Loom and Doom (12 page)

“Dempsey said that?”

“He did. And whenever somebody throws suspicion on somebody else, it always makes me wonder what their motive is.”

“A few suspects, but no real evidence.”

“That's all I have at the moment.”

“It's a start,” he said—his way of telling me I was nowhere close to solving it.

T
he evening had been lovely and I was tempted to stay the night, but a part of me still resisted spending too much time with Matthew. Our romance was new and I feared that, unless I gave him a regular opportunity to miss me, he'd soon lose interest.

“You don't have to go, you know. You can stay.”

“Thanks, but I have an early day tomorrow—an eight o'clock appointment with a carpenter in Belmont.”

“In that case, let me walk you back.”

“No, you stay. I'll take Winston. That way you won't have to drop him off in the morning.”

“Are you sure?” He looked so disappointed. That was good, I told myself.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

“I am.” To be honest, I also wanted to think over everything I knew about my suspect and make certain I was on the right track. I clipped on Winston's harness.

“Ready to go, big boy?”

He threw me a grateful look. Going for walks was Winston's favorite thing, along with eating, cuddling, playing catch and a dozen other things. After a kiss and a hug from Matthew, we set off, Winston heading toward my apartment. The walk should have taken five minutes tops, but Winston dawdled, sniffing and baptizing every fire hydrant, lamppost and bush along the way.

“You never met a tree you didn't like, did you, Winnie?”

He threw me an irritated look.

“Let's go, Winston. Don't you want to go to sleep?” His ears perked up. Sleep was another of his favorite things. He barked a comment, which I interpreted as, “Hurry up.”

I got home, set a cushion on the floor in my room for the dog and went straight to my loom.

Ever since I'd picked up weaving as a teenager, my loom had become my go-to place whenever I had a puzzle to solve. I'd sit and weave, sometimes all night, and more often than not, by the time I climbed into bed, I'd made some headway in solving my problem. Unlike Marnie, I was never a fast weaver. She could produce in an hour what took me half a day to do. But that was fine by me. I enjoyed the activity itself and had no wish to rush it. I savored every moment the way a reader might enjoy each word of a good book.

There was something soothing about the rhythmic motion of throwing the shuttle from hand to hand, of walking the pedals. Weaving is the kind of mindless activity that leaves one's brain free to wander. After a few minutes, my mind wandered to the question of the moment. Did Mona kill her husband? I was still convinced she had. But how could I prove it?

I reviewed what I knew so far. Mona was years younger than her husband. She was in her early to mid-twenties, and if Swanson was in school with Johanna Renay, the two had to be close in age—around fifty or so. Had she married him for his money? There was no way to prove that, and even if she had, that didn't mean she killed him. The only proof I might be able to get was to somehow show that the car she was driving was the same one I'd seen speeding out of the lot that day.

What about my other suspects, like Susan Price? She had admitted that she never wanted to see the inspector again. Yet, according to Judy Bates, he had been at her house just a few days before he was killed. Had Susan done more renovations on her house that forced her to pay off Swanson, again? Or was that just conjecture on Judy's part?

Then, there was Ronald Dempsey, who had been doing some deflecting of his own and throwing suspicion on me. Why else would he have reported seeing me wiping blood from my clothes? Other than that, I had no real evidence against him, but upon reflection, I could think of a few reasons he should be on my list.

The first reason was that he had opportunity. He happened to be at the scene of the crime when I found the body. What I didn't know was the exact time he'd gotten there that morning. I made a mental note to ask Johanna Renay. If anybody could tell me, she would.

The second reason I should seriously consider Dempsey as a suspect was that he was a developer, and as such, he needed permits too. If, for any reason, Swanson refused to provide them, he'd stand to lose whatever amount of money—a fortune no doubt—that he'd already poured into the development. His entire business could go down the drain. On the other hand, I reminded myself, Swanson was buying a house from him, so that would indicate that he approved of his building practices.

Then, of course, there was Syd Shuttleworth. Syd used to be involved with Swanson's wife, and she had dumped him for Swanson. On top of that, Swanson was sabotaging his career. Those were two strong reasons he could well be the killer, and considering there had to be at least a dozen cars like Mona's in Belmont, she could well be innocent.

I mulled all of this over while adding more rows of weaving to the saddle blanket on my loom, until eventually my eyes were too tired to stay open. Only then did I drag myself to bed.

•   •   •

The next morning, I felt surprisingly alert considering I'd had only a few hours of sleep. At seven thirty I was already dressed and ready to set out for Belmont. I had Googled the carpenter's address and had the directions to his place.

I had also copied Mona Swanson's address. I wanted a close-up look at her car. If it had the same sticker on the back bumper, there would be no doubt about it being the one I'd seen driving away. Then, as an afterthought, I took note of Syd Shuttleworth's address too.

I hopped into my Jeep, and hit the highway. Fifteen minutes later, I pulled over in front of a white clapboard structure with an attached garage sporting a sign. It read C
ARPENTRY AND
W
OODWOR
KING BY
B
EN
B
ROWN
. I was at the right place.

“Mr. Brown?” I said, walking into the man's large garage.

“That's me,” he replied. “You must be my eight o'clock appointment. The weaver.”

“Della Wright.” We shook hands and I looked around. His workshop was filled with tools and machinery. Along one wall was an assortment of furniture—tables, dressers, chests, chairs. All of them of fine workmanship.

“Let's take a look at what you've got,” he said, planting his worn hands on the counter as he stared at the pictures I spread out before him.

“I've got the measurements too,” I said and handed him the paper on which I'd jotted them.

He studied these in silence for a few minutes, looking at each picture carefully. “I can do that no problem,” he said at last. “It's not complicated at all. Like I told you, I've made a couple of looms in my time, none exactly like this one. But this one looks simpler.” He wrote out the order. As I wrote him a check, my eyes fell upon the newspaper. It was an older issue of the
Belmont Daily
showing a picture of a house fire on the front page.

“It's a damn shame what happened to that Williams family,” he said. “I was just reading about it in the paper when you got here.” He glanced at it as he spoke. “That man lost his whole family. No wonder he was out of his mind at the funeral yesterday.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. A few seconds later, he continued.

“His kids' funeral was yesterday. I didn't know him, other than seeing him around town. But I thought I'd show my respects, you know. Hundreds of people showed up.”

My ears perked up. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm surprised you didn't hear. The burial was over and the crowd was beginning to thin out when Williams went berserk.”

“Why did he do that?”

He shook his head. “I couldn't really tell you. I was too far away to hear anything but the general commotion.”

Mr. Brown picked up the check. “You can expect the first loom to be finished in a couple of days. I won't start working on the other two until you've checked the first and made sure it's right.” We said good-bye and I left.

•   •   •

Back in my Jeep, I consulted the directions to Mona's address and took off. A few blocks farther and I slowed to a crawl for a good look.

The house was just the kind of home I'd expect a city employee to own. It was a yellow bungalow with a green tile roof, a black front door and a well-kept front lawn—pretty in a modest way. Nothing about it shouted money.

On the other hand, they had been planning to move into a new house in Dempsey's development. And, if this little house was fully paid for, it would amount to a tidy little sum when sold, and as his widow, chances were that it now belonged to Mona. Not a bad payout after a six-month marriage. I was about to drive on when my eyes came to rest on the silver hatchback in the driveway.

I stopped the Jeep and hopped out. After a quick look around, I dashed over to the back of the car. Sure enough, right there on the back bumper was a sticker that read
ARE YOU READY FOR JUDGMENT DAY
?

This was it. The very same car I'd spotted as it sped out of the parking lot. I had absolutely no doubt in my mind that Mona Swanson was guilty of her husband's murder. But, proving she was the person behind the wheel was another story. Could she have lent somebody her car? I wondered. If she had, she
had
to have been involved. I was standing there, staring at the car, when my eyes traveled up to the living room window. Mona was there, staring daggers down at me.

Startled, I dashed back to my Jeep, and as I did, I happened to touch the hood of the hatchback with my hand. I hadn't planned to do it. But as soon as I did, I knew the car had not been in the driveway for more than a couple of minutes because it was still hot. I drove away, wondering where Mona had been so early in the morning. Could she have just returned from spending the night with Syd?

I stopped at a corner a few streets over and breathed deeply for a few minutes. The woman had given me the creeps with that cold stare. I had no difficulty imagining her conking her husband over the head with a marble bookend.

I consulted my directions again and made my way over to the other side of town, to Syd Shuttleworth's address. During the two months the man had worked for me, he showed up at seven sharp every morning. I could have set my clock by him. It was now past eight thirty. There was no chance he'd still be at home at this time.

Though he'd worked on my shop for two months, I knew little about Syd. He'd come in, say hello and get right to work. That was the extent of our relationship. I had no idea what kind of a life he led, and I wanted a peek at his house. I was curious to see how comfortable his lifestyle was, compared to Swanson's . . . or at least compared to the lifestyle Swanson and Mona were about to adopt once they moved.

I turned onto his street and as the numbers got closer, I slowed to a crawl. To my surprise, as I drove up, I recognized Shuttleworth's truck in his driveway. I stepped on the gas again and, as I sped by, I noticed the driver's door was ajar. Syd was sitting inside with his arm sticking out—probably about to back up. I turned my head, hoping he hadn't noticed me. Halfway down the block, I pulled to a stop and waited.

Ten minutes later his truck hadn't so much as budged. A sick feeling came over me. Syd should have left his house two hours ago. Something was not right. I waited a bit longer, now watching in my rearview mirror for any movement. The minutes ticked by and my feeling of dread grew, until at last, I couldn't take the suspense anymore. I stepped out of the Jeep.

“Hello?” I called out as I approached his vehicle. I came around to the driver's side and saw that his arm was still hanging out of the window. Now, I could also see that his head was slumped over on his chest, as if he was asleep.

“Syd? Are you all right?” I tapped his arm, and when he still did not respond, I pulled open the door. Syd's body tumbled out of the truck, coming to rest on the pavement. That's when I noticed the handle of a knife protruding from the center of his blood-soaked sweater.

My heart was beating so hard it might have been broken free of my chest. I dropped to my knees and grabbed his wrist.

“Syd! Speak to me! Say something!”

But his skin was cool. I dropped his hand and scurried back. That's when I noticed the trail of blood leading all the way inside the garage and to a mess of tools that seemed to have been dumped in the center of the space. Then I noticed the overturned tool cabinet. There had been a struggle. He'd fought his attacker before being stabbed. And from there he had managed to drag himself all the way to his truck, only to collapse once he'd climbed in. A wave of sorrow for the man swept over me. I'd pegged him as one of the suspects for Swanson's murder, but now, it was clear he had nothing to do with it.

After what seemed like a long time, I snapped into action, grabbing my cell phone and punching in 9-1-1.

And for the second time in the space of just a few days, I reported a murder.

S
eeing me standing next to Syd's body, Lombard's face registered a flood of emotions—shock, disbelief, anger and finally disgust. She turned to her partner.

“You go talk to her. I'll bust an artery if I have to deal with that woman again.” Then, instead of walking away, she came charging over. “I find it very strange that you just happen to be the one to find a second murder victim. Others may believe your innocent act, but I don't. Not for one minute.” She strode away.

“Sorry about that,” Officer Harrison said. “You look a bit pale. Are you feeling all right?”

I swallowed hard. I felt light-headed and nauseated, and frankly I would have gladly sat down. But all I said was, “I've been better.”

“Do you need to sit down?” he asked. I nodded. “Follow me.” He led the way to the front door, which now stood open.

“It wasn't even locked,” Lombard said, stepping aside.

From the outside, Syd's house was lovely—a light stucco with stone trim—and considerably larger and more modern than Swanson's. And, now, stepping inside, I could see that the interior design was equally as attractive. Its charm, however, did not extend to the decor. The house was furnished with odds and ends—a chrome-and-glass coffee table, a light maple dining room table surrounded by inexpensive garden chairs, and in front of the large-screen television, a recliner that was ready for retirement in the local dump.

It looked like the worse kind of bachelor's lair. As we walked through to the table, I noticed a bookshelf with a couple of framed photos, but it was too far away to recognize any faces.

“Be careful not to touch anything,” Officer Harrison said, indicating for me to sit. He pulled a chair across from me. “I'm sure you don't feel much like being questioned right now,” he said, surprising me with his consideration. “I promise to get this over and done with as quickly as I can.”

“I know the procedure,” I said. “Unfortunately.” He gave me a glimpse of smile, gone as quickly as it had appeared. But it had been there long enough for me to notice. Did that mean he did not view me as a suspect? I dared to hope.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don't you tell me in your own words what happened here?”

“I couldn't sleep last night,” I said. “I kept going over Swanson's murder, and the only two people I could imagine had a real motive for killing him was his wife, or Syd Shuttleworth. And now that Syd is dead . . .”

“You think it can only be Mona Swanson.” I nodded. “And you're wondering if we considered her.”

I looked at him sharply and glimpsed another quick smile. I chuckled. “I suppose I am.”

“We are still investigating.” That answer was so vague it told me nothing. “Explain to me why you're here.”

“Yesterday, there was a picture of Mona Swanson on the front page of the
Belmont Daily
. She was standing next to a car that looked exactly like the one I saw speeding from city hall. Since I had to come into Belmont on business this morning, I thought I'd drive by and take a look at her car from up close. Well, it turns out that her car
is
the one I saw.” I told him about the bumper sticker.

“You never mentioned that sticker when you first described it.”

“I know. It came to me afterward.”

“And it didn't occur to you to let us know?”

“I should have. I'm sorry.”

“The problem is that now, after you've seen her car, one could argue that you made up the sticker story to incriminate her.” I hadn't thought of that. “So why did you drive by this house after recognizing Mona's car?”

“It occurred to me that she may not have been the driver.” A new thought occurred to me. “Do you think it's possible that Mona and Syd were in on it together?” I strung my thoughts together out loud. “She and Syd were involved before Swanson came along.”

“You know I can't discuss the case with you.”

“Yes, but there's something else. When I walked by Mona's car this morning, I put my hand on the hood and it was hot. Oh, my God,” I said, shocked at the new thought that had just popped into my mind. “What if she and Syd were in on it together? Maybe she talked him into killing her husband and then she killed him. That way, nobody can testify against her.” This seemed to register with him, and he pulled out his notebook and jotted something inside. As I glanced outside, I noticed the coroner stepping out of his car.

“At what time did you drive by Mona's house?”

“No more than five minutes before I got here.”

Harrison was silent for a few moments. Then he shot to his feet, mumbling something about being right back.

I ran to the window to see where he was going. Just as I'd expected, he walked over to Lombard. They spoke for a few minutes. At one point she turned, spotted me in the window and threw me a dirty look. Whatever he was telling her, was not making her happy. He spoke a few more words and then made his way back to the house. I dashed back to the table, this time detouring by the bookshelf. Of the three photos, two were of a woman I was sure was Mona. I pointed this out to him as he sat down.

“You should take a look at those pictures, over there.” He turned. “I believe the blonde in the photos is none other than Mona. Wouldn't most men take down pictures of a girlfriend after she's dumped him and married another man? Unless they're still involved, or, maybe he was still carrying a torch for her?”

He stared across the room. And when he turned back to me, there was respect in his eyes. “You're free to go,” he said. “If I have any more questions I'll give you a call.”

The questioning had taken the better part of an hour, leaving me emotionally drained. After the events of the morning, all I wanted was to hightail it back to the safety and security of my store.

•   •   •

“Where've you been?” Marnie asked as I walked in. Her face was red and she looked ready to blow a gasket. “I've been worried sick about you. It's almost eleven o'clock. At ten thirty, when I still hadn't heard a peep out of you, I went upstairs to see if you'd overslept. I rang and rang and all I got was Winnie scratching at the door.”

“Oh, no. Poor Winnie. He's probably peed all over the apartment by now.” I dashed out, taking the steps two at a time and unlocked the door. Winnie greeted me with sad eyes. “I'm sorry, pumpkin. I got busy.” I gathered his food, one of his toys and took him for a short walk.

“Here you go, Winnie,” I said, walking into the store. I set him on his cushion behind the cash register, and within two minutes he was already snoring.

Marnie glared at me. “You still haven't given me any explanation. If you hadn't walked in when you did, I would have called the police. I was afraid you might be dead.”

“As you can see, I'm perfectly fine,” I said. “But somebody else isn't.”

The anger melted from her face. “What happened?”

“Syd Shuttleworth was murdered this morning. I just found his body.”

“Oh, my Lord.” She grabbed on to the counter as if to steady herself. “Do you think his death is tied to Swanson's murder?”

“I'm sure it is,” I said. “And I think Mona Swanson is probably going to be arrested for both murders. She might not have killed her husband herself, but she sure as hell killed Syd Shuttleworth.”

The bell above the door tinkled and Jenny appeared carrying a tray with coffee and muffins.

“I saw you come in and figured you probably hadn't had breakfast yet.”

“You
are
a mind reader. I'm starving.” I grabbed a mug and a lemon-poppy seed muffin.

“Syd Shuttleworth was murdered,” Marnie told her.

Jenny's face fell. “What? When did this happen?”

“Della just found his body.”

I told them about my appointment with the carpenter and how I'd driven by Mona Swanson's and then Syd Shuttleworth's homes. “She stabbed him in the chest.”

“What makes you think she killed him?”

“It had to be her.” I told her about stopping by Mona's house, recognizing the bumper sticker and then touching the hood of her car. “She and Syd must have conspired to kill her husband. And then she got rid of him.” Both women were silent as they thought this over.

“She wouldn't have to share any of her inheritance with him,” Jenny said.

“And he could never testify against her,” Marnie added.

“That's exactly what I think,” I said. “But it's all just conjecture at the moment. Don't you dare breathe a word about this to anyone,” I said. “I don't want Mona Swanson to come after me now.”

“Not a word,” Jenny said. “I'd better get back before Margaret has a nervous breakdown. It's pretty busy this morning. Want a coffee?”

“I could use a refill,” I said.

“It's crazy busy already,” she said. “Once the news of Syd's death gets out, it'll be a madhouse.”

“I'd better eat something,” Marnie said, helping herself to one of the muffins. “I'll need my energy. When Jenny's shop is busy, we get busy too.”