“That doesn’t seem fair,” Emily said.
“And then, two years ago, Joan brought up the incident at one of our meetings and found out that Patrick the firefighter had been Hazel’s husband. She’d had no idea because Hazel doesn’t talk about him. Don’t you see?”
I was pretty sure I was staring at her, my mouth hanging open. “Joan brought up a twenty-three-year-old story?”
“It was a twenty-one-year-old story then,” Irene said. “Look, we talk like pinballs whipping around a pinball machine when we get together. One thing leads to another, most of it unimportant. It’s just chatter and free association. Besides, when you’re seventy-five, twenty-one years isn’t that long ago. The point is, Joan or one of the others must have remembered that story and used it in the ornaments. It’s the only thing that explains the chicken.”
I exhaled and shook my head in bewilderment. “Um, okay. That’s kind of sad.”
“Joan insisted she had no hard feelings. It wasn’t her house, so I believe her. But she said Evelyn probably did harbor resentment. She loved that dog.”
“Dredging up the past like that,” I said. “It’s so weird and . . .”
“The word your hunting for is vindictive,” Irene said. “Our friend, our ornament-giving friend, has no sense of forgiveness, and she’s been hiding it these many years.” She pointed her forefinger toward the kitchen. “Your kettle is starting to whine.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said, motioning for Irene to stay while I headed into the kitchen. I poured hot water into a teapot, over a mound of plain Ceylon tea, then carried a tray with cups, a strainer, and the pot into the living room.
“Three expensive cups,” Irene said. “My, my. Bone china, too. Looks like it, anyway.”
I set the tray on my coffee table, sat once more, and said, “Just say they’re lovely, Irene, and leave it at that.”
She made a contrite face. “Yes, of course. I need to learn that.”
I had to laugh. Seventy-five and she needed to learn how to talk to people without insulting them. But at least she knew she insulted people and was good enough to admit to it, and that was in her favor. Anyone who was truly cruel wouldn’t recognize her own cruelty or give a fig about it.
“We’ll let the tea steep a minute,” I said. “Tell us about Joan’s schoolhouse ornament.”
“That was easy to work out too, once I put my mind to thinking like a ruthless killer,” Irene said. “Hold on to your hats, because this incident goes back thirty-eight years, to when Joan was a teacher and caught Carla’s son Marvin and two other boys breaking into the school.”
“Your knitting buddies need a life,” Emily said. My friend loathed pettiness, and for both of us, holding a decades-old grudge was the definition of pettiness.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Irene said. “May I have my tea? My mouth has gone dry.”
I poured her a cup, waited for her to take a drink, and then encouraged her to go on. This was getting fascinating.
“Joan was working late at Smithwell Elementary School when she heard someone breaking the glass in a back door. She stayed hidden—not knowing it was just kids—and called the police. Marvin Moretti and his two friends were caught stealing. Small stuff, but stealing nonetheless. They were ten years old, and the police took them to the station in hopes of making a lasting impression. Scaring them straight and all that.”
“And did it make an impression?” I asked.
“More on Carla than Marvin. I don’t think she’s ever recovered from feeling ashamed and insulted.”
“Let me guess,” I began, pouring Emily her tea. “Carla recently found out that it was Joan who had been inside the school that night and called the police on her son.”
“Joan’s last name wasn’t Simms back then,” Irene answered. “A year ago, while talking about her schoolteacher days, she mentioned she was Miss Fulton in those days. Carla made the connection, told Joan that Marvin Moretti was still Marvin Moretti, and the rest is history. Of course, Joan knew all along who Carla Moretti was, but she honestly thought the incident was water under a very long bridge. It didn’t occur to her to hide her maiden name.”
I poured myself some tea and took a long sip, mulling over what Irene and the other knitters had told me. What a tangled mess of clues. Most of the knitters seemed to have offended one or more of their friends, and most of them seemed to have a motive—if all this nonsense spelled motive—for killing.
“Wait just a second.” I set down my cup. “Would Hazel, Irene, Birdie, or Carla actually murder Phyllis because her eggnog gave them food poisoning four years ago? That’s the part that boggles my mind.”
“She ruined Hazel’s best knit caps—the ones she was going to enter into competition,” Irene replied. “Hazel swore Phyllis got sick and aimed, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Emily said.
“And Carla and Birdie got terribly ill,” Irene went on. “We should have taken Birdie to the hospital.”
“But murder, Irene?”
“I know what you’re saying, but I think we’re discussing someone who can’t forgive and forget. Who knows what runs through the mind of such a person? Over the years, some small and unforgiven offense grows and becomes a mountain. That’s what happens. Look, there’s no real reason for anyone to have killed Phyllis, but someone did. One of my knitting companions is a murderer.”
I nodded. “And it’s no good judging motives from our perspective. Whatever the motive is, it looms large in the killer’s mind, and that’s what matters.”
Irene leaned back on the couch, crossed her legs, and seemed to study her teacup. “What kind of tea is this? It’s delicious. Creamy with just enough acid to make it crisp and sharp.”
“It’s just plain old black Ceylon tea,” I said. “But well done, Irene. That’s a lovely compliment.”
“I’m making an effort.”
“What about Carla’s red lips ornament?” Emily said, looking from Irene to me. “Wax red lips, you said. Has anyone figured that out? No one’s said anything.”
“That’s because we all know without spelling it out,” Irene said. “Carla hasn’t changed since high school. She was Carla Moore back then. Carla Moore the . . . well, I’ll let you fill in the rhyme.”
“There were women like that in my high school,” I said. “They often turned out to be like every other girl, except that someone had started a whispering campaign against them and the other kids believed it because they wanted to.”
“Carla earned her nickname,” Irene said. “Trust me, I know firsthand. She earned it all the way.”
Speaking of not forgiving . . .
The subject had to be broached. “It seems like you and Carla don’t like each other. Can you tell me why? I’ve noticed a lot of friction, and it could be crucial to the case.”
“I don’t mind telling you,” Irene said. “She made a fool of herself at a Christmas party, kissed my husband, and then talked about it for a month. Carla would say she’d had too much to drink and only joked about it later, but I know Carla, and it was no joke. This was when her husband was ill but still alive. The only whisper campaigns about Carla were ones she started herself. She loves the attention.”
“Why do you stay in the knitting group?” Emily asked.
“Because I like Norma and tolerate the others. Except for Carla. She rubs me the wrong way, and I know she feels the same about me. We manage.”
“You left out one ornament,” I said. “Your typewriter.”
“I think I have that one figured out too. Examining my actions—as harshly as I’ve examined the others’ actions—I pin it down to eight years ago, when I wrote two letters to the editor criticizing the Public Works Department and their shoddy snow removal.” Irene gave me a thin smile and wrapped her fingers around her teacup as though she’d felt a sudden chill.
“I almost broke a leg falling on ice,” she continued. “Phyllis’s husband headed the department at the time,
and my letters, which were thorough and detailed, struck a chord with the town. There were questions asked, and her husband didn’t receive an expected promotion. Instead, he retired by the end of that winter, at age sixty. He drove Phyllis crazy at home and he died at sixty-three.”
“Were you ever told that your letters were the reason he retired?”
“No one had to tell me. I thought they were the reason, and more important, Phyllis thought so too.”
“What about the other ladies?” I asked.
“They were on Phyllis’s side. You know me well enough now to understand why. Oh yes, I’m Irene Carrick, the booklet and letter-writing witch of Smithwell.”
CHAPTER 8
When Irene left, she drove for Norma’s house, hoping to get there, say hello, and make an exit before Hazel arrived with Norma’s dinner. I had wanted to ask her about Birdie’s ornament, and how it might be connected to any of her knitting friends, but I figured that could wait for a later time. With what I now knew, I had more than enough information to mull over—and to try to put in some kind of order.
“You can come out now, Minette,” I called.
Almost before the words had left my mouth, Minette was in the living room, hovering between Emily and me as we piled teacups on the tray.
“She does move with the speed of a jet airplane,” Emily said. “Doesn’t it shock you, Kate?”
“Not as much as it used to. I saw a hummingbird last August. It was smaller than Minette”—I held my thumb and index finger two inches apart—“but it shot straight in the air, fast as a NASA rocket.”
“I love hummingbirds,” Minette said.
“What about seagulls and hawks?” I asked, half jokingly.
“They can be dangerous.”
“Good thing they stay out of the forest.”
“There are other dangers in the forest, Kate.”
“Squirrels? Badgers? Wombats?”
When Minette didn’t answer, I turned and set the tray back down on the coffee table. She was sitting silently on the back of Michael’s chair, next to the fireplace.
“Not squirrels, badgers, or wombats,” I said. “Has something in the forest threatened you? An animal? Why do you look so afraid?”
Minette stared at me, her tiny mouth refusing to open. Somehow I’d wandered onto a painful subject and, not meaning to, made light of it.
“I didn’t mean to make fun,” I said. “Forget what I said.” I wasn’t going to urge her to tell me what was frightening her while Emily was here. As I carried the tea tray into the kitchen, I called, “If you and Emily had to guess, who’s our killer?”
“Mean Irene,” Minette said, buzzing her wings as she followed me.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m making fun, Kate. Like you.”
“I suppose I deserved that.”
“Wombats,” Emily said, walking past me to the sink. “The forest can be a frightening place for someone Minette’s size.”
“I know that.” But I sensed Minette’s size had nothing to do with it. And neither did squirrels, wombats, raccoons, deer, or myriad other animals of the woods. This something that frightened her was otherworldly—or at least not part of the human world.
“I don’t think Birdie can stay awake long enough to kill someone,” Minette said, settling atop the refrigerator.
Emily chuckled.
“And she’s not faking it,” Minette said. “I can tell. She’s tired a lot.”
“You’re right, and she’s off the list,” I said, taking a seat at the table.
“So is Norma Howard,” Emily said. “Don’t you think?”
I hesitated.
“She didn’t drive to Phyllis’s house with a broken wrist, make tea, and then poison her,” Emily insisted.
“We don’t know when Phyllis was killed.”
“You don’t really think—”
“No, it’s just that those bearings . . . I wonder if there’s something else going on. Poison, depending on what it is, can be a pretty sure thing. Ball bearings aren’t. Whoever left them on her floor couldn’t even be sure Norma would fall, let alone die in a fall.”
“But Norma got up in the night, and her kitchen was dark.”
“And Irene knew that when Norma couldn’t sleep, she got up to eat. I’m sure all the knitters knew.”
“Irene and Norma seem especially close. Irene wouldn’t have—”
“No, but would Joan? Joan was angry with Norma. She called her a pig, which I’m sure is why she received a pig ornament.”
Emily gaped at me.
“I forgot to tell you that part.” I recounted Norma’s story about the yarn they both liked, and how Norma had scooped most of it up for herself.
“Those women are tough!” Emily said. “I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of any of them.”
“They’re all unforgiving,” I said. “Except maybe Norma. What a jolly Christmas, huh?”
“Which reminds me.” Emily strolled into the living room, and I followed, thinking she’d picked up on another clue.
“Where is it?” she said, turning back to me, hands on her hips.
“Where is what?”
“Don’t play dumb. Where’s your Christmas tree?”
Behind me, Minette squealed with delight. “How I love them!” She barreled past me and did a mid-air somersault a few feet from my face. A brightly lit evergreen in the safety and warmth of a living room. Of course Minette loved Christmas trees. I was sorry now, a little, that I hadn’t considered her feelings and forced myself to put one up. But I didn’t have the heart.
“Christmas is two days away,” Emily said, “and there’s no tree, wreath, lights, anything. I know where you can get a small tree, even this late.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“You must, Kate,” Minette said.
“I’m going to get it right now,” Emily said as she went for her coat. “Don’t forget dinner tonight with Laurence and me.”
“Emily, don’t get a tree.”
“You can’t stop me.” She strode for the door.
Minette squealed again. “Yes, Emily!”
“Fine, fine.” Relenting, I waved her out the door. I was out of arguments. Minette would love the tree, and I supposed that was reason enough to let Emily get one.
“It will be pretty, Kate,” Minette said.
“Emily does a great job decorating.”
She tumbled again—a forward, airborne somersault aimed for my face—then floated gently to the end of my right shoulder. “Why don’t you do a great job decorating? Why? Is it because—”
“Yes,” I said softly, looking over at her. “Michael died on the twenty-fourth of December last year. I took our tree down on Christmas Day.”
“Kate, Kate. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I should have put a tree up. I just wasn’t in the mood.” I forced a smile. “Emily will get the perfect one, and I’ll keep it up until January. You can sleep in it, if you want. I’ll stick a nest of some kind in the branches—or maybe a teacup. But right now, we have a murder to solve. I’m afraid mean Irene and the others are in danger.”
Tiptoeing toward me and clutching my hair with her tiny hands, she stood. She was soft and light on my shoulder, with all the weight of a small bird. “What do we do now?”
“We need to find out more about the knitters’ pasts. I want to know about Birdie and that potato farm.”
“And Hazel and her chicken husband.”
“We don’t know if he was chicken.”
“And Carla and her red lips.”
“And Joan calling the police on Marvin Moretti. I wonder if Carla thinks her son had a rough start in life because of that.”
“But where do we go to find out?”
“To Thistle and Wool—the yarn shop. I think it’s downtown.” I searched for the address on my phone—it was indeed downtown—and got my coat. “I’m about to do two things I hate doing.”
“Knit and buy ya
rn?” Minette asked in all innocence.
“No. Dredge up gossip and be shifty about my real intentions. In my pocket?”
I put my coat on, Minette slid into the right-side pocket, and I headed out the door for my car.
Thistle and Wool was on Water Street, in an old clapboard house sandwiched between two brick buildings. It was an hour before closing time, but parking was still scarce on the block, and the shop itself was as busy as if it were noon.
For a minute I stood just inside the door, surveying the store and looking for familiar faces. I was in luck—none of the ladies of the Merry Knitters were there. Now I had to get a clerk talking about one or all of them.
I must have looked overwhelmed, because seconds later an older woman wearing a green shirt emblazoned with the store’s name walked up to me, smiled sympathetically, and said, “You look like this is your first time here. My name’s Elizabeth, and I’m the owner. Can I help you find something?”
“I hope so,” I answered. “I’m looking for a gift for Norma Howard. Do you know her?”
“Oh, yes, that poor thing! She broke her wrist, didn’t she?”
“You heard about her accident?”
“Smithwell knitters are a close-knit group.”
I smiled appreciatively at her pun. “It was such a strange accident. I still can’t believe it.”
Elizabeth leaned in, and under her breath she said, “One of her friends did it. That’s what I heard. And then there’s poor Phyllis Bigelow. I imagine you heard about her.”
“I did. The police say she was murdered.”
“I heard.”
Gossip made the rounds fast in Smithwell. “Did you hear about the Secret Santa ornaments they all got?”
“Oh, good gravy, yes I did. Secret Santa, my old foot. But then, there was always a lot of animosity in the Merry Knitters. Not on Norma’s part, of course, but with some of the others.”
“Someone sent Birdie Thompson a potato ornament, which reminded her of the pesticide incident on her father’s potato farm. It was very upsetting.”
“Who would want to dig that up again? No pun intended this time. I’ve known Birdie forever, and she didn’t have any part in that mess. She was only a child.”
Secret Santa Murder Page 5
