Knot the Usual Suspects (20 page)

“Geneva?” I moved down onto the step next to her. “I need to go talk to the sheriff. Do you want to come with me?”

“You were told to wait here.”

“I need to tell them about Ardis' daddy and Ambrose.”

“What about them?”

“What you told me. They're missing. Remember?”

“I thought it was an escape. From Ardent. I know that is what I felt like doing. That is why I followed them here. Now you are staring at me just as rudely as you did at that nice man who walked off into the moonset with Ernestine.”

“If you followed them here, where are they now?”

“To borrow one of your favorite phrases, ‘beats me.' Now do you see how defeatist and unhelpful that is?” She heaved a sigh. “No, I am sorry. I do not know where they are. When I saw all of you here at the bridge, I bid the old darlings
adieu
. I have just had a thought, though.”

“What?”

“Do you think either of those crotchety geezers speaks French?”

As tempting as it was to say, “Beats me,” I opted for grinding my teeth instead.

“Because it's possible that I do,” she said. “Or it could just be that I had the good fortune to catch a foreign film or two on television. It is so difficult to know these things,
mais oui
?”

“Come on.” I stood up. “We need to go talk to the sheriff.
I
need to talk to him, and please don't interrupt while I do. Then I'll take you home. This night is giving me a headache.”

“Dommage.”

“Please stop.”

*   *   *

Sheriff Leonard Haynes did something I didn't think possible. He made me wish I was talking to Clod. Clod at least listened to me. Clod's condescending attitude came with signs and portents—a snort or a smirk—before he dismissed what I said. He thought I was a meddler, but he did listen. Sheriff Haynes didn't care if I made a statement about finding Gladys Weems or not. My words made no noticeable impact on his ears. What I said seemed to go straight into a void of nonresponse. He didn't make eye contact—not out of some kind of social awkwardness, but out of an obvious feeling that there was no need whatsoever.

I'd been introduced to Sheriff Haynes before. Clod had actually mentioned my name to him as one deserving credit for the help TGIF had given in solving a previous crime. That he didn't acknowledge knowing me didn't bother me. Not much, anyway. And I could understand why he didn't want or need to hear my theory about how Gladys had probably been dragged under the bridge from the opposite side. But he lost my respect when he completely blew off worries over Tammie and then shrugged over the missing old men—didn't think they could have gone far, didn't believe they were in danger, didn't give any credence to the horrible idea that Ambrose might have gone off his mean-as-snakes rocker and attacked Gladys—or Tammie. I didn't want to give credence to that idea, either, but I also knew that stranger things had happened. Ambrose was a decrepit and tottery old geezer, but there was strength in him yet and he swung a wicked cane. And what kind of danger did that put Ardis' daddy in? Sheriff Haynes didn't think any.

Shorty caught up with me as I stomped my muttering
way back to the Cat, Geneva's misty form stomping alongside me.

“How did that man ever get elected sheriff?” I asked him. “I felt like shaking my fist at him, but he wouldn't have cared. He wouldn't have noticed.”

Geneva turned around and shook her fist, oddly stomping as easily backward as she'd stomped forward. She turned again and put her arm across my shoulders.
“Les flics,”
she said. “Phooey. Pigs, all of them.”

Shorty was more polite and probably more accurate. “He's a good old boy. It's the way he works and what works for him.”

“But who's he working for? The community he's sworn to protect, or himself?”

“Right now he's trying to figure out how he's going to tell the mayor that his ninety-three-year-old mother was murdered within spitting distance of the courthouse.”

“Which is absolutely horrible.” I stopped and Shorty stopped, too. “It really is horrible. I liked her. And now this is going to sound callous, but she's gone, and there are two old men—”

Shorty put his hand up. “A couple of questions and then I need to get back there. “You last saw Tammie on Main sometime before eleven. What's her last name?”

“Fain.”

“And this yarn project on the bridge—when did you and Ms. O'Dell start working on it?”

“We started the project about ten. We got to the bridge about midnight.”

“Were the old men with you?”

“They were with Ardis and John.”

“But they had access to your—materials?”

“Matériel,”
Geneva said.

“Because I saw squares on the bridge,” Shorty said, “and one of the guys said he saw long strips tied around streetlights and a stop sign. It's the strips I'm interested in. And who had access to them. And when.”

“You mean earlier this evening?”

“Earlier this week. We found the same kind of strip wrapped around Hugh McPhee's neck Tuesday night.”

“I
hope you realize that what I just said lets Ambrose Berry off the hook,” Shorty said.

I'd closed my eyes when he told me about the strip wrapped around Hugh's neck. I opened them at that remark, and he nodded.

“Pun intended. Sorry. I wanted to make sure you're still with me.”

“That doesn't let any of us off the hook, Shorty. We've been knitting and crocheting strips for weeks.”

“Like that one?”

“I don't . . . maybe not. I don't know. But that makes it even
more
egregious that Sheriff Haynes didn't take a statement from me. He's got two victims of murder by crochet strip, and there I am, with one of the victims and a bag full of potential murder weapons.” I was getting worked up again. I took a breath and tried to lower my voice. And to avoid spitting on Shorty's rumples. “Wouldn't you think Sheriff Haynes would have wanted to see if there was some kind of connection there?”

Shorty gave me a slow, tired blink that did more to
calm me than any amount of deep breathing could have. “Did either you or Ms. O'Dell kill Hugh McPhee or Pokey's mother?”

“No.”

“Didn't think so. I'm not at liberty to tell you why, but Sheriff Haynes doesn't think so, either. We know where to find you, though, if we have more questions. And I can pretty much guarantee we will have more questions.”

“What about finding Tammie and the old men?”

“I've got you covered. I called Cole.”

*   *   *

Shorty headed back to the crime scene. I walked with Geneva the rest of the way to the Weaver's Cat. She floated beside me, humming “Frère Jacques.” I said good night on the porch. She stopped humming long enough to say, “
Bonne nuit
,” and with a wave floated through the front door. I was about to call Ardis when my phone rang. It was a number I'd thought about blocking. The caller didn't wait for me to say hello.

“We're at your house and—”

There was a muffled scuffling sound, as though two identically irritating people were fighting over the phone.

“And we have something you'll be interested in seeing.”

“Something of interest,” the other irritating person said in the background. “I knew you'd get it wrong.”

“Shirley and Mercy, so help me, if you're in my house—”

“Hurry,” the twin with the phone said, and hung up.

*   *   *

It was the fastest three blocks I'd run in years. I didn't try calling Ardis along the way; her imagination didn't need
my out-of-breath voice conjuring up all manner of nightmares for her. Half a block from home, though, I slowed, held the stitch in my side, and got through to Joe. He told me Cole had been in touch, but they hadn't found the old men yet. I told him where I was headed.

“What are they doing out this late at night?” he asked. “Do you want me to meet you there?”

He had a good point. By then it was past one. Surely the twins should have been home, hanging upside down in their bat cave by then. “I'll call if I need you,” I said. “Where's Ardis?”

“She and John are waiting back at her place.”

“Zach?”

“He and Abby are working a grid beyond the library.”

“You think that's safe?”

“It's expedient. Let me know what goes on with the twins.”

“Will do.” I disconnected and started running again.

My porch light shed a soft glow, welcoming my weary feet and pounding heart home, as I rounded the corner into Lavender Street. Most people in the neighborhood left a front light or lamppost burning overnight. Streetlights were fewer and farther between in the residential blocks away from downtown proper, and our own lights gave a cozy, warm look. They also created the shadows in between that made my feet leery as well as weary, and made my pounding heart skip a beat or two.

Shirley and Mercy were watching for me—one of them at the end of the front walk, scanning the street in both directions, the other at the top of the porch steps, arms crossed. When the one at the end of the walk heard me coming, she held both hands up as though she were
a border guard trying to stop a tank. Then she turned her palms to the ground, fingers splayed, making “keep it down” motions. I was gulping like a fish by then, and when she saw my mouth open to suck in another breath, she added another frantic semaphore and topped it with a nicely controlled, barely audible “Keep it down.” I was impressed. Not to say I wasn't suspicious.

“What's going on, Shirley?” I was breathing through my nose, again, and this was definitely not Mercy.

“Come up on the porch,” she said. “We knew you'd know what to do.”

“You did?” I wasn't sure how I felt about having their vote of confidence, and followed Shirley warily up the walk.

Mercy, arms still crossed, stood sentry at the top of the steps. Shirley went on up. When I stopped with my foot on the bottom step, Mercy did a Vanna White, gesturing toward the end of the porch where the swing hung. Granny had known how to grow healthy nandina shrubs, though, and a row of them bordered the porch, screening the swing from the street and sidewalk.

“Am I going to be sorry I did this, Mercy?” I asked.

She answered with a quiet “Shh,” and waved me up.

I heard a snort and a snore and saw Shirley put a hand over her mouth—to keep from laughing, judging by her eyes. The snort and snore had come from the end of the porch—from the two old men sound asleep, Hank in his wheelchair and Ambrose in the swing. I looked at the men, and looked at the twins. Shirley and Mercy didn't often surprise me in a good way, but tonight they did. Ambrose and Hank were contemporaries of their own daddy, they said. They'd taken off their matching
embroidered sweatshirts and covered Hank and Ambrose against the chill. Their faces, as they watched the men sleep, reflected only tenderness. They'd lost their daddy young.

I called Joe and told him that I had Hank and Ambrose at my place. How they got there could wait for Shirley and Mercy to tell it. Joe said he'd call Ardis and contact Clod. I went into the house and got a couple of blankets for the men and so the twins could put their sweatshirts back on.

“Can I get you something warm to drink?”

“What have you—ow,” Shirley said.

“We need to be going,” said Mercy.

“But where did you find them? People have been searching for hours.”

“Cemetery,” Shirley said. “Old people like cemeteries. They were visiting Hank's wife.”

“Why didn't you take them to Ardis' house?”

“We did,” Mercy said. “She wasn't home. Her line was busy.”

“How'd you get them up on the porch?”

“On their own two legs, and they were happy to do it. They both knew Ivy. Mercy and I got the chair up here.”

“Someone else can get it down,” said Mercy. “Now we've got to go. Don't you realize how late it is?”

Which made me wonder why I hadn't already wondered what
they'd
been doing in the cemetery near midnight. But they were on their way down the steps and I had another question I wanted to ask.

“How did you find out about the meetings with Rachel at the bank and the Register of Deeds?”

Mercy linked her arm with Shirley's and they kept
walking. I glanced at Hank and Ambrose—still snoring—and I ran down the steps after the twins. At the end of my front walk, they turned down the sidewalk and marched toward their ugly beige Buick in the drive. I cut the corner and got in front of them to make them stop.

“It really would be helpful to know—” I said.

Shirley wagged her finger in my face.

Mercy leaned close. “It might also be helpful for you to know that Rachel and Hugh were briefly married.”

They parted then, moving around me like a wave, a veritable tide of Spivey inscrutability. I let them go and went back to wait with the old men dreaming on my porch.

O
ur post-bombing celebratory breakfast and debriefing at Mel's the next morning had the look of a hangover party. Mel put us at a long table toward the back of the room. She made it a private space by pulling her room divider across behind us. She'd made the divider by hinging half a dozen antique doors together and putting the whole thing on casters. It accordion-folded so that when she didn't need it, she could roll it out of the way into a corner. The doors were the kind with frosted windows that private eyes had in old black-and-white movies. They seemed especially appropriate to our mood that morning.

The other breakfast customers clattered flatware against plates and cups. The fresh-baked, -broiled, and -brewed smells coming from Mel's kitchen did their best to call us. But only about half the bomb squad seemed willing or able to answer. John, understandably, hadn't driven back into town after finally getting Ambrose home. They lived in the house they'd grown up in, out in the county. Ardis and I had both offered to put them up
for what was left of the night, but John had thought it would be better for everyone if Ambrose woke up in his own bed.

“It's really more of a wake, isn't it?” Ardis said to me as she looked around the table. “Bless Gladys Weems' poor heart. And Hugh's. What the world is coming to, I surely do not know.” She absentmindedly took a sip of my unsweetened grapefruit juice. It woke her up enough so that she took another, grouchier, look around the table. “Of course, the percentage of bright-eyed breakfasters would be higher if more of those
who went home early last night
had the decency to look as though they'd enjoyed their good night's sleep.” Her emphasis was aimed at Thea sitting across from her, who looked less awake than I felt.

Wanda, down at the other end of the table, had joined Zach and Joe by ordering full platters of eggs, sausage, potatoes, pancakes, and biscuits—what Mel called the Eighteen Wheeler Special. Ernestine and Abby each toyed with fruit cups and I ignored the single slice of rye toast I'd ordered. We hadn't heard from Rachel and we weren't expecting Darla. Tammie wasn't there, either, but I'd had a phone call—and an earful—from her at three. She'd thanked me for sending Clod to knock on her door at two to see if she was home and sound asleep. She'd set her alarm for three so she could return the favor and spread the joy of an interrupted night.

Ardis thumped my grapefruit juice glass on the table and Thea had a delayed reaction to her comment about bright eyes.

“Hmm? What?” Thea fumbled a hand toward the coffeepot and latched onto it. She filled one of Mel's thick
white china mugs, added milk and sugar, stirred, drank, then sank her chin on her hand. “Sorry,” she said through a yawn. “Late night.” She yawned again, missing Ardis inflating in high dudgeon. I moved my juice glass in case it got in the dudgeon's way.

“Yeah,” Thea said, somewhat unclearly, because her chin still rested in her hand, “I felt kind of bad about bailing after my footwear mishap.” She straightened, drank more coffee, then slumped again, speaking so that only Ardis and I heard. “I spent the rest of the night chasing Hugh McPhee on the Internet.”

Ardis immediately relaxed and motioned for Thea to lean forward. “Kath has information, too,” she said, “albeit from an iffy source. Not here, though.”

“Fast and Furious this afternoon?” Thea asked.

“The posse will be in special session,” Ardis said.

“And we can make use of the refreshments that didn't get eaten last night,” Thea said. “Excellent use of time and taste buds. I'll spread the word.”

Mel stopped by the table with a tray of marmalade muffins and another pot of coffee. “Sorry if I've been ignoring you. Shorthanded this morning. And before I forget, Rachel sends her regrets. She says her ankle is okay, but she's staying off it as much as possible.” Mel put the coffee down in front of me and raised a muffin. “To success,” she said. “Your work is the talk of the café, if not the town.”

“Your work, too,” Ernestine said. “Your chicken feet look perfect on the welcome sign.”

Mel took a bow. While her head was near my shoulder, I gave her the message about our called meeting that afternoon.

“If I can make it,” she said. “I'd like to kill whoever killed Gladys. Don't repeat that.” She straightened and addressed the group again. “We all did a great job. I wish our success had not been marred by tragedy—” She stared at her pressed-tin ceiling for a few seconds, hands on her hips. “Gladys deserved better,” she said, looking back at us. “But she would have loved the yarn bombing. The marmalade muffins were her favorite, so they're on the house. I have to go chop something.”

Joe put an envelope on the muffin tray and started it around the table. “Pictures from this morning,” he said. He
had
taken me up on the offer to spend the night, and slept soundly enough after the harried search that Tammie's call hadn't made a dent in his soft snores. But he'd been gone by the time I groggily turned off the alarm.

Thea grabbed the envelope before anyone else could. “Because it was my idea,” she said.

“And because you missed most of it,” Ardis snapped.

“Never fear,” Thea said. “It was for a good and shoe-worthy cause. And you'll see; I
more
than made up for it.” She leafed through the pictures, laughing at the squid outside the Extension office and the oobleck spread over the library's lawn. Her laugh brought some of the celebration back to the gathering, and we shared the pictures around the table. The photos of the courthouse columns, lit by the rising sun, were particularly nice.

“Convenient,” a starched and sarcastic voice said, coming around the edge of the room divider. Clod Dunbar, in all his officious glory, moved a chair to the end of the table and sat. “If only all my witnesses would gather themselves in a room, life would be great. Pass the muffins, Joe. And pass the photos.” He held his hand out to
Abby. She warily gave him the pictures she'd been looking at, then scooted her chair farther away.

“Saw you out there capturing the local color this morning,” Clod said to Joe. He gestured impatiently for the pictures the rest of us still had.

“These photos have nothing to do with you, Coleridge,” Ardis said. “Ten documented the art installation as part of Handmade Blue Plum. He's writing an article for the paper in Asheville.”

“Good for you, Joe. I'm sure these are prints, though, and you have the images in a file. So you won't mind if I keep this set? They're better than the ones I got with my phone. Oh, and by the by, Ms. Buchanan, it might be of interest to you that the chairwoman of Handmade Blue Plum—that's Olive Weems, in case you didn't know—claims she has no knowledge of your art installation.”

“Well.”
Ardis looked down her nose at him, her dudgeon back in full force.

“I notice you didn't deny that it
is
your art installation,” he said. “And for clarification I'm using ‘your' in the plural.” He smiled around the table. “So, is this everyone? If not, I'd like a list of anyone who's absent.”

“Your sarcasm isn't appreciated,” Ardis said. “I don't think you're taking this seriously.”

“Oh yes,” Clod said. He produced a pen and notebook. “I am.”

“Are we in trouble?” Abby whispered to Ernestine.

“No, dear,” Ernestine said. “He's showing off.”

Wanda stood up and said loudly enough to hush the other tables in the café, “I want my lawyer.”

Then we heard Mel ask someone to take over for her, heard the creak of floorboards as she left the order
counter and came down the room toward us, and saw her spiked hair and blazing eyes. Wanda didn't wait to hear what lay behind Mel's bared teeth. She grabbed her purse, meekly waved good-bye, and crept away. Mel turned to Abby and Zach.

“School,” she said. “You're late. Go.”

They went without arguing. They weren't late; fall break went for another week. If Clod knew, he didn't argue, either. That left Ardis, Thea, Ernestine, Joe, and me at the table. Plus Mel; she pulled out the chair closest to Clod. Clod was undisturbed, as though this had all been part of his plan. It probably wasn't, but Mel called him on it anyway.

“I haven't got time for games, Dunbar.” She hitched her chair around so she faced him. “Tell us what's going on.”

“I'd like the names of everyone out there with you last night. Anyone who wasn't with someone else the entire time. Anyone else you saw. If you know, or can make a good guess at the time someone left your group, that will be helpful.”

“That's a reasonable request,” Ardis said. “You should have asked us that to begin with. There are times I don't know where your manners come from.”

I'd told him the same thing once, though in less mannered words. Not that it bothered Clod. Joe said the attitude went with the job. He was probably right. A thick skin was armor.

“I'd also like you to look at a picture.” He handed it to Joe. “Pass it around.” It went from Joe, to Ernestine, to Thea without comment. Ardis took it from Thea.

“It's pretty. One of us did nice work,” she said, and passed it to me.

I looked, put it facedown on the table, and jammed my hands in my armpits, arms crossed tight. Mel picked it up, glanced at it, and handed it back to Clod.

“So?” she said.

“It's the murder weapon,” I said. The picture showed a length of striped crochet—more brightly striped than Gladys' socks. And the thought of that piece of crochet knotted around Gladys' neck—I hugged myself tighter.

“How do you know that piece of crochet came from one of our installations?” Joe asked. “That's what you're implying, isn't it?”

“I don't recognize it,” Mel cut in. “Narrower stripes in that piece than any of us did, and the whole thing is narrower, too. Except for specialty pieces like squid or Groucho glasses, we kept to a standard five inches wide.”

“Easy enough to check,” Joe said. “We've got the documentation pictures. I'll send you copies,” he said to Clod. “See if anything we made or collected matches.”

“What is that strip made with, Coleridge?” Ardis asked. “That might tell us something.”

Clod opened his mouth as if to answer, then closed it. Ardis must have recognized the look on his face—equal parts curiosity, suspicion, and mulishness.

“It's not a trick question, Coleridge. The crochet is made of yarn, of course, but I'm wondering what the fiber is. Cotton, wool, acrylic? Something else?”

Before Clod answered, Thea jumped in with her own question. “Could crochet really be pulled tightly enough? That kind of stitch has a lot of give to it. A lot of stretch.”

“Twisted it with a crochet hook,” Clod said. “Like using a branch or a screwdriver or something to tighten a tourniquet.”

“Worst aid instead of first aid,” Mel said.

“What crochet hook?” Ernestine cried.

“Not yours,” I said quickly.

“Big thing,” Clod said. “Big around as my finger.”

Ernestine leaned against Thea.

“And she was gone before we got to the bridge, Ernestine. Before you dropped your hook, I'm sure of that.” I turned back to Clod. “Do you know when it happened?”

“No. Why would it help to know what the fiber is?”

“It might not help,” said Ardis. “But if it turned out to be a type none of us uses, or a brand we don't carry at the Cat, it might tell you something.”

“Sounds far-fetched.”

“It
is
far-fetched,” I said, “because the fiber . . . looked ordinary.” It had looked completely ordinary—and horribly out of place around Gladys' neck. And when I'd touched it, when I'd
felt
the derision and horrified surprise—I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to erase that memory. But the thought of squeezing anything made my eyes fly open again. “The fiber's worth checking anyway.”

Clod made a note. “What about that list of names?”

“We can't come up with it instantaneously,” Ardis said. “We'll have to compare notes.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“We'll have to make phone calls, too,” she said. “Umpteen.”

“I can wait.” He poured himself a cup of coffee, ate one muffin in two bites, and took another.

This was different. Clod with no place else he needed
to be? No one else he needed to annoy? I looked at Joe. He shrugged.

Mel shrugged, too. “Sorry I can't help with the paperwork,” she said. She got up and stacked some of the dirty dishes on her arm. “You want any breakfast to go with your coffee and muffins, Cole?”

“Eighteen Wheeler would be great.”

Joe took notes as each of us thought back and recalled the who, where, and when of people disappearing and reappearing from our teams. On paper it was a more complicated choreography than we'd thought.

Clod glanced at it. “Don't forget to make your phone calls,” he said. “Can I get anyone another coffee?”

He was thanking the waitress who brought his Eighteen Wheeler when Darla, crisp and serious in her khaki and brown, came in through the back door. She had her usual smile and wave for us, but they were subdued.

“Message from Shorty,” she said to Clod. She nodded toward the door and he got up. They went as far as the vestibule and stopped there to confer.

“Did you notice his radio's been silent?” I asked.

“Did you notice he isn't wearing it?” Joe asked. “What do you suppose that means?”

“The better to sneak up on us, my dear,” said Thea. “All that static and lawman babble spoil a good surprise. I hate to leave this fabulous party, but I need to open the library. I'm doing Little Red Riding Hood at story time this morning, with a wolf puppet guaranteed to scare small children. See you for Fast and Furious.” She wrapped two muffins in a napkin, put them in her purse, and left.