The Silence of the Llamas (16 page)

“Intelligent,” Lucy remarked. “But undermined himself. Self-destructive? Dana says he had all the earmarks of posttraumatic stress syndrome.”

“Possibly. He came to Plum Harbor about thirty-five years ago,” Maggie continued, “and always lived on that land next to the Kruegers, though he didn’t own it at first. Just rented the house on the property. The reporter mentions his activities with the Friends of Farmland. He was the founder and co-chair,” Maggie noted. She suddenly turned and looked at Lucy. “Guess who the other ‘co’ is.”

Lucy sighed. “I hate when you do that. I can’t guess. Who?”

“Angelica Rossi.” Maggie shook her head. “That was a no-brainer, Lucy. I’m surprised at you.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Interesting. Go on. Is that it?”

“Nope. . . . ‘Continued on page B32.’ I have to find the page. . . . Oh, here we are.” She paused a moment. “Nothing more about FOF. It says that he’s survived by a daughter,
Janine Ridley of Portland, Oregon.” Maggie looked up. “I wonder if she’ll come to claim the body and settle the estate.”

Lucy looked surprised by the question. “Don’t you think most people would come, under the circumstances?”

“I do. But you never know. He was clearly a difficult, solitary man and may have had a poor relationship with his daughter.”

“That’s possible. But even so, she would still come to settle the estate. To sell the farm and all that,” Lucy replied.

Maggie thought that was likely, too. She had turned the paper to the back pages to read the end of the article and now glanced down at the advertisements printed in the right-hand column. Listings for the local movie houses, mostly.

One for the Newburyport Cinema Arts Center caught her eye. The 1940s classic
Gaslight
was listed with show times. Maggie clearly recalled the story—set in the late nineteenth century, a scheming husband convinces his naive wife that she’s going crazy by secretly adjusting the light fixtures. A slim concept, but somehow, with Ingrid Bergman in the starring role, it worked.

It looked like the film had been the only feature playing there on the weekend, as part of an Ingrid Bergman film festival.
Arsenic and Old Lace
was not listed there, she noticed. Or at any other theater.

“That’s funny,” she mumbled.

“Something else in the article?” Lucy asked.

Maggie looked up and shook her head. “No. Just a misprint. Doesn’t matter.”

“I wonder what kind of relationship they had.”

Maggie looked up at Lucy, confused for a moment.

“Janine Ridley and her father. I wonder if they got along or if he’d alienated her, too.”

Maggie wondered about that, also. “Good question. Maybe we’ll find out.”

The little brass bell on the front door sounded. Two women walked in carrying knitting totes. They stood at the front of the store and shyly waved at Maggie.

“Good morning, ladies,” Maggie called out. “Just take a seat in the front. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

She quickly stood, closed the paper, and gathered up her mail. “It’s showtime,” she said quietly to Lucy. “A Is for Afghan. A beginner class. They’re so sweet and sincere at this stage,” she added, as if talking about kindergarteners.

Lucy picked up her coffee mug and grinned. “I’m sure you’re very positive and encouraging with them.”

Maggie shrugged. “We all have to start knitting somewhere. Ninety percent is just showing up for the class.”

Lucy laughed and headed out to get her dogs and walk home.

Maggie headed for the alcove just to the left of the shop’s entrance, where a love seat and several armchairs were set up around a low marble-topped table. She liked using this space for small groups, instead of the worktable at the back of the store. It was more relaxed and intimate, more like sitting in someone’s parlor than being in an official class.

She also had a good view of the whole shop from this spot—who was coming in and out—and could quickly tell if Phoebe was floundering and needed help covering the customers. Her lifeguard post, she secretly called it.

Toward the end of the day, Maggie was back in the cozy spot, teaching another class to a small group, this one about knitting for newborns. Her students were expectant mothers, aunts, and grandmas, all eager to master Bibs, Booties, and Beyond. The class was almost over when she spotted a customer near the counter who seemed to be waiting for assistance.

Phoebe was in back helping an elderly customer pick out buttons for a child’s sweater. The process promised to go on for a while. Phoebe did exhibit admirable patience with seniors, Maggie had to grant her that. Maybe because the girl’s mind often worked in the same wandering way.

Maggie excused herself from the class and headed for the unattended patron. “May I help you with something?”

The woman turned to face her. Something about her looked familiar. Maggie guessed she’d been in the shop before.

“I’m trying to match this blue merino, or find something that will complement it.” She handed Maggie a small ball of yarn. “I don’t have enough left for the sleeves and thought I could do them in another color.”

Maggie put on her reading glasses and examined the blue yarn. “If you have the label from the skein, I should be able to order it.”

“How long would that take?” the customer asked.

“Oh, a week or so. It’s hard to say. It depends where we find it.” Maggie knew she sounded vague, but that was really the truth of the matter.

“I don’t think that works out for me. I don’t live around here. I’m visiting from out of town. I have a lot of downtime
in the evenings. That’s why I brought my knitting along. It was stupid of me to leave the rest of the yarn at home. I was in a rush and not thinking.”

Maggie looked at the young woman again and nodded sympathetically. She spoke quickly and sounded a bit anxious. She still looked familiar, out-of-towner or not.

“Knitting is my favorite way to fill the downtime in life. But that’s probably obvious. . . . Are you here on business?” Maggie asked, trying for a friendly, not-too-nosy tone.

“Not really. My father lived around here. He died over the weekend. Justin Ridley. You’ve probably heard about what happened to him. It was in all the local papers and on TV the other night.” Her voice trailed off, softer now. She met Maggie’s eye a moment, then looked away.

That was it. Of course. She was Ridley’s daughter, Janine. The same deep-set eyes and thin face. The same dark hair and tall, thin build—though the family genes expressed themselves much more attractively in a feminine version, Maggie thought. A slim brunette, she was in her mid-thirties, Maggie guessed. Her thick hair was blunt cut, curling around her face, softening the angular features so reminiscent of her father.

“Yes, I heard that news. I’m sorry for your loss,” Maggie said sincerely.

“Thank you. I didn’t see him much. But I’ll miss him.” She looked tired, Maggie thought. Or maybe that was just jet lag . . . combined with sadness over her father’s death? And dealing with the police all day. Maggie could only guess where she’d been today and what she’d done before finding her way to the knitting shop.

She looked straight at Maggie. “Did you know my father? Did you ever meet him?”

Maggie shook her head. “No, we never met. But I do know the couple who live on the farm next door to his, the Kruegers. Ben Krueger was the man who found your father’s body,” she added, though she expected that Janine Ridley would recognize the name.

Janine Ridley’s expression changed quickly. “Oh . . . right. The police told me they’d questioned that man about the murder. He’s a friend of yours?” She looked at Maggie oddly.

Maggie acted as if she hadn’t noticed. “Oh, I doubt Ben was involved. In fact, I’m sure he wasn’t. I know he didn’t get along with your father. But neighbors often have grievances. I’m sure the police questioned him because they can’t rule anything out at this stage.”

Janine didn’t answer. She did seem to pull back and sort of close up, looking distrustful. Having second thoughts about patronizing a shop that harbored sympathies for Ben Krueger, Maggie guessed.

“I can check the storeroom for some yarn that might work for you. Would you like me to look?” Maggie asked politely.

Janine Ridley thought about it a moment, then nodded and handed over the ball of yarn she had in hand. “All right. I’ll wait.”

She either wanted that yarn badly or was much more composed and even-tempered than her father. Maybe a bit of both, Maggie reasoned.

Maggie went back to the storeroom. By the time she had found a few possibilities and returned to the front of the store, the students from Bibs, Booties, and Beyond had left and the
button-selecting senior was gone, too. Phoebe sighed as if cleaning out the Aegean stables as she sorted piles of buttons into their correct drawers again.

Maggie headed for Janine Ridley, who was sitting up front near the bay window and had taken out her knitting project.

Maggie stood next to her chair with a basket of yarn. “I found a few merino possibilities. I have a lot of stock in all these colors, too.”

“Thanks. Let me see what you have.” Janine Ridley looked over the selection of yarn Maggie had brought out for her. She held each up in turn against the blue section of the sweater she was working on, trying to choose a good complement.

“Will there be a memorial service? The newspaper article this morning didn’t mention anything,” Maggie noted.

“I would have held one for him, but he didn’t want anything like that. He asked to be cremated and have his ashes scattered on a certain favorite spot on his land. I have to wait for the police to release his body.”

“Yes, of course. That could take a few days.” Maggie nodded sympathetically. She didn’t think it was legal to scatter ashes anywhere you pleased, though she suspected that in trying to honor the requests of deceased loved ones, people did many odd things with cremated remains. Hadn’t Suzanne once said she wanted her ashes to be tossed on George Clooney?

Janine Ridley’s voice distracted Maggie from her rambling thoughts. “ . . . I know my father rubbed a few people in town the wrong way, and scared people, too, roaming around at night with his gun and his dogs,” Janine said frankly. “But he
had friends. Many people in this town accepted that he was different. And respected him, too.”

Maggie nodded. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true.”

It was true, she thought. Despite what the Kruegers thought of him.

“He wasn’t a bad person,” Janine insisted. “He was very sincere about saving the farmland out where he lived. The landscape out there gave him great comfort after he left the army.”

“I’m sure a lot of people would have come to a memorial to pay their respects,” Maggie said, feeling that this was what the young woman was driving at.

Janine glanced at her and nodded, then looked back at the basket of yarns again. She rejected a few of the skeins and put them aside.

Maggie watched her a moment, then said, “The newspaper said that you live in Portland. Did you grow up there?”

“Yes, I did. My parents divorced when I was six months old. It was a very bitter breakup. My mother got full custody and took me to the West Coast. She had family there. I didn’t meet my father until I was in high school. That was pretty difficult,” she admitted. “When I was a teenager, I thought he was such an oddball. But as I got older, I came to appreciate him. He wasn’t like other people. I’m very angry about the way he died. But in a way, I’m not surprised.”

Maggie’s eyes widened at that admission. “Why do you say that? Did he ever tell you that he’d been threatened by anyone around here?”

“No . . . he never said that. But he was so different. He didn’t fit in, and he didn’t even want to. People lash out at
things they don’t understand. And at people they don’t understand. It’s out of fear, mainly. I see it all the time.”

Maggie found this turn in the conversation surprising. She sat in the chair across from Janine. “You do? How is that? . . . If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t mind. I’m a school counselor. I specialize in children who’ve been bullied.”

Something about that made sense to Maggie. Janine Ridley seemed intelligent and self-aware. She could easily see her working with misfit children.

She was also as open and forthcoming as her father had been closed and antisocial. Maybe it was her West Coast upbringing or her background as a therapist. Or maybe the atmosphere of the shop and the relaxing knitting break had helped her open up.

Maggie wondered if she was asking too many questions now and would offend the young woman by seeming too nosy. But Janine Ridley was alone in town, handling a very heavy situation, and she did seem to want to talk to somebody.

“I guess you have a lot to do, sorting out your father’s affairs, settling his estate.”

“Not really. He was very organized that way. The last time I visited him here, he told me everything I need to know. There’s a good lawyer in town handling his will.” Janine sighed and put aside two more of the skeins. “I can’t go into his house yet. The police are still looking for clues. I wouldn’t stay there anyway. But I am worried about his dogs. He had two beautiful hunting dogs, Thelma and Louise.”

“Those were the names of his dogs, Thelma and Louise?” Maggie couldn’t quite believe it. From all she’d heard, she’d
never once imagined Justin Ridley as the type to pick amusing pet names.

Janine glanced at her and guessed what she was thinking. “Oh, he didn’t name the dogs. The names were on the papers when he bought them. He’d never heard of the movie, and when I tried to explain it, he wasn’t very interested. He didn’t care much about popular culture. Didn’t even own a TV set.” Janine smiled, remembering, and Maggie wasn’t surprised to hear that. “He never mentioned it, but I think he would have wanted me to take care of them,” Janine continued. “Find them homes or something. The police said they were left at a shelter. I felt bad about that. I’m going to look for them tomorrow. But I don’t know what to do after that. I can’t keep them with me. I’m staying at a B-and-B in the village. Do you know a place where I can board the dogs for a while? Someplace nice. Where the dogs will be treated well?”