A Murder in Mohair (14 page)

Maggie set her tea down, the ice cubes tinkling against the glass. “No . . . not really.”

Charles smiled. “What does ‘not really' mean?”

“The way she was killed . . . someone must have been very angry with her, very upset. Disappointed or feeling betrayed, perhaps? If you plan to kill someone, you don't just grab the first heavy object in the room and bash their head in. You find a more methodical, premeditated method. A gun maybe, or even poison. But of course, you know that,” she added quickly.

He nodded. “Do you know of anyone who might have been angry at Cassandra Waters?”

Maggie shook her head. “The only person I know of who met with Cassandra on a regular basis truly idolized her. Believed in her powers totally. She's very distraught over Cassandra's death.”

Charles lifted his chin, his brows drawn together—his alert look, Maggie secretly called it. “And who is that?”

“Nora Gordon. She owns the Gilded Age Antique Shop, down the street. I'm not telling you anything you won't find out quickly, or maybe already know,” Maggie added. “You'll see from the appointment list that Nora visited Cassandra several times a week. And I'm sure Nora will tell anyone who asks her, how she felt about the psychic—absolutely devoted. She called Cassandra a beautiful soul and believed that she was channeling messages from her son Kyle. The boy died in his sleep about two years ago, from a brain hemorrhage. He was a senior in high school, just eighteen years old.”

Charles pursed his lips. “That's rough. I can understand how she got drawn in. But this Cassandra wasn't such a sweetheart, was she, to take advantage of a grieving mother?”

Maggie shook her head. “No, she was not. Although Edie Steiber, who's Nora's aunt, says that Nora was so depressed before she met Cassandra, she would hardly get out of bed. Her husband was afraid to leave her alone, afraid she might harm herself. The ‘messages'—if that's what you want to call them—were like therapy for her. The only kind that seemed to do her any good.”

“I get it. Complicated. This phony psychic did some good while lining her pocket.”

Charles had an amazing way of boiling matters down to the bone. It was really a gift. “Exactly. A conundrum, you might say.”

“
You
might say. Though I would be laughed out of the station house if I used that in a report. I'll save it for Scrabble,” he said.

“Thanks for the warning.” Maggie laughed.

Charles liked to play Scrabble on his boat. He had a special set with ridges around the boxes on the board, so the tiles stayed in place if the sailing got rocky.

When the water got rough, she couldn't focus on the board anyway. But they'd had fun.

“Any good Cassandra did was an unexpected by-product of her tricks. I don't think that sort of do-gooding counts.”

“Probably not,” Maggie conceded. “If there really is anything ‘out there' or ‘up there' that eventually holds us to account.”

“No one ever came back to say for sure. No matter what people like Cassandra Waters claim.” Charles drained his glass, set it down, and smiled. “I'd better get back to the office. Probably a million calls coming in on this one.”

“No doubt.” And he'd be working late or even double shifts, until Cassandra Waters's killer was found. Maggie knew by now. “Don't worry about Wednesday; we'll figure something out,” she said, following him to the door.

Wednesday night had become their midweek date night as the relationship had advanced. Maggie knew she would miss him. She had planned a special dinner, too. It was funny how she'd been so adept at living alone when they'd met, satisfied most of the time with her own company. And now, one canceled night together seemed a big hole in her week.

“I'll be in touch. It may not take us long to find the guilty party.”

“You sound very confident. I guess you have a good lead or two.” She was fishing a bit. Sheer reflex. She had to get a grip on that. She hoped he hadn't noticed.

“Oh, we do. Ruiz went to the toy store and bought a Ouija board. We're going to give it a full interrogation after lunch.”

He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead and slung his jacket over his shoulder. Maggie, still smiling at the silly joke, watched from the window as he walked down to the street.

She saw Charles pass Phoebe on the path and tip his head hello. Phoebe bobbed her head back but kept walking. She liked him well enough, Maggie thought, but didn't like that he was a police officer. Phoebe did have a thing about authority figures, and the experience of being a person of interest in a case a few months ago, when her best friend from school disappeared without a trace, was still fresh in her memory.

“I guess Charles came to talk about Cassandra Waters—and make sure you are not sticking your nose in his case again.” Dressed for the hot weather in a long gauzy skirt, tiny tank top, and rubber flip-flops, Phoebe slid behind the counter and set down a cup of frozen yogurt, which was covered with strawberries and granola.

Maggie thought the food choice was just an excuse to eat dessert instead of a real lunch, but Phoebe claimed it was perfectly nutritious. Maggie didn't argue; her assistant could certainly use some flesh on her bones. The ceiling fan turned on high was likely to lift her right out of her seat.

“We did talk about Cassandra. But he didn't mention a word about my nose. Do you have to eat that messy thing at the counter? It's going to drip on something.”

“Oh right . . . sorry. I just wanted to get back in time. So you can go out if you want to,” she explained, retreating to the table in back.

“Thanks, but I'm in no rush.” Maggie did want to check on Edie but knew the diner was packed right now and Edie would be too busy to chat.

She also expected a uniformed officer to drop by at some point to ask questions about Cassandra, and she didn't want Phoebe to deal with that situation alone. “He said some officers would be coming by to take statements. They're talking to everyone who had sessions with Cassandra. We expected that,” she reminded Phoebe.

Phoebe was twisting herself in a pretzel shape in the chair, still spooning up her yogurt. “Yes . . . I know. But I hardly said a word to her. I just sat there and listened. I don't really have anything to say to the police.”

“Just tell them that. We'll all back you up. Your interview will be short and sweet.”

“Not so sweet . . . all things considered,” Phoebe murmured. Maggie knew what she meant. Cassandra was dead. Still hard to believe.

Maggie stood at the counter and leafed through a new pattern book. It was only late June and the fall patterns were already coming out. She would be ordering her fall and winter stock soon.

Something to look forward to.

“Do you think Cassandra will come back and haunt her killer?”

Maggie's head popped up; she stared at Phoebe over her reading glasses. “You have an amazing imagination, Phoebe. You ought to write novels, or movie scripts, or something. Not that your knitting patterns aren't wonderful, too.”

“I'm serious.” Phoebe had finished her lunch and wiped her mouth on a napkin, then dumped the drippy container in the trash bin near the stockroom. “She knew all about that realm. She knew how spirits operate. How they get in touch with living people. I think she could do it.”

Maggie laughed and shook her head, setting the pattern book aside. “You have a point. I never thought of it like that. I just hope she doesn't appear in the shop and ask us to help her bring her murderer to justice. Now that would be a spooky plot for a story, don't you think?”

Phoebe froze in place. She stared at Maggie, bug-eyed. “Don't even say that. Now you really scared me.”

“I'm sorry . . . you started it.” Had she really said that incredibly childish thing? Maggie was appalled at herself. But Phoebe didn't seem to notice.

She really hadn't meant to frighten her assistant. She'd forgotten the poor girl spooked so easily.

“I'm so sorry, Phoebe. I was only making a joke. That could never, ever,
possibly
happen in a million years. You know that, don't you?”

Phoebe clearly did not; her gaze remained locked with Maggie's, her cheeks pale. Finally, she swallowed hard and took a breath.

“I hope not.”

“Absolutely not. As in never
ever,
” Maggie said, relieved to see some color return to Phoebe's complexion.

But before Maggie could offer any more assurances, a basket of yarn flew off the top of the oak cabinet and bounced on the table, balls of lavender mohair unraveling in all directions.

Phoebe screamed and covered her head with her hands. “OMG! She's here. . . . It's Cassandra. . . . She heard us.”

Maggie's heart skipped a beat. She forced herself to look up at the top of the cabinet, staring at the empty spot left by the basket.

Then she shook her head and nearly laughed out loud. “Don't worry. Cassandra is not back. Unless she's returned as a cat. But I think we know this one.”

Phoebe looked up, too. “Van Gogh . . . bad cat. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Phoebe's unmistakable, tattered alley cat had been strolling daintily along the top of the cabinet, but now stopped in his tracks and sat, peering down with vague interest, though not the least bit impressed by Phoebe's scolding. Phoebe looked back at Maggie.

“I'm sorry, Mag. He snuck out today. I didn't even realize it.”

“That's all right. I'm happy to see him. This time,” she said. She laughed and headed to the front of the store; a customer had come in.

“I think there's some tuna in the fridge. Just get him upstairs again,” she whispered, “before anyone with an allergy comes in?”

Maggie's one firm rule was no cat in the shop; Phoebe could keep him provided he stayed in her apartment. But Van Gogh was certainly a welcome sight downstairs today, considering the possible alternatives.

*  *  *

Lucy had intended
to search the Internet for tidbits about Cassandra as soon she got home, but a note with attached files from a new client, Bleckman Paper Products, had appreared in her in-box. She'd been hired to design their company directory, an extremely mundane project. But it paid well. Checking the files and formatting the document was her first priority.

But, quickly bored with the work, Lucy decided to take a break and poke around the Internet for information about Cassandra Waters.

She typed in a search to find several references to that name in Cape Ann—a child psychologist in Newburyport, an insurance broker in Rockport, and an exotic dancer (at least that's what she called herself) available for bachelor parties and private performances.

None of those photos matched the Cassandra Waters she had known, though she did come across two online listings for the psychic's services, the text a verbatim copy of her advertising card. There was also a fluff piece about her in the Lifestyle section of the
Plum Harbor Times,
dated a few months back, when she'd come to town, buffed up her crystal ball, and set up shop on Ivy Lane.

Lucy had hoped for more and felt frustrated enough to request a simple search of the psychic's name on a background check website, at the cost of a mere ten dollars. Only to receive the two bits of information she'd already found, spit back at her.

She returned to designing the directory, which included photos of all the employees. Staring at names, titles, and phone numbers inspired her to try the reverse look-up site.

She found the window and tapped in Cassandra's phone number, then the cell phone service was quickly located—a red dot on a map of Plum Harbor. When Lucy paid the fee to receive more information on the user—under ten dollars, which seemed worth it—she found the service was billed to someone named Jane Mullens. Lucy wondered if she'd made some mistake with the street name or house number.

But of course, Cassandra Waters was an alias . . . Duh.

Otherwise, what luck to have been given the perfect name for a psychic and then turn out to be one. Unless Cassandra's mother had been graced with the powers of predicting the future as well?

Lucy's fingers itched to turn her considerable research skills on Jane Mullens. But she heard the thunder of dog paws downstairs. Tink and Wally, galloping to the front door to greet Matt with happy barks and whines as he walked in from work.

Matt called up to her from the foyer. “I'm home, Lu. It's so nice out. Want to take the dogs to the beach?”

Lucy went to the top of the stairs and peered down at him. “I had the same idea. I'll just change my clothes.”

The hot day had cooled off, and it would be cooler still on the beach once the sun went down. Lucy was ready to get some circulation back in her legs. The background check of Ms. Mullens—aka Cassandra Waters—would have to wait.

As she tugged on her running sneakers and a sweatshirt, she guessed the police had already unearthed this choice tidbit about Cassandra's real name. Probably their first order of business was a check to see if the victim had any criminal record or other identities.

Still, it didn't hurt to have some interesting information to report at the next knitting meeting. Even if Dana arrived with something juicier—passed on from Jack—stashed in her knitting bag, too.

*  *  *

“Did the police
get in touch yet, about an interview?” Lucy asked Maggie.

“Not yet. How about you?”

“Someone left a message on the home phone last night, while we were out. I'm supposed to call back before noon.”

Lucy felt a little nervous about the interview. But she was sure Maggie had already guessed that and knew why.

She sat on the porch steps in front of the shop, watching Maggie hover over the flower boxes with a watering can, occasionally picking off a shriveled bloom or two. The sun was still low in the sky but it promised to be another hot, sunny day. She was glad she'd gotten her bike ride in early, but did not look forward to pedaling back to the cottage.