Knot the Usual Suspects Page 9

  Shirley and Mercy were, however, kin. They were daughters of one of Granny’s cousins, making them somewhat removed from her and more so from me. So they were kin, yes, but they were also . . . so Spivey. In my mind, “Spivey” was shorthand for snoopy, gossipy, and manipulative. They had a history of being unpleasant to Ernestine. But they had a sense of devotion to family and community that couldn’t be overlooked. And they were artists when it came to embroidery and quilting. So they weren’t all bad. Just . . . all Spivey. Geneva adored them. Because I preferred to avoid complications and conflict, I tried to avoid Shirley and Mercy.

  Yet I’d pelted down the stairs, possibly straight into their beady-eyed sights. To throw myself between them and Debbie? Was I so selfless? Or was I thinking more of myself and how hard it would be to replace Debbie if they did something to make her quit? Those were complicated—and possibly revealing—questions I didn’t want to answer. Instead I sniffed the air one more time for Mercy’s cologne, like a nervous rabbit, and listened.

  The only sound coming from the front room was Debbie humming “You Are My Sunshine.” That wasn’t the song of choice for someone beset by Spiveys. I pulled myself together, pushed myself away from the wall, and went around the corner.

  Debbie was sitting on the stool behind the sales counter, a pencil in one hand, leafing through a yarn catalog and making notes. Granny had described Debbie to me as looking as though she belonged in a watercolor by the Swedish artist Carl Larsson. Today, with her blond braid coiled around her head and felt clogs peeking from under the hem of her long jean skirt, she could have stepped right out of the painting to man the cash register. She looked up, seemingly unbopped, as I came in.

  “Meeting over?” she asked, putting the catalog aside.

  I moved behind the counter. “Were Shirley and Mercy just here?” I sent a few more darting glances around the room and wondered if I would recognize paranoia in myself if it bopped me on the head.

  “The twins? You’re kidding. Were you really expecting them? I’m sorry. I thought they were spreading the usual manure and it would be better to say you weren’t here.” She looked miserable about her imagined faux pas, and for that, I knew I couldn’t imagine what we would do if she ever did leave the Weaver’s Cat. She was a great employee and a better friend. “It was an automatic reflex,” she said. “They’re gone. I’m really sorry.”

  “No, no, no. No need to apologize. I wasn’t expecting them. Your automatic reflex was perfect, and I’m eternally grateful you can be so convincing. Do you give lessons?”

  Debbie laughed. “I learned it from Bill. He can make the sheep stand on their heads if he wants to.” Bill was her border collie, a no-nonsense guy who wouldn’t see the humor in making sheep stand on their heads. He would do it for Debbie, though, and not ask questions. “It’s all in the eyes,” she said. “But your eyes spill everything, Kath. Shirley and Mercy know that. Everyone knows that.” She cocked her head. “Weren’t you upstairs at the meeting? How did you know they were here?”

  “Mercy’s cologne sure has a long afterlife, doesn’t it? Phew.” I picked up the catalog and flapped it around, fanning it mostly in front of my face—in front of my blabbermouth eyes.

  * * *

  By the time I got back upstairs, the first meeting had adjourned. So had the strudel. Mel said she’d split what was left between Abby and Zach to take home. I hoped my blabbermouth eyes wouldn’t tell her how unfair they thought that was. I’d said no when that flaky, buttery strudel called to me earlier, but now a slice would be most welcome. It could help restore my equilibrium, after sacrificing myself in the face of Spiveys, and surely my dash down the stairs had used calories in addition to adrenaline.

  Wanda had gone, too, and the yarn bomb materials had been stowed away in project bags. Ernestine told me she’d volunteered to contact Rachel and Tammie to confirm the time, place, and final details. She had more spare time than most of us, but we were all grateful that she was willing to sacrifice some of it in case Rachel got started talking.

  “And we all assume you’ll be in touch with Joe,” Thea said.

  “As far as I know.”

  “Of course you will,” Mel said. “Let’s shift gears.”

  This was now a posse meeting, and although it was Wednesday and not Friday, posse members all belonged to Fridays Fast and Furious, so baby hats came out of the project bags and charity knitting went into full swing. Geneva had moved around behind Ardis’ chair—in ghost stealth mode—where Ardis couldn’t see her. She was floating far enough behind Ardis that Ardis wouldn’t feel a telltale chill, either.

  Thea was knitting another in the endless stream of red-and-white-striped hats that were her specialty—a nod to Dr. Seuss and part of her campaign to promote early literacy. Mel took three finished baby hats and another almost complete from her bag. All of them were bright red. She laid the finished hats on the low table our chairs were grouped around.

  “Are you in your apple phase, Mel?” John asked. He’d retired from the navy and then spent years sailing in the Atlantic. He knitted hats that reflected the ocean’s moody blues. Mel, on the other hand, knitted what she called “organics” and had already worked her way through a range of berry, melon, and lettuce colors. “Or is it your beet phase?” John asked.

  “Fire engine,” said Mel. “It’s National Fire Safety Month. Say, Red, have you ever thought about adding a swath of fire engine red to your head? It’d be a nice highlight for your natural shade.”

  “If I did, you couldn’t call me Red anymore. It’d be too obvious.”

  “Then I’d call you Sparky. What have you got to show for yourself this week?”

  “Hang on.” I looked for my project bag. Thea had taken the chair I’d catapulted out of, and she did her best now to look immovable. She kindly handed me my bag, though, which she’d had to move in order to sit down. Before dropping into another chair, I pulled out a pen and two notebooks—Ardis’ and my own. I did have a baby hat in the bag. It lay at the bottom, and if yarn could sigh, I would have heard a small, sad exhalation from the half-finished and unremarkable pink beanie. Poor neglected thing. The posse and my notebook—an old-fashioned-looking leather journal with an elastic band that Ernestine had given me—were the primary reasons my hat output lagged (or so I told myself). I gave the hat a silent promise of quality time that evening and tucked the bag beside me. I slipped the elastic off my notebook, indulgently stroking the leather a couple of times.

  “Ready to begin the case of the—what are we going to call this one?”

  “Not until you tell us where you went jackrabbiting off to,” Thea said. “We hadn’t covered the schedule of operations yet.”

  “She wasn’t a jackrabbit,” Mel said. “More like the proverbial bat. Where’d you go?”

  “To the rescue,” I said. “I went to intercept Shirley and Mercy.” That had the expected effect, including a muttered “Spivey” from Ernestine—more of a spit than a whisper. Ardis patted Ernestine’s shoulder, then turned to me, eyes snapping.

  “What did those twin plagues want? Are you sure they’re gone?” She looked ready to launch herself down the stairs in a repeat of my performance.

  “Debbie got rid of them,” I said. “We’re Spivey free, and the air quality downstairs has almost returned to normal.”

  “How did you know they were here?” Thea asked, echoing Debbie’s question.

  “Duh,” Mel said. “Debbie has Kath’s Batphone on speed dial.”

  Geneva hung upside down and made flapping motions behind Ardis. The others, thank goodness, thought I was laughing at Mel’s joke.

  “What did they want?” Ardis asked again. “I find it highly suspicious that they showed up today. This afternoon. At the exact time we’re having our final strategy meeting. Highly, highly suspicious.”

  “They were up to something, but I don’t know what. They told Debbie I
was expecting them. She handled it, though. She told them I wasn’t here and they left.”

  “And that’s suspicious, too,” Ardis said. “Since when do they give in so easily? That’s part of the pervasive Spivey problem. They don’t know when to quit.”

  “Perseverance isn’t all bad,” I said.

  “Pigheaded poltroonery is,” said Ardis. Behind her, Geneva had been shaking a finger at phantom Spiveys, then pounding a fist into her hand. When Ardis planted her fists on her hips, Geneva did, too, with a clear “nyah, nyah” wiggle to her hips. It was also clear that she and I needed to have a chat about manners and mocking.

  “Anyway, they’re gone now,” I said.

  “Although not permanently,” Ernestine murmured, “and more’s the pity. Oh my goodness, did I say that out loud? I am so sorry.” She tried to fix a contrite frown in place, but a smile got the better of her.

  “Nothing to be sorry about, Ernestine,” Ardis said. “You’re right, too. They might come back. Slip in the back door, like as not, like a pair of noxious and obnoxious eels. Then they’ll eel their way straight up the stairs.”

  “We’ll hear the bleat of electronic sheep, if they do,” Mel said. “Baa-aa-aa. I love it.”

  “Boo-oo-oo,” Geneva said in her own version of a bleat. “You’ll hear me if the darling twins return.” She circled Ardis’ head once and then swooped out the door. Ardis turned a moment of wide-eyed surprise into a show of concern. Thanks to her lifetime membership in the Blue Plum Repertory Theater, she was masterful and convincing.

  “On to the reason we’ve called this meeting,” she said, “the tragic death of Hugh McPhee. I think we should call this the case of the—”

  “One more interruption, please, before we set sail in a new direction,” John said. “About the timetable for tomorrow night.”

  “We’ve already been over it,” Thea said.

  “Yes, but this is about the timing of events.”

  “John, we covered it,” Thea said. “We’ll pass timetables out tomorrow night, not before.”

  “I’m sure Kath agrees with that. Don’t you, Kath?” Ardis asked. “Especially after your near miss with Shirley and Mercy. From this point forward, we need to be extra cautious. No chat in public and the timetable stays under lock and key so that it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. I hope we emphasized that strongly enough with the kiddos, considering the way they text every thought and heartbeat these days. But everyone here is clear on the importance of secrecy—am I right?”

  “Clear,” Ernestine said, raising her hand.

  She looked so solemn and earnest that my hand went up, too. So did Mel’s and Thea’s.

  “John?” Ardis prompted.

  “Military time,” he said with crisp enunciation. He’d set his knitting aside, something he rarely did during discussions, and his eyes were the color of a winter sea. “It is easy. It is precise. That is all I was trying to say.”

  “All righty,” Thea said, drawing the words out as though she hoped enlightenment would strike before she got to the end. It didn’t. She tried raising her eyebrows at him and waiting another few seconds before giving in. “What, John? That’s all you’re saying about what?”

  “Ah. Sorry. I thought you were following me.” John hitched forward, his hands ready to illustrate. Drawn in, we all leaned forward, too. “I suggest we use military time, tomorrow night, for the timetable and for any telephone and text communications between our teams of operatives. You know that I don’t usually pull rank—”

  “I don’t think you’ve ever pulled rank,” Ardis said. “It’s not like you.”

  “But as a former naval officer, one who is experienced in campaigns, covert and otherwise, I know what I’m talking about,” John said. “While secrecy is important, precision is key.” He looked at each of us in turn, then sat back and took up his knitting.

  “Thank you, John,” Ardis said. “That’s very helpful.

  “Not really,” Thea said. “That isn’t going to fly. Or sail, either. We’re knitters, John, not Navy SEALs. We’re going out at night. Everyone knows it’ll be dark. If I tell people to be here at ten minutes of ten, no one’s going to be confused and show up in the morning.”

  “Point taken,” said John. “I only wanted to be heard and to help.”

  “It was a good suggestion,” Ernestine said.

  “And much appreciated,” said Mel. “You can talk about bells and zero hundred hours and avasting at the café any time you want.” She watched him knitting and we all listened to the clicking of his needles, as crisp and precise as the advice he’d offered. “And bring Ambrose,” Mel said, still watching him. Ambrose was his brother.

  “You’re kind, Mel.” John acknowledged her with a quick smile. “And delusional if you think that will be a pleasant experience for anyone.” As a young man, John had followed his whim to a life at sea. As an old man, he’d answered a need and come home to look after his even older brother. I’d never met Ambrose, and although I’d heard enough to make me curious about him, I trusted the general, quiet consensus of the group. Mel had summed it up best and bluntly with John’s a saint; Ambrose ain’t.

  “John, if you need to back out of tomorrow night, everyone will understand,” Ardis said. “There is no dishonor in the burden you’ve undertaken.”

  “I will be here,” John said. “At ten minutes of ten.” His needles flashed as something flashed across his face. “And so will Ambrose.”

  Chapter 11

  Silence met John’s announcement of the impending Ambrose. It wasn’t necessarily an uncomfortable silence, and no one appeared to be stunned, so I decided it was the silence of mental gears shifting. My own shifted first one direction, then another as I wondered how Ambrose would add to or gum up our work. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as I’d been led to imagine. Or were we all afraid we’d hurt John’s feelings if we told him that he shouldn’t or couldn’t come if it meant bringing Ambrose along?

  Ardis didn’t give me any help in deciding which of those options was more likely. She smiled and said, “That’s fine, then, John. We’ll see you both tomorrow night.” But the warmth of her smile and the kind tone of her words might have been her stellar repertory skills coming into play.

  “We’ll be here,” John said, no longer looking anyone in the eye. “Ten minutes of ten.”

  “Precisely,” Ardis said. “And now let’s move on to the new case at hand. I have to tell you, this case sorely grieves me. I don’t even want to give it a name.”

  “We don’t need a name for it,” Mel said. “We don’t even need to get involved—”

  “Yes, we do,” Ardis and I said in unison.

  “Just checking,” Mel said. “I’m all for it, but we need to be realistic, too. These cases create stresses. Unevenly shared amongst us. But that’s the nature of working on something like this. And the nature of stress.” She looked sideways at me. “Are you up for this, Red? You never talked much about what happened with the last case.”

  And I probably wouldn’t. Geneva and I had talked about it, and I’d told Ardis some of what had occurred, but as for the rest of the posse and the rest of the story . . . They’d been there, but they couldn’t see Geneva. They hadn’t seen what I had. Joe was amazingly understanding about my silence. He’d asked a few times, more as a way of letting me know that he would listen, and he hadn’t pressed. He didn’t seem to resent being kept outside that strange patch of my life. And he had quietly run interference for me, deflecting questions from the rest of the posse, and from his brother, in the weeks afterward.

  “I’m fine, Mel. Thank you for asking. The stress is something we should all consider. But speaking for myself, I say we go ahead.”

  “Good. He deserves it,” she said.

  “You knew him?” I asked.

  “Knew of more than knew. He was the kind of guy in high school who
left a lasting impression.”

  “A good one?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  ‘We’ll need to know more about that.”

  “And that’s bygone Hugh,” Thea said. “We need to know about recent Hugh, too.”

  “The man left a generous tip for his lunch,” Mel said. “That’s about the most up-to-date you’ll get.”

  “Except for the bagpipes,” Ernestine said. “He was quite good. I was enjoying his concert last night.”

  “You were?” Thea asked.

  “I jumped right out of bed when I heard them.” Ernestine laughed at the memory. “I couldn’t help myself. I threw my bathrobe on over my nightgown and went to sit on the front steps—a sight to behold, I don’t doubt, except I didn’t turn the porch light on so maybe no one saw me. But that’s what the sound of pipes does to me. Caution to the winds!” She threw her hands up. “Oh dear.” She looked at the stitches she’d lost in her fling. “But that’s the way it is with me. There’s no telling what I might do when I hear the pipes calling.” Ernestine, round as well as wrinkled, looked about as unrestrained as a grandmother mole, but she obviously had hidden passions. “I’d like to have a piper at my funeral,” she said, settling back down.

  “Hugh was piping at his own funeral,” Mel said.

  “Is that when it happened? When the pipes stopped?” Ernestine bowed her head. “I put myself back to bed feeling cheated. I feel terrible.”