Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery Page 16

  Mel held her napkin to her mouth. “Something guaranteed to get a rise out of them. Watch.”

  “No, Mel, nothing rude.”

  She ignored me and waved her napkin at the twins. She mouthed something, wiggled her eyebrows, and pointed at me. “No,” she said then, clearly disappointed. “They do not read lips.”

  “Well, thank God. I don’t need those two on the warpath against me.”

  “Warpath, nothing. If they read lips they’d be out of that car, and in here pulling up chairs, only stopping to hug your neck first. I told them you’d buy them breakfast. But hold on, something else is happening.”

  “Something else” was Deputy Dunbar arriving, light bar flashing. He pulled to the curb in front of Mel’s, stopping in a no-parking zone. His siren, which had been silent, came on for one whoo-whoop that sounded like a nose-thumb to all parking regulations. He doused the lights, climbed out, adjusted his gun belt, and came toward the café.

  “Why do I think this doesn’t look good?” I asked.

  “Why do I think the Spiveys were expecting it?”

  My mouth was still hanging open at Mel’s question when Dunbar stalked through the door and over to our table. It snapped shut at his question.

  “Ms. Rutledge, will you please come with me?”

  “Morning to you, too, Cole,” Mel said.

  “Ms. Rutledge?”

  “How about a friendly cup of coffee first?” Mel got to her feet and stood in front of Clod. Unfortunately, with her spiked mustard hair, she looked less than friendly and more like an agitated canary.

  Clod looked over the top of her bristling spikes to where I hadn’t stirred from the table. “Ms. Rutledge?”

  “Coffee’s on me.” Mel took a step closer to Clod, her smile not in sync with the fists on her hips.

  Clod closed his eyes and said something under his breath that even non–lip readers could decipher. Chairs scraped as the old men rearranged their seats so they wouldn’t miss anything. The touristy couple reached for their cameras. I looked at the Buick across the street. No flash of binoculars. The car was empty.

  Clod sidestepped Mel. “Ms. Rutledge, last time I’ll ask.”

  “Why?” Mel, my wild mustard forward guard, kept pace with Clod, moving sideways in a belligerent pas de deux. “She has a right to know what this is all about.”

  “She, Mel. Not you. Put your protest sign away and stand down.”

  “It’s okay, Mel.” I stood and put a hand on her shoulder, feeling the tension there and wondering if I’d have to stop her from flying at Clod. Or if I’d try. “I’m sure it’s something routine. Maybe about the break-in at Granny’s house?”

  Clod didn’t say or mutter anything to confirm or deny that.

  I took a steadying breath and told myself to be polite and cooperative. Also not to slip and call him Clod to his face.

  He was reaching for my elbow, no doubt to assist me so I wouldn’t trip and hurt myself, and I was planning how to remove my elbow from his grasp, when, simultaneously, my phone rang and the bell over Mel’s door jingled. The latter was triggered by the Spivey twins. They stepped inside, smiling, not at all self-conscious that every pair of eyes in the café avidly turned to them. They nodded to the table of old men.

  My phone continued to trill inside my purse and everyone, including Clod and the Spiveys, suspended their next moves while I dug for it. I’d been expecting Ernestine’s call and stupidly had not had the phone easily to hand. It quit ringing by the time I finally dug it out of the depths. I clamped my lips shut before anything audible or readable escaped them.

  “No doubt, if that was Ernie, she’ll call back,” one twin said.

  “Or leave a message,” said the other.

  “I’d have to say that kind of news warrants a call more than a message, though,” the first said.

  “It surely does,” the other said with a nod.

  It was impossible to tell which font of wisdom was Mercy and which Shirley. A whiff of Mercy’s horrible perfume muscled its way past the coffee and bacon, but I couldn’t pinpoint which irritating twin provided the source. The red sweeping up the back of Clod’s neck made me think they irritated him, too.

  “Or you could save time and call her,” the first Spivey said.

  They smiled and said nothing more, obviously waiting for someone to ask what they were talking about. Clod seemed to know, though, and he made another move to take my elbow. I slipped his grasp and punched Homer’s number into my phone. Clod’s attempt was further stymied by three bodies bulling their way between us. Mel, I was happy to have close by. The Spiveys, I wasn’t so sure of.

  “We thought you might need backup,” Spivey One said.

  “Our civic duty,” said Spivey Two, near enough now that I could identify her as Mercy.

  “I don’t need your help, thank you,” Clod snarled.

  “We don’t mean you, Cole Dunbar,” Mercy snapped.

  “Hush, now,” Shirley said, “while Kath makes the call she’s allowed before you arrest her.”

  Ernestine answered on the first ring.

  “Help!”

  Chapter 20

  Handsome Homer rescued me. He swooped into the café and out again, me safely under his wing. Ernestine choreographed our flight from her desk at the office, dispatching Homer and staying on the phone with me until we were on our way. The only clue to her excitement was the staccato of her knitting needles in the background.

  To my surprise, Clod held the door for us when we left. Mel did her part by thwarting the Spiveys’ attempt to follow. Not surprisingly, Clod did follow.

  “Deputy Dunbar, thank you for joining us,” Homer said when we reached the office and Clod was still with us. Homer sounded genuinely gracious about the intrusion. Another reason he made a good lawyer. I couldn’t have used the same words without sounding sarcastic, or maybe jabbing Clod in the solar plexus.

  Homer ushered us past Ernestine’s desk into the inner office. Ernestine gave me a thumbs-up before Homer closed the door. The knitting needles had disappeared.

  “I believe they meant well,” Homer said, holding a chair for me.

  “We’re talking about the civic-minded Spiveys?” There was that lapse into sarcasm I’d worried about.

  “They’re the ones called me in the first place,” Clod said at the same time.

  Clod and I looked at each other. Did I appear as nonplussed as he at finding ourselves, if not in harmony, at least picking out the same tune? Homer walked around behind his desk. Clod took that as an invitation and dropped into the chair next to mine. Homer remained standing.

  “Why did they call you?” Homer asked.

  “You don’t know?”

  Homer removed a speck of lint from his lapel. “You tell us.”

  Clod, appearing his usual exhausted self, got back to his feet. It was a good move, erasing the advantage Homer established by not sitting in the first place. They were both imposing men. But where Homer had the sleek, sharp, raptor thing going for him, Clod was a tired battering ram. I stayed in my chair, out of their way.

  “Someone broke into the house on Lavender Street,” Clod said.

  “Again?” That had me hopping out of my chair, but when both men looked at me, I melted back into it with a “sorry.”

  As soon as the apology was out of my mouth, I wanted to kick myself for being a coward. But the interplay between the raptor and the battering ram was more interesting than my self-improvement problems, so I sat back and watched. At first I saw their moves as a tango, so smooth and subtle I’d miss the slide from wariness to warning to menace if I blinked. Then I remembered Homer saying Clod was good at poker and realized that was what they were playing.

  Homer said nothing. He lifted his nose and turned his eyes to a point not directly on Clod. Still he said nothing, but his left eyebrow made it clear he had questions and expected answers. Clod waited, equally silent, chin tucked, expression mulish. The tips of Homer’s fingers rested on his desk.
Clod’s hands were on his hips, one hip cocked. It was as neat a power struggle as I’d ever seen. And a waste of time. I stood up.

  “Deputy Dunbar, if you have information about my grandmother’s house, I want to hear it.”

  They actually looked put out at my interruption. They turned toward me, mouths opening. But to do what? Answer my question? Advise me not to speak? Whine that I wasn’t playing the game right? I didn’t wait to find out. I held up a shushing finger, daring their mouths to go further.

  “I also want to know why the Spiveys think you’re about to arrest me. And I want you to sit down. Both of you.”

  I waited until they sat, Homer with a light laugh, Clod harrumphing, before I sat back down. Despite my jeans and grungy sweatshirt, I crossed my legs, put my elbows on the arms of the chair, fingers tented, and glared. I felt like a conflict mediator. Or a middle school guidance counselor.

  “Well, Kath, Cole, we’re all friends,” Homer said with another light laugh.

  “But”—I cut in before he wrested control from me—“I want answers to my questions. And I might have more after that.”

  “Yet I would caution you, Kath,” Homer continued.

  “No need for cautions,” Clod said. “Shorty’s over there checking out the house. I’m just asking questions.”

  “Who’s Shorty?”

  “Proof I’m not the only deputy, Ms. Rutledge.”

  “Okay. Good,” I said. “Go ahead, then. Oh, no, wait. Max Cobb owns the place. Why aren’t you asking him questions?”

  “Your grandmother lived there. I knew where to find you. We will get to him. May I continue?”

  “I’m not stopping you.”

  “We received a call at seven forty-two this morning reporting a broken window and possible burglary at one-oh-three Lavender Street.”

  “Broken window? With all that rain we had last night? Which one? I didn’t see it when I was over there this morning.”

  “Kath.” Homer shook his head at me.

  “But what’s going on in this town?” I looked from one to the other. Neither offered an answer, poker faces back in place. I wasn’t letting them play, though. I stabbed my shushing finger, now a skewer, at Clod.

  “You think it was me, don’t you? All because of yesterday when you found me looking in the windows and I happened to mention I was game to break in.”

  I had to hand it to Homer. If I’d been a lawyer like him with a client like me, I’d have thrown my hands in the air and jumped out the nearest high window. Homer didn’t even roll his eyes or massage his forehead to ease the headache I must have given him. Clod sat patiently, too, and surprised me by having the grace not to smile or pick feathers from between his teeth.

  “Do you have evidence suggesting my client is responsible for either the broken window or the alleged break-in?” Homer asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you have any evidence implicating Ivy McClellan in the death of Emmett Cobb?”

  There was a pause, the intent of which could be interpreted in several ways; then, once again, a single word: “No.”

  “Yet suggestions have been made.”

  Low rumbles came from Clod. Homer raised a hand. The rumbles subsided.

  “Let’s move on, then,” Homer said. “But I will ask that, considering my client’s recent bereavement and events concerning the property in question, you excuse her for being overwrought.”

  “Sure. And I will be happy to finish answering your client’s questions if she will let me and if she will then answer mine,” Clod said.

  “I will listen to your answers but retain the right to react to them in such manner as any normal human being would upon hearing them.”

  A quick smile flashed across Clod’s face. Just as quickly, it disappeared, leaving behind a long-suffering pinch to his lips. “Keep the reactions to a minimum if you can, Ms. Rutledge. It’s going to be a long day.”

  “I’ll do my best. But if you don’t have any evidence against me, why do Shirley and Mercy think you’re going to arrest me? Oh.” It took me a nanosecond to realize I already knew the answer. “Because they are, after all, Shirley and Mercy. But then why were you bullying me back there at Mel’s? You acted like you were about to arrest me.”

  “I was merely asking you to accompany me to elicit information concerning the break-in while at the same time attempting to keep the situation under control by not alerting everyone in the café and thus the town, if not the state or the entire western hemisphere, to the details of the investigation.”

  “Pfffft. Oh, sorry. That was a human reaction. It’s just I seem to remember flashing lights and a whoop of siren before you made your unobtrusive entrance at Mel’s. But, go on. What information do you think I can give you?”

  “Do you have any idea who would want to break into your grandmother’s house? What that person might be looking for?”

  His brother crossed my mind. Joe the Domestic Burglar who did dishes and fretted over the technicalities of word choice. And spent his spare time looking for evidence of blackmail.

  “You’re having another human reaction there,” Clod said. “You’re thinking about someone. Who?”

  “Think carefully before you speak, Kath,” Homer said. “Remember slander.”

  I nodded and thought carefully. The scientist in me likes being clear and exact, likes being careful. Gets an immeasurable kick out of studying a textile front and back, inside out and all the way down to the least wisp of its fibers. Hairs, fibers, they’re all the same to me and splitting either one is good fun. I shrugged and gave Clod my best sheepish smile.

  “Sorry, beyond easy pickings from an unoccupied house, I couldn’t tell you what anyone would be looking for.” Wouldn’t discuss blackmail with him, anyway, in case it strengthened his hand or gave him an ace. Maybe mention it to Homer. Later. “The sooner I can get into the house, the sooner I might be able to tell you if anything is missing. As far as who? Again, sorry. I don’t know anyone who would break in.” Someone who would find a way to slip in, maybe. But break a window? I couldn’t say that. Not for certain. Did Clod believe me? I couldn’t say that for certain, either.

  “That’s all right, Ms. Rutledge,” he said. “Asking you is routine procedure. Relatives, anyone standing to gain something, people with a bone to pick, they’re all good starting points for this type of investigation.”

  “As long as they are only starting points, Deputy,” Homer said. “For my client’s benefit, will you fill us in on the statistics involving residential burglaries?”

  Dunbar shifted in his chair and his face shifted back to mulish. “You know statistics can be skewed to say almost anything.” He might as well have called them mule shit.

  “But how often do crimes of opportunity go unsolved?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  They were playing with each other again, batting their ball of statistics and innuendo back and forth, and it wasn’t getting me anywhere. Like into Granny’s house. I glanced at my watch.

  “Oh, hey, it’s after eight thirty. Where’s Max with the keys?”

  “Excellent question,” Homer said. His fingertips again rested on the desk, his long fingers curved. They looked ready to pounce or snatch and I half expected his tongue to flick across his lips. “Fortunately for him, under the circumstances, we might have to cut him some slack.” He turned to Clod. “I assume you’ve contacted him about the break-in?”

  “We attempted to contact him by phone. He didn’t answer. Shorty will keep trying. If nothing else, he’ll run on out to Cobb’s place when he finishes up at the scene. You expected him here, though? You been having problems with him?”

  Clod looked from Homer to me. I was about to jump in with an explosive “yes,” but a cue from Homer kept me in check.

  “He’s been out of town,” Homer said. “There have been some questions about ownership and occupancy of the house on Lavender Street. He agreed to turn a set of keys over to me no later than eigh
t thirty this morning. Mr. Cobb is now officially late.”

  “Could be Shorty got hold of him and he’s over at the house now,” Clod said.

  “If he’s at the house, I can get the keys from him there, can’t I? Or if he isn’t there, you can let me in, can’t you, Deputy?” I hopped up.

  “Not so fast, Kath,” Homer said. “From this point on we want a record of every transaction pertaining to the Lavender Street property. I want those keys delivered and signed for and I don’t want you setting foot in the house without that safeguard.”

  “But this will be official police business. I’ll be going in, accompanied by Deputy Dunbar, to check for damages and to see what’s missing.”

  “Hold on,” Dunbar said.

  “Why?”

  “No, I mean hold on; Shorty’s calling.” He must have known Shorty’s vibration because his phone wasn’t ringing.

  He pulled the phone from a shirt pocket and lifted his eyebrows to Homer. Homer nodded toward the kitchenette. Clod stepped through and closed the door. Homer stared after him, leaning toward the door as though he could hear the conversation if he were intent enough.

  “I need to get in the house, Homer. It’s not just a matter of checking to see what might be missing. At this point I think it’s a matter of my sanity.”

  Homer blinked and turned to me. He didn’t tell me I was being overly dramatic. Didn’t chuckle or tell me to sit down and be patient.

  “I need to get in.”

  He bowed his head and the fingertips of his right hand came up to rest on his forehead. “I am so sorry about Ivy, Kath.”

  The unexpected emotion in his voice rocked me. I didn’t say anything, though. I was feeling completely selfish and didn’t feel like comforting yet another person for my own grievous loss. Homer, head still bowed, didn’t seem to notice my lack of manners. We remained like that until Deputy Clod came back into the room.

  At the sound of Clod’s hand on the doorknob, Homer straightened. He was in charge of the situation again, adjusting his cuffs to prove it. Clod came back with more spring in his step than when he’d left. He looked energized, annoyed, and something else. Happy? More like excited. If Homer was the raptor with eyes not missing a flinch, Clod was now a hound on the scent.