Died in the Wool

by Mary Kruger

  “What happened, Di?

  “He thinks it’s me, Ari. Your detective, not the lawyer. Even though I told him I would never use my yarn that way. Hell, I sat there and spun so he’d see what it was like. I told him all about how I process yarn and how I go to wool shows to buy rovings and fleeces and to see what everyone else is doing. I told him I wanted to make a go of it. And what did he do?”

  “What?” Ari asked, though she knew the question was rhetorical.

  “Nothing. Just nodded, the way he does. He doesn’t talk much, does he?” she said bitterly.

  Ari let out her breath. “Not when he doesn’t want to tell you something, no.”

  “So he thinks I did it.” There was silence for a moment. “Or Joe.”

  Ari took a deep breath. “He wouldn’t. You wouldn’t.”

  “Yeah. He didn’t come out and say it, but, come on, Ari. I’m not dumb. If it’s not me, it has to be Joe.”

  “But why would he? And how could he have done it? He was at home, wasn’t he?”

  “Of course he was,” Diane said quickly.

  This time Ari was quiet. She knew her friend. Diane was keeping something from her. “What happened, Di?”

  “Edith offered to buy the farm.”

  “She didn’t!”

  “Oh, she did, and for a decent price, too. Not what it’s worth, but still. She wanted to add it to the Robeson property and develop it. I’ll tell you, Ari. If the police hear about that, we’ll be in trouble for sure.”

  “Why? It takes away your motive.”

  “Yeah? It means she was threatening us both ways, with that development of hers, and then wanting to take our land. I hope no one knew about that.”

  “They won’t hear it from me,” Ari said absently, her head still whirling.

  “No?”

  “For God’s sake, Diane! I already told you I won’t say anything.”

  “I know,” Diane said, her voice small. “I’m sorry,”

  “I’d hope so,” Ari said, still ruffled. “You refused, of course.”

  “We didn’t have the chance.”

  “Di. You didn’t agree? Did you?”

  “No,” she said, though there was a note in her voice Ari couldn’t interpret. “But a farm’s hard work, and you know small dairy farms are having a rough time. That’s one reason I took up spinning.”

  “You were tired of spending money for yarn and decided to make your own. Di, did you consider it?”

  “Are you kidding? You know I love this place. It’s Joe who wanted to.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope.”

  “But why? The farm’s been in his family for years.”

  “He hates it, Ari,” she said softly. “He always has.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “No one does. He wanted to be a lawyer.”

  “Joe?” Ari said incredulously.

  “Yes, but he had no choice. His parents always assumed he’d take the farm over, even though his sister really wanted it.”

  “Do his parents know?”

  “That he doesn’t want to work here? No.”

  “No, I mean about Edith’s offer.”

  “Are you kidding? That would’ve had them back from Florida in an instant.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Diane’s in-laws, though retired, still kept close tabs on what was going on on their property. “That’s all you’d need, your mother-in-law here.”

  Diane snorted, but when she spoke her voice was serious. “It’s a problem, Ari.”

  “Well, you can’t sell the land now,” she said prosaically. “Not with Edith dead…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Yeah,” Diane said in response to Ari’s unvoiced thought. “It gives me a motive, doesn’t it?”

  “Di, no one will believe you had anything to do with Edith’s death.”

  “You sure about that? I’m not.”

  “Do you have an alibi?”

  “Yeah. Pat Sylvia saw me.”

  Ari shifted uneasily in her chair. There was that something in her voice again. “What is it, Di?”

  Diane paused. “The day Edith was killed…”

  “Yes?”

  “Joe went out.”

  “When?”

  “Around five.”

  “Di—”

  “I know. It looks bad.”

  “But why?”

  “Oh, Ari.” She sounded miserable. “We had such a fight, about selling the land. And you know how Joe is when he gets mad. He got in his truck and just took off. I don’t know where he went.”

  “Diane, he didn’t kill Edith.”

  “I know.”

  “He didn’t. How could he have gotten into my shop? And besides, he didn’t have as much reason as you…”

  “As much reason as I have,” Diane finished for her. “The police don’t know that, though. Oh, Ari, what will I do if the police find out?”

  “I don’t know,” Ari said, a leaden feeling in the pit of her stomach. By rights of their agreement, she should tell Josh about this. By rights of friendship, though, she owed it to Diane not to, and friendship won. “I won’t say a word.”

  “Oh, Ari, you won’t?”

  “Did you really think I would?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Di—”

  “I’m sorry! But I’m so scared.”

  “I know,” Ari said, still a little nettled by Diane’s assumption, still torn about her decision not to tell Josh. “But everything is going to be fine.”

  “I hope so.” Diane paused. “Thanks for listening to me.”

  “What are friends for?”

  “Yeah. I know. Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “The police are here again.”

  “They are?” Ari asked, alert.

  “Yes, your friend and some others. Shit.”

  Right, Ari thought. “Maybe it’s nothing.”

  “Ha. Bye,” Diane said, and hung up.

  Ari closed her eyes and replaced the receiver in the cradle very, very carefully. Police at the Camacho farm meant only one thing. Diane was in big trouble.

  Josh stood beside his car, search warrant in hand, and surveyed the farm again. Under the best of circumstances a search could be difficult, but on this farm, with all its outbuildings, the prospect was daunting, even with other officers to help him search. Josh thought he knew where he’d find the key piece of evidence, though. That pile of scrap wood in the shed had been bothering him since he’d seen it.

  The sheep weren’t in evidence this afternoon, which was a relief. Diane met him at the side door, her face set and stony. It was true she had an alibi, but something was wrong here. Somehow Edith Perry’s death was connected to this farm. “Mrs. Camacho,” he said formally.

  “Detective.” Her voice was frosty, and as formal as his. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes.” He set his foot on the bottom stair leading to the porch, feeling at a distinct disadvantage. “I want to search your house.”

  “Absolutely not,” she snapped back.

  Well, it had been worth a try, though he’d known from her face that she wasn’t going to cooperate. “It will be to your advantage, if you have nothing to hide—”

  “Oh, can it. I don’t know what you’re expecting to find, but you’re not looking anywhere without a search warrant.”

  He gazed at her for a moment, and then reached into his inner pocket to produce the warrant. “I have one here.”

  “Let me see it.” She held out her hand for the document and then studied it. “Damn it. House, barn, shed—I don’t know what gives you the right.”

  He gazed at her steadily. “My job does.”

  “Ha.” She looked up. “Are you going to search now?”

  “Yes. The other officers and I.”

  She looked past him toward the other policemen, her lips set in a tight line. “Then I’d better call our lawyer,” she said, and stalked back into the house. />
  Sometime later, Josh, hands on hips, stood outside near one of the barns, frustrated. While they had taken away several brown paper evidence bags containing pieces of wood of various shapes and sizes, along with several battered baseball bats and canes, the search had basically turned up nothing. There was just too much stuff. A lot of things accumulated in old houses, Diane said with a trace of malice. Thus the rooms in the attic were filled, the shed was packed almost to capacity, and the barns held old machinery and odds and ends. Diligent though the searchers were, there were so many places to hide things that their task seemed impossible, especially since that stack of wood in the shed hadn’t yielded anything remotely useful. There was a slight possibility that they would find something. There was, however, a much stronger one that they wouldn’t. It had been a week since Edith’s death. That left ample time either to destroy evidence, or to hide it so well it might never be found.

  Beside Josh stood Joe Camacho, who was obviously aggrieved. He was a short, stocky man, with a square face and dark curling hair; he wore green work pants and a sweatshirt proclaiming in faded letters that he was a Freeport Townie. He seemed an odd match for Diane, who was tall and slim and even in jeans had a kind of elegance, but the two of them presented a united front to the policemen who had invaded their home.

  The Camachos’ lawyer was not happy about the search. Nor did he look happy now as he talked with Diane, Josh noted as he watched from across the farmyard. She had, as she’d said to Josh, incriminated herself. She’d also made a valid point. What had passed between her and Edith was no secret.

  “What are you looking for, anyway?” Joe asked abruptly, his hands shoved into his pants pockets.

  “You know I can’t tell you that,” Josh said.

  Joe snorted. “Don’t know what you think you’re gonna find.”

  “You never know.”

  “All this because of that damned yarn.”

  Josh looked at him. He had the feeling Joe wasn’t referring just to the murder weapon. “Your wife works hard at it,” he commented.

  “Too damned hard. I wish she’d get over it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This hobby of hers. Takes her away too much from the dairy.”

  “She’s making money.”

  “Yeah, for what that’s worth.” He glared at Josh. “You get your kicks out of sticking your nose into people’s lives, Detective?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Yeah.”

  Josh didn’t take offense at the skepticism in the other man’s voice. He’d heard worse. “Diane told me how much work it is.”

  “Yeah, Diane’s a worker. I’ll say that for her. Look, don’t get me wrong.” He turned. “I’m damned proud of Diane and what she’s done.”

  “But you don’t like it.”

  “Hate it.” He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. “I hate sheep and I hate yarn. The farm should come first.”

  Josh cast him a swift glance. It was the first time he’d heard anyone express that particular sentiment. From this man, it might be significant.

  From the barn, there came a sudden shout. “Detective!”

  “Excuse me.” Josh strode toward the shadowy coolness of the barn, and snapped on rubber gloves. “What is it?”

  “This.” One of the searchers turned toward him. “We found it in that pile of scrap over there.”

  Josh glanced over at the small pile of lumber, some obviously used, some new, and then carefully took what looked like a wooden stick. It was only a few inches long, smooth on one side and beveled on one long edge; rough and untreated on the other. The smooth side had been painted white, and had chipped. It looked like a window stop, and like the sticks used to make the garrote that had killed Edith.

  Stepping outside, Josh looked at the house. No, those didn’t look like replacement windows, he thought. In fact, he’d bet they were the originals, with sash weights and pulleys intact. This piece of wood might have come from one of those windows. He could readily find that out.

  The jagged edge at one end of the stick, however, was what held his attention. If this was what he thought it was, it was strong evidence against the Camachos, evidence he’d paradoxically hoped not to find. He couldn’t be certain, but it looked to him that at least one piece of the garrote had been broken off this particular stick.

  nine

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON. The day had dragged, with no news about what was happening at the Camacho farm, and Ari was glad to see it come to an end. She was about to close up when the bells over the shop’s door jangled. “Ari?”

  “In here, Diane,” Ari called from the office, straightening abruptly. There was a note in Diane’s voice she hadn’t heard since Diane’s mother had died several years ago. “What happened?”

  Diane stood in the doorway to the office, her face pale and her jaw set. “You didn’t hear?”

  “About the police? No, not since I talked to you. Let’s go into the back room. I’ll put some water on for tea.”

  “I’d rather have a beer,” Diane muttered.

  Ari turned in surprise from running water into a kettle. There was a time when Diane had been a heavy drinker. She had, in fact, dropped out of college because of it. At some point, though, she’d caught hold of herself, and to Ari’s knowledge she rarely touched a drop. “What happened?” she asked again.

  Diane dropped into a chair at the dinette table. “He asked a lot of questions.”

  “About what?”

  Diane fidgeted, and then slumped. “He had a search warrant.”

  “Oh, no.” Ari sank down at her desk, her fingers clutching the edge. “What was he looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Joe saw something, though.”

  “What?”

  “The damndest thing, Ari. Joe said they took an old piece of wood from a window.”

  “Like what?”

  “A window stop. You know, the piece on the side where the sash weight is.”

  “Oh, my God.” Into Ari’s mind flashed the image that had haunted her for days, of the yarn tangled about Edith’s throat and the two sticks twisted in that yarn. Discarded wood from a window. Of course.

  “What?” Diane demanded. “You know something, don’t you?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Diane’s eyes narrowed. “The wood means something, doesn’t it? What?”

  Ari spread her hands helplessly. “Di, I’d tell you if I could, but I’ve been told not to.”

  “By the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn it, Ari!” Diane jumped to her feet. “I’m your best friend.”

  “I know, but I still can’t tell you.”

  Diane stalked to the door and then pivoted. “I’m going to be arrested, you know. Or Joe is.”

  “But you have alibis.”

  “I’m Joe’s alibi. You know that. They’ll find a way to break them somehow. You watch.” She took a step toward Ari. “Why won’t you help me?”

  “Di, please.” Ari braced her hands on the table. “I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  “Yeah.” Diane’s lips set in a firm line. “Fine,” she said, and strode out of the room. A moment later Ari heard the shop door slam shut, the bells ringing discordantly.

  Behind Ari, the kettle whistled. Distracted, she turned to stare at it, and then let out a breath. Two minutes ago, she’d been making tea for Diane. How short a time for so deep a rift to develop between them. They’d argued in the past, but never like this. Never over something so serious. Their long friendship had probably just ended.

  But what could she have done? She plopped down at the table again, resting her chin in her hands. She really had been warned by the police not to say a word about the garrote. A window fitting. No wonder the two pieces of wood looked familiar. Just last year the Camachos had replaced the sash weights and ropes in their windows. Probably they had done the same with the surrounding wood. If so, someone had found it handy.
/>   “Trouble?” Laura asked from the doorway.

  Ari looked up. She should have expected Laura to come in at some point. After all, she’d hardly missed a day since the murder. How much of the conversation had she overheard, Ari wondered. She had to have seen the garrote, but she’d yet to say a word about it. “The police searched Diane’s farm.”

  Laura walked a little farther into the room. “Did they find anything?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Laura gave her a look, and then smiled. “Perhaps Detective Pierce can tell us.”

  Ari grimaced. This part of the case had gone beyond her, which meant she had to find out more about what was going on. Little by little, all the important parts of her life were being threatened: her freedom, her livelihood, and now her most enduring friendship. Diane couldn’t have killed anyone. “I suppose I should call him.”

  “No need, dear,” Laura said cheerfully. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “What? How do you know that?”

  “Oh, he said he might come by.”

  Ari looked at her suspiciously. “Aunt Laura, did you ask him to?”

  “Why, yes, dear.”

  “Good God!” Ari stared at her. “Why did you do that?”

  “I thought you’d like to be brought up to date.”

  “Are you matchmaking?”

  “Would I do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is a fine-looking young man,” she said thoughtfully. “And you do like him.”

  Ari put her face in her hands. Would this day never end? “Only as a friend.”

  “Friend, my foot. I don’t think he looks at you that way.”

  “No,” Ari agreed. “To him I’m a nuisance.” And he was going to arrest her best friend.

  “Oh, hardly that, dear.”

  “Aunt Laura—”

  “It’s time you woke up and faced facts,” Laura interrupted her, in the brisk voice she used so rarely that it always drew instant attention. “You’re an attractive woman, but you’re not getting any younger. If you want to get married again, you need to start working on it.”

  “I don’t want to get married again, Laura. You of all people should understand that.”

  Laura dismissed her very brief, and very much in the past, marriage with a wave of her hand. “Oh, that. I was young.”