Yarned and Dangerous (10 page)

Inhale. Exhale.
No more putting it off. It was time to revisit the storeroom.

The wall switch made an audible click as the overhead light came to life a microsecond later. It was one of those fluorescent fixtures that took a while to warm up, and it was emitting a low buzzing noise that was faintly ominous, like some horror movie killer bee. But there was enough light to see that Lillian was, in fact, gone, and that the boxes she'd been lying on had been taken away, just as Detective Potts had said. That was a relief.

What was not a relief were the boxes and bins that lined the metal shelving units around the room. The Inventory Fairies had not come, and it would take days to get through all this. And now her design career was presumably back on. She needed time to get working on a set of sketches, and she needed them done fairly quickly. Could she hire someone to finish the inventory? The only skills needed were the abilities to sort, count, and record. She couldn't continue to impose on Evelyn for a job of this size. Vaguely, Josie wondered why Evelyn hadn't offered to take over the shop. The other ladies of the Charity Knitters Association all seemed to want it.

A knot formed in Josie's stomach, and she closed her eyes. She could still see Lillian lying there, like an elderly mummy with her arms crossed over her chest and the toes of her sensible shoes pointing up. The cord wrapped around her neck seemed to glow in Josie's memory, emitting a weak blue light. Something about the cord. What was it?

Her eyes flew open. That cord had been made of yarn. Blue, variegated yarn in the colors of the ocean. The same yarn that the scarf Cora had made her was knitted from and the same yarn that she'd pulled out of Cora's desk drawer last night. Josie would bet on it.

B
ut what was Josie going to do about it? Did she
need
to do anything about it? There could be any number of explanations, including the simple, obvious fact that Cora had owned a yarn shop. A shop that
sold
yarn. And Cora could have sold that yarn to anyone in town, or even the occasional out-of-town customer. There must have been at least a few of those.

Josie swallowed hard. Lillian had been murdered, ostensibly having been strangled with some kind of twisted cord made of that distinctive blue yarn. It didn't necessarily follow that the yarn had come from Miss Marple Knits. Unless it was some kind of exclusive product, anyone could have ordered it directly from the manufacturer and had it delivered to her home. Or
his
home. She supposed there were some men out there who knitted.

It could very well be coincidence. But it was a big coincidence.

She could call Detective Potts, or Sharla Coogan. What would she tell them, exactly? That the murder weapon, which they had in their possession, was made of fiber that might have come from Miss Marple Knits? Since this was the only yarn shop for miles around, as far as Josie knew, it stood to reason they'd already be investigating that angle, vague though it was.

But there was one concrete thing that might help. Cora's notebook. If Cora had sold some of that yarn and had recorded the purchaser—well, it still didn't prove anything. Cora had left some of the yarn out at the farmhouse, and she clearly wasn't the killer since she had died weeks before Lillian.

But it might lead the police to evidence. Josie would redouble her efforts to find the notebook, and, as soon as she did, she'd turn it over to Sharla Coogan. Maybe it would help advance Sharla's career.

If I were Cora, where would I put my sales notebook?
Josie scanned the storeroom. Probably not back here. She shuddered. It was dim and creepy. And the crime-scene techs had presumably been all over this space. If they'd found something that listed sales, they would have taken it as evidence.

Same went for the front of the shop. Still, it wouldn't hurt to take another look around out there.

An hour later, Josie put her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. She'd checked everywhere she could think of for a secret or not-so-secret hiding place, even behind the framed movie still of some ancient white-haired actress playing Miss Jane Marple and knitting away.
Skunked
.

Josie checked her watch. Definitely time to get home and feed Eb and the animals, and to make sure there was enough wood carried in for the night. She couldn't just assume that Mitch Woodruff would come over every day and do the heavy lifting. Though it had certainly been nice up to this point, she had to admit.

Her eyes roamed over the shop. What a waste. Even with its contents bagged up, the place still felt somehow inviting, as though it was waiting for its next owner to come in and take over.
You could run this shop yourself.
Where had that thought come from? Josie shook her head. There were about four million and six reasons why she needed to finish up and put this shop behind her, not the least of which was that she had a job in Manhattan—or would have, once Otto gave it back to her—and an apartment waiting for her back in Brooklyn. The city was home. Not this godforsaken town where you couldn't even buy a pair of underwear. She knew. She'd checked at the g.s. when Eb asked her to when she first got here. Lorna had just laughed. “Eb cracks me up,” she'd said, and gone back to her work behind the counter.

So why did Josie feel a pull every time she was here? She'd never known Cora, so it couldn't be nostalgia. Cora's ghost? Josie wrinkled her nose.
Pretty sure that's not it,
she thought.

And then, it hit her. Potential. That's what she was feeling. This storefront could showcase anything, from futons to fishing gear. The lack of a customer base in Dorset Falls wasn't necessarily a handicap in the twenty-first century. Someone with a little vision could easily run an online shop. There was plenty of room in the storeroom, and presumably upstairs, to house inventory. She hadn't seen it yet, but there must be a post office in town, and the other overnight delivery companies must have Dorset Falls on their routes. It wasn't
that
far out of the way.

She shook her head. This was crazy talk. If anybody had wanted to open any kind of shop here, they'd already have done it. A person would have his or her pick of locations along Main Street. They were almost all empty. Whoever owned these buildings would probably kill to get a tenant.

Her guts rolled. Seriously poor word choice. A woman had died here, only a couple of days ago.

“Time to go, Josephine,” she said aloud. If she stayed much longer she'd have nightmares later.

 

Her car's ignition made a grinding noise when she turned the key. It started on the next try, but even with her mostly nonexistent knowledge of car mechanics, she knew something was wrong.
Great,
she thought, checking her watch. Well, Eb could take care of Jethro and Coco, and her great-uncle was hardly likely to starve if she took a detour on the way home.

Josie pulled into a parking lot two streets over from Main. Rusty's Car Repair was located in a low building with a gently-peaked roof. She was relieved. The car had held out until she got here.

A very tall man stood when she walked in. “Can I help you?” His name tag said R
USTY
, and, with his head of thick, bright coppery hair, it was easy to see where the nickname had come from. Unless it was from the mass of snow-covered, probably junk cars she could see through the window behind him.

Josie was five foot six—not tall nor striking enough to model, which was why she'd ended up in fashion design—but she had to crane her neck to look into his face to reply. Man, this guy was tall. He would have had to special order his wardrobe, no question.

“My car has a problem,” Josie said.

He raised his eyebrows. “That's usually why people bring them in,” he said, then broke into a smile that showed a lot of teeth. He was handsome in a rugged way, like the lumberjack on those paper-towel wrappers. Not the kind of man she ever encountered in the fashion business.

Josie smiled back. “The ignition is a little wonky, and the engine is making a funny noise.”

Rusty glanced at the large utilitarian clock on the wall to his left. “I can't look at it today, sorry. My kids have swimming lessons, and it's my turn to take them.”

“Oh, are you Gwen's husband?” she asked. “I met her. When I was a teenager I lived in your house for a couple of years.”

“She mentioned you. You're staying with Eb Lloyd, right? He and Roy Woodruff keep me in business, always pranking each other's trucks.”

At least someone can stay in business in this town,
she thought. “Can you at least tell me if it's safe to drive? I have to get back out to Eb's.”

He stroked his chin, which was covered in a thick stubble a shade lighter than his hair, then tapped something into his computer keyboard with his enormous fingers. “I open early tomorrow. I can squeeze you in if you can leave it overnight so it'll be here when I get here in the morning.”

Great. How was she supposed to get home? Eb couldn't drive, and Evelyn was getting ready for her night on the town. She didn't know what time Lorna got off work. She'd bet her only pair of Jimmy Choos that Dorset Falls did not have a taxi. “I guess I'll have to chance it,” she said reluctantly. “I don't have a ride home, unless you've got a loaner?”

The door opened, and a man walked up to the counter and stood beside her.

“Mitch,” Rusty said.

“Hey, Rusty. Hi, Josie,” he said, giving her a smile. “I was driving past and saw your car parked out front. Everything okay?”

Josie breathed a sigh of relief. “Can I catch a ride home with you so I can leave my car here overnight? Tomorrow I'll take Eb's truck.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “Can you drive a standard transmission?”

Seriously? There were still vehicles with clutches and stick shifts? “I'll figure it out,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

“I'll come over in the morning after chores and give you a quick lesson. It's not hard once you get the hang of it.”

I hope that's true.
Still, she reasoned, if she could manage to survive in New York, she could manage to make a piece of machinery go. Maybe.

Josie placed her keys on the counter and slid them toward Rusty. “You give free estimates, right?” Women—and men—got taken advantage of all the time, and she wasn't exactly made of money.

“There's a fifty-dollar diagnostic fee, but I won't do any work until you give me the go-ahead.”

“Fair enough.” She turned to Mitch. “Ready when you are, oh knight in shining armor.”

He grinned. “Your steed awaits, milady.”

Mitch's steed turned out to be a shiny black SUV with cushy leather seats. Josie sank back and allowed herself to relax as the countryside rolled by. Ten minutes and some comfortable conversation later, Mitch slowed the vehicle.

“I took a different route so I could show you my farm,” he said. “You probably come back from town from the other direction, so you wouldn't normally see it.”

Josie nodded. They passed a couple of ramshackle buildings, at least one of which was a barn made of dark, unpainted wood. A flat area near one of the barns was ringed by a wooden fence. “Oh my goodness!” she said. “Are those llamas?” A couple of dozen fluffy animals in various shades of white, cream, fawn, and gray stood in a huddle inside the enclosure.

“Alpacas,” Mitch replied. “Cousins to llamas. Since I came back to Dorset Falls I've been slowly building my grandfather's herd.” He pulled in to a driveway that wrapped around one of the barns, then rolled to a stop in front of the pen.

Josie leaned forward for a better look. “They are adorable! Look at those ugly-cute faces sticking out from under their big fluffy pom-poms.” She turned toward Mitch. “So this is where alpaca wool comes from. I've inventoried a lot of it in the last couple of days.”

“Wool comes from sheep. The sheared alpaca coats are called fiber.”

“They look pretty . . . full. When do they get sheared?” She had a sudden urge to see the process and to feel some of that fiber between her fingers. Time to nip those urges in the bud. Unless these creatures were being stripped naked in the next couple of weeks, she'd be long gone.

“We shear in the spring. That's why their coats are so thick right now. See Lulubelle, over there?” He pointed toward a fawn-colored animal standing slightly apart from the herd. Lulubelle seemed enormous, a perfectly round ball of fluff supported by skinny legs.

“She's pretty.” Josie mused that if she stuck her hand into that coat, her arm might disappear up to the shoulder.

“She's also pregnant. She's been pregnant for eleven months, so her cria should be born anytime.”

“Cria?”

“That's what the babies are called.”

Josie's heart swelled. “I'd love to see a cria. Though how it could be any cuter than these guys, I don't know.”

“Well, trust me, it can. If the baby comes before you go back to the city, I'll let you know, and you can come see him or her.” He put his SUV in reverse and performed an expert three-point turn, giving Josie one more look at the animals. “And now I should get you back to Eb's. If he's like Gramps, he'll be wanting his dinner.”

When they arrived at the Lloyd farm a few minutes later, Mitch parked and turned to Josie. “I left enough firewood in the box by the stove for tonight. In the morning I'll swing by and bring in some more.”

“You don't have to do that,” Josie said. She felt a little pang of guilt.

“It's no trouble. Eb's a great old guy. Not that my grandfather would admit it.”

Josie chuckled. “Those two are something. I almost feel like we should stage an intervention. Or get them into couples' therapy, maybe.”

“They keep each other going, and it's mostly harmless.”

“Mitch,” Josie said, reaching for the door handle, “why don't you come over for breakfast tomorrow so I can thank you for all your help? I'm not a great cook, but I can manage scrambled eggs and toast.” She picked up her handbag and opened the door into the cold. “Bring Roy if you want.” The offer had to be made, she supposed.

Mitch let out a rich laugh. “What a way to start the day. Roy and Eb sitting across the breakfast table from each other. Don't count on Roy, but I'll be over as soon as I take care of the animals, and I'll give you a ride to Miss Marple Knits so you don't have to drive Eb's truck. You can never be sure Gramps hasn't been tinkering with it.”

Eb wasn't in his usual spot in the velour armchair by the front window, but his newspaper, folded out to the crossword puzzle, lay on the floor. “Unc, I'm home,” she called, but there was no answer. She hung her coat on the rack and left her boots on the mat on the floor, then bent to pick up the paper. A couple of black cat hairs floated to the carpet. Coco must have knocked the paper off the worn arm of the recliner. Josie picked it up and added it to the stack on the dining room table.

What had she been thinking? She'd invited Mitch for breakfast, but where would they eat? There was nothing for it. The table would have to be cleared by morning. In a way she didn't care to analyze too closely, she was rather looking forward to it. There was always something satisfying about cleaning up and clearing a space. Based on the amount of paper and other detritus—Eb had removed his fishing traps, at least—this promised to be a very satisfying job.