“Kelly, I just wanted to tell you that I won’t be going up into the canyon today,” Debbie’s voice came through. “I’ve lain awake nearly the whole night. I couldn’t sleep, I was so angry. I’m going to the police today. Geri’s taking me.”
“The police?” Kelly replied, startled. “Why? What’s the matter?”
“I took out the will from the file cabinet again, and you know how upset it made me when I first read it.”
Kelly remembered all too well. Yesterday in Vickie’s office, Kelly had worried Debbie’s fury would trigger an asthma attack. “Yes, I remember.” She noticed Mimi’s wheel had stopped turning as she and Lisa listened intently.
“Well, I’m taking the will to the police detective today. I’m going to show it to this Lieutenant Peterson. It’s so clear, a blind man could see it! Bob Claymore gets half of all my mother’s property now that she’s dead. Not just the house and the bank accounts but half of the business she spent years building. But she was divorcing him! He shouldn’t get a thing. She was cutting him out!”
Kelly heard Debbie draw a ragged breath. “Debbie, are you all right? Please, don’t get so upset. You have to be care—”
Debbie cut her off. “Dammit, Kelly, I don’t care what happens to me. He’s got to pay for what he did to Mom. I know he killed her! And the will helps prove it. Listen, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later. Bye.”
Kelly bid her good-bye and flipped off her phone. Debbie’s anger was so raw it was hard to listen without some of it rubbing off. “That was Debbie. She’s taking the will to the police detective who interviewed us in the canyon to tell him her suspicions about Bob Claymore.”
“Mimi, what’s your feeling about Bob?” Lisa asked. “I worked with him on a community housing committee last year, and he seemed almost mousy to me.”
Mimi’s wheel picked up speed again. “Well, I don’t know if I’d call him ‘mousy.’ But I also can’t picture him hating Vickie enough to kill her.”
“Maybe it wasn’t hate, Mimi. Maybe it was simply greed. And maybe he’d fallen in love with that other woman,” Kelly suggested. She noticed Rosa was nodding in agreement as she straightened the bookshelves behind Mimi.
“You mean Eva Bartok?” Mimi shook her head. “Bob would be crazy to choose Eva over Vickie. Eva’s so . . . so . . .”
“Hateful,” Rosa supplied. She brought a pile of magazines to the table and started sorting. “Eva tried teaching a weaving class at the community center once, and I swear, half the students left after two lessons. I was one of them.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. I don’t think Eva was ever asked to teach anywhere more than once,” Mimi said with a rueful smile. “She’s such a gifted artist, a truly exceptional weaver, but she lacks, I don’t know, warmth, uh, people skills, whatever.”
“You’re being too nice, Mimi,” Rosa said with uncharacteristic vehemence. “Eva was just plain mean. She was always making cutting remarks to students in her classes. I know some people who stopped weaving altogether because she’d said something cruel.”
“Ooooh, really ugly. And sad,” Lisa decreed.
“And she’s also got a nasty temper, too. I heard she deliberately kept a weaver out of a competition because she was mad at her. Probably jealous. She was always bragging about her awards.” Rosa’s face betrayed signs of past slights.
“Bad karma,” Lisa said sagely.
Rosa looked up from the magazines, and Kelly could tell she was debating whether to say something else. “You know, I accidentally walked in on Eva and Vickie having a big argument at the weaving conference last month. They were in the ladies room, and ohhhh, boy, they sounded about ready to claw each other’s eyes out.”
“The Denver conference?” Mimi asked. “You’re right, Rosa, I remember seeing both of them.”
“Oh, they were there all right,” Rosa nodded vigorously, her brown eyes wide with remembering. “They tried to shut up when I came into the restroom, but not before Vickie called Eva a . . . well, it was pretty ugly.”
“I shudder to think what Eva said in reply,” Mimi commented.
Rosa glanced toward the windows. “Actually, Eva didn’t say anything. Vickie slammed out the door before she could. I just remember the expression on Eva’s face.” Rosa closed her eyes and shivered. “It was ugly. Really, really ugly. Worse than any name.”
Kelly could almost feel the animosity coming off that scene Rosa described. She didn’t know Eva Bartok, but she noticed the strong feelings she aroused in people who had crossed her path. Eva sounded like a woman who did not like being crossed. Did she harbor a grudge against Vickie? Had that grudge festered and brought forth enough hate to cause her to kill?
“How did Vickie and Eva get along before Bob’s affair?” Kelly probed. “They were both weavers, so they must have interacted. Fort Connor isn’t that big a place. Did they get along?”
Mimi seemed to ponder while her wheel spun. “Now that you mention it, I always got the feeling they didn’t really care for each other. There was never anything said or anything overt, just something I felt.” She gave a little shrug. “Whenever I was in the same room with them, it was like, well, like you could almost see the fur rise on their necks.”
“Meow,” Lisa said with a grin.
Kelly joined the soft laughter. “Well, that’s interesting. Maybe Eva harbored animosity toward Vickie that spilled over after that confrontation in Denver.”
“Look out, she’s sleuthing again,” Lisa teased.
“Ohhhh, Kelly, please, no,” Mimi said. “I can’t stand to think about it.”
Kelly shifted her needle to start the next row of stitches. This scarf was easy. Just the knit stitch, exactly like her chunky wool scarf. She smoothed out the three inches she’d completed.
What the—? she thought, noticing the bulging curve along one side of the scarf. The bottom two inches of the scarf were nice and even, approximately three inches wide. But that was followed by another two inches of scarf that grew wider and wider with each additional row.
How’d that happen, she wondered? She counted the stitches in the even bottom rows. Ten stitches across. Then she counted the stitches in the row she’d just completed—while she was conjuring images of Eva Bartok as villain. Eighteen stitches.
“Eighteen?” Kelly complained out loud. “How’d I get eighteen? I cast on ten. What happened?”
Lisa glanced over and smiled. “Uh-oh. That can happen with those eyelash yarns.”
“Please, not another ‘uh-oh.’” Kelly slapped her hand to her forehead. “Why me? I’m doomed. Every time—”
“Angst alert. Dive, dive,” Jennifer said as she dropped her knitting bag on the table.
“It’s not funny. I’ve done it again. I’ve screwed something up. I tell you, I’m cursed,” Kelly moaned.
“Quick, administer caffeine,” Jennifer ordered. “Where’s her mug?” Spying Kelly’s mug, she shoved it near Kelly’s nose. “Don’t talk, just breathe deeply and take a drink. Better yet, drink deeply, then breathe.”
Kelly deliberately suppressed the laughter inside, even though it bubbled around the table. “Coffee won’t cure it,” she said, but took a long, deep drink anyway. Then another. It might not cure it, but the caffeine rush sure helped.
“Cure what?” Mimi asked.
“Knitting incompetence,” Kelly replied, sulking now. “Oh, it’s so easy!” she mimicked, then gave a Bronx cheer. “Riiiight.”
“Here, let me help you.” Jennifer reached out for the misshapen scarf. “We can unravel these last few rows and get you back to where you went astray.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“She’s going down.”
Kelly scowled at Lisa, who just laughed. “I know you get tired of hearing this, Kelly, but that happens to everyone. Those yarns are slippery little things.”
“Then why do you all say ‘it’s so easy’?” Kelly demanded, pique at fever pitch. “It’s . . . it’s unfair advertising.”
&
nbsp; Everyone laughed at that. “Oh, Kelly, you are a delight,” Mimi declared.
“Here we go,” Jennifer said, showing her the much-shorter scarf again. “I unraveled the uneven rows, then threaded the needle through the loops, and you’re ready to go.” She handed it over. “My advice, count after every row to make sure you’ve still got ten. If eleven appear, then just knit two together to get back on track. Much easier to catch mistakes early.”
“Thanks,” Kelly grumbled, looking at the rows. “Okay, count after every row. Count after every row.”
“And let’s not discuss murder suspects anymore, okay? I’m sure that’s where she got off,” Mimi suggested.
At the sound of the doorbell jangling, Rosa looked up, and her expression changed. Kelly wasn’t sure, but Rosa’s face paled. “Mimi, uh, we have a visitor,” Rosa said, pointing behind them.
Kelly turned to see a uniformed police officer approach from the front room—a county policeman, she noticed, when he drew close enough to see his shoulder patch.
“Excuse me, ladies,” the officer began. “Is Mimi Shafer here? The shop owner?”
Now it was Mimi’s turn to go pale, Kelly observed. “Y-yes, officer. I’m Mimi Shafer. What can I do for you?” She started to push away from the silent wheel.
“No need to get up, ma’am,” he said and hastily approached. “I’m simply here to ask you if you could identify an item our investigators found at Vickie Claymore’s home. We were informed you and the victim were close friends, correct?”
“Yes, sir, we were,” Mimi said in a small voice.
The officer, who appeared to Kelly to be in his mid-thirties, withdrew a small plastic bag from his pocket. He held it out to Mimi. “We found this bracelet in the room where Ms. Claymore was murdered. We don’t know if it belonged to her or to someone else. We’ve already asked Ms. Swinson if she recognized it, and she did not. We’re hoping you might help us out.”
Mimi took the package and scrutinized it. Kelly watched her expression carefully and saw the light of recognition go on in her eyes. “Yes, officer, I do recognize the bracelet.”
The officer appeared relieved and withdrew a small notepad from his shirt pocket. “Excellent, Ms. Shafer. So you recognize it as belonging to Ms. Claymore?”
Mimi took a deep breath. “No, officer. It belongs to someone else. It’s Eva Bartok’s diamond tennis bracelet. I can tell because she had this little silver lamb especially made for it.” Mimi fingered the tiny charm dangling at the end of the bracelet. “She wore it regularly. Eva claimed it was her good-luck charm.”
Ten
Kelly ran up the steps to the century-old white frame church on a shady Old Town corner. She’d tried to keep track of the time but had gotten lost in a client’s morass of numbers. The next time she glanced at her watch, another hour had magically evaporated. Suddenly, it was twenty minutes before Vickie Claymore’s funeral, and Kelly hadn’t changed clothes. She was still in shorts and a T-shirt.
Racing through her bedroom, she’d grabbed a sleeveless black dress, wiggled into it, and snagged some dressier shoes. Balancing on one foot, she struggled to finish dressing and caught site of Carl-in-Chains in the backyard.
Kelly had felt so guilty, leading Carl outside to race around, only to snap a fifty-foot chain to his collar. She’d bought a metal stake for the yard as well. Carl was pretty strong, and when he got excited, could exert a lot of rottie pulling power. A nearby water pipe looked too flimsy to Kelly. Besides, she didn’t want to return to a flooded yard if the squirrels started tormenting Carl.
Pushing open the church’s front door, Kelly stepped inside. Immediately, the hot, dry air of the old building enveloped her. Oh, boy. No air-conditioning, and it was ninety-five degrees already. Noticing the wooden pews were nearly full, Kelly searched for the familiar faces of her friends. She spied them near the front in a pew that looked tightly packed.
Kelly glanced about for a place to sit and heard a familiar soft voice speak up beside her. “Kelly, you can sit here. There’s enough room.” Kelly turned to see Rosa scoot over on the pew, leaving space.
“Thank you so much, Rosa,” Kelly whispered as she gratefully settled into the spot. “I was working on the computer and lost track of time. Story of my life.”
Rosa smiled. “Don’t worry. I was late, too. I offered to stay at the shop until one of our student helpers could come.”
Looking around at the full church, Kelly said, “This is quite a turnout and a tribute to Vickie that so many people have come.”
“Yes, it is. Vickie was a good person, and she touched a lot of lives.”
Kelly detected a slight rise in the subdued murmur of voices and noticed a slender and very stylish blonde about Vickie’s age walk down the aisle.
“That’s Eva Bartok,” Rosa leaned over and whispered as the woman found a seat midfront.
Kelly had only caught a fleeting glimpse of her features, but she appeared very attractive. “Vickie’s age?” she asked.
Rosa gestured. “Give or take a few years, I think.”
Peering toward the front pews, Kelly scanned the heads. “Which one is Bob Claymore? I’ve never met him.”
Rosa craned her neck, staring toward the front. “He’s in the first pew, left-hand side. Starting to go bald on top.”
Kelly spotted him. She also noticed there was no one else sitting beside him on that pew. Bob Claymore sat totally alone. Across the aisle on the other front pew, Debbie Hurst was surrounded by Geri on one side and Mimi on the other. Jayleen Swinson sat at the far end of the row, her curly blond hair held back with a black ribbon.
“You know, I don’t know anything about him, but I almost feel sorry for Bob Claymore,” Kelly whispered as a black-robed minister approached the lectern. “No one will go near him.”
Rosa nodded in agreement, and Kelly let her gaze finally settle on the long casket at the front of the church. She’d deliberately not focused on it before now. The sight of a casket made her uncomfortable, reminding her of all the loss in her life. Her father, Uncle Jim, Aunt Helen, Cousin Martha.
The minister’s voice rose with practiced ease, his words floating out into the sultry summer air. Kelly prepared to zone out for the rest of the service. She’d heard all those words before. There were no words written that could truly console those left behind when cherished loved ones were stolen away.
“My gosh, I thought I was going to melt in there,” Rosa exclaimed as she and Kelly finally broke free of the stifling church. “Fresh air, at last.” She fanned herself.
Kelly shaded her eyes. The air might be fresh outside, but it was still hot, even in the shade. Softball practice would be brutal tonight. The sun would still be blazing at seven o’clock. She glanced around for Lisa or Megan but didn’t see them. What she did see was Bob Claymore approaching Debbie Hurst, who was standing beside a black limousine and still flanked by Mimi and Geri.
“Look at that,” she discreetly motioned to Rosa. “I wonder what Debbie will say.”
Rosa shook her head, her long black braid slipping behind her back. “I don’t want to know. She might take his head off.”
Kelly watched Debbie’s expression freeze despite the July heat. She drew closer to Geri, while Mimi looked dreadfully uncomfortable. Bob Claymore gestured as he spoke and appeared agitated. Then, a mask of disgust claimed Debbie’s features, and she turned without a word and entered the limo, slamming the door behind her. Geri scurried around to the other side while Mimi took a moment to say a few words to Bob. His dejection obvious, he stared at the ground until the limousine drove away.
Kelly pulled her car to a stop in front of the cottage and jumped out, slamming the door. She had to get out of this dress before she died. After hours of a stifling, hot church service and a graveside burial in the blazing noontime sun, Kelly swore the fabric had been heat-sealed to her body. Racing inside her house, she peeled off her clothes and jumped into the shower. Afterward, she returned to her summer attire of choice—sh
orts and a T-shirt.
Grabbing a cold soda from the fridge, Kelly checked on Carl through the window. He was lying in the sun in the exact same position he’d been before she left. Kelly took a long drink, letting the cold soda chill her inside. She peered at Carl again. Was he all right? Had he been sleeping all that time in the hot sun? Why didn’t he go under the tree in the shade?
Suddenly, the vision of Carl running to chase a squirrel and snapping his neck in the process appeared before her eyes. Horrified at the possibility, Kelly flung back the patio glass door and ran outside. “Carl!” she yelled. “Are you all right?”
Carl raised his head just enough to look over his shoulder at her, then flopped back down.
“Ohmygosh,” Kelly cried, convinced that Carl had injured himself while she was gone. He’d been lying in pain for all these hours, baking, roasting in the hot summer sun, waiting for his neglectful owner to return and take him to the vet. Kelly sank to her knees next to her dog and ran her hands over his back and legs. “Carl, are you all right? What’s the matter? Did you hurt yourself?”
Staring balefully at her, Carl lifted his head enough to lick her hand, then let it flop back to the ground. Tears sprang to Kelly’s eyes. “Oh no! You really did hurt yourself. We’ve got to get you to the vet.”
At that, Carl lifted his head again. But this time he appeared to be tracking a squirrel’s mad dash along the fence superhighway. The squirrel paused long enough to fuss at Carl in that chattering squirrely squeak. Clearly annoyed at the exchange, Carl suddenly scrambled to his feet and began to bark. Then, he took off for the fence, only to be yanked back rudely at the end of the chain. That did not stop the barking, however.
Kelly pulled herself from the ground. That old faker, she thought, smiling at her dog. He was trying to make her feel guilty. Watching Carl desperately try to reach the squirrel, barking ferociously, Kelly did feel guilty. The squirrel seemed to pause at intervals, as if he were teasing Carl to come and get him, knowing full well Carl could not. Finally, the squirrel leaped to a nearby cottonwood, gave Carl a rodent version of a Bronx cheer, then scampered into the leafy branches above.
Needled to Death Page 10
