A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) (3 page)

Chelsea nodded. Maggie could tell she was doing well.

“Do you have any idea who could have done this? Or why?”

“Well . . . that’s a good question. This knitting is high-quality work, no doubt,” Maggie answered vaguely. She hesitated to continue. She wasn’t sure why. She’d so freely given her opinion on that very same query moments ago.

“And you are an expert on that topic,” Chelsea prodded her.

“I know something about knitting. You might say that,” Maggie agreed warily.

“So . . . who done it, Maggie? Any knitters you know?”

Chelsea’s tone was half joking. But a tingle of apprehension crept up across Maggie’s skin, like a tiny insect that had somehow gotten under her sweater. She crossed her arms over her chest. Chelsea was staring at her, nodding in encouragement. Was she worried about the Knit Kats? Afraid there might be some sort of retribution if she mentioned them by name to this reporter? If the young woman did two minutes of research on the Internet, she was bound to arrive at the same conclusion.

“I do have a guess,” Maggie said, finding her voice again. “There’s a group of knitting graffiti artists active in this area. Around Boston and out here in Essex County. They call themselves the Knit Kats. It may have been them,” she said, hoping to sound as if she were putting forth one possibility of many. When, as far as she knew, there were no others.

“The Knit Kats,” Chelsea repeated. “What were their motives? Why would they do this?”

“Installing parking meters on this street created quite a controversy in town. Many people think they’re unnecessary and a nuisance. Especially the shopkeepers,” she added. “Perhaps the Knit Kats are trying to protest by mocking the meters?”

“Mocking the meters, of course,” Chelsea echoed. Maggie could tell she liked the turn of phrase. “Can our viewers find out more about this group of outlaw knitters?”

“Oh, yes, the Knit Kats have a website. It’s all there for anyone to see. Though their identities are secret. They each have a pseudonym and wear masks and makeup in their photos. That sort of thing.”

“Fake names? Masks and makeup? Sounds a little . . . extreme.”

The young woman was trying to build this up, make it more newsworthy than perhaps it really was.

“I think it’s all very harmless. They display their work in public to amuse and entertain. To make a social comment. In a clever way. They’ve covered telephone booths, taxis, school buses. On the Fourth of July one year they went into Boston and covered all the statues of colonial patriots—George Washington, Paul Revere, and Samuel Adams. Red, white, and blue yarns, of course.”

“Of course.” Chelsea nodded, looking pleased. Maggie could tell that was all the information she needed. More than she needed, probably. The reporter turned to the camera, her long hair whipping perilously close to Maggie’s cheek.

Her voice was suddenly deeper. “That’s the story from Main Street, Plum Harbor, on this mysterious and odd incident of vandalism. This is Chelsea Porter . . . for
News Alive . . . 25!
”

“Great, Chelsea. Cut,” the cameraman called out.

“How was that? Want to take it again?”

“We’re good,” he answered. “Let’s get another long shot of the street. Then a few close-ups on the cat faces.”

Chelsea turned and offered Maggie her hand. “Thanks again, Maggie. You were great.”

“Thank you, Chelsea,” Maggie said politely. “You were . . . super,” she added with a small smile.

A few minutes later, Maggie and Lucy were safely inside the shop, sipping coffee at the long oak table used for classes and group work. Maggie still felt a bit shaken.

Lucy’s dogs were tied on the porch, and she sat across
from Maggie with her coat still on. She worked at home, as a graphic artist, but still had to be at her desk by nine.

“I can’t wait to see the segment. You should tape it, and we’ll watch it tonight. At the meeting.”

Maggie wasn’t nearly as eager to see herself interviewed. “I’ll ask Phoebe to set her DVR. But I’m going to look just awful. I didn’t have on a drop of makeup, and I really should have washed my hair last night.”

“You look fine. Don’t be silly. I hope she mentions the shop. These things get trimmed down to a few seconds. A tiny sound bite.”

“Let’s just hope so.” Maggie had already begun setting out the needles and yarn for the sock class, which was due to start at half past nine. “You’d think if a reporter was sent on an assignment like this, they would do a little research beforehand. She didn’t seem to have a clue about the Knit Kats.”

“She didn’t. But you filled her in nicely. I think those mobile units just drive all day and producers back at the network tell them where to go. The reporters don’t have much time for research unless it’s a big story.”

“Knitted cat faces on parking meters is not exactly a world crisis, I agree.” Maggie counted out the pairs of needles she would need and copies of the pattern. A former art teacher, she was organized and detail-minded.

“No, not a crisis. Amusing, though,” Lucy granted the group.

“Definitely. And true to the Knit Kats’ style. Though I didn’t mean to accuse them without any proof.”

“You didn’t sound like that,” Lucy assured her. “Who else
could it be? A copycat knitting graffiti group? Could there be such a thing?”

Maggie glanced up at her mirthful tone. She could tell Lucy was hoping she’d notice her silly pun.

“Very funny. Yes, they might call themselves the Copy Cats.”

“But spell it with
K
s.” Lucy sipped her coffee, watching Maggie sort out some balls of yarn the weight and color required by the pattern she was using to start off the group.

Maggie arranged the yarn in a basket and set it in the middle of the table. She never tired of looking at yarn, the varied colors and textures. Lucky for me, she thought. I’m surrounded by it all day.

“Well, I just might search the Internet for the Kopy Kats later today, when I have a spare minute,” Maggie teased her friend. “Perhaps a new group has sprung up.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Maybe we should start one here.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Maggie said quickly. “That’s the sort of publicity I don’t need. But I do think that reporter should have more of a sense of humor about it. She seemed to be portraying the prank and the entire group in a sinister light. I think it’s all in good fun. It’s good to give people a jolt from their everyday routines. Make them think outside the box. I don’t see any harm in it.”

“Any harm in what?” Phoebe stood in the doorway of the storeroom. They hadn’t heard her come downstairs, Maggie realized. She looked as if she’d pulled on her outfit in a hurry, a huge, loose sweater and tight black jeans. Her long dark hair, with its distinctive pink streak, was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her large eyes were unusually makeup-free.

She came toward them, a big mug of coffee in one hand tilting at a perilous angle.

“Take a look outside. You won’t believe it,” Lucy promised.

“If the town hasn’t taken them down by now,” Maggie added.

“What are you guys talking about?” Phoebe trotted to the front of the shop and looked out the window. Lucy’s dogs jumped up, barking and wagging their tails.

But Phoebe had no interest in her canine friends this morning. She leaned against the glass, looking up and down the street, then headed to the door.

“Wow . . . it looks awesome . . . Be right back,” she called over her shoulder as she ran outside.

“Oh good. They’re still there. I didn’t want her to miss it. But I didn’t want to wake her up, either. You know how she can get.” Maggie rolled her eyes.

“Wise choice.” Lucy nodded sagely.

Phoebe returned a few moments later with her phone in hand. Maggie guessed she’d taken pictures, too. “That is so amazingly cool. I can’t believe it. I’m going to post it on Facebook and Instagram.”

Maggie nodded, though she wasn’t sure what all of that meant. Phoebe often urged her to join the twenty-first century and learn the basics of social networking. So far, the most Maggie had managed was to put up a simple website for the knitting shop. She’d glanced at Facebook . . . but couldn’t see the point. She was a friendly person, quite social in real life. But she really didn’t need to read a running stream of personal information and thoughts from myriad personalities. The many photos of children and vacations e-mailed to her by her friends more than filled that quota.

“Some TV newspeople were here. They interviewed Maggie,” Lucy told Phoebe.

“They did? Why didn’t you guys wake me up?”

Maggie shrugged. “I thought you got in late last night and needed some extra sleep.”

Phoebe looked flustered and shook her head. “I did get home late . . . but I would have gotten up for that, Mag.”

“That’s sweet. But it wasn’t much. Honestly. Lucy provided plenty of support . . . pushing me into the spotlight.” Maggie gave her other friend a look.

“She tried to wriggle out of it. But the reporter was pretty tenacious.”

“In a cheerleader-ish way,” Maggie clarified.

“Maggie was very good,” Lucy added.

“ ‘Super,’ I think, is the correct term. I guess we’ll see tonight,” Maggie said. “Could you set your DVR, Phoebe, so we can watch it at the meeting?”

“Already thought of that. What was the interview like?” Phoebe asked eagerly.

“She just wanted my reactions. A person-on-the-street sort of thing.”

“A knitting expert on the street, you mean,” Lucy corrected. “She asked Maggie who she thought was responsible. Maggie said the Knit Kats. Then had to explain because the reporter didn’t know there was such a thing as knitting graffiti.”

“Many people don’t know that. Even a lot of knitters,” Maggie pointed out.

“Maybe they’ve posted a message on their website about it. Don’t they usually do that after they strike?” Lucy asked.

“That would make sense . . . I’m really not sure.”

“Let’s check and see.” Lucy opened Maggie’s laptop, which was sitting on the table, and began typing. “Do you follow the Knit Kats, Phoebe?” she asked as she searched for the site.

“Not really . . . I mean, I know who they are. I’ve heard of them.” Phoebe shrugged and sipped from her mug. Maggie noticed that she had on fingerless gloves, white with little pink skulls stitched on top. She smoothed a cuff over her thin wrist.

“Ah . . . here’s the home page.” Lucy smiled and sat back, pushing the laptop to the middle of the table so they all could see. “You were right, Mag. Here’s a photo of the meters and a comment: ‘Pesky parking meters in Plum Harbor got your fur up? Here’s one solution. Purr-fect, right?’ ”

Maggie leaned over Lucy’s shoulder to get a better look. “Interesting. They don’t take responsibility outright,” Maggie noticed. “They say, ‘Here’s one solution.’ Not ‘our’ solution.”

Lucy looked back at the screen. “Good point. But it’s obviously their handiwork. Otherwise, how could they get the photos up so quickly? We live here and we just noticed it.”

Maggie had to agree. “Very true. At least I didn’t lead the media astray.”

The photo on the Knit Kats home page showed the scene right outside the shop door and then a close-up of one of the cat faces. Maggie couldn’t put her finger on why it wasn’t
exactly
cute.

A little ominous-looking, weren’t they? Or was she projecting something onto it? Maggie wasn’t quite sure.

Lucy looked back at the screen and scrolled down to read more. “It says over fifty meters have been covered. That’s a lot of knitted cat heads.”

“And ears, eyes, and whiskers,” Phoebe noted.

Maggie glanced at her. “It was a while in the planning, no doubt. Good work, too. At least the piece I looked at. They’re quite skillful. I was impressed.”

“Maybe you should leave a comment on the site. Tell the Knit Kats how impressed you are,” Phoebe suggested.

“Oh, you know I don’t go in for any of that Internet stuff. You leave a comment if you like.”

“How many Knit Kats are there?” Lucy peered at the screen. “I forget.” She scanned the screen again. “I think there’s a page with the members on here somewhere.”

But before Lucy could find the right tab, Maggie noticed the time. She’d spent enough of the morning on knitting graffiti. Time to get going with the real thing.

“My students will be here soon. I’d better unlock the door and turn the sign. We can look at that later.”

“I’ll go.” Phoebe picked up her mug and headed for the door. “Is the sock class starting today?”

“At half past nine. We still have a few minutes to get our act together. I hope you’ll sit in and show them some examples of your work, Phoebe. To inspire the novices,” she added.

Socks were Phoebe’s specialty. She had a vast collection, many her original designs. It was Phoebe’s obsession that had given Maggie the idea for the class. She’d hoped Phoebe would teach it, or at least co-teach with her. But her assistant did not feel comfortable in that role. Yet.

Under her flaky Goth-girl exterior, Phoebe was very bright and extremely creative. But she did lack self-confidence and self-esteem. Maggie had seen it countless times
as a high school teacher. It all went back to the family, or the lack of one. Phoebe unfortunately fell into the latter category.

Maggie had known Phoebe for more than two years and had watched her shed some of her shyness and attitude. She hoped her encouragement and friendship—and the affection of their knitting friends—had helped in that direction, and would help more, as time went on.

“Okay. I’ll do a star turn in your sock class, Mags. Let me see what I have upstairs to show . . . Do sock puppets count?”

Maggie looked up at her. She’d never thought of that. “Well . . . maybe. But let’s bring them in at the end. I’d love to start off with that purple pair you made last week. With the self-striping yarn and the fringe? But maybe you gave those to Josh,” Maggie recalled.

“No way. That pair is classic. I’m keeping them for myself. I just blocked them the other day. I’ll see if they’re dry.” Phoebe grabbed her coffee mug and headed for her apartment.

“I’d better get going, too.” Lucy stood up and closed the laptop. “Can’t wait to see you on TV tonight.”