Death of a Crafty Knitter (30 page)

The killer had been here.

Watching me.

I stepped aside while my father used a compact flashlight to illuminate the space between the home's original wall and the movie-set wall.

"You walk around with a flashlight?" I asked. He wasn't focused on talking, though, so I answered my own question. "Of course you do. Every good sleuth carries a flashlight. You probably have a magnifying glass, too." I adjusted my hold on the rug to let more of the room's light through. "I'm in way over my head, Dad. I should have searched the house better."

He leaned his upper body through the square opening, grunted as he reached for something, then stood up and handed me a button.

"Stormy, you can thank your lucky stars you didn't encounter the owner of this button. If he or she was still on the scene when you arrived, and you'd looked behind this rug, it would have been a double homicide. There was a loaded gun inside the room, and don't take this the wrong way, but you're not exactly physically intimidating." He looked me up and down as he tapped his cane rhythmically on the wood floor. "We need to get you a weapon, and training. What's your ideal weapon for defense?"

"Shooting fireballs from the palms of my hands."

He didn't have a response for that, so he went back to examining the space with his flashlight. I examined the button he'd handed me. It was too small to provide fingerprints. We could turn it over to the police, along with our tip about the hole in the wall, but if they wanted to close the case with Dharma as the killer, new evidence might not do any good.

We talked this over as we examined and photographed the gap, then looked through the rest of the house. We didn't have any plastic bags for preserving the evidence, but I found a receipt for gas in my pocket and folded it into a makeshift envelope.

The button could have gotten into the space by falling out of a storage box, or from anyone who'd accessed the space over the years, including the movers and the crime scene cleanup crew who'd done the best they could with the stain on the floor.

However, there were two things that made us think the button belonged to a killer.

First, it was a genuine mother-of-pearl button—the kind you'd find on an expensive tailored shirt. The gap was a perfect hide-and-seek spot for kids who might have lived in the house over the years, but kids didn't typically wear shirts with mother-of-pearl buttons.

Second, the button hadn't just fallen off a garment. The threads were still intact, and bunched up at the back of the button was the smallest shred of fabric. The button had caught on the jagged wood or one of the exposed nails inside the space, and ripped from the garment. If that had happened to me, I would have noticed, and grabbed the button so it could be sewed back on. A killer, however, might have been too distracted.

We finished looking through the house, locked it up again, then returned the key to the real estate agent's lockbox.

"How long do you think this lockbox has been here?" I asked. "Getting access to the house was almost too easy. Voula would have dealt with the rental agent when she leased the place, right?"

"Good point. I'll call my friend and find out how long this lockbox has been here." He stopped on the porch steps and stared straight ahead, the lines on his face smoothing out.

"What is it? Something click together for you?"

He shook his head. "We live in a beautiful town. Look how it's nestled in the valley like that. Kinda takes your breath away."

I followed his gaze to the center of town, with its handful of tall buildings. Purple-blue mountains stood like stone guardians in the distance. Over the residential areas, trees camouflaged rooftops, and puffs of smoke from wood-burning fireplaces swirled from chimneys, seasoning the air.

"You're right, Dad. Our little piece of heaven."

"Also, I know how to get the killer's name," he said, then he started down the steps and toward the car, whistling happily.

Chapter 29

We were probably
on a wild goose chase, but my father wouldn't admit it.

I'd had enough of investigating for the day, and didn't feel well at all. It might have been the throwing up, or the realization I'd nearly gotten myself killed five days earlier.

The idea of a hot bath and a quiet night at home had never been so appealing, but there was no resting yet.

My father led the way toward Sew It Goes, which was just a few doors down from Blue Enchantment, my new favorite place for clothes. In fact, he had to nudge my elbow and remind me of our important mission so I didn't run into Blue Enchantment and buy the whole outfit off the sharply dressed mannequin in the window.

"I don't remember you being much into clothes," he commented as we walked down the street. "That was your sister who used to spend her full allowance on dresses and purses, then hit me up for money to go to the movies. I'd tell her no, of course, so she'd learn her lesson about saving."

I laughed. "She didn't learn, though. I'll tell you a secret. Do you know why I was so good at saving my allowance? Because I'd wait until she was broke, then pay her to do all my chores."

"At rock-bottom rates."

"You knew? She must have told you."

He gave me a smile as we reached the door of Sew It Goes. "Finnegan Day sees everything. I saw the button, didn't I?"

I groaned. "Do you really think you can get us a name from one little button and some threads? We should probably take it straight to the police, so they can enjoy a good laugh."

"Sure, Stormy. You explain to them how we came to be in possession of the button."

"Right."

I glanced around, guiltily expecting Tony Milano to suddenly appear, as though conjured by my thoughts. People were shopping and going about their business on the town's main retail street, but I didn't see Tony. I breathed in deeply through my nostrils. Someone nearby had to be wearing the same cologne as his, because my senses told me he was around.

The glint of winter sun on a glass door closing alerted me to the fact my father had already gone inside Sew It Goes. I looked up and down the sidewalk one more time for Tony, then entered the store.

For the second time that day, I heard a man and a woman arguing. The tiny store wasn't really made for shopping, so there was nobody else inside, except for us and the woman who worked there. She stood behind a long counter fitted with rulers for measuring fabric, jabbing her finger at my father and berating him.

"Finn Day, you make a lot of promises, but you don't follow through," she said angrily. "You're the reason Pam snapped. She wasn't nuts before she met you. People around this town worship and adore you too much to say it to your face, but some of us know it was all your fault!"

She hadn't heard me come in, so I stayed near the entryway and looked around the store. In addition to garment repair and tailoring, Sew It Goes produced a line of custom-made suit shirts. According to the shop's signage, the shirts took four weeks from the time the measurements were gathered. More importantly, their top-of-the-line shirt came with their signature mother-of-pearl buttons.

Maybe this wasn't a wild goose chase after all.

The woman at the counter was still berating my father. He shuffled his cane from one hand to the other, like he was resisting the urge to pull out the hidden sword.

"Easy now, Denise," he said. "Let's not say things we regret. Words can hurt."

"I wish they did," she huffed. "I've got a few more words for you. Liar. Scumbag. Bas—"

Something tinkled to the ground next to me. She stopped talking and stared at me as I scrambled to pick up the clothes hanger I'd just knocked to the floor by accident.

"That's your daughter," Denise said. The fire had left her voice, extinguished by my presence.

"Let me introduce you two," my father said.

"No need." I set the hanger with the sample shirt back on the display stand and walked up to join them at the counter. "We met at the wake for Voula Varga. Dad, I'm not sure if I told you, but I've joined a knitting club, and Denise and her sister Barbara are in it."

"Sounds vaguely familiar," he said, playing along.

Denise nodded, but didn't speak. She held her hand over her mouth the way she had when I'd met her at my house. Her straight black hair was impeccable, cut in a crisp bob that made even more sense now that I knew she was a professional tailor. Her softly rounded cheeks were flushed from yelling at my father, but she looked rested and healthy.

"Denise, you're coming to the next knitting club, right? It's at my house."

"I think so," she said softly, from behind her hand.

I reached into my purse and withdrew the folded-paper envelope containing the button. I tried to hand it to my father, but he used a chin-lift gesture to let me know I'd have better luck than him. He looked embarrassed, perhaps because he'd forgotten that the owner of the store had been good friends with his ex, Pam, and might have a few hard feelings.

Now I understood why Denise had been so uncomfortable around me at the wake. She'd been restraining herself from telling me exactly what she thought of my father. Of course, Denise was angry at the wrong person, but I wasn't about to tell her that. Not when I needed her help.

"Denise, I wonder if you could tell me about this button." I flipped open the makeshift envelope and rolled the gleaming button onto the counter.

"That's nacre," she said as she picked it up. "Nacre is the name for what we call mother-of-pearl. It's so beautiful, considering it's a defense mechanism. It would be funny to imagine the reverse, with mollusks going around wearing humans' discarded Band-Aids as decoration."

"Ew," I said. Denise certainly had a unique way of seeing the world. "Do you sell these buttons? They're the ones you use on your custom men's shirts, right?"

She squinted at the button between her fingers.

"Careful," I said. "Don't pull that bit of torn fabric off the back." She gave me a quizzical look. "Sentimental reasons," I explained.

"Just a minute." She turned and walked deeper into the store, past two industrial sewing tables.

My father said, softly so that Denise wouldn't overhear, "We need a list of customers who bought custom shirts in that color."

"Hold your horses," I hissed. "Let me get there. We have to ask people nicely for things. We don't have warrants, remember?"

"Just because I forgot ol' Denise was friends with Pam doesn't mean I'm losing my marbles."

"Denise is
not
fond of you. Maybe you should go wait in the car."

He looked like he was going to argue with me, then he admitted it was a good idea, and left.

Denise returned with an armload of fabric and set it on the counter between us. She glanced at the space where my father had been, then at me. It was the first time she'd ever made direct eye contact with me, and I was surprised to find her eyes were different colors, one green and one blue.

"This is the same fabric, and here are the same buttons," she said. The folded ream of fabric on the counter was sandy beige with a bit of a sheen—brushed cotton, if I knew my fabrics. "When do you need your shirt by?"

"My shirt?" So, this investigation was going to cost me a custom-made shirt, which wasn't cheap. I could see how quickly incidentals might add up, buying things here and there to curry favor. "Oh, the standard four weeks is fine."

"And is it for you or for a gentleman friend? I'll need to get some measurements, either way."

"Do women get those shirts for themselves?"

Denise looked at me like I was being strange, and I suppose I was. "We sell about ten for men to every one we make for women. Personally, I prefer the women's shirts, with all the fitted darts and everything being a smaller scale. We should probably charge more, because of the extra labor, but I don't mind the challenge. I wouldn't want life to get too simple." She pulled open a drawer and retrieved a well-worn cloth measuring tape. "Well?"

"Right." I started taking off my jacket. She nodded for me to follow her around behind the counter and into the back, out of sight from the front window.

She took my measurements, her touch feather-light on my arms, and her voice lullaby-soft. Denise was certainly a woman of contrasts, with her sharp black hair and her soft body and gestures. If I hadn't seen her yelling at my father, I'd never have believed it.

Would Denise have had any issues with Voula?

I could think of one possible problem: if Voula really was a psychic, as the knitting club ladies believed, why hadn't she warned Denise about something her friend Pam was about to do?
That's pretty far-fetched
, I told myself, but once the theory came to me, it wouldn't shake loose, so I had to ask about her alibi.

"How are your New Year's resolutions coming along?" I asked.

"Great," she said brightly. "Hold this."

I held the end of the measuring tape in place at the top of my arm. "You were at the Fox and Hound for the big New Year's Eve party, weren't you? I think I saw you there, with Voula."

"Yes." She measured the length of my right arm, and then repeated the process on my left arm. I was impressed. Most tailors would assume both of a person's arms were the same length.