Knit Your Own Murder by Monica Ferris Read Free Book Online Page B

become a Baptist. She was very generous toward her church and various charities, a surprising discovery few knew of, as she never spoke of it to anyone.
    And she liked to knit. That last bit of information came from Betsy Devonshire, who said she had donated more knitted toys to that fatal auction event than anyone else. Who would have thought?
    People were complicated. That’s why Malloy preferred the kind of crime committed by professional—or at least semi-amateur—criminals. There, motives were clear and simple. Plus, it was relatively easy to convince a pro to confess or at least drop a dime on the perp. These amateurs lied when they didn’t have to, or couldn’t get their facts straight when they were trying to be truthful, or refused to learn the rules of the game. Malloy strayed from his trainof thought. Funny how the expression “drop a dime”—to make a phone call offering a solid clue about the perpetrator of a crime—was still around, when public phones, which once charged a dime to make a call, now charged fifty cents if you could find one at all.
    But back to the subject at hand. Who hated Maddy O’Leary enough to think up that ridiculous—and successful—plan to kill her?
    Because it
was
ridiculous! Pouring a poison on knitting yarn so she’d absorb it through her skin! Why not just take a hunting rifle and ambush her from behind a tree, or use a handgun and shoot her from your car as she walked down the street? Or, like the unfortunate Harry Whiteside, lay in wait in his house to knock him on the head?
    Say, could there be a connection between the two murders? O’Leary and Whiteside were bidding against each other—and Joe Mickels—for that property on Water Street. And Malloy’s fellow investigators in Wayzata thought that maybe the mess in the Whiteside house wasn’t what you’d expect a burglar to leave. It was more like vandalism; there was anger, even hatred, in the destruction inside that house.
    Also, O’Leary hadn’t paid off on her bid yet—she’d just won the war. Did her company inherit the right to buy the property? Or an heir? Or did the bidding reopen as a result of her death? Or, perhaps, was the property offered to the last person standing in the bidding war: Joe Mickels?
    Mickels, notorious for his violent temper; Mickels, the recent purchaser of three e-cigarette stores. Hmmm . . .
    Malloy reached for his phone.

Chapter Twelve

    B etsy was in her shop sighing over a bill that had come in, because it seemed to be charging her a whole lot of money for items she hadn’t ordered—nor had they been delivered. Godwin was standing beside her making angry sounds.
    â€œThey did this once before, remember?” said Godwin. “There’s another shop named Crewel World, in Iowa, and this vendor sent them an order we had made and billed us for it. This time they sent us a bill for some things they ordered. It’s funny how they don’t know that IA and MN are two different states.”
    â€œMaybe they think we’re a chain, like McDonald’s.”
    â€œEven so, if the Excelsior McDonald’s orders a truckload of buns, I don’t think the Hopkins McDonald’s wants to pay for it. Give me that bill, I’ll go call them.”
    â€œThank you.”
    He was well into his tirade at the hapless accountsmanager and so didn’t pay any attention to the door’s “Hello, Dolly!” announcement of someone coming in.
    Betsy looked up and saw it was Joe Mickels. His normal blustering demeanor was gone; he appeared uncomfortable and diffident. She had been wondering if he would dare stop in to talk to her. Apparently he did dare, but he didn’t like it. Given their unhappy history, his attitude wasn’t surprising.
    Betsy put on her blandest expression and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Mickels. How may I help you?”
    He took a deep breath and