by Anne Canadeo
“I can fit into my favorite jeans and still love him. I’m going to jog into town with the dogs every day. It’s not as easy as it looks.”
“I would never say that routine looks easy. How do you keep them from stopping and sniffing every other minute? And how does Walley keep up?”
“I haven’t quite mastered the first challenge yet. Walley keeps up fine. You’d be amazed. Dogs don’t think like humans. He doesn’t feel sorry for himself or realize that anything’s wrong with him.”
The victim of a hit-and-run, Walley had been left for dead on the side of the road until a good Samaritan brought him to Matt’s clinic. The big-hearted Lab survived but lost a leg and the sight in one eye. Matt didn’t have the heart to send him to a shelter and just adopted him.
“We could all take a page from that book.” Maggie stepped into the shop, and Lucy followed.
“How did Dara’s soccer tournament go?” Maggie was tempted to tease Lucy about almost being a soccer stepmom, but she gallantly held her tongue.
“It was so cute. She plays goalie. She looks awesome with all her gear her on. Like a character in Peanuts. I have some pictures on my phone. I’ll show you later.”
Even more tempted to tease, Maggie forced herself to squelch the impulse. “Did her team win anything?”
“Not really. But it was one of those meets where every kid gets a little trophy just for showing up.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about that approach,” Maggie said as she turned on the coffeemaker.
“I think it’s a good thing at that age. They all battle pretty fiercely out there. You’d be surprised. Didn’t somebody say ninety percent of life is just showing up?”
“Woody Allen. And he does have a point,” Maggie conceded. More than ninety percent of her business was just showing up at the shop every day. That was for sure.
“How are Ellie and Ben? Did they talk about Justin Ridley a lot?” Lucy was sitting at the oak table, and Maggie brought her a mug of coffee. Very strong and hot, with nothing in it. Just the way her friend liked it.
“We saw Ben for a minute as we were leaving. We mainly spoke to Ellie. Which was just as well. This situation has shaken her to the core. She needed to vent about a lot of things she wouldn’t have talked about if Ben had been there.”
Maggie quickly filled Lucy in on the way Ben had been questioned by the police. She also passed on Ellie’s admission that Ben suffered from bouts of insomnia and hadn’t been asleep in bed when the dogs woke them, as they’d told the police.
“I don’t think they did the right thing, misleading the police like that. But it probably won’t matter in the long run,” Maggie added. “Ellie said he was working in his home office but not in her sight, and they were panicked and not thinking clearly after finding Ridley’s body.”
Lucy sipped her coffee. She didn’t answer right away. Maggie sensed she agreed that the Kruegers had made a mistake lying to the police in their statement. These things always have a way of coming out.
Lucy glanced at her. “What has Jack heard from his police friends? Does Detective Walsh really consider Ben a suspect? Or is he just trying to eliminate him from the possibilities?”
“Jack hasn’t heard anything yet, one way or the other. But he was going to make some calls today. I’m interested to see what the newspaper has to say. Maybe they have some information on other leads the police are following.”
Maggie had dumped a pile of mail in the middle of the table and now sifted through to find the newspaper. The Plum Harbor Times did not print an edition on Sunday, so the Monday issue in hand was the first to report on Ridley’s death.
“Front page, above the fold.” Maggie held up the paper a moment to show Lucy the big headline. “ ‘Local Farmer and Activist Found Dead.’ He wasn’t actually a farmer, come to think about it. But I guess that fit better than ‘landowner.’ Let’s see, what does it say . . . ?” She scanned the story quickly, peering down through her reading glasses. “ ‘The body of Justin Ridley was found by Ben Krueger early Saturday morning on the Laughing Llama Farm, a neighboring property to that of the victim . . .’ ”
“Ellie won’t like that part,” Lucy noted. “That’s what I call really bad publicity.”
“You’re right. She won’t. But it’s a fact, no getting around it. What else? We know most of this already,” Maggie noted as she scanned the page. “I won’t read it all aloud. Oh, this part is good: ‘Ridley apparently bled to death after being stabbed in the neck with a wooden spindle. A preliminary autopsy showed that the spindle struck both the trachea and an artery in the throat and the victim suffocated on his own blood.’ ”
Maggie paused and swallowed. “Gruesome.” She shook her head and took a sip of coffee. “I was wondering how a person could die from being stabbed with a spindle. I imagine Ridley was fairly fit.”
“He did look fit,” Lucy recollected, “though I only saw him from far away. I was thinking the same thing. A spindle would be painful and do some damage. But it would be unlikely to kill you.”
“Unless someone stuck it right in your heart. Or some other critical spot,” Maggie countered.
“I guess it was just a lucky shot. Or an unlucky one, depending on how you look at it,” Lucy remarked. “Maybe the person who attacked him wasn’t trying to kill him. Maybe they were just defending themselves?”
“Good point. I wonder if the police thought of that.” Maggie had put the paper down, and Lucy leaned over to get a better look.
“Look at these pictures,” Lucy said.
Maggie had hardly noticed but took a closer look now. Two photographs of Ridley were printed side by side. One appeared to have been taken recently, during a demonstration by the Friends of Farmland—Maggie could tell from the banner in the background. Ridley was standing at a podium, speaking.
Dark, deep-set eyes stared out from his angular face. He had a long nose and a droopy mustache and thin cheeks shadowed by a few days’ growth of beard. A soiled bandanna was tied around his forehead. A denim shirt and hunting vest added to his survivor-man style.
“He’s pretty much the way I pictured him. An outlaw type. Or maybe a folk singer,” Lucy decided.
“Or a folk hero,” Maggie mused. “Oh . . . look at that one, in his military uniform. So young and fresh-faced. He was very handsome back then, wasn’t he?”
“Before . . . and after, you mean,” Lucy replied. “How old was he? Does it say?”
“Let’s see . . . sixty-two. He looked older, but it’s hard to tell under that beard. It says underneath that army photo that he was drafted in 1968 and served in the military for four years. Discharged with a disability.”
“Physical . . . or psychological?”
“Doesn’t say,” Maggie replied, her eyes still on the article. “After the service, he enrolled at the University of Massachusetts Amherst and studied philosophy and political science. But he dropped out after three years, just a few credits short of earning his degree. He was married for a year and divorced.”
“Intelligent,” Lucy remarked. “But undermined himself. Self-destructive? Dana says he had all the earmarks of posttraumatic stress syndrome.”
“Possibly. He came to Plum Harbor about thirty-five years ago,” Maggie continued, “and always lived on that land next to the Kruegers, though he didn’t own it at first. Just rented the house on the property. The reporter mentions his activities with the Friends of Farmland. He was the founder and co-chair,” Maggie noted. She suddenly turned and looked at Lucy. “Guess who the other ‘co’ is.”
Lucy sighed. “I hate when you do that. I can’t guess. Who?”
“Angelica Rossi.” Maggie shook her head. “That was a no-brainer, Lucy. I’m surprised at you.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Interesting. Go on. Is that it?”
“Nope. . . . ‘Continued on page B32.’ I have to find the page. . . . Oh, here we are.” She paused a moment. “Nothing more about FOF. It says that he’s survived by a daughter, Jan
ine Ridley of Portland, Oregon.” Maggie looked up. “I wonder if she’ll come to claim the body and settle the estate.”
Lucy looked surprised by the question. “Don’t you think most people would come, under the circumstances?”
“I do. But you never know. He was clearly a difficult, solitary man and may have had a poor relationship with his daughter.”
“That’s possible. But even so, she would still come to settle the estate. To sell the farm and all that,” Lucy replied.
Maggie thought that was likely, too. She had turned the paper to the back pages to read the end of the article and now glanced down at the advertisements printed in the right-hand column. Listings for the local movie houses, mostly.
One for the Newburyport Cinema Arts Center caught her eye. The 1940s classic Gaslight was listed with show times. Maggie clearly recalled the story—set in the late nineteenth century, a scheming husband convinces his naive wife that she’s going crazy by secretly adjusting the light fixtures. A slim concept, but somehow, with Ingrid Bergman in the starring role, it worked.
It looked like the film had been the only feature playing there on the weekend, as part of an Ingrid Bergman film festival. Arsenic and Old Lace was not listed there, she noticed. Or at any other theater.
“That’s funny,” she mumbled.
“Something else in the article?” Lucy asked.
Maggie looked up and shook her head. “No. Just a misprint. Doesn’t matter.”
“I wonder what kind of relationship they had.”
Maggie looked up at Lucy, confused for a moment.
“Janine Ridley and her father. I wonder if they got along or if he’d alienated her, too.”
Maggie wondered about that, also. “Good question. Maybe we’ll find out.”
The little brass bell on the front door sounded. Two women walked in carrying knitting totes. They stood at the front of the store and shyly waved at Maggie.
“Good morning, ladies,” Maggie called out. “Just take a seat in the front. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
She quickly stood, closed the paper, and gathered up her mail. “It’s showtime,” she said quietly to Lucy. “A Is for Afghan. A beginner class. They’re so sweet and sincere at this stage,” she added, as if talking about kindergarteners.
Lucy picked up her coffee mug and grinned. “I’m sure you’re very positive and encouraging with them.”
Maggie shrugged. “We all have to start knitting somewhere. Ninety percent is just showing up for the class.”
Lucy laughed and headed out to get her dogs and walk home.
Maggie headed for the alcove just to the left of the shop’s entrance, where a love seat and several armchairs were set up around a low marble-topped table. She liked using this space for small groups, instead of the worktable at the back of the store. It was more relaxed and intimate, more like sitting in someone’s parlor than being in an official class.
She also had a good view of the whole shop from this spot—who was coming in and out—and could quickly tell if Phoebe was floundering and needed help covering the customers. Her lifeguard post, she secretly called it.
Toward the end of the day, Maggie was back in the cozy spot, teaching another class to a small group, this one about knitting for newborns. Her students were expectant mothers, aunts, and grandmas, all eager to master Bibs, Booties, and Beyond. The class was almost over when she spotted a customer near the counter who seemed to be waiting for assistance.
Phoebe was in back helping an elderly customer pick out buttons for a child’s sweater. The process promised to go on for a while. Phoebe did exhibit admirable patience with seniors, Maggie had to grant her that. Maybe because the girl’s mind often worked in the same wandering way.
Maggie excused herself from the class and headed for the unattended patron. “May I help you with something?”
The woman turned to face her. Something about her looked familiar. Maggie guessed she’d been in the shop before.
“I’m trying to match this blue merino, or find something that will complement it.” She handed Maggie a small ball of yarn. “I don’t have enough left for the sleeves and thought I could do them in another color.”
Maggie put on her reading glasses and examined the blue yarn. “If you have the label from the skein, I should be able to order it.”
“How long would that take?” the customer asked.
“Oh, a week or so. It’s hard to say. It depends where we find it.” Maggie knew she sounded vague, but that was really the truth of the matter.
“I don’t think that works out for me. I don’t live around here. I’m visiting from out of town. I have a lot of downtime in the evenings. That’s why I brought my knitting along. It was stupid of me to leave the rest of the yarn at home. I was in a rush and not thinking.”
Maggie looked at the young woman again and nodded sympathetically. She spoke quickly and sounded a bit anxious. She still looked familiar, out-of-towner or not.
“Knitting is my favorite way to fill the downtime in life. But that’s probably obvious. . . . Are you here on business?” Maggie asked, trying for a friendly, not-too-nosy tone.
“Not really. My father lived around here. He died over the weekend. Justin Ridley. You’ve probably heard about what happened to him. It was in all the local papers and on TV the other night.” Her voice trailed off, softer now. She met Maggie’s eye a moment, then looked away.
That was it. Of course. She was Ridley’s daughter, Janine. The same deep-set eyes and thin face. The same dark hair and tall, thin build—though the family genes expressed themselves much more attractively in a feminine version, Maggie thought. A slim brunette, she was in her mid-thirties, Maggie guessed. Her thick hair was blunt cut, curling around her face, softening the angular features so reminiscent of her father.
“Yes, I heard that news. I’m sorry for your loss,” Maggie said sincerely.
“Thank you. I didn’t see him much. But I’ll miss him.” She looked tired, Maggie thought. Or maybe that was just jet lag . . . combined with sadness over her father’s death? And dealing with the police all day. Maggie could only guess where she’d been today and what she’d done before finding her way to the knitting shop.
She looked straight at Maggie. “Did you know my father? Did you ever meet him?”
Maggie shook her head. “No, we never met. But I do know the couple who live on the farm next door to his, the Kruegers. Ben Krueger was the man who found your father’s body,” she added, though she expected that Janine Ridley would recognize the name.
Janine Ridley’s expression changed quickly. “Oh . . . right. The police told me they’d questioned that man about the murder. He’s a friend of yours?” She looked at Maggie oddly.
Maggie acted as if she hadn’t noticed. “Oh, I doubt Ben was involved. In fact, I’m sure he wasn’t. I know he didn’t get along with your father. But neighbors often have grievances. I’m sure the police questioned him because they can’t rule anything out at this stage.”
Janine didn’t answer. She did seem to pull back and sort of close up, looking distrustful. Having second thoughts about patronizing a shop that harbored sympathies for Ben Krueger, Maggie guessed.
“I can check the storeroom for some yarn that might work for you. Would you like me to look?” Maggie asked politely.
Janine Ridley thought about it a moment, then nodded and handed over the ball of yarn she had in hand. “All right. I’ll wait.”
She either wanted that yarn badly or was much more composed and even-tempered than her father. Maybe a bit of both, Maggie reasoned.
Maggie went back to the storeroom. By the time she had found a few possibilities and returned to the front of the store, the students from Bibs, Booties, and Beyond had left and the button-selecting senior was gone, too. Phoebe sighed as if cleaning out the Aegean stables as she sorted piles of buttons into their correct drawers again.
Maggie headed for Janine Ridley, who was sitting up front near the
bay window and had taken out her knitting project.
Maggie stood next to her chair with a basket of yarn. “I found a few merino possibilities. I have a lot of stock in all these colors, too.”
“Thanks. Let me see what you have.” Janine Ridley looked over the selection of yarn Maggie had brought out for her. She held each up in turn against the blue section of the sweater she was working on, trying to choose a good complement.
“Will there be a memorial service? The newspaper article this morning didn’t mention anything,” Maggie noted.
“I would have held one for him, but he didn’t want anything like that. He asked to be cremated and have his ashes scattered on a certain favorite spot on his land. I have to wait for the police to release his body.”
“Yes, of course. That could take a few days.” Maggie nodded sympathetically. She didn’t think it was legal to scatter ashes anywhere you pleased, though she suspected that in trying to honor the requests of deceased loved ones, people did many odd things with cremated remains. Hadn’t Suzanne once said she wanted her ashes to be tossed on George Clooney?
Janine Ridley’s voice distracted Maggie from her rambling thoughts. “ . . . I know my father rubbed a few people in town the wrong way, and scared people, too, roaming around at night with his gun and his dogs,” Janine said frankly. “But he had friends. Many people in this town accepted that he was different. And respected him, too.”
Maggie nodded. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true.”
It was true, she thought. Despite what the Kruegers thought of him.
“He wasn’t a bad person,” Janine insisted. “He was very sincere about saving the farmland out where he lived. The landscape out there gave him great comfort after he left the army.”
“I’m sure a lot of people would have come to a memorial to pay their respects,” Maggie said, feeling that this was what the young woman was driving at.
Janine glanced at her and nodded, then looked back at the basket of yarns again. She rejected a few of the skeins and put them aside.
