by Molly Macrae
“Then I’ve had a nice walk on this beautiful afternoon and I’ve saved you a call. What’s your pleasure, Ardis? Official business of the peace officer type or official business of the knit and crochet type?”
The pleasure and interest Darla took in her job and the people around her had a reflective quality to it. What radiated from her smile and the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes was returned in kind. She wasn’t a member of TGIF—she said her work schedule was all over the place and she didn’t like to join an organization and then never show up—but she was a passionate knitter of long, bulky scarves. Ardis told me that as far as she knew, no one ever saw the scarves again after they were wrapped and presented to their new owners. I liked Darla even more for that. We’d had a hard time making ourselves keep the yarn bombing a secret from her, but we thought it best, considering the organization she owed her paycheck and bulky yarn money to.
Darla dropped herself into one of the comfy chairs, making it look as though she’d come home and was happy to be there. The only thing out of place about her was the lack of needles and yarn in her hands. That and the holster and gun on her hip. Her khaki and tan uniform and regulation footwear weren’t typical knitting circle couture, but they didn’t call any more attention to themselves than Mel’s chef pants and aprons. Or Thea’s holy terror heels. Darla was single, mid-thirties, had a teenage son more interested in NASCAR than needlework and, if rumors could be trusted, a crush on Clod Dunbar. She nestled her shoulders into the chair, planted her elbows on the arms, and clasped her hands across her midriff. Argyle invited himself onto her lap and she helped him settle with a few strokes down the back of his neck.
“What can I do for you, Ardis?”
“It concerns Hugh McPhee’s murder, and a piece of paper, one with my name on it, that someone in your department found with his body.”
“In his spittoon?”
All eyebrows rose, even Darla’s.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. That just slipped out. It was an insensitive and uncalled-for joke at the deceased’s expense and the expense of anyone who knew and loved him. I don’t find it funny myself, but the boys in the department, well . . .” She chuckled softly. “They will be horses’ patooties, God love ’em.” She marveled at her fellow deputies’ patootiness for several more seconds, then burst into another smile. “But, Ardis, this works out perfectly. I saw Debbie downstairs and she said you might still be in a meeting, and did I want to wait? She offered to show me some of your new Incredible Bulk yarn, but I said no, I’d just come on up. And the reason I did is that piece of paper.”
“Wonderful!” Ernestine said, caught up in the sunny bubble surrounding Darla. “And you certainly don’t mind if the rest of us—”
“Take off?” Darla said. “Not at all.”
“Sorry?” Ernestine said.
“I’m sorry you have to go, too,” Darla said. “We don’t see enough of each other these days, do we? John, Thea, Mel, Kath.” She nodded to each one of us. “I’ll see you another time.”
Between us we gathered project bags, notebooks, and Mel’s coffee carafe, and trooped out of the room—Ernestine looking confused by our eviction. At the door, I looked back to catch Ardis’ eye. I caught Darla’s, too. As soon as we’d left, she and Argyle had moved over to the chair next to Ardis’.
“Debbie and I’ll lock up, Ardis. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye, now,” Darla said with a wave.
“She’s a trip,” Mel said on the way down the stairs. “And if the rumors are true, and Cole is of the opinion that she makes khaki and tan look cute, then he’d better watch his step. He’s dallying with someone smarter than he is and, I bet, someone who knows what she wants and knows how to wrap it up, tie it with a bow, and send it to herself.”
“It might be the best thing that ever happened to him,” John said.
* * *
I looked for Geneva before I left the shop for the day, but didn’t see her. She often made herself scarce at closing time, though. She’d told me she didn’t like good-byes because she’d had too many permanent ones. I’d invited her home with me, any number of times, but she’d never taken me up on it. I was just as glad of that, since Joe and I were seeing more of each other, both figuratively and literally. Having a doleful, gray, canoodling-averse ghost hanging around could only put a damper on a budding relationship. Even if—or maybe especially if—only one of the pair knew of the ghost’s existence.
My phone buzzed on the walk home. I expected it to be Ardis with an update. Instead it was Joe breaking our dinner date. The floor plan used to assign spaces for booths at Handmade Blue Plum—agreed upon by the craftspeople as they registered for the weekend—was being called unfair by half a dozen newcomers. Joe had spent the day making calls, making assurances, making changes, and making no headway on putting together his own booth. Considering he was usually more of a booth-half-built person than a booth-half-in-a-shambles guy, he sounded pretty down. To take his mind off his own worries, I told him mine about Darla questioning Ardis.
“You didn’t find a way to eavesdrop?” he asked.
“Nope. Not even tempted.”
“And you didn’t need to be. Ardis will fill you in.”
“True enough. I’m willing to bet I couldn’t have done it and gotten away with it anyway. Not without Darla finding out. She doesn’t miss much. Hey, you know what might be fun? We should double-date with Darla and Cole.”
Joe must have taken a drink as I said that. I hoped his phone was spatterproof.
“They’re dating?”
“You didn’t know that? Actually I don’t know for sure, but Mel and I have each heard it and John thinks it’ll be good for Cole. If it’s true.”
Joe was quiet and I could picture him thinking over that new information, a finger of his left hand stroking the beard on his lean face. “Do you really want to?”
“Double date? No. Well, maybe, but only if Darla drops Cole off at the Burger Barn and meets us at Mel’s on her own. How much more do you have to do tonight?”
Joe was quiet and I could picture him gesturing with a finger at the Handmade Blue Plum floor plan. “You’d better go ahead and eat without me.”
Being civic-minded, I didn’t say anything; I was passing a young couple pushing a stroller, and no G-rated thoughts were rolling around on my tongue.
“You still there?” Joe asked.
“Yeah.”
“What I just said?”
“Yeah?”
“It was said pathetically.”
“If I bring something by in half an hour or so, will you be able to take a break and eat?”
“Can you bring it by the school? To the gym? If I’m going bombing with you tomorrow night, and spending all day tomorrow holding hands with a hundred craftspeople putting up their own booths, I’d better get mine set up tonight.”
We closed out the conversation, him sounding less pathetic, me beginning to worry about Ardis. How long could it take Darla to describe the paper for Ardis and then ask a few perfunctory questions? Ah, but maybe silver-tongued Ardis had charmed enthusiastic Darla and they were having one of Ardis’ patented chin-wags. And even now, while I needlessly worried about Ardis being cautioned that what she blabbed might be used against her—even now, Darla might be passing along information vital to the case. Information that, although it was being withheld from the general public, was willingly being entrusted to a strategic, completely trustworthy few. At least, I hoped my worries were needless.
I tried calling her, but got her voice mail. “Call me,” I said, and went back to worrying. Maybe she was down at the sheriff’s office helping with their inquiries, leaving her ancient daddy to get his own beer and change channels for himself.
The call from Joe and my return to worrying about Ardis took most of the walk home to the yellow frame house on Lavend
er Street. I’d inherited the house from Granny along with the Weaver’s Cat. I loved walking home to that house where I’d spent happy summers with Granny. I was an incredibly lucky person to have the house and the shop, and to have people I cared about in my life. I knew that. I did. But I repeated it to myself as an antidote to the slow seep of uneasiness that made my feet pick up their pace.
I exchanged a hurried “nice night” with the woman two doors down from me who spent as much time in her garden as her garden gnome did.
The days were growing shorter, but it wasn’t dark yet. More like twilight, or gloaming. “Glooming,” Geneva would probably say. She didn’t like going out at night. She said she was afraid of the dark. I wasn’t usually afraid of the dark, but my uneasiness had me feeling jumpy—and remembering a few surprises I’d found waiting for me on my front porch. Surprises in the form of Clod Dunbar or Shirley and Mercy Spivey. But despite the gloomy gloaming, I didn’t see anyone sitting on the porch swing or standing in the shadows and trying to blend in like twin chameleons.
The lid to the mailbox screeched hello when I lifted it, and I marveled over a day without junk mail. I let myself in, shed purse and shoes, and pulled the drapes at the front window. If I changed without dawdling and hopped into the car, then I could swing by Mel’s, grab something tasty, and still be at the school within the half hour I’d promised. If I called Mel’s and asked for a to-go order, even better.
A pair of jeans and a long-sleeved tee later, my taste buds were yammering for some of Mel’s new lentil salad and a side of flatbread. While I called the café, I went through to the kitchen. Mel’s was hopping. I said I’d hold and congratulated myself for calling ahead. While I waited, I took a pitcher of tea from the fridge and poured a glass. Sweet tea made with honey and mint from Granny’s—my—herb garden in back. I looked out the window over the sink toward the garden. There was less light in the twilight now and not many features visible in the yard.
Except . . . a strange car backed up near the garage so that it was facing the house, but in such a way that it couldn’t be seen from the street.
And there I was, standing in the kitchen window, lit up as though onstage. If I’d been smart, I would have doused the lights or moved away from the window. But I was too busy squinting at the car. I could only make out a silhouette, but it looked as though someone was sitting in the passenger seat. Did that mean someone else was prowling? In the yard? Around the house? In the house? But I hadn’t noticed anything missing or out of place. I hadn’t heard noises, stealthy or otherwise.
That was when the voice speaking into my ear scared the bejeebers out of me and I screamed.
And I lost the connection to Mel’s, because the guy taking phone orders had answered and then wisely hung up when I screamed into his ear. In my defense his “how can I help you?” had sounded exactly like “don’t move or I’ll slit your throat”—to my hyperventilating imagination. In addition to screaming, I’d whirled around, sloshing sweet tea in a wide arc as I went.
As someone who’d grown used to a ghost floating up behind her and saying “boo” (and as someone who should have remembered she had a phone pressed to her ear), I shouldn’t have been so startled. But there was still a strange car backed up to my garage.
And a face, framed by two hands, peering in the window over the sink.
Chapter 13
Someone else was rattling the knob on the back door.
I thought about mopping up the tea and ignoring them—the window peerer and the doorknob rattler. But the latter sounded frantic and the former looked—oops. She suddenly disappeared, dropping out of sight with a squawk, having fallen off whatever she’d been standing on. The knob rattler abandoned the back door—to check on the window peerer’s condition, no doubt. Against my better judgment, I turned on the light over the back door and went out to check, too.
“You okay?” I asked from the back steps. Checking was one thing; going closer and getting involved was another.
“Her foot went through the bottom of the flowerpot. She’ll need a bandage.”
I couldn’t tell, from where I stood on the steps, which Spivey twin was sitting on the ground wearing a flowerpot on her foot and which stood over her with her hands on her hips. Both looked annoyed.
“Why’d you scream bloody murder?” the one on the ground asked.
A question I didn’t want to answer. “Did you come in that?” I pointed to the car. It was a black two-door sedan, not their beige Buick.
“It’s Angie’s,” the standing twin said, referring to Mercy’s daughter. “Ours is in the shop. Mind if we come in?”
“I was on my way out.”
“Mercy’s ankle is bleeding pretty good.”
Mercy wasn’t applying pressure and didn’t seem overly concerned, but better safe than sued.
“Come on in.” I should have tried to sound less grudging and more gracious. It would have been wasted effort, though. Mercy swatted at Shirley when she helped take the flowerpot off her foot, and Shirley fussed at Mercy when she pulled herself to her feet by grabbing on to Shirley’s arm, nearly toppling her as she did. Mercy didn’t leave a trail of blood as she limped to the back steps.
“What’s Angie driving while you have her car?” I asked as we trooped inside. “Aaron’s pickup?”
“That old hunk of junk,” Mercy said, which didn’t tell me yes or no, but told me Angie and Aaron were still together. Mercy sat down at the kitchen table with a credible wince, then looked at the tea I hadn’t mopped up. “What kind of accident did you have?”
“Tea.” It was my turn to wince as Shirley walked through the puddle to sit opposite Mercy.
“Tea?” Shirley said. “Why, thank you. We’d be delighted.”
“Go ahead and pour it,” Mercy said, “and then you can bring that bandage. A dab of gauze should do it.”
“Then, after we’re all settled, we’ll tell you who we saw with Hugh McPhee yesterday afternoon.” Shirley’s statement was followed by a yip and a glare for Mercy, who must have used her good foot to kick Shirley’s shin.
“I’d like to hear about Hugh first,” I said. “Is that why you stopped by the shop today?”
They both glared at me.
Choose your battles, Granny used to tell me, and learn to know who’s vexatious enough to turn around and bite you in the bottom if you win.
With a deliberately slow blink, I disengaged from the twins’ stubborn challenge. Then I took a moment and looked around at Granny’s kitchen cupboards, her worn countertops, the floor I’d tracked mud on. She and I had made innumerable batches of cookies at that table. She’d taught me how to wash dishes in her chipped porcelain sink. Shirley and Mercy were about as vexatious as they came, but if sweet tea and gauze were all it took to get information about Hugh McPhee’s last afternoon in Blue Plum—and to keep their overly white teeth at bay—then I could play nice. The tea and gauze didn’t come with a smile, though.
While I looked for gauze and adhesive tape in the bathroom, I called Joe and told him I’d probably be another half hour. “Sorry about the delay. I’ll tell you about it when I get there.”
“I’m getting nowhere fast,” he said, sounding like a man who wanted to sigh but didn’t believe in it. “I’ll be here.”
I decided to get dessert from Mel’s, too. We both deserved it.
“Good tea,” Shirley said when I returned. “And if that’s what’s on the floor, you might want to wipe it up. Sweet as it is, it’ll be a terrible, sticky mess if you don’t.”
“It is good tea, though,” Mercy said. “And wouldn’t it go just right with a cookie or slice of cake?”
“Wouldn’t it? Sorry. I haven’t got any.” I handed her the gauze and tape. “Too bad. But I was I was on my way out for something when you dropped in.”
“Pun intended,” Shirley chortled. And got another kick from Mercy.
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I wet a paper towel and handed it to Mercy for her ankle, then wet a few more and wiped tea from the floor.
“Any antibacterial ointment?” Shirley asked.
“I thought I had some,” I said to the floor near her feet, “but I didn’t find it.”
“You didn’t get that spot over there.” Mercy pointed to the place. My trajectory had been far and wide. “Ointment is something you should always keep in your medicine cabinet,” she added.
“I’ll put it on my list.” Instead I pictured getting a pair of socks and putting one in each vexatious mouth. That cheered me and I finished the floor with another wet towel, and then joined them at the table. “More tea?” I topped their glasses. “How’s the ankle, Mercy?”
“Not as good as new, but it doesn’t throb nearly so much. Thank you for asking.” She’d put the rest of the gauze and tape in her pocketbook.
“So, tell me about Hugh McPhee.” I didn’t ask why they thought I’d be interested. I’d never told them about the posse and they’d never asked. It was one of those situations—they knew; I knew they knew; and they knew that no member was ever likely to ask them to be part of it. But in their own subtle and often irritating Spivey way, they had contributed to our investigations. And whether it was a way of saving face or not, they made it look as though they preferred their outsider status.
“We’d have told you this afternoon,” Mercy said, “but you were conspicuous by your alleged absence.”
“You didn’t leave a message.”
“Of course not,” Mercy said. “Too dangerous.”
“And you can’t let anyone know we told you what we’re about to tell you,” Shirley said.
“You’ll be painting bull’s-eyes on our backs if you do,” said Mercy. “That’s why we parked so no one could see us.”
“And why you were sneaking around, looking in my kitchen window?”
“We had to make sure you were alone.”
Their hushed voices and uneasy glances over their shoulders were infectious. I found myself leaning toward them and looking left and right. “Who did you see with him?” I asked quietly.
