by Sofie Kelly
Maggie swallowed and said softly, “It’s Rebecca.” One arm hugged her body.
I closed my eyes briefly. “This doesn’t make sense,” I said. “I don’t know what sort of evidence you have, but it’s wrong. There has to be some other explanation. Rebecca would not steal from the store any more than Susan or Nic would.”
“The things that were taken, they were taken on two different occasions,” Maggie said. “Rebecca, Susan and Nic were the only people who were in the shop both times.” She glanced at Ruby.
I shifted in my seat to look at her as well.
“We’ve checked the purchase receipts, I’ve talked to everyone else who was working on those days, we’ve gone over hours of footage from the security camera on the street.” Ruby held up one, two, then three fingers as she recited what had been done.
“You said there has to be some other explanation and I agree with you.” Maggie leaned forward, propping her forearms on the table. “That’s why we need your help.”
“I’m not the police.”
Ruby played with a strand of blue hair that had slipped out of her topknot. “Kathleen, it wasn’t the police who figured out who killed Agatha Shepherd and cleared my name. It was you.”
“And it was you who gave Roma some closure by putting together all the pieces with respect to what happened to her father,” Maggie added. “People tell you things, things they don’t or won’t tell the police. And somehow you put them all together a lot like the way I make a collage, only what you end up with is the truth. So please say that you’ll help us.”
I didn’t know whether or not I could figure out what happened but I knew there had to be some kind of alternate, logical explanation for the items missing from the co-op store. “All right,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Ruby gave me a tight smile. Maggie reached across the table, grabbed one of my hands and gave it a squeeze.
Even cold, Maggie’s pizza was still pretty good. After we’d eaten, I pushed back my plate and checked my watch. “Since I’m heading back to the library and since Susan is working, I may as well get started with her,” I said.
“I hope we’re not putting you in a difficult spot,” Ruby said, slipping off her stool.
“You’re not,” I said. “I want to help if I can.”
“Do you need anything else from us?” she asked.
“I know you said that Susan—and Nic and Rebecca—were the only people who were at the shop both times things went missing.”
Ruby nodded. “That’s right.”
“You must have more than that.”
“We do,” Maggie said.
I turned to face her.
“I was working in the store the day of the first theft,” she said. “Ray Nightingale was working as well. It was really busy because two busloads of tourists who were on a winery tour had stopped here in town for lunch.” Maggie reached for our plates and stacked them one on top of the other, setting the forks on top. “I was at the cash register and Ray was showing one of his own pieces to a couple of the tourists when Susan came in.”
Ray Nightingale had a degree in graphic arts, and he did a lot of commercial work for different businesses. He also created large, incredibly detailed, acrylic ink drawings that reminded me a little of the Where’s Waldo? series of books. Somewhere in each of Ray’s drawings was a tiny rubber duck, no more than an inch or so long, wearing a pair of sunglasses and a snap-brim fedora. For me, much of the charm of the artwork was looking for the little duck, whose name was Bo.
“Susan had been at the diner for lunch, I think,” Maggie continued. “She walked a group of the tourists over who wanted to look around the shop before they got back on the road.” She picked up the plates and moved over to the small sink that she used to wash her brushes.
“So what happened?” I asked as she rinsed the plates.
“Susan kept going back to look at the linen stitch scarves. There were four of them at the time.” Maggie glanced up at me. “You’ve seen Ella’s work. They’re beautiful.”
I nodded. Ella King had an eye for color. I’d bought one of her scarves as a gift for my friend Lise in Boston. Even though it was hand knit, it looked like something that had been woven. “So Susan liked Ella’s work. No offense, Mags, but I don’t see how you went from that to her stealing something.” I gathered the glasses and took them over to the sink.
“She went back to those scarves at least half a dozen times that I saw. She handled them a lot and she—” Maggie stopped and turned to face me, holding one dripping plate in her hand. “She was acting furtive, looking around all the time as if she was trying to see if anyone was watching her. And yes, I know how out of character that sounds, but that’s what happened.”
“I believe you,” I said.
Maggie set the wet plate in the sink. “At the end of the day we discovered there was a scarf missing.”
“You had a store full of tourists. Are you sure one of them wasn’t the thief?”
“That’s what we thought,” Ruby said. “We’ve never had a shoplifter before, but it happens. A couple of days later I was working, Susan came in again and I noticed the same thing with her and the scarves as Maggie had seen. At the end of that day we discovered two placemats and another scarf were gone. It was very quiet. No busloads of tourists.”
I glanced at Maggie, who nodded.
“If Susan wanted a scarf, she could buy one,” I said.
Ruby shrugged. “As a former semi–juvenile delinquent, I can tell you that swiping things isn’t always about not being able to pay for them.”
Maggie had finished rinsing the plates. She took the glasses I was still holding.
“So why did Nic and Rebecca make your suspect list, aside from the fact that they were at the shop both times the thefts happened? It has to be more than just the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Well, Nic was just plain acting weird,” Ruby said.
Maggie nodded in agreement.
“Weird how?”
“He worked with me,” Ruby said, leaning against the worktable. “And his shift was after Ray’s so he overlapped a little with Maggie. He kept going over to the shelf where the scarves and the placemats were displayed, and he was looking over his shoulder as though he thought he was being watched. He seemed really nervous.”
I turned to Maggie again. “What about Rebecca?”
“Rebecca was just like Nic and Susan. She wasn’t acting like herself.” Maggie made a face. “I know that I said this about Susan, but Rebecca was acting furtive as well, glancing about a lot, standing by the display, and fishing around in her bag.”
I didn’t know what to say. The description didn’t sound like Rebecca, but then again what Maggie and Ruby had described about the other two didn’t sound like Susan or Nic, either.
I glanced at my watch again. “I need to head back,” I said. I gave Maggie a hug. “Thank you for lunch. I promise I’ll call you as soon as I talk to Susan.”
Maggie tipped her head in the direction of the cinnamon rolls. “Thank you for those, and for . . . everything.”
I nodded. “Anytime.”
“I’ll walk down with you,” Ruby said, reaching for her jean jacket. She turned to Maggie. “Thanks for the pizza. I have a couple of things to do but I’ll call you later.”
Ruby and I headed down the hall. “You’re coming with me,” I said once we were on our way down the stairs out of Maggie’s earshot. I didn’t frame the words as a question.
“Look, Kathleen, it’s not that I don’t trust you,” Ruby said, stopping one step above the turn landing. “It’s just that . . . I’m head of the co-op board now. It was my decision not to call the police and I’m okay with that. But I still need answers.”
“I understand,” I said. “If the same thing had happened at the library, I’d feel the same wa
y.”
It had stopped raining, I discovered when we stepped out into the parking lot. “Are you taking your car or do you want to ride with me?” I asked. I gestured toward the nearby side street. “I’m just parked over there.”
“I’ll come with you, if that’s all right,” Ruby said. “I’m going to the store after and I can walk there from the library.”
“It’s fine with me,” I said. “There’s lots of room in the truck.”
I looked toward the water. The dark clouds were already thinning, and I could see bits of blue sky breaking through. The rain was over. My left wrist, which was a pretty good predictor of wet weather since I’d broken it, didn’t ache anymore.
“I forgot to tell you that I have a meeting at the hotel tomorrow,” Ruby said as we started up the hill to the truck. “I’m hoping they’ll be interested in putting together a room package for tourists who are coming for the workshops.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said.
The library and the artists’ co-op were teaming up to offer a weekend workshop called “The Art of the Doodle” in September. The library was hosting a talk on the popular art form along with an exhibit of doodle art and books. The co-op was offering hands-on workshops at both the store and the library. Even though we hadn’t made an official announcement since we were still firming up details, word of mouth was getting around and I was surprised by how much interest there already was.
“Eric is interested in offering a breakfast special for the participants. He should have some options put together for me next week.”
“That would be great.” Ruby smiled. “Those are the kind of small extras that I’m hoping will sway people who might be on the fence into coming.”
We’d reached the truck, and as I unlocked the passenger door, she patted the front fender. “I can’t believe this thing is still working.”
At one time Ruby had driven the identical mate to my truck. Mine had been a gift from Harrison Taylor for helping him find his daughter. Before that I’d walked everywhere since I’d sold my car when I left Boston for Minnesota. I’d spent my first few weeks in town wandering around exploring, which is how I’d stumbled on Wisteria Hill, where I’d found Owen and Hercules. Or more accurately, where they’d found me.
Ruby raised an eyebrow. “How long are you going to keep driving it?”
“Probably until it falls apart,” I said, sliding on to the driver’s seat. “It’s a good dependable truck and it has a lot of sentimental value.” I ducked my head for a moment. “And would you think I’m crazy if I say Owen and Hercules really like it?”
She shook her head. “That seems like a perfectly valid reason to me.”
I headed down the hill, thinking that since the lunch rush was over, I should be able to make a left turn on to Main Street. The streets that ran from one end of town to the other all followed the curve of the shoreline so it was almost a straight line back to the library.
The brick building sat on the midpoint of a curve of shoreline, protected from the water by a rock wall. It had a stained glass window that dominated one end and a copper-roofed cupola complete with the original wrought iron weather vane.
The Mayville Heights Free Public Library was a Carnegie library that had been built in 1912 with money donated by philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. It had been restored and updated to celebrate the library’s centenary. I’d come to town to supervise the renovations and taken the head librarian job permanently when they were finished.
Abigail Pierce was at the circulation desk when we got inside, rimless reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she went through a list of book requests. Along with working at the library, Abigail had a second career as a children’s book author.
“Any messages?” I asked.
She shook her head. “None.” Then she eyed Ruby’s hair. “I like that color,” she said.
Ruby smiled. “Anytime you’d like to try it, let me know.”
“Seriously?” Abigail said.
“Absolutely.” Ruby wiggled her eyebrows. “I think a green or navy streak in the front would look good on you.”
Abigail smiled back at her. “I may just take you up on that.”
“Is Susan upstairs?” I asked.
Abigail shook her head. “She’s over in nonfiction shelving books.”
“I just need to talk to her for a minute and I’ll be back to relieve you.”
“Take your time,” she said. “I’m just going to sit here and try to imagine myself with the Incredible Hulk’s hair.”
“Better his hair than his skin,” I said.
Ruby and I found Susan in the 590s sitting on the floor, rearranging a shelf of books, a shrimp cocktail fork and what looked to be a paper-wrapped straw stuck in her updo. I wondered where the straw came from. It hadn’t been poked in her hair when I’d left the library to head for Riverarts.
She smiled at me over her black cat’s eye glasses. “Hey, Kathleen,” she said. “This shelf let go again. I think it was the clips so I got some new ones from the workroom.”
“Thanks,” I said.
It had to be a mistake, I thought. I couldn’t come up with any rational explanation for Susan stealing a couple of scarves and some placemats from the co-op store. It was just too out of character.
Susan reached up and pulled the straw out of her hair. “Weirdest bookmark yet.”
“Where did you find it?” I asked.
“In a book about hyenas,” she said, indicating the stack of books beside her on the floor.
“Someone used a straw for a bookmark?” Ruby said. “Seriously?”
“That doesn’t even make my top ten list of strangest things I’ve seen people use to mark their place in a book,” I said with a grin.
Ruby tipped her head to one side and regarded me with a skeptical look. “No, no, no. You can’t say that and then not give me the details.”
I laughed. “Okay. There’s the usual stuff, napkins, squares of toilet paper, ribbons, paper clips, et cetera. I guess the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen used as a bookmark was a snakeskin.”
“You’re making that up,” Ruby said.
I shook my head. “I swear I’m not.”
“She isn’t,” Susan said, waving the straw for emphasis. “I remember the snakeskin. It was between the pages of a book on vegetarian cooking.”
Ruby laughed. “Okay, now I know you’re messing with me.”
I put my hand over my heart. “I’m not. Librarian’s honor.”
Susan got to her feet and poked the straw back in her hair. “What’s up?” she asked.
“Susan, were you at the co-op store on Tuesday?” I tried to keep my tone light and nonaccusatory.
She nodded. “Uh-huh. That was the day those two buses of tourists stopped in town for lunch.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I walked a bunch of them over to the store, and then since I had a bit of time before I had to be back here, I stayed to look around for a few minutes.”
“What did you look at?” Ruby asked.
Susan reached over and straightened a couple of books on the shelf closest to her. “What’s going on?” she said.
“Do you remember what you were looking at?” I said. “It’s important.” From the corner of my eye I saw Ruby looking at me, but I kept my focus on Susan.
She looked puzzled, two frown lines pulling her eyebrows together. “Sure, I remember. I was checking out those scarves that Ella made, the multicolor knitted ones that look like they were done on some kind of loom. They’re beautiful.”
She stopped and the color rose in her cheeks. “Wait a second. Did you think I was trying to steal one of them?” She looked at Ruby, eyes wide, a mix of surprise and embarrassment on her face. Before Ruby could answer, Susan had turned to me. “That’s it, isn’t it, Kathleen? I was in the store three or four times
in less than a week looking at those scarves.”
“Why?” I said.
Susan didn’t answer. She’d already turned back to Ruby again. “Ruby, I’m sorry,” she said, twisting the hem of her lime green cardigan in her fingers. “I didn’t think how it would look to someone else. I swear I didn’t take anything.”
“Why were you so interested in those scarves?” I asked gently. “You’re not really a scarf person. Why did you keep going back to look at them?”
“Kathleen, do you remember when Abigail tried to teach me to crochet?” she said.
Ruby’s eyes narrowed, and I gave an almost imperceptible head shake, hoping she’d take that as a cue to stay quiet.
“I remember,” I said.
Susan had tried to teach herself how to crochet, and when her efforts had quickly gone downhill, Abigail had stepped in to teach her. That hadn’t worked so well, either. Everything Susan had tried to make had ended in a tangled ball of yarn, a lot of frustration and a few words that weren’t usually in a librarian’s vocabulary.
Susan shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m trying to learn to knit,” she offered, her cheeks turning pink.
“Oh,” I said. “Ummm, how’s it going?”
She rolled her eyes. “How do you think it’s going, Kathleen? I was a disaster with one crochet needle. It’s twice as bad trying to knit with two.”
“Crochet hook,” Ruby said.
We both looked at her.
“You crochet with a hook, not needles.”
“See?” Susan exclaimed, holding out both hands. “I don’t even know what the stuff is called.”
“So why do you want to learn to knit?” I said.
She gave me a wry smile. “For Eric. Did you know he makes my breakfast every morning?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t.” Eric Cullen, who owned and ran Eric’s Place, was a great cook and an all-round good human being. His breakfast sandwiches were one of my favorite ways to start the day.
“He makes all our bread and granola and salad dressing.”
“You think he’d adopt me?” Ruby asked.
Susan laughed. “I want to make something special for him. Something with my own two hands.” She looked at me. “You’re right that I’m not a scarf person but Eric is. I wanted to knit one for him but the truth is I suck at knitting. I kept going back to look at Ella’s scarves because I was trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. But that’s all.” She shook her head. “And for the record. I still don’t know.”
