by Molly Macrae
“We’re covering bases,” Ardis said. “Put them back.”
As I rewrote Spiveys, memories tickled: Mercy, positive she saw the rat-faced McDougal watching the house down the road from Angie and Aaron’s . . . Clod blowing off that information . . . the McDougal in the Weaver’s Cat, looking for something or someone, and in no way acting like a guy scouting a venue for a group of spouses.
“What are you thinking?” Ardis asked.
“About covering bases.” I added rat-faced McDougals below Spiveys. “These are the guys John and I tried to follow this morning at the Vault.” I recapped my tickling memories, then told them Aaron’s version of the McDougal sitting in his truck.
“And Cole says they’re members of the Tennessee Herpetological Society,” Joe said.
“Presumably Aaron and Cole know their names, then,” Ernestine said, “but rat-faced McDougal can be our code name for them.”
“And seeing them on the list makes me feel better,” I said, “just like seeing Spivey.”
In the middle section of the board, I wrote Timeline and below that three words:
Gar
tablecloth
Belinda
“Headings and lists only on this side,” I said. Then I flipped the board to the other side. “There probably isn’t enough room for all the questions those three events have generated. If we fill the board, I’ll take a picture of it, erase, and start again. Did you all hear what we told Ardis? That Cole isn’t sure if we’re looking for two killers or one?”
“Is that because they’re completely flummoxed,” Ernestine asked, “or only partially flummoxed?”
“Partially,” Joe said, “but I don’t know the percentage of fact to flummox. Cole doesn’t think the smash-and-grab gang killed Gar. He’s working on why Gar was up there at the trailhead.”
“Theories?” John asked.
“Hiking, fishing, flirting,” Joe said. “The first two Gar wouldn’t have done alone. The third most people don’t do alone, but I don’t think Gar was likely to do it at all. Personal opinion, but he was an old friend.”
“We don’t know what Belinda was doing in that storage closet, either,” Ardis said.
“But we’re sure Russell’s in the clear?” Ernestine asked.
“Why should he be?” Thea said. “Just because the deputies didn’t arrest him?”
“You’re right. What a silly question,” Ernestine said. “How’s this one? Did Gar know Belinda and Russell?”
“That’s a great question, Ernestine,” I said. “I’m writing it and the question about Russell being in the clear on the board.” I did and then flipped it back to the first side. “We need to look at the connections between these people. That’s what the deputies will be doing.”
“According to Rogalla, Sheriff Haynes has a pet name for the gang,” Joe said. “The Saggy Bottom Boys.”
“Do you want me to add that?” I asked.
“No,” Joe said. “Add Rogalla to the list.”
“Your reasoning?” John asked.
“He keeps turning up,” I said. “Turning up for good reasons. But.” I wrote Rogalla at the bottom of the list.
“But we’re covering bases,” Ardis said, “so fair enough. Here’s a connection involving arguing. Simon Grace heard Belinda and Russell arguing this morning. And Kath heard Nervie and Belinda arguing.”
“There was no love lost between Nervie and Belinda,” I said. “Did I tell you Nervie came in the shop today and told Debbie about the murder?”
“Word was bound to get out before the official statement,” Thea said. “But.”
“But we’re being suspicious on all fronts,” Ernestine said. “I’m afraid I don’t have any connections to add. I’d like to know more about the gang, though. Do they have colors and graffiti signs?” Her needles clicked faster.
“Nothing so identifiable,” Joe said. “I think ‘gang’ is being used loosely. Cole says they aren’t even sure it’s more than one person.”
“Ah.” Ernestine nodded, and her needles slowed.
“Here’s a connection that rankles,” I said.
“Don’t you love the nasal quality of that Illinois accent when she uses words like ‘rankles’ when she’s rankled?” Thea said to Joe.
“I surely do.”
“Thanks, guys.” I gave thanks an extra twist of Illinois nasal. “There’s something going on between the twins and Nervie. It might be one way. I’ve never heard Nervie mention the twins. But Shirley and Mercy are out for Nervie’s reputation. They’re accusing her of selling other designer’s patterns as her own.”
“To her face?” John asked. “Are the Spiveys that open and above board?” He paused. Then, ever the naval officer and a gentleman, he asked, “Was that question unnecessarily harsh?”
“No.” That answer came from at least three mouths.
“Nervie accused Belinda of selling fakes and stolen goods,” I continued. “She told me the shredded tablecloth was stolen.”
“Did you ask her why she says so or how she knows?” John asked.
“No. Somehow I didn’t want—”
“You didn’t want to encourage her?” Ernestine asked. “It’s that way with the grandchildren, sometimes. Better to let certain remarks pass without comment. Is that how you felt?”
“Like that or like I didn’t want to get mixed up in anything.”
“You didn’t succeed,” Thea said. “Make a section below Timeline and call it Sources. We need to keep track of where and from whom we’ve heard things. And we need to consider whether or not we can trust them.”
I added the new section. “I like this, Thea. How about, for now, I list names of people we’ve heard things from. Then, as you hear other things, text me. I’ll keep a database.” In the new Sources section, I wrote:
Spiveys
Nervie
Belinda
Simon
Rogalla
“What’s Simon director of,” I asked, “and why isn’t that enough to make him feel good about himself?”
“Outreach and Distance Learning,” Ardis said. “It might be a case of being the wrong size fish for his particular pond.”
“What’s your assessment of the tablecloth?” John asked. “Is it collateral damage? Or was Belinda killed because of it?”
Rather than answer, I flipped the board and scribbled those questions.
“What if she stumbled onto something that led her to Gar’s killer?” Ardis asked. “If we’re looking for connections, the Vault is the hub for all these connections. Gar and Belinda might not have met, but they’re connected through the Vault. Is the likelihood of her discovering something about his death any more far-fetched than someone killing her over a tablecloth?”
“Less far-fetched, if you put it that way,” I said.
“Don’t sound so glum,” Thea said.
“I can’t help it. And don’t judge me; I want to know who killed the tablecloth almost as much as who killed Belinda. She said Nervie did it.”
“Could she have?” Ernestine asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I felt as sulky as Geneva. She thought Nervie shredded the cloth, too. Ms. Unreliable Witness, who also said she saw Nervie drive away from the Cat. “Nervie taught her class here Friday afternoon. She could have left early. She knew Belinda kept the tablecloth in a trunk; we both saw Belinda get it out.”
“Was the trunk locked?” Ardis asked.
“I don’t know. Belinda kept her back to us when she opened it. She looked over her shoulder at us, like maybe she’d catch us sneaking up on her, but she didn’t make a secret out of where she kept it.”
“Trunk locks are worthless,” Joe said.
“What if Belinda lied about the time frame for the vandalism?” Thea asked. “Maybe Nervie did it earlier, avoiding the time crunch with her class.”
“Or did Belinda do it herself?” Ernestine asked. “When my youngest went through his divorce, his youngest acted out that way. It’s har
d to believe you can be quiet using a hammer, but he quietly and methodically smashed every one of his favorite toys. Therapy helped him out of that dark place. Hiding the hammer helped, too.”
“From Belinda’s reactions when she showed us the shreds, I’d say no, she didn’t do it,” Joe said. “What do you think, Kath?”
“She seemed genuinely devastated.”
Ernestine nodded. “Heartbroken. My grandson, too. He also blamed the destruction on the dog.”
“A different direction,” John said. “Backtracking, actually. In her text the other night, Kath asked about history between Nervie and Gar.”
“Except she was more specific and less euphemistic and got laughed at,” Thea said. “But if we drag your mind out of the gutter, Kath, and use ‘history,’ it’s a good question.”
“Nervie certainly knew who Gar was,” Ardis said. “Because of the Vault, but also because her husband worked at the bank. It’s less certain Gar knew Nervie, but hard to believe he didn’t.”
“I didn’t know her husband worked there.” I added bank to the Connections list.
“Peter,” Ardis said. “He died in a hunting accident out in Wyoming. Ten, maybe fifteen years ago.”
“There was a nasty rumor at the time,” Ernestine said, “that it wasn’t a hunting trip. Not for Peter, anyway.”
“Don’t be coy with the details,” Thea said. “This is an investigation, and three out of the six people in this room didn’t live here ten years ago.”
“Go on, Ardis,” Ernestine said. “You and Ivy heard the rumor and did something about it.”
“I’ll only repeat it with the understanding that we’re picking our way through the muck and mud of hearsay.” Ardis looked at each of us, and we nodded. “According to the story, Nervie is the one who said he died in a hunting accident. But, also according to the story, she followed Peter out there because she found out he was having an affair with a woman in the bank’s regional office in Nashville. She confronted him. He said he was leaving her. Instead, she killed him and made it look like an accident.”
“And people spread that around?” Thea asked. “Why would someone start a rumor like that? Who would? Even Shirley and Mercy have their standards.”
“Nasty,” Ernestine said. That might have covered the rumor and the twins.
“Was there a funeral?” I asked.
“Yes, but not here,” Ardis said, “and this part is true, because I heard it from Nervie. She buried him back wherever Peter came from. Maybe the rumors came from someone’s soured wishful thinking. Someone who wanted out of a bad situation and didn’t have Nervie’s strength. Nervie’s proved she’s tough as a three-week-old biscuit.”
“That’s not quite my image of her,” I said. “And you and Granny trusted Nervie enough to let her teach classes here at the Cat.”
“That was Ivy’s doing,” Ardis said.
“If Granny liked her, then that says something about Nervie.”
“I didn’t say she liked Nervie. She just didn’t see the wicked in her some folks wanted to,” Ardis said. “And she didn’t like to hear any kind of rumor.”
“What’s your last section for, Kath?” Thea asked.
“Assignments. We need to know more, especially about connections. Let me know if these are all right.”
Ardis—Nervie
Thea—Vault
“We need to know more what?” Thea said. “I need specifics.”
“History of the project,” I said. “Records of discussions for and against—”
“Meeting minutes, lease agreement, etc.,” Thea said, tapping notes into her phone. “Okay. On it.”
“Put me down for the gang,” said Ernestine.
“Mind if I tag along with you on that, Ernestine?” Joe asked.
“Not at all. We’ll be our own gang.”
Ernestine—gang
Joe—gang, Gar
John—Russell, Rogalla
Mel—Belinda
Kath—tablecloth, Spiveys
“Thank you for sacrificing yourself to the twins,” Ardis said. “You’re a braver woman than I.”
Or crazier, but I was glad no one said so.
We said our goodnights soon after that. Before leaving, I snapped pictures of the whiteboard and then erased it. That should have been an obvious precaution, but I’d learned it the hard way during an earlier investigation. Someone had once found our notes on the board and relayed them with nearly disastrous results.
It wasn’t late, but it was already dark. Ardis went to corral her daddy back at Mel’s. Joe walked me home.
“Do you hear that squeak?” I said as we went up my front steps.
“Ivy called it an old friend. I can fix it if you want.”
“No, she had the right idea. I might want you to add a few squeaks to the hallway in the Cat. I didn’t hear that rat-face coming this afternoon when I was in the kitchen. Big guy like that? It spooked me.”
“Reverse carpentry,” Joe said. “That might be a useful skill to advertise. You know, in case anyone wants to claim their house is haunted, but it doesn’t have enough rattles and squeaks to prove it. Hey, are you okay?”
I’d started laughing, and when I tried to stop, it turned to coughing, and then hiccups. I unlocked the door, and by the time I’d dropped my purse and slipped off my shoes, Joe had brought me a glass of water from the kitchen.
We sat across from each other in Granny’s blue comfy chairs. She’d never had a sofa in the little house. Prime floor space went to her looms. I could have changed that, but I liked her looms and I liked the way the back of my head nestled where hers had in the chairs. While I drank the water, Joe told me about rebuilding the stairs on a Carpenter Gothic up on Vestal Hill.
“I copied and replaced some of the scrollwork on the porch, too,” he said. “This was a few years back. Russell and Belinda got a good deal on that house. He moved out when they split.”
“I wondered where this was going. You did the porch work for them?”
“Before she arrived. Russell moved in first. It’s a sweet little place. I guess it’s his again, now.”
“Do you think Cole was right to let him go today?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe John can find out if Russell gets the house. And I wonder how Russell would feel if we tried to reach out to him.”
“He might appreciate the thought,” Joe said.
“Depending on how many nosy questions follow the thought.”
“Good point. What do you say we practice reaching out in a kinder, gentler way?”
Of course, I never had to reach out to the Spiveys.
SEVENTEEN
A yarn shop on a Sunday afternoon might sound like a quiet place, especially a shop with a cat snoozing in the window and “cat” in its name. Sometimes it worked out that way and Debbie had time to change displays and I could attend to paperwork or ordering or extra cleaning. The hominess of Blue Plum attracted people on Sundays, though, and the coziness of the Weaver’s Cat brought them through our doors.
That was where the twins reached out to me. More specifically, during an inopportune lull in Sunday afternoon business, they pounced.
“We need to talk,” one of them said, catching me off guard in the kitchen, thanks to our squeak-less floorboards.
“We told Debbie and Abby we’d make it quick,” the other said. “They’re okay with it.”
Their matching black slacks and gray cardigans gave them an air of seriousness I didn’t associate with them. In tandem, they pulled chairs out from the kitchen table and sat—across from each other. Without Mercy’s elbow, it would be harder to figure out who was who. Frustrating, but only because it gave them the edge in their game of verbal and mental keep-away. And if I decided not to play? A thin layer of stress fluttered away. I moved to the head of the table and stayed on my feet.
“We said we’d be quick,” the twin to my right said. “So we’ll spell it out. Nervie slashed that tablecloth. She�
��s the only one who would.”
“Why?” I asked.
“A vendetta,” the left-hand twin said.
I hesitated to ask them too many questions. They might read something into them and jump to conclusions. That was probably exactly the way Clod felt about TGIF. “What proof do you have?”
“We told you she’d be trouble,” the left twin said. “We aren’t psychic. We know because we keep our eyes and ears open.”
“But warning me she’d be trouble isn’t proof she was trouble.”
“We have proof,” the right twin said, her voice low and with a glance toward the hall.
I held up a finger and went to check, staying in the doorway for five or ten seconds to listen. They really were being serious. But even with their careful voices and firm opinions, were they any more reliable, as witnesses, than Geneva? Could I take the chance they weren’t? I went back to the table. “All clear.”
“She shredded the tablecloth,” the left twin said. “Then she killed Belinda.”
The right twin watched my face. “She doesn’t believe us. Let’s go.”
“Wait,” I said. “You know it takes more proof than saying so.”
“That’s why we came to you,” Right Twin said. “You know how to find proof.”
“You listen when others don’t. Take a seat,” Left Twin said.
“Please,” said Right Twin. “We’ll tell you what we know about Belinda.”
I pulled a chair around to the head of the table and sat, trying to exude this better be good from every pore.
“Belinda liked to say she wasn’t much of a joiner,” Left Twin said.
“But that’s what people say when they don’t get asked to join,” Right Twin said.
“She traveled a lot,” Left Twin said. “Collecting trips around the southeast in that BMW behemoth her ex-husband bought her after the divorce.”
“How do you know Russell bought it for her?” I asked.
“He’s the kind who knuckles under and moans about it later,” the right twin said.
“He isn’t much of an ex,” the left twin added.
They nodded to each other and stood up.
