Knot the Usual Suspects (14 page)

“Did you believe in ghosts when you were alive?”

She froze, left arm cradling her imaginary yin-yang orb, her right arm curved over its top. I froze, too. The question I'd asked was the kind that had so often made her howl, in the past, or sent her into a huddle of gray mist. She'd mellowed over the months we'd known each other, though. Mellowed somewhat. I held my breath.

“Death was not such a stranger to us then, as it is to people now,” she said. “Although you and I seem to attract more than our share.”

“Deputy Dunbar would agree with you on that. But did you believe in ghosts?” I hesitated. “Did you see them?”

She stared at me and swayed. I thought I might have pressed my luck. She didn't swell or look thunderous, though. “Have you ever seen a wreath made from human hair?” she asked. “Mourners weave them from the hair of deceased loved ones.”

“We had a few of them in the museum's collections back in Illinois. People don't make them anymore.”

“I'm glad.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Someone put one in my hands when I was a child. It didn't feel like hair.”

“The ones I saw were fairly intricate. From the way they were braided and woven, I can imagine they wouldn't feel much like hair anymore. Not like the hair on someone's head.”

“The wreath felt cold in my hands.” She held her hands out as though they carried a great and sorrowful weight. “The cold sucked at me like a breath. The wreath felt like death in my hands, and I dropped it.” She rubbed her upper arms to warm herself, or to scrub the memory of that feeling from her hands. “I dropped it, because in my hands it was no longer a wreath. It was a ghost. Do you know what I mean?”

I didn't say anything. I didn't know
what
to say.

“You do know what I mean,” she said, “because you see ghosts and you feel them the same way I did. That's what is happening when you touch people. You feel something, don't you?”

“Not always. Sometimes.” She was talking about that other weird “talent” I'd developed after Granny died—the ability to “feel” a person's emotions by touching a piece of clothing. Love, hate, confusion, fear. But not always, thank goodness, and not when I touched a person I'd come to know, trust, and love. “Only sometimes,” I said. “And not everyone.”

She was suddenly directly in front of me, her eyes pulling mine in. “You do feel ghosts, though, and when you do, they come like a jolt out of the blue.”

“No. Not ghosts.”

“Not like me, but ghosts all the same. Ghosts of
feelings. Ghosts of emotional energy. And that feeling—that connection—gives you the willies.”

She
was giving me the willies.

“Don't turn away,” she said.

I couldn't. She was right. Or her words for the weird sensation were as good as any—ghosts of feelings. “When you felt the wreath, you felt—”

“The agony of a woman dying in childbirth.”

“And was that the only time you felt emotional energy?”

“No.”

“What did you do?”

“As you said, it was only sometimes.”

“But what did you do? How did you deal with it? You're right; it comes like a jolt. How did you handle it?”

“I do not remember that I did. Although a child will learn not to touch a hot stove.”

We hadn't moved from the kitchen. I could hear someone coming up the back steps, probably Ardis, but I didn't turn to see.

“Geneva, quick, why do I see you? Why do I feel whatever that energy is? Why did you? Do you know? Now that you're dead, have you found out why?”

She stopped midshrug as Ardis put her key in the lock. “I've told you before. I'm only dead; I'm not an expert. But if your granny was still here, and if you could ask her, what do you think she would say?”

The back door said, “Baa,” Geneva echoed it and disappeared, and Ardis blustered in, already talking.

“I might as well admit it front, right, and center,” she said. “I know, I know. This isn't how we planned to do it. But
you
know how carried away I get, especially when
emotions are running high, so let me just confess and get it over with.” She stopped for a wide-eyed breath, then rushed on. “It's out of the bag and it won't go back in.”

“And, um, I think I might still be outside this conversation trying to get in.”

“Really? I thought for sure you were getting suspicious when you finally got hold of me last night.”

“Mm, no. There were several layers of worry going on, with a heavy infusion of angst about your interview with Darla, but no suspicion. I'm suspicious
now
, though.” I tried a Geneva maneuver and took a step closer.

“Oh.” She glanced at the door, as though there might be time to slide back out of it and come in again, minus the confession. But that wasn't like Ardis. She turned back to me, squared her shoulders, and pasted a large repertory theater smile on her face. “I told Deputy Darla about the yarn bombing and guess what. She's decided to join us.”

“I
t's a bit of a bombshell, isn't it, hon.” Ardis might as well have said
there, there
and patted my cheek. She didn't pat; she fixed her repertory theater smile back in place and brought her hands together in a single loud clap. “And here we are. B-day at last. That's catchy, don't you think? B for
bombshell
. B for yarn
bombing
. B for
Blue
Plum. B for I am
beyond
excited. Let's go with what we've got. No, let's
run
with what we've got—and
who
we've got—and see what happens.”

I hadn't really moved past suspicion yet, so I almost certainly didn't look as excited about a sheriff's deputy joining us as Ardis hoped. Not that I had anything against Darla, but we'd discussed and agreed not to . . .

“Ardis, why—”

“Why don't I go open shop for the day? That's what I was about to say myself. I'm glad we're on the same wavelength.” With that, she turned tail and very nearly ran for the front room.

Speaking of tails, Argyle trotted down the stairs from the attic with his tail held high and a trill on his lips. He
twined around my ankles to let me know he was happy to see me and would also be happy to have breakfast.

“And how happy would you be,” I asked him as I tipped his favorite fishy kibbles into his dish, “to have a sheriff's deputy joining you while you're covering the town in graffiti?”

Argyle said, “Mrrph,” which was noncommittal but sounded calm and practical. I hung around in the kitchen while he ate, waiting to see if Geneva would reappear, and practicing a calm and practical acceptance of our evolving bomb squad.

“The more the merrier, right, Argyle? Although, after hearing John describe Ambrose as ‘mean as snakes' more than a few times, I think we have to wonder if anyone will end up being merry with him along. And how many more surprises do you think we'll have before we're finished tonight?”

He asked for a few more kibbles.

“Sure, why not? Here's a better question. How many more surprises do you think we can stand?”

He finished breakfast without offering any further advice, and I followed his calm, practical tail down the hall to join Ardis in the front room. She and a customer, whose back was to us, were standing next to the mannequin, chatting as though the three of them were old friends. The
four
of them. The air above the mannequin's left shoulder rippled and—surprise, surprise—Geneva appeared.

Ardis, bless her self-control, acknowledged Geneva with a barely perceptible nod. When she saw me, she used some of her pent-up enthusiasm to wave me over.
Argyle naturally assumed he was welcome, too, and leapt onto the counter, inviting everyone within reach to scrub him between the ears. The customer declined his pretty invitation and took a step back.

When she did, I saw her face and recognized her as the woman who'd called me Kathy at the courthouse Tuesday morning. Calling me Kathy was an easy and common mistake. Joe and Clod Dunbar's parents had graced them with star-studded literary names, but my mother had been frugal with many things, including names. I'd only ever had the names Kath and Rutledge, with no other syllables tacked on or taking up space between them.

“Hello again,” the woman said, twiddling her fingers at me. She looked to be somewhere in her sixties, but the twiddled fingers didn't seem to match her particular style of being sixty. Hers were the kind of sixties it took a fair amount of time and money to maintain, with hair that was coifed and colored, not merely cut and blown dry. It had more of the poodle look to it than might be currently fashionable, but she had the legs of a woman with the self-discipline to regularly run or dance—and the guts to wear leggings and ankle boots. A dark gray lightweight cowl sweater (angora?) hit her at mid–muscular thigh. “I told you I'd be in later this week, Katie,” she said to me, “and here I am.”

“
Kath,
” Ardis said, “do you know Olive Weems? Olive is Mayor Weems' wife. You've met Pokey a time or two, I'm sure.”

A prick of irritation, no bigger than a gnat's whisker, came and went on Olive's face. At her husband's
nickname? At receiving second billing as Mrs. Mayor? She must be used to both, but I got the feeling Ardis played them broadly on purpose.

“I hear you're in charge of Handmade Blue Plum,” I said. “That must be a huge undertaking.”

Olive nodded her appreciation of the recognition. “A labor of love,” she said, one hand on her heart, “and I wouldn't have it any other way. I hope you'll stop by the fair,
Kath
.” She smiled at getting my name right. “I know it's a busy weekend for merchants, too, not just the craftspeople and visitors coming in for the fair. That's why I take the time and make the effort to come around and personally invite all of you. This weekend is always a fun time for Blue Plum.”

“Is Pokey opening the fair this year?” Ardis asked. Without waiting for Olive to answer, she turned to me and asked, “Have you ever seen Pokey attacking a ribbon with his giant pair of scissors?”

Geneva, sitting on the mannequin's shoulder, appeared to be nodding off. But when Ardis mentioned the giant scissors, her eyes popped open wide.

Olive didn't wait to hear if I had or hadn't seen Pokey wield his scissors. “As long as I'm here,” she said, “I might as well take a look around and see if there isn't some little thing I can't live without.” She twiddled her fingers again and went around the corner into the other room.

Ardis maintained the full wattage of her repertory theater smile until Olive was out of sight, then gave her face a rest.

“When I came in and saw you two together, I thought you were good friends,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“Friendly enough. But she isn't a CC.” She glanced at
me. “Sorry. CC is shorthand Ivy and I used for people like—” She nodded in the direction Olive had gone. “CC stands for constant customer, something she most definitely is not. Her visit here today is exactly what she said it is.”

“An invitation to see giant scissors,” Geneva said. “It was friendly.”

“No,” Ardis said. “She wasn't doing anything more than drumming up business for the fair. I'll give you this—she always makes a point of buying ‘some little thing' she can't live without when she comes to issue her Handmade Blue Plum invitation. She also makes a point of shopping locally during mayoral campaign seasons. But otherwise she does most of her shopping online or in Asheville and Knoxville. That's where she goes for her angora and mohair and silk blends, too.”

“She knitted the cowl she's wearing?” I asked.

“If she didn't, she could have. She's that good.”

“Excuse me.” Geneva raised her hand.

Ardis raised her eyebrows, clearly wondering about the change in Geneva's behavior. I wondered, too.

“Is there something wrong, Geneva?”

“Is there ever anything wrong with good manners?” she asked. “I thought I should point out that Olive can still be called a CC. If she shops locally during campaigns, then she is a campaign customer, and that, also, is a CC.”

“No,” Ardis said. “That just means her status can be described as OOPS—only occasional paltry sales.”

“I guess something
is
wrong, then,” Geneva muttered. “Me.” She started to billow, glanced at me, and stopped. She muttered something else, then drooped over to the
counter and sat next to Argyle. He'd stretched out to take up as much acreage as possible on the counter, and greeted her with a lift of his chin and another luxurious stretch.

Olive didn't take long to find what she couldn't live without. Although why she couldn't live without a hank of orange cotton embroidery floss was beyond me. She stopped short of the counter.

“Oops,” Ardis said.

“I should think you'd say that a lot with a cat in a wool shop,” Olive said with a laugh. “It's a twist on the bull in a china shop, isn't it? And you'll never believe it, but this orange is the exact color I was looking for to finish a bib for the first grandbaby. It's ‘Go, Vols' all the way with his daddy.”

“Isn't that nice?” Ardis said. She took the floss from Olive and made a production of ringing it up and putting it in a bag.

“And I guess I am wrong again,” Geneva said with a heave of her shoulders.

I wasn't sure I wanted to know what she thought she was wrong about, but figured it was better—and possibly safer—to find out. I moved closer to her so she couldn't miss my sign language, and so we'd be less distracting to Ardis; then I tilted my head and touched my right ear.

“You are not much of a detective, if you need to ask,” she said. “It is as plain as the nose on your face, and as plain as the small pimple on your nose that I was not going to mention because I thought minding my manners was the
right
thing to do.”

I touched my ear again, but she turned her back on
me. When I turned back to Ardis and Olive, it was obvious I'd missed something.

“I'm not sure what it will be, or when,” Olive said, “but I'll let you know when I find out.”

“I'd appreciate it, Olive. Thank you.” Ardis handed her the small bag with the hank of floss. “You haven't heard anything about how he died, have you?”

“It's a terrible thing to have happened,” Olive said. “I hadn't heard from him in years, but it's still so completely shocking. If Palmer has heard anything about the case, he hasn't shared it with me. What was Hugh thinking, though, playing those things at that time of night? Especially after he'd been asked to stop playing them that afternoon, when some people might have actually enjoyed them. He never did consider other people, though.”

“Who asked him to stop that afternoon?” Ardis asked.

“Lonnie, the poor man. He looked like that noise gave him one heck of a migraine. Or like he'd seen a ghost.”

It was an expression, of course, but it startled the two of us who were aware of the ghost on the counter not two feet from Olive's elbow. It startled the ghost, too. Geneva, Ardis, and I looked at each other out of the corners of our eyes. Rather awkwardly, I thought. The obvious question for me was, who was Lonnie? But Geneva asked hers first.

“Why did she say that?” she whispered.

“Why did you say that?” Ardis repeated, not sounding entirely natural. “About seeing a ghost?”

“Well, you know,” Olive said. “Because no one had
heard from Hugh or seen him for so long. I suppose that was it.”

“Because no had seen him for so long? No,” Geneva said, shaking her head, “that was not it.”

Ardis, still listening to Geneva, nodded. “I think you're right.”

“You do?” Geneva said. “Will wonders never cease?”

“Yes,” said Olive, “the shock of seeing him after so many years—I'm sure I'm right.”

“Um, Olive?” I thought I'd better get her attention and give Ardis a few seconds to refocus on the here and alive. “Someone said Hugh was here for Handmade Blue Plum. Do you know if that's true?”

“That's what I was telling Ardis. Some of the craftspeople knew him. Maybe way back when? I really don't know. They heard about his death, though, and they've asked if they can do something by way of a memorial for him at some point this weekend. I won't forget, Ardis. I'll give you a call as soon as I know anything.”

“Thanks.”

*   *   *

“Who's Lonnie?” I asked after Olive left.

“A sensitive creature,” Geneva said.

“He's about as sensitive as Olive's bull in a china shop,” Ardis said. “He'd rattle the shop, but nothing rattles him. There's no way that just seeing someone, Hugh McPhee or anyone else, after umpteen years would make him look like he'd seen a ghost.”

“But who is he?” I asked.

“You and most people know him as Sheriff Haynes. And some call him Leonard. But only a select few call him Lonnie.”

“Olive is one of the few?”

“She's proud to think so. At a distance,” Ardis said. “But to his face? I'm not so sure. Even though she is Mrs. Pokey Weems.”

“Maybe she does it because she
is
Mrs. Pokey Weems. Compared to ‘Pokey,' what's wrong with ‘Lonnie'?”

“Perhaps nothing is wrong with poor Lonnie,” Geneva said. “Even if he is as strong as a bull, you are forgetting about the ghost. Seeing one can be quite disturbing.”

“She meant wrong with the name, not with him,” Ardis said. “Better make a note of that, though, Kath. I don't know how we'll follow up on it, but we need to find out why he had that reaction when he saw Hugh.”

“Maybe it really was a migraine.” I added
migraine
to the note. “Or Olive's imagination?”

“Or the kind of exaggerated memory that sets in after a sudden death?” Ardis said.

“Or it was the ghost,” Geneva said, enunciating each word.

“No, really, that's unlikely,” Ardis said.
“Oh
.
”

“What?” I looked up from writing.

“She stuck her tongue out at me and disappeared.”

*   *   *

“If she is so sure that seeing ghosts is unlikely,” Geneva said when I found her stewing in the study window seat, “then I want you to take that green braided bracelet you made away from her. She does not deserve to see any ghost at all.”

“Sticking your tongue out was childish.”

“She does not deserve good manners, either. She was being rude to the mayor's wife. I
thought
I was being friendly and helpful.”

“So did I. So did Ardis.”

“She told me I was wrong every time I turned around.”

“She didn't mean to hurt your feelings.”

“I
did
mean to hurt hers. She made me feel like a scolded child.”