A Dark and Stormy Knit (Black Sheep Knitting Mystery) Read online

  “Right . . . or maybe even ‘knitting bag.’ But the Knit Kats have managed to maintain their anonymity, as far as I know. I’m sure the press has tried to unmask them. Every time they do something like this, I’ll bet some ambitious reporter tries to track them down.”

  “Speaking of reporters, here they come . . .” Lucy turned from the meters and pointed toward the end of the street.

  Maggie turned to see the same TV crew she’d spotted earlier whipping around the corner. “I saw that van a few minutes ago. They must have made a big circle through the village.”

  She hoped the van would pass. But it swung into a parking spot a few feet from where they stood. A woman in the passenger seat pointed at the knitting shop, then looked out the window, smiling and waving as she scrambled to release her seat belt.

  Maggie stared down at her boots, still holding one of the cat faces. She quickly put it back on a meter.

  “Oh dear . . . looks like the paparazzi have us cornered. Let’s make a run for the shop and lock the door.” She turned, about to do just that.

  Lucy grabbed her arm. “What do you mean? You’re the perfect person for an interview. A knitting expert who also knows about the Knit Kats? It would be great publicity for the shop. Andy Warhol once said everyone will get fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “I’d rather have some warning before my minutes. So I can plan a better outfit.”

  She shook off Lucy’s hold, determined to take cover with or without her friend. “You could be interviewed just as easily as I could. Really, I don’t mind.”

  Lucy smiled and started to follow with her dogs. But before she could reply, another voice called after them.

  “Ladies? Hello there! . . . I’m Chelsea Porter, from News Alive 25! I’d love to get your thoughts about these cat faces on the parking meters.”

  Maggie had made it to the porch, but the newswoman was right behind her. Chelsea Porter had dark-red hair. A thick wedge of bangs fell straight to her eyebrows, and a white down coat matched a supernaturally bright smile.

  A brawny guy in an orange ski jacket followed like a loyal pet—a big video camera balanced on one shoulder.

  Lucy had jumped out of their way and now stood on the lawn just below the porch, her two dogs sniffing tufts of winter grass and bits of snow.

  Maggie stared at the duo like a deer caught in headlights. The reporter prattled on. “Are you waiting for this shop to open? It’s adorable.”

  “I’m the owner of this adorable shop. And we open at nine.”

  Chelsea Porter was unfazed by Maggie’s tart tone. “The owner? Fantastic! You must know a lot about knitting.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do,” Maggie admitted cautiously.

  “Could you spare a minute? You’re the perfect person to interview. Can I have your name, please?” Chelsea Porter pulled out a pad and pencil.

  Maggie’s first impulse was to escape into the shop, like a mouse darting into a familiar hole in the wall.

  She hesitated. Then sighed. Lucy was right. This could be good for business. Didn’t people say any publicity is good publicity?

  “Maggie Messina,” she said finally, spelling her last name while Chelsea wrote it down. “This is the Black Sheep Knitting Shop . . . on Main Street, Plum Harbor. We carry a vast array of yarns. Knitting and spinning tools . . . and lessons for all—”

  Chelsea quickly cut off Maggie’s promotional pitch. “I’ll tape a nice intro later. We can shoot with the shop in the background. This porch is a little dark.”

  Better to hide my wrinkles, Maggie thought. But she followed the reporter, then allowed herself be set in place by the cameraman—like some large lawn ornament—about halfway down the walk with her shop in the background.

  “Is the sign showing?” Maggie glanced over her shoulder, hoping the shop’s name would be in full view. What was the point of putting herself through this torture otherwise?

  “We’ll get a nice shot. No worries . . . I’m just going to ask you a few questions, Maggie. It won’t take long.” Chelsea positioned herself alongside Maggie and angled herself toward the camera with practiced flair.

  While she and the cameraman worked out a few more details, Maggie felt around her coat pockets and came up with . . . a ChapStick. She could have sworn she had a lipstick down there, but this would have to do. She swiped some on, then rearranged her scarf—one she had knit herself—at a more fashionable angle.

  Just goes to show, you never know what’s going to happen when you wake up in the morning, Maggie reflected.

  “You look great, Mag,” Lucy called out. She stood nearby, smiling very widely. Too widely, Maggie thought. I’ll get back at you later for talking me into this, my friend, she silently promised.

  “Ready to roll, Chel.” The cameraman’s face was now obscured by the camera, which was pointed straight at them.

  Chelsea turned to her. “We’re talking to Maggie Messina, owner of the Black Sheep Knitting Shop, here on Main Street, Plum Harbor. So, you had quite a surprise when you arrived at your shop today, Maggie. Didn’t you?”

  “I’ll say. Got out of my car, and there they were. Cat faces covering the parking meters. Up and down the street. I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said honestly.

  Chelsea nodded. Maggie could tell she was doing well.

  “Do you have any idea who could have done this? Or why?”

  “Well . . . that’s a good question. This knitting is high-quality work, no doubt,” Maggie answered vaguely. She hesitated to continue. She wasn’t sure why. She’d so freely given her opinion on that very same query moments ago.

  “And you are an expert on that topic,” Chelsea prodded her.

  “I know something about knitting. You might say that,” Maggie agreed warily.

  “So . . . who done it, Maggie? Any knitters you know?”

  Chelsea’s tone was half joking. But a tingle of apprehension crept up across Maggie’s skin, like a tiny insect that had somehow gotten under her sweater. She crossed her arms over her chest. Chelsea was staring at her, nodding in encouragement. Was she worried about the Knit Kats? Afraid there might be some sort of retribution if she mentioned them by name to this reporter? If the young woman did two minutes of research on the Internet, she was bound to arrive at the same conclusion.

  “I do have a guess,” Maggie said, finding her voice again. “There’s a group of knitting graffiti artists active in this area. Around Boston and out here in Essex County. They call themselves the Knit Kats. It may have been them,” she said, hoping to sound as if she were putting forth one possibility of many. When, as far as she knew, there were no others.

  “The Knit Kats,” Chelsea repeated. “What were their motives? Why would they do this?”

  “Installing parking meters on this street created quite a controversy in town. Many people think they’re unnecessary and a nuisance. Especially the shopkeepers,” she added. “Perhaps the Knit Kats are trying to protest by mocking the meters?”

  “Mocking the meters, of course,” Chelsea echoed. Maggie could tell she liked the turn of phrase. “Can our viewers find out more about this group of outlaw knitters?”

  “Oh, yes, the Knit Kats have a website. It’s all there for anyone to see. Though their identities are secret. They each have a pseudonym and wear masks and makeup in their photos. That sort of thing.”

  “Fake names? Masks and makeup? Sounds a little . . . extreme.”

  The young woman was trying to build this up, make it more newsworthy than perhaps it really was.

  “I think it’s all very harmless. They display their work in public to amuse and entertain. To make a social comment. In a clever way. They’ve covered telephone booths, taxis, school buses. On the Fourth of July one year they went into Boston and covered all the statues of colonial patriots—George Washington, Paul Revere, and Samuel Adams. Red, white, and blue yarns, of course.”

  “Of course.” Chelsea nodded, looking pleased. Maggie could tell that was all the informat
ion she needed. More than she needed, probably. The reporter turned to the camera, her long hair whipping perilously close to Maggie’s cheek.

  Her voice was suddenly deeper. “That’s the story from Main Street, Plum Harbor, on this mysterious and odd incident of vandalism. This is Chelsea Porter . . . for News Alive . . . 25!”

  “Great, Chelsea. Cut,” the cameraman called out.

  “How was that? Want to take it again?”

  “We’re good,” he answered. “Let’s get another long shot of the street. Then a few close-ups on the cat faces.”

  Chelsea turned and offered Maggie her hand. “Thanks again, Maggie. You were great.”

  “Thank you, Chelsea,” Maggie said politely. “You were . . . super,” she added with a small smile.

  A few minutes later, Maggie and Lucy were safely inside the shop, sipping coffee at the long oak table used for classes and group work. Maggie still felt a bit shaken.

  Lucy’s dogs were tied on the porch, and she sat across from Maggie with her coat still on. She worked at home, as a graphic artist, but still had to be at her desk by nine.

  “I can’t wait to see the segment. You should tape it, and we’ll watch it tonight. At the meeting.”

  Maggie wasn’t nearly as eager to see herself interviewed. “I’ll ask Phoebe to set her DVR. But I’m going to look just awful. I didn’t have on a drop of makeup, and I really should have washed my hair last night.”

  “You look fine. Don’t be silly. I hope she mentions the shop. These things get trimmed down to a few seconds. A tiny sound bite.”

  “Let’s just hope so.” Maggie had already begun setting out the needles and yarn for the sock class, which was due to start at half past nine. “You’d think if a reporter was sent on an assignment like this, they would do a little research beforehand. She didn’t seem to have a clue about the Knit Kats.”

  “She didn’t. But you filled her in nicely. I think those mobile units just drive all day and producers back at the network tell them where to go. The reporters don’t have much time for research unless it’s a big story.”

  “Knitted cat faces on parking meters is not exactly a world crisis, I agree.” Maggie counted out the pairs of needles she would need and copies of the pattern. A former art teacher, she was organized and detail-minded.

  “No, not a crisis. Amusing, though,” Lucy granted the group.

  “Definitely. And true to the Knit Kats’ style. Though I didn’t mean to accuse them without any proof.”

  “You didn’t sound like that,” Lucy assured her. “Who else could it be? A copycat knitting graffiti group? Could there be such a thing?”

  Maggie glanced up at her mirthful tone. She could tell Lucy was hoping she’d notice her silly pun.

  “Very funny. Yes, they might call themselves the Copy Cats.”

  “But spell it with Ks.” Lucy sipped her coffee, watching Maggie sort out some balls of yarn the weight and color required by the pattern she was using to start off the group.

  Maggie arranged the yarn in a basket and set it in the middle of the table. She never tired of looking at yarn, the varied colors and textures. Lucky for me, she thought. I’m surrounded by it all day.

  “Well, I just might search the Internet for the Kopy Kats later today, when I have a spare minute,” Maggie teased her friend. “Perhaps a new group has sprung up.”

  Lucy tilted her head. “Maybe we should start one here.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Maggie said quickly. “That’s the sort of publicity I don’t need. But I do think that reporter should have more of a sense of humor about it. She seemed to be portraying the prank and the entire group in a sinister light. I think it’s all in good fun. It’s good to give people a jolt from their everyday routines. Make them think outside the box. I don’t see any harm in it.”

  “Any harm in what?” Phoebe stood in the doorway of the storeroom. They hadn’t heard her come downstairs, Maggie realized. She looked as if she’d pulled on her outfit in a hurry, a huge, loose sweater and tight black jeans. Her long dark hair, with its distinctive pink streak, was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her large eyes were unusually makeup-free.

  She came toward them, a big mug of coffee in one hand tilting at a perilous angle.

  “Take a look outside. You won’t believe it,” Lucy promised.

  “If the town hasn’t taken them down by now,” Maggie added.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Phoebe trotted to the front of the shop and looked out the window. Lucy’s dogs jumped up, barking and wagging their tails.

  But Phoebe had no interest in her canine friends this morning. She leaned against the glass, looking up and down the street, then headed to the door.

  “Wow . . . it looks awesome . . . Be right back,” she called over her shoulder as she ran outside.

  “Oh good. They’re still there. I didn’t want her to miss it. But I didn’t want to wake her up, either. You know how she can get.” Maggie rolled her eyes.

  “Wise choice.” Lucy nodded sagely.

  Phoebe returned a few moments later with her phone in hand. Maggie guessed she’d taken pictures, too. “That is so amazingly cool. I can’t believe it. I’m going to post it on Facebook and Instagram.”

  Maggie nodded, though she wasn’t sure what all of that meant. Phoebe often urged her to join the twenty-first century and learn the basics of social networking. So far, the most Maggie had managed was to put up a simple website for the knitting shop. She’d glanced at Facebook . . . but couldn’t see the point. She was a friendly person, quite social in real life. But she really didn’t need to read a running stream of personal information and thoughts from myriad personalities. The many photos of children and vacations e-mailed to her by her friends more than filled that quota.

  “Some TV newspeople were here. They interviewed Maggie,” Lucy told Phoebe.

  “They did? Why didn’t you guys wake me up?”

  Maggie shrugged. “I thought you got in late last night and needed some extra sleep.”

  Phoebe looked flustered and shook her head. “I did get home late . . . but I would have gotten up for that, Mag.”

  “That’s sweet. But it wasn’t much. Honestly. Lucy provided plenty of support . . . pushing me into the spotlight.” Maggie gave her other friend a look.

  “She tried to wriggle out of it. But the reporter was pretty tenacious.”

  “In a cheerleader-ish way,” Maggie clarified.

  “Maggie was very good,” Lucy added.

  “ ‘Super,’ I think, is the correct term. I guess we’ll see tonight,” Maggie said. “Could you set your DVR, Phoebe, so we can watch it at the meeting?”

  “Already thought of that. What was the interview like?” Phoebe asked eagerly.

  “She just wanted my reactions. A person-on-the-street sort of thing.”

  “A knitting expert on the street, you mean,” Lucy corrected. “She asked Maggie who she thought was responsible. Maggie said the Knit Kats. Then had to explain because the reporter didn’t know there was such a thing as knitting graffiti.”

  “Many people don’t know that. Even a lot of knitters,” Maggie pointed out.

  “Maybe they’ve posted a message on their website about it. Don’t they usually do that after they strike?” Lucy asked.

  “That would make sense . . . I’m really not sure.”

  “Let’s check and see.” Lucy opened Maggie’s laptop, which was sitting on the table, and began typing. “Do you follow the Knit Kats, Phoebe?” she asked as she searched for the site.

  “Not really . . . I mean, I know who they are. I’ve heard of them.” Phoebe shrugged and sipped from her mug. Maggie noticed that she had on fingerless gloves, white with little pink skulls stitched on top. She smoothed a cuff over her thin wrist.

  “Ah . . . here’s the home page.” Lucy smiled and sat back, pushing the laptop to the middle of the table so they all could see. “You were right, Mag. Here’s a photo of the meters and a
comment: ‘Pesky parking meters in Plum Harbor got your fur up? Here’s one solution. Purr-fect, right?’ ”

  Maggie leaned over Lucy’s shoulder to get a better look. “Interesting. They don’t take responsibility outright,” Maggie noticed. “They say, ‘Here’s one solution.’ Not ‘our’ solution.”

  Lucy looked back at the screen. “Good point. But it’s obviously their handiwork. Otherwise, how could they get the photos up so quickly? We live here and we just noticed it.”

  Maggie had to agree. “Very true. At least I didn’t lead the media astray.”

  The photo on the Knit Kats home page showed the scene right outside the shop door and then a close-up of one of the cat faces. Maggie couldn’t put her finger on why it wasn’t exactly cute.

  A little ominous-looking, weren’t they? Or was she projecting something onto it? Maggie wasn’t quite sure.

  Lucy looked back at the screen and scrolled down to read more. “It says over fifty meters have been covered. That’s a lot of knitted cat heads.”

  “And ears, eyes, and whiskers,” Phoebe noted.

  Maggie glanced at her. “It was a while in the planning, no doubt. Good work, too. At least the piece I looked at. They’re quite skillful. I was impressed.”

  “Maybe you should leave a comment on the site. Tell the Knit Kats how impressed you are,” Phoebe suggested.

  “Oh, you know I don’t go in for any of that Internet stuff. You leave a comment if you like.”

  “How many Knit Kats are there?” Lucy peered at the screen. “I forget.” She scanned the screen again. “I think there’s a page with the members on here somewhere.”

  But before Lucy could find the right tab, Maggie noticed the time. She’d spent enough of the morning on knitting graffiti. Time to get going with the real thing.

  “My students will be here soon. I’d better unlock the door and turn the sign. We can look at that later.”

  “I’ll go.” Phoebe picked up her mug and headed for the door. “Is the sock class starting today?”

  “At half past nine. We still have a few minutes to get our act together. I hope you’ll sit in and show them some examples of your work, Phoebe. To inspire the novices,” she added.