From the way we all greeted Carlos, I could tell that everyone felt the same way. He had no idea how grateful we were to him for lifting Hester’s mood.
He apologized for his knitting and hoped that we would all indulge him. Then he pulled out the wool and needles that I had sold him only a week ago. I’d advised him to stick to something simple, and so he was working on a scarf. The nice thing about a scarf is it’s basically straight edges, and you keep knitting until it’s done. Sure, there are lots of fancy ways you can do a scarf with lots of fancy stitches, but sometimes plain old knit one, purl one is the best. By using big needles and big chunky wool, the thing would also grow quite quickly. We’d chosen him a variegated wool in blacks and grays. All the other vampires knit as though they’d been doing it for hundreds of years, which in some cases was actually true. They rarely had to think, and when they got focused, the needles moved so quickly that I actually couldn’t focus on them or my eyes would cross. But Carlos was the only other person in the room who was struggling as much as I was. He might even have been worse. Maybe it was small and terrible of me, but his lack of skill filled my heart with glee. Every time he let out a grunt of frustration, a tiny voice inside me said, yes.
And every time I let out a similar grunt of frustration, he glanced up at me and our gazes met. We were together in this at least.
The club was particularly well attended tonight. I suspected it was because of the murder. And I was really happy to have their help and advice. I wanted to talk this through and get their feedback. Pamela had never been my friend, but if she hadn’t sought me out, she might still be alive. I couldn’t do anything for her now except try and solve the puzzle of who had killed her. And why.
We did our usual show and tell. I always enjoyed seeing what everyone was working on, and often they would take the newest books and magazines that had come into my shop and knit something that I could then display. A sweater that would take some people weeks, and me forever, they’d usually have done overnight.
Alfred displayed a man’s vest from the latest Teddy Lamont magazine. Teddy used wools like a modern artist used paints. His creations were bold, outrageously colorful and extremely popular, as was Teddy himself. I heaped on extra praise until Alfred looked down his long nose at me. “This one’s for me, but very well, Lucy, I will knit another for you to display in your shop.” He said it as though knitting another sweater vest were a huge inconvenience, but I could tell he was thrilled that I wanted to display his work in the store. There was a bit of rivalry over whose knitted work would get the prime display space in Cardinal Woolsey’s. I tried to be democratic about it, but honestly, some of the things they turned out were simply more saleable than others.
Mabel, for instance, was a superb craftswoman, but her taste had been formed during WWII, and she couldn’t resist re-using scraps of wool and turning out sweaters that might have looked good during the blitz but probably not even then.
Theodore, who had been a police officer in life and now operated a private investigation firm, was busy with cashmere socks. He’d designed them with his monogram knitted into them. He saw me staring, and then I had to ask how it was done. They were so cool. He stopped knitting to say, “Would you like a pair?”
Well, duh.
“And before you ask, yes, I can design you a pattern.”
“Are you taking custom orders?” I asked. I could see he hadn’t thought of it and told him I thought they’d be very popular as gifts for men. Theodore had an innocent-looking round face like a baby’s, which I suspected was one of the reasons he’d been so successful as a police officer in life and was now such a good PI. People tended to tell him things, trusting him with secrets the way they’d trust an innocent baby. His pursed baby lips turned up in a smile. “Yes. Of course. I’d be delighted.”
He didn’t need the money, and he’d likely donate it to a local children’s charity. However, not even a new knitting commission could keep him off the subject of murder for long. “I understand you were present when that poor, young woman was killed. And it was at Hugo Percival Brown’s estate, wasn’t it?”
I didn’t know why he asked that as a question when he knew perfectly well what had happened. Still, I gave him the courtesy of answering. “Yes. I was helping William Thresher. It was a St. George’s Day dinner for the Gargoyle Club.”
“I’ve heard the interior’s lovely,” Sylvia said. “I was in that house once, at a weekend house party with Charlie Chaplin and Ronald Coleman, among others.”
“Ah, Ronald Coleman,” Mabel sighed. “The man with the velvet voice.”
“He was shy in person but quite good fun once one came to know him. The manor house was a lovely place, though rather old-fashioned-looking, as I recall. No doubt the current owner has made some changes.” She thought for a moment. “The stables were first-rate. Those who wanted to rode. And as I recall, the cellar was excellent.”
I shuddered at the words. It still was excellent as far as I knew.
Theodore interrupted before she took us too far
