Macramé Murder

by Mollie Cox Bryan

  After she wrote her blog post, she wandered into Jane’s room, surprised to hear London’s voice. Then as she opened the door, Jane motioned for her to come in.

  “How much longer will you be?” London asked Jane over the computer.

  “One more day,” Jane said. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like staying with Luna and Ms. Zora?”

  “I do. We’re having fun. We’re going to make a cake today,” London said. “There are no more bad things at the beach, are there?”

  “No, it’s fine,” Jane said. “I miss you.”

  She was an artist and worked at home, and London was always there. She’d hired sitters to help from time to time, but usually, the sitters and London were always close by. Now London was in school, and she loved it, but once in a while, the child expressed how much she missed Jane. Were they too close? Did Jane hover too much? She didn’t know. All she realized is she wanted her daughter near.

  “I miss you, too. I’ll be fine, Mama. I’ll save you and Cora some cake.”

  London blew a kiss to Jane and went off with Zora, waving, before the screen went blank.

  Gone from view now, Jane sighed. One of these days, her daughter would leave her. That was the way of things. But it seemed a long way off. She’d enjoy every moment of her until then.

  Not that there weren’t times she could use a break from her.

  “Are you ready for breakfast?” Jane turned and asked Cora.

  “No, I need to get my shower. Just thought I’d pop over and see if you finally connected with London,” Cora replied.

  Jane was freshly showered, dressed, and ready to go. “We’ll see you later then.”

  “Yes,” Cora said, and exited the room, while Jane closed her laptop, then reached for her bag.

  Jane took an almost empty elevator downstairs and walked toward the bistro. She needed coffee and a croissant. That was all she had time for. She walked into the bistro at the same time Hank did.

  “Well, hello, Jane,” he said, sweeping his eyes up and down her person. “Lovely outfit.”

  “Thanks,” Jane said, thinking she wasn’t wearing anything special, a pair of jeans with a peasant shirt. She was planning on doing a lot of pottery today and needed the freedom of movement. What was he up to?

  “Care to join me?” he asked.

  “Um, well, I don’t have much time,” she said.

  “Just a quick cup of coffee?” he asked.

  She’d like to sit with him and pump him for more information—if she could. But he left yesterday with a warning to them. Was he trustworthy? A twinge of hesitation and fear lurked in her. But as she glanced around, she saw that there were plenty of other people nearby. He couldn’t do any harm while they were in such a public space.

  “Well, okay,” she said, following him to the table.

  A server came behind them. “I want a cup of coffee and a croissant,” she said.

  “That sounds delicious,” he said. “I’ll have that, too. Make that two croissants.” He paused. “I’m a big boy.”

  It was an odd thing for a grown man to say. Even odder that he was still here, Jane mused. If she had been fired, she’d hightail it out of there. Why was he still here?

  “I’ve got some business to wrap up today,” he said. “Otherwise, I’d be nowhere around. Can I tell you something?”

  Jane nodded as the server came by and filled her cup with steaming black coffee. Oh God. She sucked in the scent of it. She needed that coffee.

  “Certainly,” she said, pouring cream into the coffee, stirring it.

  He sat back as the server poured his coffee, waited until she left. “I’ve never felt better. I mean, I feel so unburdened. I didn’t realize how much . . . everything had been weighing on me.” He let out a singsong sigh. “I mean, it’s been a huge relief in my life.”

  He smiled. He was pretty, as Ruby had said. Jane was like Ruby in that she was not a fan of “pretty” men. His teeth were straight and white. He barely had a line on his well-shaven face. His brown eyes were clear and bright, framed in long eyelashes. Very pretty.

  “Was it that bad?” Jane said, and sipped her coffee. Dark and rich, the roasted flavors played in her mouth.

  “I didn’t realize how bad it was,” he said. “But last night I was talking to Tom. You know Tom? He was Zooey’s assistant. He couldn’t believe some of the things Mathilde made me do. The way she treated me. Zooey treated Tom like gold.”

  “Really?” Jane said. “That’s so hard to believe. Mathilde has always been so kind to us and she has a great reputation.”

  “Of course she does,” he said. “I saw to it. But now she’s on her own and it’s going to be interesting to see what happens.”

  “Won’t she hire someone else?” Jane said, as the coffee kicked in.

  He sighed a long and frustrated exhale. “She’ll have to, I suppose.”

  The server brought their croissants, their smell filling Jane’s nose. The divine scent of the freshly baked pastry set her mouth watering.

  “They have the best croissants,” he said. “They make them right here.”

  The server smiled. “We do.”

  “I have breakfast here a lot. My apartment is here at the resort. That’s something else that’s going to change. I’ve no idea where I’ll go, but it will be off this island, far away from Mathilde and her shenanigans,” he said.

  “Well, you have the world at your feet,” Jane said. “You’ve got experience. I’m sure something great will happen for you.”

  “I feel like turning over all our partnerships to Mathilde,” he said. “You know, sign them away. I just want out of it all.”

  “That would be foolish,” Jane said. “You’ve put a lot into it, I’m sure.” It was almost like Mathilde and Hank were going through a divorce.

  “Yes, I’m sure it would be foolish,” he said.

  Jane downed another drink of coffee, and bit into the most heavenly pastry she’d ever eaten. “Oh my God, you weren’t kidding. This is delicious.” She took another bite, allowing the flakey, airy, and buttery treat to mingle in her mouth before taking another drink of coffee. She glanced up at the clock. “Dang, I need to leave in a few minutes.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “But before you go, I kind of wanted to apologize for yesterday. I’m a bit embarrassed about the condition of the Drunken Mermaid. We never meant for it to harbor the island’s problems. I’ve been trying to spend a lot more time there to keep an eye on things. But it’s so entrenched. The drugs,” he said, and paused. “But it won’t be my problem much longer. I’ll happily let Mathilde buy me out of that one.”

  “What does Mathilde plan to do with it?” Jane said.

  “Between you and me, I think she plans to let it ride. She couldn’t care less if it’s the place to go for drugs. Just as long as it’s making her money,” he said.

  “Surely not, Hank,” Jane said.

  He nodded his head as he shoved two bites of croissant in his mouth. “Hmm-mmm,” he said. “If you don’t believe me, ask around. She’s all about the money.”

  Jane downed the remainder of her coffee and took the last two bites of her croissant. Something told her that every word Hank said was true.

  Chapter 43

  Had breakfast with Hank. He had some interesting things to say. Do you think Mathilde is “all about the money”? Jane asked in a text message when Cora was on her way to her class.

  She considered it. She would not have thought that before this retreat. But, as she thought over the fights she heard between Mathilde and Hank, Cora thought it was probably true that she was money hungry. But the question was: why? She was successful and had plenty of money, didn’t she? Why did she need to be so grubby?

  Probably true, Cora texted back.

  She walked into her full classroom. The crafters were ready for her to divulge her many secrets about craft blogging. She almost laughed at the thought of secrets. Blogging was plenty of hard work. She owed much
of her success to luck.

  She had no formula for successful blogging. She had no idea why her blog took off the way it had—except that it filled a niche at a time when the niche needed filling. Of course her blog was unique—but there were many others out there.

  “Have the police found the killer yet?” Katy asked.

  “What?” Cora took a moment to switch from blogger brain to the murders.

  “The killer?” Katy said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’d have no way of knowing about that,” she said.

  “I hope they find the killer soon,” Katy said with a quiver in her voice. “Linda is not coming out of her room.”

  “What?” Cora said. “I thought she was a nurse and had seen so much in her life she would be okay.”

  Katy shook her head. “None of us are okay.” The other crafters were all settling into the classroom. “But she is too afraid to leave her room. She keeps saying something was off about the knots on the bag. Something that freaked her out. But she hasn’t been able to figure it out.”

  “The knots?” Cora said.

  Katy frowned. “I wanted to stay with her, but she insisted we all come to class this morning.”

  “I see,” Cora said. “Well, take notes for her.” Dread came over her—poor Linda, afraid to leave her room. She wondered how many others had been affected by the murder of Zooey right in the same resort where their craft retreat was being held. Cora glanced around the room. Most of her students had come back this morning. Of course, that didn’t mean that they weren’t frightened. Hell, she was frightened herself. Something strange was going on here: all the people involved were natives. That was pretty strange, considering the island’s small population. And Zooey kept that bit a secret—Cora had read about her and hadn’t come across anything that said she was from this island, let alone that she had another name. Had something gone on years ago that someone was seeking revenge for? Or did the murders have something to do with the newly proposed development that had recently been stopped? Or were they acts of passion?

  As she readied her laptop, she thought about what she knew about murder—too much, she feared. Most murders in the US circled back to drugs. That thought led her straight back to the Drunken Mermaid.

  The other leading cause of murder? Love. Unrequited. Or twisted. Love gone wrong.

  Was Zooey involved with someone? Cora hadn’t thought of asking that question before.

  Marcy, of course, had just been married. It didn’t seem likely she was involved with someone else. It didn’t seem likely her spouse would off her on their wedding night. But stranger things have happened.

  The person who killed Marcy understood the severity of her allergy to jellyfish stings.

  The person who killed Zooey, brutally strangling her and stuffing her into a macramé bag, seemed to be making a statement about . . . what? Macramé? Zooey? Or was it the retreat?

  Did someone have it in for Mathilde and her successful retreat? What better way to insure nobody would want to come to the retreat than to murder one of its famous headliners?

  Get a grip, Cora, she thought to herself. Your imagination is in overdrive. But as she took in her students and gauged the mood, it was somber. She saw fear in many eyes. How many of them were fighting the impulse to go home? How many of them were putting on a brave face?

  “Good morning,” Cora said, trying to sound bright and cheery. “I realize many of you must not want to be here now.”

  A hush fell over the room.

  “But I’m glad you’re still here,” she said. “Rest assured, we are safer than ever now. You’ve noted all the officers posted everywhere. And I can assure you the local police are doing everything they can to find the person who committed this hideous crime.”

  All eyes were on her.

  “I think the best we can do now is move forward. Does anybody have any questions about the class, blogging, before I go on?” she asked.

  One woman raised her hand.

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if you can talk a little bit about the difference between the different platforms. I’m still trying to make up my mind between Blogger and WordPress.”

  Cora breathed a deep sigh of psychic relief. A question that she could answer.

  After class, while Cora was gathering up her things, she remembered the conversation with Katy about the knots on the macramé bag that held Zooey’s body. What could freak someone out about knots? What was so odd about them? She saw Katy slip out of the room. Cora quickly gathered her things to follow her. She wanted to talk with Linda.

  “Katy!” she said, scrambling out the door.

  “Yes?” Katy turned around.

  “I was wondering if it would be okay for me to go and see Linda?”

  Katy softened and blinked. “I guess she wouldn’t mind you visiting. Let me text her.”

  They stood in the hall and waited for the answer, which came quickly.

  I’d love to see Cora. Are you kidding? Send her right up.

  “There you have it. She’s in room 319,” Katy said. “A word of warning . . . She is messed up over this.” Her face spoke volumes about her worry about her friend.

  “Okay, I’ll be gentle with her,” Cora said. “Don’t worry. I used to be a counselor. Maybe I can help.”

  After all, helping was Cora’s thing. She had the disease to please. And that wasn’t always a bad instinct.

  Chapter 44

  Cora followed Linda on to her balcony, where she was eating a large breakfast.

  “Please have a seat,” Linda said.

  She moved plates of food around on the table and finally found the biscuit she wanted and spread butter on it. “I can’t eat enough food,” she said.

  “I understand,” Cora said. “I’ve seen that a lot among women, especially. Sometimes food is comfort.”

  “What do you mean you’ve seen it a lot?” she asked.

  “I used to be a counselor in a women’s shelter,” Cora said.

  “Is that why you’re here? Did my friends send you to counsel me?”

  “No, not per se,” Cora said. “Is that a Bloody Mary?”

  Linda nodded. “It sure is. There’s a whole pitcher. I don’t usually imbibe so early in the day. I need to get a grip. I realize I’m missing out on the retreat. But . . .”

  “You’re a nurse?” Cora said.

  She nodded. “I’ve seen some stuff, but never someone who’s been murdered.” Her voice cracked.

  “I know what you mean,” Cora said, remembering the time she literally stumbled on a murder victim in Indigo Gap. She had passed out. And it took months for her to stop dreaming about it, remembering the image.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, it’s happened to me,” Cora said. She paused. “Come to think of it, I will have a Bloody Mary.”

  “Oh, great,” Linda said, and she rose from the table to fetch a glass. She poured the red, thick liquid into a large glass.

  Cora took a drink. “Wow, that is one delicious Bloody Mary,” she said. It had been a few years since she drank one. She was mostly a wine girl.

  “I know, right?” Linda’s eyes were covered by her sunglasses, but Cora still saw the lines of worry on the edges.

  “It’s going to take time, you know,” Cora said. “I had bad dreams for weeks.”

  Linda merely grunted.

  “And then something would happen and it would remind me of... the shape of his foot. And I’d freak out,” she said.

  “Yes, exactly.” She paused and took a long drink. “You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Some people get over it quicker than others, or they think they do. Your friends are pushing through, but in the months to come, it might sneak up on them,” Cora said.

  “I was thinking that, too. Although I don’t think any of them got the close-up view of her that I did. It was the bag, you see,” Linda said. “The bag was beautiful. Now, I don’t even think I can look at macramé.”

  “Wh
at was it about the bag that disturbs you? Katy told me,” Cora said.

  Linda sipped from her Bloody Mary. “I can’t quite figure it out. It was off—that’s all I can say about it. It wasn’t quite right. I keep thinking about it. Thinking about those knots. What was it that was wrong with them?”

  “If you can remember, let me know,” Cora said.

  “Why? Why are you so concerned?”

  “Well, first, I’m concerned about you working through that image. Once you figure it out, you’ll start to feel better. And secondly, my boyfriend is a suspect for the murder of Marcy Grimm. He has an alibi for Zooey’s murder. But his lawyer and all the rest of us think that two murders in three days . . . Well, they have to be linked.”

  “You’re hoping if you find Zooey’s killer, he’ll also be Marcy’s killer and your boyfriend will be off the hook,” Linda said.

  Cora nodded.

  “How very Jessica Fletcher of you,” Linda said.

  “Excuse me? Jessica Fletcher?” Cora said.

  “You know. Murder, She Wrote,” Linda said.

  “Oh yes, I’ve heard of it,” Cora said.

  A breeze came across the balcony. The tablecloth fluttered. Cora grabbed her napkin before it was carried off by the wind.

  “I wonder if it’s going to rain,” Linda said. “The sky’s a little dark over that way, see?”

  “I don’t think they are calling for rain,” Cora said. “But you never know.”

  “How did the class go this morning?” Linda said.

  “Oh, here—I brought you the handouts,” Cora said, and reached into her bag.

  “Oh, thanks. That was so kind of you,” Linda said.

  “Your friends will bring you up to date, too. What an awesome group of women,” Cora said with a smile.

  “Oh yes. We’ve been scrapbooking together for over twenty years,” Linda said. “They are like my sisters.”

  Cora beamed. She loved stories about women crafting together and forming deep friendships. “I’d like to feature your group on my blog. I think it would make a great story.”

  “How fabulous,” Linda said, clapping her hands together. A smile spread across her face. It was the first time she’d smiled since Cora had been there.