by Molly Macrae
“Will you please take me home?”
He didn’t object to going and he didn’t comment on the half-eaten slice I left on my plate. Those were two more points in his favor. But the points didn’t add up to this being an experiment worth repeating.
On the way to my nice little yellow house, where I lived quietly and alone, I decided that before I got out of Clod’s truck, I would ask him what he’d meant the day before, when he’d said, “Mistakes were made.” Did he mean that he and his colleagues had made mistakes in their investigation of the shooting? Or in searching the Weaver’s Cat? Or had he made a mistake in not taking our broken window seriously enough? I did want to know, but also, like my glass of ice water, I liked the symbolism of the phrase.
When we got to my house, he hopped out to open my door. Rats. And when I climbed out, he pulled me into an enveloping hug. Double rats. Except that I felt absolutely nothing. Nothing. No animosity, no friendship, no love, no hate, no lust, no dislike, no revulsion. No mix of any kind of emotions. There was an absolute blank. A dearth. How odd. As though I was being hugged by a slab of Formica. Unfortunately, while I was marveling over that, Clod, who did feel something, kissed me.
I pulled away and, like an embarrassed teenager, looked around to make sure no one had seen. Looked around in time to see Joe, at the edge of the yard, turn and walk away.
• • •
Ardis called half an hour later. She said Joe had stopped by. He’d told her he hadn’t had any luck fishing for anyone who’d seen Dan Snapp out fishing. That was inconclusive, as everything in our case was proving to be, because there was a lot of fishable water in our part of the state. Ardis said Joe seemed kind of down about it, though.
I went to bed feeling kind of down, too. Almost down enough to wander over to the Weaver’s Cat to see if a pajama fiesta with Geneva and Argyle would cheer me up, but not quite.
• • •
I woke up thinking about Granny. It had taken me a couple of months, but I’d finally started sleeping in her bedroom, in her wrought-iron bed under a coverlet she’d woven. A pretty blue-and-white double weave. It made me happy to wake up and look at the ceiling she’d looked at when she planned her days. She was a great one for plans and she hadn’t put up with moping. She understood about depression and sadness and grief, but self-indulgent misery didn’t cut it with her. If you’re so miserable you can’t make yourself happy, don’t put the blame where it doesn’t belong. Turn yourself around. Go out and make someone else happy, she’d told me. Sometimes doing things the other way around is the best way.
So when I woke up still feeling down, I decided the best way to deal with the Dunbar Debacle of Love, or whatever it should be called, was to go out and catch a killer. And maybe the best way to do that was to turn the problem around or turn it over.
I fingered the double-weave coverlet, looked at the pattern on one side, and flipped it over to see the negative pattern on the other. We didn’t know who the killer was; the killer certainly knew who we were. Searching for the killer meant casting a wide net and hoping he or she wouldn’t slip through; inviting the killer to come . . . Inviting the killer anywhere was completely insane, but it was that notion that made me realize something had been missing from the murder scene.
“Her phone, Ardis. We didn’t see it.”
“And I am blind with early-morning sleep deprivation, so it’s no wonder I don’t see what you’re talking about. Kath, please do not make a habit of calling me this early.”
“Quit complaining and listen to me. Saturday, when we were standing in the tent, after the shot but before we realized what had happened, we heard a couple of people talking. They thought Reva Louise was one of the actors. One of them scoffed at her shoes and—”
“Her phone.” In the background, I heard the creaking that meant Ardis was sitting up and taking interest. “But weren’t we around there pretty quick after we heard the scoffers? That would’ve been a mighty small window of opportunity for someone to take the phone, hon.”
“Then where was it?”
“Considering the larger picture of Reva Louise lying there in her own blood, we might have missed a small detail like her phone.”
“The details of that scene are seared in my memory, Ardis.”
“Well, and into mine, too, now that you mention it.”
“That’s how the killer knew she would be there at that time. The killer called her there to that spot. Reva Louise waved to the killer in the window.”
“Now you’re just being fanciful. We need to stick to the facts.”
“It’s one of the details,” I said, waving away the minor detail of that information being provided by a ghost no one else could see and also the detail of Ardis not being able to see me waving over the phone. “The story of what happened is in the details, Ardis. The solution is in the details.”
“Mm-hmm. I’ve heard something about the devil being in them, too.”
“Speaking of the devil, will you do me a favor? Call Cole Dunbar just to make sure they didn’t find the phone and I really am making a mountain out of a detail?”
“You don’t want to make that call yourself?”
“No.”
“Mm-hmm.”
• • •
Thea wasn’t as cranky or insinuating as Ardis when I called her. That was mostly because I waited and called her at the library.
“I thrive on digging for useless information,” she said when I told her what I wanted her to look up.
“I hope at least some of it will be useful.”
“Then I am on it. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Toddler Time comes first, though. We’re doing the hokey-pokey in case you’re interested.”
• • •
My call to Mel was short. I asked her if she would find out from Sally Ann if she knew what kind of phone Reva Louise had owned. Mel asked me if I wanted a ladle up my nose with that. Given that bit of hostility, I didn’t ask her for a description of her missing recipe box that I wasn’t supposed to know about.
My call to Mercy was shorter. She cut me off at “Hi,” slipped in a terse, tear-laden “Your taste in men is questionable,” and hung up. I took it Angie was still missing.
Shortest was my call to J. Scott Prescott—the same number on each of his cards. He didn’t answer.
• • •
Ardis called as I was about to unlock the back door and let myself into the Cat. I waited, key in hand, as she told me Clod hadn’t wanted to part with information about the phone.
“But, hon, from the way he blustered and obfuscated, I don’t believe they knew there was a phone to wonder about in the first place.”
“They do now.”
“And that makes this the perfect time to say, ‘The game’s afoot.’ Hon, I don’t like the idea of you being there alone this morning. I’d cancel Daddy’s appointment and be there in a second, but it took so long to get this one. We’re spinning a web. I don’t want you getting caught.”
“Nothing’s going to happen so soon, if at all, and I’ll only be alone for the hour until Debbie gets here. You know someone from TGIF is bound to come in. Or if you’re worried, you can call someone. Call Ernestine.”
“I’ll call Debbie and see if she can be there early.”
“And who knows, maybe Joe will swing by.”
After a pause the length of a small sigh, Ardis said, “Watch out for yourself, hon.”
• • •
I let myself in the back door, ready to get the business day going. Ready to get this investigation into Reva Louise’s murder finished. I locked the door again behind me. And something caught my ear.
A woman singing.
Chapter 30
For the second it took me to think—Singing? Woman? Who?—and for my eyes to practically bug out of my head—I was frightened. Then I recognized the voice and the tune, if not the exact words.
“My body lies over the ocean, my body lies over the sea.” Geneva floated down
the stairs, followed by Argyle. “Where do you suppose my body really lies? Probably in a bog and not any place so romantic as over an ocean or sea.” She settled on top of the refrigerator in an artful heap. “The real tragedy is spending eternity without a forwarding address.”
“I’m sure it is. Geneva, do you think your body is somewhere near the cottage where we met?”
She shrugged and watched me tip kibble into Argyle’s dish and give him fresh water. He added another layer of fur around my ankles in thanks and I tried to remember if there were any marshy areas near the Holston Homeplace Living History Farm. But maybe she’d been singing with poetic license.
“Your beau was here this morning,” she said.
“What? Who?”
“Who, she has to ask? Who knew you had so many? Joe, Mr. Haiku.”
Argyle looked up at her and trilled.
“He was experimenting with an electronic contraption at the back door; it made a noise like someone realizing she’d stepped in something unpleasant. Neither Argyle nor Mr. Haiku liked it, so he took it away again.”
“Do you know when he’s coming back?”
“I am not your social secretary.”
She followed me through the store as I went through opening procedures. It was still dimmer than usual in the room with the boarded-up window. Joe had said he was looking for a source of old glass to replace the broken pane. Replace. Was Angie replacing Reva Louise? What evidence did we really have for thinking that? Had J. Scott Prescott done away with Angie because she was a budding real estate agent who would replace him? Again, what evidence?
“Lights, fans, action,” Geneva chided. “You’re falling behind in your duties. Why are you just standing there?”
“I’m thinking about our investigation. We might have some action here later today.”
“By action, do you mean women of a certain age sitting quietly making things out of yarn? I might watch Argyle take a nap instead.”
“If it’s more dramatic than that, I’m sure you’ll notice. Geneva, will you try to remember what you saw when Reva Louise was shot? You saw her wave and then you saw her fall. What did you see after she fell?”
“You ran.”
“And Ardis.”
“You were more athletic.”
“Thank you. But I didn’t run to her right away. Did you see anyone near her before I got there?”
“There were a lot of people around. I didn’t know most of them. I don’t get out much.”
“Would you look at some pictures to see if you recognize anyone? See if you remember seeing anybody who was near her body on Saturday? Thea made a slide show and I can set it up on my laptop in the study—”
“Like TV? Let’s go.”
I put the Mug Shot Show on a continuous loop and left Geneva raptly watching.
• • •
To show that I had learned a thing or two about precaution, I didn’t unlock the back door after I flipped the open sign on the front door. No back-alley surprises for me. But then I flashed to the panic of being trapped in the loom house behind a blocked door. Not the same as a dead bolt, but in a panic . . . And a dead bolt also kept help from getting in. . . .
What was I thinking? I had my own personal perfect alarm system. I relocked the front door and ran back up to the study to tell Geneva plans had changed. I relocated her and the laptop to the kitchen table, setting the computer so she was facing the door, and asked her to please let me know if anyone came in.
“Interrupt my viewing pleasure?”
“It’s a loop, Geneva. You’ve probably seen it five times already. Just please let me know if someone comes in, okay? You don’t even need to move. You can shout. No one else will hear. Just until Debbie gets here. There won’t be that many customers this early, anyway.”
“What would you like me to shout?”
“How about ‘man’ if it’s a man and ‘woman’ if it’s a woman?”
“Uninspired. I’ll see if I can do better.”
“Have you recognized anyone in the slide show yet?”
“No, but I’m fascinated by the shoes number seventeen is wearing. They look lethal.”
I hadn’t noticed and was tempted to fast-forward to see what she was talking about, but someone knocked on the still-locked back door.
“Incoming!” Geneva shouted in my ear.
“Thank you.”
“I thought you’d like that.”
Sally Ann peered anxiously through the window in the door, and I went to open it for her.
“Are you all right?” she asked before the door was fully open. “The front door’s still locked, so I came around here. You looked like your head was hurting. Do you talk to yourself like that a lot?”
“Yes to most of that. Come on in.”
I was glad to see she wasn’t wearing the flannel shirt from the evening at Mel’s. She was wearing another one and cargo pants in a slightly different shade of olive. She was very thin and her eyes certainly looked more haunted than mine did.
I left the back door unlocked and went through to open the front again. The hair on the back of my neck didn’t quite stand up, as Sally Ann followed me, but I hadn’t expected results from the various phone calls to arrive on my doorstep so soon.
“How’s the spinning coming?” I asked
“I dunno. I think wool makes me itch.”
“You can try cotton.”
“Maybe. I dunno. Anyway, Mel called. She said there’s something going on about Reva Louise’s phone? Why would you need to know what kind she had?”
Okay, I hadn’t thought that part of it through. Why would I need to know what kind she had? Why not the truth? “What I really want to know is who has her phone.”
“Oh. The police, don’t you think? Anyway, I don’t know what kind she had. Something fancier than me. So I called Dan. Dang, I didn’t know his shed burned yesterday. And you were in it?” She looked believably nonplussed, maybe even believably. “You are really something. I don’t know what, but something.”
From the kitchen Geneva shrieked, “There’s a man in here!”
Brother. “Hello!” I called, surprising Sally Ann. “Sorry. I have ears in the back of my head. Someone just came in the kitchen door.”
We both listened. Didn’t hear anything. Then Geneva uttered an indignant “Hey!”
“Excuse me, Sally Ann. I’d better go see.” I smiled, did a Joe Dunbar amble to the hall doorway, then sprinted to the kitchen.
Dan Snapp was there, watching the slide show in Geneva’s place. Geneva had moved over to the counter and sat in a huff like one of Thea’s two-year-olds whose toy had been taken away. Ardis would be both pleased and alarmed with the web we’d spun. We’d lured two of our invitees, the problem being that I was the only itsy-bitsy spider currently at home. Now what? Keep calm and carry on? I couldn’t think of anything better.
“Oh, hey,” Dan said, looking up. There was a glint of moisture at the corner of his eye. He needed a shave. Probably some sleep. “I hope you don’t mind. The saddest day of my life, but they’re real nice pictures. You’re Kathy, right?”
“Kath.”
“I came to say that I’m very sorry for the trouble my shed caused you yesterday.”
“I’m sorry it burned.”
“The least of my worries, although I do have to wonder what you two were doing in there.”
Not And I have to wonder who trapped you in there and set the place on fire? My phone rang before I could decide whether to ask him that. It was Thea.
“Excuse me, Dan. I’ll be right with you.” I pulled the phone from my pocket and walked over to the sink. “Hey, Thea.”
“Are you ready for the hokey-pokey?” she asked. “Interesting item in a back issue of the Bugle—way, way-back issue—it might shed light on your Mattie and Sam.”
“Holy cow. Holy cow.” I was repeating myself. How appropriate for a double murder. I looked sideways at Geneva and was careful not to use names. “You found an
article?”
“Nope.”
“Thea!” I took a breath and spoke more softly, but still urgently into the phone. “Explain. Please.”
“Not an article, exactly. Back then, people used the personals the way we do Twitter or Facebook. I found one asking Mattie Severs to, quote, ‘Please forgive and contact the ones who will always love you.’ A week later, there was another, asking anyone having seen Mattie Severs or knowing of her whereabouts to contact a PO box.”
I heard the back door open and looked over my shoulder. Debbie coming in early, thank goodness. She swished in, wearing one of her long skirts and embroidered tops, her hair in a braid down her back. She waved. I waved back. She was humming happily, smiled at Dan, and went on through to the front room. I heard her say hi to Sally Ann.
“Kath?” Thea chattered on in my ear. “It sounds more like runaways, to me, or an elopement. I don’t know where you got the romantic notion of a double murder. Anyway, it might be your Mattie and Sam. Or maybe Mattie was a common name back then. Oh, and the cow parsnip you asked me to look up? Here’s a tip, courtesy of your local library and horticultural early-warning system. Do not go wading through cow parsnip. It’s as bad as poison ivy once you get it on you and expose it to sunlight. You’ll be itchin’ and bitc— Oh, sorry. Patron calling. Gotta go.”
Itching? I knew two people who were itching. I disconnected and turned around. The kitchen was empty and I heard raised voices out front. Dan Snapp’s and Debbie’s. And Sally Ann—the itchy woman.
Chapter 31
Should I call 911? And tell them what? There’s a woman in the yarn shop who is either a killer or allergic to wool?
I ran down the hall, phone at the ready, careened around the corner, and stopped myself with a hand on the doorjamb. Dan was sitting in one of our overstuffed comfy chairs, head back. Sally Ann had grabbed a pair of shears from the counter and was standing behind him, holding the point of the shears to his throat. She’d jammed his mouth with a wad of wool roving.
I pressed 911 and slipped the phone onto the counter, hoping the operator would hear whatever happened next.
