Knit Your Own Murder by Monica Ferris Page B

know about, that nobody is supposed to know about, but Harry found out. And it’s damaged; someone broke some windows.”
    Connor asked, “Is it possible that Harry broke the windows?”
    Chaz drew breath in through his teeth. “I hadn’t thought of that! But no. I think she was so damn angry—surprised into anger—because he found out about this secret property.”
    Betsy frowned. “What kind of property could she own that she wanted kept secret?”
    Chaz shrugged. “Beats me.”
    â€œDid he say where this property was? In the Twin Cities area?”
    â€œNo.” Chaz shrugged. “But . . . I got the feeling it was out somewhere, maybe up north. Vacation property, maybe. Up at the lake.”
    Connor said, “Which lake?”
    Betsy said, “In Minnesota, everyone who owns a cabin on one of our ten thousand lakes calls it ‘the lake.’ As in, ‘We’re going up to the lake this weekend.’ The lake is never mentioned by name. Maybe to discourage drop-in visitors who’d want a free stay.”
    Connor laughed. “Very clever.”
    â€œ
Row
,” came a sound that could have been from a cat, except it was deep.
    Chaz, looked around, startled, then saw the owner of the second cat bed, a Siamese, emerging from a back room. So it had been a cat’s voice, after all. The cat, whose “points”—face, ears, legs, tail—were very dark, came to stand in front of Chaz. “
Arow
,” it said again, more of a statement than an inquiry.
    â€œThat’s Thai,” said Betsy. “With a T-H. If you want to pet him, hold out your hand. He’ll come and sniff your fingers, which is permission to stroke the top of his head.”
    â€œHuh,” said Chaz, but he leaned forward experimentally, arm extended, fingers out.
    The cat came near, lifted his small head, and sniffed, then presented his forehead. Chaz obediently stroked it a few times. The cat, satisfied, walked away toward the kitchen.
    â€œWhat would have happened if I hadn’t held out my hand?” Chaz wondered aloud.
    Connor said, “He would have walked away—but a few minutes later he would have landed on your shoulders from behind the couch, just to see how high you’d jump and how loud you’d shout. He has a wicked sense of humor.”
    Chaz laughed. “I guess I should be grateful it’s not that other cat who has a sense of humor.”
    â€œIndeed,” said Connor, also laughing. “She currently weighs twenty pounds.” He glanced at Betsy and said, “May I ask Chaz something?”
    â€œOf course,” Betsy said, looking a little surprised.
    He turned back to Chaz. “This may seem like an odd question, but when you heard that Maddy had been murdered, whose name immediately jumped into your mind as the possible murderer?”
    He said at once, “Harry Whiteside,” then raised both hands, his gesture of frustration. “But of course he was already dead. Someone murdered him before he could murder her.”
    â€œWhy did you think of Mr. Whiteside?” asked Betsy.
    â€œMostly because of that Water Street property. I remember he said, ‘At least I made you pay more than you wanted, maybe more than it’s worth.’ Which might be true, I think he could have afforded the higher price better than she could. Still, he backed down first.”
    Betsy said, “So did Joe Mickels. Did you think of him, too, as a possible murderer?”
    â€œNo, not right away. He and Maddy had no relationship I knew of until this Water Street thing, but . . .”
    â€œBut what, Chaz?”
    â€œWell, I’m sure Maddy was stretching herself pretty thin on this Water Street property. She had taken out mortgages on some of her buildings so she could keep up with the bidding, and she was angry about that. And that last confrontation, that