A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) (6 page)

L
ucy had offered to drive everyone to Charlotte’s art exhibit on Sunday night. Maggie sat up front; Dana and Suzanne were in the backseat. Phoebe had left earlier in her own car, but promised to meet them at the gallery before six. The reception ended at eight, but they planned to leave before that and go out to dinner.

Phoebe had also invited Charlotte to dinner with them. Charlotte had a lot of friends on campus, but none very close, Phoebe told them. Charlotte had recently broken off with a boyfriend, and Phoebe was worried she had no one to celebrate with.

“Of course she can come with us. We’d be honored,” Maggie had replied immediately.

It was only half past five as they drove onto the campus, but the sun was already low in the winter sky. A rosy hue tinted the horizon, just visible through bare branches.

The Stimson Art Center, named for a wealthy benefactor of the school, was located at the edge of the Whitaker College campus, a few minutes north of Plum Harbor.

A mixture of old buildings and new, Whitaker College was quite pretty, Maggie thought. The grounds had once been the estate of a prominent New England family. They’d owned a foundry or textile mill in the area. Some dark industrial enterprise, she recalled. In the early 1900s, the family set up a college for the children of their local workers and eventually donated the estate to Essex County, along with an ample endowment so the school could be expanded.

The tuition was reasonable, and Phoebe had been enrolled as a part-time student for a few years now—though she did not seem any closer to earning her degree, Maggie noticed. But she was happily finding her way. Majoring in philosophy one year and art the next. She was still quite young, only twenty, and had her whole life ahead of her.

Young people rush themselves so much these days, Maggie thought. Racing toward some invisible finish line with blinders on. So focused and directed, they miss all the scenery, the simple joy of the journey. When the truth of it is, there is no finish line. No final goal to life. Just important stops and milestones along the way. That was her impression anyway.

“Looks like we turn left here,” Dana said from the backseat. Maggie noticed a sign on a lamppost, advertising the exhibit.

“I think the gallery is in that building up ahead,” Lucy announced. A large warehouse-like building came into view. She parked nearby.

Lucy led the way as they walked together up a gravel path. “I think Phoebe said the gallery is on one side and some art studios are on the other.”

“I see a lot of lights on. I think we’re in the right place,” Dana added.

“And there’s our own little Phoebe . . . right on time.” Maggie spotted her assistant standing just inside a set of glass doors in the middle of the building.

Phoebe stepped out and waved. “Hi, guys. You made it.”

“Wow! Look at you . . . I didn’t know this was such an elegant affair. Should I run home and change?” Suzanne leaned back theatrically, taking Phoebe in from head to toe.

Phoebe wore a sweeping black maxi skirt, a lace tank top with a long, lacy pink knitted scarf around her throat, and black fingerless gloves that extended up her slim white arms, over her elbows, though the gloves did not cover a small heart-shaped tattoo on her slim upper arm. Her hair was gathered in a puffy washer-woman-style knot that seemed about to tumble down very stylishly at any second. Her eyes were ringed with liner, shadow, and mascara, and sparkling studs dotted her ears, matching the tiny stone in one nostril.

“No worries. I think you’ll see mostly jeans and hoodies in there. I just felt like glamming it up a little.”

“You look very glam to me,” Maggie assured her.

Phoebe smiled shyly and led them inside. The large entrance, painted pure white, was decorated with a smooth white stone sculpture on a black pedestal. A large poster, balanced on an easel, announced the opening of the exhibit. The photo of a piece of fiber art was featured on the sign—tarnished spoons and half-broken teacups dangling from a colorful tapestry.

“That’s one of Charlotte’s pieces,
Granny’s Parlor
. It was chosen for the poster,” Phoebe said proudly.

“Very interesting. Can’t wait to see the rest.” Maggie shrugged out of her coat. The group left their things at a checkroom and followed Phoebe to the gallery entrance.
Another student, also dressed in black, though not quite as dramatically as Phoebe, checked a list for everyone’s name.

As she stepped into the gallery, Maggie decided she’d surrendered her coat too willingly. The vast, open space was quite chilly. With ceilings as high as an airplane hangar, it was, she guessed, a hard space to heat and not often occupied. But as these events often went, a throng of warm bodies would soon fill in the emptiness and quickly raise the temperature.

The floor was wood, bleached white, the walls whitewashed as well, covered by artwork. A few partitions, painted pearl gray, broke up the area, making it look less like a gymnasium sans basketball hoops. Waiters, who Maggie strongly suspected were more dressed-up students, circulated with trays of white wine and sparkling water in plastic cups. Others offered bits of cheese and crackers.

“We’re a little early. But you can get a better look at the artwork without a crowd here. And talk to Charlotte. She’s around here somewhere . . .”

While Phoebe gazed around for her friend, a woman about Maggie’s age sailed up to them. “Phoebe . . . you look lovely. Are you helping out here tonight?”

“Hello, Professor Finch . . . No, I’m just here to see Charlotte’s work. She invited me and my friends.”

Not very tall and a bit stout, the professor made the most of her assets with her outfit, Maggie thought. She wore slim black pants with a billowing chiffon top, a blue-gray color that matched her large eyes, dramatically kohl-lined and shadowed. Her short hair, a shock of white, stood out in stylish spikes. Large silver earrings, studded with random stones, matched a
pendant and thick cuff bracelet. A tag on her blouse revealed her name: Professor Sonya Finch.

Phoebe turned to the group. “Professor Finch is one of my teachers this semester.”

Maggie introduced herself and extended her hand. “Maggie Messina. Very nice to meet you, Professor.”

“My pleasure. I think Phoebe mentioned that you own a knitting shop in the village? Where she works?”

Maggie nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”

“I saw you on the news the other night. That little prank really stirred up the town, didn’t it?” Professor Finch laughed, sounding very amused. At the Knit Kats, Maggie hoped. Not her interview.

Was the art professor poking fun at her—or someone—for making such a fuss over the knitting graffiti? Chelsea Porter should take the flak for that, Maggie thought.

“It did cause a stir. But we’ve kept calm and carried on,” she replied drily.

Sonya Finch had a loud, bold laugh and obviously appreciated the volley. “I’m sure you have. You look like the calm type . . . Phoebe is so talented,” she added, suddenly changing the subject and resting her hand lightly on Phoebe’s shoulder. “I’m so glad she’s in my sketching and painting studio this semester. She’s doing some fine work.”

“Is that your area of expertise?” Dana asked curiously.

Sonya shrugged. “Not really . . . but in a small department you have to be flexible. I just jump in wherever needed. I usually know enough to push them in the right direction,” she added with a smile.

Before Maggie could ask the teacher more, Charlotte
appeared. She usually dressed down in jeans, adopting the tattered, drab look that was the local art-student style. But she was quite glammed up tonight, too. A knockout in a beaded black minidress, lacy stockings, and high black boots. She looked very much the guest of honor and arrived at their circle flushed and breathless.

She was nervous, Maggie realized, and not at ease in the spotlight. It had to be stressful, having your artwork on display for all to judge and critique. Especially at that tender age, Maggie reflected.

“Charlotte . . . there you are. Everyone has been asking for you.” The art professor smiled warmly at her star pupil. “Time to mingle and meet your fans,” she encouraged. “I think there’s even someone here from the Plum Harbor newspaper. That will be good publicity for the gallery.”

Charlotte glanced at her teacher and nodded—though she didn’t smile, Maggie noticed. “Thanks, Dr. Finch. I’ll catch up with them.”

“Time for me to mingle, too,” Sonya Finch added. She took in the knitting group with another smile. “Thanks again for coming. I hope you all enjoy the exhibit.”

“I’m sure we will,” Maggie replied.

Professor Finch sailed off to greet another group of art lovers. Phoebe turned to Charlotte. “Hey, Charl, what’s up?”

Charlotte drew close to her. “I just got a text from Quentin . . . I told him not to come. But he said if I don’t . . .”

Charlotte’s words trailed off. She looked over at the gallery entrance; her fair complexion turned pale as paper.

Maggie looked over, too, and saw the girl with the guest
list arguing with a young man in a leather jacket. Another student, one of the male waiters, had trotted over to help her.

“Oh no . . . he’s here. Don’t let him see me . . .” Charlotte turned to Phoebe with a fearful expression.

Maggie could tell the leather-jacket guy was trying to talk his way into the exhibit, but the other boy had hold of his arm. The argumentative intruder had dark hair, a super-close buzz cut on the sides with a thick, spiky section sprouting down the middle of his skull. He wore the leather jacket over a black T-shirt and tattered jeans. A blue-and-red tattoo climbed up one side of his neck, like a colorful lizard.

Maggie saw Professor Finch heading toward the fracas. She had an uneven gait, moving along in a rocking motion, Maggie noticed. Not exactly a limp, but perhaps one leg was shorter than the other? She looked down at the professor’s shoes and saw that, indeed, one black boot did look different, the heel and sole much thicker.

Charlotte cowered next to Phoebe—which Maggie found quite ironic since Phoebe herself was such a slim little waif. Not exactly a fortress of protection. Both of them ducked behind a gray partition.

“He’s totally crazy . . . I wish he’d just leave me alone . . . He just doesn’t get it . . . not even the order of protection . . .” Maggie couldn’t hear every word, but Charlotte’s tone—angry and frustrated—was clear enough.

Obviously the boy was harassing her. Hadn’t Phoebe mentioned that Charlotte had just ended a relationship? This must be the aftershock.

Maggie glanced back at the entrance. Voices were growing louder and more insistent. Even though Professor Finch
had extended her hands, gesturing for the uninvited Quentin to go, he roughly pushed her aside, shook off the hold of the waiter, and headed toward Charlotte like a lovesick heat-seeking missile.

“Oh God . . . here he comes . . .” Charlotte tore away from Phoebe and took off, the clicking heels of her high boots echoing in the empty space.

Phoebe stared at Maggie a second, then chased after her friend.

“Phoebe? Wait . . .” Maggie called out, but it was too late.

Quentin quickly cut across the gallery, heading straight for a black metal door at the far corner of the room. Maggie could see the two girls aiming for the same door by a more circuitous path.

Luckily, they reached it first, pulled it open, and ran through. It slammed shut, the sound echoing in the empty space.

Quentin bumped into a cluster of visitors, spilling their drinks and tipping paper plates of crackers. He quickly pushed past them, reached the door, and ran through, only a few seconds behind Phoebe and Charlotte. The door slammed for a second time, as if sealing off a portal to another dimension.

“What’s going on? Where’s Phoebe?”

Maggie turned to see Dana, Suzanne, and Lucy, who had left to view the exhibit.

“Charlotte’s ex-boyfriend just crashed the party. He’s after Charlotte. Phoebe is trying to protect her.” Maggie paused, the realization sinking in. Could Phoebe even protect a . . . fly? “Come on . . . before he catches up to them.”

The friends dropped their glasses on a nearby table and joined the chase.

Sonya Finch followed, too. “I’ve just called campus security . . . they’re on the way . . .”

She moved as quickly as her bulk and gait would allow. Maggie barely had time to glance back as she pulled open the heavy black door.

The door closed behind her, separating her from the rest of the pack. Maggie found herself in silent, pitch-black darkness. She paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

This had to be the studio space that she’d noticed when they were outside. It felt even chillier than the gallery and damp. She took a few steps forward; the floor was hard and cold under the thin soles of her dressy shoes, and Maggie took in a musty, earthy scent. As if she were in a basement. Then she realized it was the scent of damp clay; she must have wandered into the ceramics studio.

All she could hear were her own deep breaths and the hollow echo of heavy footsteps moving very quickly somewhere on the other side of a warehouse-sized space.

Before she could figure out which way to go, a piercing scream cut through the darkness. Then what sounded like a pile of dishes crashing to the floor. Maggie stood very still, listening. She held her breath.

Was that Phoebe . . . or Charlotte?

Neither choice was preferable.

“Phoebe . . . is that you? Answer me, please! . . . Are you in here? . . . Are you all right?”

Maggie ran toward the sound, though in the darkness it was hard to tell if she was moving in the right direction. Her
eyes were more accustomed now to the dark, and a bank of high windows let in some thin, milky light from a distant street lamp.

Finally, she heard footsteps coming up behind her.

“Maggie? Wait for us . . .” Maggie turned to see Lucy and her other friends running toward her with their phones out, which they were using as flashlights.

Why in the world hadn’t she thought of that? She was just too low-tech for her own good, that was the problem. She reached in her purse and took her phone out, too. “I’m here . . . Did you hear that scream? It came from back there.” She pointed, hoping they could see her.