“Tarot cards?!?” Mac said as I closed the door behind us.
“Mac, you know how they feel about that sort of thing. They think it helps. And how can it hurt, really?” I pulled him farther away from the room in order to have this conversation somewhere away from my mother’s ears.
His bristling calmed a bit. “Look, it can’t really hurt, but you know how I feel about all that mumbo-jumbo. Charging people money to tell their future is dangerous.”
Mac’s father had died when he was twelve and his mother had spent a lot of money over the years trying to contact her dead husband. Mac didn’t have a benign relationship to all things psychic.
“I doubt Mom is charging Wally for a reading, she just really likes to read cards and in this case, she thinks she’s helping.”
Mac sighed. “I’ll try to keep an open mind. But I’m not going to start investigating based on tarot cards and ghost stories.”
We had reached the lounge while talking and I peeked in. It was empty. We sat on the couch closest to the fireplace, where Mac took off his ridiculous sweater. I glanced around the room, soaking in the atmosphere and enjoying a moment of quiet with Mac when I noticed it.
All the legs of the couches were wearing socks. Pink and yellow and neon green. I don’t know why I didn’t see it immediately. I started giggling and Mac turned to look at me.
“What? I know the sweater is silly, but it’s drafty in this place . . . ,” he began.
I shook my head and pointed to the sofa feet.
He put his head in his hands, but I could see he was smiling. “I thought I had seen all the crazy I was going to see.”
We got up and looked around the room. It was like an Easter egg hunt and now that we were looking for it, we saw little flashes of woolly color all over the room.
Tiny hats adorned the bishops of the chess set. The statue of a rider on his horse sported a striped scarf and the fire poker had a knitted cover on its handle.
“These people really need to get out more,” Mac said.
“I think it’s funny.”
We were returning to the couch when a ladder carried by a rugged Marlboro man entered the room. The man and the ladder stopped abruptly and Wally bumped into them.
“Kirk! Why did you stop, you have to put this up on that portrait.”
Wally held a long piece of rainbow-colored knitting that looked like triangular banners. He followed Kirk’s gaze and froze.
“Hi, Wally,” I said. “Are you the yarn bomber?”
He turned pink and shook his head. “No, but I was volunteered to assist. Ms. Garrett said I should put this up over the portrait of Alastair Carlisle.” He gestured toward the fireplace where Alastair glared imperiously at the room.
Kirk shuffled his feet and looked at Wally.
“You remember Kirk.” Wally gestured at his partner in crime.
Mac stuck out his hand. “Thanks for your help last night.”
Kirk shook hands and nodded.
“Kirk, this is Clyde Fortune,” Wally said. “She’s working with Detective McKenzie to figure out what happened to Clarissa.”
Kirk stuck out his hand and bestowed a dazzling smile. I noticed how clean his hands and nails were—my stereotype of a maintenance guy tended toward a balding, potbellied, older man with a cigar clamped in his teeth. In my imagination, his nails are always filthy with grease and dirt from all the repair work he does. This guy was nothing like that. He was in great shape, with longish dark hair that fell forward over his dark eyes. He sported a day-old beard and looked more like my idea of a sexy pirate than a maintenance man.
“Actually, Kirk, we were hoping to talk to you about Ms. Carlisle’s death,” Mac said.
“I don’t think I can help—I didn’t see her yesterday.” He set one end of the ladder down and gave us a look of careful patience.
“Anything you can add about your whereabouts and the location of any of the other staff would help,” Mac said. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at Kirk, who studied the floor.
Wally looked at his watch. “Can we get this knitting up on the picture first? Ms. Garrett really wanted it up before the knitters take a break.” He lowered his voice. “They’re getting agitated over Clarissa’s death and Jessica wants to keep their minds off the . . . murder.”
Kirk took the ladder to the painting and climbed up. Wally handed him the multicolored banner of wool and Kirk draped it along the top.
“No, I don’t think that looks right,” Wally said. “Can you make it drape a little more? Just there on the right?”
Kirk adjusted the knitting.
Wally stood back and nodded.
“You know, that’s not as subtle as the rest of them,” Mac said. “It’s hanging right over his face.”
My head swiveled rapidly in Mac’s direction—who knew he cared about the yarn bombing?
I definitely saw Kirk’s eyes roll toward the ceiling. He pulled the banner up so it just ran along the top of the frame. Not exactly subtle, but not as obvious.
Wally nodded and Kirk climbed down.