Knit, Purl, Die

by Anne Canadeo

“He could have.” Maggie nodded, looking soothed by Lucy’s words.

  “It is a pretty creepy coincidence that her former business partners get into this major jam, and Gloria drowned just a few days before the story came out.”

  Maggie’s expression darkened. She looked very troubled. “It is creepy, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Eleven

  What should we do?” Maggie asked Lucy.

  “I don’t know … I don’t know what we can do.”

  Lucy truly didn’t have a clue. The choices that came to mind seemed either improbable or inappropriate. The whole situation made her feel frustrated and confused. There seemed to be any number of creepy coincidences piling up, but none of them connected. None of it fell into any sort of pattern.

  Lucy rose from her seat and walked to the porch rail. She gazed out at Main Street, quiet and empty at this time of the day. A woman with a long, swinging ponytail pushed a double stroller down the sidewalk. A man jogged down the street in the opposite direction, huffing and puffing, his T-shirt dark with sweat. It was shaping up to be a very sultry summer night.

  “I guess I’ll go now, Maggie. It’s after five,” Phoebe called from the other side of the porch.

  “Oh … okay, Phoebe. You have a good evening. Do you have a class or something tonight?”

  “We’re just hanging out downtown. I’m going to run up and get my purse. Be right back,” Phoebe said to Crystal.

  Her friend nodded and sat on the porch steps, hugging her knees. Despite the heat, she wore layers of spandex tops today, a yellow camisole under a gray one and a black one—of course—over that. The colorful sets of spaghetti straps tangled on her shoulders, as seemed to be the style these days.

  The trifecta of camis wasn’t quite long enough to reach the top of her dark green cargo shorts. Lucy noticed a belly button ring that looked pretty painful and a tattoo on the back of her shoulder that had not been visible before—a skull with a heart and a rose, and the word “bad”—or did it say “sad”?—written underneath, in tortured, swirly script.

  Crystal sensed that Lucy was studying her and yanked down the shirts.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” She turned to Lucy and smiled self-consciously.

  “Okay, Crystal. How are you? Still knitting?”

  “Hey, I’m on it. One stitch at a time and all that.” She glanced at Lucy again, her dark gaze sliding out from under long straight bangs.

  “She’s doing fine,” Maggie said. “She showed me her progress and we fixed a few glitches.”

  Phoebe came out again, her big purse hooked over her arm, her skinny wrist covered with colorful, plastic bangles. “Okay, let’s go. I don’t care where we eat, as long as there’s plenty of air.”

  Phoebe turned and gave Maggie an accusing stare.

  Maggie laughed and waved good-bye to them. Lucy did the same.

  “She’s so grouchy today. I think she had a fight with Josh, but she won’t say,” Maggie reported after they’d gone.

  “She does seem to be spending a lot of time with Crystal. Maybe Goth Girl isn’t a good influence,” Lucy ventured.

  “Oh, she’s okay. I had plenty of students who looked worse than that and were really great kids underneath the costumes.” Maggie paused. “Is it the body art that puts you off? I know it bothers some people. But I have one myself,” she confessed with a sly smile.

  “You have a tattoo?” Lucy didn’t mean to sound so shocked. “You never told me that.”

  “You never asked.” Maggie shrugged.

  True, but mainly because the question had never even occurred to her. Who would have imagined it? Now that the inky truth was out of the bag, Lucy was curious.

  “What does it look like?”

  “It’s small … a small hummingbird, actually. And I’m not going to give you any more details, or tell you where,” she added tartly, guessing Lucy’s next question.

  “Now I really want to know,” Lucy admitted with a laugh.

  “Have you ever thought about getting one?” Maggie asked, cleverly diverting attention from herself, Lucy realized.

  “I have. Mainly when I’m at the beach … or see a picture of Angelina Jolie in an evening gown.”

  “She seems to pull it off easily. Though I wonder how well that look will wear by the time she’s my age.” Maggie laughed, then glanced back at Lucy. “What kind would you get? Any tigers or dragons, like Angie?”

  “Oh … I don’t know. Is this a personality quiz or something?” Lucy laughed at Maggie’s serious expression. “Let’s see … something small and discreet. A yin/yang symbol, maybe. On my ankle.”

  Maggie looked surprised. “You’ve given this a lot more thought than you let on, Lucy. I’m surprised you haven’t followed through yet.”

  “Now that I know your secret, I’m inspired. I’ll have to check with Matt first,” she added.

  Maggie shook her head in disapproval. “Body art is not about pleasing your partner. It’s about pleasing yourself. It’s about … empowerment. It’s a very primitive practice, marking yourself with ink drawings. Ask Angelina. Or Crystal.”

  “Maybe I will. And I didn’t mean to sound judgmental about Crystal,” she added. “I barely know her. Phoebe seems to like her a lot.”

  “Yes, she does. And we know that Phoebe, despite her own fashion choices, is an excellent judge of character.”

  Maggie wasn’t being sarcastic, either. Phoebe did have a good—albeit magenta-streaked—head on her shoulders.

  “I’d better go, too. Tink needs her dinner.”

  Maggie shook her head and smiled. “You talk about that dog as if she were your only child. You know that, don’t you?”

  “And there’s a problem with that?”

  “No problem. She’s probably good practice for you.” Before Lucy could come up with a snappy answer, Maggie said, “We can’t go to the police with any of this. It’s all sort of flimsy and I still don’t think we should go behind Jamie’s back.”

  “And if we try to explain any of it to him, we’ll have to include the affair between Gloria and Mike Novak,” Lucy finished for her. “And we can’t do that, either.”

  “It would be difficult. What if he starts to think that she didn’t really end it? It could be so hurtful to him.” Maggie stood up and placed some dirty glasses on a tray. “He’s not ready to deal with a bombshell like that right now. I think we just have to wait.”

  Lucy agreed, though she found it interesting that now Maggie was protecting Jamie from the harsh realities, just like Gloria once did. Maybe he was just the type of man women liked to take care of. Older women, especially.

  “Either the police will take an interest again,” Maggie added, as she carried the tray to the door, “or Jamie will hire the private investigator. That’s the place we can unload all these disturbing bits and pieces, don’t you think?”

  “Possibly,” Lucy said. “And a PI may not even need to tell Jamie about the affair. But he—or she—could use the information to find out more.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  Lucy moved forward to open the door for Maggie.

  “Now, stop snooping around the Internet, please?” Maggie implored her. “I think we’ve learned enough disturbing secrets about Gloria.”

  Lucy had to agree with that, too. Maybe it was time to put this all aside and get on with her life.

  “So, how was your date with Nick Cooper?” Lucy asked.

  “Okay, I guess.” Maggie shrugged. “He’s very nice, but I don’t think we’ll get together again.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “It wasn’t bad,” Maggie said quickly. “He’s a good conversationalist. We have a lot in common.” Her voice trailed off again. Then she shook her head. “But, not for me. Not right now, anyway.”

  “At least you gave it a try,” Lucy replied.

  As a wise man once said, “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.” Nick Cooper didn’t seem to have it. Not for Maggie, an
yway.

  They said good night and Lucy headed home, looking forward to a sunset stroll and harassing some seagulls with Tink.

  Lucy kept her promise to Maggie and didn’t troll the ’Net Monday night for more ragged pieces to the “Avalon–Mike Novak–Gloria Sterling” puzzle. She did send an e-mail to Dana and Suzanne, and filled them in about the overlapping information she’d noticed on the list of properties and the list on the back of the knitting pattern.

  “Did you see that, too, Suzanne?” she asked her, wondering.

  She also sent links to the two articles she’d found on the ’Net about Avalon, and told them what she and Maggie had decided.

  Suzanne was often on the computer late at night, after her kids had gone to bed, answering e-mails and shopping. It was a dangerous time to have a credit card within reach, she often told her friends, especially if she went anywhere near a site that sold yarn.

  Lucy saw replies from both of them right away and opened Dana’s first:

  Lucy—This is getting complicated. If the police won’t follow up, we should wait to tell the private investigator. Jack can give Jamie a name or two.

  Namaste,

  Dana

  Dana was really into yoga these days and signed her e-mails that way now. Lucy wrote back a short note, saying she’d told Jamie to call Jack for a recommendation and hoped he reached out soon.

  Suzanne’s note was a little more feisty and chatty, as Lucy had expected. Her e-mails were always longer than Dana’s and careened crazily into a million others topics, the way Suzanne talked after a few cups of coffee. But the missives always made for amusing reading.

  Dear Sleuthy-Lucy (my new nickname for you, don’t you love it?)

  Never had a chance to look over the list. Printed it out at the office right before I ran over to Maggie’s. But I’ll take a look tomorrow.

  WOW, Gloria got some bargain. I knew she was a sharp cookie but … that first property is worth real dough. I think the other is the condo she wanted to sell. What could this mean? I think we need to take a meeting with Counselor Novak and get to the bottom of it. Why wait for some private investigator. Who knows if Jamie will ever hire one?

  Let’s just ask the guy point blank—what the heck was going on? I know he won’t spill the whole story, but as I’ve learned from the real estate biz, you can usually tell if there’s really water in the basement by the kind of excuses people make up about the puddles. I think we should go for it. When, where, and how?

  XOXO Suzanne

  Lucy stared at the message. Was Suzanne serious? Sometimes it was hard to tell. Could they confront Mike Novak and ask him questions about Gloria? Things could get pretty nasty.

  Before her imagination could wander too far, another message popped up from Dana.

  Sue and Lu—On second thought, I’m with Suzanne. I think we ought to confront him. We’re all former friends of Gloria, right?

  To answer Suzanne’s questions: Where? The Harbor Club. He tees off just about every morning in the summer at 5:30 and takes a fast nine holes before going into the office. (Jack is equally obsessed and has mentioned meeting up with Novak out there at the crack of dawn.)

  How? We go to the club around 7:00 for an early breakfast on the patio. He has to pass us walking off the course.

  When? Tomorrow morning. The fair weather is going to hold up a few more days and we won’t be rained out.

  Get back to me on this ASAP—

  Namaste, my dear ones.

  Dana

  p.s. Should we invite Maggie?

  Whoa, this plan was in motion. Just as Lucy began to type a reply, she heard a little ping as Suzanne’s message flew in her box first.

  L & D—

  I’m in, ladies. Meet you at ground zero at 6:45. Any dress code required? Or should I just go undercover in my tennis togs?

  S.

  Lucy quickly typed back her message:

  Dear Daring Dana & Snoopy Sue—

  You have tennis togs? I’m impressed. I’ll try to find a little madras golf skirt, or maybe one with tiny whales printed all over it.

  See you there.

  Lucy

  p.s. I think it’s too late to pull Maggie in. She might try to talk us out of it.

  After a moment, another note came from Dana:

  L & S—

  O.K. It’s a plan. I’ll give Maggie a call, but I agree, I don’t think she’ll want to take part. See you guys at the club, 6:45. Lucy, skip the whales, but bring your knitting, just in case he decides to shoot 18:)

  XOX

  D.

  It was a challenge to get out of bed in time to shower, feed and walk the dog, and dress appropriately for breakfast at the Harbor Club … and arrive there by 6:45 the next morning.

  Bleary-eyed, Lucy drove toward The Landing, where the club was located, wondering why she’d even bothered going to bed the night before. And what the heck were they going to say to Mike Novak if they did indeed encounter him?

  The Harbor Club occupied the former grand estate of some Gilded Age tycoon who had made his fortune in canned clams. The mansion was a replica of a famous British manor house, the main building an imposing brick structure with a slate roof, several chimneys, and long white columns across the classic façade.

  Lucy could practically hear the sound track of one of her favorite costume dramas, a Jane Austen novel brought to the big screen, as she drove in and pulled up to the round driveway at the entrance.

  She expected to see Mr. Darcy in his waistcoast and high riding boots sprinting out to meet her. Instead, a young Hispanic man neatly dressed in a blue windbreaker and black pants hopped down the front steps and quickly pulled open the door of her battered white Jeep.

  Do you tip the valet now or later? Lucy was never sure. He efficiently handed her a car check, jumped behind the wheel, and drove off before she had time to figure it out.

  Luckily she had remembered to grab her purse and knitting bag from the front seat. She took a breath and walked up the steps to the club’s lobby.

  While she gazed around at the faux Regency-era décor, Dana appeared from behind a huge silk flower arrangement. “Good going, Lucy. Suzanne is already at the table.”

  Lucy followed Dana through the club’s lobby and a dining room, then out to a sunny patio that was shaded by a wooden trellis that supported a thick leafy awning of wisteria.

  “Wow, this is beautiful,” Lucy said, admiring the setting, tables covered in crisp, white table linens and the view of the golf course, which was a supernatural green, covered with dew, some mist still rising as the day grew warmer.

  “It is pretty out here. We don’t use the place enough, though. Jack mainly entertains here for business. I’m just not the clubby type,” Dana said quietly as she took her seat.

  It was true. Dana was not the clubby type and Lucy often forgot she and Jack were members here.

  “I love that wisteria,” Suzanne said, gazing overhead. “I wish I could get mine to grow like that. I wonder what they feed it.”

  “Paté? Caviar? Filet mignon?” Lucy ventured.

  Dana ignored her. “The vines are over one hundred and fifty years old, planted when the house was built. Some of the members complain that the leaves fall in their food, and cocktails, and they want it chopped down. Replaced by a motorized, green canvas thingy … can you believe it?” Dana shook her head in dismay and snapped open her napkin.

  It was hard to believe, but sounded about right, when Lucy considered her impression of places like this.

  Dana glanced at her watch. “We’d better order. It’s almost seven. I checked with the starter. Novak’s definitely out there and he could be coming off soon.”

  Dana had taken a seat with a clear view of the golf course and the area near a little outbuilding where golf carts scooted in and out.

  There were more golf carts zipping over the gentle peaks and valleys of the course than Lucy had expected. And more golfers out there, too. But she and her friends were the only
group on the patio, except for a very old, very well-dressed couple sitting in a far corner. They reminded Lucy of pictures she’d seen of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.

  Lucy picked up her menu, golden script printed on white stock. A list of gourmet breakfast choices, including eggs Benedict and a heart-healthy version, as well as brioche French toast.

  No prices, of course. Membership had its privileges.

  Her stomach rumbled with nerves or maybe it was just still sleeping. Either way, she wasn’t sure she could eat a thing.

  “I think I’ll just have coffee and a blueberry scone,” she said, putting the card aside.

  “I’ll have the crêpes with berry medley, orange zest, and crème fraîche,” Suzanne announced cheerfully. “Sure beats those Stop N Shop toaster pancakes we fix at home.”

  Dana ordered the yogurt and granola with a cup of warm water and lemon. She claimed the tart day starter cleaned out the liver.

  Lucy gave her a look, then asked for more coffee. She’d prefer to live with a dirty liver, if that was the remedy.

  “So, now what do we do?” Suzanne asked. She seemed nervous. Lucy felt the same. Was this a huge mistake?

  “You know, we could always just have a nice breakfast and do some knitting … and then go on about our day,” Lucy suggested.

  “You mean, chicken out?” Suzanne asked, sipping her ice water.

  “I mean … socialize. You know, Dana, I don’t know why you’ve never asked us to have breakfast here before. It’s a real treat.”

  “I should have,” Dana agreed. “But we didn’t come here this morning to hang out like club ladies.” She looked at each of them, urging solidarity with her calm, centered gaze. “Just leave it to me. I know what to say.”

  Lucy looked at Suzanne, who shrugged. “Okay, you’re in charge,” Suzanne replied. “We’ll just jump in with backup, as necessary.”

  The waitress had brought their orders and placed the dishes down in front of them. Suzanne approached her crêpes with due respect.

  “Right, just follow my lead,” Dana instructed. “I think it will go fine.”