Yarned and Dangerous (7 page)

“Well, and of course this is none of my business, and we've barely gotten reacquainted since you've been back. But maybe you're designing the wrong things.” Lorna sprayed something, probably disinfectant by the astringent smell of it, on a paper towel and began to wipe down the counter.

Josie hadn't ever thought about it that way. Maybe she was. But there were more pressing things to address now. “Thanks for the coffee, Lorna. I'll probably be in later for lunch. There aren't any restaurants in this town, are there?”

Lorna chuckled. “Businesses don't tend to last long around here. There's nothing to bring in out-of-towners other than the occasional lost leaf-peeper in the fall. And the locals go to Litchfield or Kent when they want to eat anything fancier than what we've got here at the g.s.”

“I've been meaning to ask. How is it that Cora kept the yarn shop going? The old ladies in this town can't have bought enough yarn per month to make the rent, let alone all the other expenses there must have been.”

Lorna wiped down another section of counter. “Well, Cora had some money. Her first husband was a Margate—they owned the sweater mill, before they sold out in the sixties to new owners who ran it into the ground within a year. The yarn shop kept her busy, and she didn't live extravagantly.”

Josie wondered what a woman like Cora had seen in someone like Eb, but decided it didn't matter as long as they'd been happy for the short time they had had together. Which she assumed they had. Her great-uncle was no Richard Gere, but he had a cranky sort of charm. Maybe Cora had thought of him as a project, same as any ball of yarn in her shop. Something with potential, that could be twisted and turned into something new.

“You'd better get on over to Evelyn.” Lorna nodded in Evelyn's direction. Evelyn was clacking away, rhythmically wrapping a cherry-red strand around one needle and pulling it off with the other. “This is her afternoon to babysit her grandson, so she'll need to be home on time.”

“Thanks, Lorna,” Josie said. “I'll see you later.” She made her way to Evelyn's table and set down her coat and coffee. The older woman looked up, then held up her knitting for Josie to see.

“I couldn't wait to use this yarn,” she said, grinning. “And it's just as lovely as I thought it would be. I don't remember noticing this brand in the shop. Cora must have been holding out on us.”

Josie sipped her coffee. “I saw the crime-scene tape still up across the door of the shop, so I guess we can't get started today.”

Evelyn sniffed. “Oh, please. I said I'd get you in there, and I will. So have Lorna give you a to-go cup for that coffee, and let's to-go.” She put her work, needles and all, into her oversized purse and snapped it shut. What else was in there? Josie wondered. A Mary Poppins–style magic coatrack?

A few minutes later the pair stood in front of Miss Marple Knits. The bright blue door was crossed with garish yellow crime-scene tape. Evelyn didn't hesitate as she yanked down the tape and opened the door. “Sharla!” she called out, and marched inside, bumping the doorframe with her handbag on the way in.

Josie hung back for a moment, but when Evelyn didn't come flying out to land on her backside on the sidewalk, curiosity got the better of her. She peeked cautiously inside.

Evelyn stood talking to Officer Coogan, hands on hips with her bag looped over her arm. Officer Coogan looked toward the door. “Come on in, Josie. Party's just getting started.”

“Now, Sharla,” Evelyn said. “We've got work to do here. So finish up and let us get to it. I'm planning to take Andrew to the library this afternoon.”

“He'll like that,” Sharla Coogan said. “Just don't fill him full of cookies on the way home, will you? He'll be bouncing off the walls and won't want supper, thanks to you.” Her tone was good-natured, and she leaned over and gave Evelyn a light buss on the cheek.

Josie looked from one to the other, mentally calculating the relationship between these two women. “Officer Coogan is your daughter?” Josie shouldn't have been surprised. Dorset Falls was a pretty small town.

“Daughter-in-law. She's married to my son Harrison. But she's like a daughter to me. She'll be making detective soon,” Evelyn said, with obvious pride.

“Thanks, Mom.” Officer Coogan turned to Josie. “We're just about finished up here. The crime-scene techs have been here most of the night. They'll just take a few more photographs, then you can have your shop back.”

Josie chewed her lower lip. “Did they . . . find anything?”

Sharla Coogan assessed her before answering. “They picked up some hairs and lots of fibers.” She laughed, waving her arm around the room. “As you can see, there are literally hundreds of different places that fiber could have come from. It's going to take a while to do the analysis. My guess is that most of the fibers are going to originate right in this shop. Anything they find probably won't be any help at all.”

“Officer Coogan,” Josie said. “I can't stop wondering why Lillian was here.” A thought struck her. “She is . . . gone, isn't she?”

Sharla patted her arm sympathetically. “She was taken away yesterday, and is at the funeral home waiting for her children to get here to make the arrangements. The boxes of yarn she was lying on have also been taken away for analysis.”

Josie blew out a breath of relief. She'd half thought she'd have to figure out what to do with that stuff herself.

“Yarn?” Evelyn leaned forward. “What yarn?”

Sharla considered for a moment. “Well, I can confirm that Lillian was found in the storeroom lying on some boxes.”

“What kind?” Evelyn's eyes had taken on that glint Josie had seen before. Yarn lust.

“Cardboard.” Sharla's lips turned up into a barely perceptible smile. She was teasing her mother-in-law.

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “You're hysterical. Now tell me what kind of yarn it was.”

“Cashmere,” Officer Coogan and Josie said together.

Evelyn nodded in satisfaction. “Perfect. That's how I want to go, too.” Evelyn tossed her handbag a few feet, where it landed with a heavy thud on a nearby armchair. “Can the cashmere be saved? It would be a shame to waste it,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact.

Officer Coogan and Josie exchanged a look. They seemed to have developed some kind of sympatico in the last few minutes.
That yarn would be covered with . . . death cooties,
Josie thought. She shuddered thinking about even seeing it again, let alone running it through her fingers and knitting with it. Or even worse,
wearing
something that had been knitted with it.

“Sorry, Mom,” Sharla finally said. “It's evidence.”

Evelyn shrugged. “Well, it was worth a try. Cashmere is expensive. Now can we get to work?”

“Let me just double-check with the detective in charge. I think you'll probably be able to work out here in the main shop. The storeroom should be almost done.” Sharla turned and walked briskly toward the back.

“I like her,” Josie said. “You must be proud of her.”

Evelyn pursed her lips. “Of course I am. She's a good mother to my grandson and a good wife to my son. But I wish she were a little more forthcoming with information. I have to hear about what's going on in this town on the street, just like everyone else.”

I
t wasn't long before Officer Coogan returned, followed by a middle-aged man of medium height. He wore his dirt-brown hair clipped short, and his reddish mustache thick and long enough that it covered his top lip. His simple white shirt, regimental striped tie, and dark suit left no doubt that he was a plainclothes detective.

“This is Detective Bruno Potts,” Sharla said. “He's in charge of the investigation.”

Potts nodded politely to Evelyn. “Mrs. Graves.”

“Detective.” She nodded back. It was obvious they had some history between them. Josie could only imagine what that might be.

The man stuck out his hand to Josie, and she took it. His grip was firm, but his hand felt . . . unnatural. Her face must have showed her surprise, because he held up his fingers and peeled off a glove, grinning. At least she thought it was a grin, noting that his cheeks moved upward and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. His teeth were hidden under that soup strainer. “Sorry,” he said. “These are clean, don't worry.”

She wished she could surreptitiously reach the hand sanitizer she kept in her purse, just in case. “Josie Blair,” she said.

“Yes, I know who you are.” He pulled a small spiral-bound notebook out of his jacket pocket, along with a ballpoint pen that he clicked on, and began to flip through pages. “Josephine Blair. Great-niece of Eben Lloyd. Eben and your mother's father were brothers.”

“That's right.” At least, she thought it was. She hadn't actually seen a genealogy chart, but seemed to recall her mother's telling her the relationship.

“I ran out of time yesterday, but I still need to talk to both you and Mr. Lloyd. Would you like to do that now or later?” The words sounded like a question, but Josie was pretty sure the correct answer was “now.”

Before she could say anything, Evelyn piped up. “Oh for goodness' sake, Bruno. Leave her alone. She just got into town, and she doesn't know anything. Why don't you stop wasting time and start questioning some real suspects?”

The mustache twitched, and Detective Potts's face went red. He was clearly struggling to hold his temper. “I'm just trying to do my job, Mrs. Graves.”

“I think my daughter-in-law here could do a much better job. When are you going to promote her?” Evelyn folded her arms across her sweater-clad chest and stared at him.

The man squirmed. “Dorset Falls has a small police force, Mrs. Graves. You know that from the town budget meetings. There's only room for one detective.”

“Hmmph. Maybe it's time for a new one. Stop bothering Josie here, and go find out who killed poor Lillian,” she ordered.

“Uh, why don't I go talk to Eben first? I can release the site to you as soon as the techs clear out, which should be any minute now.” As if on cue, two people came out of the back room, carrying containers and briefcases that presumably held their equipment and samples. “Finished?” he said to one of the techs. The woman nodded and exited onto the street.

“So where's Eb? I just need to ask him a few questions, that's all.”

“Eb's not home,” Josie said.

A frown creased the detective's forehead. He consulted his notebook. “Eben's got a broken leg from that car accident he was in. How's he getting around?”

“None of your business,” Evelyn said, her eyes narrowing.

“Oh, it's okay.” Josie smiled. “He's out in the middle of the lake.”

“What?” The detective was clearly confused.

“Ice fishing.” Josie had managed to dodge the ice-fishing bullet this morning. She hoped Eb would get it out of his system before he asked her again.

“How's he getting around?”

“His neighbor, Mitch Woodruff, picked him up this morning and took him out.” Josie would have to figure out some way to thank Mitch for sparing her. She pictured his tall, lean frame. He'd look nice in a dark green Ralph Lauren pullover. Maybe a friend back in the city could find one for him.

The detective's eyebrows rose. “Woodruff, you say? The dead woman's nephew?”

“Well, yes. He's been helping Eb with some things around the farm—carrying in wood, shoveling, that kind of thing.”

Potts wrote something in his little notebook. “So where were
you
between the time you arrived in Dorset Falls and yesterday morning?”

Apparently the questioning had started whether she was ready to talk or not. Evelyn opened her mouth to protest, but Josie held up a hand. “It's fine, Evelyn. I have nothing to hide, and of course Eb and I want to cooperate.” She wasn't actually too sure how cooperative Eb would be, but she'd have to deal with that later. “Let's see. I got into town around noon. I went to the chicken coop and got the eggs, then Eb and I came into town to deliver them to the general store. You can verify that with Lorna.”

“I will. Then?” The pen was poised above the notebook.

Josie recounted everything she remembered, including Lillian's tirade the afternoon before she died.

“She was fit to be tied,” Evelyn added. “Wanted to buy the inventory and take over this shop, said Cora always planned to sell her a share of the business. Complete poppycock.”

“You were here?” the detective asked.

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Of course I was here. How else would I know what she said?”

“Where did you ladies go when you left here?”

“I . . . don't recall. Oh, yes, of course. There was a meeting of the Dorset Falls Charity Knitters Association, which we all attended.”

“You'll need to let me know who was at that meeting and where you met.” The detective's eyes bored into her face.

“Yes, yes, I'll have to think about it and call you later. My memory's not as good as it used to be.”

Interesting. Josie wondered just how often Evelyn played the age card. From what Josie had seen, Evelyn was sharp as a tack. So why was she feeding the detective a heaping helping of . . . poppycock?

“You do that. Miss Blair, I'll be in touch. You can have the store back now.” He closed up his notebook and replaced it in his jacket pocket.

When he and Sharla had gone, Evelyn patted Josie's arm. “Don't worry about him, dear. There's a new police chief in town, and he's probably putting pressure on Bruno to get this case solved quickly.”

“Do you know him well?” Josie couldn't help but ask.

Evelyn
tsked
. “I was his third-grade teacher. He was a brat then, and he's still a brat. Now let's get to work.”

 

Josie set up her computer on the sales counter and was pleased to find an unsecured wireless signal labeled
Bondgirls
pop up when she checked for networks. Where it was originating from, she had no idea, because she didn't see a router anywhere nearby. But why argue? She opened up a new spreadsheet document and labeled the first column
Type of Yarn
. The second column was
Quantity
and the third was
Value.
“Okay, Evelyn. I'm ready to start.”

Evelyn hefted a basket of yarn up onto a table and dumped it out. She began to sort, using some system of her own. Josie was impressed. Evelyn was very efficient. When she finished, the yarn lay in soft heaps of varying sizes, separated by color. “Four skeins of Killarney Irish worsted-weight wool, color natural. Six skeins—”

“Hold on a second. I need another category.” Josie added a column titled
Color,
then entered the information Evelyn had given her.

The two worked steadily for a couple of hours, emptying four of the big baskets and one of the cubbies on the wall. Once the yarn was sorted and inventoried, Evelyn placed the skeins into individual plastic bags, of which there seemed to be a more or less endless supply behind the counter. Evelyn hadn't been kidding about knitters and plastic bags.

Josie stood next to Evelyn and surveyed their handiwork, which consisted of rows and rows of bags along one wall.

“Nothing sadder than empty cupboards,” Evelyn said. “You sure you can't find a local buyer? I'm going to miss this place.”

Josie looked around. “You know something, Evelyn? I think I am too.” She shook her head, trying to ward off a swell of emotion that was threatening to wash over her. “Isn't that crazy? A week ago I'd never even been here.”

“I don't hold with a lot of woo-woo.” Evelyn stared at Josie, her face unreadable. “But Cora put her heart and soul into this place, and friendships were formed around that coffee table.” Evelyn inclined her head toward the front window and the couch and chairs. “When a person knits, they put love into every stitch. Knitting is optional, you know.”

“Optional?” Josie didn't understand.

Evelyn patted Josie's arm again. “Nobody
has
to knit anymore. Clothing is made in factories now.”

“Well, except for couture, of course. That's hand sewn.”

The older woman chuckled. “Okay,
most
clothing is made in factories now. The point is, people knit by choice today, not out of necessity. So they do it because they love it. They love the yarn and the physical act of knitting.” A smile creased her face and made her look ten years younger. “And they love the people they give their knitted items to. Knitters tend to give most of their projects away.”

Josie nodded. She thought she understood. “Positive energy.”

“Whatever you want to call it, Cora had that in spades.”

Once again Josie's heart gave a little squeeze. Why had she never made time to drive up here and meet Cora? It was only a couple of hours' trip. “Cora made me this,” she said, pulling the blue scarf out of the sleeve of her coat, which was hanging over the back of the chair she'd been sitting in. “Isn't it gorgeous?”

Evelyn took the scarf and rubbed it between her fingers, then examined the stitches. “Very nice. I remember her working on this. She said she couldn't wait to meet you someday. Even talked about taking the train into New York some Saturday to take you to lunch.”

“Really?” Tears welled up in Josie's eyes.

“Really. Now don't cry. Cora wouldn't have wanted that, and neither do I, honestly.” She held up the scarf to Josie's cheek. “This is a very nice hand-dyed alpaca and wool blend, and it looks lovely with your coloring. Why don't I make you a hat to match? I seem to recall that brand of yarn being over here.”

She led the way to a cubby closer to the sitting area, then began to paw through the contents. “Hmmm, it's not here. But this is where the alpaca yarns were always kept. I suppose she could have sold out of it.”

“That's all right. It was sweet of you to offer.”

Her face brightened. “I know! Let's check her records and find out whom she sold it to, then we can see if we can get whoever it was to give up a skein or two.”

“Cora kept records of whom she sold yarn to?” Of course, large retailers did it all the time. But it seemed unlikely that Cora had a computerized record-keeping system that sophisticated.

“Yes, of course. In case the customer didn't buy enough to complete the project, then Cora could easily reorder for her. Or him. Of course the dye lots would probably be off, but there are ways to work around that. Now where is that book?” Evelyn began to rummage around behind the counter. “Hmmm, I don't see it. It's a black looseleaf binder with regular old lined paper inside. Nothing fancy. Look for it when you get back to Eben's, will you? She must have taken it home, though I can't think why.”

“I will. And thank you for all your help today.” Evelyn shrugged into her long, tailored coat, a charcoal-gray herringbone that would never go out of style. Josie pictured a pair of black leather knee-high boots underneath, and a cherry-red scarf accenting the neckline. Perfect. She hoped that was what Evelyn was knitting with the wool she'd given her.

“Not at all. I'm happy to help Eben. And you, of course,” she added quickly.

Josie smiled. Evelyn was not exactly subtle. Should she invite Evelyn to dinner? No, Eb would kill her. But it would almost certainly be amusing.

“So I'll meet you back here tomorrow morning around ten?” Evelyn continued.

“I'll see you then.” Josie accompanied her to the door.

When Evelyn had left, Josie sat down in one of the armchairs by the front window. She counted the number of baskets and bins that still needed to be sorted, multiplied by the number of hours she and Evelyn had put in today, then wished she hadn't. It might have been better not to know. And of course that number didn't include what Cora had stashed away in the morning-borning room at home, or, even worse, what was still in back.

She looked out the front window at the empty storefront across the street. This little village was so sad, and she was about to make it sadder by closing up one of the only businesses left downtown. Not my problem, she told herself. So why did it feel like it
was
her problem?

Movement caught her eye. She leaned forward in her chair to get a better look. Huh? She'd watched Evelyn walk up Main Street in the direction of the general store only minutes ago. But now Evelyn stood in front of that narrow doorway between the two empty shops. She looked quickly in both directions, then appeared to put a key in the lock and turn the handle before disappearing behind the door.

What was up there? Evelyn was the second woman Josie had seen going upstairs into an apparently abandoned building. Her eyes moved to the rows of windows on the second and third stories of the redbrick building. No movement, and still no other signs of habitation, current or former.
Put that thought out of your head, Josephine,
she told herself.
What business is it of yours?
And even though the answer was clearly
none,
she could easily solve that little mystery by asking Evelyn tomorrow.