Wool Over Your Eyes

by Violet Patton

  My turkey neck waggled, and I stilled the crochet hook. “Threefold?”

  It’d have to be raining crystal balls before I kept the silly thing. “I can’t have witchcraft in my husband’s home.”

  She sighed again and this time I didn’t watch her jiggly boob wave.

  “Have it your way. Not following your true path will get you into trouble. Philly’s awake.”

  My ear caught a rustle, and he coughed. “Dad gum it! You tricked me. If you weren’t sitting in your chair yammering, I would’ve gotten my way.”

  I tossed my crochet rope onto the table.

  Wanda stood. “Here he come’s, act natural. I’m gonna stay for a few more minutes. You must explain the items in the bag. It’s not good to keep secrets from your man.”

  I hissed, whispering. “He doesn’t need to know.”

  “Yes, he does. As long as you are keeping a secret, my mission will never end. Do it for me, would’ya?”

  “No way in H-E-double hockey sticks. I can’t buck my man, never have, never will.”

  She put her hand on the doorknob. “Right. You’ve done nothing but buck. Try giving him a break for a change.”

  I giggled but didn’t say she was right.

  “Either confess or you’ll be answering to task masters who won’t be so easy on you.”

  “Ah-ha! That’s what happened to you. I knew it.”

  Arriving at the Pearly Gates, she had to answer for her sins here in the Oasis. I’m her punishment. I giggled, jiggling my foot.

  She shook her head. “Have it your way. I’m only here to warn you of coming things.”

  Sleepily, Philly opened the door and went to see a man about a horse, ignoring me.

  Wanda had vanished, and I laid the crochet aside, noticing I had made a complete granny square. In shock over my newfound skills, I gazed at the square. How on? I couldn’t remember making the block. Wanda must’ve been here a long time.

  “Hunny Bunny? We gonna have a bite to eat before dominos?” Philly stood over me and his belly rumbled.

  “Sure. Sweetie Bastard, I’ll feed you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Fingerprints and Fiddlesticks

  After a snack to eat, Philly’s cellphone rang, and he glanced at its screen knitting his brows.

  “Hello? Huh-uh. Really. You don’t say. Yeah, I can do that. Sure.” He nodded holding up a finger.

  “Who is that?” I hip-hopped around him like a jackalope on steroids. His skin paled after a few blurted retorts.

  “Somebody’s dead? Aren’t they?” I ran the gamut of Texas people who we knew were near or at the sudden heart attack age.

  I stepped in close to eavesdrop and he pushed me away with his pointing finger. He took a deep breath. “I understand. No problem, Detective.”

  He hung up, eyeing my eyes boring deep into my psyche. “We got a problem. The funny bag of Big Foot hair has your fingerprints on it. And Sissy’s blood.” I knew when I saw the bag lying on Huey’s floor after he shot the kid; there was too much blood to be shotgun splatter. Shotguns pellets embed themselves in your skin if they don’t blow a hole through you first. It was Sissy’s gushing artery blood, and the kid hadn’t found the bag in the dumpster.

  “So?”

  “They want you to come... willingly... down to the station.”

  “What?” My hands flew to my hips, my regular irregular heartbeat fluttered into a heart attack producing panic. “I didn’t kill Sissy.”

  “I know you didn’t. It’s just procedure. Ask a few more questions.” He headed into the bathroom. “Gimme a minute.”

  Now would be a good time for me to catch a hot air current with my bat-wings and fly away. It didn’t matter where I landed as long as it wasn’t inside the Oasis.

  Yikes! I forgot my Trader Joe’s bag.

  Inside the bathroom, Philly talked on the phone. Who did he call? He whispered so I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Tiptoeing, I eased past the bathroom door and into the bedroom. Quickly and quietly, I shoved the whole bag underneath the bed, jumped up and pulled off my T-shirt.

  “I’m changing my shirt. Get outta there. I gotta go, too.”

  Philly flushed, harrumphed and pulled up his britches. Walls were useless in this container; we know everything each other does. Changing shirts covered my tracks hiding my witchcraft gifts. I wouldn’t exactly call them gifts, more like burdens I must hide from my non-believer hubby. If only Wanda hadn’t disturbed me, I would’ve been able to sneak past Philly and get to the dumpster.

  Philly stepped out of the bathroom looking worse than when he went in. “All yours.”

  “Thanks.” I can’t take a chance on my bladder. And, as scared as I am, I might spout an embarrassing leak. It would mortify Philly. It’s bad enough his wife is a killer, but she can’t hold her pee either. I can just hear the …

  I gathered my wits, sat on the toilet dreaming up escape scenarios. I can’t escape, we don’t have a car. How about Uber? I don’t know how to use Uber, and I haven’t seen any taxis in this horseshoe of a town.

  Trapped. I’ll shoot my way out of this mess. I don’t have bullets, but my tongue’s as sharp as a sword.

  I stepped out onto the veranda to find a chariot awaiting the Queen of the Oasis. Mack grimaced and escorted me to his security vehicle. An ensemble of admirers stood on their stoops watching us walk. Philly stood aside blankly staring like he was memorizing my presence. We might never see each other again without bars or Plexiglas between us.

  Squared-shouldered I quietly walked to the running vehicle and sat in the backseat. Ann stood on her veranda with her arms crossed, and I didn’t look for Madonna. Guess my entourage wasn’t going to the police station twice.

  Nice knowing them while it lasted.

  Mack closed my door, and the door locked itself. That’s how it feels going into prison. The doors lock themselves. He climbed into the driver’s seat, put the car into gear and didn’t speak niceties or glance over the seat.

  The police station sounded like a funeral home as we walked into the back door. Criminals don’t use the front entrance.

  Ned Newly nodded, smirking he walked toward me. “Evenin’ Mrs. Winters.”

  Even he thinks I’m guilty. Somewhere in the depths of the building, the axe man was sharpening his axe. All queens eventually lose their heads; I might as well join the club. Losing my head will be clean and swift.

  He opened the door to the gray interrogation room.

  “Ned.” I nodded. The hard metal chair was as cold as it was the first time I sat in it, only difference is I don’t need to pee.

  “Guess you know why you’re back.”

  “Not really. Why don’t you reveal the secret?”

  Ned rubbed his nose. “Okay. They found your fingerprints on a weird bag of wooly stuff at the scene of a crime.”

  “Yep, that’s right. I bought a bag of alpaca wool at Huey’s. He was robbed. Me and Sweetie Bastard just happened to be driving by when the ambulances were arriving.”

  Ned riffled in his pocket producing a pen.

  “Go on.” He tapped the ink pen on the tabletop, fingered and turning it around, tapping it a second time, and a third.

  What was this? Torture? He wants me to confess to killing Sissy. Not gonna happen.

  “Philly was driving real slow gawking at new cars we will not buy. So, I hopped out of Wayne’s truck to check on Huey.”

  “Who’s Wayne?”

  “Philly’s neighbor playmate. We don’t have a car. We’re hitching rides with the Smythe’s.”

  “And they are?” He flipped and tapped the pen.

  “Wayne’s a good ol’ boy from Texas. Alice, his wife, is from Electra, Texas. Ever been there?”

  Ned smirked. “Why did you want to see Huey?”

  “Dunno. You know how some folks chase ambulances? Blood and guts just sorta draws them to it.”

  Ned puckered, astutely catching my ambulance chaser insinuation. “You’re not ta
king this very seriously.”

  I sat back onto the cold chair but did not shiver this time.

  “I am. I’ve already given my statement about the wooly stuff.” If he mentions the Big Foot hair rumor, I’ll bust out laughing. “Don’t know what else to tell you.”

  He tapped the pen, methodically and slowly, a pendulum ticking off the flashing moments of my last taste of freedom. “The detectives want to show you some photographs. Okay?”

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  He stood, taking his torture weapon/ink pen with him and left the door open. Stretching, I flapped my bat wings ready to catch a hot air current. Ten seconds later, he came back with a new guy.

  “Mrs. Winters. I’m Aaron Banks. I’m working on the knitting needle murder case, you might have important information that will solve the case.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “We don’t think you did, but we’re covering all our bases. Know what I mean?”

  “Let’s hit a homer and get me out of this ballpark.” I miss baseball season. The noise coming from the Giants Stadium was another part of San Fran I missed.

  Ned leaned against the wall yawning. I was grateful he had put his offensive pen in his jacket pocket.

  “I know y’all are bored with this situation, but not more than me. What do you need from me?”

  Aaron shot Ned a look, and he nodded. “I have photos for you to look at. Is that okay?”

  “Okay. Get them on the table.” I puffed out my cheeks and blew my angst onto the detective. He pulled glossy black and white photos from a file folder and spread six photos across the table.

  “Do you recognize any of men?”

  I glared at a pair of jokers. “Nope. I don’t know many men in Tucson. Some I wish I didn’t know.”

  Ned came off the wall, clearly impatient. “Mrs. Winters, these are photos of possible culprits to the knitting murder. Can you thoroughly examine them?”

  I rolled my eyes down at the first photo on the table. “I’m telling you I don’t know…”

  The photo gave me pause. Was it one of the kids Wayne hired to demo the carport? I closed my eyes, and if I was religious, I would’ve prayed for help. I picked up the first photo and held it close because I don’t have my reading glasses and laid it on the table.

  All the men in the photos—kids actually—were in their early twenties, unshaven and grubby, dirty like the boys who sawed the shed on the property line. While they worked, they seemed like nice enough boys, but had to be told what to do. No initiative. Certainly not motivated to murder. You can never tell though some loonies cover up crazy better than most.

  Ned or Aaron allowed me time to examine each photo without fidgeting or unnecessarily tapping a pen on the tabletop.

  What do I do now? Was the kid in the photo a worker we hired? Wayne had called them into the gate. I don’t even know their names. Kid One and Kid Two. If I say I think this kid was working inside the Oasis for us, will I be pinning a murder on an innocent person?

  I shuffled the photos and laid them out again.

  “Know one of them?” Aaron asked. He motioned to the photo closest to me.

  “Dunno. Maybe. Tell me what I need to do.”

  Aaron shuffled his feet underneath the table. Ned moved off the wall and leaned back just as fast. Their body language told me they had a suspect, and they were waiting for me to confirm their suspicions.

  “If you can identify one of them, you need to tell us. It might solve the murder.”

  Aaron was careful not to mention Sissy by name.

  “I dunno if I’m right or not. Means I shouldn’t say.” My conscience blared no; don’t say you’ve seen the kid. “Was one of these guys who robbed Huey?”

  Ned’s gaze shifted between me and the photos.

  “We have him in custody. He’s still in the hospital.”

  “Charged with?”

  “Robbery and assault with a deadly weapon.” Aaron sniffed, preparing for more interrogation.

  “Can I speak to my attorney alone?” Just what I wanted, alone time with the pen tapping ambulance chaser.

  “Sure.” Aaron stood, but left the photos and silently closed the door.

  Ned sat. “You know one of them, don’t you?” An excited flush crossed his face, and I nodded.

  “What happens if I pick one?”

  “It would corroborate the other evidence.”

  “It’s the kid who robbed Huey. Who had my bag of Alpaca wool?”

  “Right.” Ned grimaced trying not to grin. From his snipping lip movements, he’s heard the Big Foot hair rumor. He better not utter a word, I’ll fire him in a heartbeat.

  “That one.” I pointed regretting my decision. “He worked at our park model demoing so we could build an Arizona room.”

  There goes the Etsy theory.

  Even if she bought her afghan online, Trudi hadn’t taken her rage to a new level to commit murder. I must make amends to Trudi because I thought she was guilty.

  “Who let him into the park?”

  “Our good buddy, Wayne. Why would the kid kill Sissy over a bag of alpaca wool?” I teared up, finding this whole situation rankling. “Good grief, I sent a kid to prison.”

  Ned stood. “No ma’am, you sent a killer to prison.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Kid One

  I poured Wayne coffee. He and Philly sat at the dinette table wearing glum faces.

  Wayne sat with his elbow on the table, trying not to cry. “You’re positive it was him?”

  I sat the coffee carafe back in the coffeemaker. “Kid One. I’m sure.”

  Earlier, when Mack dropped me at the driveway, Philly and Wayne were waiting, and they were more than a little tipsy.

  “How’d it go?” Wayne said, running his tape measure jokingly in my direction.

  I shot Philly a you better sober up look and climbed the veranda stairs. “Boys, it’s been a long day.”

  Philly snapped into his pernicious straight-back drunk attitude seeing my face and hearing my tone. Explaining in slow measured sentences, I told the boys the gravity of the situation. Basically, we weren’t guilty of murdering Sissy, but we were guilty. Painfully so. I wasn’t joking and laid the news on them thicker than mayo on baloney.

  Wayne turned red and sat on the veranda steps. Then he turned white and teared up. Philly crossed his arms and focused on the concrete cracks.

  Wayne asked, “Do they want to see me?”

  “I bet they will, you hired the kid.”

  Mute, Philly paced stunned by my news.

  I opened the front door. “Kids, I gotta go inside. Can’t hold it another second.”

  When I came out of the bathroom, they sat in Wanda’s chairs. I made coffee while Philly rocked in his chair. Wayne had pulled his ball cap over his eyes and folded his hands over his chest. I let them be until the coffee finished brewing. I put a sleeve of crackers on the table and chopped cheddar off a block of cheese. “Where d’you find them, anyway?”

  Wayne moved to a dinette chair. “Home Depot. Day laborers want work. I didn’t think it’d hurt.” Picking up his coffee mug, his hand shook.

  “You should call Aaron Banks.” I pushed his business card across the table toward Wayne’s elbow. “He needs your information. I already told him you hired the kids. Didn’t know from where.”

  Philly snuffled, shifting over to the table. “What in the world was he thinking?”

  “Dunno. Did you guys say anything to give the kid the idea we were rich, or what?”

  Wayne’s chin fell and his eyelids turned red.

  “What d’you say?”

  “Nothing much. Just how much women spend on knitting those afghans. Time and money.”

  I sat in the other dinette chair. Wayne’s pudgy face had lost its shape as he huddled over his coffee mug.

  “It isn’t your fault,” Philly said. “But we better call them.”

  “No!” Wayne sucked in a lungful of oxygen. “Let me go tell Alic
e. Get the truck and we’ll go together.” Wayne gave Philly a pleading I need your help look.

  “Sweetie Bastard will be glad to help. You need to give your side of the story, too.”

  We had paid those kids cash. Our good hard-earned cash we saved for decades which makes us just as guilty as we would have been if we had group stabbed Sissy with knitting needles. We might not go to prison but we’d serve a long time as not guilty accomplices.

  “Sure.” Philly stood, carried his coffee mug to the sink and went into the bathroom.

  “Guess I’ll go.” Wayne stood, but I put my hand on his arm, stopping him.

  “It’s gonna be okay. We’ll make it through this together.”

  As much as Wayne irritated me, he was a likable fellow, and he was hurting. “Please wait for Philly; he’ll only be a minute.”

  I stood on the veranda watching those two old wounded dogs limp along the furrow. It was tough having to tell them what I learned. Poochy climbed down the steps and I sat on them. She took her sniffing route around the oleander bushes. Leaning my elbow on my knee, chin in my palm; I couldn’t look at the Arizona room. Sissy’s murder will forever taint my queenly bedchamber. If I hadn’t been in such a big hurry to have a room, Sissy would still be alive.

  “C’mere,” I clucked to the puppy when she sniffed along the block wall dividing our lot from the neighbors. “Don’t go too far.” She trotted adorably toward me, tongue wagging, ears flopping with her big feet whirling.

  Across the street, Madonna peered out her door, and I didn’t wave. If she wanted to visit, I would not stop her, but I wouldn’t start the gossip. She shut her door, and I sighed with relief.

  The Oasis was too tight. Crammed together the Others, and I didn’t have enough privacy. You wouldn’t be able to get away with murder living in this community.

  “Hey, watcha doing?” Wanda appeared, oddly sitting on the step beside me.

  I didn’t jerk or feel surprised. If I touched her, my hand would go through her and chatting up an angel felt a bit wonky.

  “Grievin’.”

  “Yes, I heard.” Wanda was without her snaky boa, but still wore her ghostly white negligee with enough cleavage to sink a rowboat full of sailors. “Time heals all.”