Maggie Sefton

by Knit One, Kill Two (lit)

  Just then, she heard the front door’s jangle and Lizzie’s birdlike soprano voice and Hilda’s rich contralto in the foyer. Right on time, she thought. Sure enough, Hilda sailed into the room like a cruise liner—tall, substantial, impressive bulk. Lizzie followed in her wake, skimming the water like a sailboat, darting and quick to respond to the wind’s whim. “Good morning, ladies,” Kelly greeted them both.

  “Ah, good morning, Megan, Kelly. Still laboring on that practice piece, I see,” Hilda observed as she steamed past.

  “Good morning, dears,” Lizzie chirped as she floated by.

  “Morning, Hilda, Lizzie,” Megan replied.

  “Lizzie, when you have a minute, could you help me with some of my stitches?” Kelly asked.

  “Surely, dear,” Lizzie agreed. “Let me get Hilda settled, and—”

  “I’m fine, Lizzie,” Hilda decreed. “Go help Kelly.”

  “Well, if you’re sure, dear.” Lizzie set her knitting bag, fabric bag, and purse on top of the library table and started to draw up a chair.

  “Why don’t we go into the café and have some tea, all right? That way we won’t be distracted by Hilda’s class. Megan, you’ll excuse us, won’t you?” She deliberately caught Megan’s gaze and winked.

  Megan glanced to Lizzie then said, “Absolutely. I have to go back and work as well. See you later.”

  “What particular problem were you having, dear?” Lizzie asked as Kelly led her to the café.

  Choosing a quiet table in an empty corner, Kelly offered Lizzie a chair and settled in herself. “Well, to be honest, Lizzie, I think I’m doing pretty well with my stockinette. Take a look and tell me what you think.” She handed over her misshapen practice piece.

  Lizzie observed the stitches with a professional eye, checking both sides of the piece—knitting and purling sides. “Very good, dear. I can see where you got the hang of it, so to speak, and your stitches improved.”

  “Thank you,” Kelly said, feeling the flush of accomplishment. “Coming from you that’s high praise.”

  “Flattery, flattery,” Lizzie dimpled.

  Kelly signaled a waitress over. Jennifer was scouting property this morning for her real estate office, apparently. Just as well, Kelly thought. She wanted privacy for this chat. “Tea, Lizzie?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you, with cream and sugar,” she told the waitress, showing another dimple.

  When the waitress scurried off, Kelly set her knitting aside and leaned forward slightly. “Actually, Lizzie, I have other questions I’d like to ask you. Not about knitting at all, if you don’t mind?”

  “Why, certainly, dear. What is it?”

  “I was paging through Aunt Helen’s yearbook last night, and I couldn’t help noticing your picture there, too. You were in the same class, right?”

  Lizzie beamed. “Yes, we were. We both were graduated the same year. In fact, Helen and I shared several classes together. She was clever with math like I was. Sometimes we were the only girls in the class.” Her eyes lit up in amusement.

  Better and better,Kelly thought. “That’s wonderful, Lizzie, because I’m trying to find out everything I can about Helen’s last year in high school. The people she knew, what groups she joined, who were her friends, and all that.”

  Lizzie cocked her head. “Why are you asking, dear? Do you think it has something to do with her death?”

  Kelly smiled at Lizzie’s perceptiveness. “Perhaps,” she hedged. “I’m simply trying to look everywhere I can for information.”

  “Well, of course, I’ll be glad to help. What would you like to know?”

  “Did she have a lot of girlfriends? Anyone close to her?”

  Lizzie closed her eyes. “Not really. Helen always kept to herself. Almost aloof. I admired that quality in her. She always looked so . . . so self-contained.” She gave a wry smile. “And of course, that quality never sits well with the popular girls. They like to think every other girl is jealous of them. So when they see someone who isn’t, well . . . they tend to get mean-spirited.”

  “So, Helen wasn’t one of those popular girls you’re talking about?” Kelly moved her arm so the waitress could serve their tea and coffee.

  “No, indeed. Helen seemed in her own little world most of the time.”

  “You two were friends, weren’t you?” she asked when the waitress left.

  “I’d say we were acquaintances. We went to the same church, so our families knew each other, but Helen and I didn’t really even talk much until high school. That’s when we shared classes together.”

  “Were you one of those popular girls, Lizzie?” Kelly ventured with a smile.

  Lizzie dimpled and blushed at the same time, clearly delighted to be considered. “Oh, my gracious, no! I was never one of them. Why, Hilda and I weren’t even allowed to date. Oh, no. Papa was much too strict for that. And having boyfriends was absolutely required for those other girls. They were always whispering and giggling and telling tales about all the boys and each other, of course.”

  “Did they talk about Helen?”

  A devilish smile teased Lizzie’s mouth. “Oh, yes. It used to infuriate them that the boys paid so much attention to Helen when she didn’t pay attention to them. Helen had this way about her. Ohhhh, it was hard to define . . . she was saucy without actually flirting. But it was fascinating to watch her. She didn’t lead them on, like the other girls. Helen was smarter than that.” Lizzie gazed at the white porcelain teapot, obviously reminiscing.

  Kelly was just as fascinated by Lizzie’s vibrant recollections of her high school years. Clearly, those were golden years in Lizzie’s mind, enshrined forever. Kelly was struck once again that Helen held such an important place in the memories of both Stackhouse and Lizzie. Her aunt clearly carved out a niche for herself on her own terms.

  “Was there any boy she paid particular attention to?”

  “Well, she would walk to and from class with that handsome Curtis Stackhouse practically every day. You know, I believe I spied Curtis at the Wool Fair when we visited. And he’s still a handsome man.” Lizzie gave an appreciative nod, as if judging a fine wine.

  Kelly grinned. “I saw him yesterday, and you’re right. He’s still a handsome man and a successful rancher now. He also remembered Helen.” She left it at that.

  Lizzie perked up. Her pink hair ribbon bouncing on her neat silver hairdo. “Well, I’m sure he did. That poor boy worshipped the ground Helen walked on. Wore his heart on his sleeve, too. That used to drive those other girls wild. One of them, Julie Fisher, had her cap set for Curtis, but he wouldn’t give her the time of day.” Lizzie giggled.

  Surprised again at Lizzie’s observations, Kelly decided to probe a little deeper. “So, Curtis Stackhouse was Helen’s boyfriend, then. You said they walked to class every day, and he worshipped her.”

  “Oh no, dear,” Lizzie corrected, wagging her head. “I’m sure Helen liked Curtis, but she didn’t love him. He was simply a decoy, so no one would notice the boy she really loved.”

  Boy, Lizzie didn’t miss a trick, Kelly thought in admiration. “Who was that? Do you know?”

  Lizzie lifted her dimpled chin proudly. “I most certainly do. I saw them kissing behind the library. Lawrence Chambers stole Helen’s heart. Poor girl. She knew he belonged to another.”

  Kelly stared in surprise. She wasn’t expecting that answer. “ What?Lawrence Chambers? Her lawyer?”

  “One and the same.”

  Kelly wagged her head in amazement. “Brother, Lizzie, you missed a career in journalism. You should have been a reporter. I’m impressed.”

  Lizzie blushed in pleasure at Kelly’s praise. “Thank you, dear, but Hilda and I were destined to be school-teachers. Papa said so. And he was right. We were excellent teachers.”

  “Let’s get back to Lawrence Chambers, okay?” Kelly picked up the thread. “What made you think he ‘belonged’ to another?”

  “Well, it was common knowledge. Lawrence was from an old establishe
d and very wealthy Fort Connor family. He was already pledged to Charlene Thurmond. She was the daughter of his father’s oldest friend and business associate, Henry Thurmond. I heard they’d been promised to each other as children.” Lizzie shook her head sadly. “Poor Helen. She was just the daughter of sugar beet farmers, and not very successful ones at that. She never had a chance. But Lawrence loved her. There was no doubt about it. I could tell by the way he gazed at her in class. I’d catch him watching her in algebra.”

  Kelly sat quietly, sipping her coffee while her mind churned. Chambers. Lawrence Chambers. She’d never have guessed. Recalling the stark high school photo of an owlish, homely Chambers peering out from behind huge glasses, Kelly had to marvel. Judging from Lizzie’s account, Helen could have had any boy she wanted. In fact, she had a heartbreakingly handsome young cowboy following her around like a puppy. Yet she spurned them all for the bookish and unattainable Chambers.

  Helen had always referred to him as her oldest and closest friend, Kelly remembered. Close was right. That explains the tremendous care and concern Chambers had always demonstrated toward Helen. And it explained his intense grief at her death, Kelly thought, recalling his emotional reaction in his office.

  Or, did it? Kelly stared into her empty cup, as a niggling little thought wormed its way from the back of her mind. What if upstanding and trustworthy Lawrence Chambers was deliberately misleading her? Perhaps that emotional distress was cleverly designed to deflect further scrutiny? Clearly, Chambers had secrets to hide. Was he afraid his position in the community would be jeopardized if Helen’s story got out? Helen would never reveal it, Kelly was certain.

  Perhaps it’s not about the story, the niggling thought whispered. Perhaps it’s about money. Lots of money. Helen’s property is worth a lot of money now. And Martha’s, too. In fact, Martha’s property could be worth a great deal if there’s oil and gas beneath. And who was it that suggested the land be tested for minerals and other riches? Chambers.

  Kelly recalled Martha’s comments the day before she died. How Chambers was ‘taking care of everything.’ What if he had been surveying all of Martha’s subterranean wealth and Helen found out? What if she felt betrayed and threatened to reveal his scheme? Had Chambers murdered Helen and Martha for their land? Did he try to run Kelly down on the trail to get her out of the picture or, at least, out of town?

  Kelly set her cup back into its saucer, letting her thoughts settle as well. The image of frail-looking Chambers riding a bike at top speed would not come into focus. She was beginning to go in circles now, and all the theories were running into one another. She needed to sort through them all, to see which ones deserved further scrutiny and which ones made no sense.

  “Do you have any more questions, dear?” Lizzie inquired. “If not, I need to check on Hilda’s class. I’m in charge of copying patterns for everyone, and I think it’s that time.” She checked her watch.

  “Oh, definitely. Thanks, Lizzie, you’ve been a great help,” Kelly said, pulling some bills from her wallet and dropping them on the table. “I really appreciate your openness. And your memory is simply fantastic. I still think you’d have made a great reporter.”

  “Oh, hush, dear,” Lizzie said with a giggle and a little wave as she walked toward the shop doorway.

  Kelly gathered her things and headed back to the shop’s main room. The library table was deserted, which suited her just fine. She needed time to think about Lawrence Chambers and all those theories that swirled inside her head. What better way than to use Mimi’s method? She’d knit on it.

  Pulling out her ever-expanding practice piece, Kelly picked up the stockinette where she left off. Knitting the remainder of that row, she purled the next, getting her rhythm back. In the adjoining room she heard the sounds of Hilda’s class dismissing themselves and noticed several students wander into the room, checking pattern books and yarns. She was comfortably settled in and feeling positively meditative, until a loud voice shattered her peaceful state.

  “Good heavens, girl! Are you planning to make a blanket of that thing?” Hilda boomed from across the room. Kelly jumped in her chair and dropped a stitch.

  “Darn it, Hilda, don’t scare me like that,” she exclaimed, annoyed that her peaceful interlude had been interrupted. “You made me drop a stitch.”

  “Let it join the others. Surely you don’t plan to use that piece,” Hilda said as she came to stand beside Kelly’s chair.

  Kelly could feel Hilda’s penetrating gaze and wondered how she could be considered such a good teacher. Did she intimidate her students into succeeding?

  “Of course not,” Kelly protested, not a little defensive. “I told you this is my practice piece. I’m practicing stockinette so I can—”

  “Good Lord, girl, you’ve practiced enough,” Hilda decreed, and reached over to yank the piece from Kelly’s hands.

  So shocked at Hilda’s quickness, Kelly just stared at her for a few seconds. “Hilda!” she cried. “I was in the middle of a row!”

  “Your stockinette looks fine,” Hilda decreed, examining the stitches much as Lizzie had done. Then, to Kelly’s amazement, Hilda whipped out a pair of small scissors and snipped the length of yarn that attached the piece to the remainder of its skein.

  “ Hilda!” Kelly protested, ignoring the students who were hiding their laughter behind pattern books. “Do you treat all your students this way?”

  “My students don’t need prodding. You do. It’s time you started your sweater.” She dropped the forlorn practice piece on the table.

  “What?!” Kelly protested. “I can’t do that sweater yet. It’s too . . . too complicated. It has a pattern . . . and . . . and I’ve never followed a pattern before.”

  “You can read, can’t you?” Hilda peered overtop her spectacles, her pale blue eyes hawklike.

  Kelly couldn’t believe it. She’d fallen into the clutches of the Nazi Knitter. Where had helpful Hilda gone? She managed to scowl back. “Patterns are different. They look strange. All those little lines and squiggles.”

  “That’s only because you’ve never done one before. Everything new is strange at first. You simply need to choose a simple pattern. Come with me.”

  Hilda turned smartly on the heel of her industrial-strength nurses’ shoes and headed toward the other room where all the new sweaters and tops were dangling from ceiling and cabinet doors and draped across shelves. Kelly gave in and followed after.

  “Now, look at all you have to choose from,” Hilda said, gesturing to the multitude of yarns spilling from crates and piled on shelves. “You need something to build your confidence, Kelly. I suggest you choose one of those bulky knit yarns you used so successfully with your scarf. We’ll find a simple pattern, and you’ll have a sweater before you know it. Then, you’ll be ready to tackle that sweater you’re pining for.”

  Kelly stared at Hilda, shocked at the clever suggestion as well as her uncanny read of what was causing the hesitation. The suggestion resonated within, but pride reasserted itself. Kelly wasn’t going to capitulate that fast, so she forced a frown, even though her fingers were itching to dive into the crates and start touching.

  “Wellllll . . .” she demurred.

  “Stop stalling, girl, you know you want to do it.”

  Rats. Hilda was outsmarting her at every turn. Kelly wasn’t used to that, but she gave respect where it was due—albeit grudging. “How long would it take to do a sweater with these yarns?”

  “Not much longer than it took to knit your scarf. You remember how fast that went, don’t you?”

  Kelly nodded.

  “And how proud you felt when you finished? And how—”

  Kelly held up her hand. Only total capitulation would satisfy Hilda. “Okay, okay, you’ve convinced me, Hilda. I’ll make the sweater. Brother, you’re relentless, you know that?”

  “I pride myself on it.” Hilda said, and Kelly could swear she detected a twinkle in that stern gaze. “Now, look up there. See the sweate
rs with the larger pattern? They were knit with those yarns. Tell me which one strikes your fancy, and I’ll find the pattern.”

  Kelly scanned all the sweaters that were displayed, searching for a simple design. She found it hanging in the corner. A sleeveless shell with wide neck. No scalloped edges to maneuver, no fancy edging. No frills, just row upon row of neat stockinette top to bottom. Plain and simple. “How about that one,” she chose, pointing to the light pink creation.

  “An excellent choice. Now, you choose a yarn you like while I find the pattern,” Hilda ordered before she headed for the pattern books.

  This time, Kelly eagerly complied with Hilda’s instructions. She dove into the bins, squeezing and stroking yarns fat and thin. Obediently concentrating on the chunkier wools, Kelly found some of the variegated yarns she used for her scarf. But these were spring colors—pale azures, cool lavenders, and minty greens.

  Eyeing the sweater once more, she noticed how even the stockinette looked and realized the chunky yarn that was so perfect in her scarf would not yield the same effect in the sweater. She needed an even thickness all over this time. She began to plunder other bins of solid colors—creamy oatmeal, lime sherbert, cherry parfait.

  Caressing the pudgy bundles she noticed the different feel and checked the label. She was surprised to see that it was a blend of cotton and merino wool. Checking the tag that dangled from the sweater, Kelly saw that it was also a cotton blend. That settled it in her mind.

  She grabbed four skeins when Burt approached. “Hey, Burt,” she said, noticing his worried expression. Not him, too, she thought, bracing herself for another lecture.

  “Do you have a minute, Kelly?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  Kelly sensed it had to do with Helen. “Certainly, Burt. Why don’t we talk while you spin,” she suggested, heading back to the main room. She dropped the roly-poly bundles of cherry parfait onto the library table while Burt settled at the spinning wheel in the corner. Kelly grabbed a pattern book and spread it out at the end of the table.