave. We say goodnight to Sheamus and head toward the door.
“Thank you for offering to take me home, but you don’t have to,” I say. “I’ll be fine, really.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says, “but it’s a good idea for everyone to be extra cautious right now, and go out in groups and pairs. You know, safety in numbers and all that. Besides, I promised your hus—Adam, and this gives me a
chance to tell him he’s no longer a suspect.”
At the door, I reach for my tote to get my lip balm. Where’s my tote bag?
“Shoot! I left my bag under the booth!”
I walk quickly toward the booth and can see my pumpkin-coloured bag underneath the table where I left it. I reach under, grab it, stride back to Eric, through the door he’s holding open, and onto the sidewalk, completely forgetting that my lips are dry and I wanted to apply lip balm.
Eric doesn’t have a car with him. He rode to The Embassy with two non-uniformed colleagues who left long ago and took the car with them. It’s a nice evening, so we decide to walk to my house and he’ll text the station and ask for a patrol car to pick him up.
On the walk to chez Martel, we talk about hockey, we’re both Toronto Maple Leaf Fans. We talk about school. I went to U of T, and he went to Laurentian. We talk about TV, we both hate reality shows, I prefer streaming services, he prefers cable. He even answers a few personal questions. I learn he’s been divorced for two years after being married for ten to a chiropractor, his job caused stress in their marriage, and he has no children. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. He says he’s married to his job, and if he tries to have both a relationship and a career, one or the other suffers, so he’s given up trying to have both.
When we get to the house, the porch light is on and door is locked. Adam isn’t kidding around about our security; we rarely lock the door when one of us is home. I don’t like feeling that I have to lock my door to feel safe in my home.
Instead of ringing the bell and disturbing him, I reach into my bag and grope around for my keys. I grab hold of something that feels…odd.
What is this? It’s smooth and cylindrical, and Eric and I both watch as I slowly pull a twelve-inch-long, fifteen millimetre diameter, bamboo knitting needle from my bag and hold it up between us.
“What the fff—what is this? This isn’t mine. It wasn’t in here when I switched bags this morning.”
I’m dumbfounded trying to figure out where this knitting needle came from and how it got into my bag.
“Are you sure it’s not yours? Maybe it was already in your bag from the last time you used it and you forgot it was there?”
Eric positions his hands cautiously near the needle, being careful not to touch it, like he’s prepared to catch it if it falls.
“I’m sure. We sell these at the shop. In fact, this one is identical to the needles that Kelly bought the day Paul died.”
I look at his face for a reaction, but he’s hyper-focused on the needle I’m dangling between us.
“I don’t own needles this big,” I explain. “I usually knit with fingering weight or worsted weight yarn so my needle collection ranges from about two millimetres to about five millimetres. Nothing this big, and I only use circular needles, even when I’m knitting flat, so this definitely isn’t mine.”
He looks at me blankly for a second, then returns his focus to the needle.
“I don’t know what any of that means,'' he says as he presses the doorbell with one hand while continuing to guard the needle with the other, “but that needle might be evidence. I need you to carefully and gently place it back in your bag without touching it any more than you already have.”
Adam opens the door, looks at me, looks at Eric, then looks at the needle.
“Hey, guys!” he says with a big smile.
Chapter 21
Holding my bag at arm’s length, I walk briskly from the front door to the dining room and gently, as if my bag contains a grenade and not a bamboo knitting needle, I place the bag on the dining room table and step away backwards, keeping watch over it the entire time.
I switch on the light over the table. I can hear Eric behind me on his phone. He’s requesting a car and an evidence kit.
I look at Adam and see he’s confused. I tell him about the unexplained knitting needle I found in my bag. He still looks confused, and I realize that after living with a knitter for twenty years, he’s used to finding random knitting needles in unexpected places and doesn’t think a rogue needle appearing in my tote bag is unusual. I explain to him that this particular needle isn’t mine, and Eric thinks it might be evidence. The confused look on his face is replaced with a look of concern.
Eric finishes his call.
“We’re going to have to take the entire bag and its contents for processing,” he explains.
“Oh…will I be able to keep my cell phone at least? That’s the number Hannah uses to reach me.”
“Not if it’s in your bag, I’m afraid,” he responds, shaking his head.
“They’ll probably have it for a while,” Adam adds. “They still have my cell phone, and it’s almost been a week. It might take them a week just to unpack everything from your luggage.”
I roll my eyes. Adam always teases me about my love of large tote bags. "Luggage" is one of his many terms of endearment for them. I know he’s trying to lighten the mood and ease my anxiety about having my stuff confiscated, but right now I’m not amused.
“It’s still pretty early,'' Adam says, looking at his watch. “If it’s all right with Eric that I leave, I’ll go to the store and get you a new phone. You can text Hannah with your new number tonight, and if she needs anything in the meantime, she’ll text me or call the landline. We’ll tell her the phone got wet or something. It’ll be fine.”
I nod, feeling sad I have to lie to my daughter because I can’t tell her that evidence from a murder, that I’m suspected of committing, appeared in the bag that had my cell phone in it and was confiscated by the police.
“Go ahead,” Eric says to Adam, “but I’ll need to ask you some questions when you get back.”
“I'll be as quick as I can.”
Adam is already at the door putting on his shoes.
“Would you like a coffee or tea or anything?” I go into the kitchen to get myself a glass of water, while Eric stays in the dining room with my pumpkin-coloured, vegan-leather tote bag.
“No thanks. So, when was the last time you remember reaching into your bag? Before we got here and you went looking for your keys, I mean.”
I think back. I realized I didn't have it when I wanted to put lip balm on as we Ieft the pub. I remember returning to find it under the booth where I had put it when I first sat down. I remember wanting my hand sanitizer in the condolence line but was interrupted because it was my turn to fake-introduce myself to Fred. I didn’t need my key to go into Knitorious because the door was unlocked.
“I think the last time was when I left the house this afternoon,” I say loudly from the kitchen. “I locked the door and put my keys in my bag. I don’t think I’ve reached into it since. It was under the booth most of the afternoon. When it wasn’t under the booth, it was on my shoulder. I switched bags this morning, and I’m telling you, there were no knitting needles in my bag except for the ones that belong in my bag. I have a sock project in there that I keep with me, so I can work on it in line-ups, waiting rooms, you know, when I’m waiting. But it’s a sock and has tiny needles.”
I take off my boots and put them in the closet by the front door. Then I go into the living room and sit on the sofa with my feet tucked up under my butt. The living room and dining room are attached, and I’m able to position myself with a clear view of the bag on the dining room table.
“Did anyone hold your bag for you?” Eric asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “It was on my shoulder or under the booth. Lots of people bumped into it though because the pub was so crowded. Are you going to explain to me how the knitting needle might be evidence?”
“They’re here,” Eric says, walking to the front door to let in two police officers.
The three law enforcement officers proceed to the dining room, one of them places a black case on the dining room floor. She opens the case, pulls out a pair of latex gloves and puts them on. Then she grabs a large plastic evidence bag which she then unfolds into an even larger evidence bag. She reaches into the
case again and pulls out more, smaller evidence bags and lays them neatly in front of her. The other officer reaches into the case and puts latex gloves on. The two officers begin to methodically photograph, bag, and tag the contents of my tote bag. I’m glad Adam isn’t here to crack a joke about the size of the evidence bag they need to fit the tote bag inside.
While the bag is being processed, Eric suggests we wait in another room, so I lead him into the family room and resume my tucked-up position on the sofa there. Eric sits down at the other end of the sofa.
“Well,” I say, “how is this knitting needle potential evidence?”
Instinctively, I pick up the sock-in-progress from the ceramic yarn bowl on the table next to me and start knitting.
“That’s a nice bowl. Did you make that?”
It’s like he’ll do anything to avoid directly answering my question.
“Thank you. Yes, I took a pottery class a few years ago and made it.”
Eric moves closer, so he’s in the middle of the sofa instead of the end.
“Remember when I explained to you what a ‘hold-back’ is?” he asks quietly.
He’s speaking so quietly, I have to lean in so I can hear him.
“Yes.” I nod. “It’s evidence that only the killer would know about. You keep it a secret until you find the killer and can use the holdback to verify their story,” I whisper.
“Pretty much,” he whispers back. “One of the knitting needles that Kelly bought at Knitorious was missing from the crime scene. We haven’t been able to find it anywhere. We turned the apartment, salon, their cars, everything upside down looking for it. One needle was there, but we weren’t able to locate the other one.”
“So, you think the killer took it? Like a sick souvenir or something?” I ask.
The thought of someone being so disturbed that they would want a memento from a murder scene makes me visibly cringe.
“Possibly,” he says, nodding.
He pauses, making me think he’s not sure if he should say anything else.
