by Laura Childs
“We’re ships passing in the night.”
Suzanne dropped her voice into a conspiratorial tone. “So . . . what did you find out about the autopsy? Or did you find out anything?” She was dying for any drip or drop of news.
“Actually,” Sam said, “the autopsy report came across my desk this morning. I guess our good sheriff decided to share.”
“Does he usually do that? Include your name on the routing slip?”
“Hardly ever. Maybe he figured this was a sneaky way to pass the information on to you.”
“Then maybe you should enlighten me,” Suzanne said.
“You’re sure you want to know about this one? It’s fairly gruesome.”
Suzanne sighed. “Lay it on me.”
“Okay, let me see,” Sam said. “Visiting ME is Dr. Ethan Pope, autopsy of a sixty-one-year-old . . .”
“Just cut to the chase,” Suzanne said.
“My, we are eager. Okay. Multiple stab wounds, left side, right side, and the throat. Cuts two to three and one-half inches in length, diagonally oriented. Fresh hemorrhages and bruising along wound paths, estimated depth of penetration two to three inches, perforation to the lungs and abdominal walls . . .”
“So death wasn’t exactly instantaneous,” Suzanne said. “Mike suffered.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Suzanne was silent for a few moments and then she said, “When am I going to see you, Sam? I think I need a hug.”
“Tomorrow night for sure. I’ll circle it in red on my calendar. Or, perhaps even more appropriately, punch it into the calendar on my phone.”
“There’s a problem,” Suzanne said. “Tomorrow’s Friday, one of our busiest days. And we’re also having our big pizza party in the evening.”
“No problem. I’ll come by your party, if that’s what it takes. Just look for the cute guy hiding behind a big slice of pepperoni.”
Suzanne sank against the wall. “That seems like light-years away. I’m missing you right now.”
“I’ve got an idea—let’s plan a doubleheader. I’ll see you at your pizza party tomorrow night and I’ll take you out for a fancy dinner on Saturday night.”
“Oh, Sam, I would love that.”
“And I love you, my dear.”
CHAPTER 11
“I’M about ready to burst with excitement,” Petra said. She was ladling tomato bisque into bowls and Suzanne and Kit were standing by, ready to add crackers and a dollop of sour cream and then hustle the entrées out to waiting customers. “Have a lot of knitters shown up for lunch?”
“The café is packed,” Kit told her.
“And people are waiting in line for tables,” Suzanne said. “You did a fantastic job of marketing.”
“All I really did was tell Paula Patterson about the Yarn Truck,” Petra said. “And then she started talking it up like crazy on her Friends and Neighbors radio show.”
“And you did posters,” Suzanne said. Petra had created a collage of colorful yarns, photographed everything, added some typography, and printed posters. Those posters had made their way onto the walls of every bakery, craft shop, sewing store, boutique, gift shop, and coffee shop in a thirty-mile radius. Hence, the huge crowd that was already starting to gather in anticipation of the Yarn Truck and their Knitter’s Tea.
“I don’t know if you noticed,” Petra said, “but I stayed late last night to primp the Knitting Nest. I wanted to make sure we were stocked to the rafters with yarn and quilt squares and make sure our craft supplies were displayed to perfection.”
“I noticed how great it looked,” Suzanne said. “And so have our customers. They’ve already started shopping—grabbing wicker baskets and piling them full of yarn and knitting needles.” She turned to Kit. “After you deliver these luncheon orders, maybe you could hang out in the Knitting Nest for a while. Help customers, ring up orders, that sort of thing.”
“I’d like that,” Kit said. “It sounds like fun.”
“Oh, Suzanne,” Petra said. “If you want to display a few knitting and craft books in the Book Nook . . .”
“Already did that.”
“You’re a step ahead of me then,” Petra said.
“Somehow,” Suzanne said, “it doesn’t feel that way.”
* * *
“THESE ladies may look like knitters,” Toni said to Suzanne, “but they chow down like truck drivers.” Toni and Suzanne were standing behind the counter. Toni was brewing two more pots of coffee, slicing a second pan of apple crumb bars, and putting cupcakes on dessert plates. Suzanne was readying three take-out orders.
“Who knew these ladies would show up in droves?” Suzanne said. “And I’m afraid we still have two larger parties waiting for a table.” She was relieved that Byron Wolf had finally taken off around eleven.
“Ooh.” Toni frowned as a cupcake flew out of her hand and tumbled to the floor. “I’m all fumble fingered. And I keep forgetting to put doilies on the dessert plates.”
“Forget the doilies, just try to keep up,” Suzanne said as she scooped chicken salad onto six pieces of whole wheat bread.
“Who’s the take-out order for?”
“Deputy Driscoll called earlier,” Suzanne said. “Said he needed three lunches to go, but didn’t specify what he wanted. He was in a big rush.”
“Maybe Doogie and his boys are making some progress,” Toni said. “Maybe they’re hot and heavy on the trail of Mike Mullen’s killer.”
“We can only hope.” Suzanne glanced over her shoulder, said, “Oops, there’s one table I can clear,” and ran to do exactly that.
When Suzanne had the table for four all wiped down and set up with place mats, silverware, and coffee cups, she hurriedly seated Laura Benchley and the rest of her party. Laura was the editor of the Bugle, Kindred’s weekly newspaper, and always seemed to have her finger on the pulse of things.
“We’ve got you hopping today,” Laura said as Suzanne filled their water glasses.
“You do and I love it,” Suzanne said.
“We can’t wait for the Yarn Truck to arrive,” one of the ladies said.
“Neither can I,” Suzanne said.
* * *
FIVE minutes later, Deputy Driscoll came in. He banged open the door and strode halfway across the café before he glanced around. When he saw that the café was occupied entirely by women, he stopped in his tracks and gaped. Then his face turned pimiento red and he hustled over to the counter.
“What’s going on here?” Driscoll asked Suzanne. “Some kind of hen party?” He looked and sounded like he was out of his element. Way out, like on Mars.
Suzanne didn’t know Driscoll’s marital status, but based on his reaction, decided the man must still be single. “We’ve got the Yarn Truck rolling in here any minute,” she told him.
“Yarn Truck?” Driscoll seemed flummoxed by the concept.
“It’s an old bread truck that’s been turned into a kind of mobile yarn store,” Suzanne explained. “Yarn in a truck. A Yarn Truck.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Um, because two enterprising women thought they could make money by selling hand-crafted yarns and driving their Yarn Truck around to fairs, craft shows, and other venues.”
“And do they?” Driscoll asked. “Make money, I mean?”
“I’m fairly certain they do.”
“Ain’t that something.”
“Isn’t it?” Suzanne said. “I know you’re in a hurry, so I have your three lunches all packed up and ready to go.”
Driscoll finally showed some real interest. “What’d you come up with?”
“Chicken salad sandwiches, kettle chips, and chocolate cupcakes. All stuff that travels well.”
“Sounds real good.”
“You want me to put this on your tab?” What she really meant was the Law Enfor
cement Center’s tab, since Doogie never paid for anything personally.
“That’d be great, Suzanne. Thanks.”
“I take it Sheriff Doogie has all of you hopping like crazy?”
“He sure has. He’s even deputized a couple of reserve guys.”
“Wow. So the investigation is moving right along?”
Driscoll’s hat dipped forward as he bobbed his head. “We’re doing our best.”
“You’re looking at a number of suspects? Interviewing them?”
“Quite a few.”
“Do you know,” Suzanne asked, “if Doogie intends to question Byron Wolf?”
“That real estate developer? The one who’s trying to buy the Mullen farm?”
“That’s the guy.” And that’s the tip I gave him, she thought.
“Um . . . yes he is,” Driscoll said. “Wolf and a couple of other people.”
“Like who?” Suzanne knew she was pushing him and didn’t care.
“I really shouldn’t say,” Driscoll mumbled.
“I understand completely. On the other hand, I’m already involved in the investigation. Don’t forget, I’m the one who found Mike in his barn.”
Driscoll made a face. “I know. And it was awful.”
“It was. So I’m just wondering . . .” Suzanne let her sentence trail off.
Driscoll took a step closer and placed his hands flat on the counter. “Well, I know for a fact that Sheriff Doogie is investigating Claudia.”
“Isn’t that fairly pro forma?” Suzanne asked. “In the case of a murder, doesn’t the spouse always get investigated?”
“Pretty much.”
“And you’re also looking at . . . ?” Suzanne gave an encouraging smile.
“That neighbor kid. Noah Jorgenson.”
“I thought Doogie already talked to Noah and pretty much dismissed him,” Suzanne said.
Driscoll gave a quick glance over his shoulder and dropped his voice. “Now the sheriff’s circling back around,” he said. “I don’t know if he’s got new information or if he just wants to be real thorough.”
Suzanne handed over the bag of take-out orders. “Interesting.”
* * *
TONI burst into the kitchen, a silly grin on her face, her fluff of fake hair bouncing like mad. “It’s here! The Yarn Truck is here! They just pulled into the front parking lot and tooted their horn.”
Petra threw down her ladle, ripped off her apron, and flew through the swinging door. “Hot dog!” she cried, leaving Suzanne and Toni in her wake.
Toni blinked. “I guess Petra wants to be their first customer.”
But Petra wasn’t the only one who was all fired up. With the appearance of the Yarn Truck, the café pretty much emptied out in one fell swoop. Their customers tossed their napkins down, jumped up from their seats, and rushed out the door. It seemed that everyone was delirious to have a look.
“This is actually kind of cool,” Toni said. She and Suzanne had followed the crowd outside—trailing the stampede, really—and were gazing with keen interest at the Yarn Truck. In an earlier incarnation, the truck had served as a delivery vehicle for Red Deer Bread. Now the little dancing fawn had been painted over with a coat of mauve paint. The words Yarn Truck bounced across its side panel in bright red letters accompanied by cartoon illustrations of skeins of yarn, knitting needles, and fluffy frolicking sheep.
The truck, which had just jockeyed into position, gave a jerk and a shudder, and then a loud belch issued from its tailpipe. A side door slid open and a set of wooden steps rolled out as the crowd moved closer. Then a frizzy-haired woman in a pink-and-saffron-colored knit poncho leaned out and grinned. “What are you ladies waiting for?” she called out.
That was the encouragement everyone needed. Suddenly, the rush was on. A line formed immediately as all the women began crowding into the truck. Even standing at the back of the pack, Suzanne could hear their chirps of excitement.
Suzanne saw the woman in the poncho looking around, so she hurried over to greet her. “You’re Lonnie?” she asked. Lonnie was in her early fifties with warm brown eyes, a gap-toothed grin, and multiple ear piercings.
Lonnie grinned. “That’s me.” She gestured over her shoulder. “Linda, my partner in crime and driver extraordinaire, is still in the truck.”
Suzanne quickly introduced herself and Toni and said, “We’re so thrilled you could make it.”
“Happy we could add you to our route,” Lonnie said.
“Do you actually have a regular route?” Toni asked.
“We hit as many of the art fairs as we can in July and August,” Lonnie said. “When autumn rolls around we start visiting different knitting and needlecraft shops, as well as a few places like yours.”
“And then what?” Toni asked.
“Then we go home and die,” Lonnie laughed. “No, seriously, then we put the truck in storage for the winter and work at selling our yarns online.”
“And that’s all you sell?” Toni asked. “Yarn?”
“Pretty much,” Lonnie said. “Why don’t you come in and have a look?”
“Absolutely,” Toni said.
Curious now, Suzanne and Toni crowded into the truck to see what the fuss was all about. And, just as advertised, the inside had been magically transformed into a lovely yarn store. Floor-to-ceiling wooden cubbyholes were stuffed with skeins of yarn. Balls of yarn were artfully mounded in large wicker baskets. Overhead, skeins of yarn shimmered in the light as they dangled from the ceiling like bunches of grapes at an outdoor restaurant.
“This is so neat,” Toni said as she looked around, practically transported.
Petra saw Suzanne and Toni enter the truck and quickly pushed her way to meet them, an enormous smile lighting her face.
“Can you believe this?” Petra gushed. “They only carry artisanal yarns. Everything they sell here is spun by hand.” She clasped her hands together. “This is just . . . amazing. I feel like a kid in a candy store.”
Toni fingered a skein of merino wool. “This is kitty-cat soft. What’s it made out of?”
“That’s high-quality merino wool,” Petra said. “But just look around—they also have yarn spun from alpacas and yaks, as well as brushed mohair. And there are yarns from plant fibers, too, like organic cotton, China grass, linen, and bamboo.”
“Fabulous,” Suzanne said. “It’s even better than I imagined.” She was particularly struck by the colors of the yarns. They were subtle and pleasing to the eye. There were no gaudy reds, yellows, and greens like you’d see in a dime store craft section. Rather, these yarns were elegant shades of fawn, terra-cotta, primrose, saffron, celadon, and indigo. These were genteel, exotic colors that hinted at captivating sunsets, emerald forests, and mystical places.
“I think I might have to take up knitting,” Toni said.
“You should,” Petra said. “It’s very relaxing. And it would be a good antidote to Junior.”
“Good for my wardrobe, too,” Toni said. “I mean, who couldn’t use a few more sweaters and ponchos?”
“You might want to start with something easy,” Suzanne advised. “Maybe a scarf or a pot holder?”
“What I need is this brushed mohair,” Toni said. She fingered a skein of ultrasoft yarn. “Or maybe this thick, ropy-looking yarn. It’s got some real heft to it.”
“Better grab it now,” Suzanne said. “Before somebody else wants it.”
“You think this yarn would be easy to work with? For a beginner?”
“I don’t know. Let’s ask Petra.”
Petra had moved to the front of the truck, where she was fingering a skein of beaded silk yarn and talking to a woman with a narrow face and long gray hair that streamed all the way down her back. In her nubby sweater and longer skirt, the woman reminded Suzanne of an earth mother type.
“Hang on a minute,” Suzanne told Toni, “while I grab our resident expert.” She moved through the truck, trying not to jostle too many people, trying not to get squished herself. She was just about to tap Petra on the shoulder and break into her conversation when Petra said, “I think you’re right, Faith Anne, that alpaca yarn would make a gorgeous sweater.”
What? Suzanne was suddenly jolted from the top of her head all the way down to her painted pink toes. This woman’s name was Faith Anne? Was Petra talking to Faith Anne Jorgenson? The mother of the mysterious Noah?
“Excuse me,” Suzanne said. And now she really did break into their conversation. “Are you Faith Anne Jorgenson?”
Faith Anne turned toward Suzanne, a look of curiosity on her slightly careworn face. “Yes?” she said.
“You’re Noah’s mother?” Suzanne asked.
Faith Anne seemed to shrink away from her. “Why do you want to know?” she asked. She looked apprehensive and her tone of voice was decidedly frosty.
“Because I think I saw your son,” Suzanne said. “On . . .” There was no subtle way to put it. “On the day that Mike Mullen was murdered.”
A look of fear washed across Faith Anne’s face, utterly transforming it. Her eyes turned hard and her mouth suddenly pulled into a grim horizontal slash. “No!” she cried, and promptly dropped the two skeins of yarn she’d been holding. Then she slid away, practically clawing her way through the crowd, pushing and shoving, trying to squeeze her way out the door. As if her life depended on it.
CHAPTER 12
SUZANNE caught up with Faith Anne in the parking lot, just as Faith Anne yanked open her car door and tried to hurl herself inside.
“Wait!” Suzanne called. “Please wait. I just want to talk to you.”
Faith Anne whirled around to face her. She brought her hands up in front of her, palms facing forward, as if she meant to physically push Suzanne away. “We’ve answered enough questions!” Her eyes glistened like a pair of hard marbles.
“You mean questions from Sheriff Doogie?” Suzanne asked.
“Yes,” Faith Anne spat out. “He came charging in and invaded the sanctity of our home. Scared us half to death. My son, Noah, was extremely upset by his actions. I’m not sure when he’ll recover from the trauma.”
