Death Among the Doilies (3 page)

Cora had driven by the police station every day and had not even realized it. The station's facade fit in with the rest of Indigo Gap, with its strict rules about the businesses and homes in its historic district. So the outside of the building was an elegant eggplant, trimmed in soft yellow, and the main waiting area reflected the outer decor.

Cora thought it the prettiest station she'd ever seen—and she'd seen quite a few, unfortunately. When she worked as a counselor in the women's shelter, she used to say that the police station was her second home. The first, of course, being the shelter itself. She rarely even slept at her own apartment—she bunked on a cot in the storage room of the shelter, which she cleaned off before she could lie down and catch a few hours of sleep. Rarely even four hours, let alone the full eight her doctor prescribed.

This began the somewhat crooked path to her starting a new life. Or starting
a
life, actually. Before, she never had the time to read a whole book, see a complete movie, or sometimes even to eat an entire meal. Which set her up perfectly for a severe panic disorder. Her condition had gotten so bad by the end of her counseling career that her doctors practically ordered her to quit.

Now, Cora and Jane sat in the sparse but comfortable room in the police station, waiting on Cashel O'Malley.

“I don't understand this,” Jane said. “What have I done to make them think I killed someone?” Her voice quivered and her blue eyes widened.

“I'm sure there's been some kind of mistake,” Cora said with confidence. Of course this was all a terrible mistake.

“But what if—” Jane began.

“Shhh,” Cora said. “Don't even think it.”

Cora could hardly bear to look her in the eye—Jane's fear was so raw that it was difficult to witness. She'd seen dread in her eyes before—and with good reason. Jane had a record. Cora had been by her side in court several times.

Cora looked around the room. One table. Four chairs, two of which they were sitting on. Nothing on the gray walls. Plain but clean. It wouldn't hurt them to spruce up the place with some prints or other framed art.

When the door opened, both Cora and Jane jumped. Cashel O'Malley entered the room with a confident stride and a bit of a swagger. Handsome, downright hot; he could have stepped off the pages of
GQ
magazine, with those piercing, intense blue eyes, a strong jawline, and a dimple in his chin.

This man was Ruby's son? He was so sophisticated and well-groomed—exactly the opposite of earthy Ruby. Cora admired her lack of pretense; she was a woman who probably never even wore lipstick, let alone got a manicure.

“Which one of you lovely ladies is Jane?” he asked.

Jane blushed at the mention of her name, and Cora's tongue would not move, but she managed to point at Jane.

“I'm Cashel O'Malley.” He held out his hand to Jane. “Your attorney.” She reached out her hand and they shook, and then he took Cora's hand as well.

Cora's eyes wandered along the ridges of his perfectly sculpted face and then to his eyes.
Zing!
The prettiest blue eyes she'd ever seen. In fact, he may have been the prettiest man she'd ever seen.
Focus,
she told herself,
Jane may be in serious trouble here.

“So let's get right to it, shall we?” Cashel said. “The police will send someone in to take your official statement, but we have a few minutes to chat.” He pulled out his laptop and set it on the table.

“I need to know what you were doing the night of Sarah Waters' death,” he said point-blank, as he clicked on his computer.

“I, uh . . .” Jane stammered.

“It's very important I know where you were and what you were doing on August 23.”

“I think I was at home,” she said.

“You think?”

Cora's thoughts raced. The twenty-third? Where had she been? Could she answer that question if it were asked of her? She'd have to check in her journal or on her phone. Who knew off the top of her head where she was on any given day? Jane apparently felt the same.

“I can't remember,” she said. “I assume it was like any day. I was probably working at my home. I was probably still unpacking. We'd just moved here.”

Cora mentally sifted through dates and times. They'd moved to Indigo Gap about a month before the librarian's death two weeks ago. Cora, Jane, and London spent months in the Lucky Bee hotel, on the outskirts of town, while they worked on getting the house ready. So it was likely Jane had been unpacking then—in truth, Cora was
still
unpacking.

“Can you prove it?” Cashel asked.

Jane shrugged. “I don't know. How would I do that?” Her fingers twitched on the table in front of her.

“Did someone see you?”

“Not if I was in my house. Well, there is London, my little girl,” Jane replied. Fingers still twitching, she folded her hands together.

Cashel nodded. “So your alibi is you were home with your daughter and your daughter is the only one who knows that?” He talked with a succinct, fast cadence. He wasted no time.

“I'm sure I would have known if they were gone—as would your mother,” Cora offered, but she was uncertain about the exact date. “The houses are all close together and we keep close track of one another.”

“Yes, but can you say that you saw her that night, specifically?” he asked.

Cora clamped her own hands tightly on her lap, and they started to ache from the clenching. “I need to check my journal and my blog and so on to see if there's a mention of what we did that day. But I'm fairly certain I could testify as to her whereabouts.”

Cashel gave Cora an appreciative sweep with his eyes. He grinned. “You won't need to testify. At least I hope not. I hope there won't be any charges at all.”

“Why do they suspect me?” Jane asked.

“When they entered your fingerprints in the system, they matched some of the prints that they found at the murder scene.”

“How can that be?” Cora asked, indignant, frightened, and confused all at once. She felt sweat pricking at her forehead.
Great.

“Don't panic,” Cashel said. “The prints are only half prints and Jane's prints are slight. So they will be calling in fingerprint experts. If you're not guilty, you've nothing to worry about.”

“There's a problem with my prints,” Jane said, her eyes shifting back and forth. “I know that. That's why they called me back for a second round of fingerprinting so I could volunteer at the school.”

“You're a potter, correct?” Cashel said, glancing at Jane's hands. Cora loved Jane's hands; they were a working woman's hands, with clean, short nails and long fingers, the sinews and tendons visible.

Jane's gaze steadied as her eyes met his, and she nodded.

“That's why they will never be able to convict you on your prints alone. Your prints are, in all likelihood, just not that deep from all the clay work you do.”

Cora started to feel relieved.

“But let me be clear,” Cashel continued. “This could get serious if you can't come up with a sound alibi. The town is crying for a conviction. I've seen people get convicted on less evidence.”

Cora felt her breath stop.

“With your background and this wee bit of evidence . . . it could get bad. So our work is cut out for us,” Cashel concluded.

“You know about—” Jane began to say.

“Of course,” he said. “My assistant pulled up your files when I received the call.”

“That was self-defense,” Cora said with a note of belligerence in her voice.

“Of course it was. But she was charged with attempted murder. I know the charges were dropped and she had a sound alibi, with the history of abuse so well-documented,” he said.

“Then they can't use that against her,” Cora said.

“They sure as hell can try,” Cashel replied. He glanced at Cora and then back to Jane and softened his expression. “But that's what I'm here for.”

“I'm so sorry about all this,” Jane said to Cora in the car on the way back to the house. Her voice was strained with weariness and fear.

“It's not your fault,” Cora said.

“I know, but my background complicates things. Starting over wasn't a good idea for me. I'll never be able to put it all behind me,” Jane said, her voice cracking.

Cora's stomached fluttered. “But you already have,” she said. “This is a minor blip.” Cora had worked to persuade Jane into this venture. A gifted potter, Jane added plenty to the craft retreat's offerings.

They sat silently, with the hum of the car engine and the radio station blaring the news of the day.

“Let's hope word doesn't get out about all this. You know what small towns are like,” Jane said. “We have a business now and reputation is everything.”

Cora had been thinking similar thoughts. “Well, let's keep it on the down low. Nobody needs to know anything, right? You weren't charged.”

“Yes, but I'm still a person of interest.”

Cora pulled the car into the drive and parked it. “Let's keep doing our best with the retreat. Let's just focus on what's in front of us and not get carried away.”

They both were still slammed with preparing for Thursday's opening. At least the menu was settled. The cleaning seemingly never ended. Boxes of broom straw still needed to be unpacked and put away, and the paper-crafting room still needed sorting. Crafters would be here in three days.

If she managed to pull it all off in time, this business would be a dream come true for Cora.

She watched Jane walk down the garden path to the carriage house. Jane's normally proud, confident gait had turned into a wilting trudge.

“Good night,” Jane turned and said.

“Good night.”

Cora stopped before entering the main house and gazed at the autumn night sky. She made a wish that nobody would find out her friend was a person of interest for the murder of the school librarian. Even as she thought about it, she marveled at the absurdity of the situation. Jane had come a long way since she had tried to kill Neil.

Cora remembered the first day Jane walked into the Sunny Street Women's Shelter. They were friends as girls, growing up together in Pittsburgh, then lost track of one another when Cora went to college. But out of the blue, her drop-dead gorgeous long-lost friend appeared at the shelter. But she was dejected, standing in the lobby, seeking help.

That look of dejection and shame was a familiar one to Cora by then, and it tore her up to see Jane in such a condition.

That was the beginning of the end of Cora's counseling career. By that point, she had started her blog—“Cora Crafts a Life.” Not a moneymaker back then, but the blog was a creative and therapeutic outlet for her. She blogged about her life as a counselor and a crafter. She wrote stories about the women in her shelter life. The abused women who found solace in a craft, whether it was knitting, needlepoint, or scrapbooking, inspired her. Soon, her blog was earning more money than her counseling. She realized her doctors were right—writing and crafting helped to prevent her panic attacks. But not quite enough.

So she began to envision a craft retreat.

She searched several months to find the right place and the right investors. But here she was, now, climbing a flight of stairs in an old Victorian almost mansion, where she lived in the attic with Luna. In a few days, a group of crafters would be filling the place. A broom maker would be teaching a class, Ruby would be teaching candle making, and, the way Cora envisioned it, some women would be drawn into the paper-crafting room, others into the almost-finished fiber-arts room. They were still working on the alcove that had been marked for upcycling—a “craft” that Cora adored. She loved this craft of turning ordinary objects into pieces of art, or into something new and useful. She'd found a box of burlap sacks in the basement and planned to use them in her class, making decorative pumpkins out of them.

Cora made plans upon plans and made a wish as she slid into her bed that night, with Luna curled up beside her, that this small town would be unlike the stereotypical ones where gossip spread quickly, and tomorrow nobody would know about Jane's adventure at the police station. So much hinged on this first retreat. Cora had sunk every bit of her savings into it, plus got a few investors, like her great-uncle Jon and his new wife Beatrice. She didn't want to disappoint him—nor did she herself want to go broke. In truth, she already teetered on the edge of financial ruin.

* * *

The next morning, Ruby, Jane, and London all gathered in Cora's kitchen.

“Who wants chocolate chips in their pancakes?” Cora asked.

“I do!” London squealed.

“Me, too,” Jane said.

“Well, of course, I do, too,” Ruby grumbled and poured herself a cup of coffee.

Ruby was a bit moody at times, but she fit right in with the craft-retreat plans. She had been earning a living as an herbalist and was hired by the previous owners of Kildare House to tend to the gardens. Her agreement with them, made about twenty-five years ago, was that she lived rent-free while working there, which was important since her husband had died and left her penniless—with a child to raise—which is something Jane could certainly relate to, as a single mother.

“So the plan of attack this morning is to get those boxes unpacked and—” Cora began before Ruby cut her off.

“I need you to check out this wax. It's not what I ordered. Is there time for us to return it?” Ruby asked.

“I'll confirm their return policy,” Cora said. “But we can figure out something.”

“I wanted sheets of beeswax for one of the projects. Some very simple rolling up of the sheets with a wick inside will give you a fun, easy candle. Some folks don't want to get involved in the more complex candle making,” Ruby said.

“I love the ones you made with the herbs and wildflowers in them,” Jane said.

“Thank you. Those are my biggest sellers. But only three people signed up for that class. But that's okay with me. I like a small class,” Ruby replied.

Soon the room smelled of coffee, chocolate, and pancakes. The conversation was light and business oriented. As long as London fluttered about, it was as if all the women had made an unspoken agreement to not talk about last night's events with the police.

Jane's cell phone rang and she answered it, getting up from the table and moving to another part of the room. Jane returned to the table with an air of annoyance.

“Finish up, London, we need to get going. Don't want to be late,” she said.

“Everything okay?” Cora asked.

“Oh yeah, sure,” Jane said with a forced, fake lightness in her voice. She was fuming and trying to hide it. Cora knew her friend too well. “The school found another volunteer for tomorrow. They knew I'd be busy here with the opening and so on.”

“Yes, I'm sure that's it,” Ruby said, with a note of sarcasm.

London's head tilted in curiosity.

“Let's go,” her mother said, grabbing London's hand and leaving the room.

After Jane and London abruptly exited, Ruby helped Cora clear the dishes. “So how did it go last night?” she asked.

Cora shrugged. “It's hard to say. She's not charged with anything, thanks to Cashel.”

At the mention of her son's name, Ruby beamed.
That doesn't happen too often,
Cora thought.

She didn't quite get Ruby. Not yet.

“He's a good boy,” Ruby said, stacking dishes in the sink.

He didn't look like a boy to me,
Cora thought. No, Cashel O'Malley may have still had a boyish, impish grin, but she bet the rest of him was all man.

“And he's got good perspective. I raised him right, you know. He knows the score,” Ruby continued, pulling Cora away from her thoughts.

“The score?” Cora said.

“Yeah. Never trust a cop. Especially the ones in Indigo Gap,” Ruby said.

At first Cora thought she was teasing, and started to laugh. But when she noticed the expression in Ruby's eyes, she knew the woman was dead serious.