Knot the Usual Suspects (24 page)

“No, but I saw her talking with Al Rogalla in one of the booths. They were sitting behind the display table. Al seemed to be manning the booth, but Joe said that neither Al nor Rachel is registered for one.”

“He should be able to tell you who
is
registered for the booth, though,” Ardis said.

“I'll ask him. The booths have been a major headache, partly because of the way people were allowed to register for them. More than one person might be involved with a booth, but the registration only asked for one name.”

“Isn't there a master list of registrants?” John asked.

“Supposedly. But Olive has it and Joe says she's enough of a technophobe that she only has a hard copy and only the one copy.”

“Good Lord,” John said.

“Hey, don't knock it,” Thea said. “If her system works for her, it works. You won't catch me with files of personal information available for any hacker or voyeur to find.”

“Or librarian,” said Mel.

“That's hardly the same thing as keeping accurate records in an accessible format,” Ernestine said. “I'm a firm believer in working smarter, not harder. I love spreadsheets.” She reached over and patted Thea's hand. “I'm sorry, dear; sometimes I revert to my secretarial days. Pokey is Mayor Weems, and Olive is Mrs. Mayor Weems, but they still live over on Third Street in the brick ranch they started in. I don't believe Olive ever had the good fortune to stretch her wings beyond joining her various social clubs. And I hope you know that I mean that only in the nicest possible way.”

“Olive was there today,” I said. “And Pokey.” I told them about the Spiveys standing in for Pokey at the ribbon cutting, and about being run into by Olive. “Olive and Pokey both looked pretty ragged, and she wasn't happy that we let the sheriff think the yarn bombing was part of Handmade.”

“It is part of it,” Thea said.

“Not officially, and she doesn't seem to have much of a sense of humor. Oh, but you know who does?” I took out my phone and showed them Abby's OMG puddle. While John and Ernestine were chuckling over it, a text alert came in.

“Shall I see who it is, Kath?” Ernestine asked.

“Sure.”

“Look at this, Thea.” Ernestine turned to her, flashing my phone. “Do you think Olive knows how to retrieve a text?
I
do. Oh my goodness.” She dropped the phone. “It's
them
.”

John looked at the display. “Spiveys,” he said, and pushed the phone across the table to me with the tip of a gingerly finger.

“Hoo boy.” I took a swig of cold coffee and read the text aloud. “Fistfight at O.K. Gymnasium. Al from Chicago versus Cole Dunbar. Yippee-i-o-ki-ay.”

“R
ight.” Ardis stood up. “We need to get over there. This could be the break in the case we're looking for.” Hands on her hips, chin up, she looked like a seventy-something Valkyrie in a popcorn stitch shawl. “Who has their car here?”

John raised his hand. “Unfortunately it's Ambrose's old MG. I take it out a couple of times a month to keep it running.”

“Damn. Never mind. You take Kath, John, and the rest of us will walk.”

“The rest of us might walk down the stairs and see them off,” Thea said, “and read about the bloody noses in the
Bugle
on Thursday. But the fight will be over by the time we can get there on foot. And before we do go, tell me why Olive and Sheriff Haynes are on the whiteboard. What am I looking for if I troll for them tonight?”

“Anything,” Ardis said. “If reports are accurate, they were both shocked to see Hugh.”

“Gladys was tickled,” I said.

A car horn blared in the alley and another text alert burbled on my phone.

“Spiveys again. All it says is ‘WAITING.' All caps. Shall we go, John?”

John and I headed down the stairs, a stream of advice rolling after us as the others followed. The car horn blared again, drowning the back door as it baaed. And there, idling in the alley at the bottom of the steps, stood the Spivey mobile, with Spivey One and Spivey Two gesturing madly for me to hop in.

*   *   *

I sat between Ardis and Mel in the backseat of the Spiveys' Buick. They cinched their seat belts tight, and I hoped they'd keep me from flying forward in case of a sudden stop. Not that Shirley made any stops between the shop and the school.

“I'm rarely terrified,” Mel said on one side of me. “But I wish I had a Saint Christopher medal.”

“This thing is as safe as a tank,” Ardis said on my other side. “Step on it, Shirley.”

Shirley did, and we arrived before John and Ernestine in the MG. Thea had opted to stay behind, saying she'd do more good with her fingers on her keyboard. She was right, of course, that the fight was over before we got there.

“We did our best,” Mercy said. “You might chip in for gas money sometime.” They dropped us at the door to the gym and went to park.

*   *   *

We got the bare facts of the fight from Joe. He'd gotten them from Shorty, because he'd missed it, too. The fight had erupted on the other side of the gym from Joe's boat
booth. Al Rogalla, standing under the basketball goal, had been delivering his memorial tribute to Hugh McPhee. Clod showed up, listened, and waited until Al finished; then the two came together. No one was quite sure what triggered the fight—Al said or did something, or Clod did, or it was a mutual conflagration. No one was sure who swung first. And although the fight was over before most people were aware of it, there were plenty of people in the gym who might have seen something.

“A veritable who's who of our whiteboard,” Ardis said, scanning the crowd.

Olive and Pokey stood under the basketball goal talking with Darla. Sheriff Haynes walked past us and out the door. Tammie Fain, encumbered by one grandchild, chased down an aisle after another. To our right, Wanda Vance was trying on a quilted jacket.

“Everybody but Rachel,” Ardis said.

Ellen and Janet, who'd spent so much time knitting in the front room upstairs at the Weaver's Cat, saw us, and rolled their bags over. They were beginning to seem like old friends.

“This is certainly the most interesting Handmade Blue Plum we've been to,” Ellen said.

“Not very small-town friendly, though,” Ernestine said. “I am so sorry we haven't shown you our better side.” Her eyes didn't look sorry; they looked ready to catch round two of the Rogalla-Dunbar match.

“I wouldn't worry too much about it,” Janet said. “You know what they say about bad publicity. The crafts this year are top-notch. We'll be coming back.”

“You didn't happen to see how the fight started, did you?” Mel asked.

They hadn't. But they'd been struck by how much the scuffle reminded them of middle school boys.

“Posturing,” Ellen said. “A lot of blowing and not so many blows. I teach eighth-grade science and I see it too often. Circling each other like dogs with their hackles raised.”

“These two ‘boys' each got in a couple of good pops, though,” Janet said. “Are you ready, Ellen?” They waved again and rolled their bags out the door.

“Where's Cole now?” I asked Joe. “And who's watching your booth?”

“Cole's in a classroom cooling off. Al's in another. Zach's got the booth, and I'd better get back there.”

“Here comes Darla,” said John.

*   *   *

Darla, bless the heart she wore on her sleeve, said we could go in and talk to Clod; he wasn't under arrest. John and Mel thought it would be good if they talked to Al, but Darla said he'd already left. Neither of them was hurt beyond bruised ribs and knuckles—not having aimed at noses, which I knew to be a very satisfying target—and neither intended to press charges. Al apparently hadn't minded running a potential gauntlet of stares to leave the building.

“Go stuff—a mushroom,” Clod said to Mel when she asked him why he was hiding in the classroom.

“Keep a civil tongue in your head, Coleridge,” Ardis snapped. But she'd snapped automatically and concern showed in her eyes. “Aren't you even one bit remorseful?”

He didn't look it. He didn't look as though he was hiding, either. He leaned back in the teacher's chair with
his feet, crossed at the ankles, on the desk. Except for his regulation boots, he was out of uniform. His jeans and T-shirt hadn't gotten the memo, though. They probably weren't starched, but they couldn't quite carry off casual.

“Perhaps it would help if you told us what the fuss was all about.” Ernestine's hands, clasped at her waist, gave her the look of a mole as Mother Confessor.

“There was no
fuss
,” Clod said. “It was merely a disagreement between two people who've never liked each other.”

“And yet you and I never break out in fisticuffs,” Mel said. She and Ardis sat down at desks directly in front of Clod.

John had stepped out of the room with Darla. I stayed by the door, keeping an ear on them, but watching Clod. Posturing, Ellen had said. He was still doing it, still putting up a front. But what lay behind it? Ernestine joined me at the door, and when John saw her, he motioned us into the hall.

“You might learn more without the whole crew in there,” he said. “Why don't Ernestine and I walk around Handmade? Which booth was Al working?”

“One with a Christmas tree covered in balls that are really monkey's fists.”

“A coincidence?” John asked.

“Sorry?”

“There was a monkey's fist in one of the pictures—” He stopped and coughed. “A picture Ambrose showed me the other day. Shall we go?” He took Ernestine's arm, raised his eyebrows at me behind Darla's back, and headed for the gym.

The pictures of Hugh's truck were still on the table at
the Cat. If there was a monkey's fist in one of them, I'd missed it. But John wouldn't have.

“Monkey's fists and Rogalla,” Darla said, watching my face. “Interesting. We found a monkey's fist in that pouch Hugh McPhee had with him. One in his truck, too.” She looked at me and nodded. “Interesting. What pictures was John talking about—that Ambrose probably didn't show him?”

“If I tell you that, will you tell me what's going on with Cole?”

Her eyebrows thought that over, maybe weighing risks and benefits.

“Or, if you can't tell me that, is there any way you can let me see Hugh's pouch? See what was in it? I know that's irregular—”

“And I know you've got notes. That you're all working on this.”

There wasn't any point in denying it.

“So,” she said, “you show me your notes and I'll try to do both. But first, I want to hear what kind of bull he's tossing to Ardis and Mel.”

We slipped back into the room, staying near the door so we didn't interrupt the show. Mel, Ardis, and Clod hadn't changed seats, but the dynamics between them had shifted. Clod was still posturing and still sat with his clodhoppers on the desk, but now Ardis was in charge. Sitting in the front row, she wasn't the former teacher; she was the director of a piece of reality theater. Clod might be throwing out bull, but not with impunity; Ardis was digging for the motivation behind the bull. Mel, rapt, slid down in her seat and turned slightly so she could see both their faces and miss none of the nuances.

“But your attitude toward Hugh is different,” Ardis said. “I want to understand why.”

“Why not?”

“Too glib,” she said. “That answer isn't good enough. There's more.”

“Then it was the bagpipes.”

“And that's not funny.”

“You can always find something funny about bagpipes,” Clod said. “Just not always ha-ha funny. Here's a bagpipe riddle that's been bugging me for the last few days. How easy is it for someone to sneak up on a bagpiper playing in the dark and strangle him? You want to know the answer? The sneaking-up part isn't too hard.”

“Tasteless,” Ardis said.

“Speaking of which, it's time for supper. I'm going home. Any reason I need to stick around, Deputy Dye?”

“None at all, Deputy Dunbar, dear.”

“Then you-all have a dandy evening.” He slammed his feet to the floor. More posturing—it made him wince, and he put a hand to his ribs on the way out.

Ardis and Mel got up, too, and the four of us watched him walk down the hall.

“Any idea what started the fight?” I asked Darla.

“He wouldn't say. Had to be Rogalla.”

“That isn't loyalty talking?” Mel asked.

“Nothing wrong with loyalty.” Darla stood up straighter and suddenly seemed . . . crisper. She had more of an edge, anyway. “Rogalla knows how to needle. Not just about Hugh. He's the kind of guy who gets the jab in with a smile. Hugh's death probably brought it to a head. Rogalla loves rubbing the house in Cole's face.”

“What house?”

“He lives in the old McPhee house.”

“I'm not sure I knew that,” Ardis said.

“And what of it?” Darla swirled a finger in the air. “The big hero's big house with the big columns in front. Big whoop.”

“Big mortgage, too, I expect,” Ardis said, “for a house that looks too formal to be comfortable. I've never been impressed by it. But you say Coleridge was?”

“That's part of Rogalla's needling,” Darla said. “He let Cole and everyone else believe he bought that pile right after McPhee inherited it. Now it turns out he was renting all these years until McPhee finally decided to sell.”

“Do you know why Cole's attitude toward Hugh changed?” Ardis asked.

“My guess? Something to do with taking Hugh out to dinner that night.” She shrugged. “Heroes don't always live up, you know?”

“Why was Cole suspended?” Mel asked. “That's something I cannot get my mind wrapped around.”

Darla didn't answer.

“He's a public employee,” I said. “It'll be reported in the
Bugle
.”

“True enough. It's a crock, though. Sheriff Haynes accused him of mishandling a case.”

“What case?”

“That's a crock, too. It isn't even a case; it was an anonymous complaint. About someone stealing ducks from the park.”