Crewel and Unusual

by Molly Macrae

  “That’s it?” I didn’t even try to keep the disbelief from my voice. “That’s about as useful as noticing a suspicious guy in a truck watching a house and not thinking that getting the tag number would’ve been a normal, useful, logical, and community-spirited thing to do.”

  After the twins slammed out the back door, Geneva materialized and swirled down from the top of the refrigerator. She sat in one of the chairs the twins hadn’t bothered to push back in. “Alienating informants left and right, I see.”

  “How much of that did you hear?”

  “From ‘v is for vendetta’ through your bellowing ‘to do.’”

  “I hope I didn’t really bellow. At least I let them know they shirked their duty, because even if those rat-faced McDougals are helpful uncles and members of a reptile club, they’re acting like snakes in the grass.”

  “Your way of letting the dear twins know sounded more like a dare, but I don’t blame you. I’m also disappointed in them. They insist Nervie is the killer. But they weren’t there, and she didn’t do it. That’s not to say she hasn’t killed any number of other people and shredded scores of tablecloths that would make you weep. Have I told you that I don’t like Nervie Bales?”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “She complains.”

  “Aren’t you complaining right now?”

  “My complaints are nothing like hers. We inhabit different planes of existence, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  Without warning, she swept her arm through me. I didn’t really feel anything, except cold, and yet . . . “Please don’t do that.”

  “We’re in completely different situations, and we handle those situations differently, too. And I’m handling mine better.”

  “I’m amazed at how well you handle your situation, Geneva. Being unseen and unheard must be hard to deal with. Hard to even bear.”

  “Thank you for recognizing that.”

  “I wonder, though, if we don’t all think that we’re handling our own situations better than other people handle theirs, or at least better than some do? That might be part of human nature.”

  “But some people do handle their situations better. Difficult, heartbreaking, and horrifying situations. Even joyous ones.”

  “They do.”

  “And some take the easy way out and kill.”

  I sent the pictures I’d taken of the whiteboard to the posse so they’d have them for reference. I sent a longer text to Mel, letting her know what she was looking at in the pictures and giving her the gist of our discussion. Her return text asked why she and Hank hadn’t been assigned to the gang. Another LOLOLOL followed. I asked John to find out what he could about the house. Ernestine sent a picture of the picnic she and Joe had Sunday afternoon at Beauty Spot on Unaka Mountain. A separate message from her apologized for failing to make contact with the gang.

  “Did you expect to make contact?” I asked Joe when he dropped by that evening.

  “Not a chance. I’ve had feelers out, and you know Cole has. Gar’s death sent any lowlifes scurrying back into the cracks they crawled out of. It scared them because people are looking for them, and it scared them because it means they were out there with a killer.”

  “And you went out there for a picnic?”

  “With my sidekick. She brought binoculars, a spyglass she borrowed from John, and deviled eggs like I’ve never had them.” Joe was a true connoisseur of potluck and picnic fare.

  “You were probably safer out there with Ernestine and your eggs. I think this devil’s working closer to home.”

  Monday morning, I got to the Cat earlier than usual. I’d forgotten to tell Geneva about the posse meeting and wanted time to bring her up to speed before we opened. She often skipped our meetings when everyone clicked away with their knitting needles (a sound she disliked), though it surprised me that she hadn’t even mentioned the meeting.

  She waved to me from the kitchen window as I approached, and I waved back. I unlocked the door, avoided tripping over Argyle as he guided my feet to his food dish, and asked Geneva if she’d noticed us in the workroom Saturday night.

  “I must have been otherwise engaged,” she said. At that moment, she was engaged in sitting in the kitchen sink, an odd habit if she weren’t a ghost—although maybe for a ghost, too.

  “Would you like to hear what we discussed?”

  “How to find the perp, I would assume.”

  I told her about looking for connections as a way to find her “perp,” and I showed her the photos of the whiteboard.

  “And these are the assignments?” she asked. “Where’s mine?”

  I hadn’t even thought about an assignment for her.

  “I see what you’ve done, though,” she said.

  “You do?”

  “These are all pedestrian assignments—if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

  “Sure.”

  “Each according to his or her strengths. Correct? Leaving my strength—my estimable brainpower—to come up with the plan that will catch the villain.”

  She followed me out to the front room, stroking her chin. She was still stroking it when Ardis arrived. Ardis wasn’t stroking her chin, but her eyes were wide with a new idea.

  “Russell is assigned to John, isn’t he?” she asked. “We should ask him to find out if Russell plans to keep Belle’s open. The rent’s paid. He’s retired. The pieces are priced. It wouldn’t be a huge time commitment. On the other hand, if the linens are as gorgeous as you say, he might be afraid to touch them. You know how some men are.”

  “Didn’t you get in there to see the linens on Saturday?”

  “I took my time downstairs, hon. And by ‘took my time,’ you know I mean I talked to everyone under the sun. And then I only got as far as the refreshments upstairs.”

  “You’ll have to go back.” I described the pieces that made up the bulk of Belinda’s inventory—kitchen towels, napkin sets, doilies, and small tablecloths from the ’40s, ’50s, and ’60s, mostly in straight-stitch variations and heavy on hoopskirts, animated fruit, and cartoonish animals. Ardis had a softer spot than I did for that kind of kitschy kitchen linens.

  “I probably have some of the same towels stuffed in the back of my linen closet,” she said. “I should get them out and use them.”

  “Or see if Russell will take them in trade for the art embroidery runner. You really need to get back over there, to see it, Ardis. It’s—” I clasped my hands and closed my eyes to show her how overwhelming it was. And then I slipped and told her how I’d heard about the runner.

  “Spiveys! Kath Rutledge, you stood right here and told me you wouldn’t let them get you tangled up in whatever trouble they were brewing. And then you walked straight to the Vault and right into it. You lied to me.”

  “No, just left the Spivey part out.”

  “On purpose.”

  “Look at you,” Geneva said, blustering up to Ardis. “Look how you’re behaving. I believe you enjoy having these childish fits over the twins. My goodness, and you’re nearly five times older than I am.”

  “Three times, tops,” Ardis snapped.

  “Whoop-de-do.”

  “The point is”—Ardis turned her back on Geneva to continue berating me—“you said you weren’t going to meddle in Spivey meddling when you went to the Vault.”

  “And I didn’t. I didn’t say a word about Nervie’s patterns when I was there, not to anyone. Here’s something interesting I just realized, though. Through all the yelling and Nervie’s accusations about fakes and fraud, Belinda never retaliated. She never said anything about Nervie’s patterns.”

  “That just proves it then,” Ardis said. “Shirley and Mercy were up to no good and you’d better watch your step, or you’ll end up deeper in their whoop-de-do with no one to pull you out.” She walked to the door and threw another “whoop-de-do” over her shoulder. The electronic sheep at the back door said baa, and all was quiet.

  “What have I done?” I whispered.
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  “Lied and cut her to the quick,” Geneva said. “I understand why, though. Deception is the better part of valor where crotchety old women are concerned.”

  Ardis came back half an hour later, at the beginning of a downpour, with a peace offering. “I know you can’t help yourself where textiles are concerned, hon. The same way I can’t help myself around Mel’s bakery counter.”

  She handed me a bag with two of Mel’s pear-and-ginger scones and went to put the kettle on. When she brought two cups to the counter, I insisted she have the second scone. Geneva floated over us, like a fog of steam and ginger.

  “If only the world’s miseries and mysteries could be solved with ginger scones,” Geneva said with a sigh.

  “It would truly be a better place,” Ardis agreed. “I’d even settle for solving our own.”

  “Think globally, solve locally. You’ve inspired me to try,” Geneva said. “Thank you. I’ll go up to my room and listen to the dull drumbeat of the rain and watch for drips. It will be like meditation. And I’ll let you know when I have an inspired plan to track down the villain. I’m sure it will leave you speechless.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Ardis said.

  But Deputy Darla Dye dropped by the Cat before Geneva or her plan materialized, and Darla’s news left us speechless first: “The scissors didn’t kill her.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Can you explain that?” I asked. “Because I saw them in her . . .” I reached behind me but couldn’t bear to touch my back where I’d seen the scissors. “Yeesh, Darla.”

  “Are there customers?” she asked.

  I shook my head at her and the solid, soaking east Tennessee rain.

  She checked for customers, anyway, walking quickly through the downstairs rooms and then running up the front stairs. Darla, the newest member of the sheriff’s department, gave the impression of waking up each morning surprised and delighted to put on her uniform. She carried a joy with her that eased tense situations. She also carried a torch for Clod and seemed to be making progress along those lines. We had another reason for liking her at the Cat—she was a serial knitter of scarves. I heard her footsteps as she went through the rooms overhead. When she ran back down the stairs, Geneva came with her.

  “It’s hard to concentrate on plans during a police raid,” Geneva whispered. She settled on the counter between Ardis and me.

  “The scissors were a decoy, not a weapon,” Darla said. “That fact might have been missed, but the medical examiner did some meticulous measuring during the autopsy that—”

  “Can you explain without those meticulous details?” Ardis asked.

  “Another weapon made the fatal wound.”

  “Then why use the scissors?” Ardis asked.

  “To throw us off,” Darla said.

  “To throw suspicion on us,” Ardis said.

  “Only if the killer knew the scissors came from the Cat.” Darla, usually calm enough on duty that she might be knitting, started pacing.

  “What about the label?” I asked. “Where did the killer get the scissors, if not from here?”

  “Someone could have taken them to the Vault and left them,” Darla said. Was she pacing or casing?

  “What was the real weapon?” I asked.

  “Unidentified.” Her steps slowed as she passed the notions display that included a range of sharp objects. Definitely casing.

  “Unidentified?” I echoed. “Yet here you are looking.”

  That earned a quick smile from Darla. “Nothing wrong with being obvious in my work. We’re looking for something longer and narrower than the scissors, but not by much.”

  “Not a knitting needle?”

  “The pathologist says no. The trouble is, there’s all manner of tools in the shops at the Vault, too.”

  “And you wouldn’t know if one was missing.”

  “Unless someone told us,” Darla said. “Or something could’ve been used and returned.”

  “So why look here?” Ardis asked.

  “Inspiration as much as anything, in case the scissors weren’t just a decoy of convenience. Maybe the killer slipped up by using something familiar, and the real weapon is related. Maybe I’m all wet. But I thought I’d take a look, and I wanted to ease your minds about the scissors, too.”

  Why she thought we’d be relieved about the scissors while she searched the shop for something else lethal, I didn’t know. Still, I liked Darla’s earnest concern better than Clod’s stuffiness. Though, come to think of it, where was His Stuffiness?”

  “How come you’re telling us about this instead of Cole? Was he afraid I’d say ‘told you so’ about the scissors? Because I did.”

  “Cole? Nah.”

  “Aren’t you working on Gar’s case, Darla?” Ardis asked. “Any progress?”

  “Do you know that point you get to in a complicated embroidery project, when it looks more like a rat’s nest, but if you keep at it you know it’ll come out all right? We’re not quite at that point of knowing it’ll come out right, but we hope to be there soon. Mind if I look around in the workroom? Strictly for inspiration.”

  I looked at Ardis. She shrugged. Darla took that as an affirmative and headed back upstairs.

  “Don’t worry,” Geneva said. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”

  Ardis cocked her head, listening to Darla climb the stairs. “Question,” she said. “If Darla’s working on Gar’s case and she’s here on Belinda’s, does that illustrate the efficiency of a small department?”

  “Or does it mean they’ve discovered a connecting tunnel between two rat nests?”

  Darla came back down the stairs faster than she went up. Called away, she said, and she didn’t stop to tell us what inspiration she’d picked up from the tools in the workroom. Geneva swirled down with her.

  “Did she find anything?” Ardis asked.

  “No. We either never had one, or ours is missing.”

  “Would we know if something is missing from the workroom?” I asked Ardis.

  “It would depend on how often it’s used.”

  “Rarely, I suspect,” Geneva said.

  “You know what she’s looking for?” I asked.

  “And who did it.” She pulsed with excitement. “I’m surprised I didn’t recognize him. It was Errol Flynn in the storage room with a rapier.”

  “Oh, for—we need to be serious,” Ardis said.

  “She is being serious.”

  “And I’m correct,” Geneva said. “I have a wealth of information gleaned from my years in filmology. I practically have advanced degrees in history, fashion, and criminology.”

  We watched as Geneva lunged and parried with an imaginary rapier. I’d become so used to picking out the details of her filmy appearance that I could almost believe I saw the sword, too.

  “Do we know if the victim had an exit wound?” Geneva asked. She brought her rapier upright to touch her nose, and then slipped it into a scabbard at her waist. “Now that I think about it, a rapier might go right through her. I keep hitting these dead ends. So unnecessarily appropriate. I’ll return to my room and my plans.”

  The rain kept customers away that day, but not deputies. Clod, in his regulation raincoat, stopped in shortly before lunch. The leery eye he couldn’t help giving the yarns and threads amused Ardis.

  “Come in, Coleridge,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “Welcome to the comfort of crewel and the balm of bolts of fabric.”

  Clod ignored her and asked, as Darla had, if he’d be interrupting business.

  “Sadly, no,” Ardis said, “and I’m sorry they don’t equip you with swim fins for days like this. What can we do for you?”

  “Sheriff Haynes is appealing to the public.”

  I opened my mouth to say that seemed unlikely, because he didn’t appeal to anyone, but Clod hadn’t finished.

  “It’s to do with the Gar Brown case. Ahead of the appeal, we’re releasing details. Please hold your questions until I’m finished.

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nbsp; “Hikers found Gar beside his truck. There were signs of a struggle. He died from a blow to the head. The same rock used to deliver the blow was then used to break out the driver’s-side window. We know the sequence because we found blood from the head wound on the rock and on the pieces of glass that were at the point of percussion. We originally thought Gar interrupted a burglary in progress. Similar vehicle burglaries have occurred at other remote parking areas, with similar details—busted window, glove box broken into, anything of value gone. Gar’s wallet was gone, as was his phone. No confrontations were reported in the other burglaries. No witnesses have come forward in any of the crimes.”

  “Are deputies really going door-to-door with this information?” I knew I must look as skeptical as I sounded.

  “This is a special visit because of your past activities.”

  “I see. I wonder why that doesn’t sound like a compliment?”

  “But it’s smart of the sheriff’s department to recognize our activities,” Ardis said.

  “But not because we want or need your help,” Clod said. “Because we do not want or need it. I want you to have as much information as we can give you, so that you won’t go snooping for more. So that you leave this to us. So that you don’t get in our way.”

  “In that case, I’ll take notes so we keep it all straight.” Ardis took paper from a drawer and sat down on the stool.

  “This crime—” Clod started to say.

  “First, is the gang officially being called the Saggy Bottom Boys?” Ardis asked.

  “No.”

  “Good, because I think anyone, even a gang, might object to a demeaning name like that. Now wait while I catch up.” Ardis wrote for longer than seemed necessary, shielding her work from Clod as though she thought he’d cheat off her paper. When I went to look over her shoulder, I saw that she’d summarized his points neatly in very few bullet points. The rest of what she’d written looked like a grocery list followed by a to-do list, and then two sentences. While I watched, she drew an arrow to the sentences and then underlined them each three times. They were, “Infuriating man,” and “I have always said and always will say that Ten is the smarter and better behaved Dunbar.”