Macramé Murder

by Mollie Cox Bryan

  “That’s true,” Cora said. “Remember, we’re focusing on allowing ourselves some time to explore. Let’s not do it at a breakneck pace.”

  “These computer classes hurt my brain. I recognize I should learn the more technical side, but geez,” Jana said.

  Had Cora been too technical yesterday? She hoped not. Her classes were as untechnical as they could be, given they were about blogging.

  During today’s class, Cora planned a primer about the business part of blogging, or rather how to earn money by blogging. Which she was a wiz at, surprisingly enough. Her blog earned her more money every year than her full-time salary while working as a counselor in the women’s shelter in Pittsburgh. Her place of employment had become her second home since she had camped out in the back room almost every day. It wasn’t worth it to go home each night just to get three or four hours of sleep and head back to the office.

  She was so grateful her blogging and crafting allowed her to start a new career—one that could help women in a different way. Sometimes it was about finding a craft to help you overcome depression, well documented by knitters and crocheters, and sometimes it was about spending time alone, etching out time for oneself. But for this group of women, the scrapbookers from Leesburg, this class would give them a wide range of knowledge and skills to apply to their own blogging business. Who knows where it would lead them?

  Cora’s heart lifted as she gazed out on the crowd forming in the room. Staying present was not going to be as hard as she thought. She allowed herself to feel the incredible, positive energy in the room.

  * * *

  After her class, Cora stopped by Chloe’s café and ordered a sandwich to go and hightailed it to her room to update Cora Crafts a Life, her blog. She liked to keep her readers up to date—she wanted them to feel as if they were attending the retreat alongside her.

  She uploaded a few photos of her class today. She also uploaded some photos from the macramé class last night. She glanced at the clock and took another bite of her egg salad sandwich. Gosh, she was hungry. That’s what came of being sick first thing in the morning, she supposed.

  With a little time on her hands, Cora decided to research Marcy Grimm.

  She keyed in her name. A list came up. First, her obituary and then some online articles from the local paper.

  Cora skimmed it—she knew all this information already—except the cause of death. An allergic reaction to a jellyfish sting? Why would she be in the water that time of night if she were that allergic to jellyfish? And on her wedding night? As Cora read further, she learned that Marcy hadn’t actually been stung. Instead, it was implied that whoever killed her was aware of her allergy and must have injected her.

  Or something. Mmmm. How could Cora find out? She doubted the islanders would give her any information. She wondered if her friend back home in Indigo Gap could. She dialed Detective Brodsky.

  “Cora?” he said into the phone.

  “Yes, it’s me,” she said. “Have you heard about what’s going on here?”

  “No, but you’re going to tell me, right?” he said with a chuckle.

  She filled him in and explained Adrian was a suspect and told him about what had happened last night.

  “And you’re calling me for what reason?”

  “I was wondering if you had access to her death information. She was allergic to jellyfish. How did the venom get inside her body?”

  “Look, Cora, I realize Adrian is your new beau and all that, but are you sure you want to be messing around with this?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I’d like to learn how she was murdered by a jellyfish allergy,” she said. “It had to be an injection, right?”

  “One would assume,” Brodsky said, and sighed.

  “The thing is, Adrian is not going to be able to come home until we prove his innocence,” she said.

  “That’s what his lawyer is for,” he said.

  “Well, his lawyer is Cashel and I’m not sure he’s helping at all,” Cora said.

  “Cashel O’Malley is a fine attorney,” Brodsky said. “Adrian is in good hands.”

  “I don’t think Cashel likes him,” Cora said.

  Brodsky laughed. “Oh? Never mind. That doesn’t matter.”

  She heard some noise in the background. “I can check a few things out for you.”

  “Thanks, Brodsky,” she said. “And while you’re at it, can you check out Josh Dupres?”

  “Give you an inch and you want a mile.”

  “I owe you,” Cora said.

  “I like the sound of that,” he said, and hung up the phone.

  Just then her phone alerted her to a new text message. It was from Jane: Where are you? They planned to meet for the crochet class.

  I’ll be there soon, Cora texted back.

  She Googled Josh Dupres, and a long list of entries came up. Most interesting was an article about his mother, Rue, who had assisted in a recent murder investigation on a neighboring island. The article said her psychic abilities helped the police solve a murder case. Another murder so close by? A few months ago? Odd.

  Cora sent Brodsky the link to the article.

  She read further. Rue was a well-known psychic on the island, a daughter of a voodoo shop owner from New Orleans and an antiques dealer from Charleston. She’d helped to solve at least three murders in South Carolina and a few in other states.

  Cora keyed in her name.

  A photo of her appeared on the screen, standing in front of her house, which was in the swamp neighborhood of the island. If she was so talented as a psychic, what was she doing living there?

  Cora remembered the words of their tour guide. “Some of these folks have more money than God, but choose to live here.”

  Rue had presence. And behind her in the photo? The beautiful, sparkling chimes that Cora had noticed during the tour! She zoomed in for a better view. The wind chimes were made of sea glass and macramé. Interesting.

  Her phone buzzed another alert. Once again, it was from Jane and simply said: Cora!

  OK, Cora texted her back.

  She grabbed her purse and headed out the door of her room.

  On her way to crochet class, Cora mulled over what she knew, which still wasn’t much. But connecting with Brodsky—and his being in such a helpful mood—gave her hope she might be able to move the case along so Adrian would be able to go home with them on Monday. She walked briskly through the hallway until she saw Jane standing beside the mermaid statue, hands on her hips.

  “Where’ve you been? We’re late. You know I hate going to classes late.”

  “I was updating the blog,” Cora said.

  “It doesn’t take you that long to update your blog,” Jane said.

  “I dug around online and had a conversation with Brodsky,” Cora said.

  “Oh no,” Jane said.

  “We’ve got to clear Adrian, don’t we?” Cora said.

  “Adrian is going to be fine,” Jane said. “He’s innocent. We believe in the justice system, right?”

  “Yes,” Cora said, as they reached the classroom where the crochet class was being held. “But we’re also aware of how slow it can be. Adrian needs to leave this island and go home.”

  Chapter 20

  As Cora and Jane settled in, the class had just started. Ryan Anderson, the teacher, oozed the presence of superstar. Cora would bet her life that half the women in the room already crocheted. But a handsome, personable guy who could also crochet? Women swarmed around him at all the craft events. It was almost as bad as Jude Sawyer, the “rock star” broom maker guest teacher during Cora’s first retreat at Kildare House.

  Cora eyed the room and recognized some of the crafters. Katy and her group were clustered around their own table. Mathilde, her assistant, and Zooey were gathered around another table with a few others Cora didn’t recognize.

  “So yesterday,” Ryan said, “we made these beautiful coasters.”

  He held up an example, a coaster shaped like a flat
tened seashell. How clever, thought Cora.

  “Some of you were surprised by how versatile crochet is,” he said. “It’s more than Grandma’s afghans and shawls.”

  A little twitter from the crowd.

  “Though there’s nothing wrong with that. We love afghans and shawls,” he said. “Today, we’re going to make something more traditional, but still basic. We’re going to make hats.”

  His assistant passed out booklets and baskets of yarn.

  “While you are situating yourselves, I’d like to tell you a little about crochet,” he said.

  Cora reached into her basket and felt the yarn. There was something so soothing about the feel of quality yarn. She could almost feel her heart rate slow and her cloud of worry dissipate. Almost.

  Ryan went on. “The word crochet comes from the French croche, meaning ‘hook,’ but it was most likely developed from a Chinese form of needlework called ‘tambouring.’ This technique was similar to modern crochet, except it was worked on a fabric background with fine thread and a fine needle with a hook on one end.”

  “How did it move to Europe?” someone asked.

  “Well, nobody knows for sure, but the theory is once tambouring reached Europe in the 1700s, someone discovered the thread stitches would hang together without the fabric background, and voilà, crochet was born,” he said.

  “Now, while I’m filling you in about the fascinating history of crochet, I want you to choose your color scheme from the basket of yarn we’re passing out. If you don’t like the colors in your basket, feel free to trade,” he said, smiling his million-dollar smile.

  “I like him,” Jane mouthed to Cora.

  “So,” Ryan went on, “this discovery happened in time to help Ireland during the famine. Can you believe it? Crochet to the rescue!”

  Laughter from the crowd.

  “It was the 1800s, and the potato blight sent many poor Irish families who depended on the crop for income into poverty. Mademoiselle Riego de la Blanchardiere decided something must be done about the situation. The peasants desperately needed a new trade, something that offered easily accessible materials that could be worked on in less than ideal conditions, and would appeal to the nobles as a treasured commodity. Crochet provided all these requirements, and soon the unique style of Irish crochet lace became coveted worldwide. But most importantly, it gave the people a way to feed their families.”

  “I had no idea!” Mathilde said loudly.

  “Okay, so maybe it hadn’t occurred to Mademoiselle Riego de la Blanchardiere that Irish lace would be the savior of the country, but she’s the person generally credited with inventing the style. She also wrote the first book of crochet patterns, which was published in 1846,” he said, chuckling.

  Cora and Jane traded baskets. Jane hated pink and her basket was full of shades of pink. Cora didn’t mind it. Pink wasn’t her favorite color, but she didn’t despise pink like Jane did. Jane refused to allow anyone to buy pink things for London when she was born.

  “Today, of course, crochet is known in many forms. Our pioneering grandmothers, poor from the Great Depression and later World War Two, would save every scrap of yarn and turn them into what are now known as granny squares,” Ryan said. “Of the laces, there is broomstick lace, which was originally worked on the end of a broomstick; and hairpin lace, which is worked over two pins. Tunisian or Afghan crochet almost seeks to combine crocheting and knitting techniques. And even Japan has its own form of crochet known as amigurumi, which is the art of crocheting small stuffed toys.

  “And it doesn’t end there. Now creative crafters are incorporating beads, wire, plastic bags, and countless other notions into their work. Every day it seems someone thinks up something new to do with crochet. The possibilities are endless. And many of those possibilities are right here in this room,” he said, beaming.

  Jane’s attention was focused on choosing a crochet hook, digging around in the basket.

  “I want to tell you about these hats,” Ryan said. “They are from a pattern by my dear friend, Edie. I’m sure many of you have heard of her.”

  Murmurs of acknowledgment rumbled from the crowd.

  Cora glanced at the pattern booklet and saw Edie smiling and dressed in colorful garb on the cover. Maybe she’d have Edie to Kildare House sometime in the future.

  “Let’s jump in, shall we?” he said. “Oh, I see some of you are off to the races.”

  Cora’s fingers found a rhythm as she followed the pattern. It was written so well that she didn’t have a hard time following. She was not great with knitting and crocheting, but today, it was like her fingers took over. As she focused on creating the hat, her mind emptied of thoughts about Adrian, Marcy Grimm, and Josh Dupres. Practicing what she preached. There was something about the feel of the yarn, the rhythm of her fingers, that was so soothing.

  She hung on to the feeling throughout the rest of the class and even as it finished. She felt renewed.

  But when Cora exited the room, she noted her phone alerted her to messages.

  One was from Adrian: Went for a walk, came back exhausted. Catch you for dinner?

  Another one was from Detective Brodsky: Call me when you can.

  Jane peeked over her shoulder at the phone. “Well, he didn’t waste any time, did he?”

  “He must have found something,” Cora said.

  The two of them escaped to a quiet corner and sat down on overstuffed wicker chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided an excellent view of the beach. A sudden longing to go outside and spread her toes in the sand came over Cora, but instead she dialed Brodsky.

  “What do you have for me?” she said once he’d answered.

  “Well, here’s the scoop,” he said. Cora could almost see the twinkle in his eyes. “When they found her, they thought it was an allergic reaction to a jellyfish sting. Right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s what I read.”

  “But her family insisted she would not be out for a midnight swim—for that very reason,” he said. “She never went in the water because she was deathly afraid of getting stung.”

  “Makes sense,” Cora said. Jane watched her intently as several women passed by.

  “So that’s why they did a tox report and so on. But at the autopsy, the ME found several needle pricks,” he said.

  “Needle pricks?”

  “Yes, someone who knew about her allergy injected her with jellyfish venom,” he said.

  Cora chilled. “How many people would know that? I mean, it’s not something that would come up in everyday conversation.”

  “That’s where your boy Adrian comes in,” he said. “He would have known, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And he’d texted her, evidently.”

  “No wonder he’s a person of interest,” Brodsky said. “You’ve got your hands full.”

  “Unless . . .” Cora said.

  “What?”

  “Well, he wasn’t the only person who was aware of it.”

  “Are you talking about her new husband?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Don’t you think if he were going to kill her, he’d wait awhile? I mean, killing her on their wedding night? I don’t know, Cora. It sounds far-fetched, even for you,” he said, and laughed.

  But a chill moved through her. Did it matter to a man who’d kill his woman whether it was their wedding night or not?

  “Well, what would your theory be, Brodsky?” she asked him.

  “I’d say spurned lover.”

  Cora’s heart sank. That would be Adrian.

  “Okay, how about neither spurned lover nor husband?”

  “Drugs? Money?” he said. “Look, I know you want to help Adrian. But I think he’s in good hands. Cashel’s a capable attorney.”

  “So you say,” she said. Where was Cashel, anyway? Why hadn’t he been around?

  Brodsky laughed, again. “You’re too much. How is the retreat, otherwise?”

  “The retreat is fin
e,” Cora said.

  Ruby spotted her and Jane and walked over toward them.

  “How’s it going with you?” Cora asked.

  “It’s quiet here,” he said. “I’ve got some queries out on your psychic, as well, even though you didn’t ask. I couldn’t resist. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay, thanks so much for calling,” she said.

  “What did Brodsky have to say?” Jane asked.

  “That was Brodsky?” Ruby said, and rolled her eyes. “What did he want?”

  “I asked him to do some checking around for me.”

  “About the case?” Ruby said.

  She nodded. “I realize Cashel is doing his best, but I wondered what Brodsky could tell us. I’m worried Adrian won’t be able to come home with us on Monday.”

  “I’m worried about that, too,” Ruby said, which surprised Cora. She was such a champion of her son’s legal prowess. Did she know something Cora didn’t know? “Cashel said the authorities around here move much slower than he’d like. It’s almost as if we stepped back in time when we came to Sea Glass Island.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing when you go on vacation or on a retreat,” Jane said.

  “Yes, but not a good thing when there’s a murder,” Cora said. “And when someone you know is accused of it.”

  “Well, what did he say?” Jane said.

  “Oh, not much. I mean he told me someone gave her a shot of jellyfish venom. That’s how it was done. But he’s still working on the Rue question,” Cora replied.

  “Rue?” Ruby asked.

  “Yes, she’s Josh’s mother,” Cora explained. “I met her last night. She was at the restaurant with her son.”

  “I still think it’s odd that they were out,” Jane said. “I mean when someone close to you dies, you don’t go out to eat. People bring in food.”

  “Not so much anymore,” Ruby said. “It’s unfortunate, but true. They probably wanted to grab a bite and didn’t want to cook.”

  “Possibly,” Jane said.

  “So back to Rue,” Ruby said. “Why are you having her checked out?”