Knit One, Kill Two Page 12

  “So, your health is good, then,” she continued to probe. “I mean, your heart and everything?”

  Martha almost looked amused. “Yes, indeed, it is. I know I look frail, and the arm adds to that, but inside I’m strong as an ox, Kelly. I used to work sunup to sundown on the farm years ago. Kept me healthy, I guess. Why do you ask?”

  Kelly let out a sigh. “Well, to be honest, I was wondering if you held the answer to something that’s puzzling me. You see, I learned last week that Helen had refinanced the mortgage on her cottage and withdrawn a large amount of money. She never told me she planned to do that. So I was trying to figure out why she’d need the money and not tell me.” Kelly stared through the tall living room window, not really seeing the trees outside. “When I heard about you and met you briefly in church, I confess, I thought perhaps she’d intended the money for you. And maybe you needed it for . . . for something.” She gestured in an attempt to explain. “Maybe you needed an operation or surgery . . . I don’t know.”

  “Money? H-how much m-money?” Martha whispered, her face completely drained of color.

  Kelly glanced back at the sound of concern and set her tea cup on the table immediately. It was a good thing Martha had said she was healthy, because she looked as if she was about to pass out that minute. “Martha, are you alright?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, dismissing the question with a wave of her hand. “Tell me about this money again. When did Helen withdraw it?”

  That cold feeling returned to Kelly’s gut. Clearly, Martha knew nothing about Helen’s large withdrawal. The neat and tidy answer to the money puzzle had been eliminated, leaving Kelly once again with her nagging doubts. “Helen never told you she was taking out another mortgage and withdrawing cash?” she probed.

  “Never. When did this occur?”

  “Chambers said she called him the very day of her death and told him she’d just received the check from the loan company. He also said he never dreamed she’d cash it that afternoon.”

  “That was the day she was murdered?” Martha looked truly horrified now.

  “Yes. That’s the thing that bothers me the most. The very day she cashes a check for twenty thousand dollars, someone just happens to break into her house and kills her.” Kelly deliberately let the lingering resentment seep into her voice.

  Martha sat bolt upright in the rocking chair. “Twenty thousand dollars!” she exclaimed, eyes as round as saucers.

  “That was my reaction, too,” Kelly declared. “Frankly, I was hoping you were the answer. Now, I’m left with all my nagging doubts about her death.”

  “What do you mean, Kelly?” Martha asked, concern evident on her face. “The police have the wretched man responsible for her death. He’s in jail, I thought.”

  “The man in jail is a vagrant the police saw running away from the vicinity that night. They’re convinced he’s the killer because he has a history of drunken violence.” She screwed up her face. “He has no recollection, of course. And on top of that, all the money is missing. Not a single bill was found at the house or near the river. And that doesn’t make sense to me, Martha. The police have all sorts of theories for how the money disappeared, but—”

  At that, Martha sprang from her rocker and began to pace the worn oak floor. “Oh, dear . . . oh, dear . . . oh, dear . . .” she muttered as she walked, fingers plucking at her left arm.

  “What is it, Martha? What’s the matter?”

  “I had this feeling, a bad feeling,” Martha said, so softly Kelly wasn’t sure if she was talking to her or not.

  “What feeling, Martha? Please tell me,” Kelly coaxed. “It might be important.”

  Martha made one more turn about the small room before stopping in front of Kelly’s chair. “Helen was worried about something, and she wouldn’t tell me what. But I knew something was wrong. When I questioned her, all she said was, ‘Our sins come back to haunt us, don’t they?’ ”

  Kelly sank back into the familiar cushioned chair. Sins? Aunt Helen? Surely not. That made no sense. “What did she mean, Martha? Do you have any idea?”

  Martha’s brief glance answered Kelly’s question. “Yes, I’m afraid I do,” she said as she returned to her rocker. She rocked quietly for a full minute before speaking. “I’m sure she meant her youthful indiscretion years ago.”

  With great effort, Kelly kept her jaw from dropping and waited for Martha to continue.

  Martha observed Kelly’s rapt attention. “Years ago, when Helen was still in high school, she had a . . . well, she conceived a child. This was nineteen fifty-five, so things were very different than they are now. Oh, my, yes. Her parents were stricken, of course, especially when she refused to name the father.” Martha’s voice got softer as she stared toward the windows. “Her father and mine were brothers, and even though our families didn’t see each other often, we stayed in touch. Helen and I were only a year apart. Her father insisted she come to our farm in Wyoming to spend the rest of her pregnancy and have the baby. He also insisted she put the baby up for adoption, or she couldn’t return home.”

  Kelly sat in shocked silence, stunned by what she heard.

  “Naturally, Helen and I grew very close during those months. My mother and I both were with her at the birth. And when she gave up the baby.” She paused.

  “That must have been so hard,” Kelly whispered, feeling an anguished tug inside.

  “It was,” Martha replied. “But we placed him with a local agency, the Sisters of Charity, and they assured us he’d have a wonderful home. A healthy baby boy. Blond and blue-eyed.”

  “When was he born?” Kelly asked.

  “December eleventh, nineteen fifty-five. I remember it was snowing the night he was born. Helen stayed with us through Christmas, then returned to Fort Connor after New Year’s. That next year was much happier for her. She met Jim Rosburg that spring, and they were married in late fall.” Martha’s expression softened. “They had a good marriage.”

  “Did Helen ever get curious about the child? Or try to look for him in later years?”

  Martha shook her head. “Not to my knowledge. Helen and I never spoke of that particular bit of shared history again.”

  “But you think her comment last month referred to that?” Kelly pried.

  “I’m afraid so,” she said, rubbing her arm. “I had this bad feeling come over me when she said it. And I asked her straight out if she meant the child, but she wouldn’t answer. Of course, that worried me even more.”

  “Do you think the child learned of her identity and contacted her?”

  Martha shook her head. “I don’t know if it was the child or perhaps the father who had come back to ‘haunt’ her, as she said. I wish I knew.”

  So did Kelly. Hundreds of questions were buzzing inside now, but Kelly had no answers. “And she never revealed the name of the father?”

  “Never.”

  “Did she ever say anything about him?”

  Martha sighed. “Only that he ‘couldn’t marry her.’ That’s all she ever said.”

  Hmmmm, Kelly thought. Couldn’t or wouldn’t? she wondered. And who was he? Maybe Helen kept the birth certificate or something. Something with the father’s name on it. Kelly had yet to really search the desk or dressers in the cottage. Perhaps Helen left a clue to this man’s identity.

  Had the baby’s father reentered her life? Had the child found out his true mother and contacted her? Which was it?

  Kelly pulled herself out of the comfy chair. “Martha, I cannot thank you enough for trusting me with all this. I’m going back to the cottage to start searching right now. Helen may have saved some memento or something from the past that might tell me more.”

  “Do you really think her death is connected to all of that in the past?” Martha asked, face puckering with concern again.

  “I don’t know, Martha. But like you, I’ve got a bad feeling about
all of this. Something’s not right about the police version of Helen’s death, and I intend to find out what it is.”

  Nine

  Kelly snapped on the miniature Victorian desk lamp, and a golden circle of light spilled across Helen’s maple desk and onto the floor. Dusk had settled, and she didn’t even notice. If it hadn’t been for Carl barking for supper in the yard, she wouldn’t have known it was dark outside. Her stomach growled, and she checked her watch. No wonder she was hungry. At least Carl was smart enough to know dinnertime when it arrived.

  She’d been so absorbed in searching that she’d lost all track of time. Checking her stainless steel mug came up empty. Just like her search. She’d gone through every drawer in Helen’s house—desk, bedroom dressers, dining room cabinets, china closet, kitchen drawers, even the tool drawers in the garage. Nothing. Kelly had even checked the undersides of each drawer and cabinet in case Helen had hidden a document in the cracks. There was no paper, no picture, no record of any kind that indicated this child existed.

  Kelly stood up and indulged in a long stretch. Food would help. She always ran dry of ideas on an empty stomach. On the way to the kitchen, she noticed that the knitting shop was already closed and dark. It seemed like only a few minutes ago that she’d called Mimi and asked about the boxes in the garage. Now, it was nearly night.

  Mimi had confirmed that the boxes contained only books. No papers or folders of any kind. Darn, Kelly thought, every place turned up nothing. Helen must have eliminated every trace of that event in her life.

  Kelly surveyed the fridge’s meager contents and chose a peach yogurt. She really needed to buy groceries. At least there was some coffee left, and she drained the last of the pot into her mug. Snagging a spoon, she wandered back into the cozy living room and sat in the middle of the old oriental rug to enjoy what passed for dinner. Was there any place she hadn’t looked, she wondered?

  She surveyed the room and consumed the yogurt in two minutes flat. Her glance traveled over the bookshelves, drifted away, then abruptly returned. She’d noticed on the lower shelf some varying size volumes, not the neat and tidy rows of novels and handyman and history books. Curious, she settled beside the bookcase and removed one. It was an atlas. Just to be sure, she riffled the pages, then replaced it and withdrew the black leather volume beside it. The leather felt smooth and warm to the touch. On the front was an American flag inlay and the name of Helen’s high school and the date—1955.

  Helen’s high school yearbook. Kelly felt a little buzz inside, and it wasn’t connected to caffeine. Helen was eighteen when she gave birth, that meant she was seventeen when she became pregnant and still in high school. The baby was born in December, after her graduation. Maybe the father was a fellow student, Kelly thought as she turned the pages.

  Black-and-white photos of young women in white blouses and impossibly full skirts, crinolines peeking from beneath. Clean-shaven young men with crew cuts. Every page, it seemed, had a signature. That didn’t surprise Kelly, knowing her aunt’s vivacious nature. Helen probably had lots of friends. Loopy, swirling script recorded best wishes. And spare, cramped signatures wrote across photos.

  There was Lawrence Chambers, she noticed. Younger-looking but somber even then. He stared out with wide eyes. “To Helen—the brightest girl in class!” he wrote beside his picture. Kelly paged through the class snapshots and into the activities section of the yearbook. Greetings and best wishes adorned nearly every page.

  Kelly was about to riffle through the last pages, when she spotted another signature. This one wasn’t childish scribble or loopy swirls, but bold, heavy strokes of a black ink pen. “Yours, always. Curt,” the jagged script read. Above was a photo of a lean and lanky young cowboy holding a horse’s reins and staring right into the camera, as if daring the photographer to capture his image. Kelly leaned over the photo, fascinated by the young cowboy. All trace of boyhood was gone from his face. Only the slightly cocky lift to his chin hinted at youth. Something about the photo made Kelly’s antennae buzz. Maybe she’d hit pay dirt after all.

  She scanned the credits for his name. Curtis Stackhouse. Flipping to the back, she scanned the index and found two more photos. One a blurry shot of Curtis on the football squad and the formal graduation “mug shot.” Kelly noticed that the dare-you look in Stackhouse’s eye was evident even there.

  Kelly stood up and headed for the dining room and her laptop computer. Thank goodness her office files hadn’t arrived yet. That way she wouldn’t feel guilty spending the rest of the evening tracking Curtis Stackhouse on the Web.

  “Hey, good morning,” Rosa called out when Kelly made the turn from the restaurant doorway into the knitting shop.

  “It’s a great morning, Rosa,” Kelly declared as she made her way around a weaving loom. “Are those all knitting magazines?” she asked when she noticed Rosa’s arm-load.

  “Well, some are. Others are pattern magazines, and weaving magazines, and spinning magazines, and designer magazines.” She smiled over her shoulder. “You name it, we’ve got it.”

  “I’ll have to check those later,” Kelly promised and headed for the main room, balancing briefcase, knitting tote bag, and coffee mug. She almost got there, but the changing display in the middle room captured her first.

  The fat multicolored bundles of chunky yarn she chose for her new scarf were now replaced by solid pastels—pink, lime, coral, tangerine—all just as pudgy and soft and begging to be touched. Kelly freed up one hand and started squeezing the plump bundles, unable to resist. New skeins in different colors had been added to the other displays as well. Naturally, she had to examine those, indulging the irresistible desire to sink her fingers into the softness.

  Another new display on the center table caught her attention next. It was a little girl’s coat in a rich burgundy. She leaned over the table and fingered the fabric. It resembled an old-fashioned bathrobe and felt even softer. What was it, she wondered?

  “It’s French chenille,” Rosa spoke up beside her. “It comes on one of those big cones, see?” She pointed to the corner, and sure enough, there was a huge cone of burgundy chenille.

  “It feels like an old-fashioned bathrobe,” Kelly joked. “But softer.”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s yummy soft and knits up like a dream. You should see how fast this little coat knits up.”

  Kelly stared in awe. It had tiny sleeves and a collar and buttons. “Easy for you to say. I’m just learning. No way could I do that.”

  Rosa tossed her long dark braid behind her back and laughed. “You’ll be surprised how quickly you’ll learn. I made one of those for my little girl in January. She turned five, and it was absolutely adorable on her. Meanwhile, you could start with something really easy, like those trendy washcloths.”

  “Washcloths?”

  “Yes, for the bath. They’re all the rage. People are knitting those up like crazy. They sell for $30 in the boutique shops.”

  Kelly’s mouth almost dropped open. She was about to comment when Megan came through the foyer and into the shop. Like Kelly, she had a mug in one hand and her tote bag in the other.

  “Hey, Kelly. You missed all the excitement yesterday afternoon. The police came over with some yarn they found by the riverbank. They wanted Mimi to identify it to see if it was Helen’s.”

  “What?!” Kelly exclaimed as she followed Megan to the library table where she deposited her things and sat down. “Darn! I wish I’d been here. Was it that Lieutenant Morrison?”

  “No, it was a regular uniformed officer,” Megan replied as she settled into a chair. “I only got a glimpse of the wool. He had it in a plastic bag. But Mimi could tell you more, after all, he was talking to . . . oh, there you are, Mimi. Tell Kelly what happened yesterday with the purple wool.”

  Mimi appeared from the office area. “Hi, Kelly,” she greeted and started straightening books on the shelves, glancing briefly over her shoulder. “
One of the police officers investigating the case came by with a plastic bag with charred pieces of purple wool inside. He wanted to know if it was the same wool Helen was using for the sweater.”

  “Was it?”

  “It appeared to be the same.” Mimi continued to move among the shelves, patting books into place. “There was a small section of sweater that hadn’t been charred, and I could tell from that.”

  Kelly frowned. “And he said they found it near the riverbank recently?”

  “Yes. I believe he told me they found it yesterday. And they wanted me to identify it before they sent it to the criminal investigative lab in Denver.”

  “I wonder why they didn’t find it the first time they searched the riverbank,” Kelly mused out loud, swirling her coffee. “Lieutenant Morrison swore they searched every inch of that trail by the river. And now, a week later, a piece of Helen’s sweater shows up.”

  “Burned, too,” Megan contributed, head bent over the turquoise sweater she was completing. Two sleeves had appeared.

  “Why would he burn it?” Kelly speculated as she reached into her tote bag and brought out the colorful chunky wool scarf she’d started two days ago. Hopefully, she’d remember what she was doing. “That makes no sense. Here’s this drunken vagrant with a purse full of money and he takes time to burn a half-finished sweater.”

  “I agree, it makes no sense,” Megan concurred. “I mean, according to the police he tried to hide the money near the riverbank. If so, then why would he start a fire and draw attention there?” She shook her head.

  “Why, indeed?” Mimi spoke softly as she approached.

  Kelly glanced into Mimi’s worried face. “There are too many things about Helen’s death that don’t make sense to me, Mimi. I don’t like it.”

  Mimi reached out and patted Kelly’s shoulder. “I know you don’t, dear. I don’t, either. Why don’t we knit on it.”