I screamed and dropped the phone, which went dark. Maybe she was still alive—I threw myself to my knees and reached for her wrist.
“What is it, Molly?” Standing above me, Kieran gasped as his own light swept over the poor woman. He hunkered down on her other side, his face a mask of dismay. He swallowed hard. “Is she—?”
Not able to discern even a hint of a pulse, I gently placed her arm on the grass. Her skin was already cool. “Yes, Kieran, she is. She’s … she’s dead.” At that terrible word, a gulp of shock rose in my throat and stuck there. “We need to get help,” I managed to gargle out.
But he was already on it. Standing again, he paced back and forth, muttering to himself as he touched the screen of his phone.
I pushed myself to my feet and backed away from poor Myrtle. There was nothing more I could do. It was up to the police now, to gather evidence and solve this crime. To discover the person who had attacked her right here, in the bookshop garden, mere feet away from a crowd of people. We must have been making too much noise to hear her cries for help. Or had she already been dead before we started the event? The thought made me shudder.
A movement in the back alley caught my eye. A dark shape moved at the edge of the streetlamp’s glow, tall and bulky, wearing a cap. I screamed again, and when Kieran glanced at me, startled, I pointed. “A man. There’s a man out there.”
He thrust his phone into my hand and bolted across the grass and out the back gate. “Hello?” a woman’s voice said from the speaker. “Is anyone there?”
I placed the phone against my ear with trembling fingers. “Yes, yes, I’m here. This is Molly Kimball. We’re calling to report a murder. It looks like one, anyway. An elderly woman named Myrtle Marsh. Someone stabbed her.” I couldn’t remember the address, but thankfully she knew of the bookshop. She promised that someone would be there shortly. “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you, miss, until they get there?” she offered.
Did I? Kieran came running along the alley, feet thumping, arms pumping.
“No, I’ll be all right, thank you. There are lots of people here.” I disconnected with thanks as Kieran came through the back gate.
He shook his head. “Didn’t catch him,” he said between gasps. “Either he knows the area and is hiding or he’s extremely fit.”
“That’s too bad.” But I was relieved. Despite admiring Kieran’s bravery, what if the man had attacked him? “The police are on their way. Maybe they can track him down.”
I gave him his phone then felt around on the grass for mine, yelping when my hand brushed something soft—something that licked my fingers and began to purr. “Oh, it’s you.” I picked up the black cat and cuddled him close, and a second later found my phone, thankfully right before I stepped on it.
Kieran put an arm around me. “Come sit down.” He led me across the grass, his warmth a comfort, the tiny cat purring even louder. “Bloody hell.” He jerked to a halt. “I just realized something. The police will want contact info from everyone who was here tonight. We’d better go tell them not to leave.”
This was a problem, since people had started drifting out right after the reading ended. Then I remembered something. “Hopefully people who have left signed up for the raffle.” At his puzzled look, I explained. “We’re giving away a copy of Persephone’s new book. People put their names and phone numbers in a jar.”
“The police will be glad of that, though I doubt the murderer would have left a calling card.” He pulled me close again, his voice a deep rumble in my ear. “We can tell whoever is left to stay put.”
I was beyond grateful for his support, but with every step, my anxiety and trepidation grew. How was I going to break the news to Aunt Violet? I wasn’t sure how close she and Myrtle had been, but they had known each other for decades. One small blessing was that Mum and I were here to help her deal with this tragedy.
We had reached the patio when the French door to the kitchen burst open and a gaggle of women spilled through, chattering. Even in the dark, I recognized them immediately. Persephone’s long braid, Fiona’s bosom, Ruth’s quicksilver voice. They were carefree, laughing, elated over the night’s triumphs—and about to be devastated.
Wall sconces on either side of the door lit up and Aunt Violet stepped outside, carrying a tray holding a bottle of wine and four glasses. “There. We’ll be able to see something now.” She smiled at me. “Thanks to your mum’s help, I can step away for a drink and a natter.”
“Violet,” Kieran said, his voice grave. “We have bad news.” He took the tray and set it on the table, probably afraid she might drop it.
Aunt Violet’s hand went to her throat. “Bad news? What about?” Her eyes behind her glasses were frightened. The three other women moved closer together, reminding me of startled pigeons.
Kieran and I exchanged glances. “Why don’t you go in and um, see what’s up?” I suggested, trying to be discreet. “If anyone is still here, that is.” I took a deep and bracing breath. “I’ve got this.” I hope.
“Are you sure?”
At my nod, he slipped inside. I watched him go, immediately wishing he’d stayed for moral support. At least I still had the warm little cat in my arms.
“What’s going on?” Persephone asked, her tone shrill. “I can’t take the suspense.”
“At our age, bad news is all too common,” Fiona added solemnly. She widened her stance as if bracing for impact.
“Too true.” Ruth nodded. “Lately it seems like we lose someone every day.”
And they had tonight as well. I swallowed hard, clutching the cat so tightly he squeaked. How much detail should I give? Not much, a tiny voice warned. Let the police choose what to reveal.
“I’m sorry to tell you this,” I said. “So sorry. But Myrtle has … passed. Kieran and I found her a few minutes ago.”
The women gave little cries and croaks of dismay.
“It must have been a heart attack,” Persephone said. “She always had a tricky ticker.” She thumped her chest in demonstration.
“What do you mean, found her?” Aunt Violet glanced around wildly. “Not here, surely. Not in my garden?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” I edged closer to Aunt Violet, wishing I could speak to her alone. “The police are on their way. Perhaps the ladies will want to wait in the kitchen?”
“Wait?” Ruth asked. “What for?” She turned to her friends. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve lost my celebratory mood.”
“So have I,” Fiona said. “And Gregory is expecting me home soon.”
“And since I’m staying with you,” Persephone said, tossing her braid, “lead on.”
“Where are you lodging?” Fiona asked Ruth.
“At the Holly and Ivy,” Ruth said. “Right up the lane.”
I gritted my teeth. So much for the soft-pedal approach. “Hold it,” I practically shouted. They stopped moving and stared at me. “You need to stay a little longer. All the guests do. I don’t think it was, um, a natural death.” Not with a knitting needle in the chest.
Ruth gasped. Persephone went very still, the lift of her chin her only movement. Fiona’s eyes narrowed, her brow furrowing as she cast glances at the others.
“You mean she had an accident?” Aunt Violet asked.
“Something like that,” I said. “I can’t … I can’t give any more details.” I put out a hand, pleading. “Please. Wait for the police. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Do it for Myrtle, won’t you?” Aunt Violet’s tone brooked no argument. She picked up the tray, glasses clinking. “I think we can all use a glass of something while we wait.”
“Make mine two fingers of Scotch,” Fiona said. “I need something medicinal after a shock like that.” To my relief, she followed Aunt Violet into the house and the other two trailed along.
I waited where I was, still holding the cat, watching through the big windows as the guests took places around the table. Aunt Violet brought a brown bottle over along with highball glasses, and after she poured healthy slugs, the foursome lifted a toast then tossed down the drinks.
My mouth watered. I could use a medicinal drink myself, especially since my beer was now warm. Aunt Violet poured a second round for herself and her friends, then reached for another glass. To my joy, she carried that drink and her own outside.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the whiskey at me. “Good for what ails you.”
I gently released the cat, who jumped up onto a chair, and took the glass. Fiery, peaty, perfect, the Scotch burned a trail down my insides. I immediately felt a little better.
Aunt Violet leaned close. “Tell me what happened.” Up on Trinity Street, a siren yipped then went silent, no doubt clearing the way. “Quick. Before they get here.”
Stumbling over my words, I gave her the summary, including the assumed cause of death. Then I took another swig of whiskey, trying to wash away the terrible images.
“A pink knitting needle?” Aunt Violet was horrified. “But I—”
I put two and two together. “You mean it might be yours?” I don’t know exactly what I had thought. That the needle was Myrtle’s, maybe, carried in a knitting bag, the way so many women did. Or that the killer had used his or her own.
A police car rumbled over cobblestones and halted in the alley, blue lights flashing over the garden and the adjacent building. Doors slammed. Another vehicle arrived, then a third.
Aunt Violet didn’t answer my question. “Time to face the music,” she said. Finishing her whiskey, she wiped her forearm across her lips then squared her shoulders, as if going into battle.
She went out the side gate and I waited and worried, holding vigil over the crime scene. Then, overcome with curiosity, I popped into the kitchen. I wasn’t going to touch anything, I promised myself, just check.
“Don’t mind me,” I said to the trio still sitting at the table. They barely looked up before returning to their conversation. Something about Myrtle back in the day at St. Hildegard’s, and another girl named Joan. Daisy’s great-aunt?
The basket of knitting was sitting in its usual place beside Clarence’s armchair. Pretending to pat him, I casually leaned over and studied the contents. A half-finished gray wool something was rolled up on top. Both needles, which I distinctly remembered as pink, were gone.