Yarned and Dangerous (26 page)

T
he parking lot of the town hall was full when she pulled in. She'd driven around the block so as not to arrive at the same time as Eb, and watched him from a distance as he ascended the stone steps, cane in hand. Not on the ground, but in his hand. She couldn't force him to use it, but at least he'd brought it with him.

Josie glanced around the parking lot. Jackpot. If she wasn't mistaken, Detective Potts's car sat under the yellow glare of a streetlight.

That settled it. Trey or no Trey, she was going to the town meeting.

The meeting room was packed. Eb had found—or someone had given him—an aisle seat. Josie found an empty seat a couple of rows back. She looked around.

Diantha sat facing the townsfolk, her back straight as a board and her face wearing a smug expression. She was clearly in her element, lording it over the little people. Dougie Brewster sat next to her, a placard reading M
AYOR
B
REWSTER
next to a glass of water in front of him. The other members of the council, none of whom Josie recognized, fanned out along the crescent-shaped dais.

Lorna waved when she saw Josie, then shrugged as if to apologize for not being able to sit with her. Evelyn and Helen sat toward the front, and even though their backs were to Josie, it was clear from the rise and fall of their shoulders that they were knitting away. Josie looked to her left, and her eyes fell on Courtney. She was also knitting, her head bent in concentration. Trey sat next to her, fidgeting. Since his item was last on the agenda, he had a long evening ahead of him. As did everyone else in the room, Josie supposed.

Detective Potts sat in the last row, in an end seat right in front of the door. She put her purse on her chair to hold the place and made her way toward him.

He looked up as she approached, his face unreadable. Sharla Coogan, in full uniform, entered the room at the same time, and stood along the wall on one side. Her eyes locked with Josie's. Josie gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment. Then she returned her gaze to Officer Potts.

“Could I talk to you? It'll only take a minute.”

Potts's lips were set in a hard line. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. “I got your voice mail. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“It's . . . important.”

“Not now,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Go sit down.”

What the heck was going on? She looked from Sharla to Detective Potts. There was no need to have police presence at a town meeting, was there? Not unless they were expecting trouble.

Or unless they were planning to make an arrest. In which case they already had enough evidence for a warrant. Cora's notebook would help, but it apparently wasn't absolutely necessary to the case.

“Okay,” she said. “Call me when you can.” She returned to her seat, just as Mitch and Roy came in. They located seats and sat down. Mitch smiled when he saw her, and she returned the smile.

Dougie Brewster looked at the big round wall clock behind him. At the stroke of seven, he rapped a gavel on the table in front of him. “Dorset Falls town council meeting is called to order. First order of business . . .”

He droned on, his speech occasionally punctuated by other members of the council giving their opinions. The heat was turned up in the room, and Josie wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. Moments later, her chin dropped toward her chest, and she jerked it back up. Wow. No wonder people avoided these meetings. They were dead boring. Her mind wandered.

“Next item. Vacancies on the Historic Preservation Commission.”

Diantha piped up. “I move that we table till the next meeting. We're still interviewing candidates.”

Dougie pulled at his chin, making a show of thinking about his response. He looked into the front row. “Albert, are there any pending applications that would be unreasonably delayed by tabling this item for another month?”

A man in the front row stood up. “I suppose not.” He sat down. It appeared Albert and Eb were cut from the same cloth.

“Second,” one of the council members Josie didn't know said.

Josie was livid. It was crystal clear what was happening here. By not appointing new members to the Historic Preservation Commission, the town council had hamstrung it. The only person with standing to bring a suit to stop Trey's demolition was one old man, Albert Blandford, who, if he wasn't already, should be afraid for his life.

Josie wanted desperately to jump up and protest. But she looked over at Detective Potts and Sharla, and clamped down on her impulses. They had things under control, it appeared, and she wasn't about to mess things up for them.

“Motion carried,” Dougie Brewster said. “Next item.”

As the meeting dragged on, people began to trickle out. Diantha's and Dougie's tactic of putting Trey's application last on the agenda seemed to be working. Now that the room had emptied a bit, Josie had a clear view of Rusty who, even sitting, towered over everyone in the room. Courtney looked up occasionally from her knitting to stare at the back of Rusty's head. Trey shifted in his seat, then shifted again, but kept his eyes focused straight ahead. Sharla and Detective Potts remained in their positions, faces impassive.

Finally, Dougie Brewster sat back in his chair. “Final item. Demolition permit requested for 13 Main Street. Permit issued by the building department, requires council approval.”

Trey sat up straighter. Courtney continued to knit, keeping her eyes on her work.

“Is there any discussion?” Dougie said.

Albert stood up and made his way to the chair, small table, and microphone facing the members of the council. He adjusted the microphone and, as he did so, a ring of keys fell to the carpet from his pocket with a soft metallic jingle. He bent down, picked them up, and put them on the table in front of him.

“State your name and address for the record,” Dougie said.

“Albert Blandford. 235 Ashworth Drive.”

“Proceed.” Diantha glared at Albert from one direction, while Trey glared at him from behind.

“As the sole member of the Historic Preservation Commission, I object to this permit's being granted. If Mr. Humphries wants a chicken joint in town, he doesn't have to knock down a hundred-year-old building to do it. He'd be better off putting it out on the connector road.”

A murmur went up around the room. If the remaining folks of Dorset Falls had been bored into comas by the meeting, they were awakening now. Heads began to nod in agreement with Albert's words.

Josie glanced at Sharla and Detective Potts. Their stances had changed, stiffened. Both appeared to be on high alert. Trey was clearly nervous. Courtney continued to look at her knitting, secure, perhaps, in the knowledge that the approval rested with the town council, not the members of the community.

Albert continued to talk, his voice growing more strident as he got warmed up. “Do you know what downtown Dorset Falls is going to look like with that monstrosity on the corner?” he demanded. “I want it stated on the record that I'm not afraid.”

He turned, smiling triumphantly at the rest of the crowd, as a large man strode forward toward the town clerk, who was busily typing into her computer. The large man stopped in front of the woman and dropped a set of stapled papers in front of her. She looked at the front page of the packet, her face unreadable, and passed the packet down the town council table.

Albert leaned toward the microphone. “Consider yourselves served! We'll let the Superior Court of the State of Connecticut decide whether or not Trey Humphries can tear down that building!” He slammed his fist on the table with enough force that the keys rattled in front of him.

Somebody let out a whoop, and the people of Dorset Falls began to clap. Diantha's face had gone white with anger. Dougie rapped hard with the gavel, trying to restore order.

Albert picked up his keys and put them in his pocket, grinning as he walked back to his seat.

Keys.
Something nagged at Josie. Car keys. Shop keys. Her eyes fell on Rusty, then went involuntarily to Trey and Courtney.

Trey stood up, shaking. “You—you can't do this!” he finally squeezed out.

The marshal who had served the papers positioned himself in the doorway, blocking the exit, as Sharla and Detective Potts moved toward Trey.

Trey rushed toward Albert, who had not made it back to his seat. Trey tripped over an empty chair, slowing him down long enough for Potts to tackle him to the floor, while Sharla pulled handcuffs from her belt.

“Don't you dare handcuff my son!” Diantha shrieked. “I'll sue you for everything you've got. Both of you!”

Sharla snapped on the cuffs. “Go for it,” she said. They helped Trey to his feet and began marching him toward the back of the room.

Trey looked stricken. “I didn't do anything! You can't arrest me! I never touched Albert Blandford.”

Potts's face was grim. “You're under arrest for the murder of Lillian Woodruff, and suspicion of murder of Cora Lloyd.”

“What? I didn't kill anyone!” Trey struggled, but made no headway against the iron grips of the officers.

While every eye was turned toward Trey being led out of the room, Josie's went to Courtney. Her face was white as the snow capping the shrubbery outside. She made no move to follow her husband.

Pieces of the puzzle shifted again, and Josie's mind raced to fit them together in a new way.

She stood up. “Wait!” Every head turned toward her. Potts and Sharla stopped short, keeping their grip on Trey.

“It might not have been Trey!” Josie blurted. “Courtney could have done it!”

Courtney's eyes narrowed to slits. “Shut up, you witch. Don't you think this is hard enough for me?” she hissed.

Diantha raced over to stand next to Courtney. Diantha hauled back, then propelled her arm toward Josie to strike her. Josie was quicker and grabbed Diantha's wrist. She faced them both.

“What are you thinking, Josie?” Sharla prompted.

Josie took just a moment to get it straight before she laid everything out.

“She's got nothing,” Diantha spat out.

“But I do,” Josie said. “Cora and Lillian were members of the Historic Preservation Commission. Cora had consulted with a lawyer about stopping the demolition of 13 Main Street, but she died when the air bag failed to deploy in her car, even after the car had been given a clean bill of health just the day before. Lillian Woodruff was strangled at Miss Marple Knits, but there was no sign of a break-in.”

“So what?” Courtney sneered. “There's no connection.”

“Really? We know Lillian was strangled with a cord made from yarn that came from Cora's shop. I have proof of who bought that yarn.”

Potts stared at her. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

Josie nodded. “I'll give you the documentation later.” She continued. “If someone tampered with Cora's car, it was someone with access—keys—to Rusty's shop. Someone also had keys to Miss Marple Knits. Detective Potts, I think if you investigate further, you'll find that Courtney had access to both sets of keys.”

Courtney's face went livid. “You can't prove anything.”

“Courtney's father owned Rusty's garage before Rusty bought it.” Josie turned to Rusty. “Did you change the locks after you took over?”

Rusty's face went as red as his hair. He shook his head. “I never thought of it.”

Josie went on. “So if Courtney still had a set of keys to Rusty's, she could have tampered with Cora's car. And she could have taken Cora's keys, using them to lure Lillian into Miss Marple Knits and kill her.”

Potts was silent for a moment, working through the details. “Okay,” he said. “I see the opportunity, and you say you know who bought the yarn, so once you tell me we'll have the means. But what's the motive?”

Josie chewed her lower lip. She had to be careful, or she'd give away Evelyn and Helen's secret. “If I were you, I'd look into Courtney's financial records. She's been spending a lot of time at the casinos. If I had to guess, I'd say she's racked up some gambling debts, or she's been doing a whole lot of shopping. The sale of 13 Main Street to a national fast-food chain would have netted her and Trey some significant money.”

Courtney, who'd been standing there frozen as Josie laid out her theories, suddenly bolted. Josie reached for her, but Diantha grabbed Josie and held her back.

The marshal left his post at the door and rushed over.

Suddenly, Eb's cane went flying. Courtney flailed as she tripped over the obstacle, and the marshal grabbed her before she hit the floor. Eb stood up, walked into the aisle, and retrieved the cane. “This might not be useless after all,” he said.

J
osie sat at her favorite table in the general store the next morning. Lorna made Josie go through the entire scenario again, just to make sure she had it correct. “I wonder if Trey knew about Courtney?” Lorna said, taking a bite of muffin.

“He was so hot to see the deal go through with the developer, he must have known he and Courtney were in financial trouble. Whether he knew about the murders, I guess we'll have to leave to the professionals to find out.”

Her cell phone chirped. A text from Monica. Finally. There was a phone number for the buyer, but no name.
Don't hate me. I swear I didn't know.
What did that mean? “Excuse me, will you? I have to make a call.”

Lorna waved her away. “Go use the office if you want to. Dougie's not in today.”

Josie punched in the number as she walked to the back of the store. The urgency was off. It didn't seem likely that Trey would be able to enforce the eviction from jail, where he was currently sitting while Diantha scrambled to post bail for both Courtney and Trey. But it was time for Josie to go back to New York, and the sooner she got this over with, the better.

She just wished the hollow feeling she had when she thought about it would go away.

After several rings, a voice answered. “Haus of Heinrich.”

Huh? She looked at the display on her screen and reviewed the number. How had she missed that when she dialed? The hollow feeling was replaced by rage. What was this? Some kind of joke?

“Haus of Heinrich,” the voice repeated. Anastasia, the aspiring model Otto had recently dumped, was still as snippy as ever.

“Put me through to Otto,” Josie demanded. “Now.”

There was a whooshing sound as Anastasia sucked in a breath. “Josie? Is that you? What's wrong?”

“I'll tell you later. Just put Otto on.” Josie took a few deep breaths.

The line clicked. “Josie,” Otto said. “It's about time you called me. Those drawings you sent me were . . . adequate.”

“What do you want with the inventory of a yarn shop?” She struggled to keep her anger in check.

He chuckled. “What
would
I want with all that raw material? Nothing. But I want
you
to come back.”

For the love of Prada. He thought he could manipulate her into returning to work by buying the inventory of Miss Marple Knits. “Otto, you're my employer. Or at least, you used to be. I'm not interested in any kind of relationship with you but business. I've never encouraged you. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” he said, his voice almost cheerful under his guttural Germanic phrasing. “That's what makes you interesting. You're a challenge.”

“Were my designs
ever
any good?”

“Eh, you're not too bad. But I can't have anyone doing better work than me.”

She shook her head. Why had she ever thought she wanted to go back to that job? She'd be eating noodles from a cup and might have to move in with her mother, but there was no way she was going back to the Haus of Heinrich.

“Otto, the deal's off. I don't want your damn money.” She was aware, as she said it, that Eb would not be getting his new truck. “And I quit. Permanently.”

His voice went serious. She could picture him on the other end of the phone, going into international businessman mode. “You'll never work at another design house. Anywhere. Ever.”

“Fine by me.” She hung up.

“I'm headed over to the shop, Lorna,” she said, placing a five-dollar bill on the table. “Talk to you later.”

Josie walked past the empty storefronts of Main Street, barely registering her surroundings, until she got to the bright blue door of Miss Marple Knits. Her thoughts raced. Finally, she put her key in the lock. The door swung open, and her eyes roamed the space. The yarn was still bagged up around the perimeter of the room, the cubbies still empty.

You can do this,
a voice said inside her head. A feeling suffused her like a warm embrace. She ran her hand along the sales counter until her fingers closed on the frame of the picture of Miss Marple. The old woman no longer looked threatening or accusing. She looked almost . . . smug.

Josie hung the picture back on its nail and gave the actress a chuck under the chin with her index finger. “What do you say, Janie? Let's give it a go.”