A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) (18 page)

Oh well . . . who knows. Some people are not as uptight about being punctual as I am.

Maggie and Phoebe took a moment to remember what they’d been talking about before the interruption, then started to work on the window. Maggie had saved all the cutout hearts and doilies and other arts-and-crafts materials, and set them out on the table. Phoebe got to work with her scissors and fine-point markers, while Maggie assembled baskets of yarns in valentine colors and knitted pieces for display.

“It was thoughtful of Professor Finch to check on you,” Maggie said finally.

“Yes, it was. This is the first course I’ve taken with her. I don’t know her very well.”

“Really?” Maggie had been under the impression that Phoebe’s relationship with Professor Finch was closer than that. “Maybe since she’s an administrator in the department, she made a special effort to be in touch.”

“Maybe . . . Charlotte knows her much better. She’s had her for a few studios. She’s the one who told me to take her class this semester.”

“Do you like the course? Is she a good teacher?”

“It’s hard to tell. The semester just started. She’s okay, I guess. It is weird that she might turn out to chair the department. Her husband, Owen Finch, was a teacher there, too, and he really, really wanted to be the chairman. But he was competing with Professor Healey. Healey is more laid-back. He knows how to deal with the dean and all that.”

“Good at office politics?” Maggie asked.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. Professor Healey knows how to handle people. Owen Finch was more of an artist. I think he just took up teaching on the side. For steady income. His work is in museums and like all over the place. He’s got a zillion pages on Google. He was a good teacher, too . . . but sort of rough around the edges. Kids liked him. But people said he drank a lot. And had a lot of opinions about the way the school was run. Sort of a problem child. Dean Klug likes Healey. So it would have been hard for Finch to win.”

“Win how? Is there some sort of election?” Maggie asked curiously.

“Oh yeah. All the other tenured professors in the department vote. I think you get like two or three years a term or something. I don’t know who was there before. Someone who retired.”

“So obviously Professor Healey was elected, right?”

“Right. But it turns out Owen Finch got really bummed out when he lost. He couldn’t paint or anything. Then he crashed his car one night because he’d been drinking. That’s how he died.”

“Oh dear . . . how awful.” Maggie had had a feeling this story was not going to end well, but she hadn’t expected it
would be this bad. “How awful for his wife. No wonder she feels odd taking over the job he wanted.”

“Yeah, weird, right? She was in the car, too. That’s why she limps. Her leg got all banged up, and that’s the best they could fix it.”

“That’s very sad. She’s constantly reminded. It must be very hard for her. But she seems so . . . even-tempered and pleasant.”

Phoebe nodded, focused on the shape she was cutting. “She is pretty easygoing. She’s very laid-back in class, and she’s not walking around the campus, grinding her teeth and sticking pins in a little voodoo doll shaped like Professor Healey.”

“Though if she did, no one would blame her. Is that what you’re trying to say?” Maggie glanced at Phoebe, who was now gluing shapes together.

Phoebe shrugged. “Yeah, well . . . it’s not Professor Healey’s fault Owen Finch got plastered and crashed his car. But some people could see it that way.”

“Yes, some people could,” Maggie agreed. “His wife, for instance.”

Phoebe shrugged without looking up. “That’s all I’m trying to say. And Professor Healey is great. But he can rub some people the wrong way. Like now he’s going off to Italy to research a book. He never even mentioned that to me, and I was supposed to do an independent-study project with him this semester. He can be sort of intense and get carried away by his ideas sometimes.”

“Selfish” and “self-absorbed” would be other terms for that sort of behavior. But Maggie didn’t interrupt her.

“It’s hard not to feel sorry for Professor Finch,” Phoebe added. “She’s always like in his shadow.”

“So there’s a real soap opera going on in the art department. Who told you all this juicy gossip? How do you even know it’s true?”

“Charlotte, mostly. But everybody knows the story about the Finches,” Phoebe promised.

Charlotte again. The last few days, Maggie sometimes felt she could see her out of the corner of her eye. But every time she turned her head, no matter how quickly, Charlotte would dart away. Long legs taking long strides. Her blond hair streaming out behind her like a flag. She’d flash by for an instant . . . and disappear.

Just like the night of the art show. The last time anyone had seen her.

But Maggie did believe Charlotte Blackburn was alive and well somewhere. She suspected Charlotte was hiding, to protect herself. She just hoped that the police—and the FBI, who were also investigating now—found Charlotte before the faceless menace the girl ran from caught up with her.

*  *  *

Phoebe was not quite ready to return to her classes on Wednesday, or again on Thursday. Maggie didn’t blame her. She did come down to work promptly, and they had a quiet day in the shop.

She wasn’t sure if the slow business was due to the time of year or the bad publicity. But knitters needed yarn and needles sooner or later. And her shop was pretty much the only game in town. Business would pick up soon. In the meantime, she was determined to make good use of the downtime by
finishing the front-window display and straightening out her inventory.

There were still many weeks of winter to go, even if the groundhog did see his shadow tomorrow. But spring inventory—the bright, cheerful colored yarns that recalled a garden in bloom—would soon arrive at the shop and fill the shelves and baskets. Something to look forward to, Maggie thought.

*  *  *

Thursday was knitting-group night, and it was Lucy’s turn to host the meeting. Maggie was eager to spend the evening with her friends.

Lucy lived in a neighborhood of Plum Harbor called the Marshes, bordered by the beach and filled with stretches of marshland and tall grass—wide-open space, unsuitable for building, that gave the neighborhood a wild and beachy edge.

Many of the homes were small, basic cottages built as modest summer homes back in the 1940s and 1950s. Winterized and expanded, they now served as perfect starter homes for young families or retirement retreats for empty nesters scaling down. So many had been drastically remodeled or knocked down, the neighborhood was almost losing its character, Maggie thought wistfully.

Everything changes. That’s the only thing we can really count on in life, she knew.

She parked her car behind Suzanne’s huge SUV, which was almost as large as Lucy’s house, and noticed Dana’s sleek Volvo there, too, just in front of Phoebe’s VW.

Last to arrive. She hoped she hadn’t missed anything. Dana had hinted in a text that Jack had passed along more
tidbits about the investigation. But she would wait until they were together tonight to tell everyone.

Maggie walked up the short path from the street. The cottage was small, not quite two stories, with a screened-in porch and dormer windows that stuck out from the roofline. Only two bedrooms upstairs, Maggie recalled. But large enough for Lucy and Matt and their two dogs. And there would be room for a nursery, she thought . . . if the two lazy lovebirds ever got around to that.

Lucy is happy. That’s the most important thing, Maggie reminded herself. She had long ago sworn off giving friends unsolicited advice. Now she just heard them out and sympathized when necessary.

The wiser course, for sure.

The door was unlocked, and she walked into the living room. Her friends sat in a circle, some on the couch and some in chairs, gathered around the coffee table where Lucy had set out platters of hors d’oeuvres. They were too engrossed in the discussion of a recipe to even notice her arrival. Lucy was explaining a recipe, and Maggie didn’t want to interrupt.

“It’s really easy. You just mix the artichoke hearts with lots of fattening ingredients—cream and grated cheese and some bread crumbs on top—and bake it a while.”

“Absolutely delicious. Total comfort food,” Suzanne said around a mouthful of . . . something. Maggie didn’t know yet what it was.

“It’s smells very good, too.” Maggie left her coat on the rack near the front door and walked in.

Everyone turned and greeted her.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Just the artichoke dip. We pretty much inhaled it. I think there are a few bites left.” Lucy whisked the dish off the table, rescuing the last crackerful for Maggie.

Maggie took an empty seat on the couch between Phoebe and Dana, though she wasn’t ready to take out her knitting. She tasted the baked concoction with a plastic fork. “Mmm. This
is
good,” she agreed. “But I was really wondering if I missed any . . . news.”

She glanced over at Dana, but Suzanne replied, “Dirt about the investigation, you mean? We didn’t start dishing yet.”

“I was waiting until you got here. But I’m dying to start,” Dana admitted. She took a breath and sat up taller in her chair. A big fan of yoga, she sat with admirable posture—reminding Maggie she should be more mindful, and less of a slouch.

Before Dana could begin, Phoebe said, “Did they find out anything else about Charlotte? Have they found any trail?”

“She’s been smart about covering her tracks. She hasn’t used a credit card since the train ticket in New Jersey. And there’s been no activity on her phone, either. She may have picked up some cheap, pay-as-you-go phone somewhere. Or is doing without one. But the police are pretty sure she switched trains in Philadelphia and is headed toward Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh?” Suzanne acted as if Dana had said Charlotte was headed toward the moon. “How do they know that?”

“They spotted her face on a security-camera video with some high-tech face-detection program. The FBI did,” Dana clarified. “She cut her hair on the first train and even dyed it brown somehow. But they saw her buy another ticket at a
machine and board a train headed west. That machine took cash,” she added.

“She must have a suitcase full of money with her if she’s been able to go on the run without using credit cards. I can’t even walk down the block without whipping out some plastic.” Suzanne laughed.

“You should carry a little cash, Suzanne. You might need it someday for an emergency,” Maggie advised.

“I try . . . but my kids walk by my wallet and suck the bills out like little Dirt Devils. It’s scary.”

“She might be using someone else’s credit cards,” Lucy said. “Maybe she’s not traveling alone?”

“That’s possible. But she disappeared so abruptly. She didn’t even go back to her apartment to get clothes,” Dana reminded them. “She hasn’t used any cash machines, either. But when the police opened her locker at school, they found a backpack full of cash. Almost fifty thousand dollars. I think the exact sum is forty-nine thousand? They’re speculating there was more, but she took some out before she left town.”

“I know Charlotte,” Phoebe insisted. “I know it looks bad, having all that money in her locker. But that still doesn’t mean she had anything to do with the murder. But that money probably does have to do with why she’s scared and ran away,” Phoebe added. “And if she took any of it . . . well, maybe she needed a little to get out of town.”

“That could be, Phoebe.” Dana’s tone was comforting. They could all see Phoebe striving to defend her friend.

“I say way to go, Charlotte.” Suzanne smiled and blinked. “Wonder where that little rainy-day fund came from?”

“She had a part-time job for a law firm in Boston,” Phoebe cut in. “The pay was good. But no way could she have saved that much.”

Maggie laughed. “If the salary is that good, I might take up the work myself. What did she do there?”

“Proofreading. She reviewed legal documents and worked really odd hours. She didn’t have to go into the office that much. Only once in a while. They e-mailed most of the jobs, and she did them at her apartment and sent them back.”

“What was the name of the law firm? Do you remember?” Lucy asked.

Phoebe thought for a moment. “I’m not sure I do . . . It was like three names together, and there was something funny about it . . .”

Dana looked up with a puzzled face. She was almost done with her bear, Maggie noticed. It had come out very well, in a rich pink yarn. “Funny? How?”

“It was the combination . . . we used to joke about it. Oh, right. It was like Garland, Dylan . . . and somebody. I can’t remember. But one night Charlotte and I were saying, imagine if Bob Dylan and Judy Garland did one of those dumb duet albums? And he was like singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ in that creaky, nasal voice?” Phoebe took a breath, then started to do her Bob Dylan imitation. “Some-where . . . oh-vah the rain-bow . . .”

Maggie sat up, taking deep offense. “Wait a second, young lady. As practically a first-generation Dylan fan, I object to you disrespecting one of my most revered icons.”

Dana and Lucy were laughing—but trying hard not to insult her, too, Maggie noticed.

Suzanne, however, looked very serious. “Hey, kid, don’t you
dare mock Judy . . . or that song. I love that movie. I watch it alone at night whenever I’m stressed out.”

“Oh, well . . . that explains a lot.” Dana rolled her eyes. Maggie grinned, too. Suzanne did have a very sunny Dorothy-in-Oz attitude most of the time, come to think about it. Had she brainwashed herself? Maggie took a breath, quelling her mirth.

“Dissing Judy aside, Charlotte’s job sounds pretty boring to me,” Suzanne said decidedly. “I’d probably fall asleep on the job. And my spelling is atrocious. I don’t even know how to spell ‘atrocious’ . . . come to think of it.”

Phoebe had taken out her knitting. She was working on a Valentine’s Day project, a red cup warmer with a white heart in the middle. “She said it was boring, but it paid the bills. Charlotte doesn’t have much family. Her parents divorced when she was really young, and her mother died when she was in high school. Her father lives out in Arizona somewhere, with a new wife and kids, and she hardly ever sees him. I think she said she has a grandma somewhere. But it’s not exactly a Hallmark card group, if you know what I mean.”