Close Knit Killer

by Maggie Sefton

  An over-the-shoulder briefcase banging her hip, empty coffee mug dangling in one hand, Kelly followed the flagstone path that ran through the backyard patio and garden area behind the shop. Located at the rear of the knitting shop, Pete’s Porch Café spilled out into the patio. Wrought-iron tables with umbrellas and chairs were sprinkled here and there among the shady trees and greenery. Surrounded by a stucco wall on two sides and a decorative iron fence on the other, the café was a popular breakfast and lunch spot, so most outdoor tables were usually filled during good weather.

  Glancing across the garden, she drank in the colors of the spring flowers that had already burst into bloom. Then she spotted Mimi’s husband Burt sipping from a take-out cup as he strolled though the garden toward the parking lot. “Hey, Burt,” she called, hoping to catch the retired Fort Connor police detective’s attention.

  Burt gave her a big smile and waved as he headed her way. “Hi, Kelly. Jennifer told me the guys won their ball game last night.”

  “By the skin of their teeth. It was Greg’s hit to left field that drove in the winning two runs. It was the bottom of the ninth with two outs.”

  “Whoa, that must have been exciting. Mimi and I will have to catch one of those games this summer.”

  “Oh, it was exciting, all right. But there’ll be no living with Greg this weekend,” Kelly teased.

  “Well, that’s true,” he said with a laugh.

  “By the way, Steve said he talked with Mimi yesterday about remodeling the garage.” She gestured toward the older stucco-and-red-tiled structure that occupied the corner between the garden and the parking lot.

  “Yeah, Mimi and I have been thinking about doing something with this garage we’ve been using for storage. We thought about turning it into a combination classroom and storage where we could teach bigger spinning and weaving classes. Weaving looms and spinning wheels take up a fair amount of room. Now we have to limit the size of our classes, since the classroom in the shop is only so big. It would be nice to spread out and be able to teach more people.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Kelly said, slowly accompanying Burt back down the pathway toward the old garage. “I know you guys are cramped for space with those classes. Sometimes you have to break them into two sections because there’re so many people. But what will you do about the stuff you’ve got stored here?” She pointed toward the bolted door on the side of the structure.

  Burt smiled. “Well, we think we’ve come up with an innovative idea. Most of what we’ve stored are fleeces we’ve bought from local spinners, and some other fibers. Mimi and I thought we might have shelves built along the walls inside and offer some of the fleeces for sale, plus allow area spinners to put their fleeces up on consignment. Offer them a larger customer audience. It would be a win-win, we think.”

  “That’s a great idea, Burt,” Kelly agreed as she eyed the aging structure. “This garage is pretty old. I remember Uncle Jim using it for farm equipment when I was a kid. Are you going to tear it down and start from scratch or what?”

  “Oh, no, we don’t want to tear it down. Mimi and I both love all the old stucco outbuildings. We’re hoping that Hal Nelson will be able to reenforce the exterior, then totally rebuild the inside. That’s another reason we bought the shop and outbuildings from the property owner. We wanted to make some changes of our own.”

  “And a smart idea, it was. This Hal Nelson is a local builder, I take it. I don’t recall Steve ever mentioning his name.”

  “Yes, he’s been working with some larger construction companies for several years and started doing small jobs on his own. Branching out. We found him through Jayleen. She’s been working with the Mission’s rehab program and helping some of the men who’re moving from homeless back into the work force. The Mission program allows them to apprentice in various construction jobs with local companies. That way they kind of ease their way back into society. They qualify to rent a room in a shared house that offers dormitory-style sleeping quarters until they can hopefully land a permanent job, even if it’s part-time.”

  “Boy, that’s the hard part. This recession has eliminated so many jobs.”

  “You’re right about that, Kelly. But Curt told us there are some job boards that are posting various day jobs, hard labor mostly. Clearing out demolished buildings and tear-downs or some farm work. That’s hot summer work, but it pays.”

  “I’m not surprised Curt started getting involved at the Mission with Jayleen. He’s got connections to ranchers, farmers, and builders. There are plenty of opportunities there for someone who’s willing to work.” Kelly checked her watch. “Well, I’m going to take a break and knit for a little bit before I head back to work.”

  Burt chuckled. “You mean before you head back across the driveway. I’m so glad you decided to turn the cottage into your office, Kelly. It wouldn’t feel right not to see you pop into Lambspun every day.”

  “I feel the same way, Burt. Steve and I had to move out last fall because we were bursting at the seams inside the cottage. So it made perfect sense for us to move to one of his empty houses and make the cottage my office. Steve can use the extra bedroom in the house for his home office. And I’ve still got a mortgage on the cottage. Besides, Carl doesn’t have any squirrels to chase in the new yard.”

  “Well, we’re just happy to see you regularly. We’ve gotten addicted to that.” Burt started toward his car. “I’d better head out on errands.”

  “Talk to you later, Burt.” She gave Burt a good-bye wave, slowly walking along the sidewalk leading to the knitting shop’s front entry. Passing by the newly planted clay flower pots and enclosed gardens, she admired the young impatiens and daisies pushing their bright faces upward, overtaking the remnants of springtime’s tulips.

  Looking out to the golf course that bordered the other side of the shop driveway, Kelly observed how many golfers had already progressed this far on the links. With Colorado’s gorgeous sunny summer weather beckoning, how could any self-respecting golfer resist an early tee time?

  Just then, a black pickup truck rumbled down Lambspun’s gravel driveway. Red lettering on the driver’s door read NELSON CONSTRUCTION. Kelly only glimpsed the man driving the truck, but figured it had to be Hal Nelson, the builder Burt mentioned who would do the garage remodel. She paused on the sidewalk, curious to meet him. Somehow Kelly felt she should “oversee” any changes to the property that once belonged to her uncle Jim and aunt Helen.

  The sprawling knitting shop had once been their farmhouse when Helen and Jim raised sheep. The beautiful rolling greens where golfers now chased errant balls were once sheep pastures where sheep chased one another and munched far less lush grasses. Kelly remembered walking with her uncle in the sheep pastures when she was a child. Hard economic times had forced Helen and Jim out of raising sheep, so Jim took a job with the State of Colorado Transportation Department. Helen continued to spin the fleeces from her former flock and knit beautiful creations for Kelly and others.

  After Uncle Jim’s death from a heart attack several years ago, Helen sold the large farmhouse to an investor who rented most of the space to Mimi Shafer, who operated a popular knitting shop in Old Town and wanted to expand. Pete had created his café from the remaining space. Helen moved into the small cottage, a look-alike version of the farmhouse right across the driveway. It had been a guesthouse and Helen’s quilting refuge for years. Situated between the driveway and the golf course, it sat beneath two large spreading cottonwood trees. The views of the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains in the distance were beautiful—the “foothills,” as the locals called them. Kelly never tired of gazing at them. Also, bordering the city-owned golf course were the familiar outlines of the turn-of-the-century buildings in Old Town Fort Connor. Thankfully, some things hadn’t changed.

  A tall, middle-aged man with sandy brown hair stepped down from his pickup truck, so Kelly figured she might as well introduce herself. As she walked up to him, she noticed another, older-looking man get o
ut of the passenger side of the truck.

  “Hello, there,” she said, approaching the sandy-haired man. “Are you Hal Nelson? Burt Parker told me you’ll be remodeling the garage.” She extended her hand. “I’m Kelly Flynn. My aunt and uncle used to own all this land years ago.”

  The man’s broad face broke into a smile. “Yes, I’m Hal Nelson. Glad to meet you, Ms. Flynn,” he said, shaking Kelly’s hand. “I remember your aunt and uncle. They used to raise sheep. Good people.”

  “Yes, they were. And both were taken far too early,” Kelly said.

  Nelson’s smile disappeared. “I was really sorry to hear about your aunt, years ago. That was just a shame. I certainly hope that man is still serving his time. He deserves to, that’s for sure.”

  Kelly usually didn’t allow old angry memories to claim her attention. Good people could do bad things. Her aunt’s killer had committed an awful act of violence—and now he was paying for that reckless choice in the state penitentiary.

  “I’m sure he is, Mr. Nelson. And I’m sure he’s had plenty of time to regret his actions.” Switching subjects deliberately, Kelly gestured to the garage. “This building is pretty old. I remember Uncle Jim keeping his tractor inside. Burt said he and Mimi want to preserve this old exterior. Boy, that’s going to be a challenge. I’m curious how you’ll do it.”

  “You’re right about that. It’ll be a challenge for sure,” he said walking toward the garage. “We’re going to see how bad the rot is inside and go from there. We’re hoping to be able to preserve most of this exterior, but we’ll have to see.”

  As Nelson moved away from his truck, Kelly could finally get a good look at the older man who had been standing on the other side. He was not as tall or as broadly built as Hal Nelson and had a medium-length beard that edged his thin face. It was hard to tell how old the man was, but as he walked closer to where Kelly and Nelson stood on the sidewalk, Kelly did notice something. She recognized that thin bearded face. She’d seen him before, but where?

  “Well, you gentlemen have your work cut out for you, that’s for sure. I’ll come over and check on your progress because I work over there in the cottage.” She pointed across the driveway. “Aunt Helen left me the cottage in her will, along with the mortgage,” she added. Both men smiled.

  “You should keep that property, Ms. Flynn. This is a choice piece of land, as you know. I bet your aunt Helen wouldn’t want you selling it off.”

  “No, siree,” the older man spoke up.

  “I agree,” Kelly said, then turned to the bearded man. She finally remembered where she’d seen him. “Excuse me, but I think I’ve met you before. Isn’t your name Malcolm?”

  The bearded man flushed slightly and a smile appeared. “Yes, ma’am. I recognize you, too. You came into the Mission one day a couple of years back with Miss Jayleen and Jerry. You asked me questions about that young girl who was found dead on the trail beside the river.”

  “That’s right!” Kelly exclaimed. “You were really helpful. No one else had seen that girl except you. Thank God you spoke up.”

  Malcolm flushed deeper and gazed down at the driveway. “Well, I wanted to help out Mr. Jerry and Miss Jayleen. They’d been really good to me. And they still are.”

  “You know, I remember that story in the paper,” Nelson said, turning to Malcolm. “Did you see that girl being killed, Malcolm?”

  Malcolm looked horrified. “Oh, no, sir! I never saw any of that. I just saw someone, looked like a man to me, walk that girl down the trail and leave her sitting on a rock.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Kelly said. “If it weren’t for Malcolm speaking up, the killer would have gotten away with murder.”

  Hal Nelson smiled at Malcolm and put his hand on his shoulder. “Good for you, Malcolm. You really stepped up. I’m proud of you.”

  Malcolm looked down at the ground again, clearly embarrassed. “Thank you, Mr. Nelson. That’s good of you to say.”

  “It’s the truth, Malcolm. You provided the clue that led to solving the case. If you don’t believe me, ask Burt Parker. He’ll tell you,” Kelly chimed in.

  Hal Nelson laughed as he walked toward the back of his truck. Several toolboxes sat inside along with ladders and other gear. “That is the truth. Burt was a detective here for many a year.”

  “And he’s still detecting,” Kelly added as she turned back to the sidewalk. “It was nice meeting you two. You’ll see me going back and forth from my office to the shop. Eduardo’s coffee keeps tempting me.”

  “Take care, Ms. Flynn,” Malcolm called over his shoulder as he went to help Nelson lift the toolboxes from the truck bed.

  “You, too, Malcolm,” Kelly said as she sped down the sidewalk. She should really get inside and see how much work she could accomplish before lunch. Kelly skipped up the brick steps to the Spanish colonial–style farmhouse and heaved open the heavy wooden front door.

  Stepping inside the Lambspun foyer was always a delight, a visual treat for the senses. It never disappointed. Baskets and chests, spilling over with fat balls of thick yarn or skinny twists of whisper-thin fiber. Tables were stacked with twisted coils of hand-dyed mohair and silk, a rainbow of colors. Kelly couldn’t resist stroking the sensuous softness.

  Knitted, crocheted, and woven creations were everywhere. Hanging from open doors of an antique dry sink. Draped along the walls above tables and shelves. Old steamer trunks and wide wicker baskets bulged and spilled over with colors and textures. With her one free hand, Kelly succumbed to the yarn’s siren call—touch, touch. She indulged herself as usual, touching everything in sight. Mohair and silk, alpaca, bamboo, baby alpaca, merino wool.

  Walking from the foyer into the central yarn room, Kelly found even more temptations. Wooden bins lined three walls, floor to ceiling, filled with every type of fiber—wools, mohair, cashmere, alpaca, baby alpaca, and combinations. Pudgy round balls of yarn as fat as Kelly’s little finger. Small, delicate coils of silken twists no thicker than a single strand of hair.

  “Good morning, Kelly.” Mimi’s voice broke into Kelly’s fiber indulgence. “You’re coming in for a coffee break, aren’t you? I can see your empty mug.”

  “You’re right. I’ve finished my pot of fresh coffee and decided to combine a coffee break with starting a new project.” Kelly smiled at Lambspun’s attractive owner.

  In her early sixties, blondish, blue-eyed Mimi Shafer was still pretty and youthful-looking. Mother Mimi, as Kelly and her friends called her, was also the in-house expert on All Things Fiber. Knitting, crochet, spinning, weaving, felting, dyeing, no matter—Mimi knew about it and had done it many, many times. Any question you had, Mimi could answer. Which Kelly found reassuring, since she always had lots of questions.

  “A new project, how exciting.” Mimi’s smile spread. “Have you picked out something?”

  Kelly trailed her fingers along the delicate silken fibers of a coiled skein. “Nothing is calling me yet.”

  “Well, in that case, you can help me out by knitting a baby hat for our knitting guild’s charity contribution to the hospital pediatric wards. There’s a continuing need, not just for babies going in for cancer treatment, but also newborn and premature infants need hats to help their little bodies retain warmth. We lose most of our body heat through our head, you know.”

  “Oh, yes. All you have to do is lose your hat while you’re going down a ski run to discover how cold it is. The last time that happened, I thought my ears would drop off. They were nearly frozen by the time I reached the bottom of the run.” Kelly shivered dramatically, even though it was hot outside.

  “Well, then, why don’t you help out the guild by knitting one of those baby hats while you’re deciding on your next project for yourself.”

  “Hmmmm. I’ve never knitted a baby hat before, but I assume it’s exactly like knitting a regular hat. Only smaller.”

  “Precisely. You’ll use much smaller needles, but it’s still exactly the same.”

  “Smaller ne
edles, huh?” Kelly looked at her skeptically. “I foresee problems. I’m not sure I could work on those teeny-weeny needles. I’d never be able to manage them. I’ve seen Lizzie work with those, and it’s fascinating. But I’m much too clumsy.”

  Mimi gave one of her dismissive waves. “Oh, pooh. You’re much better than you think, Kelly. You could work on the larger needles, if you wish. There are plenty of older babies who need hats, too.”

  “Sounds good. You and the experts can handle the preemie newborns. What are you using for yarn?”

  “Cotton yarns. Come over to the next room, and I’ll show you.” Mimi beckoned Kelly as she walked through the main room with its long library table. Knitters and fiber artists of all persuasions gravitated there every day to work on their projects.

  Kelly dumped her briefcase onto one of the chairs as she followed Mimi to the adjoining workroom and classroom. Floor-to-ceiling wooden bins lined the walls here as well, but half of the yarns here were of the softer pastel shades. Adorable baby and child-sized sweaters and dresses and other knitted outfits dangled from the walls.

  “Here’re all the cottons that would be suitable for baby hats,” Mimi said, gesturing to one large section of bins. “You’ll have plenty to choose from.”

  Kelly looked at the variety of beautiful balls and coils of yarns stacked neatly into the bins—but she never got to choose. Jennifer came rushing into the room from the hallway that led to the café in the back of the shop.