Last Wool and Testament: A Haunted Yarn Shop Mystery (24 page)

“But the body wasn’t part of the crime scene, Ardis, and I don’t think they expect to catch the bad guy, anyway, so they probably didn’t waste their powder.”

“Or Shorty cleaned up after himself,” Clod said with a prissy sniff. “You might still find some in the bedroom at the entry point, if you’re itching to see some. But you’re right.” His sniff turned to a snort of frustration or maybe disgust. “You heard Homer’s question. How many crimes of opportunity are ever solved? Not many, and solving any of them takes as much luck as it takes anything else.”

“So why are you here, then? Why bother going through the house again after Shorty’s been through it? If you’re not interested in the small stuff?”

“I’m not
not
interested.” He stopped and muttered something to himself. Maybe something rude, judging by the clenching of his left fist.

“Are you left-handed?”

He looked at his fist, then at me. “What’s that got to do with anything? You got a problem with that?”

“No, just a point of interest. I know several families where oldest children are left-handed and you’re an oldest child, aren’t you?”

He narrowed his eyes. I pressed on.

“Is Shorty left-handed?”

Deflected from whatever thought lay behind the narrowed eyes, he looked at his hands, having to think about that part of his answer. “No, he’s not.” The rest of his answer rolled out without any trouble. “And you know, as a point of interest, this isn’t all that interesting. Can we move on?”

I stayed put. “Did you open the left-hand door in the sideboard?”

“No. Why? Oh, I get it. You think because the left-hand door was opened, the burglar is left-handed. That’s
a fine theory. Another one is that the burglar opened both doors to see inside better and it doesn’t matter if he was left- or right-handed.”

Rats. He was right.

“Not a bad theory, though.” He said that without a hint of gloat, but he clearly did not know when he was far enough ahead so he could quit. “Not bad, as far as amateur theories go, anyway. Just see if you can’t tone down your inner Nancy Drew, and we’ll be fine and this thing will go faster. Trust me on that. A whole lot faster.”

“Or, if you’re in such a flipping hurry, we can skip it altogether.” I closed my eyes and scrubbed my forehead with my fingertips. “Sorry”

“That’s all right, Ms. Rutledge. No doubt you’re feeling overwrought again. But believe me when I say I do understand the effects of stress.”

He didn’t understand the effects of condescension, but the bit of steam I’d just blown off helped and I was able to acknowledge his words with only minor jaw clenching.

“And you already know why we’re here,” he said, “and why we’re not going to skip it. But let me see if I can clarify it for you.”

Let me try not to groan. He cocked his left hand on his hip and held his right hand out, ready to illustrate his clarification. I’d seen that posture before, adopted by male colleagues and administrators. It was a clear warning of an impending “male-pattern lecture.”

“This isn’t your normal break-in,” Clod said. “The smashed window is something a kid might do. But this wasn’t kids out for the fun of messing up an empty house. Likewise, this wasn’t someone looking for a quick grab, because none of the things we’d expect to be missing, like expensive cameras, are missing. But there might be other things missing, little things that only you would know about, and
knowing what they are might tell us something. Knowing what they are could help us answer the bigger question of who did this.”

“In other words, small stuff adding up. So”—I gave him an overly large smile he could interpret as he liked—“as you said several minutes ago, let’s move on.”

He repaid my smile with a sour look. “Small stuff, yes, Ms. Rutledge, but not rearranged cookbooks and a lack of cat food.”

I wondered about his lack of imagination. Was it a prerequisite for police work in Blue Plum? Or was it something that kept him from advancing in the ranks or joining a less-provincial police force? I turned my back on Clod, angry at myself for thinking of Blue Plum in such a poor light. Olga, Granny’s massive antique floor loom, waited in the next room and I went to see my old friend.

“Olga’s known a lot of weavers,” Ardis said. “I bet she thought Ivy was something special, though.”

“Olga?” Clod asked.

“The loom.”

I heard him snort but kept a rein on my temper and my back to him, pretending to concentrate on the contents of the room. How would he react if I told him I knew about the other amateur theory floating around, the one involving his brother and blackmail? Would he dismiss it the way he dismissed someone taking the memory cards from Granny’s cameras or pawing through her books? Could I even tell if someone had pawed through all her books? Why would anyone do that? Who would have the time?

There were books everywhere, in every room. Books on weaving, spinning, dyeing, dye plants, wildflowers, ethnic art, fossils, birds. There were favorite mysteries, Grandfather’s woodworking books, back issues of fiber art and needlework magazines, books about travel to places she’d never been. I ran my finger along the shelves
of the bookcases standing beside and behind Olga. These were mostly books on the history and natural history of Tennessee and maps and guides to hiking trails in the southern Appalachians. Granny loved everything about this part of the world.

My finger followed along in the trail someone else’s finger had made in the faint layer of new dust on the shelves. But whose finger and looking for what?

Chapter 24

“H
as someone been slithering around looking for Granny’s secrets?” I asked a book I pulled from the shelf. “But who would know she had them?” At least two people—Joe, who claimed he wasn’t the kind of burglar who broke in to get in, and Emmett, the alleged blackmailer who left his estate to Max. Which brought me to Max—the guy who left me a dunning letter that said Granny had owed him and now I did. I’d given the letter to Homer, so I couldn’t refer to it, but the wording, at least in my memory, was sounding less laid-back and more cryptic. Tending toward menacing. If he’d gotten in touch with me, had he planned to collect what Granny owed and then tell me I owed more to keep her secret? But if Max already had the secrets Emmett collected, then who broke in? Who searched Granny’s recipes? Who took the memory cards? Or was I getting paranoid? I, the newly haunted, wasn’t necessarily the best person to judge that, unfortunately.

Ardis pushed her way behind Olga, a good squeeze for both of them, and over to stand beside me. “What are you mumbling about over here?” she whispered.

“Spies.”

She raised her eyebrows and made a surreptitious gesture toward Clod, still behind us. I returned a barely perceptible shrug and a noncommittal sound. She nodded.

“Leave it to me,” she whispered. Then she looked over her shoulder, over the top of Olga toward Clod, and spoke at normal volume. “I can’t imagine you have room for Olga in your apartment, unless you plan to sling a hammock between her beams and get rid of your bed. What are your plans? Sell her?”

“No, Ardis,” I said, looking over my own shoulder, as though sizing up Olga. “I’ll put Olga and the other looms in storage with all the rest of Granny’s things. How many trucks do you think it will take?” My contribution to the subterfuge was clunky compared to Ardis’ performance, but she was kind about it when she swiveled back to face the bookcase with me.

“That’s good, honey. He won’t be able to help himself. Calculating truck loads ought to distract him for at least a minute or two. Now, what’s this about spies?”

“I think someone’s looking for something Granny wrote down or recorded in some way. Information, maybe.”

“About what?”

“I’m not sure,” I lied. And now I wasn’t sure I should have said anything, even to her.

Ardis studied my face and nodded. “You need more practice at that, but I understand. Spies and lies. They go together like bad peas in a pod. You tell me when you’re ready or when you can.”

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Clod asked.

“Storage for the looms,” I called.

“There you are—that’s better,” Ardis whispered. “Now, watch this.” She turned her head and turned up the volume again. “And we were discussing the pain of shingles. It’s quite singular and can be mortifying, depending on where you find them. If you’re interested, please feel free to join us.”

“Please feel free to join me in finishing what we came to do,” Clod said.

“He’s right, Ardis.” I moved back around Olga into the middle of the room. “You’re right, Deputy. You warned me about turning this into a nostalgia tour and I didn’t realize how hard it would be not to. I appreciate your patience and I’ll make a better effort to move along more quickly.”

He looked gratified and not the least bit suspicious, another indication that he lacked imagination. He could hardly miss the change in Ardis. She might be the better liar, but her face was suddenly alight with the possibilities of spies and unspoken clues. Maybe Clod thought that was the shingles, though. Or maybe his starched poker face had a few tricks up its own sleeve.

“I don’t think anything’s missing from this room.”

“No TV?” Clod asked.

I looked around at the general lack of space for a TV. His eyes followed mine, taking in the kilim on the floor (worn), the bookcases (no two alike), the comfortable chairs (covered with cat fur) facing each other from either side of the front window the Spiveys had suggested they jimmy two days before. Clod’s mind was probably busy assigning a different range of adjectives to the furnishings, a range that didn’t include “cozy” or “well-loved.” My mind was busy picturing Shirley and Mercy heaving a brick through Granny’s bedroom window and hoisting each other through. The image didn’t quite work, neither of the twins looking hoistable or boostable. But as in so many situations in life, it was the thought that counted and I added that thought to the others I was collecting about sneak thieves, spies, and lies.

“There should be a small TV in the bedroom,” I said.

“We saw that. You mentioned a laptop?”

“She usually kept it on the desk in the other loom
room.” I started down the short hallway, faltered at Granny’s bedroom door, but moved past it with a hand blinkering my eyes. I wasn’t ready to look at the broken window from the inside yet.

“Do you know someone who can board up that window?” Clod asked. “By rights, the landlord should take care of it, but under the circumstances…”

A new Perry Mason title:
The Sad and Sadly Annoying Circumstance of the Clumsy Dead Landlord
. “Yeah, I think so.” Another job for Mr. No-Job’s-Too-Odd Carlin.

“Joe could do it for you in two shakes,” Ardis said. “He’d be happy to, I don’t doubt.”

I didn’t doubt it for a minute. And help himself to a look around inside, too. Maybe for the second or third time.

“Ten’s up a creek,” Clod said. “Unavailable.”

This was interesting news. “Without a paddle?” I flipped over my shoulder. “Why? What’s he done?”

Clod waited until we were in the weaving room before answering. During the interval I felt his eyes removing a portion of the back of my skull and filleting my brain to find out what I knew about his brother’s activities, how I came to know it, and why I might be interested. Unless that feeling was just the prickling of my imagination as it danced closer to the edge of trouble.

“As a fishing guide, Ms. Rutledge,” Clod said. “It’s one of his sidelines. ‘Up a creek’ is one of his jokes.”

“A joke. Of course. Very funny, too.” I started to laugh, but stopped because I’d just seen the tapestry loom. A few warp threads dangled from the beam. That was all. “The tapestry and cartoon. They’re gone?” I looked at Clod, pointed at the empty loom. “We saw them here yesterday. Granny’s tapestry and the canvas behind it.”

“Oh, yeah. I thought something looked different.”

“Something looked different? Something? The tapestry wasn’t just
something.
Deputy, I don’t care what you think of me or of what I’m about to say, but one way or another I should have gotten in here before now. Before this rotten, stinking thief stole Granny’s tapestry. When you and I were standing outside that window yesterday, and we saw the tapestry then, we should have gotten in here. We had the chance and we should have taken it. Granny was planning that piece her whole life. Dreaming it and designing it and storing up in her head every minuscule element she saw and wanted to weave into it. Her whole life. It was going to be her masterpiece, even if she never talked about it like that. It was going to be all her love for Blue Plum poured out and woven in. And she didn’t get a chance to finish it. But part of it was here. Here, and now it’s gone, and I’ll never get to see the finished piece and I might not even get to see that small beginning of it ever again.
I
should’ve broken a window and climbed in.”

Clod didn’t blink. “Did you break the window?”

I didn’t answer or I might have called him an idiot. Lips clamped, I glanced around the rest of the room, then crossed to the desk and went through the motions of looking through it. I was pretty sure I’d figured out what else would be missing, though, and I didn’t need a close inspection of the desk drawers or the baskets and bins and shelves of wool and spare loom parts, or the books and books and books, to verify it. There was no way to know exactly which of the dozens of sketchbooks and notebooks Granny wrote in over the years were missing. It was enough to know someone was after something she knew. And that was a scary thought raising scary questions. What information was someone after? Which secrets? Which ones had they found?

“So this tapestry was, like, a personal kind of thing?”
Clod asked, interrupting my personal fright show. “But not finished. Not valuable.”

I slammed a drawer. “Personal, yeah. Not valuable, no.” It was hard to think my own thoughts while helping this guy work through his.

“Ivy is a nationally known and respected fiber artist, Cole,” Ardis said. Bless her for trying to educate the Philistines. “Her pieces sell for very good money.”