Silence of the Lamb's Wool (A Yarn Retreat Mystery) Read online

  Hearing it was poison in Nicole’s drink seemed to reassure Bree. “There’s no way I would have taken a drink from a stranger. Stranger danger—that’s what I tell my boys all the time. No, if a stranger had offered me a cup of coffee I never would have taken it.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” I said to the young mother. “I think Nicole was a deliberate target.” I told them about what her husband had said about her being involved with something bad. We brainstormed for a moment about what it might be. It was hard since three of the people at the table had never even met the victim, though I described her shop.

  We came up with counterfeit antiques. Smuggling drugs in the old quilts she had for sale. “Diamonds are always good,” Olivia said. “Maybe she was fencing stolen jewelry.”

  “All good ideas,” I said, “but I’d knock out the fencing-stolen-jewelry concept. The only jewelry in the place were some creepy pieces made with woven hair.” I was going to mention that they’d gone missing, but Maggie arrived with our drinks.

  “I heard you talking about hair jewelry.” The proprietor began to set our drinks in front of us. “It’s definitely not my taste. But Nicole seemed very fond of the style.” When she had finished handing out the drinks, Maggie folded the tray under her arm. “She brought in a necklace to show me.”

  I asked Maggie what it looked like. “The chain was silver. The pendant had the woven hair.” She held up her thumb and forefinger to indicate the size and said it was heart shaped.

  “Was it a locket?” I asked.

  “I think so. I do remember that it looked pretty beat-up. Nicole asked me a lot of questions about it. Like had I ever seen it before.”

  Maggie seemed about to walk away. I put my hand out to stop her. “Had you ever seen it before?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told her. I have a definite memory of seeing someone wearing it all the time.” She glanced toward the door as it opened and a couple walked in. “But no memory of who it was. Believe me, I racked my brain. Nicole was very persistent. It seemed to bother her no end that I could remember how my customers liked their drinks but couldn’t remember who the necklace had belonged to.”

  The new arrivals were speaking German and taking pictures of everything. Clearly tourists. Maggie excused herself and eased back behind the counter. A moment later, there was a fuss going on.

  It had something to do with confusion over their order as Maggie held a red paper cup with a sleeve around it in each hand while trying to understand what they wanted. One of the young men reached across the counter, took the cups out of her hand. Scott thought it was some kind of threat and jumped up to intervene.

  The tourist ignored Scott and let the cardboard sleeves fall off the cup and hit the floor. Shaking his head vehemently, he made a big X out of his arms. Then his fellow traveler smiled as he took the cups and dropped one cup inside the other. Both men nodded with exaggerated approval.

  “Now I get it,” Maggie said with a friendly laugh.

  “I’m glad she understood,” Scott said when he returned to the table.

  Lucinda looked at her watch as she drank the last of the foam on her coffee drink. “I have to go. I am going to work lunch in the restaurant and help Tag get ready for dinner, then I’ll be at Vista Del Mar to check in for the retreat.”

  “We all have to go,” I said. Scott, Olivia and Bree stood and said they were off to Cadbury Yarn.

  “Some people collect snow globes when they travel. With me, it’s yarn,” Olivia said, and the others nodded in agreement. They asked me to join them, but I said there was something I had to take care of.

  I walked with Lucinda as far as the Blue Door. There were already people standing on the small porch, waiting to be seated. As Lucinda rushed up the stairs to get to work, I realized I still hadn’t had a chance to tell her about Dane and his company.

  13

  When I was alone, I headed up the street to The Bank. I had the key and even with Will’s mini-outburst, he hadn’t rescinded his offer for the bag of yarn and knitting supplies, which would be perfect to use for making the squares.

  As I turned the key in the front door of Nicole’s shop and studio, I felt a wave of apprehension, remembering the other night and the disarray I’d found. Once I was inside, I quickly turned on the lights and looked around. There was a big empty space where the spinning wheels had been, but other than that the interior looked the same as when Dane and I had left it the previous night.

  I went to the back of the studio where the spinning wheels had been and began to look around for the bag of yarn and supplies. The basket of yarn seemed more for decoration and had some samples of handspun yarn. I regretted not asking Will exactly where it was. I went behind the partition into the area Nicole seemed to have used as a private space. At first I thought there was nothing there, but then I noticed the two cubicles. I opened the door on one and noted that the small room seemed to be a storage area. I saw a shopping bag filled to the top with balls of yarn. Another bag sat next to it and when I checked, I saw it held a hodgepodge of knitting needles, stitch holders and assorted accessories. Sure that this was what Will had referred to, I started to pick up the bags. My back hit something and when I turned, I saw a dresser with the drawers pulled out. Hadn’t Will said something about a dresser they’d bought at a garage sale? As I stepped closer to get a better look at the tall piece, I caught a whiff of a mildewy scent. It was clearly coming from the cardboard box on the other side of the dresser.

  I looked over the top of it and saw it seemed to be full of old clothes. Will had mentioned that, too. I thought back to what he’d said. Something about wanting to throw it all out, but Nicole wanted to keep the stuff. He thought she’d planned to refurbish the fabric.

  When I examined the item on top, I wondered how true that was. Not only was it limp and a little slimy, the man’s dress shirt hardly seemed worth the trouble of saving. But why else would she have kept the box of stuff? Then something Nicole had said to me floated through my mind. She’d said locked cabinets were a red flag there was something valuable inside and how she kept valuable things here no one would look. This box definitely qualified as that. Who would think there was anything of importance in a box of stinky fabrics?

  It was like dealing with Julius’s stink fish all over again. Holding my nose, I began to unpack the box. I took out the man’s shirt. It was hard to tell how old it was, as men’s clothes weren’t as stylized as women’s. Below it, I found some old linen tablecloths and embroidered hand towels, then more clothes. The yellowing undershirts must have been white once. I picked up and dropped with a loud “ick” the yellowy pair of men’s underwear. There was no clue to how old they were. That style of briefs had been around for years. The fabric felt clammy from years of absorbing moisture and I wished I were wearing some kind of gloves.

  To speed matters up, I lifted everything out of the box and put it on the ground. I took the container closer to the overhead light and looked inside. Nothing. Maybe she had just kept the stuff with the hopes of dealing with it in the future. I started to lift everything back into the box, but had an idea.

  I flipped over the stack of clothes and began to go through the contents piece by piece, putting each thing back in the box after I’d looked at it. The bottom items were definitely highest on the moldy factor. I quickly dropped them back in with only a cursory glance. And then as I peeled back a moth-eaten navy blue sweater, something fell out and hit the ground with a ping.

  I checked the floor around me and found a key. After separating a few more items, I found a silver hairbrush and then a photograph stuck in an envelope with Our Baby written on the front. It was an old color print. Time and all that moisture had distorted the colors, but I could still make out the image of a baby. I continued going through the stack of clothes and a heart-shaped locket tumbled out. I had another ick response when I turned it over
and saw that the front was covered in a pattern of woven hair. Even so, I opened it. The tiny black-and-white photo of the baby was still clear and seemed to be the same baby as the one in the faded photograph. Could this be the locket Maggie had mentioned? I could certainly see why Nicole wouldn’t have displayed it in the condition it was in. Nicole probably had just been curious and that was why she’d asked Maggie about it. Nothing else showed up as I finished going through the smelly material.

  I laid the items on the floor and examined them for some kind of identification. There was nothing to indicate whom they’d belonged to or, more important, what they meant. Or if they meant anything. Maybe I was seeing plots where there weren’t any. The random items might have been in the dresser and ended up with the other stuff. Not sure what else to do with them, I took out some of the clothes and buried the items between the moth-eaten navy blue sweater and a pair of the men’s briefs.

  I’d lost track of time and remembered my group. I quickly rearranged everything to look like it had when I’d found it, grabbed the bags of yarn and supplies and closed the door to the small cubicle.

  Finally, I turned off the lights and locked up before rushing to meet up with my group.

  14

  As Olivia, Scott and Bree climbed into my car, I showed off the stash of yarn and needles I’d gotten from Nicole’s place. Olivia offered to take charge of it and hand things out as needed. By the time we’d driven back to Vista Del Mar, Scott had already extracted a pair of number 8 needles and a skein of gray worsted-weight yarn. I’d barely stopped the car in front of the Lodge when he hopped out and headed toward the dining room.

  “I want to see this,” Olivia said, getting out of the backseat. Without anyone explaining, I knew the “this” she was talking about was Scott presenting the knitting supplies to his red-polo-shirted friend.

  “I hope it works out,” Bree said as she got out of the other side. “Scott seems to have forgotten how secretive he used to be about his knitting.”

  I quickly parked the car and stopped the engine. I wanted to see what was going to happen, too, but for another reason. If one of my retreaters made trouble with a retreater from another group, was I going to get the blame?

  I started to sprint across the grounds toward the Sea Foam dining hall, imagining all kinds of scenarios. Just as I was passing the Lodge, the door opened and Lieutenant Borgnine walked out. I wanted to continue on to the dining hall, but I wondered what he was doing there.

  I screeched to a stop and backed up.

  “Ms. Feldstein,” he said, nodding with a cursory greeting before walking on. He was holding up his cell phone, grumbling about not being able to get a signal. At least for him, the unplugged idea seemed to be having the opposite effect Kevin St. John intended. The cop seemed stressed. He looked even more stressed when he realized I’d changed directions and was walking beside him.

  “Are you here about Nicole Welton’s death?” I asked.

  “Still with the questions,” he said, looking at his phone one last time as if by some magic it might suddenly get a signal; then he jammed it into his pocket.

  Undaunted that he’d ignored my question, I persisted. “I’m sure you checked the fingerprints on the paper cup found at the crime scene.” I thought phrasing it as a statement rather than a question might sit better with him, but if anything it seemed to make him more on edge.

  “Ms. Feldstein, I am very complete in my investigations. Of course we checked the fingerprints on the coffee cup along with determining where it came from. The fingerprints belonged to the victim and the proprietor of the Coffee Shop, just as expected.” He seemed almost angry with himself for answering.

  I should have quit while I was ahead. I had actually gotten an answer from him. But I couldn’t resist. “The fact that you’re here must mean the case is still open,” I said. I saw his eyes go skyward and he started to walk faster, but so did I. His blue-and-white cruiser was just ahead. We were still neck and neck when he pulled open the door.

  I thought he was going to get in and slam the door to punctuate his displeasure, but instead he looked me in the eye and spoke in a terse voice. “I was just here tying up loose ends. Nothing has changed. Nicole Welton’s death is still being considered a suicide.” He leaned down to get in. “So, then, there is nothing for you to investigate and there is no reason for you to ask me any more questions.” He glanced back toward the Lodge as the Vista Del Mar van pulled up and began to empty. “Don’t you have some kind of retreat to run?”

  He mustn’t have been expecting an answer, because before I said anything he was in the car, and a moment later he was backing out, coming within a hairbreadth of grazing me. It was too bad that he didn’t realize we were really on the same side.

  I had used up my time to check out the action in the dining hall. I just hoped that there hadn’t been a big scene when Scott gave his friend the needles. Or if there was, that Kevin St. John wasn’t there to witness it. I left the Mini Cooper parked on the grounds and dashed across the street.

  It was time to take on the look of a retreat director. That was the title I thought best described me. I didn’t want anything too authoritative-looking, like a suit, but a step up from my usual outfit of comfortably loose jeans and a stretchy top was in order. I had already planned the outfit, so it was just a matter of putting it on and doing my makeup and hair.

  Julius slipped out as I left to go back across the street, wearing black pants with a white shirt hanging loose. I had made sure to add something from the accessories my aunt had knit and crocheted. The bracelet made of granny squares seemed perfect. The yarn seemed very fine and Crystal from Cadbury Yarn had explained it was crochet thread. I’d finished off the look with a black knitted wrap dotted with sewn-on small red crocheted flowers. One of my fleece jackets would have felt warmer, but I was learning that sometimes you had to give up comfort for the “look.”

  I let out a sigh of relief as I pulled out the chair to the registration table. I did a last-minute check. The tote bags were ready, the folders were complete with schedules, lists of activities at Vista Del Mar, a name tag and a meal ticket. A cluster of women were standing with their suitcases near the registration counter. As soon as they saw me at my table, they began to move toward it en masse.

  “Showtime,” I muttered to myself, putting on my most professional manner. This was a whole different situation than the Petit Retreat I’d put on with only a handful of people. The women formed a line. Before I could deal with the first person, the line had gotten longer. I realized my aunt probably would have had help.

  The first woman stepped forward and I welcomed her, noting her rust-colored hair. Since I didn’t think any of them knew who Nicole was, I had simply gone through all the programs and crossed out her name and written in Wanda’s. There was no reason to mention what had happened to Nicole. It wasn’t a happy note to start on.

  “I’m so excited to be here,” the woman said, writing her name on her name tag. She had already become “the Ginger” in my mind, whatever her name turned out to be. “I came up from San Diego.” She was looking around as she pinned the name tag on. She stared at a sign by the door. “It says there’s no cell service here?” Her expression began to crumble.

  I pointed out the phone booths and she began to talk about how retro it was. Meanwhile I could see the women behind her beginning to shift their weight and look around—a sure sign they were getting impatient.

  I tried to wrap things up, but she kept going on while I was mentally berating myself for not figuring out that everyone would arrive at once.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Olivia’s almond-shaped face. She pulled a chair next to me and sat down. “I saw how swamped you were,” she said, taking the sheets with the first part of the alphabet. She quickly made a card showing which letters she had.

  “But this is supposed to be your retreat,” I protested. I
didn’t say it, but I was thinking that she was paying me for this time.

  “This is part of the retreat for me,” she said. “It makes me feel useful.”

  Scott came in from the other side and took the last part of the alphabet and the line began to move and now I didn’t feel bad spending time talking to each person as I checked them in.

  Scott was beaming as he explained to each of his people that he was a knitter and would be attending the retreat right along with them.

  Bree was working the line. I heard her apologizing for the wait and doing a pitch on what a great time they were going to have.

  A young woman moved up to the table and looked at the three sections. “Fiore,” she said with a question in her expression. I raised my hand and she stepped up in front of me. I looked down the page as I picked up one of the folders.

  “Welcome, Ronny,” I said when I found her name and information. I noticed that she listed an address in Monterey. “You’re local. Most of the retreaters came from a longer distance.” I looked at her name again. “I just met someone with the same last name the other day. Burton Fiore.”

  “He’s my father,” she said. It was hard to see any resemblance, since he had a mustache and she didn’t. It suddenly struck me that she was going to be Cora Delacorte’s stepdaughter.