Yarn to Go (19 page)

“It’s funny that you should mention that,” I said. “I heard that if it hadn’t been for the knitting needles stuck in Edie’s chest, the medical examiner might have ruled it an accident from the sleeping pill and wine mixture and never noticed that the residue on the pillow matched up with residue on Edie’s face.” I didn’t say what the residue was, but I think they all got that it was throw up.

“And it would have been case closed,” Olivia said. I am sure she was thinking that then she never would have been a suspect. She looked worn-out.

“Maybe that’s what happened. Whoever put the drugs in Edie’s drink expected them to kill her,” Lucinda said. “They could have come to check to make sure she was gone and when she wasn’t, finished the job with the pillow.” My friend moved on to talking about tablecloths in the restaurant and food stains. “I wonder if Lieutenant Borgnine realizes that whoever smothered her probably got some of the throw up on their clothes.” A ripple of “yuck”s went through the group, but Lucinda continued. “Somebody ought to tell Lieutenant Borgnine. I bet there’s a way to match it up.”

No one volunteered.

The conversation went back to who could have taken the sleeping pills from Edie’s purse. They talked about dinner the first night, the crowded dining room and that it was true that lots of people had walked past the table.

“That creepy manager in his black suit came by a bunch of times,” Sissy said. “Don’t you remember, he kept asking if everything was okay?”

24

I THOUGHT THE GROUP WAS GOING TO SWALLOW
their tongues when the door opened and Kevin St. John walked in. They all just stared at him, while he didn’t seem to notice their reaction.

“I just wanted you to know that I am here for all of you. For this weekend and for all the future yarn retreats. I’m putting together a brochure for all the different kinds of retreats Vista Del Mar will be hosting. There will be bird-watching, writers’ workshops, quilting, and the ones you would be interested in I’m calling Yarn by the Sea.” He had a forced smile as he moved his gaze around the room, making sure he made eye contact with everyone. It seemed like something he must have learned in a speech class. In other words, it felt kind of fake.

“And I promise you, our retreats will run seamlessly.” He didn’t exactly mention Edie, but it was clear he was saying there wouldn’t be any murders during his retreats. He was still acting as if it was my fault. I let him do his spiel without interruption. He ended by reminding the group about the family-friendly Jerry Lewis movie in Hummingbird Hall and added that there was a popcorn cart offering complimentary popcorn.

I caught up with him as he headed toward the door. I know it was childish, but I couldn’t help it. I told him that even if Lieutenant Borgnine hadn’t said anything about me having to stay, I wouldn’t have left my group before the end of the weekend. “And about the rest of it. I know my parents probably made it sound like a sure thing, but I haven’t decided whether to take their offer or not.”

Kevin didn’t miss a beat. “But you will still give me all of your aunt’s papers regarding the retreats, no matter what, right?”

I didn’t answer. I know I’d said I would give him all the paperwork, and he did seem to be making plans to continue on with the yarn retreats, but the more he kept asking for them, the more I didn’t want to give them up.

The workshop never went back to normal. Olivia’s accusations had been like a bucket of cold water on the group. The whole sense of us working together on our knitting was gone. Was there any way I could get that feeling of camaraderie back?

When the group broke up, most of them headed toward Hummingbird Hall. I caught up with Bree just outside the meeting room.

“I am going to be gone for a while. If you need company again . . .” I left it hanging, but Bree surprised me by her response.

“Thank you for last night, but after hearing about the challenges you’re dealing with, I realized I can stay by myself. It may feel a little uncomfortable, but I want to conquer my fear.” For once we weren’t interrupted by her phone or the boys beeping her on their walkie-talkie app. I realized I hadn’t seen her on her tablet, either. I mentioned it and asked if she was okay about it, remembering how upset she’d been at their silence before.

“We had a nice conversation earlier. They were going to play with their friends, and then the dads were taking them out for pizza and miniature golf.”

She seemed confused and relieved at the same time. “I guess they don’t need me as much as I thought. And my friend who was supposed to come called to ask how it was going. She thought it was great that I was finally making something that was just my project.” Bree leaned over and hugged me. “I am getting used to being on my own. I think I like it—at least for a little while.”

Lucinda had stayed behind and was clearing the paper cups off the table and wiping up around the coffee and tea service. She stopped in the doorway, and when Bree left, Lucinda joined me. “I overheard. It seems like she’s gotten more than knitting out of this weekend.” Lucinda looked around her warily. “I was afraid Kevin might pop out of the bushes.” When it seemed clear we were alone, Lucinda continued. “Who do you think told on Olivia?”

I dropped my voice. “So then you think Olivia really did kill Edie?”

Lucinda shrugged. “The pieces fit. The sleeping pills were missing from her bottle. She did walk Edie back to her room. She could have engineered all the stuff with her purse.”

“How about this? Suppose the person who really killed Edie told Lieutenant Borgnine the stuff about Olivia just to throw him off their track?” I said.

“Interesting thought. Do you have any idea who that could be?” Lucinda said.

“No, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to work this out by tomorrow. Who am I kidding? Like I could really solve a murder based on a few weeks spent working at a detective agency. I must be nuts.” I hung my head. “I’m afraid it will turn out like everything else in my life—left hanging. The idea of cooking school in Paris is looking more and more appealing. If I could finish that I would be a real chef.”

Lucinda furrowed her brow with concern. “You know the saying, it’s always darkest before the dawn. Don’t make any decisions now.”

“You’re right about not making a decision. At least I know I am staying until the end of the retreat.”

“Come to the movie,” Lucinda said, taking a step in the direction of Hummingbird Hall. “A few laughs would do you good.”

“No. I need to go home and pick up some things, and then I’m going to the restaurant to bake some desserts.”

“I’m sorry I told you what my finicky husband said. He can serve ice cream sundaes for one more day.” She stopped and looked at me. Neither of us said anything, but I knew we were thinking the same thing. If I took my parents’ offer there were going to be a lot more days that Tag would have to serve those sundaes.

“There’s no discussion. I’m doing it,” I said. Lucinda offered to come with and help, but I urged her to go on to the movie. This was her weekend off. Reluctantly, she went down the path, and I headed in the other direction toward the driveway that led to the street.

When I got back to my place, I checked the plate of yogurt I’d left for the cat. It was licked clean, but there was no sign of him, and I hoped he was okay. I went into the guesthouse and turned on the lights. I had been so busy with the retreat, I hadn’t checked my emails. I sorted through them and chucked all the junk mail. It was a little eerie when I saw that there was a message from Edie.

When I opened it, I realized she’d sent it from her smartphone just after the opening workshop. It said how much she appreciated me doing the workshop for my aunt. She had attached a photo of the group. I don’t think Edie meant it to sound like a reproach, but she mentioned I wasn’t taking photographs the way my aunt had and so she was taking it upon herself to take photos for me.

The email went on to say how much she had liked Joan. She thought the cops had been remiss with their investigation. How was it possible that they didn’t find the car since it had to have been damaged?

Leave it to Edie; from beyond the grave she had managed to say the wrong thing. Even though the cops has assured me that they checked all the mechanics and body shops in the area for a car with the kind of damage consistent with the accident and come up empty, I always felt I should have done something more. Edie’s comment opened that feeling up all over again. But what could I do now?

My leg brushed the red print fabric–covered box that held all of my aunt’s papers regarding the retreats, and I remembered why else I’d stopped in. Kevin St. John was so persistent about wanting Joan’s files, I wondered if there was something I’d missed in them. I flipped through the file marked
Petit Retreat
. I had taken the sheets that pertained to the group out before the retreat began. I looked through the pages left. There were a bunch of notes about knitting, something that looked like an essay.

What could Kevin St. John want with those papers? The flash drive I’d looked at before had gotten caught in the bottom of the file, and I left it there. I thumbed through the rest of the materials in the box. The only file that seemed to have anything Kevin St. John would want was the one with the mailing list, vendor list and capsule descriptions of possible yarn retreats. It seemed he was just being annoying. I packed everything back in the box and gladly put the lid on it.

I got up to go, but then I hesitated, still thinking about Edie’s email. The same question came back to me. Was there anything I could do now? I looked at my watch and calculated the time in Chicago.
Frank always claimed to be a night owl
, I thought as I punched in his number. I barely got out
hello
before he figured out who it was.

“Feldstein, what is it? I don’t even get a good-bye from you when you leave town and now it’s like every five minutes I’m hearing from you.”

“Sorry, Frank. I just wanted to run something by your super detective mind.” I heard him laugh.

“Feldstein, if you’re trying to flatter me, you need some lessons. So, let’s forget all this chitchat. What do you wanna know?”

I told him about the hit-and-run and how no damaged car had shown up. “I feel like I should have done something more. Is there anything I can do now?” I said.

Frank’s tone softened. “No reason for you to feel guilty, Feldstein. It was the cops that flubbed up.” He paused a moment, and I heard canned laughter coming from his television. “I had a case once . . .” He stopped and chided himself. “No reason to give all the boring details. Here’s the meat of the matter. The creep that hit your aunt could have conveniently gotten into another accident that would cover up the damage. That could be why the cops came up empty.”

“Frank, you’re a genius,” I said. I heard him laugh.

“Still trying with the flattery stuff, huh? That time it sounded a little more like you meant it. Feldstein, do you know what to do?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” I said.

“Good, Feldstein. So, then this is the last call of the night?” He sounded gruff, but I was pretty sure it was all an act. I promised that it was, and just before he hung up, he told me to let him know how things turned out.

I rebooted the computer and went to the site of the newspaper that covered the whole Monterey Bay area. I did a search for the news stories on the day of my aunt’s accident and the day after. I avoided the story about Joan. I knew it by heart anyway. She’d been out walking in the early morning and had been struck on the street in front of the cemetery. There was just the cemetery, a golf driving range and some empty land before the ocean, so there was no one who’d seen what had happened. I went ahead and skimmed all the news stories for that day and found nothing, but when I went to the next day’s articles—bingo!—I found what I was looking for. It was an amusing small article about a car trying to turn a Sandwich King into a drive-through. The gist of the story was that someone identified only as
a driver
had stepped on the gas instead of the brake and driven up on the curb and into a post protecting the wall of a Sandwich King. There were no injuries except to the car and the post outside the fast-food joint. Sandwich King? Why did that stir a memory?

Could that have been the car that hit my aunt and then the driver tried to cover up the damage with new damage? But even if it was true, how could I prove it now? I shut down my computer and went back to the matter at hand. If this was going to be my last night of baking in Cadbury, I wanted to do the whole thing.

I packed up the ingredients for muffins and went looking through the cabinet for some doilies. There wasn’t going to be time to frost the cakes I was going to bake. But I didn’t want to leave them plain, either. The alternative was to shift powdered sugar over them using a doily as a template. There was one left, but it ripped when I tried to take it out. Rather than trying to cobble it together, I went across to my aunt’s, thinking there might be some there.

I was relieved to find the door locked just as I’d left it. When I turned on the kitchen light and everything looked fine, I felt even better. I found a package of doilies and took out several. I got ready to go, but when I glanced around the familiar room I felt an emotional tug. What would happen to all of Joan’s things if I took my parents up on their offer and let Kevin liquidate the house and the contents?

The shopping bag with my aunt’s things was still sitting where I’d left it when I had first brought it home from the hospital. It had been too painful to deal with them, and I had avoided looking at the contents closely, but knowing this might be one of my last chances, I finally looked inside. How odd, the pink sweater she’d worn on the last morning of her life was the same one I’d seen in the photograph on the wall in the Lodge. But then it was her favorite sweater. I took it out and hugged it to my chest; the familiar scent of her perfume still clung to it. There was a sudden clatter, and I jumped until I realized I was holding the sweater upside down and Joan’s keys had fallen out of the pockets. I scooped them up along with some tissues and put them back, before dropping the sweater in the bag.

I did a brief tour of the house and noted all the things my aunt had made. For the first time I got the point of her handicraft. It was a connection to her that lived on even though she was gone. I picked up the throw on the end of the couch. Kevin St. John would probably just put it in a garage sale and somebody would buy it and have no idea she had put all those loving hours into making it.