Ruby nodded. “That’s right.”
“You must have more than that.”
“We do,” Maggie said.
I turned to face her.
“I was working in the store the day of the first theft,” she said. “Ray Nightingale was working as well. It was really busy because two busloads of tourists who were on a winery tour had stopped here in town for lunch.” Maggie reached for our plates and stacked them one on top of the other, setting the forks on top. “I was at the cash register and Ray was showing one of his own pieces to a couple of the tourists when Susan came in.”
Ray Nightingale had a degree in graphic arts, and he did a lot of commercial work for different businesses. He also created large, incredibly detailed, acrylic ink drawings that reminded me a little of the Where’s Waldo? series of books. Somewhere in each of Ray’s drawings was a tiny rubber duck, no more than an inch or so long, wearing a pair of sunglasses and a snap-brim fedora. For me, much of the charm of the artwork was looking for the little duck, whose name was Bo.
“Susan had been at the diner for lunch, I think,” Maggie continued. “She walked a group of the tourists over who wanted to look around the shop before they got back on the road.” She picked up the plates and moved over to the small sink that she used to wash her brushes.
“So what happened?” I asked as she rinsed the plates.
“Susan kept going back to look at the linen stitch scarves. There were four of them at the time.” Maggie glanced up at me. “You’ve seen Ella’s work. They’re beautiful.”
I nodded. Ella King had an eye for color. I’d bought one of her scarves as a gift for my friend Lise in Boston. Even though it was hand knit, it looked like something that had been woven. “So Susan liked Ella’s work. No offense, Mags, but I don’t see how you went from that to her stealing something.” I gathered the glasses and took them over to the sink.
“She went back to those scarves at least half a dozen times that I saw. She handled them a lot and she—” Maggie stopped and turned to face me, holding one dripping plate in her hand. “She was acting furtive, looking around all the time as if she was trying to see if anyone was watching her. And yes, I know how out of character that sounds, but that’s what happened.”
“I believe you,” I said.
Maggie set the wet plate in the sink. “At the end of the day we discovered there was a scarf missing.”
“You had a store full of tourists. Are you sure one of them wasn’t the thief?”
“That’s what we thought,” Ruby said. “We’ve never had a shoplifter before, but it happens. A couple of days later I was working, Susan came in again and I noticed the same thing with her and the scarves as Maggie had seen. At the end of that day we discovered two placemats and another scarf were gone. It was very quiet. No busloads of tourists.”
I glanced at Maggie, who nodded.
“If Susan wanted a scarf, she could buy one,” I said.
Ruby shrugged. “As a former semi–juvenile delinquent, I can tell you that swiping things isn’t always about not being able to pay for them.”
Maggie had finished rinsing the plates. She took the glasses I was still holding.
“So why did Nic and Rebecca make your suspect list, aside from the fact that they were at the shop both times the thefts happened? It has to be more than just the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Well, Nic was just plain acting weird,” Ruby said.
Maggie nodded in agreement.
“Weird how?”
“He worked with me,” Ruby said, leaning against the worktable. “And his shift was after Ray’s so he overlapped a little with Maggie. He kept going over to the shelf where the scarves and the placemats were displayed, and he was looking over his shoulder as though he thought he was being watched. He seemed really nervous.”
I turned to Maggie again. “What about Rebecca?”
“Rebecca was just like Nic and Susan. She wasn’t acting like herself.” Maggie made a face. “I know that I said this about Susan, but Rebecca was acting furtive as well, glancing about a lot, standing by the display, and fishing around in her bag.”
I didn’t know what to say. The description didn’t sound like Rebecca, but then again what Maggie and Ruby had described about the other two didn’t sound like Susan or Nic, either.
I glanced at my watch again. “I need to head back,” I said. I gave Maggie a hug. “Thank you for lunch. I promise I’ll call you as soon as I talk to Susan.”
Maggie tipped her head in the direction of the cinnamon rolls. “Thank you for those, and for . . . everything.”
I nodded. “Anytime.”
“I’ll walk down with you,” Ruby said, reaching for her jean jacket. She turned to Maggie. “Thanks for the pizza. I have a couple of things to do but I’ll call you later.”
Ruby and I headed down the hall. “You’re coming with me,” I said once we were on our way down the stairs out of Maggie’s earshot. I didn’t frame the words as a question.
“Look, Kathleen, it’s not that I don’t trust you,” Ruby said, stopping one step above the turn landing. “It’s just that . . . I’m head of the co-op board now. It was my decision not to call the police and I’m okay with that. But I still need answers.”
“I understand,” I said. “If the same thing had happened at the library, I’d feel the same way.”
It had stopped raining, I discovered when we stepped out into the parking lot. “Are you taking your car or do you want to ride with me?” I asked. I gestured toward the nearby side street. “I’m just parked over there.”
“I’ll come with you, if that’s all right,” Ruby said. “I’m going to the store after and I can walk there from the library.”
“It’s fine with me,” I said. “There’s lots of room in the truck.”
I looked toward the water. The dark clouds were already thinning, and I could see bits of blue sky breaking through. The rain was over. My left wrist, which was a pretty good predictor of wet weather since I’d broken it, didn’t ache anymore.
“I forgot to tell you that I have a meeting at the hotel tomorrow,” Ruby said as we started up the hill to the truck. “I’m hoping they’ll be interested in putting together a room package for tourists who are coming for the workshops.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said.
The library and the artists’ co-op were teaming up to offer a weekend workshop called “The Art of the Doodle” in September. The library was hosting a talk on the popular art form along with an exhibit of doodle art and books. The co-op was offering hands-on workshops at both the store and the library. Even though we hadn’t made an official announcement since we were still firming up details, word of mouth was getting around and I was surprised by how much interest there already was.
“Eric is interested in offering a breakfast special for the participants. He should have some options put together for me next week.”
“That would be great.” Ruby smiled. “Those are the kind of small extras that I’m hoping will sway people who might be on the fence into coming.”
We’d reached the truck, and as I unlocked the passenger door, she patted the front fender. “I can’t believe this thing is still working.”
At one time Ruby had driven the identical mate to my truck. Mine had been a gift from Harrison Taylor for helping him find his daughter. Before that I’d walked everywhere since I’d sold my car when I left Boston for Minnesota. I’d spent my first few weeks in town wandering around exploring, which is how I’d stumbled on Wisteria Hill, where I’d found Owen and Hercules. Or more accurately, where they’d found me.
Ruby raised an eyebrow. “How long are you going to keep driving it?”
“Probably until it falls apart,” I said, sliding onto the driver’s seat. “It’s a good dependable truck and it has a lot of sentimental value.” I ducked my head for a moment. “And would you think I’m crazy if I say Owen and Hercules really like it?”