A Tale of Two Biddies (League of Literary Ladies)

by Logan, Kylie

  I twitched away the thought and reminded myself not to let my imagination run away with me.

  Questions.

  We were here only to ask a few questions, to find out what Margaret and Alice might know, and then like the responsible citizens we were, if we learned anything that was even half-way interesting, we’d turn the information over to Hank.

  I kept the thought firmly in mind and we closed in on the knitting shop.

  In my months on the island, I’d been past the Defarge establishment plenty of times, but not being handy when it comes to things like needlework, I’d never been inside. Chandra and I walked up the two steps that led to the front door and I took a moment to glance into the display window.

  Remember what I said about Margaret and Alice being savvy? Well, it showed in the bright, well put together front window where one mannequin wore a cream-colored cotton bathing suit cover-up that looked as if it had been crocheted, and another was dressed in a blue sundress and had a gossamer little knitted shawl in shades of blue, turquoise, and green around her plastic shoulders. Oh yes, this was the sort of eye-catching display that appealed to tourists, especially if they had the discretionary cash to add to their summertime wardrobes, like the ones who were on the island that day for the boating regatta.

  Both mannequins were surrounded by baskets heaped with yarn in summery sherbet shades of orange, lime, and lemon, along with bolts of unfurled quilting fabric printed with everything from beach scenes to frogs to smiling yellow sunshines.

  The inside of the shop was not so brightly lit. In fact, it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust from summer sunshine to what I couldn’t help but think of as Dickensian gloom. Unlike the upbeat front window display, the shop was timeworn and tired-looking, from the threadbare carpet that covered most of the hardwood floor to the walls painted a muted mauve. The color might have been the height of fashion thirty years ago, but these days it looked careworn. So did the shelves to my left. Some of them contained skeins of yarn, but many of them were empty, and there was a sparse selection of quilting fabric stacked against the opposite wall.

  There was a rocking chair near the front window, its mauve and gray upholstery frayed. After what I’d heard about the Defarge sisters, I wasn’t surprised to see a pair of binoculars on the floor next to it.

  Alice was behind the front counter helping a man who looked a heck of a lot like Charles Dickens.

  This Dickens was taller than Drake, younger than Ashburn, and though he wore the same sort of long frock coat, trousers, and vest, he hadn’t shaved his hairline like both Ashburn and Drake had to get that characteristic Dickens high forehead. Maybe he figured it didn’t matter what his hair looked like; there was a tall stovepipe hat on the counter.

  “Chandra! Bea!” Alice waved us over. “Look who came to see me this morning. It’s Charles Dickens.”

  “Not really.” Like he actually had to add the disclaimer, the man blushed and scratched a hand through a goatee that had been glued on a little crooked. There were more whiskers on the left side of his chin than the right. “Just one of the impersonators. You know, for this weekend’s contest,” he said, without a trace of a phony English accent. “I’ve been reading Dickens all my life. When I heard about the trivia contest, I figured it was my opportunity to brush up on everything I know. Then when I read about the impersonators . . .” His smile was as wide as the bushy mustache that also sat a little askew. “I can’t think of anything that could be more fun! Mason Burke.” He stuck out a hand and shook ours, then ran a finger around the inside of his stiff shirt collar. “You’ll have to excuse the costume. I’m trying to get used to it. You know, before Sunday. While I’m at it, maybe I’ll get used to people staring at me, too!”

  Chandra picked up a pair of knitting needles and one of two balls of brightly colored yarn that sat next to the hat. “I didn’t know Dickens was a knitter.”

  Burke’s expression fell. “Oh my, I can’t say if he was or if he wasn’t, and I suppose I should know that, shouldn’t I? I hope one of you isn’t one of the judges.” He looked from me to Chandra, and when neither of us rose to the bait, he swallowed hard.

  “I’d hate to think I’d been caught not knowing something I should know,” he said. “If I’m going to be in a trivia contest, I should know everything there is to know about Dickens. But the yarn isn’t for me. Or for Dickens. It’s for my wife. You see, while we were loading the boat over at the yacht club in Cleveland, she tripped and twisted her ankle. Poor thing! She wanted to get out and about this weekend, and instead she’s holed up back at the cottage. She’s a knitter, and I promised I’d see if I could find her some yarn and needles to keep her busy. Thank goodness for Miss Alice here! You ladies must be knitters like my wife. That’s why you’re here this morning.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, dear.” The wink Alice gave Chandra and me confirmed all my suspicions. Alice might be a little old lady, but she was nobody’s fool. “I have a feeling they’ve come to chat about something else. And we will,” she promised us. “Just as soon as I finish ringing up this sale.”

  While she did, I took the opportunity to stroll to the back of the shop. Here, there was a display of patterns and magazines, and a rack of knitting needles and crochet hooks. One doorway on the back wall opened into a minuscule bathroom and another into an office that included a desk, two file cabinets, and no computer. I wasn’t surprised. I bet Alice and Margaret liked to do things the old-fashioned way.

  Between the two rooms was a short hallway, and at the end of it a screen door that was open to let in the summer air and a view of the garden out back and the cottage beyond. The scene was straight out of a picture book with its pink roses (Margaret’s choice, no doubt), white daisies, and red geraniums, and the white cottage with its green shutters and trim.

  While Alice put Mason Burke’s purchases into a bag, I drifted back to the front counter, my attention caught by a framed drawing on the wall behind the cash register.

  It was a reproduction in a heavy dark wooden frame, a pen-and-ink sketch of a man in Colonial clothing standing behind a wooden counter. There was another man in front of the counter, also in knee breeches and a tricorn hat, and a woman sitting behind it, a mobcap on her head and her attention on her knitting.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Now that Burke had left, Alice came over and touched a finger to the picture frame. “I bought it at a garage sale years ago. Couldn’t resist. Margaret wasn’t thrilled.” As if Margaret might be within earshot, Alice glanced all around and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I told her I paid five dollars for the picture and that really got her knickers in a twist. She said I wasted my money. What she doesn’t know is that I really paid seven.”

  “You hung it in a place of honor, so you obviously love the picture. That’s what matters,” I told her. “And the lady knitting is just perfect for the shop.”

  When I glanced around again, Alice caught my look. She hurried over to the shelves where the yarn was displayed, patting and arranging. “It was a busy spring and I haven’t had a chance to restock our inventory,” she said, and I wondered what kind of businesswomen Alice and Margaret really were. Summer was—it had to be—the shop’s busy season, what with the island packed with tourists. “Don’t you worry,” Alice said, as if reading my mind. “These shelves are going to be overflowing in a couple weeks. Take a look.” She went back to the front counter, grabbed a yarn company catalogue, and flipped through the pages, pointing as she went. “I’m ordering this sock yarn in every color. And this . . .” She looked at a page that featured alpaca yarn in assorted natural shades of brown and cream and she nearly swooned. “And lots of sweater yarn, of course.”

  Alice’s cheeks turned a color that Margaret would have liked. “And we’re going to paint. And replace the carpet. My goodness, I’m so excited just thinking about it, I can barely sleep nights.”

  Chandra stepped forward. “Alice Defarge, have you turned to a life of crime?�
��

  Alice’s mouth dropped open. But just for a second. That is, until she got the joke. Her laughter was as soft as the lightweight lime green cotton sweater she wore with black slacks. “You always were one to tease me,” she told Chandra. “We’re refinancing, dear. Just a couple more weeks until the papers are signed. And once the painting is done and the shelves are restocked, we’re planning a grand reopening. You’re both invited.” She looked from Chandra to me and her smile disappeared. “But that’s not what you’re here to talk about, is it? Not the grand reopening or the party we’re planning or how excited I am about the new yarn. You’re here because of poor Richie.”

  “You’ve heard,” I said.

  Alice shook her head. “Didn’t need to hear. Saw Hank Florentine walk by here this morning and knew from his expression that something was wrong. Man’s got a face like a thundercloud when there’s trouble. Then at the bakery . . . well, word is out about Richie and it confirmed what I suspected. I knew something was terribly wrong.”

  “We wondered, Alice,” I said, “if there was anything you could tell us. Richie was over at Levi’s last night. That’s where he was found. Is your shop open late on Wednesdays?”

  “Only until seven, and not much in the way of business after the dinner hour. Last night I closed up a couple minutes early, then Margaret and I had dinner. Beef stew. A lot of people say stew is a wintertime dish, but they’ve never tasted Margaret’s. It’s the best on the island, and we never get tired of it. After that, I went out to get dessert. You remember. You saw me outside before the fireworks started.”

  “With the cotton candy. Of course.” I’d almost forgotten. “Did you see Richie when you were out?”

  She thought about it for a moment. “Maybe yesterday afternoon. Or maybe that was the day before. I’m sorry.” She grabbed the yarn catalogue and tucked it under the counter. “When you’re my age, it’s sometimes hard to remember things like that. I did talk to Richie recently, I remember that, and—”

  “Alice!”

  The voice shouting her name from the cottage interrupted her, and Alice sighed with exasperation. “You’ll have to excuse me.” She hurried around the counter and to the back door. “Margaret’s a little hard of hearing so she thinks everyone else is, too. She’s always yelling!”

  “Alice, where’s the peanut butter?” Margaret called out.

  Alice answered just as loudly. “Where it always is. On the second shelf in the cupboard next to the sink.”

  She turned back to us. “She’ll be happy now. At least for a while. Margaret’s eating lunch early so she can take over here at the shop and I can go watch the regatta. Now . . .” She gathered herself and remembered our topic of conversation. “Richie. Yes, Richie. I knew him all his life. Margaret and I . . . we were his landladies, you know.”

  I didn’t know that, and if Chandra did, it was something she’d forgotten to mention.

  Alice went on. “Richie’s parents . . . Lyle and Norma . . . they were the ones who rented our house from us. You know, back when Margaret and I moved here to the cottage so we could be closer to the shop. That was a long time ago, and the house had been in our family for years. We didn’t have the heart to sell it. And Lyle and Norma were so nice, and they had little Richie and he was such a sweetie. It was the perfect solution to our problem and we were so grateful knowing there was someone there to take care of the house and love it the way we always had. Then when Lyle and Norma both died in that terrible accident . . .”

  This was something else I hadn’t known. I leaned forward.

  Alice provided the details. “Richie was . . . how old do you think, Chandra? Maybe twenty at the time? He was living at the house with his parents and, I mean, my goodness, he was certainly old enough to take care of himself, so they decided to go on a vacation to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary. Hawaii, wasn’t it?”

  Chandra nodded. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “Helicopter crash,” Alice explained. “You know, one of those tourist helicopters that flies over the island to show off the sights. Richie was an only child, and after his parents were gone, he was left all alone. He stayed on at the house, and Margaret and I . . . well, we tried to make him part of our family. We invited him for holidays, but he never came.” Her shoulders sagged. “Poor boy lived all alone, and from what I’ve heard, that’s how he died, too. Murdered. Who ever would have thought a thing like that could happen to Richie.”

  I dared to broach the subject we were there to talk about in the first place. “You’re well-connected here on the island, and so observant.” It was better than coming right out and telling Alice that she and her sister would someday have a statue in DeRivera Park with the words Nosey Parkers etched into its base. “Do you or Margaret have any idea who might have wanted Richie dead?”

  Alice’s mouth thinned. “Nobody! My goodness, certainly no one we know. It must have been some sort of accident, don’t you think?” When neither Chandra or I answered, her face paled. “You think it was Mike Lawrence.”

  I wanted to tell her we didn’t have enough information to think anything, but she didn’t give me a chance.

  “Or Gordon Hunter,” Alice said. “I saw him at the party the other night and he was fuming about the damage Richie had done to his boat. Swearing up a storm. Which he really shouldn’t have done, considering there were children around. Then there’s that other man, of course, the one whose house—”

  “Dan Peebles,” I supplied her the name.

  Alice nodded. “The Used Car King of Toledo. Oh, I remember that day last fall. Don’t you, Chandra? I remember how mad he was when he came back to the island to take a look at the damage. Thought the man’s head was going to pop right off his shoulders. And I hear he’s back.”

  There was no use denying it. “He’s checking on the new construction,” I told Alice.

  “Well, it must be him.” To emphasize her point, Alice slapped a hand against the counter. “Because it couldn’t be Gordon. He’s been vacationing here on the island for years. And it certainly couldn’t be Mike. My goodness, I’ve known Mike since he was a toddler. There’s no way he would ever murder anyone.” She smiled brightly. “I hope I’ve been able to help.”

  Chandra waited until we were back outside to say a word. “Well,” she finally asked, “what do you think? Was she able to help?”

  “Not really.” I walked all the way down to the Orient Express before I started across the street. “Alice didn’t tell us anything we don’t already know.”

  “And what we already know is that if we take on this case—”

  “We asked questions, just like you wanted to, Chandra. And now we need to step out of the way and let the professionals do their jobs.”

  Oh, if only things were so easy. See, once we crossed the street, we saw that sometime while we were in the knitting shop talking to Alice, someone had started a memorial to Richie outside Levi’s front door. Already there were two bunches of flowers there, a single candle burning in a tall glass jar, and a photograph of Richie. If I had to guess, I’d say he was back in grade school when it was taken. It showed a goofy-looking kid with bushy hair and a gap-toothed smile. His ears were too big for his head and there was a scattering of freckles across his nose.

  “Damn,” I mumbled, and Chandra didn’t have to ask what I was talking about. She knew. Just like I knew. And I knew the cold feeling in the pit of my stomach could only mean one thing—Richie might have been difficult. He might have been a loner. But we couldn’t let his death go unnoticed. We couldn’t turn our backs on justice.

  We had no choice but to investigate.

  8

  When Levi came around from the side of the building, I had to clear the lump out of my throat before I could say, “Hello.”

  He strolled closer to the memorial and looked at the flowers and the flickering candle. “I’m going to need to move all this a little farther from the front door once the cops let me open for business again,
but I’m not going to get rid of it.”

  “I didn’t think you would.” Not exactly true since I didn’t know Levi well enough to know if he was sentimental. He didn’t look like he would be, I mean, what with the wide shoulders, the chipped-from-granite jaw, and those incredible blue eyes. He looked more like an avenging Norse god than the warm and fuzzy type. It was nice to find out he had a heart.

  Nice, but hardly relevant.

  I told myself not to forget it.

  “Oh, it slipped my mind completely! I need milk and bread and coffee.” Chandra put a hand briefly on my shoulder. “I’m going to zip over to the grocery store. I’ll be right back!”

  I wanted to tell her that she didn’t fool me, but she was gone before I had a chance.

  Which left me alone.

  With Levi.

  “So you know what they found in the autopsy?” The island grapevine being what it was, I didn’t think I had to ask, but hey, it was better than the two of us just standing there looking down at our feet and wondering what to say next. “You know Richie was murdered?”

  “Are you kidding? That’s all anybody can talk about.” Levi moved away from the memorial and toward the walkway that wound to the back of the building. I knew there was a stairway back there and that it led up to the second-floor apartment where he lived, but it wasn’t where he was headed. He walked right past the walkway to the souvenir shop next door, and rather than look like I was avoiding a conversation—even though I would have done anything to avoid a conversation—I followed along. “The bar is still officially considered a crime scene, so no one’s allowed in,” he told me.