A Murder in Mohair (18 page)

His tone was half-teasing but half-serious, too. She was eager to reassure him that that was not at all the situation.

“I have to admit, I'm curious. We all are, since we did meet Cassandra and saw how she operates. But I'm happy to leave this one to the police. I already know more than I want to.”

Matt seemed satisfied with that reply. “What do your friends say?” he asked. Lucy had cleared the dishes and served a bowl of ripe strawberries. Matt picked one up and took a bite.

He had such strong, white teeth. She'd always liked that.

“I didn't tell them yet. You're the first to get the scoop.”

“Wow, honey.” He tilted his head and stared at her. “I'm honored. I didn't realize I was on the A-team. Does that mean I have to knit now, too?”

“Silly . . .” She laughed at him and picked out a strawberry for herself. “You're my friend, aren't you? My best friend,” she added.

He smiled and took her hand, the teasing gone from his warm expression. “Of course I am. And you're mine. Among other esteemed titles I hold for you.”

She met his gaze and held it. The perfect moment to bring up that nonchalant “just-wonderin'-where-our-relationship-is-goin'-pal?” conversation. The one her friends had been coaching her on. One friend, in particular.

Lucy sighed. Wasn't the quiet but complete understanding between them enough? It seemed to be all the reassurance she needed.

Or was she just seeing what she wanted to see? And maybe Matt—though clearly perfectly content in the moment—was thinking something entirely different about their future. Wasn't thinking of it at all?

He smiled, his gaze questioning. “Are you okay? Still rattled by talking to that detective?”

Lucy shook her head. “I'm all right.”

She paused. A voice in her head that sounded a lot like Suzanne screamed from the sidelines: “Run for home plate! Run for home plate!”

“There is something I've been wanting to talk about,” she said finally. “Our . . . our relationship.”

He sat up straighter, his expression alert now, though he still kept hold of her hand. “Is this about my house stuff? I know I haven't been taking care of my chores,” he admitted quickly. “I'm sorry. . . .”

They had split up the housework soon after they'd moved in together. Maybe even before that, as one of Lucy's ground rules. Matt wasn't very good about doing his “stuff” and Lucy often covered for him, because he worked such long hours and she was always home.

She slipped her hand away, smiling a moment. “Yes, come to think of it, you haven't been doing your
stuff
. But it's not about that.”

“Oh . . . all right.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, wide-eyed and relaxed, assuming his “just trying to be open and interested” expression.

Set up like a wooden duck at a fair. All you have to do is pull the trigger, a little voice advised.

“I was just wondering . . . would it bother you if I went away for a night or two in July? Suzanne found this house on Plum Island and we want to do a girls' weekend. I just didn't know if you would mind, since you've been working so hard and we haven't really made any vacation plans yet,” she rambled in a nervous rush.

You yellow-bellied, sap-sucking coward . . . you super-fried chicken.

If you get a bicycle for your birthday instead of an engagement ring, that's just what you deserve.

Matt sat back, looking a bit surprised. Then he smiled and shrugged. “Sure. Sounds like fun. What weekend are you thinking of?”

“We thought we'd leave on Friday night, July tenth. The weekend after the Fourth.”

He walked over to the calendar they kept on the refrigerator, marked up with important occasions—invitations and appointments, Dara's weekends, dental visits, and knitting meetings. Of course.

“I guess it will be all right. Dara is coming the weekend of July Fourth and she'll stay for the week. I'm taking her to camp on Saturday the eleventh,” he added.

Dara was signed up to spend two weeks at a very nice sleepover camp on a small, pretty lake in Maine, in a town just over the New Hampshire border.

“Sounds like it works out. What will you do after you drop her off, visit your brother?” Matt's brother Will and his wife, Jen, lived in Maine, not far from the camp. A family visit would give Matt something to do. And he did look a bit glum, as if he didn't like facing a weekend alone.

“That's a good idea. Jeff Solomon asked if I want to go fishing sometime. Maybe I'll call him,” he added, mentioning an old college pal who lived in Boston but had a weekend home nearby, in Ipswich. “He just bought a new boat. A Boston Whaler with a flying bridge; it even has radar to find the fish.”

“Radar? That doesn't seem fair. Doesn't your conscience bother you, taking such a big advantage over a bunch of poor, defenseless flounder? Being a vet and all that? Shouldn't you have more compassion?”

“Flounder aren't running in July. More like those crafty sea bass and cunning swordfish. Did you ever come face-to-face with one? Hardly defenseless. Fish are smarter than you think, Lucy. Don't let those blank stares fool you.” He stared at her, walking closer.

Lucy laughed and stood up. “What is that supposed to be? A fish imitation? Pretty lame.” She covered his eyes with her hand and leaned over and kissed him.

“Not lame at all . . . if I got a kiss out of it,” he said afterward. “There's a reason they call us slippery.”

L
ucy was glad that the Thursday night meeting was at Suzanne's house. She was next on the rotation and was relieved at her narrow escape this week.

She'd been swamped with work the last two days and could have never cleaned and cooked for the meeting in time. As it was, she'd rushed around the house just to make it out by quarter past, then remembered she'd offered to bring dessert, requiring a quick detour to the supermarket for fresh berries and gelato.

She hoped the contribution wasn't too spare but was sure that whatever the dessert lacked in wow power she'd more than make up for with the information she would share about the Gordons and Cassandra Waters.

Walking up Suzanne's driveway, she heard voices in the backyard and knew her friends were already out on the deck behind the rambling old Colonial, a bargain property Suzanne and her husband had snatched up before it had hit the official listings, a run-down wreck at the time with great potential and all the space their big family needed.

Slowly but surely, with patience that most mortals did not possess, they had restored and rebuilt the house to its present glory.

While Suzanne still complained of a few rough edges, even more bathrooms to update, and a basement “perfect for the set of a Harry Potter sequel,” the old house was more or less a masterpiece. Suzanne, however, had recently admitted she'd love to sell the place and trade up for another fixer-upper, in an even better neighborhood. Something with a water view.

Knowing Suzanne, her family had best start packing. Once she homed in on a goal, she was pretty much unstoppable.

Lucy let herself through the gate and found her hostess nearby, wielding giant tongs and a hot mitt—shaped like a lobster—as she cooked on the grill, flipping heads of baby bok choy.

“Sorry I'm late. I stopped to pick up dessert. Just some berries and gelato.”

“Perfect. We were wondering what happened to you. We thought maybe you rode your bike here.”

Lucy ignored the teasing. “I'll put this in the fridge, be right out.”

“Good idea. Grab that pitcher from the freezer, too. Raspberry mojitos. They should be just right.”

Lucy was sure they would be. Suzanne was an awesome cook and Lucy knew the meal would be wonderful—well worth a few teasing remarks from her often outspoken, but beloved, knitting buddy. Suzanne always served the most interesting cocktails, too.

While Suzanne poured the frozen, pale pink drink, Lucy settled in a comfortable seat at the round wrought-iron table. A big green umbrella was open above, not needed, of course, at night, but creating a cozy space together with small lanterns hanging from the spokes for extra light and an array of candles glowing on the table.

She greeted her friends—everyone but Phoebe, who Maggie happily reported was on a last-minute date with a guy she'd met recently at a craft fair. He was a potter and Phoebe thought his work unique and very inspired. Lucy thought the match sounded promising.

Her friends had already blazed a path into the appetizers—a platter of fresh mozzarella, tomato, and basil, she noticed as she pulled out her knitting and eyed the selections.

“How's your tote coming?” Maggie peered over at Lucy's project.

“Really good. I decided to enlarge the pattern, and use a mix of yarns. I'm almost halfway done.” Lucy held up the patch she'd completed so far and showed them her progress.

Instead of using the yarn suggested, or even some self-striping, she'd mixed a selection of odds and ends from her stash, connecting them together as needed. The different colors, fibers, and weights were creating a very colorful and textural effect, she thought. One of her best projects so far.

“Wow . . . that's really stylish. I love it.” Dana leaned in for a closer look. “So creative, too.”

“I'm just having fun with it. I might give it to my mom as a belated birthday gift. She's still on her trip but should be back in August,” Lucy told her friends.

“Oh? I thought she was coming to visit sooner . . . like around your birthday,” Suzanne said.

“That was her plan but I just got an e-mail this week. Some of her interviews and travel plans were delayed. So she had to extend her stay.”

“That's too bad. But August isn't that far,” Maggie said. “Julie will be back for a visit then, too.” Maggie smiled at the mere thought of a visit with her daughter, who was in Barcelona most of the summer on an internship.

“How does she like living in Spain?” Dana asked.

“She loves it. Who wouldn't? She wants to move there permanently someday, she says.” Maggie shrugged with a helpless smile. Lucy knew her friend would not be happy if her only child decided to live so far away. But Maggie was not the type to interfere, or try to make Julie feel guilty for her choices.

“She has plenty of time to figure it out. She still has one more year of school, doesn't she?” Lucy said.

Maggie nodded. “Yes, she does. Plenty of ball game left and a lot can change. And you have plenty of time to make another tote for yourself by the time your mother comes in August,” she added. “I'd love to use this one in my window when you're done. The class is so successful, I'm going to offer it again in September. Your bag will be good advertising for me.”

“My work, in the shop's window? Maggie . . . I'm honored.” Lucy was half teasing her and half totally honest, beaming with pride. She sat up a little higher in her chair.

“That is a gold star. You never ask to show off my projects.” Suzanne sounded pouty, her competitive side showing.

“You need to finish something first,” Maggie murmured in return. “Then we'll talk.”

Suzanne was a slow, unfocused knitter and a messy one. They all knew that. But she loved the therapy of just stitching and chatting to her friends. It didn't seem to matter if she ever produced anything usable.

“We each have our own style. No need to judge,” Dana said, playing referee. She turned back to Lucy's bag. “I love the way you blended the colors, all in the same palette. Good planning.”

Lucy had chosen mostly blues and purples, sprinkling in a few strands of yellow and hot pink here and there for a little pop.

“I had a lot of blue and purple bits in my stash, I guess. It's sort of my color.” She looked over her work a moment and then back at her friends. “I have to admit, all I can think of now when I see certain shades of purple is Cassandra Waters.”

“I know what you mean. I was thinking the same thing. Those are the only colors she ever wore. But I didn't want to say,” Suzanne admitted.

Maggie's head popped up. She looked straight at Lucy. “That reminds me, what happened at your interview? You were going to let me know. Then you said you'd wait until we were all together.”

“Did you tell them that you saw Richard and Cassandra together that night when you walked the dogs?” Suzanne asked.

Lucy took a sip of her cocktail, which was not too sweet but very strong. She needed some fortification for this conversation.

“Yes, I did. But before that, I had felt guilty, for some strange reason, at the thought of telling the police about that without telling Richard first. I didn't want him to think I had accused him of anything.”

Her friends all nodded with understanding. “I know, it was weighing on your mind. You were in a tricky spot,” Maggie agreed.

“So, pretty much on impulse, I stopped at the Gilded Age on Tuesday morning. After I left your shop, Maggie. Nora wasn't there. Richard said that she was still too upset to come to work. But I ended up having a long talk with Richard.”