A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) (20 page)

“It wasn’t just up to her. I think Charlotte said Professor Healey was the one who nixed the Knit Kats’ entries,” Phoebe recalled. “He said he didn’t believe in anonymous group projects. And they weren’t ‘real’ artists. Just playing around, and giving fiber art a bad name. Making it seem frivolous and not worthy of serious consideration.”

Suzanne had started on her knitting again. “Whoa . . . He takes this stuff very seriously, doesn’t he?”

“He’s a serious guy,” Phoebe added. “He’s mainly a sculptor but does some work with fiber. He puts together these macho-looking things, not really knitting, more like weavings or something. With different kinds of ropes and knots and bolts and stuff hanging down.”

“Sounds like macramé on steroids,” Suzanne replied without looking up. “Remember all those plant holders and wall hangings people used to decorate with?”

“I still have a few of those,” Maggie admitted. “His version sounds interesting.” She didn’t like to dismiss anyone’s artwork without seeing it firsthand.

Lucy had disappeared briefly but now returned with a tray of coffee cups, a pot of coffee, and a plate of cookies that looked homemade.

She set the confections on the low wooden table by the TV and started filling mugs with coffee. “So without realizing it, Professor Healey was rejecting and insulting Professor Finch’s work. But she couldn’t complain about it, or she’d reveal her extracurricular activities. Interesting.”

“It is interesting,” Maggie agreed. “Makes you wonder why the Knit Kats didn’t try to get back at Healey. He was the one who had dismissed and belittled them. Not Charlotte.”

Suzanne leaned forward and grabbed a mug of coffee. “I’ll tell you what doesn’t make sense to me. If I was a Knit Kat and wanted to get rid of someone, why would I give myself away and throw my whole gang under the bus? Wrap the body in yarn graffiti? Duh . . . that’s not exactly covering your tracks,” she stated flatly.

Lucy sat down to join them again. She had her knitting, too, and was working on a red scarf. “Maybe they’re just so full of themselves, they did it as sort of an in-your-face statement? Maybe they think they’re so clever and anonymous, no one would find them?”

“Not in this day and age. No one is anonymous for very long. Case in point, the police have already tracked down one member and will likely figure out the others soon,” Dana reminded her.

“And they found the dumbbell who tried out for the
vacancy,” Phoebe reminded them. “I agree with Suzanne. I don’t think the Knit Kats killed Beth. Even mistaking her for Charlotte. That just doesn’t make sense . . . It had to be someone trying to frame them.”

“Copycats . . . No pun intended,” Lucy added quickly, glancing at Maggie.

“Yeah, copycats. Exactly,” Phoebe agreed. “Someone who had a problem with the Knit Kats . . . and with Charlotte. That’s who the police should be looking for.”

Lucy reached out and passed the plate of cookies around. Maggie was full from the delicious dinner but took a small one. Home-baked chocolate chip cookies were her favorite, and Lucy’s were first-rate.

“How about someone who has a problem with Sonya Finch?” Lucy added as she walked by. “She’s the one spending the evening with Detectives Reyes and Mossbacher right now. Maybe someone is trying to frame her?”

“Very possible,” Dana agreed. “It will be interesting to hear what she tells the detectives.” She brushed a few crumbs from her fingers. “So far, it sounds like the Whitaker College art department has more passion and pathos than the season finale of
Real Housewives
.”

“Oh please . . . those women are so plastic. Their personalities and their body parts . . . I just can’t watch it anymore.” Suzanne crinkled her nose in distaste.

“Did you
ever
really watch it?” Maggie asked in amazement.

Suzanne looked up from her knitting, her face as rosy as her Valentine’s Day project. Everyone waited for her answer.

“I refuse to answer on the grounds it will definitely make
me the butt of too many jokes around here. Don’t I get a phone call?”

Maggie laughed, but also wondered if Sonya Finch was delivering the same line to her interrogators.

But the news had reported that she was cooperating with police, and she did seem the talkative type. Maggie knew for a fact that Detective Reyes could be a very attentive listener.

P
hoebe dreaded returning to her classes on Friday. But she dragged herself out of bed, got dressed, filled her Hello Kitty travel mug with coffee, and headed out.

Just like she’d told Maggie and Professor Finch, she didn’t see how hiding in her apartment was going to help anything. She had meant that, too. Though saying it had been a heck of a lot easier than actually doing it.

As she drove toward school, she knew she couldn’t quite deal with classes yet, seeing her teachers and other students, who would all ask a zillion questions. She decided to compromise with herself by just picking up her assignments and maybe hitting the library for a while.

She’d already fallen behind and had a lot of work to make up. Especially in Professor Finch’s studio course. Even if Finch didn’t show up—which was highly likely—there would be a substitute.

Phoebe knew she couldn’t handle setting up her easel in her usual place and seeing a big blank spot next to her, where
Charlotte always set up, too. Or, worse yet, seeing some insensitive clod move in. As if Charlotte didn’t even exist anymore.

You can cut that class. Finch probably won’t even be there. For one thing, she’ll be too embarrassed to show her face on campus so soon after being dragged away by the police. For another, she might even still be at the station . . . in a jail cell.

That thought was surprising. And possible.

Though it was more likely that the detectives had gone through the same routine they’d used with her, Phoebe thought. Questions for hours, police picking apart her house and office but finally letting her go because they didn’t have enough evidence yet to do more.

Phoebe doubted Professor Finch had been behind the dirty deed. She wasn’t sure why, she just did. Though she didn’t trust her any farther than she could throw her. Which was . . . not at all, come to think of it. That expression was so dumb and meaningless, Phoebe wasn’t even sure why it had popped into her brain. Maggie’s antique way of talking was rubbing off on her . . . not good.

Had people ever walked around picking each other up and heaving them into the air? Was it some sort of bizarre tradition or ritual somewhere? She made a mental sticky to ask her anthropology professor sometime.

The gated entrance of the Whitaker campus came into view. Phoebe turned in and followed the campus road back to the Stimson Art Center. She parked in the lot and grabbed her knapsack, then headed toward the building.

She’d arrived between classes, and the lot and quad were quiet, nearly empty. Perfect timing. Everyone was in class.
She slipped into the building and headed for her locker, just outside the ceramics studio, which was empty, she noticed.

And so was her locker, she realized, as she yanked open the door, which was missing its lock.

She stood there, staring into the empty black space. Then double-checked the number. Even the art postcards and interesting pictures she’d cut from magazines and pasted on the inside of the door were gone. All she saw in their place were wads of old tape.

Where the heck was her stuff? Her big black sketchbooks and pastels, paint box . . . brushes, pencils . . .

The police. They’d been here. They’d gone into Charlotte’s locker, too, Dana had told them all last night. The police had found a pile of money in there . . . but what did they want with her stupid art supplies? That pile of stuff had cost her a small fortune . . . money she didn’t have right now to replace it.

Phoebe kicked the door closed in frustration. Detective Reyes had never shown her a warrant for this. Or if she had, Phoebe didn’t remember. But maybe the college had given permission. It was on their property. And Professor Healey had kept repeating how the college was
cooperating
. He’d repeated the word more times than an episode of
Sesame Street
.

Well, they must have cooperated about giving all my stuff away. Phoebe felt so mad she was shaking. She thought about calling Maggie or Lucy but decided to march into the art department office first and ask Professor Healey about this, before she took the edge off her explosion by venting to her friends.

How dare the police just . . . just grab all her stuff. She had a ton of good artwork in there . . . assignments and everything.
When would she ever get it back? Try
never
 . . . It wasn’t right. Somebody should have at least called her and let her know what was going on.

Phoebe turned the corner in the long corridor and saw the office doors of art department professors and the department’s main office across the hallway.

The main office was empty. The secretary’s desk looked neat and bare, as if no one had been there all morning. But out in the hallway again, she heard Professor Healey’s voice behind the closed door of his office, talking to someone, probably a student.

She decided to wait and snag him when the door opened. He was a pain about seeing students if they had not made an appointment. But this was an emergency. Maybe he could help her get her stuff back.

Just thinking about her empty locker made her upset all over again. The burst of energy she’d felt moments ago suddenly drained away. Phoebe slid down the cool wall and sat on the linoleum, her knees hugged up to her chest.

She suddenly heard another voice in the office, a woman’s voice. It sounded like Professor Finch. She sure had a lot of guts to show up here today.

But it didn’t sound as if Finch was getting any points for good attendance. More like Professor Healey was firing her. Whoops . . . that is a bad hair day.

“How many ways do I have to say it? What part of the word ‘resign’ don’t you understand?” Professor Healey’s voice grew even louder.

“You can’t do this, Healey. I have tenure. I’ll go to Dean Klug . . . I know people on the board of trustees . . . and the union.”

“Klug knows all about it. He’s the one who insisted. Listen, Sonya,” he said in a milder tone, “we go way back. I know how it is. I tried to fight for you . . . but there are grounds here. Even you can’t deny that.”

“Ha! The hell you did. You’re only interested in saving your own neck, Healey. I don’t believe a word of that.”

“All right. Gloves off. Did you really think you could weather this . . . this crap storm you’ve brought on? We simply can’t afford this publicity. Especially the art department. We’re hanging on by a
thread
 . . . A student murdered off campus, another one on the run, wanted by the FBI . . .”

“But how can you blame me? It’s not my fault at all . . . There’s not a shred of evidence against me. If there was, do you think I’d be standing here? I’d be stuck in a jail cell somewhere.”

“That’s just what I mean. This isn’t over, Sonya. Who knows what will happen next? Do we have to turn on the TV and see you escorted to a police car every night of the week?”

“Ha! Very amusing. They’ll be coming for you next,” she warned him. “Ever think of that?”

Phoebe couldn’t hear Professor Healey’s reply. Professor Finch’s loud, brassy laugh, which Phoebe had always liked, drowned him out. This morning Professor Finch sounded like a cackling witch. It gave Phoebe chills.

“This all started with your little pet, Charlotte. Not me,” she goaded him. “I know all about the two of you. I told the police, too. Believe me, I gave them an earful.”

“Told them what? That I’m her adviser? Her mentor? I’d never in my life get involved with a student. And risk my entire career and credibility?”

“Save it, Alex. That line might placate your wife, but it
doesn’t wash with me. I know what goes on in that studio of yours. And if your artwork is any indication of your prowess as a lover, I pity that girl even more.” She laughed again, but this time Phoebe could hear his comeback.

“You are insane. Certifiably. Is this your only defense for your outrageous behavior? Do you think pointing a figure at me is really going to get you out of this mess?”

“The truth will out, Healey. I’m not worried. What about your own behavior? Of course my work wasn’t good enough for this two-bit gallery. You knew it would eclipse your little princess. But she used you, didn’t she? . . . Then dumped you.”

“You’re mad. I’m surprised the police didn’t bring you straight to a mental hospital. Charlotte was . . . is . . . a very talented artist. Yes, she’s young and very . . . attractive. But any attention and support from this department was well deserved.”

“Well deserved? Ha! The fix was in, my friend. Anyone could see that. Hey, it didn’t matter to me if you took the Knit Kats work or not. I was just curious to see if you’d show a little spunk. A little manhood. If you’d color out of the lines for once in your pathetic life.”

“How dare
you
call me pathetic. How about hiding behind a mask and a comic-book identity?
That’s
pathetic. Your dress-up games have cost us plenty. Not just this department . . . the entire college. A tenured professor, in line to be the chair, spends her nights sneaking around in a cat costume. Vandalizing public property . . .”