I managed to make it back outside without having a meltdown in front of Aunt Violet’s friends. “Who did it, kitty?” I asked, scooping him off the chair and holding him close. The poor thing was becoming my comfort blanket. “Who stole Aunt Violet’s knitting needle?” He only blinked at me in response.
The side gate opened and my aunt walked into the garden, accompanied by several police officers. Steeling myself, I went to meet them, still carrying the cat.
“I’m Molly Kimball,” I said to the man in the lead, who was wearing a suit. He was about my mother’s age, trim and good-looking, with dark hair and a goatee. “I’m the one who found, um, Myrtle’s body and called it in. Well, me and Kieran Scott. He owns the bicycle shop next door.”
The officer’s brows lifted briefly, a gesture so fast I almost missed it. “I’m Inspector Sean Ryan from the Major Crime Unit.” He shook my hand, his grip firm. “Show me.”
I led them across the grass toward the shed. Aunt Violet headed for the house, and I didn’t blame her. “Kieran and I had come out to the garden to drink a beer,” I explained, “when I noticed that the back gate was open. When I went to check it out, I … I found her. Right there, lying on the grass.”
The uniformed officers, a man and a woman, went to Myrtle, using flashlights to get a better look. I quickly turned my back. I had done my duty and she was in their capable hands now.
“And where is Mr. Scott now?” Inspector Ryan asked.
“Inside the shop. He went in to stop the rest of the guests from leaving. We had a poetry reading tonight, you see.” I had been stroking the cat’s fur over and over as I spoke and now he gave a mew of protest. “Sorry,” I told him.
“Smart move,” the inspector said. “How many people were at this reading?”
I tried to estimate. “Fifty or sixty? Some left right after but others stayed for refreshments, including Myrtle’s old school chums, who are still in the kitchen. We got most of the guest names, though, because they entered a drawing.” I paused for breath, and no wonder the way I was babbling. “It could have been anyone. Even if Aunt Violet’s knitting needle was used.” A wave of cold mortification washed over me. Why had I said that?
He sent me a sharp glance. “Your aunt’s knitting needle? How do you know?”
“It’s missing,” I said miserably. “I checked the knitting basket.”
Inspector Ryan studied me for an excruciatingly long time. “I appreciate your honesty, Miss Kimball. Why don’t you go back to the shop now? I’ll circle back around later for your statement.”
Instead of going through the kitchen, where a constable was questioning Myrtle’s friends and Aunt Violet, I chose the back door, an alternate route into the shop. This brought me—us, since I still had the cat—into a short hallway. A door to the kitchen was on the left, at the bottom of the stairs. On the right was a door to the new meeting room (blocked inside by chairs tonight), and straight ahead, the back entrance to the storefront, also with a door.
I stopped to consider how the killer had been able to steal the knitting needles. In this maze of an old building, there were several options.
For example, the loo, as we called the half bath just beyond the stairs, had two doors, one on this side for customer use, and one in the kitchen. We usually latched it on the kitchen side, after Aunt Violet found a customer snoozing in the armchair with a cup of tea and an empty packet of her favorite biscuits. She liked customers to feel at home, but that was a bridge too far.
Had we latched it tonight? I knocked. No one was inside, so I turned the rattling knob and went in. Narrow, with a slanted ceiling, the loo must have been a closet at one point. There was only a stained porcelain wall basin and an ancient toilet, and the walls were an ugly mustard yellow. It was on the top of my redecorating list.
Beyond the kitchen door, I heard the murmur of low voices. I crept closer. Could I test the door without them noticing? Holding my breath, I tiptoed across the old linoleum floor, still clutching kitty.
The voices grew louder. “I hadn’t seen Myrtle for ages.” Persephone. “Her phone call the other week was our first contact in I don’t know how long.”
“She called me too,” Ruth said. “But I hadn’t seen her since an old girls day five years ago.”
Those must have been the calls from Myrtle to ask Persephone to read. A terrible thought struck. Would Myrtle still be alive if we hadn’t had the reading?
Light-headed from lack of air and dismay, I stumbled forward slightly, nudging the door. Which swung open on less than silent hinges. Uh-oh.
Five faces turned to regard me with varying expressions of surprise. “Sorry,” I said. “Just using the facilities.” And eavesdropping. I grabbed the door and shut it firmly.
At least I’d answered my question, but without definite conclusion, I realized. The door wasn’t latched now, but one of the ladies might have used the loo. And there were two other options for access to the knitting basket—the hallway door and the French doors. And of course the direct kitchen door from the shop, the one marked Staff Only.
I thought of the man in the alley. If only we had gotten a better look at him. He might live in the area or maybe he’d been a guest who left early. A burning question was—why had he run away? I’d have to make sure I mentioned him to the inspector.
Inside the bookshop, a constable was standing at the open door taking names and addresses from a short line of customers trying to leave. In the meeting room, Daisy, Tim, and Kieran were helping a grim-faced George stack chairs and clean up, and Mum sat behind the main desk, wearing her half-glasses and using the adding machine.
She stood, taking off her glasses. “Molly. Are you all right?”
“That was my question.” Daisy flew out of the meeting room to my side. With a grimace, she rolled her eyes toward the constable at the door. “We heard the news. Just awful.” She reached to hug me then noticed the black cat. “I see you have a new friend.”
I looked down at him and laughed. “I guess so. He won’t let go of me. See?” I showed her how he was clinging to my clothing.
“You’ll have to name him.” Her lips curved. “Or her.”
If Aunt Violet—and Clarence—didn’t object to me keeping the cat, that is. Clarence definitely ruled this roost.
“Molly.” Kieran came over to us, and my heart leaped. Residual adrenaline, or was I developing a bit of a crush? I’d better put the brakes on. We barely knew each other beyond a few games of darts and a beer in the back garden. A beer interrupted by the discovery of a murder victim.
“Everything go all right with Aunt Violet and the ladies?” he asked.
I made a face. “Kind of. They stuck around, at least. A constable is talking to them in the kitchen now. I hope they can help, although it sounds like they weren’t close to Myrtle.”
“They weren’t, not like us,” George said, his voice glum. “I saw her every day.” He shook his head. “She was a pip but despite our troubles, I’m going to miss the old girl.”
“Truer words were never spoken.” Tim was more serious than I’d seen him. “She used to rent our bicycles to do her shopping. Of course there was always something wrong with the one we gave her.” He and Kieran shared a rueful chuckle.
Kieran reached out to rub the black cat’s chin. “‘That merry wanderer of the night,’” he quoted.
“Puck,” I said, recognizing the quote spoken by the mischievous fairy from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “Perfect. Can that be a girl or boy name?”
“He’s a boy,” Kieran said. “Already been to the vet for his surgery, it seems. But we haven’t been able to find his owner.”
I clutched Puck closer, feeling protective. The poor thing had been abandoned. I had to take him in. “You have now.”
A commotion near the front door caught our attention. The last guest from the reading was gone, but a young woman was trying to come in. The constable was refusing to let her. “I’m sorry, miss. The bookshop is closed for the night.”
“It’s not about that,” she said in exasperation. Slender and fairly tall, dressed in jeans and a tank top, she had tattoos up one bare arm and spiky dark hair.
Kieran groaned. “I’d better take care of this.” He turned to me. “Tell the inspector to give me a call. He’s got my number. I’ll be next door, at home.”
This was very odd. Why would the inspector have Kieran’s number? And who was the young woman? An employee? A girlfriend? As he approached the door, the young woman raised a camera and took several pictures.
“Why did you do that, Kelsey?” Kieran scolded her.
She laughed. “How else am I going to pay the rent?” He stepped outside and I heard her laugh at something he said.
“She’s a pap,” George said, seeing my confusion. “Works for the tabloids.”
Now I got it. “But why would she—”
Before I could finish my sentence, an older man stepped through the open shop door, and to my surprise the constable didn’t try to stop him. On the short side, he was slender, with thick white hair and dressed in what was obviously an expensive suit.
Daisy sucked in a breath, clasping her hands together. “Sir Jon. I was hoping he would show up tonight.” Her voice was dreamy. “Bond. James Bond.”
I must have looked totally lost because Tim laughed. “You haven’t met our resident MI6 agent, I take it? Retired, of course. He owns the Crow’s Nest Bookshop here in town. Specializing in guess what? Spy novels.” He winked.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” as Alice said in Wonderland. “No, I haven’t met him.” But I would love to. Dignified and elegant, he had a sharp glint in his blue eyes. The constable seemed to be hanging on his every word.
The door to the kitchen opened and Aunt Violet and her friends emerged in a group, accompanied by another constable. All of them looked grim and unhappy until they saw Sir Jon. Then their faces lit up and they swarmed him like fans at a rock concert.
George chuckled. “He was quite the lad in his younger days. Maybe I should have served the Queen in that capacity myself.”
Watching Sir Jon’s calm charm as he greeted each one in turn, I had to admit I could understand their fascination. He had the gift of total attentiveness toward whomever he spoke with. He was also good at moving people along, and soon the three school chums were quite happily out the door and on their way.
Aunt Violet had been waiting on the sidelines, and now she threw herself into Sir Jon’s arms. “You came. I’m so glad.”
He hugged her in return then released her. “I was going to come earlier but I was detained in London.” He put both hands on her shoulders. “I understand I missed all the excitement.” His tone was sardonic, conveying that the situation wasn’t exciting at all.
“I’ll say.” Aunt Violet removed her eyeglasses to dash tears away. “It’s absolutely horrible. Poor Myrtle.”
Sir Jon set his jaw. “Indeed. Where’s the man in charge?” He glanced around, his electric blue eyes skimming over me. They gave me a little shock.
“I think he’s out back at the scene,” I said. This reminder of Inspector Ryan made my stomach knot up. I still hadn’t given my formal statement.
The constable at the door spoke up. “I’ll fetch him for you, Sir Jon.”
“Much appreciated, old chap,” Sir Jon said. “Now, Violet, please introduce me to the relatives I’ve heard so much about.”
Another of Aunt Violet’s friends who knew more about us than we did about them. But she sure was acquainted with some very interesting people.
A couple of hours later, statements given and police gone, we were seated around the kitchen table, mugs of (decaf) tea in hand—me, Mum, Aunt Violet, Sir Jon, and George. Oh, and Puck, who was curled on my lap, safe from Clarence’s glares. The big tiger was back in his armchair, but the knitting basket was gone, along with the half-finished garment.
“I can’t believe the inspector told me not to leave town.” Aunt Violet leaned her chin on her hand. “As if. This is my home.”
And why would she kill someone here at the shop? Unless it was in a fit of rage, which I couldn’t even imagine. “It’s ridiculous,” I said. “You don’t have a motive. It was because of Myrtle that we had such a successful event.” Until she was killed. What would the fallout be for the shop? I wondered. Something else that wasn’t fair about this. Myrtle’s murder might well be the death knell for the struggling bookshop as well. The fact they had used Aunt Violet’s knitting needle was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak.
“They don’t really need a motive to arrest someone, I’m afraid,” Sir Jon said. “Probable cause is enough.”
“I’m glad they didn’t arrest you tonight then,” Mum said. “Since the weapon was yours, Aunt Violet. Or so they think.” She’d been pretty quiet all night, taking everything in. Before they left, the police had questioned her as well as Daisy and George, asking mainly about people’s movements, I gathered. And if they’d seen Myrtle, which they hadn’t. “I did tell the inspector that you never left the reading once it started.”
“None of us did,” I said. “Until Kieran and I went out to the garden.” I remembered something I hadn’t mentioned. “We saw a man in the back alley right after we discovered Myrtle. He ran off when Kieran tried to talk to him.” I shivered at the memory of that dark, hulking shape. He’d seemed so menacing.
“A mysterious stranger,” Sir Jon said. “That is odd.”
George shrugged. “Maybe not. A lot of people cut through that back alley. I’d probably run too if I saw that young lad bolting toward me.”
“Good point,” I said. “I mentioned the lurker to the inspector but he didn’t seem too interested.” Why would he be, with such an obvious suspect as Aunt Violet? “It also could have been someone who had just left the reading. I didn’t pay attention to whoever was coming and going.”
“People were popping in and out the whole time,” Mum confirmed. “I told more than one person where they could find the loo.”
The loo that connected from the shop side to the kitchen and the murder weapon. “Let me show you something.” I picked up Puck and gently set him on my chair. Going over to the loo door, I explained how easily someone could have accessed the needle. “And it could even have happened before we started.” I mimed snatching up a needle from the now nonexistent basket, which would take only a few seconds. “There were a lot of people milling around while we were getting ready.” I pointed to the hall door. “They could also have come in through there. The main sticking point is this, though. They would’ve had to have known the needles were here, next to the chair.”
“Which speaks to the killer being very familiar with this building and Myrtle’s whereabouts,” Sir Jon said. “Either they intercepted her or arranged a meeting in the garden. Good work, Molly.” He regarded me with what looked like admiration.
I gave a little laugh, flattered. “Well we know Aunt Violet didn’t do it, so I was trying to figure out who did. And how.” I settled Puck on my lap again. “But I wish I knew why, whether or not the police care about that.”
Sir Jon rubbed his chin. “I said motive doesn’t cut any ice with the police, as far as their rules of investigation. But it can be a very useful tool in figuring out who did commit a crime. Very few are truly random.”
In unison, we all picked up our mugs and sipped, thinking about this. “Who had a reason?” I muttered. “A good reason, to kill Myrtle?”
George raised his hand. “I did.”