A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) (25 page)

“I have the best commute . . . except for Lucy,” Phoebe said.

The next story was about a blood drive at a high school. Phoebe and Maggie were about to switch the channel when the news anchor said,
“Coming up next, a break for investigators in the ongoing investigation of the murder of college student Beth Shelton. We go to Chelsea Porter, who was on the campus of Whitaker College earlier this evening.”

“Oh boy . . . here we go again,” Maggie murmured, her gaze fixed on the TV as Chelsea Porter came into view.

Chelsea stood in front of the art department building once more, a familiar grave expression on her pretty face.

“Here at Whitaker College, new and shocking allegations in the investigation of the murder of college student Beth Shelton. Police have turned their attention once more to a prominent
faculty member, Professor Alexander P. Healey, chairman of the art department—teacher, administrator, and acclaimed sculptor.”

“Finch called it. She told him, ‘They’ll be coming for you next,’ ” Phoebe reminded Maggie.

“She probably engineered it, too,” Maggie murmured. “Let’s hear what Chelsea has to say.”

“Police questioned Professor Healey in his office, then escorted him to the Essex County police headquarters, where he is presently being interviewed in depth. Police say that at this time, he is cooperating voluntarily with the investigation and is considered a person of interest in the case. Yet just a short time ago, a judge issued a warrant permitting the search of his office, home, and art studio. As you can see, evidence in this case is now being collected.”

Once again a team of uniformed police officers and a few in plainclothes were seen in long shot, going in and out of the art department building, carrying boxes and trash bags.

“Give me a break. The police have enough supplies now to open their own art school. Do you think that’s their secret plan?” Phoebe asked.

“Reyes and Mossbacher don’t look like art lovers to me. They’re just looking for a needle in a haystack right now.” Maggie turned to Phoebe. “I wouldn’t switch jobs with either of them.”

“Me, either,” Phoebe agreed. “Detective Reyes sounded tired. No wonder she didn’t get excited about Quentin’s evil-attorney theory. She already had an evil art professor in the bag.”

“We don’t know if he’s evil yet. Allegedly evil, I think, is the official terminology. Maybe the police really don’t suspect
Healey of the murder but just want him for questioning, now that Sonya Finch put out the possibility that he and Charlotte are involved. Anyone connected to Charlotte has to be questioned,” she added. “But we already know that.”

“Maybe Healey knows where Charlotte is. Wouldn’t that be great?”

“The police will be even happier than you, if that’s at all possible. Healey might be the key to this whole mess.”

“Yeah . . . but too bad in a way. That evil-attorney theory was starting to grow on me. And I hate the idea that Professor Healey might be guilty,” Phoebe admitted. “He hasn’t been showing his best side lately. But I still, well . . . think he’s a good guy. I’m going to Google the law firm anyway. Can I use your laptop?” She knew Maggie wouldn’t mind, but she wanted to be a polite houseguest.

“It’s right on the kitchen counter. Help yourself.”

Phoebe brought the computer back to the couch and booted it up. “I think I’ll send an update to everyone. In case they missed the news. But I can’t tell them the whole story about Quentin in an e-mail.”

“Don’t worry. They’ll all march into the shop tomorrow morning, bright and early, and demand a full report. By the way, while you were in the kitchen, I just heard that they’ve identified the other Knit Kat: a woman who used to teach literature at Tufts. She’s been wintering down in Florida since Christmas, so they doubt she’s involved.”

“So Professor Finch was sort of a one-woman band after Charlotte left the Knit Kats. No wonder she was looking for fresh meat.”

“That’s true. She had some Knit Kats vacancies to fill.
There are a lot of moving parts in this puzzle now, Phoebe. And there will be a lot more theories spun before we’re done.”

Maggie was usually right. But this time, Phoebe hoped she was wrong.

Phoebe hoped now that the police had gotten around to Professor Healey, the case would be solved quickly. She just wanted Charlotte to come back, but she had a feeling her friend wouldn’t feel safe until the police nabbed Beth Shelton’s killer. Nabbed them and locked them up in a jail cell somewhere.

“D
o you want me to come with you? I don’t have to open the shop until ten. That should be plenty of time.” Maggie was putting the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, her purse and knitting bag on the table, packed and ready to go.

Phoebe had decided to head straight to the police station to file a report on Quentin. She could have gone in the afternoon, but why put it off? She’d woken up with a waffle hangover, or just a nervous stomach, and was starting the day with just coffee this morning.

“That’s okay. I’m just going to do this and get it over with. It shouldn’t take long. I don’t really have that much to say. He grabbed me, held me down. And is a total psycho idiot.”

Maggie nodded and pulled on her down coat. “That about covers it. If the gang arrives, we’ll try to wait for you. I have a feeling Dana is going to be chock-f of news about Healey.”

Phoebe thought so, too. Another reason she wanted to be quick at the police station.

Maggie paused and looked over at her. “I’m proud of you, Phoebe, for filing this report. It takes courage to face up to a bully like Quentin.”

Phoebe shrugged. Maggie’s compliment made her feel good, but she wasn’t sure what to say. “Well . . . a wise person once told me that you have to do the thing you fear most . . . or something like that.”

Maggie smiled. “Yes, I did tell you that. But Eleanor Roosevelt said it first,” she added with a smile. “She was wiser than me—along with being a good knitter. Good luck. Call me if you need me.”

Phoebe appreciated the offer but hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.

She had been inside the station once or twice before. But the empty entrance area and big glass window were always unsettling. A uniformed officer with a stocky build and a reddish-blond crew cut sat behind the desk. A brusque and short-tempered attitude was obviously part of his official duties.

Or maybe he didn’t approve of Phoebe’s streaked hair, or the tiny hoop earring in her nose. Should have expected that around here, she realized.

“I want to file a complaint about . . . someone. I spoke to Detective Reyes last night. She told me to come in.”

Detective Reyes’s name caught his attention. “Aw-right. Door to the left. First desk. Officer will help you.”

Phoebe nodded and headed for a door to the left of the window. An incredibly loud buzzer echoed in the small space, and she nearly put her hands up to cover her ears.

The door led to a large open office space with rows of metal desks. She saw some uniformed officers and some with
regular clothes working here and there. Many of the desks were empty, though.

She scanned the room but didn’t see Detective Reyes or Mossbacher.

The desk facing the door was unoccupied, too, but a young officer in uniform appeared and walked behind it. He set down a pile of folders on the desk along with a cup of coffee

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked before sitting down.

Phoebe nodded, trying to hide a sudden attack of nerves. “I want to report someone. An incident,” she added, using the words Detective Reyes had. “Someone, this guy I sort of know, sort of grabbed me yesterday and pushed me to the ground.”

Yeah, and there must have been some brain damage . . . because you sound like a babbling idiot, Phoebe.

If he agreed, or disapproved of the way she looked—like the guy outside—he didn’t show it. “Please have a seat.” He offered her a plastic-and-metal chair beside the desk and sat down himself. “So you want to make a report about the event?”

Phoebe nodded. “I spoke to Detective Reyes last night. She told me to come in.”

“Detective Reyes is busy right now. But I can help you.” He was being super polite, but Phoebe realized that Detective Reyes was probably trying to solve Beth Shelton’s murder. She didn’t have time to fill out petty reports about head cases like Quentin Gibbs.

Speaking of head cases, she suddenly noticed two policemen escorting a rough-looking man in handcuffs down a corridor behind a glass partition. The guy in cuffs looked like he
could belong to some Quentin Gibbs Club. Phoebe couldn’t help but think of the threat Gibbs had made to her.

“Yeah, sure . . . whatever. Is this going to take long? I have to like get back to work.” That wasn’t exactly true, but Phoebe felt like she was getting cold feet.

“Not long at all. Let me pull up the form and we’ll start.”

He turned to his computer and began asking her questions, the usual stuff at first—name, address, contact phone numbers. Once she got rolling with her story, it wasn’t as hard as she’d expected. The police officer didn’t say much. But she could tell he agreed that Quentin Gibbs was out of control and she’d done the right thing.

When they were done, he printed out the form. Phoebe read it over, signed her name on the bottom, and took a copy for herself.

“I guess Detective Reyes explained that, since Gibbs didn’t have a weapon and this was not a robbery or sexual assault, this is not the type of complaint we follow up on automatically. You would have to press charges for the police to determine if the incident requires further action.”

“I understand . . . I’m good with the report for now. I don’t know about the other thing.”

“All right. But if Gibbs bothers you again, call right away. Don’t wait,” he said firmly. “That makes it harder for us to pick him up if we have to.”

“I get it.” She had waited, more than twelve hours, but at least she’d come in. She’d done the right thing.

“You’re all done. Thanks for coming in, Ms. Meyers.” He’d been taught to say that, she guessed. But he still seemed like a nice guy.

Phoebe smiled back briefly and grabbed her big bag. “Great. Thanks. That was . . . weird.”

He smiled briefly but didn’t reply.

Phoebe felt so relieved, she practically flew out of the police station. She pushed through the first door and came out into the lobby, then quickly headed for the next doors that led to the parking lot. A woman was walking just ahead of her. She pushed open the doors and left them to slam in Phoebe’s face.

Nice . . . thanks a lot, Phoebe nearly said aloud. But the rude one had already pulled a big hood up over her head and Phoebe doubted she’d even hear her.

Outside in the lot, the hooded woman ran toward the rows of parked cars. She was carrying a big overloaded bag, along with a manila envelope, and a pile of loose papers under her arm. A few of the papers fluttered out from the pile, and she didn’t seem to notice. Phoebe ran to pick them up, stomping on one or two with her boot toe to keep them from blowing away.

“Hey . . . wait up. You dropped something,” Phoebe called out.

The woman didn’t stop. She walked briskly toward the cars. But when she was only halfway there, Phoebe heard a shout from the far side of the lot, the entrance near the road. She turned to see a swarm of reporters holding microphones and video cameras, charging toward the building.

“There she is . . .” someone called out.

“Hey . . . Mrs. Healey . . . how’s your husband doing?”

“Gena . . . how’s it going in there? Will Alex be out on bail?”

The object of their attention suddenly ducked her head and turned, running back toward the building. Phoebe still couldn’t see her face, but called out anyway.

“Mrs. Healey! It’s me, Phoebe Meyers. From school.”

When Gena Healey finally looked her way, her face was half covered by big sunglasses. Phoebe barely recognized her. She was all in a state. Who wouldn’t be?

Mrs. Healey met her gaze and ran straight toward her. The reporters were getting closer. “Phoebe . . . thank goodness. Is your car nearby? Can you get me out of here?”

“Yeah . . . sure . . . it’s right over here. The orange Bug.” Phoebe led the way to her car, which was parked in the front aisle, close to the entrance.

Just as Phoebe was about to open the driver’s side, Gena Healey dropped the manila folder and more of the papers she was holding. As she crouched down, her big leather bag spilled out on the ground. Phoebe ran over to help her pick everything up. Her body was shaking, and Phoebe could tell the woman was crying.

“No worries, I got this,” Phoebe said.

“Forgive me. I’m just . . . having a total meltdown right now.” She shook her head, and her hood fell off. Phoebe couldn’t tell if she was crying or laughing. A bit of both—just plain hysterical.

Phoebe didn’t take time to answer. She focused on picking up the belongings that had spilled from the bag. More papers, a wallet, a makeup case, a magazine—
Vogue Knitting
. There was also a plastic truck, a rubber ball, and a child’s knitted hat shaped like a bear. It looked handmade, and well used. Phoebe dumped the items back in the leather tote along with the papers she’d picked up.