A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) (24 page)

Are we done here? she wanted to ask. But she wouldn’t dare. She stared into his cold blue eyes. He looked like a deranged husky dog . . . except for the stiff strip of hair sticking up on his head. A crystal stud earring in one ear glinted in the darkness and a multicolored tattoo curled up his neck. She couldn’t tell what it said. She realized she didn’t want to know.

“So . . . did you follow me here or something?” she ventured to ask.

Thick brows knit together. “I came here for the same reason you did. To feed the cats. Catching up to you was just a lucky break.”

Yeah, my lucky day, too, Phoebe thought.

“Nice,” she managed. “Charlotte’s probably wondering if anybody’s watching them.”

“I thought so, too.” He stared at her, as if wondering if
she was making fun of him or not. She hoped he decided the latter.

She took a breath and decided to make her move. His mood could flip any second.

“So . . . can you let me up now? . . . I’m like morphing into an ice pop.”

He didn’t seem to hear her at first. Just stared down into her face, his expression angry, scared, lonely, crazy, and desperate all at once. She wondered if he only felt control of his own feelings when he had someone else under control.

Finally, he took his arm away and she was able to sit up.

She gasped and rubbed her face with her hands. She wanted to cry but didn’t want to waste a single second getting away from Quentin. Save it for the car, Phoebe, she told herself.

Quentin had already stood up and extended his hand down to her.

She looked at it but didn’t make a move to touch him again.

“Go on. I’ll pull you up. You just said your legs are numb.” Before she could answer, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.

Phoebe wobbled from side to side and grabbed the edge of the table.

“Need help getting back to your car?”

“Seriously? . . . You want to
help
me to my car? After you nearly squeezed the living juice out of me?”

He shrugged, looking a tiny bit sheepish. “Hey . . . you’re all right, aren’t you? If you’d just talked to me the other day, I wouldn’t have had to grab you like that. It’s your own fault,” he added.

“Right . . . you nearly maim me for life, and it’s my fault?” The guy has more twists than a hot pretzel. Phoebe knew it
was totally stupid to stand here arguing with him. But she was so enraged, she couldn’t help it.

“Hey . . . if I wanted to put a hurt on you, Phoebe, I could have done better than that.”

“Yeah . . . well . . . you need help, Quentin. Seriously.” She mumbled the parting advice, half hoping he didn’t hear.

“Hey, I heard that! You just remember, I’ll know if you don’t keep your promise and tell the cops what I told you to say. As far as anybody needs to know, we just had a nice little talk back here. If you complain to anybody about me, I won’t go so easy the next time . . . You hear me?”

Phoebe ached all over but managed to run the last few steps to her car. A wave of nausea rose up, nearly overtaking her.

She slipped behind the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and flipped the lock switch. She looked back at the yard, to make sure Quentin had not chased her. He was still standing there, by the picnic table.

Then she saw all the unopened cans of cat food that had spilled out of the bags, the shiny tops of the cans catching the light.

Phoebe sighed, feeling frustrated. All that food. It would do no good now. Cats did not have opposable thumbs . . . possibly the only reason their kind did not rule the universe. But no way was she going back out there. That was for sure.

But Quentin had noticed, too, and started picking up the cans, opening them, and carefully setting them out around the yard. A cat appeared and started eating. He crouched down and gently petted its head.

Wow, was he bizarre. Her mind could not contain the extent of his weirdness.

She started up her car, wincing at the aches and pains as she backed out of the driveway. Maggie was probably worried about her now.

Worse yet, she’ll freak out when hears this story, Phoebe realized. But I have to tell her . . . and tell Detective Reyes what Quentin said, too.

*  *  *

Phoebe was almost afraid to ring Maggie’s doorbell. She had even considered going back to her apartment and making some excuse about deciding to sleep in her own apartment tonight.

The truth was, Quentin had caught up to her, and she was positive he wouldn’t bother again. Not tonight anyway. He’d had his fun, she thought, as she rubbed her aching wrist.

But Maggie saw her from the living room window and came to the door before she could sneak away. “What happened to you? I tried your cell . . . and your jacket’s covered with dirt. So are your jeans.” Maggie looked her over, her mouth hanging slack.

Phoebe shook her head. She unzipped her black parka and winced a bit, turning her arm to get it off.

“Phoebe . . . you’re hurt. Did you have an accident?” Maggie quickly glanced outside at Phoebe’s car as she closed the door. “Did you fall down somewhere?”

“Yeah, I fell . . . well, I was pushed down actually. I stopped at Charlotte’s house. To feed her cats. And I ran into Quentin.”

“Quentin?” Maggie practically gasped repeating his name. She stood closer to Phoebe, facing her squarely. “I knew he was going to bother you . . . Did he follow you there?”

“He says he didn’t. He said he came to feed the cats, too . . .
Maggie, he has this wild theory that Charlotte is being hunted down by some sleazy attorney from that law firm where she did proofreading . . . and he wants me to tell the police that she said that to me. Because he tried to tell them, and he says they just blew him off.”

Maggie gently touched her arm. “Slow down, I don’t understand . . . Did he hurt you?”

Phoebe realized she sounded a little hysterical. A lot hysterical, actually.

She took a breath and shook her head. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Scared me . . . a lot,” she managed. “I ran when I saw him. But he caught me and pushed me down . . . and sort of made me listen to him.”

Maggie’s expression melted. Phoebe saw her friend’s chin tremble. “You poor thing . . . He must have terrified you.”

“He’s insane. You have no idea. I was stuck on the frozen ground for like forever while he spun these bizarre theories about Charlotte . . . and told me they were soul mates. Can you believe that insanity? I’m so cold, I’ve got like goose bumps on my goose bumps.”

Maggie turned Phoebe gently toward the staircase. “You go up and take a long, hot shower and put on some dry clothes. Pajamas would be a good idea at this point. Did you bring everything you need?”

Phoebe nodded and picked up her knapsack. “Right here.”

“Good. I’ll fix some tea and you can tell me the whole story. When you’re ready.”

Phoebe nodded thankfully. She slung the knapsack over her shoulder and headed up to the guest room. Maggie watched her from the foot of the stairs. Halfway up, Phoebe paused.

“Are we still having waffles?”

“Absolutely. The batter is all ready.”

Phoebe sighed. For some reason, that made her feel a whole lot better.

*  *  *

A short time later, Phoebe sat at the table in Maggie’s cozy kitchen, wearing flannel pajamas printed with penguins and thick fuzzy slipper socks she’d knit for herself. She’d forgotten her robe, but Maggie had given her a soft white afghan.

Comfortably wrapped, she sipped a cup of chamomile tea, described her encounter with Quentin in full detail, and explained his wild theory while Maggie made their waffles.

“It sounds like he’s seen too many evil-lawyer conspiracy movies. You know, the ones where all the witnesses die in mysterious accidents? He’s so screwed up. No wonder the police didn’t take him seriously,” Phoebe concluded.

“Well, we don’t know that for sure. Maybe the police did follow up on the lead, but nothing came of it.” Maggie set a pot of hot tea on the table and took her seat.

Phoebe smashed a few banana slices on her waffle with her fork and sprinkled on some cinnamon. “Maybe . . . but I was thinking in the shower, what if it
is
true? It sort of explains a few things, like why Charlotte had all that money. If this evil lawyer was close to Charlotte, he could have known she was a Knit Kat and figured that was a good direction to throw the blame.”

“All right, I’ll buy that. But if he was close to Charlotte, he would have known it wasn’t her, it was Beth.”

“These guys don’t get down and dirty, Mag. They call Creeps for Hire and find some sleazeball who just sees a
picture of the person he’s supposed to kill, in a dark bar or an underground parking garage. Someplace like that.”

“Now it sounds like you’ve seen too many of those movies.” Maggie speared a bite of waffle with her fork. “So you think Quentin is on to something and the police didn’t listen to him? I guess that could be true. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

“In his case, a broken cuckoo clock. I’m going to tell Detective Reyes what he said. I’m just not going to lie and say
Charlotte
told me all that stuff and I just remembered. I don’t want to get in any more trouble, either.”

“Good point, and good plan. But what about filing a complaint against Quentin? He twisted your arm, pushed you to the ground, held his hand over your face. I bet you have bruises . . . do you?”

Phoebe twisted her mouth to the side, a dumb habit she had when she didn’t want to answer. “Not really. Just a few red spots. They’re going away.”

“Phoebe . . . I know you’re afraid of him. But I think you have to report this. Even if you don’t press charges, the police will have a talk with him. He can’t walk around thinking he can behave like that and get away with it.”

“I know . . . but I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’ll ask Detective Reyes and see what she says I should do. I’ll call her right after we eat, okay?”

Maggie nodded. “Fair enough. Do you want another waffle?” she asked, noticing Phoebe’s empty plate.

“Yes, please . . . that was really good. Thanks.”

Maggie glanced at her as she walked back to the waffle maker. “I haven’t made these in a while. I think they came out pretty good.”

“Pretty good? These waffles are awesome . . . and thanks for making me come here tonight. I would have been a total mess alone at home. You must be psychic or something.”

Maggie laughed. “Probably just ‘or something.’ But I have my moments.”

After their wafflefest, Phoebe followed through on her plan and called Detective Reyes. She told her Quentin’s theory about the mysterious ex-boyfriend, an evil lawyer who was out to get Charlotte for some unknown reason. It sounded even wilder and more deranged when she was repeating it to a law officer than Phoebe had imagined.

To her credit, Detective Reyes listened patiently and didn’t laugh out loud. “I believe he told us something like that during his interview. I believe someone followed up. I’ll look back in my notes and check.”

Phoebe thanked her, then told her about the way Quentin had persuaded her to deliver his message and asked her advice about filing a complaint.

“Did he have a weapon?” she asked quickly.

“No . . . it wasn’t like that. He just sort of tackled me and held his hand over my mouth a while.”

“He assaulted you,” Detective Reyes said succinctly. “And I’m sure he threatened you. Said if you told us how he cornered you, he’d come after you again, right?”

“Something like that,” Phoebe mumbled.

“Phoebe, just the fact that you’ve told me this gives us grounds to investigate. If he did that to you, he’ll do it again. To someone else. Another woman. The Quentins of the world never take on anyone who can fight back and win.”

Phoebe knew that was true but was still trying to weigh
the pros and cons. “I hear you. But I mean, there were no witnesses. It’s just going to be like my word against his. And even if I file a complaint, is that really going to stop him? It could make life a lot worse for me.”

Detective Reyes sounded suddenly weary. “I know you’re scared. But I encourage you to come here tomorrow and report this officially. You don’t have to press charges. You can wait on that, or never do it. But we have more reason to keep an eye on Quentin Gibbs and, possibly, lock him up the next time if there is more documentation of his bad behavior.” When Phoebe didn’t answer, she added, “There’s going to be a next time, Phoebe. The next woman might not be as lucky as you were.”

Phoebe knew that was true. She felt as if she’d had a brush with mortality today. “All right. I’ll do it. What do you think of his idea, though, really?”

She didn’t expect Detective Reyes to answer. She was the original zipper lip. But she thought she’d give it a try.

“We can’t discount anything. But there have been some new developments in the case that lead in another direction.”

“Really? What kind of developments?”

Detective Reyes laughed. How rare was that?

“I can’t tell you that, Phoebe. But you might want to watch the news tonight. I think that will answer some of your questions.”

After they hung up, Phoebe ran down to the family room, where Maggie was knitting. The television was on, the channel set to a quiz show. Phoebe bet Maggie knew all the answers. Or most of them.

“Oh, there you are.” Maggie put her knitting down and put the set on mute. “So how did it go? Did you talk to Detective Reyes?”

“Yes, I told her everything. I’m going to file a report about Quentin’s conversation skills. She convinced me it was the right thing to do.”

“I think it is, too,” Maggie agreed. “Did she seem interested in that evil-attorney idea?”

“Not really.” Phoebe flopped on the couch. “She said there were new developments in the case and we should watch the news tonight.”

“Oh . . . that’s important. Why didn’t you say something?” Maggie picked up the remote and quickly changed the channel to
News Alive 25!
It had become her favorite program, Phoebe realized.

“A three-car pileup on Route 1A today left passengers with only minor injuries, but made the rush-hour commute a real headache,”
the news anchor said. There was an aerial photo of a car accident.