Knot the Usual Suspects (16 page)

“The name means nothing to me.”

“She said she'd dig further after story time. Judging from the book and craft they're doing, it sounds like she might be indoctrinating the kids so they can organize and go out and do their own preschool yarn bombing.”

“Trust Thea for the literacy tie-in. I'm not sure preschoolers can learn to purl, but they can sure get things into knots. But here's another thing, Kath—if Aaron wasn't talking about Angie, then what in heaven's name kind of client does he have who hangs out in the park at midnight, seeing but not being seen? What exactly is Aaron Carlin's ‘business'?”

“Being in the park at midnight might not have
anything to do with being his client. Don't you think we should just be grateful they're coming to talk to us?”

“You're right. And if Aaron is that afraid of the twins, then we know he has his head screwed on at least halfway right. Now let me tell you what this is that Mel sent. I read it while you and Aaron were in conference.” She held up the piece of lined paper. “What we have here is proof that Sheriff Haynes is not the only who looked as though he saw a ghost after catching sight of Hugh on Tuesday.”

The paragraphs and stick figure turned out to be from one of Mel's waitresses. Mel had asked her to put down in writing what she'd seen happen Tuesday at the café while Ardis and Hugh were there eating lunch.

“I think it's accurate,” Ardis said. “I had my back to the front door and Hugh was facing it.”

The waitress had been delivering orders to a table near the one where Ardis and Hugh sat. She looked up when the front door opened, ready to smile as Mel had taught her. She saw a woman walk in, freeze, and “literally do a total physical double take.” Then she turned around and left. The waitress was sure the woman was looking at the man sitting with Ardis. She was also sure the woman wasn't just startled to see him, but also upset, because she had called in a to-go order. The order was waiting for her at the pickup window.

“She never did pick it up,” Ardis said. “She never called to apologize. It was only a sandwich, but it's a telling point. She could've gone back later.”

“Or sent someone else. If there was an order, then we know who this is, right?”

“In a minute. This part is brilliant. The stick figure was
the waitress' idea, in case we couldn't picture how the woman looked when she saw Hugh. When you know that, it doesn't matter that it's a stick figure. Big round eyes, tiny
o
for a mouth. And the hair nails it.”

“Who is it?”

“Mrs. Pokey Weems.”

“W
e have a lot of names all of a sudden,” I said. “With no idea how they fit in.”

“These investigations are like some of the more intricate embroideries I've worked on. Here—” Ardis looked through our plastic “hospital” bin behind the counter. It was where we kept the projects tearful customers brought in that needed the ministrations of experts—sometimes including surgery or the laying on of last rights. She brought out a piece of linen, flosses dangling. “In this state, it looks hopeless: patterns and images you can almost see, but not quite because they have no definition; a border that looks like it's going nowhere, which it might be, because she got way off on her counting; and threads tangling into a rat's nest.”

“But we've fixed worse.”

“With time and patience. These things always look worst when they're partway finished—needlework and investigations.” Ardis put the linen back in the bin. “Go get your sleuthing notebook, and let's make a list of these names we're collecting.”

“It's in the study. Be right back.”

Geneva must have followed me up the stairs. She drifted into the study and slumped onto the desk. While I rummaged for the leather notebook in my shoulder bag hanging on the back of the desk chair, she traced figure eights on the desk with a finger. Neither her tracing nor her heavy sighs disturbed a single speck of dust.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I asked.

“Which would be useless to me, not to say worthless in today's economy. Here is a valuable tip for you, though. You should keep a small notebook in your pocket at all times. Patrolmen on the best shows keep them in a breast pocket.”

“I could keep one in a hip pocket.”

“That would look better on someone with your figure. You will find one in the kneehole drawer. Also your grandmother's drawing pencils. Your grandmother was talented. That waitress could never be a police sketch artist.”

I laughed. “She wouldn't even make it in the door of sketch artist school, would she?”

“I was not making fun of her.”

“I didn't think you were.” I watched as she continued tracing with her finger, now working on something more elaborate than an eight. “Geneva?”

“Hmm?”

“Which do you miss more, turning the pages of a book or drawing?” Borrowing recorded books from the library had made a difference in the quality of her life—her afterlife. But I couldn't see any way around her problem of not being able to touch or hold anything.

She curled her hand into a fist, and then stretched her
fingers and used her whole hand to erase the tracings that neither of us could tell were there. “Before you go, will you please put the next disc in the machine?
The Lovely Bones
is a sad book. I am enjoying it.”

*   *   *

“Call this list ‘People of Interest,'” Ardis said, “and put Olive's name first.”

“I don't know.”

“Oh, sure. She likes to think of herself as rising to the top of any social occasion.”

“I mean about a title for the list. It makes me nervous to call a list ‘People of Interest' and then put the sheriff's name on it. And we have to add Cole's name, too. He was practically foaming at the mouth to find out if Hugh was in town, and to find out before Al Rogalla. We need to find out what that was all about.”

To please Ardis, I wrote Olive Weems at the top of the list, then added Sheriff Haynes, Cole Dunbar, Al Rogalla, Walter Jeffries, Aaron Carlin's client, and Rachel Meeks.

“Who's the Register of Deeds?” I asked.

“I forget. Easy enough to find out, though. And this thing with Rachel introduces a bobble to the event tonight, but it'll work out perfectly. We can get the information about her meeting with Hugh and Al while we're bonding over bombing.”

“You think she'll babble the information so freely?”

“We won't know until we try. We'll fit questions artfully into casual conversation while we're fitting casual art into bare spaces all over town.”

“With the help of a sheriff's deputy.”

“Has that got you worried? She promised not to wear
her uniform. As a group we
did
talk about asking her to join us. Our main objection was worry over how it could affect her job if something went wrong, and if she's fine with it . . .”

“No, you're right.” I waved off that concern. “If she's fine with it, so am I. But what else did you and she talk about yesterday? Did she tell you anything?”

“Precious little. And still not how he died.”

“Maybe they don't know.”

“Do you believe that?” Ardis asked.

“No. I think there's something significant about how he was killed and they aren't releasing the information.”

“Hoping someone will slip up. Doggone it, Darla is a tougher nut to crack than I gave her credit for. She must be taking lessons from Cole.”

“But what
did
you learn?”

“It's so puny I feel like a failure.”

“Stop talking like that, Ardis. Puny is better than nothing. What is it?”

“Only that there might have been other names in his sporran.”

“But that could be huge.”

“But I don't know it for a fact,” she said. “And I don't know that it means anything if there were more names. And I definitely don't know what the other names are
if
there were any.”

“And nothing about the piece of paper itself?”

“Or if it was one paper or two dozen.”

“What gave you the idea there might be more names?”

“That's the worst of it,” she said. “I was trying to be clever. I didn't want Darla to think I was pumping her for information. I didn't write anything down. Now I
can't remember what she said.” With each statement, Ardis pounded a fist on the counter. When she was quiet, I took her hand and held it in my two.

“It's okay, Ardis.”

“It's the curse of an old head. I'll be going downhill like Daddy and prancing in my altogether before you can blink.”

“Not for another twenty years, and nobody will mind if you do.”

She tried not to laugh.

“And you know you didn't just dream up the idea of more names. If you got it into your head that there were more names in the sporran, then that's probably what you heard.”

“Maybe. And maybe I can get confirmation of that out of Darla tonight—that and more.”

“That's the spirit.”

“It is.” She took her hand from mine and thumped the counter one more time. “Good, because despite my poor showing in counterinterview techniques, I have a good feeling about this evening. About the art itself and the bonding. Bonding over bombing—it has a real ring to it. I'm surprised we didn't think of that sooner for our slogan. Bonding with the teenagers, bonding with a banker, bonding with the local constabulary. At the risk of sounding bombastic, I think the evening will be fantastic. What's not to like about supporting public art? And with all our plans in place, all our maneuvers mapped out, what can possibly go wrong?”

B
efore I walked home that evening, I went back up to the study to see Geneva. The disc I'd put on for her had long since finished. She would have been happy if I ran up to the study throughout the day, continuously feeding discs into the player. It had taken a combination of cajoling and firmness before she'd grudgingly agreed to a pace of two discs per day. Argyle was in the window seat, sizing up several crows bragging in the tree across the street.

“Be glad you're in here and not out there with them, old man,” I told him. “They look big enough to carry you away. He said, “Mrrrph,” and turned his back on the hooligans. “Is our girl in her room?” I crossed the room and knocked on the panel that hid the cupboard she claimed as her own room. With a yawn and a shiver, she drifted out through the panel.

“Boo,” I said.

“That is only funny when I say it.”

“You're right. Sorry. Will you come with us when we go yarn bombing tonight? I'm going home now, but
we're all meeting back here at ten minutes of ten. I'd enjoy your company, and you can be the lookout and let me know if anyone's sneaking up on us.”

“And look for clues?”

“Sure. What do you say? Will you come?”

“Or are we looking for a ghost?”

I hesitated. “I don't think so. You and I saw ghosts that one time, but—”

“Special circumstances?”

“I kind of think so.”

“I do, too. But there is the other kind of ghost. We were talking about them this morning. Or perhaps I imagined it.”

“It was this morning.”

“I know. I was giving you a chance to pretend we hadn't.”

“Ghosts of feelings. What about them?”

“What if you were able to touch something Hugh McPhee wore? His sporran everyone was so excited about.”

“The kilt would be better. The sporran is probably made from fur and leather, and the thought of knowing an animal's feelings when it—”

“Then do not think about that,” Geneva cut in. “Think about asking the darling Deputy Darla to let you in the evidence room. Do you think the sheriff's department has an evidence room?”

“It must.”

“Then I think you must reach out and touch something.”

“I'll think about it. If nothing else, I'd like to see everything they found in the sporran.”

“You can make a list in the notebook you're going to carry in your hip pocket.”

“And take pictures with my phone. Hey, I've never tried taking a picture of you. That could be interesting.”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Do you like looking at pictures of yourself on a bad day?”

“No. Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

“Will you come with us tonight?”

“I'll think about it.”

*   *   *

The night smelled like October, with a mix of chilly air, brown leaves, and wood smoke from a few fireplaces, when Joe and I crept downtown after dark. We didn't really creep, and it wasn't terribly late. But on weekday nights Blue Plum tended to roll up its streets by nine o'clock and sensible people already slept soundly in their warm beds. Dressed in head-to-toe black, wearing backpacks armed with crochet hooks, knitting needles, scissors, flashlights, and the universal emergency multipurpose tool—duct tape—we felt positively . . .

“Crafty,” Joe said.

That carried us on suppressed snorts of laughter the few blocks between my house and the Weaver's Cat. Joe had left his pickup in my drive, pulled up to the garage. We'd left lights on and a movie playing on the television to make it look and sound as though we were in and occupied, in case of wandering Spiveys. We'd also made popcorn for olfactory verisimilitude, in case wandering
Spiveys went so far as to sniff at the cracks of doors. Joe thought of that detail.

By plan, we were the first to arrive at the shop. The back door greeted us with a warm bleat. A sleepy Argyle came to see if visitors meant snacks. I gave him a few kibbles. He crunched them and thanked me by leaving ginger fur on our black ankles for good luck. Then he leapt to the counter and took a sniffing tour of the black garbage bags holding our knitted and crocheted strips. The bags were only interesting in passing, though, and he jumped to the top of the refrigerator, where he settled into a loaf shape next to the huddled mist of Geneva. In the dark, I hadn't realized she was there.

I went over and reached up to rub Argyle's chin. “How are you?” I asked. “We're going to have a blast tonight. Don't you wish you could come with us? What are your thoughts on that?”

“It will take more thought,” Geneva said. “I have had several life-altering experiences out there in the dark. I do not want to make the decision lightly.”

Argyle said, “Mrrph.”

“Maggie likes to be part of a conversation, too,” Joe said. “Interesting, though, that she responds more to talk about yarn and colors than trout flies and fish. I think she still misses Ivy.”

Maggie had been Granny's cat. She'd never liked me and had moved in with Joe after Granny died. They were a good fit, cat and man, but I didn't doubt she still missed Granny. We all did.

“Ardis found a sitter for Hank?” Joe asked.

“She did.”

Geneva perked up at mention of Ardis' father. He
was tottery, half deaf, and Geneva referred to him as Ardis' old-as-dirt daddy. When she was in a room with him, he thought the lights were flickering or that he saw fireflies. He was Geneva's great-nephew and he shared her love for old cop shows.

“And you heard about John bringing Ambrose along?”

“He can't be that bad,” Joe said.

“Ardis thought about offering to pay the sitter double, splitting the cost with John, and letting him park Ambrose with Hank for the evening.”

“He might not be that good, either.”

“That's what she's afraid of, so she didn't say anything to John after all. I don't know whether I'm looking forward to seeing what he's like or not. ‘Mean as snakes' conjures all kinds of images.”

“What snakes?” Geneva asked. “They do not like me and I do not like them right back.”

“Not real ones,” I said. Oops.

“Not real images?” Joe asked.

Geneva snickered.

“Not real
snakes
,” I said, with a moment of inspiration. “After hearing about Ambrose all these months, he's taken on mythic proportions, so the snakes are mythic, too.”

“I'm not sure that makes them any better,” Joe said. “Mythic snakes are probably huge. We'd have to call Aaron and half his snake-handling kin to charm them.”

“Speaking of Aaron, he's bringing someone by tomorrow who was in the park Tuesday night. Someone who won't go to the police.”

“That's—”

“In confidence,” I said as we heard feet on the back stairs. The door said, “Baa,” and Ernestine and Zach came in, Ernestine apologizing for wearing dark gray instead of black.

“But my pack is black,” she said, turning in a circle as she tried to catch sight of the pack on her back. “And I want you to know that this young man is an excellent driver. He was kind enough to pick me up and he said that if his brother will let him borrow his motorcycle, he'll take me for a ride sometime.”

Zach's black hoodie set off his blushing cheeks nicely. He'd brought a black garbage bag with him, in addition to his backpack.

Tammie Fain, the indulgent grandmother who'd missed the last meeting because of babysitting duty, arrived next, minus her grand-terrors, I was happy to see. Wanda Vance was close on her heels. Neither of them had come in the back way before, and the electronic sheep surprised them. Wanda, the retired nurse who was usually so reserved, broke into a fit of nervous giggles and opened the door twice more to hear it again. She stifled a scream the second time when she found Abby on the other side. Abby came in with a polite but uneasy smile for Wanda, and immediately went to stand with Zach and Ernestine. Goth Abby fit the covert color scheme without special effort on her part. Ernestine admired the Batman backpack Tammie had borrowed from her grandson. I was happy Tammie had brought the backpack and left the grandson at home. Rather than a backpack, Wanda brought her tools and supplies in a split-willow basket.

Wanda nudged Tammie with her elbow, said, “Baa,” and leaned against her, giggling.

“I should've turned the sound off for the night,” Joe said, “so we don't attract attention with repeat baas.”

“Is it easy?” I asked. “Can you do it now?”

“I can take a look.”

“Or if someone will keep an eye on Argyle, we can hold the door open.” I looked at Argyle and Geneva, still sitting next to each other on top of the refrigerator. He showed no interest in moving.

Zach went over and stationed himself in front of the fridge, at the ready.

“Thanks, Zach,” I called.

Geneva leaned over and whispered something in Argyle's ear. He stretched one paw out and put it lightly on Zach's hair.

Joe leaned down and gave me a kiss.

“What was that for?”

“Keeping it simple.”

“All right, you two,” Thea said, coming up the stairs, “save that stuff for your own time.” She slung her backpack on the table, looked at the clock, and rubbed her hands. “The time is ten minutes of ten. Are we ready to detonate? Oh—” She looked around. “After all that talk about precision, John isn't here on time? And Ardis? And bankers can't keep time? Where the heck are they?”

“I'm here.” Rachel ran up the stairs. “Sorry I'm late. I ran into Ardis and John.”

“Where are
they
?” Thea asked.

“On their way. Ardis said go ahead and start your pre-bomb pep talk.”

“Good enough. Joe, close the door so I'm not announcing this to the whole neighborhood.”

“Aye-aye.”

“Whoa there, Joe.” A hand stopped the door, midbleat.

“Oh, hey there, Darla,” Joe said. “Um—”

“I'm late,” Darla said, “but ready, willing, and able to tie knots with the best of them.” She slid in past Joe and he closed the door. “Hey, everybody. Thanks for letting me join you. I hope ya'll are as stoked as I am.”

Thea looked at me and I mouthed, “Ardis.” She shrugged and turned to Darla. “Glad to have you. I think I can speak for the entire bomb squad—”

“Hear, hear!” Tammie said, prompting murmurs of agreement from the others.

“Thank you, thank you,” Thea said with a bow. “Darla, having a needlewoman of your caliber with us tonight, who is also a daring deputy, adds another layer of excitement to our mission, as well as a sense of security. Welcome.”

“I am off-duty, though, you know.”

“Yeah, your yoga pants gave you away,” Thea said. “No problem.”

“And there's nothing more dangerous in my backpack than embroidery snips and the biggest crochet hook I could find,” Darla said.

“We wouldn't have you any other way.” Thea glanced at the clock again. “Joe? You want to check out there for Ardis and John?”

“Be right back.” He ducked out the door.

“The rest of you gather around the table here and we'll get started while he's checking on our fashionably late members.” She took a sheaf of papers from her backpack and held them up.

“Timetables—”

“I'll hand them out,” Tammie said, reaching for them.

“That'll be great, Tammie.” Thea put the stack on the table and her fist on the stack like a paperweight. “But let me have my shining moment first. Then you can pass them out. Our goal this evening—”

The back door baaed and Joe slipped back in. “The stairs,” he said. “Difficult. Best if they wait outside.”

“Is this about John's brother?” Tammie asked. “He looked unsteady, but between a few of us we ought to be able to get him up the stairs.” She started toward the back door.

“They'll be fine,” Joe said. With an interesting look on his face, and a curious lack of eye contact, he crossed his arms and leaned his back against the door. He did it oh so casually, making me oh so much more curious. He couldn't be in two places at once, though. So while he kept curious me from opening the door to see for myself, and while Thea started back in on her shining moment, I moved so I could see out the window over the sink. Joe noticed, but when our eyes met, his cut away again, and the interesting expression on his face made a subtle shift toward amused.

“Our goal this evening,” Thea was saying, “is to perform the world's first yarn bombing in Blue Plum, Tennessee.”

The alley wasn't terribly well lit—a situation the merchants had been lobbying the town board about for years, according to Ardis. I couldn't see much beyond the pool of light at the bottom of the back steps, but I could pick out Ardis and John standing in the shadows at the back of the garage across the alley . . .

“We will move like shadows through our fair town,”
Thea said, “garnishing it with garter stitch graffiti. We'll start at the courthouse as a group and finish at the footbridge over the creek in the park as a group. In between those two group efforts, teams will work separately, bombing our designated targets.”

“With a few surprise targets along the way,” Ernestine piped up.

“Yes, we'll have our surprises,” Thea said.

I saw movement, and a thin figure next to John stepped out of the shadows. Ambrose, no doubt. John put a hand on his shoulder. Ambrose shook it off but stepped back into the shadows. What was Ardis standing next to? I didn't remember garbage cans in that spot . . .

“Joe, have you got the tags?” Thea asked.

“In my pack.”

I still couldn't make out what was going on in the alley, if anything
was
going on. When I turned away from the window to see Joe's tags, I “bumped into” Geneva. She shrieked and put a hand to her heart. I congratulated myself on not shrieking, too, and hoped no one had seen my eyes fly wide.