“Who are they for?” Hudson asked her while we all complimented her.
She looked surprised at the question. “They’re for me, of course.”
Of everyone in the circle, she was the only one who was knitting for herself.
Eileen Crosby stopped to rub her knuckles. “Oh, this arthritis. I’m determined to keep up my knitting, but in the cold weather I do feel it in my joints.” She turned to Joan Fawcett, whose walking stick was hooked over the back of her chair. “You’re a fellow sufferer, I presume?”
Joan Fawcett shook her head. “No. It’s an old injury. I had a terrible fall when I was seventeen years old. I’ve never fully recovered.”
“Oh, how awful,” Mabel said. “Was it in the war?”
Mabel had been turned during World War II. I’d warned her about referring to things she shouldn’t be old enough to remember. I glared at her, but she was gazing at Joan Fawcett with interest, and I could tell she was ready to launch into stories about the 1940s. I caught Clara’s eye and watched as she gently kicked her friend in the ankle.
Mabel jumped, glanced at Clara and then at me, as she realized what she’d done. She looked guilty. If she hadn’t been a vampire, I know she would’ve blushed.
Joan Fawcett also glared at Mabel. “In the war? What war? I am eighty-two years old, not a hundred and two.”
“No. Of course not. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“And what are you working on, Lucy?” Eileen asked. I was grateful to her for turning attention away from Mabel’s blunder. I was working on a bright red scarf. In truth, I had quite a few projects that I had begun and not finished for one reason or another, mostly because I made a mess of them. It was usually easier to abandon the project than to try and fix my own knitting. But I had high hopes for that scarf. It was done all in the same wool, and if I was careful, I could manage the stitch. I held it up. “It’s a scarf I’m making. The stitch is called the cat’s paw.” It was supposed to be easy. It was an eight-row pattern that repeated, and when it was done, the result would be a beautiful lacy-looking wrap. The vampires were always knitting me beautiful things, and for once I wanted to knit something for my grandmother. Since she’d joined the undead, Gran had become a great deal more stylish, and I thought she’d be thrilled to receive something I’d knitted myself. It wouldn’t be as flawless as what she and her friends could make, but I knew she’d treasure the scarf just because I had made it for her.
We all began knitting in earnest. Even Sarah finished her burger and fries and pulled out the sweater she was making for her husband. Priscilla Carstairs said, “I began making small pieces when I was on stage. There might be an hour between when I was dressed and made up and when I was called. I could have a small bag with me in the green room. A larger knitting bag was simply too cumbersome.”
“How exciting,” Clara said. “Were you an actress?”
We all looked at Priscilla, probably trying to trace the likeness to someone we might have seen on stage or screen. Priscilla smiled, somewhat condescendingly. “No, dear. I was a prima ballerina.” She said the words slowly and with pride as though making sure even the deaf among us would know of her accomplishments.
Sarah sighed. “I always wanted to be a ballerina.”
Priscilla laughed softly. “Every little girl wants to be a ballerina. Most don’t have the discipline or the talent.” She glanced at Sarah as though her gaze alone would make it clear that poor Sarah had neither. “I remember an early teacher of mine at Miss Adelaide’s Dance School used to demonstrate my turnout for the rest of the class. Of course, to be a dancer, a girl needs extensive training as well as the right build. But what separates the prima ballerina from the girl in the back row of the corps de ballet is hard work. Discipline. Constant practice.”
She shook her head. “Many a girl wishes to be a ballerina, but very few will see their dreams come true on stage.”
Eileen looked at her, pausing with the pale blue cashmere wrapped around her finger. “I imagine there’s also a certain ruthlessness involved, too, in getting to the top.”
“Oh yes, indeed.” Priscilla chuckled in a slightly evil way. “Oh my goodness yes. It may look like it’s all tutus and bouquets of flowers, but it’s the hard-hearted ones who survive. Good girls finish last.”
We knitted on. Eileen told a story about little Henry waving his arms about when he saw his mother. Sarah talked about how well they were doing in marriage counseling and that her husband had promised to start helping with the dishes—if one of his favorite programs wasn’t on TV. Since he seemed to be addicted to everything from the EastEnders to Peaky Blinders to The Great British Bake Off, I wasn’t confident he’d be doing much dish-washing, but Sarah seemed hopeful and so I tried to be hopeful too.
I was counting stitches very carefully, determined I wasn’t going to screw up this scarf. I wanted it to be as close to perfect as I could manage for my beloved grandmother. My shoulders were so tense from concentrating and probably holding my needles at the wrong angle that I was getting a pain between my shoulder blades. I didn’t want to look uncomfortable in front of people who paid me for knitting supplies, so I glanced surreptitiously at my watch. Good. It was close enough to tea time that I could put down my work without creating suspicion that I wasn’t tearing myself away from my favorite hobby.
I got up quietly and plugged in the kettle. I had teacups and saucers all ready, a silver mound of teaspoons and the tin of cookies along with a jug of milk and a sugar pot. I’d bought Christmas napkins too. I couldn’t believe it when I discovered napkins that featured Christmas sweaters on them.
I fussed with the cups, putting a teaspoon on each saucer until the kettle boiled, then I made tea in the big Brown Betty. It needed a couple of minutes to brew, so I sat back down and picked up my knitting again. At least I’d been able to ease the kink between my shoulder blades.
I had the wool around my finger and I was just hooking it around the knitting needle, ready to knit a stitch, when the lights went out. There was no warning, no flickering. One minute I could see, and the next minute we were plunged into darkness.
4
Someone gasped. It was so dark I couldn’t see my knitting in front of me. In fact, I couldn’t see anything at all. “What’s going on?” Sarah, I thought, cried out.
“Don’t worry,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “The power’s gone out. It happened this afternoon. It will come back on again in a minute.” I had no idea why I said that. It wasn’t as though I had a secret line into the workings of whatever government department was in charge of lighting Oxford. However, I felt that since this was my shop, I should sound as though I were confident power would soon be restored. “In the meantime, I’ve got a flashlight and some candles somewhere.”
The candles were my witch ones. I had been practicing lighting the wicks without the use of matches. However, I didn’t think having candles spring magically to light while I recited a spell would soothe the already nervous knitters sitting here in the dark. I could hear shuffling and somebody coughing. Scrabbling noises, as, no doubt, women were looking for their handbags so they could pull up the torch app on their smart phone.
Suddenly, there was an almighty crash and the sound of breaking china. Then someone screamed. An older woman. Joan? Priscilla? cried out, “I’m burning. Aaagh. I’m burning.” One scream led, naturally, to another, as though there were a screaming virus and all the knitters succumbed.
“There’s something on my feet. It’s wet. I think it’s blood!” This was Sarah.
“It’s not blood,” Hudson said in a soothing voice. “It’s probably tea. You heard the crockery breaking.”
I felt like screaming myself. It was like being in the middle of a horror movie. I was plunged back to the fears of childhood, thinking monsters were hiding under the bed, ready to pounce as soon as the lights went out. Only the lights were out, and it felt as though bad things were happening.
There were strang
e noises. Six panicked people’s breathing sounded loud, and whoever was burned was definitely in distress, crying and moaning.
Naturally, I’d left my phone upstairs. I’d have to find my flashlight and some matches to light the candles with. I got up and felt my way to the wall. I bumped into someone and had to bite my lip to stop myself from screaming and running for where I thought the doorway might be.
The person I bumped into let out a startled cry, then said, “Is everyone all right?” It was Eileen’s voice.
“No. I’m burned. I think the tea spilled on me,” said Joan. I recognized her voice now that she wasn’t screaming.
Oh, no. This was very bad. I flailed around in the dark until I felt the curtain. I was just pulling the fabric aside to go out into my front room where the candles were kept when suddenly the lights came back on.
It was almost as disorienting as when we’d been plunged into blackness.
I turned back to see that everyone was in their seats. Even Eileen was just sitting back down. The table was standing, but most of the cups and saucers had been knocked over, as had the teapot and kettle and the tin of cookies I’d made myself.
“That took me back to my childhood,” Clara said, picking up her knitting once more. “Of course, that was before electricity.”
Oh, perfect. There was Clara, now, doing the very thing I had warned her not to, reminiscing about a time far in the past. Luckily, Mabel was quicker-witted than I was. She laughed gaily. “You’re not that old. I suppose next you’ll tell us about how you used to play in the sand when the dinosaurs ruled the earth.”
I heaved a sigh of relief. Nodded gratefully to Mabel. Clara looked somewhat abashed, returning busily to her sweater.
I surveyed the damage. About half the teacups were broken, but I had lots more upstairs. There was also another teapot, more milk and sugar. I even had extra cookies. “I can soon clear all this away,” I said. “Do you all still want tea? It won’t take a minute to make it again.”
“I can help clear up,” Hudson said, getting to his feet.
“I’ll have tea and a biscuit,” Sarah said, putting a hand to her chest. “I think I need it for the shock.”
“Yes, tea would be lovely,” Eileen agreed.
Joan held out her arm, and I could see her sweater dripping. “I’ve already had one cup thrown all over me. I’ll drink the next one, thank you very much.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said instinctively. “Is it very bad?”
“Hurt like the devil at the time, but it’s not too bad now.”
“But how did the tea get knocked over?” Clara asked. “I didn’t get up. Did one of you?”
We all looked at each other. No one said anything.
I glanced around, wondering why no one wanted to admit to knocking into the tea table. It wasn’t as though they’d get in trouble. My gaze landed on Priscilla. Her head was bent forward, and her hands lay in her lap with her finished ornaments and the half-finished snowflake, but she wasn’t crocheting.
As I looked at her, I got a very strange feeling. Whether it was my witch senses or my normal human ones, I wasn’t sure, but the feeling was bad, as though something cold and slimy was balled in my chest. I took a step toward her. “Mrs. Carstairs?” Nothing. “Priscilla?”
She didn’t react when I called her name the second time any more than she had the first.
I glanced around the knitting circle and found that everyone was staring at Priscilla Carstairs.
I went closer. I didn’t want to touch her in case she’d fallen asleep. Maybe she was one of those people who could doze off the minute the lights were turned out. So as not to startle her, I squatted down onto my haunches at her feet so that I could look up into her face. I’d intended to call her name again, but the words got stuck in my throat.
A very strange sound came out of my mouth, sort of a hiccup, a gasp and a scream all rolled into one. Her eyes were open, and she appeared to be staring right down at me, but her gaze was glassy.
Her mouth was also open, and I could see a pair of black felt Santa boots just at the edge of her lower lip as though Santa had mistaken her throat for a chimney and dived down headfirst to deliver presents. I cried out, loudly this time, “Priscilla?”
Nothing.
I glanced around, and everyone in the room was staring at me now, looking as shocked as I felt. I didn’t know what to do.
“What’s happened?” Joan asked. “Has she fallen asleep? Has she had a fit?” She leaned forward. “Perhaps a stroke? Ask her to lift her arms above her head. That’s a good way to tell if someone’s had a stroke. Also, we must get her to speak and see if her speech is slurred.” She paused. “There are other signs, but I can’t remember them.”
Hudson, who probably had an IQ in the millions, said, “That’s right. FAST is the acronym. F for face. Is their face drooping on one side? A is for arms. Can the person lift both arms over their head? S is for speech. Is it slurred? And T is for Time. Which means, if those symptoms are present, it’s time to call an ambulance.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s a stroke.” I glanced around, looking up at them all from my crouched position. “She’s got Santa stuck in her throat.”
“What?” Hudson put down his knitting and came closer, as though having trouble believing me. And who could blame him? He bent his tall body way over to have a look, bending like a coat hanger. Eileen came and crouched beside me. The spilled tea had pooled around the chair legs, and a broken piece of china had landed in the middle of it, floating like a tiny boat.
“She’s choking,” Eileen said. “We must help her. Pull it out.”
No one seemed anxious to put their hands into Priscilla Carstairs’s mouth. Including me. However, it was my shop and my knitting circle, so apparently this was my problem.
Honestly, I’d rather have picked up live tarantulas, danced the tango with a cobra, kissed a toad …
I reached forward. Gently, I tugged on Santa’s boot, but nothing happened. The jolly red elf was completely stuck. I didn’t think Priscilla was choking. I suspected we were already in the past tense, but I couldn’t step away and not try to save this woman. I thought back to the first-aid course I’d taken in college. “Heimlich maneuver.”
I barely remembered how to do it, but I should try. Hudson looked a lot stronger, and his height would help. Maybe he could do it. Then I saw Clara and Mabel exchange glances. Clara said, “I think it’s a bit late for the Heimlich maneuver, dear.” She shook her head. “There’s no heartbeat. Her blood is not pumping.”
Vampires have an incredible ability to smell out humans. Some of them are like sommeliers with fine wine—they can identify a human’s blood type if they’re close enough, so I wasn’t surprised to discover that they could also sense whether the blood was pumping as it did in life or if the blood had stilled.
As it did in death.
5
Still, I wanted to be sure. “Are you saying she’s…?”
Clara nodded. “Dead.” Then, as everyone was looking at her, obviously wondering how she could tell that from across the room, she said, “I was a nurse.” Please don’t say in WWI. “In—” Then, seeing my face, she said, “In a hospital. Death has an expression that is unmistakable.” Then she said, in a funereal tone, “I’m so sorry.” As though we were grieving family members.
“But that’s impossible,” Sarah said. “She was crocheting a beautiful white snowflake just minutes ago. Who dies in the middle of crocheting a snowflake?”
I had to agree. It didn’t make sense.
Even though I believed Clara, I still reached for Priscilla’s wrist and felt for a pulse. As I had feared, there wasn’t one. It was creepy that her skin was still warm. A shudder went over me as I realized that this woman hadn’t forced that Santa down her own throat. She’d been murdered right in front of me. Right in front of all of us.
Nyx was standing on the ground looking at the dead woman. Eileen said, “I bet it was that c
at. She probably thought those ornaments were cat toys.”
Nyx looked at me, her golden eyes glowing. I knew how she felt. We always thought of witches being the only victims in witch trials, but their familiars had also been persecuted. I didn’t like the way this conversation was going. “Nyx would never hurt anyone,” I said. “Besides, are you suggesting that my cat forced a knitted toy down this woman’s throat?” Okay, my cat was extremely special, but not that special.
“Well, Priscilla Carstairs didn’t mistake her stuffed Santa for plum pudding, now, did she?” Eileen said.
Sarah’s forehead crinkled. “If she’d choked on a knitted candy cane, it would’ve made more sense.”
I straightened up to standing. “I’d better call the police.”
“The police?” Eileen sounded alarmed. “But surely you should call an ambulance. A doctor. The woman was fine not ten minutes ago.”
“The police will send an ambulance. But it’s too late to revive her. I’m afraid Clara’s right. Priscilla Carstairs is dead.”
“But it was an accident. Must have been.” She looked around at everyone in the room. “We were all here. It’s not like anyone could sneak in and kill the woman. The lights were only out for a few minutes. We’d have heard the front door and known if a stranger had come among us. There’s only one way in, through that curtain, and we would’ve known if anyone came in.”
I didn’t dare look at Clara and Mabel. There was another way in. And if a vampire had wanted to come among us, none of us humans would’ve been able to hear him. Or her.
But I didn’t think a vampire had done this. Why would they?
And as I looked around from face to face, I realized that one of the people I was looking at was a killer.
There was a knock at the front door of the shop. We all startled and looked at each other. “That must be the police,” Hudson said.
Six Merry Little Murders Page 20
