Knit One, Kill Two Page 14

  Burt frowned. “The quilt doesn’t make sense. Neither does the knitted sweater. Money, yes. Those things, no.”

  “I know, I know,” Kelly gestured impatiently. “There are too many loose ends. That’s what drives me crazy.”

  Burt started the wheel again, his fingers returning to their rhythmic movements as the bobbin filled. “I’ll make a couple of phone calls. On the quiet. Don’t want to step on any toes, but I still have my contacts in the department. I’ll let you know what I find out, okay?”

  An immense burden seemed to lift from her shoulders. At last, her suspicions were taken seriously. “Thank you, Burt, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, I’m only going to ask a few questions.”

  Kelly was about to thank him again, when she spotted a familiar white truck with red and blue stripes come down the driveway. Her office files had arrived at last.

  Ten

  Mimi toyed with the teaspoon. She’d stirred her cup of Earl Grey tea so much, Kelly was sure it was cold as a stone by now. “This is so very disturbing, Kelly,” she said after a moment. “In a way, it was almost comforting to believe that Helen’s death was a random act of violence. But now . . .”

  “I know,” Kelly picked up the thought. “Now, there’s a real possibility that the killer knew her, and that’s a very scary thought.”

  “Frightening,” Mimi agreed and shivered. “I cannot imagine who this person from her past might be, can you?”

  Kelly glanced around the empty café. Pete didn’t mind if Mimi’s staff entered after closing. Sometimes it was the only private spot available. She leaned back into the wooden chair and swirled the dregs of her coffee. She’d deliberately waited until nearly closing to speak with Mimi, not only to avoid the afternoon customer rush, but also so she could make progress on her office accounts.

  Responsibilities had landed with the delivery of her corporate client files. Kelly was amazed how foreign these accounts looked to her after nearly three weeks away from them. Her mind had drifted so far from corporate accounting issues, she wondered at first if she could lasso it back. That image made her laugh. Coming back home to the West was affecting her in more ways than she knew.

  “I’m guessing either the child found out his birth mother’s identity and approached Helen, or the father reentered her life. I searched every place I could in the cottage but found nothing about the child. However, I may have found a clue about the father in Helen’s high school yearbook.”

  “Really? What was it?”

  “There’s a very personal inscription on one of the photos. It’s not much, but it’s something.” Kelly drained the last drops, grounds and all, and screwed up her face at the bitter taste. “His name’s Curtis Stackhouse, and he’s a rancher in northern Colorado apparently. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find much personal information on the Web. I’ve found notations of land sales, he’s listed as a livestock breeder, both sheep and steers. There’s a photo of him judging sheep at a state fair years ago. Calves, too. He’s a member of various organizations but they didn’t list addresses or phone numbers. And he’s not listed in the phone directory at all. In fact, there’re no Stackhouses listed.”

  “Hmmm, Stackhouse,” Mimi pondered, staring off into the darkened café. “I don’t recall that name. But Steve would probably know.”

  “Steve? Why would he know?”

  Mimi smiled. “Steve’s family has been in Fort Connor for generations. I think his great-grandfather farmed here in the 1880s or some such. His father used to be one of the biggest ranchers and landowners in northern Colorado. Over the years, of course, he’s sold most of it, but his father knew just about every ranching family that ever lived here. And Steve has probably met most of them growing up. His mom and dad used to throw big barbeques every summer.” Mimi’s expression grew wistful. “I remember going to those parties. There was music and great food outside in the summertime. Oh my, they were nice.”

  Kelly deliberately said nothing, not wanting to disturb Mimi’s memory. She wondered how she could pump Steve for information without revealing Helen’s past. Immersed in her thoughts, she was startled at the sound of Rosa’s voice.

  “Connie’s on the phone. She doesn’t think she can help Megan with the trip to the wool festival tomorrow. She’s home sick with stomach flu. Do you want to talk with her?” Rosa asked as she leaned around the archway into the café.

  “Ohhh, no!” Mimi exclaimed. “Poor girl. Let me talk with her,” she said and left to grab the white portable in Rosa’s hand. “Don’t leave yet, Kelly.”

  Kelly grabbed her empty mug, wishing Pete left some coffee, and headed back into the bright lights of the shop. Checking her watch, she realized Carl was probably visualizing roast squirrel for dinner. It was dusk outside already. If she left now, she could run by the shopping center and buy groceries. She didn’t think she could face peach yogurt again.

  Rosa was going through the familiar closing routine. Kelly grabbed her tote bag and was about to leave when Mimi called out, “Wait, Kelly. I need to ask you a favor.”

  “Sure, what is it?” Kelly answered as Mimi hastened toward her.

  “I was counting on Connie to help out Megan tomorrow morning. We’re taking a group of our senior knitters to a wool festival up near Rocky Mountain National Park. We’ve got five ladies signed up, and Megan will need help driving them over and back. Would you be able to go with them tomorrow?” she asked. “It would take the whole morning and early afternoon, probably. I know that’s asking a lot, Kelly. After all, you just got your files and you’re working—”

  Kelly held up her hand. “I’ll be happy to help out, Mimi. No problem. I can work ahead tonight, so I can take off tomorrow morning,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Besides, it’ll be good to get up in the mountains.”

  Mimi beamed. “Ohhh, thank you, Kelly. That’s so sweet. You’ll enjoy the festival, too. There are sheep and alpaca and llamas and demonstrations and vendors. Goodness, if it has to do with wool, it’s there.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Kelly said, heading toward the door. “I’m going to the grocery store already, so I’ll gas up the car for tomorrow.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. We won’t need your car. Steve’s taking his truck. As a matter of fact, you can ask him about that rancher while you’re riding into the mountains.”

  That caught Kelly by surprise. “Steve? Why’s he going?”

  “He volunteered to pick up this loom that I ordered.” Mimi said over her shoulder as she headed toward her office. Rosa was already turning off lights. “The craftsman will be at the festival, and I simply don’t have a vehicle big enough to carry that thing. Thanks, again, Kelly. See you in the morning. Nine o’clock would be great.” She turned a corner and was gone.

  Kelly frowned after her. Sneaky, Mimi. Very sneaky.

  “I’ll let you ladies out here,” Steve said and aimed the truck to the side of a huge exhibition building, away from the packed parking areas. “That way you won’t have to walk far. The entrance is right around the corner.” He pointed toward the crowd of people milling around the front.

  Kelly was amazed at how many people were already at the festival, and it was only mid-morning. She couldn’t remember being at these fairgrounds before. Maybe they were new, she thought, as she read the signs hanging over several of the barns spread out in a horseshoe. Sheep. Alpaca. Llamas.

  “Oh, thank you, Steve, dear. You’re such a gentleman,” Lizzie said. “Isn’t he, Kelly?”

  “Oh, indeed, he is, Lizzie,” Kelly agreed, trying not to smile as she shouldered open the passenger door of Steve’s big red truck. Glad she’d worn sneakers and jeans, Kelly easily hopped to the ground and offered her hand to Lizzie. Even with the built-in step below the running board, the petite little knitter would need help making it to the ground.

  Now that she was ba
ck in the West, Kelly reacquainted herself quickly with the oversized vehicles that filled city streets and county roads as well as interstates—the Serious Trucks, or as her dad used to say, “trucks with attitude.” Kelly wondered if every owner needed a whole cavalry worth of horsepower and towing capacity, especially when she saw most of them parked outside grocery stores, garden centers, and fast food restaurants—sparkling clean with nary a speck of dirt of them. She checked out the huge tires on Steve’s truck. They were caked with mud.

  She wasn’t surprised. Thanks to Lizzie, Kelly had heard about Steve’s latest building project, his next development planned north of town, how he started his business, his college career, all the academic as well as athletic honors, why he chose getting his hands dirty building houses after obtaining his architect’s degree rather than working in an office, his family’s connections to Fort Connor, and on and on. Kelly was truly impressed at Lizzie’s grilling techniques. She’d put any corporate interviewer to shame. Kelly half-expected Lizzie to ask Steve his bank balance.

  To Steve’s credit, he’d tried several times on the hour-long ride into the mountains to change the conversation. Kelly would pick up his lead and Lizzie would cooperate for a few minutes. Or until one of them stopped for a breath. Then, straight as any marksman who’s found his target, she’d return to probing Steve.

  Steve would catch Kelly’s eye overtop Lizzie’s immaculately coiffed silver-gray hair and grin, then politely, good-naturedly answer her questions.

  “Grab hold, and I’ll help you down, Lizzie,” Kelly offered.

  Lizzie scooted herself to the edge of the seat, which was difficult because she was wearing yards of rose pink cotton, gathered fetchingly with, what else, but white lace. “Oh my,” she declared, eyes wide. “It’s so far down.”

  “Don’t worry, Lizzie. Let me help you.” Steve stepped up and in one smooth movement had picked up Lizzie and deposited her safely on the ground.

  “Ohhhh, thank you, you’re so considerate,” Lizzie chirped, hand fluttering at her breast. “Isn’t he, dear?”

  “To a fault,” Kelly concurred obediently, watching Steve turn to hide his grin.

  The unmistakable whine of bagpipes sounded suddenly, and Kelly was about to ask who they were, when Megan strode up.

  “I’ve found them, ladies,” she called over her shoulder to the little gaggle following in her wake. “I almost lost you guys when you went right past the parking lot.”

  “It’ll be easier for me to load the loom here. The builder said I could use his space,” Steve explained.

  “Ladies! I hear bagpipes. Hurry up, or we’ll miss them,” Lizzie called to Megan’s charges.

  “Okay,” Megan glanced at the ladies, then Kelly. “Let’s get them all inside together, pick a meeting place, then let them scatter.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done this before,” Steve said with a chuckle.

  “Oh, yeah.” Megan nodded, waving her charges forward. Lizzie was already heading toward the entrance. “Steve, I’ll call you on your cell when we’re ready to round ’em up and leave. Will you be here the whole time?”

  “Yeah, I’ve gotta track down this guy and load the loom and secure it for the ride back.” He glanced around. “Don’t worry. I’ll amuse myself. I already recognize some people I know, plus I’ll check out the vendors. Good luck, you two,” he added before he strode off.

  “Anything I should know? I’ve never chaperoned seniors or knitters before,” Kelly teased as they fell in behind the ladies.

  “Yeah, matter of fact,” Megan said, pulling the entrance tickets from her jeans pocket. “Keep an eye on Lizzie, okay? She’s prone to mischief sometimes—”

  The rest of her sentence was drowned out by the bagpipers’ nasal hum and whine. As the little group rounded the corner, there were the pipers—bagpipes wailing and plaids fluttering in the mountain spring breeze—cutting a swath through the crowds. Kelly felt her blood stir as it always did at the sound of the pipes. Her dad used to say it was “the Irish” stirring in her. The pipers, twelve in all, headed toward the livestock barns, while spectators paused at food stands and llama lectures to watch. Kelly noticed a young boy bringing up the rear with a placard proclaiming the upcoming Battle of the Bagpipes that weekend.

  “Okay, ladies, here’re your tickets,” Megan waved the packet in the air. “Let’s get inside and find a meeting place, then you ladies are on your own.” The ladies flocked around, accepting their tickets and obediently handing them to the door attendant.

  All except one, Kelly noticed. Lizzie stood, staring after the departing pipers as if mesmerized, the pipes fading into the distance. “Come on, Lizzie,” Kelly encouraged, taking her arm and guiding her to the door. “Let’s go inside and see the wonderful world of wool.”

  “Very well, dear,” Lizzie acquiesced with an audible sigh. “Those pipers were magnificent, weren’t they? Such strapping men, too. Don’t you think? I especially noticed the tallest one in the back with the gray beard. My, my, he was a handsome devil.”

  “Uh, yes, I suppose they were,” Kelly agreed, a little surprised at Lizzie’s turn of thought.

  “I wonder if they’re real Scotsmen. What do you think?”

  “Ahhh, gee, Lizzie, I really don’t know,” Kelly admitted, shepherding her through the doorway and into the cavernous hall.

  “I’ve always wondered what a Scotsman wears beneath his kilt,” Lizzie said, as causally as if she were describing a new yarn. “Do you know, dear?”

  Kelly barely heard her, her attention was already captivated by the myriad variety of vendors’ booths and stalls that stretched almost as far as she could see. “Uhhh, no, Lizzie, not really,” she replied, absently.

  Megan’s voice cut through Kelly’s fascination long enough to imprint where and when they were all to meet for the return trip. Sorting that tidbit away, Kelly felt the pull of the colors and textures all calling out to her at once—come and touch. She gave an offhand wave to Lizzie as she merged with the clusters of people moving between booths. “See you later, Lizzie. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Oh, I will, dear. Don’t worry about me.”

  With that, Kelly dove into the colorful sea surrounding her, floating from stall to stall—fingering lace so delicate she was sure it was cobwebs, not thread at all, knitted sweaters and shawls in every color and texture imaginable, and weaving like she’d never seen before. Nubbly and patterned. Fabric so fine and soft, she was sure it was woven by fairies. Kelly was amazed at the designs. Some were worn, others were hung as art. And, indeed it was. Dazzling colors and designs that tempted you to touch as well as admire.

  Kelly immersed herself in the sensation of it all, drifting happily through the busy aisles, stroking fabrics and squeezing twisted coils of wool and mohair and alpaca in every hue, brazen and demure. The silk vendors’ stalls held her captive as she caressed the sinfully soft selections. Hand-painted or blended with fibers less regal, Kelly swore it whispered her name, just as it did in the shop every time she passed. Perhaps she’d become good enough to knit that sweater after all. Maybe. She was nearly finished with the chunky scarf.

  It was only when she caught sight of a food vendor’s hot dogs and her stomach growled did Kelly notice the time. Whoa. She’d been wandering for over two hours. Only an hour and a half left to sightsee. Indulging the sudden craving for a hot dog with all the trimmings, Kelly also grabbed a soda and left the exhibition hall. She really owed it to herself to visit the animals that provided the luxurious fibers for all those glorious creations.

  Walking toward the livestock barns, Kelly glanced at the mountains and took in her breath. She hadn’t been up here to the national park in years. She’d forgotten how gorgeous it was. The views of the Rockies were stunning, as sun glinted off the glacier-tipped peaks.

  She lingered at the llama lecture, as a man explained the varied abilities the stately animals possessed. The llama stood
patiently, clearly used to being ogled and examined, while the handler pointed out the animal’s qualities to a cluster of listeners.

  From there she wandered toward the barn with the alpacas, similar to llamas but a bit smaller. There, the breeders were holding forth as eager owners-to-be gathered around and asked questions. Kelly noticed all the blue and red ribbons adorning the stalls. Here, the alpacas watched her and came up to the fence as if posing for a photo. Kelly was convinced they looked disappointed she didn’t have a camera.

  She also couldn’t help noticing the heightened level of care and nurturing lavished on these interesting animals. Most stalls had carpets covering the dirt. And the owners were quick to clean up any of nature’s occurrences, lest their expensive animals step in anything. Perusing a newspaper article on the growing alpaca business with the title, “Have You Hugged Your Investment Today?” she could see why the owners were so solicitous. Each animal was worth tens of thousands of dollars.

  Kelly was pondering why until she spotted the spinners with their wheels. There, she sank her hands into a loose skein of one hundred percent alpaca wool and understood at last. Soft, soft, luxuriously soft. Unbelievably soft. Creams, grays, browns, combinations of all, even a stunning tweed.

  She began to notice the intricate patterns on the animals’ bodies and saw that the spun wool often varied in color as well. Before leaving the barn, Kelly glanced over her shoulder once more and could have sworn she spied an alpaca smirking at her, as if to say, “Told you.”

  Draining the last of her soda, Kelly tossed the can into a handy trash barrel and headed toward the sheep barn. Here, the familiar sound of bleating filled the air, and she realized another alpaca bonus. They were quiet.

  Lambs prodded into an unruly judging line protested each maneuver. Some were as docile as their reputation. Others were unrepentant troublemakers and made Kelly laugh out loud with their antics.