Loom and Doom (10 page)

“Of course,” she said, rolling her eyes. Much to my relief, she changed the subject. “How did it go with the police last night?”

“They showed up with a search warrant and ransacked my house, looking for the clothes I was wearing when I found Swanson's body.”

“Oh, for crying out loud. Don't they have better things to do than to harass innocent folk?”

“My thoughts exactly. But unfortunately, I'd thrown away the jeans I was wearing. So now they think I got rid of them because they would have incriminated me. The only good thing is I still had my shirt, my coat and running shoes. Matthew says that as soon as the lab report shows there is no blood on them, the police will drop me as a suspect.” I sighed. “But who knows how long that'll take. They're never in such a rush when they think the evidence will exonerate a suspect as when it will convict him.”

“You? A suspect? It's just plain ridiculous.” She changed the subject abruptly. “I made cranberry-lemon muffins. Want one?”

I'd just had a big breakfast, but I could never resist Marnie's baking. “Sure.”

From his cushion behind the cash register, Winston growled. Sometimes I could swear he understood. “It's okay, Winnie. I have a treat for you right here.” I rummaged through my catchall drawer and threw him a liver treat. He snapped it in midair and chowed down.

Marnie reappeared from Jenny's shop, carrying a tray with two coffees and a basket of pastries. “You should see her place. It's packed.”

“Again? I'm so happy for her.”

“There isn't an empty seat in the place. Jenny was just telling me she's going to have to find a way to add seats. She's thinking of putting in a bar with stools in front of the window. She could get another five or six places that way.”

“You know what else she could do,” I said. “During the summer she could put café tables on the sidewalk. Of course she'd need a permit for that.”

“A permit? Are you crazy? I don't think any of us ever wants to deal with the city for permits again.”

The door swung open and Margaret came in. “I just wanted to tell you,” she whispered. “I overhead one of the customers talking about the owners of Good Morning Sunshine. It seems they're related to the city inspector's wife.”

A bell sounded in my mind. “Related in what way?” I asked.

“Lori Stanton is Mona Swanson's sister.”

“Well, isn't that interesting?” Marnie said. “No wonder Swanson was doing everything in his power to slow down Jenny's reopening.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” I said. “But it makes sense. Swanson might have wanted to please his wife's family by crippling their competition. But I also found out something interesting. Syd used to date Mona before she met Swanson. That gives him one more reason to hate the city inspector. Also, he went to UNC, and you know what their official color is—light blue—the same color as the baseball cap the driver was wearing when he sped out of the city hall parking lot. I'm more and more convinced that Syd is the killer.”

“Makes sense,” Marnie said.

“By the way,” I said. “Yesterday I happened to see Syd and a blond woman having an argument. She looked so much like Lori Stanton, I'm sure they're related. And, now, knowing he used to date Mona Swanson, I'm sure that was her.”

Marnie frowned. “They were arguing?”

“Yes, and it looked like a doozy. He grabbed her by the arm, hard. She twisted out of his grasp and ran inside the house, slamming the door behind her. I wonder what that argument was all about.”

“Wait till Jenny hears about this.”

“Maybe you shouldn't tell her about any of this. She's got enough on her mind,” Marnie said.

Margaret scoffed. “But, what if she wasn't being paranoid after all? There really could have been a plot to keep her shop closed as long as possible. I wonder if we should mention this to the police.”

“Let's think about it before we say anything,” I said. “With my luck, Lombard will probably twist that into another reason why I might have wanted Swanson dead. Besides, what's to tell? Jenny thinks there was a plot, and I saw Syd and a blond woman, who may or may not have been Swanson's wife, talking. That hardly counts as evidence. Lombard will laugh me right out of the station.”

F
rom my spot behind the counter, I watched a steady stream of customers going in and out of Jenny's shop. I was happy to see that her business had picked up. But in the meantime, no one had so much as popped their heads into my shop all morning. This left me somewhat disconcerted.

After a while, I left the front counter and joined Marnie who was busy at my dobby loom in the back. She was walking the pedals at a ferocious speed.

“It's so quiet up front, I think I'll do some weaving for a while,” I told her. “What are you working on? More place mats?”

“Since you keep complaining that you never have enough of them, I thought I'd make you as many as I can. That way you won't run out so quickly. What about you? What are you going to work on? Some new project on the Navajo loom?”

“Right on.”

After my decision to try this ancient form of weaving, I'd ordered two specialty Navajo looms, a large one for the shop and a smaller one I'd been using in my apartment. I'd already completed a number of projects on the smaller one, but this would be my first time working on the large one. I looked at it now—such a simple contraption—a four-sided frame with manually operated sheds. I'd brought in a cushion so that I could work the traditional way, sitting on the floor to start. Then, as my project progressed, I'd move higher and higher, to a stool, then a chair, a barstool and so on as the weaving progressed up the warp. I'd even seen pictures of Navajo women with their chairs on top of a table so that they could reach the top toward the end of their project.

I picked up a spool of the yarn I'd chosen for the weft and began the dressing, which, with this type of loom, took a fraction of the normal time—one more reason to love this technique. Half an hour later I had just finished when the doorbell chimed.

“Wouldn't you know it?” Marnie said. “All you have to do is get busy, and a customer is sure to stop by.”

“I am not complaining. I can use the business.” I hurried up front to greet Judy Bates.

“Judy, hi. What good wind brings you?”

“I love the Native American-looking collection in your window. The pieces are gorgeous. You never carried this type of merchandise in the past. Did you just make those?”

“I did. I decided to try my hand at something completely new. And with the shop being closed for so long I had lots of time on my hands. So I gave this a try.”

“That's renovations for you. It always takes twice as much time and three times as much money as you expect. My friend Susan went through hell when she remodeled her kitchen.” She frowned. “I think I told you about her, didn't I?”

“Yes. Funny you should mention her. My boyfriend and I went out to dinner last night and we ran into her and her husband. She also mentioned what a frustrating experience the remodeling turned out to be.”

She snapped her fingers. “I did tell you about her. I remember now.” I was sure our conversation hadn't slipped her mind. She'd been eagerly looking to pick up some gossip when we'd talked about it yesterday. “You know, something came back to me last night,” she continued. “Susan's renovations were last fall. Being livid as she was with that inspector, Mr. Swanson, I'd never have thought I'd see him at her place again. But, just the other day, there he was, large as life, leaving her house in the middle of the afternoon.” She wrinkled her brow. “I wondered what he would be doing at her place six months after her remodeling.”

“Maybe she's having something else done?” I suggested.

She nodded emphatically. “That's what I thought too. But the next day, when I ran into her, I asked her if she was having more work done. She said, ‘I'd rather get a root canal.'” Judy folded her arms, as if waiting for me to comment.

“That is odd,” I said warily. Chatting with someone like Judy was a bit like walking a minefield. I had to be careful what I said, in case my words found their way back to Susan. Gossip lovers often enjoyed nothing more than to set people against each other. It made for great spectator sport. There was, however, one thing I might find out without risk of it being interpreted the wrong way. It had occurred to me that a financially comfortable couple might own more than one car. “I saw her and her husband drive away in a really nice car last night. I'm thinking of changing cars myself, but I'm so bad when it comes to makes and models. You wouldn't happen to know what they drive, would you?”

“Were they driving his or her car?”

“I have no clue. So they each have one?”

“Actually, they have three, a new Lexus, which he drives. Then they also have a midsize car that she uses most of the time. But they also have a sports car. Some fancy European make—probably worth a fortune.”

“The car I'm talking about was silver.”

She chuckled. “That doesn't help. They must have a thing for silver cars. The only one that isn't silver is the sports car. That one is red.”

“I think it might have had a hatchback.”

She shook her head pensively. “No, that doesn't sound like anything they drive. Anyhow, enough talk about cars. I want to know more about your new merchandise. I just love those rugs and blankets in your window. I'm looking for a decorative throw for my living room. We just redid our kitchen, opened it up onto the living room. We put in a rustic floor and a fieldstone fireplace. And just last week we bought a new living room set—genuine leather, a beautiful tan color. Don't you think some Navajo-inspired accessories would look wonderful in there?”

I could picture it in my mind. “It sounds wonderful. You must invite me. I'd love to see your home. It sounds beautiful.”

“Sure. Just as soon as I'm finished with the decorating. I was wondering if you'd let me borrow one of the blankets to try out. If it works, I'll be back tomorrow to pay for it, and maybe get a couple of the cushions too.”

“Of course we can do that.” I climbed into the window while she went outside and pointed out the pieces she liked. Back at the cash register she signed a loan receipt for two throws and three cushions—five pieces instead of the one she'd originally mentioned.

After she left, I returned to the studio with a spring in my step. “I think I might have just sold two of my newest blankets and three cushions,” I told Marnie.

“Great. I was looking at the ticketed price. Those aren't cheap.”

“They're very popular right now. If this collection sells well, it'll bring in a lot of money.”

“I overheard you and Judy talking, and it gave me an idea. You should redo your window display to make it look like the corner of a real room. You could put in a rustic floor—some laminate flooring that snaps together. And borrow a leather chair to use as a display piece for your collection. It would pull in the customers like mad.”

It was a great idea. “And you know who has brown leather furniture? Matthew,” I said. “Maybe he won't mind lending it to me for a couple of weeks.” I snatched my cell phone and called him.

When he answered, I went straight to the point. “I have a small favor to ask you.” I told him about Marnie's idea.

“No problem,” he said, without hesitation. “Want me to drop it off when I pick up Winston?”

“That would be wonderful.”

“I'll do that. If that's all, I'll say good-bye and go back to my writing.”

“I take it he said yes?” Marnie asked when I returned to my loom.

“He did.”

I had been working at my loom for a few minutes when I remembered something Judy had said. “You know, I didn't pay attention to it at the time, but Judy mentioned that she saw Swanson at Susan's place just a few days ago. Don't you think it's odd, considering how much trouble he gave her last fall when she did her renovations?”

“What are you thinking?” Marnie asked.

“I wonder if she had more work done, this time without a building permit. If Swanson found out, he could have put the squeeze on her pretty hard.”

“How can you find out?”

“I have an idea.” I marched off to the front, picked up the phone and dialed the number for city hall.

“May I speak to Johanna Renay?” I said.

“Della. This is a surprise,” the woman said, hearing my voice.

“Johanna?” I said. “Is that you? I didn't expect you to answer.”

“I work in whatever department needs me most. After so many years working here, I can do everybody's job. The only one I do all the time is answer the phone. You'd be surprised at how many times I can take care of a problem without having to transfer the call. What can I do for you?”

This gave me another idea. “I have a couple of questions I'm hoping you can answer. Someone mentioned calling the city to lodge a complaint against Mr. Swanson. But the clerk she spoke to apparently discouraged her from formalizing it. All she could tell me is that the woman worked in the permit department. Would you happen to know who the clerk might be?”

“In the permit department?” she said, sounding confused. “But . . . there's never been anybody but Howard in that department.” There was a pause before she spoke again. “I think maybe whoever told you that might have been lying.”

Could Susan have made up the story? I wondered. And if so, why?

“You had another question?” she said.

“Oh, right. I was wondering whether you could find out if there was any building permit issued to somebody with the last name of Bates.”

“Will knowing this help you find out who killed Howard?”

“It might.”

“I really shouldn't be giving out that kind of information.” There was a pause. “But, if it will help bring the killer to justice . . . As long as you promise never to tell a soul.”

“I promise.”

“How far back would you like me to go?”

“No more than a year,” I said.

“Let me write this down so I don't forget it.” I couldn't believe she had agreed so easily. “All right. I'll give you a call back as soon as I have the information.”

I was about to return to my weaving when the store phone rang. A glance at the call display told me it was my mother.

“Mom. Hi. What's new?”

“I'm all right,” she said. “Considering my age.”

Oh, dear God. Here it was. The guilt trip. “Mom, you're not old. Didn't you hear? Seventy is the new fifty.”

“You know what would really make me feel young again? Grandchildren. Are you really doing everything you can to encourage Matthew?”

“Any more encouragement and he'll be feeling cornered,” I said.

She sighed. “Well, I suppose we don't want that.”

As we chatted, I absently unfolded the morning newspaper, which was still on the counter, untouched.
CITY EMPLOYEE MURDERED
, the headlines read. And then my eyes fell upon the color photograph accompanying the article. I gasped. I was looking at the picture of a woman standing in the doorway of a silver hatchback. She was the blond woman I'd seen arguing with Syd. So that confirmed my suspicion that the blonde was Mona Swanson. But what really caught my attention was the car. As ignorant as I was about makes and models, I was pretty sure it was identical to the one I'd seen in the city hall parking lot the morning of Swanson's murder.

“Sweetheart? Are you still there?”

“Sorry, Mom. A customer just walked in. I'll call you later. Love you,” I said and hung up.

If the car I'd seen racing away that day belonged to the victim's wife, that meant . . .

Whenever I watched true-crime television dramas, the murderer always turned out to be the spouse. And it might turn out to be the case now too.

Marnie joined me at the cash register. “I'm ready for a coffee break. How about you?” She went out, returning a few minutes later with two mugs.

“You look preoccupied,” she said, handing me one.

“I think I might just have solved the crime.”

“What? Who killed him? And why?”

I showed her the picture in the paper. “I think this is the car I saw speeding away from city hall, minutes before I found the body. It belongs to her, Mona Swanson.”

“His wife?” she said in disbelief.

“It makes sense. In the last twenty-four hours, two people have remarked on how beautiful and how much younger she is than him. People are mystified as to why a gorgeous girl like her would marry someone like him.”

“They think she married him for his money?”

“She wouldn't be the first.”

“True. Except that he was a city employee, not a millionaire. Nobody knew about his lucrative little sideline.”

I thought about this. “Well, let's think about this. What do men do when they want to attract a woman who is beyond their reach?”

“Er. Take her out to dinner? Buy her gifts?”

I nodded. “He'll try to impress her—show her what a good catch he would be.”

“Of course,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “You think he flashed his money around her.”

“He might not have told her how he was making his money, but you can bet your booty he was showing off.”

“So what are you going to do? Call the police?”

“Maybe. But not until I have some proof.”