“No, don’t bother. You might as well sleep in.”
“But—”
“Oh, I’ll come down and open up, but I don’t expect to have much to do. Jo’s Craft Corner, I expect, will be quiet as a—forgive the word—morgue.”
The next morning, Jo woke early, despite her tired body. She spent the extra time dawdling about the small house, sipping coffee as she sporadically watched the morning news shows, restless but enervated. Finally, she could put it off no more, and she showered and dressed, then drove glumly to the store, prepared for a day of dreary emptiness.
Jo turned the corner at tenth and Main, and looked down the block to her store. A small crowd seemed to be gathered. More police? Reporters? Jo groaned softly. Shouldn’t that be over with by now? She pulled into an empty parking spot just beyond the group and had barely switched off her ignition when she heard her name spoken sharply.
“Jo McAllister! You’re late!”
Jo stared at the wrinkled face that appeared at the open passenger window of her car.
“Huh?”
“I said, you’re late! The sign on your door says you open up at ten. It’s now ten-oh-three.”
“You’ve been waiting for me to open?”
The tall, gray-haired woman pushed up the sleeves of her navy velour warm-up suit. “Our power walk winds up at nine-thirty. I told the girls all about your place, and we powered on over here, hoping you might let us in early. Instead, we had to cool our heels, waiting!”
Jo looked around, feeling dazed. Nearly a dozen women milled about, actually champing at the bit waiting for her to open her store. It was unbelievable, or nearly so, since here, in fact, they were. Jo pulled out her keys and worked her way to the door through the gaggle of chattering women, apologizing for her lateness as she went. They poured into the store behind her and spread out, barely waiting for her to flick on the lights.
Jo dropped her bag behind the counter and unlocked the cash register, still feeling somewhat out-of-body. The gray-haired woman came up to her.
“Ina Mae Kepner,” she said, holding out her hand. Jo shook it, feeling the strength. Despite the age evident on her face, Ina Mae was clearly in great shape.
“I figured you might need a little boost today, after what happened on Saturday.”
“A boost?”
“Why, yes. I can pretty well imagine what you must have been going through. There it was, your big day, and it ends up with police and ambulance people tramping all over your place.” Ina Mae glanced around. “Looks pretty much back to order, by the way. Must have been a job and a half.”
“Yes,” Jo admitted. “As a matter of fact it was. I had help, though.”
Ina Mae nodded. “Carrie Brenner. She’s a good woman. Coming in today?”
“A little later.”
“Good. I’d like her help picking out some yarn for a project I have in mind.”
The bell on Jo’s door jingled as more customers arrived. Ina Mae wandered off toward the knitting section as someone asked Jo for a particular fabric paint. Then another woman wanted help tracking down all the materials Jo had used to make “that lovely autumn wreath you have hanging on the door. I just have to see if I can duplicate it.” That pleased Jo, but she realized she’d better call Carrie fast and hope she could get down in a hurry. She still felt befuddled, trying to cope with the fact that instead of morguelike, her business was lively and bustling. But why should that be?
Little by little, she began to understand. With every purchase of paint, or dried flowers, or picture frames, came variations of the same questions:
How terrible was it finding that poor man? Was there an awful lot of blood? What actually happened?
Jo fielded the curiosity as best she could while ringing up the sales, but one eager face was quickly replaced by another. Then they came in twos and threes, all waiting wide-eyed for the answers that she didn’t particularly want to give, that she hemmed and hawed over to find the vaguest response, while it sank in that the big draw today was not Jo’s lovely craft items, but Jo’s horrifying yet—to the customers, at least—exciting story.
Carrie showed up soon, and Jo saw her encountering the same problem.
How did he look? What did the police say?
Carrie seemed to be handling it better than Jo, but Jo could see it begin to wear on her as well. The upside was they were doing terrific sales. The downside was wondering how quickly these customers would fade away once their morbid curiosity was satisfied.
Ina Mae was the only one, Jo noticed, who didn’t probe for information. She even pulled a customer off when Jo was being particularly hard-pressed.
“Deirdre Patterson,” Ina Mae exclaimed at one point, “let this poor woman do her work! She’s had enough talking about this unfortunate business.”
Deirdre Patterson was obviously not one of Ina Mae’s power walkers. A forty something woman who looked dressed for lunch with the girls in a green silk pant suit complete with pearls and pumps, she bristled at Ina Mae’s words, protesting, “I was only trying to offer my sympathy for a very unfortunate occurrence. Many people find it helps, you know, to talk about stressful things. Don’t you find it so?” she turned to Jo, beaming an encouraging smile.
Jo was rescued from having to answer by Ina Mae, who simply but firmly changed the subject. “Carrie thinks this blue tweed wool will work for the sweater I want to make for my ten-year-old grandson. What do you think, Jo?”
Jo, who knew little about yarns, picked up the skein and held it out speculatively, turning it about with several studied “hmms.”
“Well, I’ll just be on my way,” Deirdre said, and grabbed her package. As she left, Ina Mae leaned closer to Jo. “Deirdre’s married to our state senator, Alden Patterson. She quit working when she married him, but she could probably use a few more things in her life to keep herself occupied. Things besides other people’s business.”
Jo checked the sign-up sheet Deirdre had just returned to her. “I see she signed up for our wreath-making workshop, so I guess that’s a start.”
“Did she? Well, I never figured her for a craft person, but sometimes people surprise you. I’m coming to that one too, along with one or two of my friends. Looking forward to it.”
Jo smiled at this no-nonsense woman. Until now, Jo had been wondering how many registrants would actually show up. Now she pictured Ina Mae personally rounding them all up and hustling them into the shop like a mother hen with her chicks. What did Jo ever do to deserve someone like her? More important, how could she keep her around?
Traffic slowed down around lunchtime, and after Jo finished ringing up a sale for a man whose wife sent him to pick up refills for her glue gun, she called across to Carrie, who was straightening up a display of wreaths.
“Hungry yet? How about I run out for subs and sodas?”
“I’ve decided to try and lose a few pounds. Again. If I’d thought of it, I would have packed up a salad for myself.”
“The sub shop has salads. At least I think they do.” As they debated the question, a uniformed police officer entered the store.
“Mrs. McAllister?”
The hairs on Jo’s neck stood on end. The patrolman himself looked harmless enough, red-cheeked and young enough to be, well, not her son yet, thank goodness, but at least a much younger brother. But the fact that he had come specifically looking for her set off alarm bells.
“Yes?”
“Ricky, my gosh, is that you?” Carrie interrupted. “Remember me, Coach Brenner’s wife? I haven’t seen you since you were on that fantastic soccer team. You all won the trophy that year, didn’t you?”
“Ricky” paused, apparently struggling between a chatty reminiscence with Carrie and maintaining his official presence. “Yes, ma’am,” he finally answered. “That was a great team. It’s good to see you again.”
“So you’re all grown up and with the police department now! How time does fly.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned back to Jo. “Uh, Mrs. McAllister? Lieutenant Morgan would like you to come down and talk with him.”
“Now?” Jo frowned. “If this is about filling out more forms I’d rather wait til I close up, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s not about filling out forms, ma’am.”
“I assume it’s about the accident we had here on Saturday. I’ve already told him everything I know about it.”
“Ma’am, there’s been some further developments on that case, which Lieutenant Morgan would like to discuss with you. Would you come with me, please?”
From the serious look on Officer Ricky’s face, Jo realized the “please” was just a courtesy. He wasn’t asking, he was ordering. Jo felt her empty stomach sink.
“Well, I guess I’d better.” She turned to Carrie. “Mind holding down the fort?”
Carrie shot a reproving glare toward the patrolman. As the coach’s wife, Carrie must have served gallons of Gatorade and orange slices to this former soccer player, but she didn’t look eager to offer any refreshments now. Both elbows jutted out as Carrie braced her hands on her hips. Her brows lowered in righteous indignation.
“Ricky!”
Ricky’s eyes turned downward, abashed, but he quickly recovered and looked up at Jo.
“Ma’am?”
Jo sighed. “It’s all right, Carrie.” She picked up her purse and turned toward the young officer, not quite holding out her hands to be cuffed, though the image crossed her mind. “I’m ready.”
Chapter 5
Jo sat facing Russ Morgan, second in command of the Abbotsville Police Department. Officer Ricky had ushered her into Morgan’s office, deep within the building that served as Abbotsville’s Police Headquarters, and he rose from behind his utilitarian gray metal desk to thank her for coming. His tone told her, however, that this was not a social visit, though he did offer coffee. She accepted and sipped it, hoping her grumbling stomach would be pacified until she could find something more substantial.
Lieutenant Morgan got right down to business. “Mrs. McAllister, I thought you should be informed that the death of Kyle Sandborn has been ruled a homicide.”
Jo had been in mid-swallow and she sputtered, immediately setting down her mug to avoid spilling coffee all over her white jersey.
“What did you say?” she managed to croak once her coughs subsided.
“I said, the death has been ruled a homicide.”
“But, but, that means murder, doesn’t it?”
Russ Morgan looked at her as if she’d just asked, “Water means wet, doesn’t it?” which annoyed her greatly. What did he expect? Maybe
he
was used to talking about homicides, but she certainly wasn’t. Why should he act as if he expected she were?
“Yes,” he answered stone-faced, “it means murder.”
“But, how could that be?”
“I was hoping perhaps you could tell us.”
“Me? How would I know? I thought something in my stockroom fell on him, or whatever. I was worried to death that I might be sued.”
“Being sued might be the least of your worries.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mrs. McAllister, do you carry size-two Coyle knitting needles in your store?”
Jo remembered seeing Morgan, the night she had called the police, checking over the stock in her knitting section. She was sure he knew exactly what kind of needles she carried. She only wished
she
did.
“We carry several brands of knitting needles, but offhand, I can’t say for sure.”
“You can’t?”
“Lieutenant Morgan, you saw the immense variety of stock I carry. I’m not a walking computer, so, no, I’m not sure I carry those particular needles. Carrie Brenner would know, better than I. What in the world does that have to do with Kyle Sandborn’s death anyway? He wasn’t sitting in my stockroom knitting when someone did him in, was he?”
“No, he wasn’t.” Her flip response didn’t bring even the hint of a smile to the man’s lips. Jo could see a slight resemblance in Lieutenant Morgan to Mike, with his dark, even features and thick-lashed eyes, a thought that produced a familiar pang deep down. Mike, however, would never be making her feel this uncomfortable, staring at her as if he had photographic evidence of her running all the red lights in Abbotsville. Mike would have—
The lieutenant cleared his voice, jarring Jo back to the present. “Mr. Sandborn was in fact stabbed to death with a size-two Coyle needle.”
“What!”
He simply stared and waited.
“Stabbed with a knitting needle? How can that be? Knitting needles aren’t meant for stabbing.”
“Things sometimes are used for purposes for which they were never intended.”
“But . . .” Jo’s thoughts flew as she tried to picture this absurd method of murder. Bad enough the poor guy had to die in his clown suit. But by a knitting needle? How was it possible? “But he was in our back room, while we had a store filled with customers. Surely he would have fought back somehow. Someone would have heard something.”
“We found evidence of a sedative in Mr. Sandborn’s blood. He had been drinking a lot of your punch that afternoon, hadn’t he?” Jo heard a slight emphasis on the words “your punch.” and didn’t like it.
“
My
punch,” she said, jumping to its defense, “was served to scores of people that day. There was nothing whatsoever in it that should not have been there. I saw your evidence people take away leftover samples. They must have tested for that.”
Morgan maddeningly wouldn’t confirm that, though Jo was sure it must be true. What he did say was, “Things can be slipped into individual cups.”
Jo sighed. “And you don’t have Kyle’s cup, of course. It was one of dozens of paper cups, all crumpled up and thrown away.”
“We don’t need it. We know he ingested this sedative,” he looked down at a paper on his desk, “temazepam, also known as Restoril, an hour or so before he was killed. The exact time he was at your shop.”
Jo thought back, remembering that Kyle
had
seemed tired at the end of his session, drooping over her counter as he waited for his check. But, busy as she was, she had barely given it a second thought, and if she had, would have attributed it to the heat and stress of his day.