Death of a Crafty Knitter (15 page)

Ruby raised her eyebrows. "You think they'll have a vote and then stab you to death with all their knitting needles?"

I guffawed. "I'll get a friend to come, so the club can't hold a trial while I'm in the washroom." I batted my eyelashes. "What are you up to tonight?"

"I've got a date with a pilot." She reached across the table and patted my hand. "But I'll be thinking of you! I hope the killer's not in the knitting club, but something tells me it's a man." She eyed the printed bio for Bernard Goldstein. "Maybe he snuck in and out of town without anyone seeing him."

"I don't know, Ruby. If he was an old Hollywood friend getting her to invest in his project, you'd think he'd want her alive."

"My gut tells me he's involved, though. Look at that photo. Look at the eyes. There's something very disingenuous about him."

"Bernard Goldstein," I said. "That's a very nice yellow tie you're wearing. It practically screams I'm-a-nice-guy-not-a-killer. Why the bright tie, Bernard? What have you got to hide?"

The photo didn't answer.

I would have to ask Voula's friends.

Chapter 14

Ruby was in
no rush to kick me out, plus she seemed as interested in the case as my father had been, so I stayed for another pot of tea and made some calls to the members of the Misty Falls Crafty Knitters Club.

On the phone, I fudged the truth by saying I was a "new friend" of Voula's. The statement was justifiable, sort of. Our first and only meeting had resulted in me loaning her the masquerade mask, to cover her smeared makeup, and that was something a friend would do. Perhaps if she'd still been alive when I'd arrived at her house, it could have been the beginning of a friendship… once I got over my annoyance about her researching my ex-fiancé's name.

The first two phone calls went smoothly. If her knitting club friends thought I was responsible for her untimely demise, they hid it well. They seemed to be a tight-knit group (pun intended!), because the third person I phoned was expecting my call.

"What shall I bring to the wake?" the third woman asked.

"Uh…"
The wake?
I stammered for a moment, caught off guard.

"How about a deli tray?" the woman suggested.

"That would be perfect," I said. "Do you need my address?"

"Oh. Sure. Hang on, I'll get a pen." I heard some exaggerated shuffling of papers. This woman already had my address from one of the others, but we both played along out of politeness.

I made calls to a total of twelve women. All of them said they would be there, at my house, at seven o'clock.

I told Ruby the details, and then used her washroom so I could get right to errands and preparing for the wake.

The wake.

What kind of an Irish person was I, to have completely overlooked the obvious? Of course tonight's knitting club meeting wasn't just any old meeting—it was always meant to be a wake, of course. The only change was that now I was hosting.

An Irish wake is not so different from the death traditions of other cultures, especially now, in modern times. We don't typically lay out the body in the home of the deceased anymore, but there are traditions people keep up because they offer comfort. The true gift of ritual is that you have a blueprint, a guide for what to do next when you're in grief and can't think for yourself of what to do next.

I didn't know Voula Varga or her tastes, but I did know where to find the best whiskey in town. I loaded my car with supplies, and then drove by my father's, to borrow a clay pipe and some tobacco. It was unlikely the women would partake of that, or help themselves to a pinch of the snuff, but I would do my part and make my Irish ancestors proud.

The Crafty Knitters
would be arriving at seven o'clock. I got so worked up over being a good hostess that I nearly forgot
why
I was hosting.

Jessica stopped by at four o'clock with folding chairs from her apartment, and she asked, "Remind me again, why are you doing this?"

I'd already caught her up on recent events when I phoned about borrowing the chairs, but it was taking a while for everything to sink in—for her, as well as me. I'd gone from witness to investigator in a single day.

I explained, "To find out more about Voula's connection to this Hollywood producer guy. I've called his office in California, but I keep going straight to voicemail. They must be taking a long holiday."

"Couldn't you just ask her friends over the phone?"

"Sure, but this is about getting a feel for Voula and her interactions with people. The more you know about the victim, the closer you get to the killer. If you can walk in their shoes, the clues start to pop out."

Jessica tossed her red hair over her shoulder as she moved the standing lamp over to the corner to make more space for the folding chairs we were setting up.

"I don't want you walking in victim shoes," she said. "Promise you'll go straight to the police with whatever you find out."

"They'll get their information." I snapped two more chairs into their seats-down position. "Eventually."

I looked up to catch her rolling her pretty blue eyes.

"You'll do anything to annoy Tony Milano, won't you? Just leave him alone already."

I bristled at the judgment in her voice. Jessica was one of the few people who knew about my brief fling with Tony, so many years ago, and lately she'd been getting weird whenever his name came up. There was something she wanted to say about my friendship with him, but she wouldn't spit it out.

"You should have heard him this morning," I said defensively. "The way he was talking about women knowing their place, it was offensive. I should have thrown my drink on him, but you can't do that with coffee."

"Too hot?"

"Too wasteful. I buy the good stuff, you know."

"I've never thrown a drink on anyone," she said.

"Me neither." I checked the time on my phone. "We still have a few hours before people get here. Should we pour some drinks and toss them on each other, to let off a little steam?"

Jessica laughed and then sneezed. With a plugged-sounding nose, she said, "Let's wait until the guests arrive and put on a drink-tossing show for them before the food fight. Every good wake needs some entertainment."

We both laughed over this as we finished setting up the chairs. Jessica kept sneezing, though, and by five o'clock she was raiding my medicine cabinet for cold medication. She'd had a successful Polar Bear Dip the day before, earning her ten-year pin, but she'd also succumbed to a cold that must have been lying dormant.

She swore she'd be fine to stay for the wake and be my protection against the crafty knitters, but by five thirty, Jessica was asleep on my sofa, snuggled under a red chenille throw and a warm, gray cat. I checked the bathroom cabinet and discovered she'd taken the nighttime cold medicine, even though there was a brand-new bottle of the daytime version.

I knew exactly what had happened.

She knew darn well which version was which, but didn't want to crack the seal on the new bottle—not that cough syrup would go bad once opened, but some people are funny that way, and will only accept something if it's already opened. That's why you're supposed to open the bottle of white wine as well as the bottle of red for your dinner guests, so they pick the one they really want rather than politely accepting whichever one's already open.

I let Jessica snooze, and when she was still an immobile lump on my sofa at ten minutes to seven, I gently relocated her to the guest room. I got her tucked into the guest bed, and she thanked me by kissing the top of my hand. Strange, but cute. And germy. I immediately washed both hands with antibacterial soap.

My doorbell rang as I was drying my hands. Jeffrey hid, because he didn't like the chimes. I ran out to answer the door, pausing to turn around the mirror by the entryway table. I'd remembered to stop the clocks and turn the other mirrors, but this one had evaded me.

I could hear, through the door, some of the women talking. The sound was muffled, but a woman with a strident voice said, "If this Stormy Day woman is the thirteenth, she should be told. It's what Voula would have wanted."

The thirteenth? Of what?
There were twelve women in the knitting club. Twelve wasn't the sort of number that set off any alarm bells in my head, but thirteen was. Were they witches? Was the knitting group actually a coven?

I pressed my ear to the door, hoping to hear more, but it was just a jumble of voices as more people arrived. Someone knocked on the door, their knuckles rapping loudly over my ear, and I jumped out of my socks.

Once I'd scraped myself off the ceiling, I put on a welcoming smile and opened the door to the Misty Falls Crafty Knitters.

Crafty Knitters… and
Possibly Witches.

Chapter 15

My top suspects
for witches posing as crafters were Barbara and her sister, Denise. They both had straight black hair, which I knew was a stereotype for witches, but even stereotypes come from somewhere truthful.

These two had also been at Voula's table on New Year's Eve.

From the moment she stepped into my house, Barbara had taken charge of all the activities, moving chairs and rearranging the trays of food without asking me. She even scolded Jeffrey for trying to steal a slice of ham—not that he didn't deserve the scolding, but it didn't seem right. Worse, Jeffrey took Barbara way more seriously than he ever took me. He was so frightened by her hissing and her waggling finger that he slunk out of the room like he was packing a hobo bag and never coming back.

Like Voula, Barbara was an imposing figure of a woman, tall and angular, with her straight black hair cut on a crisp asymmetrical angle. Her sister, Denise, was the shorter, softer version. Both were in their sixties, but Denise did an unusual thing that made her look like a schoolgirl—she covered her mouth with her hand almost continuously, like she had something to say but wouldn't let it out.

Barbara, however, had no problem talking. She led the readings from the Bible, and I couldn't go to the kitchen for a glass of water without her at my heels, asking in her loud, strident voice what I was doing and how she could help.

Eventually, I used her eagerness to get her away from the group for a private discussion, leading her downstairs to the laundry room on an errand to get more napkins. I knew the napkins were on a top shelf, behind the extra laundry detergent, but I took my time, pretending to be searching around.

"Were the two of you close?" I asked Barbara.

"Who?" She seemed surprised by my question.

"You and Voula."

"Oh. No, not really." She looked around my dark basement with suspicion, like it might contain reptiles, which made me imagine beady eyeballs lurking in the shadows.

"I thought you and your sister were close to her. Didn't I see you at the Fox and Hound with Voula?"

"Yes, but she wasn't the sort of woman who let people get close. You had to
pay to play
, if you know what I mean."

"Pay to play? Oh, you mean all the psychic consultation mumbo jumbo."

"Mumbo jumbo? No." Barbara gave me a deathly serious look, her large brown eyes bulging and glossy under the light of the single bulb overhead in the laundry room.