by Mary Kruger
“In the summer. You found them for me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Megan,” she said sharply. “Pay attention to me.”
Megan at last looked up from her drawing. “What, Mom?”
“Think. You wanted to go to the beach.”
“Yeah.” Resentment tinged Megan’s voice. “You said you couldn’t take me.”
“I had to work,” she said patiently, and then memory struck. “Omigod.”
“What?” Eileen asked.
“Nothing.” Ari automatically fell into the old habit of avoiding a subject that would make her mother fret. But, omigod. They’d found her keys in the shop, not at home as she’d said. She’d forgotten that. “Mom, why did you…”
“Why did I what?” Eileen said, when Ari didn’t go on.
“Nothing.” Again she decided against bringing up the subject of the keys, or why Ted had one. “Do you think I should call Mr. Perry?”
“About your building? Ari, do you think this is the time?”
“No, not that. I want to give him my condolences. I’m not sure I should go to the funeral.” She opened the refrigerator again, this time taking out the remains of the chicken she’d cooked the other night. “If I make potatoes with this and some broccoli, it should be enough.”
“Yuck,” Megan said without looking around.
“Why shouldn’t you?” Eileen asked.
“After what happened, he might not want me there.”
“Oh, dear.” Eileen had gotten up, too. “I wish you weren’t involved in this.”
“So do I.” She put a pot of water on the stove for the potatoes. “With luck the police will find out who did it soon, and it’ll all be over. Do you want to stay for supper?”
“Yes. Oh, Ari, what a mess this is.”
“I know.” Ari began to peel the potatoes. I know, she added to herself. It was only likely to get worse. The task she’d set herself was daunting, but she couldn’t think of another way out. She was already involved. “Go get washed, Megan.”
“Awww.” Megan managed to stretch the protest into five syllables.
“Now. One, two—”
“Okay!” Megan jumped down from the stool before Ari reached the magic number of three, at which point she’d have a time out. “Jeez.”
“What?” Startled, Ari stared after her daughter as she scuttled toward the small bathroom tucked under the front stairs. Then, smiling, she turned back to her task and let the commonplaces of her life enfold her.
On Thursday Josh spent the morning in the chief’s office, discussing the various implications of the case: the problem posed by the number of keys to Ariadne’s Web, the probability that Ari was their culprit, and the new fact that the yarn used as a weapon had been made locally. There was also the question of what had been used to hit Edith on the head. In searching the shop that first morning, neither he nor any of the others had found anything to match the description. Whatever it was must somehow tie the murderer to the crime, or it would probably have been left behind.
Its disappearance didn’t point to anyone in particular, and yet Josh thought it might work to Ariadne’s advantage, if in a small and circumstantial way. Edith had been murdered in Ariadne’s shop, with yarns she owned, implicating her in the crime already. Why, then, would she have removed whatever had been used as the first weapon? It didn’t make sense. Add that to the fact that no one he’d talked to had anything bad to say about her, and he was coming to believe in her innocence more and more.
With all that in mind, he left the office and went to Town Hall to try to learn about Edith’s involvement with the town. It didn’t take him long to discover that the property Edith Perry had owned was valuable. She had paid her fair share of taxes on it, though she had asked for abatements for both the tax and for water usage, claiming her age as a reason. More important, she had filed plans to develop the property on Drift Road. Though those plans hadn’t yet been approved by the town, what he’d learned from them was significant. He thought he might have one more piece of the puzzle in place. Once he learned who her beneficiaries were, he’d have more.
Josh emerged into the bright, warm sunshine of an early fall day with the realization that it was noon. Since he planned to spend more time at Town Hall this afternoon looking at minutes of selectmen’s meetings, he drove to Marty’s and went to the deli section. When he’d first moved to Freeport, Marty’s had been a surprise to him: part market, part deli and sandwich shop, part gourmet food shop. Now, with a paper bag in hand, he walked out again, and nearly collided with a woman near the door.
“Why, Detective Pierce,” she said, before he could apologize. “This is a surprise.”
Josh’s memory brought up her name almost immediately. “Mrs. Taylor, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes.” Ruth Taylor beamed at him. “We met at Ariadne’s Web yesterday.”
“Yes, I remember.” Nodding politely, he began to edge past her.
“What happened was terrible, wasn’t it?” she said, following him to the parking lot.
“Yes.” Josh paused in the act of reaching for his car door. Mrs. Taylor was a gossip, Ariadne had said yesterday. “Could I buy you lunch, Mrs. Taylor? Or,” he went quickly on, as she gave his bag a dubious look, “a cup of coffee?”
“Coffee would be nice,” she allowed, nodding graciously.
“Good. I’ll get it for you.”
A few minutes later, they settled at one of the picnic tables on the narrow strip of lawn between the store and the inlet. Beyond them the marsh grass swayed golden in the breeze, and the sun glinted so brightly on the bay that it almost hurt to look at it. In such a tranquil setting, so different from Boston’s busy streets, it could be hard to remember that he was dealing with a murder.
“We’ve never had anything like this happen here before,” Ruth said brightly. “It’s stunned just everyone. Of course, there are always problems. Riffraff, you know. I never go near the waterfront if I can help it.”
Josh finished unwrapping the deli paper from his sub sandwich and spilled some potato chips onto it, thinking. As with any working port, Freeport had its problems, but the majority of fishermen he’d met were hardworking and decent. “Why?”
“Oh, you probably know that better than I. And kids, too.” Her laugh was artificial. “Always up to something.”
“Do you have any children, Mrs. Taylor?” he asked, after taking a drink from his can of soda.
“Oh, yes. Four. Two here and the others in Chicago. And five grandchildren.” She reached for her wallet. “Would you like to see some pictures?”
“Sure.” Josh patiently admired the snapshots. She had some reason for bringing up the subject of young people; he’d seen the gleam in her eyes. “Nice-looking kids.”
“Oh, yes, and so well behaved. Not like many I could tell you about.”
“Such as?”
“I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to see you at Ariadne’s yesterday.”
“Mmm.”
“Such a terrible thing to happen to her, and in her shop. Of course, we all thought she was crazy to open up a yarn shop, what with all the department stores and that big craft store out in Dartmouth. But she seems to be doing well enough.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“She’s a nice girl. She’s had her share of problems, but then, who hasn’t?”
“Oh?”
“Oh, yes. She was arrested, you know.”
That brought his head up. “When?” he snapped.
“A long time ago. Vandalism. But I’m sure you’d know more about that than I would, with your job.”
He chose to ignore her implication. “What did she vandalize?”
“School property. Oh, and some cars,” she said, the gleam in her eyes more pronounced.
People could still surprise him. He’d rarely met an informant who showed such relish for her task, especially since what she’d told him didn’t sound at all like the Ariadne he’d met. “I’ll look into
it. Now—”
“Of course, she was young. As I said before, kids.” She smiled. “Not that it means she deserves what happened to her, oh, no.”
“From what I’ve heard about Mrs. Perry, I’m surprised she had any interest in knitting,” he said, deciding to change the subject. He’d check Ariadne’s record later, though he doubted he’d find anything serious.
“Edith? Oh, yes, she was always a champion knitter. And I do mean a champion. One of her sweaters won an award at a county fair.”
Josh looked up from his sandwich. “I didn’t know there were awards for such things,” he said.
“Oh, yes. Edith was a country girl. She appreciated good quality, Detective. She liked homespun yarn.”
He looked up sharply at that, but she gave no indication that she knew she’d said something of significance. The type of yarn that had been used in the murder was a closely guarded secret. “And didn’t mind paying for it?”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that. It’s not as if she was poor, you know, not even when she was young. But she knew the value of a dollar, not like the young people today.”
“Did she buy things at Ariadne’s Web?”
“Yarn, I believe, but not the patterns. I can’t say I blame her.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, they’re much too expensive. I don’t know why Ariadne prices them so high. After all, any experienced knitter can design things. But she won’t come down on the prices.”
“Do you knit, Mrs. Taylor?”
“Not in the summertime,” she said with a bit of pride. “I’d rather walk or swim.”
“I see,” Josh said.
“Of course, I keep active in the winter, too,” she continued. “I use the walking track at the YMCA and the pool. I make mittens and things for my grandchildren, but I’d rather be out and about. People are so much more interesting. Don’t you find that?”
Too interesting, sometimes. “Tell me something.” He picked up his soda, more to give the impression of casualness than to drink. “Did Edith buy homespun yarn from Ariadne’s Web?”
“Do you mean Diane Camacho’s yarn? No, she always said it was too expensive. Of course, she wouldn’t have bought it recently anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Because—oh, I keep forgetting you’re new to Freeport. You wouldn’t know what’s been going on.”
After his research at Town Hall, Josh had a good idea what she was talking about. “No, what?”
Mrs. Taylor eyed him shrewdly. “Did you know that the old Robeson farm, the property Edith owned, abuts the Camacho farm?”
“Yes. Did it cause trouble?”
“Trouble!” Mrs. Taylor leaned back and laughed. “Oh, my, yes, to put it mildly. The last thing the Camachos want is a big housing development next to their farm.”
“I don’t blame them,” he said, more to draw Mrs. Taylor out than to express his own opinion. “There are a lot of newcomers in the town, I understand.”
Again her look was shrewd. “You really don’t understand, do you?”
He frowned. “No. What?”
“There’s no town water out there, or sewage. Well water and septic systems.” She sat back. “It wouldn’t be the first time the Camachos had trouble with neighbors over water. And a development of that size…”
Josh was from the country, too. “There’d be problems with the water table,” he said.
“Yes, and runoff. All those new roads to be sanded and salted in the wintertime, you know. Well, you can imagine what would happen to the ground water.”
He went very still. “It would be contaminated.”
She sat back with a satisfied air. “Exactly.”
His mind was working swiftly. “How did the Camachos feel about it?”
“Oh, they fought it, of course. They’re one of the reasons the development plans haven’t been approved yet.”
Good God. Mrs. Taylor didn’t know it, but she’d just helped him slot another puzzle piece into place. If the underground water level was lowered, the Camachos would either have to drill a new well, an expensive proposition, or have less water for their livestock. The impact of that, along with possible contamination, would be devastating to a dairy farm.
Means, motive, and opportunity. Until a few moments ago, he’d thought Diane had only two of the three, and that she was an unlikely suspect. Now he knew differently. Diane Camacho, it seemed, had one hell of a motive.
four
“YOU DIDN’T TELL ME Ariadne has a record,” Josh said to his partner accusingly as he folded himself into his desk chair later that afternoon.
Paul Bouchard looked blank. “Who told you she does?”
“Ruth Taylor. Something about vandalism and destruction of school property.”
Paul scratched behind his ear. “Are we talking high school?” he asked, and then began to grin. “Oh, that.”
“What?”
“Not much, actually.”
Josh leaned forward. “Then it’s true?”
“Juvie records are sealed.”
Josh waved that off impatiently. “What happened?”
“Maybe you’d better ask her.”
“Listen, Bouchard—”
“Listen, yourself. Do you think a high school prank means she’s a murderer? Though she looks good for it,” he added.
Damn it, Ariadne still was a likely suspect. He couldn’t see her progressing from vandalism to murder, though. If she’d vandalized anything. If she’d committed murder. “What about Diane Camacho?”
Paul’s grin widened. “Ask her,” he said again.
Josh gave him a sour look. “I will,” he said, and opened his case file, thinking again about the time of Edith’s death. He suspected that the murder had been committed at the early end of the range, nearer to five o’clock than eight. Surely at eight someone would have seen something at the shop. Certainly the police patrols would have. Yet no one had.
He pursed his lips. So far he hadn’t found out where Ariadne had been at the time. He needed to establish her whereabouts as best he could. As the mother of a young child, she had probably been at home, as she claimed. He had no corroborating evidence, however. High time he went looking, even if finding what he needed was probably going to be impossible.
Ari was grumbling over the shop’s quarterly tax forms when the phone rang the next morning. Absently, she picked up the receiver. “Ariadne’s Web.”
A voice spoke briskly at the other end. “Josh Pierce.”
She sat up, taxes forgotten. “Yes, Detective. Can I do something for you?”
“Actually, yes. Could you have lunch with me?”
That made her pull the receiver away from her ear and stare at it for a moment. “Are you allowed to socialize with a suspect?”
“This isn’t exactly social. I’m not talking anything formal, Ms. Evans,” he added quickly. “I need to ask you some things. You won’t need a lawyer.”
“All right,” she said after a moment. “At noon?”
“Sure. What kind of sandwich do you like?”
She resisted the impulse to stare at the phone again. “Chicken salad.”
“Good enough. I’ll see you then.”
“All right,” she said, and hung up, mystified.
“You’re going to have lunch with him?” Laura said, grinning knowingly.
Ari turned to Laura, who was sitting in one of the comfortable rocking chairs Ari had placed in the back corner to encourage customers to relax, or to try out different patterns. The sweater Laura was working on had grown nearly to chest level now. The teal, rose, and cream-colored yarns she was knitting in the classic horizontal zig-zag of an Icelandic sweater were unusual, but they worked well together.
“It’s not like that,” Ari said.
“Like what, dear?”
Ari glared at her, but decided against a direct answer. “We’ll be talking about the case.”
“The case?” Laura continued to grin, and Ari’s annoyance
grew. She was grateful to Laura for all her help, but it was beginning to grate on her. Laura, for all her active social life and involvement in various groups and organizations, hadn’t missed a day in the shop since Edith’s death. Ari wasn’t sure whether she was lending her support, or if she simply wanted to know everything that was going on. “Ted will be jealous.”
“That’s silly.”
“You do need Ted on your side, dear.”
“To do my taxes?” Ari said, in spite of her earlier defense of Ted’s competence.
“To keep you from going inside. Up the river. The slammer. The big house. Gaol,” she added. “The old cell block. The—”
“Ash Street Jail,” Ari broke in. “Walpole.”
“It’s called Cedar Junction now,” Laura said, correcting her on the name of the maximum security prison. “Not a place you’d like, dear. I don’t imagine they allow knitting needles there.”
“No, only knives. I didn’t kill Edith, Laura. You know that.”
“Of course I do. But do the police?”
Ari frowned. “Do you know, I’m not sure? I can’t understand why Josh invited me to lunch. Detective Pierce,” she said hastily, but too late. Laura was grinning again. “Really, Laura. He’s a cop.”
“A good-looking man, too,” Laura said, and deliberately turned her back.
They did their work in silence until the bells over the door jangled.
“Well, well,” murmured Laura.
Ari took a deep breath as Josh came in, cooler in hand. “Detective,” she said.
“Hi.” He walked farther into the shop. “Am I early?”
From outside, Ari heard the Town Hall clock striking twelve. “No, you’re right on time. Summer?” She turned. “I should be back in an hour or so.”
Summer, Ari’s official employee, had been putting away a new shipment of yarn, but now she looked at Josh with frank interest. “Sure. Take your time.”
Ari barely refrained from grimacing at the arch tone in Summer’s voice, and the equally arch look on Laura’s face. Protesting that this lunch didn’t mean what they thought it did wouldn’t do her any good. Of course she was innocent of Edith’s murder. What her family and friends didn’t seem to realize, though, was that she was still under suspicion. This wasn’t by any means a friendly lunch. “In an hour,” she said again, and, draping her favorite pink cable-stitch sweater over her shoulders, went out. Josh, she noted, held the door for her. But this wasn’t a date, she reminded herself.
