Knot the Usual Suspects (7 page)

“No.”

“Or what he's been doing since—how long has it been since you've seen him?”

“I'll have to think.”

I put the pencil back in her hand. “You should write down what you know and what you remember about him, Ardis. If the police are going to come pick your brain, the posse should get first dibs.”

“Before the police pick it clean. Do you mind if I go in—” She nodded to the small office behind us.

“Good idea. I'll reheat your coffee and bring it in to you. Then you'll be able to concentrate.” And for a little while she'd be able to mourn one of her favorite students in private.

*   *   *

It was a very little while. As I pulled the door shut after taking Ardis the reheated coffee, Geneva swirled out of the office—through the door—and stopped in front of me.

“There are tears running down her face,” she said.

“I know. She'll be okay, though.”

“What did you say to make my great-great-niece cry like that?” She crossed her arms and leaned in close.

“It wasn't anything I said. If you were in there, didn't you hear—”

“I was just passing through.” She turned away with a flap of her hand and went to sit on the sales counter. “Passing through is one of the perks for those who have passed on. I would not have paid the least attention to her, except that I am so sensitive to tears and sadness.”

“But you didn't want to ask her what's wrong? Or offer comfort?”

“I am too sensitive for my own good and did not want to risk being responsible for more misery.” She kicked her heels a time or two. “What is her caterwauling all about?”

“I don't hear caterwauling. I think she's being dignified in her grief.”

“Grief?”

“Didn't you hear? You were popping in and out all morning.”

“Perks of being a ghost. I was feeling perky.”

“Geneva, Ardis is upset because Hugh McPhee died last night. That's why Deputy Dunbar was here.”

“Kilt?

“Killed, yes.”

“No.
Kilt.
Are you talking about the man in the kilt? Was he the man Ardis was fawning over? With the bald spot, the scar, and bagpipes?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Argyle and I saw him last night before the hellish noise began and we had to take cover.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Although, come to think of it,” she said, “from the way Argyle sprang straight into the air, it is possible he was napping when the noise began. If that is the case, then he will not have seen anything more than one of his lives passing before his eyes like a comet. Poor dear. How many lives do you suppose he has to spare?”

“Geneva, where did
you
see Hugh?”

“The more interesting question would be with whom.”

“Y
ou know who it was? Oh my gosh.” I couldn't believe the luck—Geneva had been looking out the window at just the right time to see someone with Hugh—to see the murderer? “Who was it?”

“That is the stumper.”

“You didn't recognize him?”

“Or her. Between trousers and kilts, the fashion world was topsy-turvy last night.”

“But can you describe the person? How tall? Or how tall compared to Hugh? The hair? Anything?”

“It would be helpful if I could.” Her shoulders rose and fell on a moan. “I am a terrible detective. I know that is what you are thinking.”

“No, I'm not. And don't be hard on yourself. There's no way you could've known we'd need to know anything about that person.”

“But the best detectives are always on duty. My skills have deteriorated and I am no longer among their ranks.” She paused. “Perhaps if I were allowed to refresh my memory by watching classic how-to documentaries
such as
Cagney & Lacey
, my skill level would rebound. I could pick up tips to share with you, so that we can work better together as a detective duo. I might pick up hints for engaging in buddy-type banter. Also, any of the
Law & Order
oeuvre would be helpful for our ensemble work with the posse.”

The posse she referred to was the small group of TGIF members with whose help we'd solved several crimes. Geneva, although she'd made valuable contributions to our investigations, was the most excitable member of the group. As she might say, “excitable” was a good word meaning “unpredictable” or “volatile.” Because of that, and as much as it grieved her, it was probably best the others didn't know she was a member. Ardis knew now, but investigating Hugh's murder would be the first time they were both aware of working together. Given the uncertain chemistry between them, that could prove interesting.

Geneva hummed the theme music from
Murder, She Wrote
and smiled at me.

“If you throw in episodes of
Miami Vice
,” she said, “I could give you pointers for piloting a powerboat seized from drug smugglers and teach you to drive your car in a sportier manner. Not to mention make suggestions for a snappier way of dressing.”

“Sorry, no TV.”

“In that case, I will only agree that you are disagreeable,” she said, and she disappeared.

*   *   *

Bombing Blue Plum—yarn-bombing it—had been Thea Green's idea. Thea, in addition to being an active and avid member of TGIF, was the director of the J. F. Culp
Memorial Library—Blue Plum's public library with a name almost longer than the sign for it on the lawn in front of the building. Thea was constantly looking for ways to engage more teenagers and twenty-somethings in library activities.

“It wouldn't hurt to shake up TGIF, too,” she'd said back at the beginning of September during a meeting of the TGIF challenge knitting group known as Fridays Fast and Furious. We were furiously working to meet our goal of knitting one thousand baby hats for newborns by the end of the year.

“We might actually get a few bodies younger than geriatric to join,” Thea had said that afternoon. “Yarn bombing is cutting-edge stuff—or it would've been if we'd done it a few years ago. What could possibly be cooler than fiber graffiti? And it ties in perfectly with Handmade Blue Plum next month. And the kids will be out of school for the fall break with time on their hands. We can leave fun fiber surprises all over town for the visitors to find and enjoy. It'll be like a knitting and crochet scavenger hunt. And it'll help clear out everyone's stash closet. If we start now, we'll have time to prepare. It'll be exciting. Edgy, even, depending on how we do it, and if you think this town can handle edgy. And
if
we do it, we can still claim to be on top of the wave, because yarn bombing's never been done around here before. What do you think?” In her excitement, Thea stood up and waved her knitting needles so that she was in danger of losing stitches.

“Step over here and call me geriatric. That's what I'm thinking,” Mel Gresham said. Mel and Thea were only a few years older than me, putting them in their early to mid-forties. Mel, with spiked lime-green hair, was slicing
the tunnel of fudge cake she'd brought for refreshments, and she still held the knife.

“
Are
we geriatric?” Ernestine O'Dell—seventy-something—turned to John Berry—eighty-something. “Except for my eyesight, and a few more pounds, and a touch of stiffness first thing in the morning, and the occasional memory lapse, and shrinking an inch or two, and, of course, the white hair and wrinkles, I don't feel any different than I did at fifty. And one of my great-grandchildren told me they aren't wrinkles anyway. They're ‘life experience lines.' ‘Geriatric' doesn't sound as nice as plain old being old.”

“I like the words ‘spry for his age' better than ‘geriatric,'” John said, “as long as they aren't on my gravestone.”

Thea interrupted a growl coming from Ardis. “Relax, Ardis. And, Ernestine, you're fine the way you are. John, I
know
you can dance jigs around me. I was just making sure I had everyone's attention. Let me show you some pictures and everyone will feel better.”

She'd brought her laptop and she set it up in front of Ernestine. Ardis, John, Joe, and I put down the baby hats we'd been working on, and Mel laid down the cake knife. We gathered behind Ernestine while Thea showed us two or three dozen photographs of yarn bombing projects from around the world that she'd gleaned from the Internet.

Zealous and imaginative people had created cozies for fire hydrants, car antennas, mailboxes, and bollards. They'd crocheted bikinis for nude statues and given others leggings, hats, ties, and warm sweaters. Whole avenues of trees wore garter-stitched stripes. A tree in California had
turned into a giant blue knitted squid. Bike racks had become snakes and hungry caterpillars. Lampposts put on socks and grew bird and monster feet overnight. Potholes and cracks in sidewalks were filled with coils and loops of yarn in intricate, multicolored patterns. Bicycles and whole vehicles were covered in rainbows of knitted and crocheted panels.

“What do you think?” Thea asked again, after the last picture.

“About practicing anarchy in downtown Blue Plum?” Joe asked. “Using knitting needles and crochet hooks?”

“That's the general idea,” Thea said. “You can do macramé, if you want. Weaving, tatting. Cut up old sweaters and use the pieces. Tie giant trout flies and hang them from the trees. That would look incredible. Are you in?”

“Sure.” Joe handed her a piece of Mel's tunnel of fudge. “I'm hooked.”

We all were—on yarn bombing and on Mel's cake.

“Can we produce enough material in a month?” I, the slowest knitter in Fast and Furious, asked.

“We won't need anything elaborate,” Ernestine said.

“Unless I go in for the giant trout flies,” said Joe.

“You just need to concentrate on the right activities, Red,” Mel said with a wicked smile. “Spend less time on extracurricular diversions.” She tried leering at Joe. He ignored her for a more meaningful exchange with his slice of tunnel of fudge.

Ardis said she would invite our weekend high school help, Abby. Thea told us she'd spring the idea on the next unwary teens to cross the library's threshold.

“But let's us go ahead and do it, even if you don't get the teenagers,” Ernestine said. “I never heard of yarn
bombing before today, but now that I have, I know it's something I've always wanted to do.”

We all agreed. After telling us she'd report back, Thea left the meeting looking pleased.

A few days later, Ardis and I were closing up shop for the day when Thea stopped by, looking even more pleased. Geneva had been lying across the blades of the ceiling fan, listening to us and dangling her arm as though trailing it in water. When the camel bells at the door jingled, announcing Thea, she sat up. Thea came in, stopped near the door, and put her hands on her hips. Always a stylish dresser, she wore a mix of browns—from creamy to dark chocolate, including knife-creased trousers, a pair of killer heels, a creamy silk tunic, and what could only have been the stole she'd been knitting since spring.

“I am awesome,” Thea said.

“Hold your arms out and let's see.” Ardis motioned for Thea to twirl.

Thea's turn was more of a stately rotation than a twirl, but she spread her arms, showing off the lacy leaf pattern and her fine handiwork. She'd used fingering-weight wool in a rich chestnut brown several shades darker than her skin. “Welcome to the debut of my mocha mousse stole,” she said, advancing on the counter and stopping with a shallow bow.

Geneva clapped.

“You're right,” I said. “It
is
awesome. Will you think about letting the mannequin wear it for a week or two?”

“Oh, please, please, please, please!” Geneva said. “I know I will look fetching sitting on its shoulder.”

Somehow I didn't think “fetching” would have been
the first word to cross Thea's mind if she'd been able to see Geneva preening on her beautiful stole.

Geneva was right, though. Her gray mist would look good against that almost edible brown. But her near swoon over the stole put a thought in my head—I'd never asked her what she saw when she looked in a mirror or saw her reflection in a window. Did she see the hollow eyes I saw when I looked at her? Or did she see blue eyes looking back at her, and were her cheeks blushed with pink? For that matter, what did she see when she looked at her hand or her sleeve or skirt? If I ever dared ask, I knew I'd have to do it carefully. It was the sort of question that might make her prickle.

“I'm kind of enjoying the mocha mousse too much myself right now,” Thea said, “but I'll think about it. As for awesome, I wasn't just talking about the stole. I was talking about the teens I caught in our web of artistic anarchy. I snared them and I signed them up for the bombing of Blue Plum. I am awesome, and fiber awareness will be elevated to new heights in our younger generation.”

“Do your recruits know how to knit or crochet?” Ardis asked.

“It doesn't matter,” Thea said. “TGIF is equal opportunity, isn't it? We're here for people who can whip out a pair of double knitted mittens with their eyes closed and we're here for neophytes who don't know a crochet hook from a meat skewer. If the kids don't know how to do anything, we'll teach them. Or they can help put up and attach the stuff other people make.”

“And do they know to keep quiet about the project?” Ardis asked. “Do
you
know to keep quiet?”

Thea pulled the end of her chocolate mousse stole across the lower half of her face in a fair imitation of Zorro. “We are a closemouthed cabal of anarchic crocheters,” she said. “Quiet and quixotic. Watch and be amazed.” She left through the front door without making the string of camel bells jingle.

“How did she do that?” I asked.

“She is a librarian,” Geneva said. “They
know
how to be quiet.”

“Mm-hmm,” Ardis said. “When they want to be.”

“You're right. Most of the time she is quite loud,” Geneva said. “But knowing when to be quiet is like a code of honor to librarians. She has impressive skills and knows how to use them.”

“But knowing and doing are two different things.” Ardis went back to unpacking and checking in the newly arrived order of silk kumihimo cords and missed the look on Geneva's face. It had shifted from sunny—for Geneva—to scowling.

“In any case, I think Thea's idea is going to work out fine,” I said. “Abby's excited and the other teens will be a fun addition to the group. Oh. We should've asked Thea if her crew is coming to the next meeting. I'll give her a call later.”

“Ask her how many,” Ardis said.

“Good thinking. We might need more chairs.”

“And we'll definitely need more refreshments.”

*   *   *

That had all happened at the beginning of September. Clod's news of Hugh's death came on the Wednesday morning before Handmade Blue Plum. We'd spent the intervening four weeks identifying and measuring bomb
targets and preparing ordnance—“For our assault,” as Ernestine delighted in saying. Her eyes grew huge behind her thick lenses every time she said it.

We had our final pre–bomb planning meeting that same Wednesday afternoon. I kept an eye on Ardis throughout the day, still concerned about her reaction to the shocking news.

“You're sure you don't want to take off early?” I asked her. “I can take notes and drop them by your place later. We really only have a few details to iron out.”

“The devil might be in those details,” she said.

“True. On the other hand, we know we're going to have to be flexible and ready to ad-lib, so if you'd rather . . .”

“I'll be fine, and this is important.
Both
meetings are important.”

“Both?”

“Final plans for tomorrow night,” Ardis said, “and initial plans for our investigation. We'll have a quiet word with the posse members during the planning meeting. Let them know what's going on.”

“You're not planning to involve the teens or the others in the investigation, are you?”

“No. They can go on home before the posse meets.”

“Okay.”

“And then the posse can saddle up and ride again.”