Knot the Usual Suspects Read online

  Into that scene, the back door said, “Baa,” and Ardis returned—with no bag or box lunch in sight.

  “Did I hear someone yelling bar . . .” Ardis stopped when she caught the flicker of Geneva’s movement.

  Geneva stopped, too. Then she swirled one more time around the women, silent and pouting, and disappeared.

  Ardis squinted after her and sighed. But she pulled herself together, resuming the mantle of good customer service. “Now, who can I help?”

  “We have some early arrivals for Handmade,” I said, waving Ellen and Janet back to the counter, “and we’re going to keep their project bags for them while they go eat lunch.” They handed me their bags readily enough, but I apologized to them for the confusion anyway. “Thinking of too many things at once,” I said. “But of course we’ll keep your bags for you. And if you need a suggestion for lunch, try Mel’s down on the next corner. Best food in town. Save room for a slice of her tunnel of fudge cake, though. It’s ooooh and mmmmmm all in one.” If I wasn’t careful I’d embarrass myself.

  “We remember Mel’s,” Ellen said, “and we’re already drooling.”

  “And we’re so sorry for bumping into you,” Janet said to the mayor’s mother. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Mrs. Weems said. “It takes more than a bump in the rump to knock me over. Besides, it’s always a pleasure to bump into folks who can’t stay away from Blue Plum. You-all enjoy your stay. What’s the slogan they’re using for the craft show this year?”

  “Plum good,” Ardis said.

  “There you go. You-all have a plum good time. Bye, now.” Tiny as she was, with her hands now on her hips, Mrs. Weems gave the impression of being in charge of things. The puffy vest gave her some heft, and I could picture her as a crossing guard at the elementary school. Or a wizened superhero—instead of the Green Lantern, the Blue Prune.

  Ellen reached her hand out, as though she meant to pat Mrs. Weems on the shoulder in passing. But something in that superhero stance, or the snap in the Blue Prune’s eyes, made Ellen pull her hand back. She and Janet scooted for the door and as the camel bells jingled behind them, Ardis stepped into the slightly awkward breach of etiquette.

  “What a nice surprise seeing you here, Gladys. Are you keeping all right?”

  “Afternoon, Ardis. I could hardly be feeling better. How’s that devilish daddy of yours?”

  Ardis’ eyebrows shot up, but she wrestled them back down and answered with her usual honeysuckle manners, “Daddy’s fine. I’ll tell him you asked. Now, what can we do for you? Don’t tell me the needlework bug has finally bitten you?”

  The mayor’s mother—Gladys—laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a stitch? And a dropped one more than likely. No, you know me better than that, Ardis Buchanan. What I came for is to ask this young woman a question.” She pointed an arthritic finger at me.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Weems,” I said. “I’m Kath. Ivy’s granddaughter.”

  “I know who you are,” Gladys said, “and I’m pleased to meet you, but what I want to know is this—was that Hugh McPhee you were talking to at the courthouse this morning?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her question was an eerie echo of Clod’s. Her reaction wasn’t like his, though. Gladys Weems slapped her thigh. Then she put that hand to her cheek, and shook her head, and sank both hands in the pockets of her vest. At that point she stopped shaking her head and started nodding. “I thought so,” she said. “Yes, indeed, I thought so.” Her eyes were the slits of a satisfied cat.

  * * *

  “Tell me about Hugh McPhee,” I said.

  I’d held the door for Gladys Weems, and then told Ardis about my image of her as the caped and crusading Blue Prune. Ardis had collapsed on the stool behind the counter and was taking a calming sip of the iced tea she’d brought back from Mel’s. For herself.

  “He was one of your favorites, and you’re happy to see him, but he seems to be stirring some other interesting reactions around town. Including forgetfulness. And a certain lack of lunch for coworkers.”

  “You only think I forgot your lunch because I didn’t bring you any,” Ardis said.

  “Could be.”

  She held a finger up, holding off further grousing. As I was thinking about biting that finger, the back door said, “Baa,” and familiar footsteps came our way. Ardis looked smug. “What was that you were saying, O ye of little faith?”

  “Um, hello, Joe, and hello, lunch?”

  “Hey, Kath. Hey again, Ardis.” Joe put a bag from Mel’s on the counter in front of me and leaned in for a quick kiss. “I’d have been here sooner, but Mel needed a few more people to test the new lentil salad.”

  “Did you like it?” I asked.

  “We can compare notes after you’ve tried your share.”

  I looked at the bag. Visions of the countless well-intentioned lentil salads I’d experienced at potlucks and neighborhood get-togethers trudged through my head. I poked the bag with a finger; the bag felt heavier than any decent sample portion of lentil salad should.

  “Lentil salad can be a hard sell,” Joe said. “That’s why Mel’s trying to build a better one. And why she sent along an incentive—tunnel of fudge is in there, too.”

  “Oooh.”

  “The last piece. You’re lucky.”

  I picked the bag up and cradled it. Poor Ellen and Janet would have to settle for something else if they wanted dessert.

  “Run on back to the kitchen,” Ardis said. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

  * * *

  Mel Gresham, owner-operator of Mel’s on Main, took her recipe experiments seriously, so I gave my full attention to the lentil salad and the questions on the recipe rating card she’d sent along. Or as much attention as I could with Joe, Geneva, and Argyle sitting across from me. Argyle sat upright on Joe’s lap. He and Joe watched me—Joe because he took Mel’s experiments as seriously as she did, and Argyle because he thought he might like to stick his paw out and grab my pencil. Geneva huddled in the chair next to them. I wasn’t sure why; she didn’t usually hang around when Joe and I were alone together in the store. Because of the canoodling, she’d told me early on in our relationship. I have an aversion to it and am easily shocked. A shocking canoodle, to Geneva, was anything less chaste than Joe shaking my hand while standing several feet away. She sat now with her head turned so she couldn’t see Joe.

  “There’s something I’m tasting here . . .”

  “Fresh mint,” Joe said.

  “Nice.”

  “Make a note of that on the card.” He wiggled a finger at the rating card. “Then read what you’ve got so far.”

  “Keep your shirt on.”

  Geneva said, “Eep,” and put a hand up to further blinker her view of Joe.

  I scooped up the last bite and mulled the last question on the card. After savoring, swallowing, mulling, and marking, I picked up the card and read. “‘Lentil Salad, Version 3.0, question one: Would you eat this dish again?’ Yes. ‘Question two: Would you order this dish when faced with other options?’ Yes. ‘Question three: What did you like about this dish?’ Mint.” I stopped and looked at Joe. He blew me a kiss. “I like that, too,” I said.

  Geneva, who’d been peeking between her fingers, said, “Eep,” again.

  “I also like the lime vinaigrette and the addition of sliced radish, roasted potatoes, and generous chunks of avocado that contribute to the mixture of interesting flavors and textures. The crumbled cheese was perfect. How am I doing?”

  “Nicely thought out.”

  “Thank you. Next question. ‘Was there anything you disliked about the dish?’ No, although it could use a tad more salt and pepper. And the last question: ‘What is your overall rating?’” I turned the card around so Joe could see the answer—OMG followed by four exclamation points and the O as
a smiley face. Mel would hate the text abbreviation and smiley, but she would love the sentiment. And I meant every fan girl exaggeration of it.

  “I’ll take the card back to her later,” Joe said.

  “And I’ll take my reward now.” I handed him the card and unwrapped the slice of cake.

  Geneva was suddenly sitting next to me—eyes closed, hands clasped under her chin, leaning toward the cake as though drawn there by her nose. I looked from her to the cake. Then I cut into it with my fork and held a mouthful of it closer to Geneva. I swished the fork once, twice under Geneva’s nose. She inhaled deeply . . .

  “Something wrong?” Joe asked.

  I ate the bite, shaking my head at the same time. The cake was perfect—and it was studded with chunks of crystallized ginger. Although Geneva had an aversion to canoodling, she had a tremendous fondness for ginger.

  “Is Mel trying a new version of tunnel of fudge?” I asked.

  “This is her fall recipe,” Joe said. “Closer to Christmas she’ll add bits of peppermint candy. Good, isn’t it?”

  If he’d been able to see Geneva, he wouldn’t have asked. She was floating above the table, on her back, arms crossed, humming. To be consistent, not to say eccentric, I swished each bite before eating it to give her maximum olfactory joy.

  “So, what do you know about Hugh McPhee?” I asked after swallowing the last bite of that chocolate bliss.

  Joe started to shrug, but Argyle interrupted him with a growl low in his throat. Then, from the look on Joe’s face, Argyle dug his claws into Joe’s thighs. But that was only for traction, because in the next instant, Argyle launched himself off Joe’s lap and tore up the back stairs.

  “What the—” Joe bit down on the rest of that agonized statement.

  “The fiends of hell!” Geneva cried, coming out of her ginger stupor. She clapped her hands to her ears and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” I said, trying to calm her, wondering what she and Argyle heard that neither Joe nor I could. What she still could. She wasn’t panicking like Argyle, thank goodness, but she looked as though she was in pain. “It’s okay,” I said again.

  “Easy for you to say; I’m in pain here,” Joe said. “I’m pierced in twenty places at least.”

  I stood up, trying to get Geneva’s attention without looking like a loon by waving my arms.

  “Lordy, Lordy,” she moaned. “I am pierced as well. My eardrums, at least, and possibly my very soul.”

  Then Ardis called from the front room, “Kath, Joe, can you hear it?”

  “Pretty sure the cat did,” Joe answered with more volume and less of his pleasant drawl than usual. “What are we supposed to hear?”

  “The pitiful wails of some poor strangled beast,” Geneva moaned.

  “It’s called skirling, isn’t it?” Ardis called. “Someone’s playing bagpipes out on Main Street. Over near the courthouse, it sounds like. Don’t you love it? There’s something about that wild music that makes your blood rush, doesn’t it?”

  “You got that right,” Joe muttered.

  “Oh, but it’s stopped,” Ardis said. “Just as it really got going, too. Cut off midskirl. What a shame.”

  Geneva took her hands from her ears. “The shame comes in calling that howling shriek ‘music.’ Mark my words,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering, “no good can come from frightening a peaceable cat or torturing a ghost who would never dream of shattering another creature’s eardrums.”

  I expected to hear a self-righteous sniff at the end of that ironic but obviously heartfelt statement. It didn’t come.

  It was a warm day, but Geneva shivered again. She took a last, sad look at the cake crumbs on my plate, and floated away and up the back stairs.

  * * *

  The warm day turned into a stuffy night as our temperatures zigzagged their way toward first frost. Tonight was warm enough to sleep with the bedroom window open three or four inches. Sometime between midnight and one, a skirl of sound came in on a breeze and woke me. Bagpipes. How odd. But Ardis was right; something about that wild sound stirred my blood and I sat up in bed.

  It was a strange time for a pipe concert, though. Downtown, too, judging by the orientation of my window, and the direction of the breeze. Downtown and disturbing the sleep of the countless Blue Plumians within earshot, including the inmates in the jail behind the courthouse and the deputies guarding them and the ducks quacking in the creek . . . I might have dozed sitting up.

  The tune changed, slowed, didn’t grow softer. I’d heard it before, possibly in a movie. Melancholy . . . haunting . . . Geneva and Argyle! I pictured them cowering in the attic at the Weaver’s Cat.

  I threw back the covers, but before I’d put a foot on the floor, the pipes quit—one short wheeze of a sour note, and then silence.

  Chapter 7

  Geneva and Argyle were waiting for me in the kitchen at the Weaver’s Cat the next morning. Argyle held no grudges over sleep interrupted by bagpipes. He accepted a rub between the ears and a helping of fish-flavored crunchy things with his usual good grace and shedding fur. Geneva looked grumpy and seemed to expect an apology.

  “It wasn’t me playing the pipes after midnight, Geneva, but I’m sorry they bothered you. Do you really hate them that much?”

  “I hid under your desk with Argyle and we yowled to drown them out. I believe several dogs in the neighborhood joined us. The yowling was cathartic, but that does not mean I would like the fiend to repeat his performance again tonight.”

  “Have you ever heard bagpipes in real life?”

  “As opposed to in real death? You are particularly insensitive this morning.”

  “That was insensitive, and I’m sorry. I just wondered if anyone around here played them in your time.”

  “Such a villain would have been ridden out of town on a rail.”

  * * *

  Ardis was waiting for me in the front room, looking about as sleep-deprived and grumpy as her great-great-aunt.

  “I’m trying to put a good face on it,” she said, “because I dearly love the pipes. But you and I both know that I also dearly love my sleep, and this morning when I looked in the mirror I had a hard time convincing myself that I wasn’t hungover. It’s my eyes, Kath. Look at my eyes.” She leaned toward me and almost fell off the tall stool.

  I immediately went to Mel’s and bought a large coffee for her.

  * * *

  Clod Dunbar was waiting for me when I got back from Mel’s. He and Ardis weren’t exchanging small talk when I came in. Small talk wasn’t Clod’s strong suit, and Ardis hadn’t had enough sleep to bait him into engaging in it. I gave Ardis the cup of coffee and stood beside her. She took a sip, gauging the brew’s temperature, then took a long swallow.

  “Ah, Coleridge,” she said. “Now that caffeine has propped open my eyelids, good morning.” She breathed in the coffee’s aroma and took another swallow. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence two days in a row? Are you here to tell us that the mad piper will pipe no more? That would be a kind thing for you to say and music to my ears. Especially as you tracked mud in through our front door.”

  Clod didn’t look over his shoulder or check the soles of his shoes. Instead he cleared his throat. His harrumph was out of uniform, though. He wore his khaki and brown, and held his Smokey the Bear hat at attention in the crook of his arm, but the harrumph was . . .

  “Something’s happened,” I said quietly, trying to read it on his face. “What?”

  His voice was out of uniform, too. He spoke to Ardis. “It’s Hugh, Ms. Buchanan. I’m sorry. He’s dead.”

  I took the cup of coffee from Ardis before she crumpled.

  “I need to get back there,” Clod said, talking to me now, “but I didn’t think she should hear about it from some—”

  “Where?” I asked.<
br />
  “I’m not authorized to—”

  “Back where?” Ardis asked. “Where did it happen?”

  “Ms. Buchanan, ma’am,” Clod said, “we don’t need to go into that now.”

  I couldn’t see his feet, but I got the impression he shuffled them. If he did, it was another chink in his professional starch and Ardis noticed, too. The chink must have given her strength. She stood up.

  “What happened to Hugh, Coleridge? Tell me how and when and where.”

  Expressionless, Clod looked from her to me and back to her. “Unofficial. Off the record. We are investigating. Do not repeat this.” He looked at each of us again. We nodded. “He was found a short while ago. His body was obscured by the reeds alongside the creek behind the courthouse.”

  “And the rest?” Ardis asked.

  “Probably sometime last night, and not an accident. Those are best guesses only. Again, unofficial and please do not repeat any of this.”

  “Why are you suddenly trusting us with unofficial information?” I asked.

  He answered my question, but looked only at Ardis. “Because we might need your help, Ms. Buchanan. We found something in his, his . . . we found your name on a piece of paper in a book in some kind of purse around his waist. Not a purse. I know that’s not what it’s called. But it’s part of the getup he was wearing.”

  “Getup?” Ardis mouthed the question.

  I asked it out loud. “What getup? What are you talking about?”

  “A kilt,” Clod said, “and . . .” He stopped, maybe at a loss for the right words to describe the rest of Hugh’s “getup.” Or he might have faltered because he saw the look on Ardis’ face.

  “A kilt and what?” she asked.

  “A kilt and nothing,” Geneva whispered in my ear. She suddenly hovered at my other shoulder, making me a sandwich between a ghost and her great-great-niece. “I have heard about those ‘getups’ and what they leave out.”

  I put my hand up to hide my mouth and pretended to rub my nose. “Hush,” I said quietly in Geneva’s direction.