A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) (10 page)

“We’ll send officers out right now to find him and talk to him right away. But I also want you to think about anyone else who may have had a grievance with Charlotte—students at school. Or outside of school. Anything you can remember, even if it seems insignificant. Anything could be important.”

“Phoebe isn’t exaggerating about that boy,” Maggie added. “Charlotte was truly afraid of him.”

But if it had been Quentin, Maggie didn’t see how the knitting graffiti fit in. He seemed the type to commit a crime of passion. But the elaborate wrapping suggested an intentional plan, didn’t it?

The way Phoebe had described the knitted wrapping on the body also suggested the Knit Kats. Could the group be linked with this horrible act? Maggie recoiled at the thought. She also wondered if Detective Reyes was familiar with the term “knitting graffiti.” But Maggie was sure Phoebe would explain that—and talk about the Knit Kats—when she gave her statement. Maggie decided to tell the police her impressions, too . . . and about that odd phone call she’d received the night of her TV interview. Probably not connected in any way,
but as the detective had just said, any small detail could be important.

Detective Reyes met Maggie’s gaze as she pulled a pair of plastic gloves from her coat pocket. “The medical examiner is on his way. We’ll know a lot more once he looks at the body.”

She headed up the steps to the front door of Charlotte’s apartment. Her partner had already gone inside, and Maggie spotted him for a moment through a window.

Maggie imagined them going into the bedroom to examine the crime scene. A lump formed in her throat.

A gray-and-white cat sat on a windowsill, then paced from side to side, softly meowing. Phoebe was crying again but looked up at the sound. “One of Charlotte’s cats, Van Gogh. He wants to go inside. He doesn’t realize what’s . . . what’s happened.”

She stared at Maggie, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Of course he doesn’t,” Maggie said quietly.

Phoebe walked over to the porch and stopped at the yellow tape. She called to the cat, “Come here, sweetie. It’s me . . . Phoebe. Remember?”

Van Gogh clearly did remember. Or he was very hungry and sensed Phoebe was a cat lover. He turned and came quickly on delicate white feet. Most of his face and the tip of his tail were white, too. His fur was glossy and thick—maybe a little Angora mixed in with his alley-cat ancestors? He was a pretty cat and seemed very friendly and gentle.

Phoebe picked him up and held him in her arms. He seemed relaxed and obviously knew her.

Phoebe walked back to Maggie, holding the cat, his paws pressed to her chest and his head at her shoulder.

“I wish we had something to feed him. Maybe the police would give me some cat food from inside? I know where Charlotte keeps it.”

“I doubt it. They’re still looking for evidence. They probably aren’t allowed to remove anything from here for days.” She rubbed Phoebe’s shoulder as she continued to stroke the cat.

“How many cats did Charlotte have?”

“I’m not sure . . . at least five. There was Frida and Georgia, Leonardo and Picasso.”

All named for artists. That made sense.

“That’s a lot of cats. That’s practically a herd,” Maggie noted.

“They just come and go as they please. But they always come back for food, and if it’s really cold or wet. But now there won’t be anyone around to take them in or take care of them,” Phoebe said quietly.

As if on cue, the cat clinging to Phoebe’s jacket turned and glanced at Maggie, his little head cocked to one side in a charming pose. She noticed that one ear was a little crumpled. A large portion had been bitten off, in a cat fight—or perhaps in the quest of winning over some female feline? His name fit well.

“Maybe a neighbor or two will take care of them. At least they might feed them.”

“Maybe,” Phoebe agreed with a sigh.

Maggie didn’t say anything for few moments, then glanced back at Phoebe. “Maybe you should take Van Gogh and watch him for a while.”

Phoebe looked surprised at the suggestion. She’d often asked Maggie if she could have a pet in the apartment, but
Maggie always stuck to the terms of their lease: no pets of any kind. “Really? But you always said—”

Maggie sighed, interrupting her. “I know . . . but this is an emergency. As long as the cat doesn’t come in the shop. I think it will be all right. Temporarily,” she clarified.

She wondered if that last caveat had even registered. Phoebe was gazing down at her new charge with a small smile, momentarily distracted by the idea of taking in Charlotte’s cat, which had been Maggie’s intention. She actually didn’t want a cat in the shop, or even on the floor above, but she didn’t know what else she could do to help Phoebe get through this.

“I guess I can put him in my car. He should be all right in there. I think I have a towel in back. I’ll make him a little bed,” Phoebe said.

Phoebe walked back to her car with the cat, and Maggie saw another car pull up and park across the street. Two men emerged. One took a large black bag from the backseat, and the other pulled some type of equipment from the trunk. It looked like large lights. She guessed that the medical examiner and an assistant had arrived. She watched them walk up to the apartment and show badges to the officer on the porch before they entered the house.

“I think the medical examiner is here. Maybe we won’t have to wait that much longer,” Maggie said when Phoebe returned.

“I hope they sent someone to look for Quentin,” Phoebe replied. “I hope they find him and put him in jail . . . and never let him out again.” Phoebe turned to Maggie. “Do you think it’s wrong that I didn’t check if she was breathing? I mean, I could see that she wasn’t. How could she be alive,
staring up that way? She looked like . . . like a broken doll or something . . .”

Maggie comforted her again. “There was nothing you could have done for her, Phoebe. Nothing anyone could have done. You did the right thing to call the police,” she assured her.

It was actually better that Phoebe had not touched the body or anything in the bedroom. Her fingerprints and DNA would have been all over the crime scene . . . and that could have caused complications. As it was, just finding poor Charlotte had dragged her into this.

Maggie saw Detective Reyes meet the medical examiner at the door. But instead of going back inside with him, she came out and walked over to Maggie and Phoebe.

She took them in with a serious glance. “We’ve identified the victim. I think you should know that it’s not Charlotte Blackburn.”

Phoebe stared at the detective, her mouth dropped open. She hugged her stomach, practically doubling over with shock. “Are you sure? . . . But I saw her . . . with my own eyes. How could that be?”

Maggie was afraid that Phoebe was getting hysterical. She took her arm and patted her hand. “Take a few deep breaths. Let the detective explain.”

She glanced at Detective Reyes while Phoebe tried to compose herself. She also wondered how this could be. One minute Charlotte was stone-cold dead, staring into space like a broken doll. And now . . . she was presumably alive and well.

But some other young woman was lying in there. That part of the story had not changed.

“I’m sure this is a shock, Phoebe. You sounded so sure it was your friend. But when we searched the apartment, we found a pocketbook with a driver’s license and school ID. The photos match the deceased. Her name is Beth Shelton, and she’s also a student at Whitaker,” the detective explained. “Do you know her?”

“It’s Beth? Not Charlotte?”

Detective Reyes nodded. “So you do know her. Are the three of you friends?”

Phoebe shook her head. “I just know Beth a little. She’s also an art major. But Charlotte and Beth are good friends. They’d been roommates last year or something. Before Charlotte moved to off-campus housing. But Charlotte did say that Beth’s roommates this year had gotten really weird and she wanted to move out. Maybe Beth knew where the key was, too, and she just came here to crash.”

“Possibly,” the detective replied.

Maggie still didn’t understand how this mix-up had happened. “Beth and Charlotte must look very similar for you to have mistaken her, Phoebe.”

Phoebe swallowed hard, remembering. “I guess they do . . . I never really thought about it. But they do have the same sort of build and the same color hair. And Beth’s hair is long and gets wavy sometimes like Charlotte’s. Especially when it’s raining.” She turned to Maggie. “I was so shocked and freaked out. And she was mostly covered up. I barely looked at her before I panicked and ran out.” She turned to Detective Reyes. “I didn’t mean to tell you the wrong thing.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Detective Reyes replied. “But we still need your statement. Everything you can remember will
help the investigation. I need to go back inside. This won’t take too much longer.”

As Detective Reyes left them, Phoebe looked over at Maggie. Her expression was blank, but her dark eyes were wide and bright. “I’m like totally . . . stunned. I don’t know what to feel. I feel awful about Beth . . . but I am happy to hear Charlotte’s all right. I mean, as far as we know.”

Maggie didn’t know what to say. The girl lying inside was not Charlotte. So could they safely assume Charlotte was alive and probably hiding somewhere after she’d run from the gallery because of Quentin? Maggie certainly hoped so.

Phoebe turned to Maggie, a new look of dismay crossing her delicate features. “But if someone came in looking for Charlotte and killed Beth by mistake, that means someone is definitely after Charlotte. No wonder she ran away.”

“Yes . . . no wonder.” Maggie had already thought of that.

Of course the police had to consider the possibility that Charlotte killed Beth. The body was found in Charlotte’s apartment, and Charlotte was missing. She had to be considered, at this very early stage at least. Just as Phoebe is probably being looked at and needs to be eliminated as a suspect, Maggie realized, because she found the body.

But Maggie was fairly certain that the police would eliminate Phoebe quickly and also find no grievance between Charlotte and Beth. Phoebe’s scenario was probably correct. Poor Beth had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had been mistaken for her elusive friend.

Beth was having roommate troubles and either asked Charlotte for a place to crash or just assumed it would be all right if she stayed over. She let herself in, made herself
comfortable in Charlotte’s bedroom, turned on the TV, and didn’t hear the intruder enter.

Maybe Beth had even fallen asleep by that point. Or maybe she thought Charlotte had come in. Either way, in the dim light cast by the TV, the killer assumed Beth was Charlotte.

As Maggie mulled over the sad situation, she saw another cat leap down from the porch railing, landing in a puddle of yellow light from the lamp near the apartment door. This feline had come from the other side of the house and landed with a thud. A much larger cat than Van Gogh, it strutted to the front door with a cocky manner, sounding a loud, demanding yowl.

“That’s Pablo Picasso,” Phoebe told her. “He’s very bossy. He picks on Van Gogh.”

“Just as well . . . rescuing one stray tonight is plenty. Charlotte might be back tomorrow. Or even sooner,” Maggie pointed out. “Or maybe you’ll get a message from her and she’ll tell you where she went tonight.”

“Yes . . . I guess I might,” Phoebe agreed.

Or maybe the police would catch up with her. Maggie had to add that possibility to the list. They had probably begun looking as soon as they discovered the true identity of the poor young woman lying dead inside.

Picasso was startled by a sound inside the apartment and jumped back into the shadows. He was quick. Phoebe couldn’t have caught him anyway.

An old saying came to mind—“All cats look the same in the dark.” As Maggie recalled, it was Benjamin Franklin’s nod to bedding older women.

A little coarse and very misogynistic, Maggie thought. But something in the phrase seemed to ring true here, too—in regard to poor Beth Shelton being killed instead of Charlotte. And in the dark sleek coats and flashing eyes of Charlotte’s many pets melting in and out of the darkness.

M
aggie rarely missed her scheduled hours at the shop. She felt that she owed it to her customers to be open as advertised. On various occasions through the years, she’d come in with a cast on her leg, a fever of one hundred and two, backaches, toothaches, and covered in poison ivy. Her friends teased her that she should have gotten a job at the post office. Neither snow, nor rain, nor gloom of night stayed her from her appointed knitting rounds.

But after dealing with the police department for hours and getting home at nearly three, she’d only had four hours of sleep when the alarm sounded at its regular time on Monday morning. She allowed herself a bonus hour in bed but tossed and turned, thinking about the grisly events of the previous night and the random, unfortunate death of Beth Shelton. She finally pushed herself out the bed and into the shower.

An hour late wasn’t so bad, all things considered. She knew the local news was probably full of the story about the
young woman’s murder. But she couldn’t bear to turn it on, and she didn’t want to linger around the house anyway.