“You’re a potter, correct?” Cashel said, glancing at Jane’s hands. Cora loved Jane’s hands; they were a working woman’s hands, with clean, short nails and long fingers, the sinews and tendons visible.
Jane’s gaze steadied as her eyes met his, and she nodded.
“That’s why they will never be able to convict you on your prints alone. Your prints are, in all likelihood, just not that deep from all the clay work you do.”
Cora started to feel relieved.
“But let me be clear,” Cashel continued. “This could get serious if you can’t come up with a sound alibi. The town is crying for a conviction. I’ve seen people get convicted on less evidence.”
Cora felt her breath stop.
“With your background and this wee bit of evidence . . . it could get bad. So our work is cut out for us,” Cashel concluded.
“You know about—” Jane began to say.
“Of course,” he said. “My assistant pulled up your files when I received the call.”
“That was self-defense,” Cora said with a note of belligerence in her voice.
“Of course it was. But she was charged with attempted murder. I know the charges were dropped and she had a sound alibi, with the history of abuse so well-documented,” he said.
“Then they can’t use that against her,” Cora said.
“They sure as hell can try,” Cashel replied. He glanced at Cora and then back to Jane and softened his expression. “But that’s what I’m here for.”
Chapter 5
“I’m so sorry about all this,” Jane said to Cora in the car on the way back to the house. Her voice was strained with weariness and fear.
“It’s not your fault,” Cora said.
“I know, but my background complicates things. Starting over wasn’t a good idea for me. I’ll never be able to put it all behind me,” Jane said, her voice cracking.
Cora’s stomached fluttered. “But you already have,” she said. “This is a minor blip.” Cora had worked to persuade Jane into this venture. A gifted potter, Jane added plenty to the craft retreat’s offerings.
They sat silently, with the hum of the car engine and the radio station blaring the news of the day.
“Let’s hope word doesn’t get out about all this. You know what small towns are like,” Jane said. “We have a business now and reputation is everything.”
Cora had been thinking similar thoughts. “Well, let’s keep it on the down low. Nobody needs to know anything, right? You weren’t charged.”
“Yes, but I’m still a person of interest.”
Cora pulled the car into the drive and parked it. “Let’s keep doing our best with the retreat. Let’s just focus on what’s in front of us and not get carried away.”
They both were still slammed with preparing for Thursday’s opening. At least the menu was settled. The cleaning seemingly never ended. Boxes of broom straw still needed to be unpacked and put away, and the paper-crafting room still needed sorting. Crafters would be here in three days.
If she managed to pull it all off in time, this business would be a dream come true for Cora.
She watched Jane walk down the garden path to the carriage house. Jane’s normally proud, confident gait had turned into a wilting trudge.
“Good night,” Jane turned and said.
“Good night.”
Cora stopped before entering the main house and gazed at the autumn night sky. She made a wish that nobody would find out her friend was a person of interest for the murder of the school librarian. Even as she thought about it, she marveled at the absurdity of the situation. Jane had come a long way since she had tried to kill Neil.
Cora remembered the first day Jane walked into the Sunny Street Women’s Shelter. They were friends as girls, growing up together in Pittsburgh, then lost track of one another when Cora went to college. But out of the blue, her drop-dead gorgeous long-lost friend appeared at the shelter. But she was dejected, standing in the lobby, seeking help.
That look of dejection and shame was a familiar one to Cora by then, and it tore her up to see Jane in such a condition.
That was the beginning of the end of Cora’s counseling career. By that point, she had started her blog—“Cora Crafts a Life.” Not a moneymaker back then, but the blog was a creative and therapeutic outlet for her. She blogged about her life as a counselor and a crafter. She wrote stories about the women in her shelter life. The abused women who found solace in a craft, whether it was knitting, needlepoint, or scrapbooking, inspired her. Soon, her blog was earning more money than her counseling. She realized her doctors were right—writing and crafting helped to prevent her panic attacks. But not quite enough.
So she began to envision a craft retreat.
She searched several months to find the right place and the right investors. But here she was, now, climbing a flight of stairs in an old Victorian almost mansion, where she lived in the attic with Luna. In a few days, a group of crafters would be filling the place. A broom maker would be teaching a class, Ruby would be teaching candle making, and, the way Cora envisioned it, some women would be drawn into the paper-crafting room, others into the almost-finished fiber-arts room. They were still working on the alcove that had been marked for upcycling—a “craft” that Cora adored. She loved this craft of turning ordinary objects into pieces of art, or into something new and useful. She’d found a box of burlap sacks in the basement and planned to use them in her class, making decorative pumpkins out of them.
Cora made plans upon plans and made a wish as she slid into her bed that night, with Luna curled up beside her, that this small town would be unlike the stereotypical ones where gossip spread quickly, and tomorrow nobody would know about Jane’s adventure at the police station. So much hinged on this first retreat. Cora had sunk every bit of her savings into it, plus got a few investors, like her great-uncle Jon and his new wife Beatrice. She didn’t want to disappoint him—nor did she herself want to go broke. In truth, she already teetered on the edge of financial ruin.
* * *
The next morning, Ruby, Jane, and London all gathered in Cora’s kitchen.
“Who wants chocolate chips in their pancakes?” Cora asked.
“I do!” London squealed.
“Me, too,” Jane said.
“Well, of course, I do, too,” Ruby grumbled and poured herself a cup of coffee.
Ruby was a bit moody at times, but she fit right in with the craft-retreat plans. She had been earning a living as an herbalist and was hired by the previous owners of Kildare House to tend to the gardens. Her agreement with them, made about twenty-five years ago, was that she lived rent-free while working there, which was important since her husband had died and left her penniless—with a child to raise—which is something Jane could certainly relate to, as a single mother.
“So the plan of attack this morning is to get those boxes unpacked and—” Cora began before Ruby cut her off.
“I need you to check out this wax. It’s not what I ordered. Is there time for us to return it?” Ruby asked.
“I’ll confirm their return policy,” Cora said. “But we can figure out something.”
“I wanted sheets of beeswax for one of the projects. Some very simple rolling up of the sheets with a wick inside will give you a fun, easy candle. Some folks don’t want to get involved in the more complex candle making,” Ruby said.
“I love the ones you made with the herbs and wildflowers in them,” Jane said.
“Thank you. Those are my biggest sellers. But only three people signed up for that class. But that’s okay with me. I like a small class,” Ruby replied.
Soon the room smelled of coffee, chocolate, and pancakes. The conversation was light and business oriented. As long as London fluttered about, it was as if all the women had made an unspoken agreement to not talk about last night’s events with the police.
Jane’s cell phone rang and she answered it, getting up from the table and moving to another part of th
e room. Jane returned to the table with an air of annoyance.
“Finish up, London, we need to get going. Don’t want to be late,” she said.
“Everything okay?” Cora asked.
“Oh yeah, sure,” Jane said with a forced, fake lightness in her voice. She was fuming and trying to hide it. Cora knew her friend too well. “The school found another volunteer for tomorrow. They knew I’d be busy here with the opening and so on.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Ruby said, with a note of sarcasm.
London’s head tilted in curiosity.
“Let’s go,” her mother said, grabbing London’s hand and leaving the room.
After Jane and London abruptly exited, Ruby helped Cora clear the dishes. “So how did it go last night?” she asked.
Cora shrugged. “It’s hard to say. She’s not charged with anything, thanks to Cashel.”
At the mention of her son’s name, Ruby beamed. That doesn’t happen too often, Cora thought.
She didn’t quite get Ruby. Not yet.
“He’s a good boy,” Ruby said, stacking dishes in the sink.
He didn’t look like a boy to me, Cora thought. No, Cashel O’Malley may have still had a boyish, impish grin, but she bet the rest of him was all man.
“And he’s got good perspective. I raised him right, you know. He knows the score,” Ruby continued, pulling Cora away from her thoughts.
“The score?” Cora said.
“Yeah. Never trust a cop. Especially the ones in Indigo Gap,” Ruby said.
At first Cora thought she was teasing, and started to laugh. But when she noticed the expression in Ruby’s eyes, she knew the woman was dead serious.
Chapter 6
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” London said, after Jane buckled her into her car seat.
“Nothing, other than it’s seven-thirty am and you know I how feel about that,” Jane said, trying to keep it light. She didn’t want to worry London. The child had had enough worries in her five years of life.
“I know,” London said. “I know you hate being up this early.”
Jane leaned in and kissed her daughter—one of the few people who mattered to her in this world. She was bound and determined to give her a good life—inasmuch as any mother could.
Last night, she had been hopeful that Cashel had tamped out any negative effects from this murder suspect business. But the phone call from the school principal led her to believe otherwise.
She pulled out of the driveway and turned onto the street, then flipped the radio on and London started to sing. Jane only half listened.
“I like this song, Mommy,” London said.
“I do, too, sweetie.” Light and breezy. When she arrived back at the carriage house, she’d have a good cry and then head to the main house to help unpack the boxes.
She felt in her gut that the principal didn’t want her help this week because somehow word had already spread. But how?
Schools had to be careful these days, and as a parent, Jane appreciated that. But as a person working in the schools, she thought it might be overkill.
But she wasn’t even working—she was volunteering. Still, they did not want a murder suspect volunteering in the schools. They were leaping to conclusions and not even giving her a chance to defend herself. Was anybody even asking why she would want to kill Sarah Waters?
She sifted through her memories of the late school librarian. She had been sixty-ish and seemed nice enough, but was not someone Jane warmed up to. In fact, if she were to be honest, Jane didn’t warm up to many people. But Sarah had been a bit stand-offish. Or maybe she was just quiet. Jane hadn’t bothered to find out. As a volunteer in the school, she was kept busy cleaning desks and floors, sorting activities, and lining children up for bathroom breaks, which didn’t leave much time to socialize.
“Miss Teal is so pretty,” London said from the backseat, as they pulled up into the line of cars at the school. “Today, we’re going to talk about the pilgrims and Native Americans.”
“That sounds like fun,” Jane said, wondering exactly what they would be teaching London about Native Americans. Jane had been told her biological mother was part Cherokee. She’d always had this romantic notion she might have been a potter, like Jane. But her adoption records were sealed. Even if they weren’t, she wasn’t certain she could bring herself to open that door. Her mother had given her up for a reason.
The car in front of her pulled up in the line, and she followed.
“You’ll have to tell me all about it when you get home,” Jane said. She loved this part of parenting, the talking about new things together. Her daughter’s mind fascinated her. That she had created this kid with Neil floored her. He was such a loser, but their kid was amazing.
“Tell me the story about my name, Mommy,” London said.
“It’s almost our turn, London. I’ll tell you later,” Jane said, trying to concentrate on not hitting one of the many teacher’s aides and teachers flitting around from car to car to fetch the children. No matter how orderly, the drop-off always made Jane nervous. So much could go wrong.
London wanted the story of her name repeated every day. A few times every day. Repetition seemed to comfort her. Jane would do anything for her daughter, of course, but the repetition of the same stories sometimes made her want to scream. She could recite them backward and forward now.
The story of London’s name was also not something Jane necessarily wanted to think about. London was named after the city she had been conceived and born in. The city where Jane and Neil lived for a few years until everything turned sour. London had been the happiest place on earth, but then it became a nightmare of a city, as Neil began to show signs of unhappiness and violent tendencies. Jane thought it was depression and maybe a change of scenery might help. The first few months in New York City were blissful before his drug habit took over. He became violent and almost unrecognizable. She tried so hard to find him help. The few times he was clean gave her and London hope. They had some good times, but they always spun into dark times. Unfortunately, her own little London carried memories of both the good and bad times within her.
They were next in line, and Jane pulled up to the curb, put the car in park, and slid out. She opened the back door and unhooked London from her car seat.
“Do you have everything?” she asked.
London nodded. Jane quickly kissed her as an aide came to fetch the child and take her into the school.
“Good morning,” Jane said to the same woman she’d seen every day for weeks. She said it automatically, politely; it was what you did when an aide collected your daughter.
Jane listened for the response, which usually came quickly and with a smile.
This time the woman only turned and glared at her before walking off, holding London’s hand.
A chill came over Jane. Time seemed to hold her in place. Somehow, word must have leaked that she was a person of interest in the murder of Sarah Waters. She knew it.
The person in the car behind her gently tooted their horn, bringing her back to earth.
“Sorry,” she mouthed, waving before she got into the car.
As she pulled away from the school, she no longer wanted to go home and cry; she wanted to scream at someone. But who?
She thought about Cora and the craft retreat, their months of hard work getting the house up to code and beyond, and Cora sinking her retirement funds and her savings into the business, plus her investors’ money. It was a good plan. A solid foundation. Craft retreats were popular. Cora’s blog earned money and had a growing following. Jane’s pottery sold well. Everything was coming together.
Now this. Could this be the unraveling of all of it?
What to do? Should she go to Cora with her worries? Or wait until she knew for sure what was going on?
She rarely kept things from Cora. But Cora was such a nervous wreck these days with the first retreat on the horizon. Jane hated to add to her woes until she knew exactly what wa
s happening.
Her mind settled. She decided there was no point in going to Cora with nothing but a strong inkling that word had leaked out in their new small town. At least not yet.
Chapter 7
When all was said and done, the boxes were twice the size of the broom straw, all wrapped neatly in rows underneath a ridiculous amount of packing peanuts.
“Check this out!” Jane gasped, holding up some crimson broom straw. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Cora grinned. Fresh crafting materials, plus the happy note in Jane’s voice, added to her air of excitement.
Jane had been brooding since she received the phone call that morning, and she and Cora hadn’t been left alone long enough for them to discuss it. What was it about the call Jane found so disturbing that it sent her into a funk for the rest of the morning?
“I like the eggplant color,” Ruby said, waving straw from the box she was unpacking. “Stunning. Oh, and the crimson. Gone are the days of plain broom straw, I suppose.”
“The brooms will be amazing,” Cora said. She began to set baskets in a row along the wall of the main crafting hall, a wing added on to the house in 1912 and filled with floor-to-ceiling windows. Twelve women had signed up for the broom-making class—not including the three of them. Each person would get broom straw, a handle, and the tools to make their brooms. It would all be given to them in baskets made by a local basket maker. Cora had been thrilled to find out that this region of North Carolina offered a multitude of crafters.
This part of the state had a rich heritage of Appalachian craft traditions, and the quality of techniques had stayed the same throughout the years. They were handed down from elder to younger crafter, which was the best way to learn. Some of these crafters launched art careers by taking their crafting to the next level. Many of them could be found in galleries in Asheville.
The hills around Indigo Gap appeared to be scattered with older women, like Ruby, who were “wild-crafters,” or herbalists. Many of these women quilted, sewed, and crocheted just as a matter of course. But they had as much pride in their workmanship as the professional artist-crafters.
Death Among the Doilies Page 3
