Loom and Doom (18 page)

O
ne o'clock came and went, and there was no sign of Mercedes. If I didn't leave soon, I'd miss my appointment with Sondra Andrews.

“I don't know what could have happened to her,” Marnie said. “She's usually so reliable.”

I was beginning to worry also. “If she shows up now, I might not make it back before closing. And I'm not sure what time Matthew will be back either. Can you keep Winston if neither one of us is back by then?”

“No problem.” She scratched Winnie's head. “You and I get along great, don't we, big fella?” He licked her hand—probably looking for a snack.

I was trying to convince myself it was all for the best anyhow—why should I drive to Charlotte just to talk to some woman who used to be married to Swanson?—when the door flew open and Mercedes came rushing in. “I'm so sorry I'm late. I was at the library, studying, and I completely forgot about the time.”

“Don't worry about it,” I said. “We're just glad you're all right.” I turned to Marnie, already heading for the exit. “Give her a hand with sales. You'll be fine.”

“Don't worry. It's not as if this is my first time.” It wasn't, but it also wasn't as if she had lots of experience. But I had no time to worry about any of that at the moment. I made a dash for my Jeep and I was off.

My appointment was for two o'clock and by the time I got on the highway it was already one forty. I put the Jeep into cruise control and drove at the speed limit all the way, hoping the ex-Mrs. Swanson would be home to see me when I got there.

It always felt strange, leaving Briar Hollow and driving to Charlotte—like going back in time. Charlotte was where I'd grown up, made friends, started dating—all the activities that make up the fabric of a person's early life. I'd gone to college there, and studied to be a business analyst.

It was also where I was falsely charged with embezzling money just a few years ago. That had been a defining event in my life. It was when I'd seen my life with crystal clarity. I recognized that I had a financially rewarding job that brought me no enjoyment. That I had continued to do it because it was expected of me, to please others.

I decided that when I was exonerated—because if there was any justice in the world, there was no question that I would be—I'd change my life. I'd quit my job. I'd sell my condo and open a weaving shop. And, the day my boss was caught and confessed, I had done exactly that. Except for a few financially hairy moments, I had not regretted it for a minute. My mother, on the other hand, had nearly had a heart attack. The one bright star she saw in my leaving the city and moving to Briar Hollow, was that Matthew also lived here.

The image of the engagement ring in Matthew's kitchen drawer popped into my mind again, and I considered telling my mother about it. I dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come to me. Knowing her, I wouldn't put it past her to call Matthew and strongly suggest—if not order—that he propose.

As I approached Charlotte, I followed the directions Sondra Andrews had given me, got off the highway and pulled to a stop in front of a quaint bungalow on an oak-lined street in Dilworth. The house was so pretty—yellow painted clapboard with white trim and a black door. I liked the owner already.

I knocked. After a few minutes, I knocked again. I was listening for the sound of footsteps, anything to indicate someone was home, when I heard a faint voice. I couldn't be certain, but I thought it was calling for help. A cold dread came over me. I turned the handle—thankfully unlocked—and rushed in.

“Mrs. Andrews? It's Della. Are you there?” I heard a moan and followed it. I pushed open a door and found myself in a dining room, where on the floor, not three feet away, was a woman bleeding from her chest. She tried to raise her head.

“H-help,” she gasped, breathing short, shallow breaths.

“Don't move. I'll call an ambulance.” I grabbed my cell and punched in 9-1-1.

“What is your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance at—” I consulted the scrap of paper on which I'd written the address and read it aloud. “She's been shot or stabbed. I'm not sure which.”

“I've got an ambulance on the way. In the meantime, can you see a knife in the wound?” the dispatcher asked.

The woman's pink blouse was soaked with blood, but there was no weapon in sight. “No. But she's having difficulty breathing.”

“Is her injury in her chest?”

“Yes. What should I do?”

“Find a towel, a bedsheet—anything that looks clean—and press it firmly against the wound. You want to stanch the bleeding.” I dropped the phone, running in the direction I imagined the kitchen would be and snatched a dishcloth, returning to the dining room and pressing it hard against the woman's chest.

“How do I know if I'm pressing too hard?” I asked, picking up the phone again.

“Listen to her breathing. Does it sound any better?” The woman's eyes fluttered and focused on me.

“I think she's breathing better.”

“Good. Just keep the pressure the way you're doing and the ambulance will be there soon.”

“You're going to be all right,” I said to the woman. “An ambulance is on its way. You're Sondra, right?” She gave a slight nod and closed her eyes again. “Stay with me, Sondra,” I said. “Can you tell me who did this to you?” I had to lean down and put my ear near her mouth.

“It was h-her,” she whispered. “Sh-she killed him . . . tried to k-kill me.” The corner of her mouth twitched as if she was trying to smile. “I p-played dead.” And then she closed her eyes.

In the distance came the wail of an ambulance siren. It got closer and closer until it came to a stop in front of the house. Not a moment too soon. Sondra's already pale complexion was turning gray. In the next minute, the sound of footsteps came storming through the front door.

“She's over here,” I yelled, and they rushed down the hall, bursting into the room. Two young EMTs, carrying a dizzying amount of equipment appeared.

Suddenly I realized the operator was still on the phone. “I'll let you go now. You're in good hands,” she said.

“I've got a pulse,” one of the men called out, and I almost cried in relief. I had never met Sondra Andrews before, but I couldn't bear for her to die. “But she's got a pneumothorax.” He looked at me. “You did good. Keeping the towel on her chest is the only reason she's still alive.”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“We'll do everything we can.” His answer didn't reassure me, but soon they had hooked her to an IV and her grayish complexion improved slightly. They lifted her onto a gurney and were wheeling her out when a squad car pulled up and two officers climbed out—not Harrison and Lombard, thank God. One of the cops, a blond man, spoke briefly to the attendants before they sped off, sirens blaring.

“You the one who called this in?” the dark-haired one asked. Not trusting my voice at that moment, I nodded. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“I'm not sure. I had an appointment with her at two o'clock, but I showed up late—more like a quarter to three. Nobody came to the door when I knocked. But I thought I heard someone calling for help inside.” I gestured toward the dining room. “That's where I found her.” I went down the hall, and pointed at the bloody spot on the hardwood floor. “Right there.”

“Was she alert when you found her?”

I nodded. “But she was very weak. I tried to keep her awake, but she passed out just before the ambulance got here.”

“Did she say anything?” the blond officer asked.

“I asked her if she could tell me who did this to her and she answered, ‘
She
did it.' And that she had killed her husband and tried to kill her.”

“You mean there's another victim in the house?” the other officer asked, already prepared to dart down the hall.

“No. Not here. Her ex-husband was murdered in Belmont about a week ago.” I explained about Swanson's murder followed by Syd's.

“Is it just my imagination or are you closely involved in those two murders?” the first officer said, studying me.

“If by connected, you mean interested then, yes, I suppose I am.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving mine. “If you don't mind, I'd like you to come to the station with us to make a witness statement,” he said.

In the meantime, his partner was on his cell phone. I overheard him saying something about an assault with a deadly weapon. “I'd say it's an attempted murder,” he continued. “But it could turn into murder, if the victim doesn't make it.” He was quiet, listening for a few minutes. “It's hard to tell. I spoke with one of the attendants and he couldn't tell with all the blood. Send the forensic team, STAT.”

I turned back to the dark-haired officer. “Of course,” I said. “Anything I can do to help.” I went outside with them. “I'll follow you in my Jeep.”

“Sorry, but it'll be better if you come with us. Don't worry about your vehicle. There's no time limit on street parking in this area.”

He opened the back door, and from the way he put his hand on my head and sort of guided me onto the backseat, I suddenly knew I was not being brought in to give a witness statement. They considered me a suspect.

As soon as we took off, I snatched my phone from my purse and hit the speed dial button for Matthew.

“Della,” he answered. “Where are you? I just stopped by the shop, but Marnie wouldn't tell me where you went. She was being very mysterious about it. Are you snooping again?”

“I'm in Charlotte,” I said. “At the moment I'm in the backseat of a police car, being driven to the station.”

“What!” He said this so loudly that the officer who was driving, threw me a glance in the rearview mirror. “What the hell kind of trouble did you get yourself into this time?”

“I just found another victim.” I heard him gasp, and continued. “Swanson's ex-wife. She's alive, but in bad shape. I called an ambulance and she's now on her way to the hospital. And the cops who answered the call want me to make a statement.”

There was a long silence, until I thought the connection had been broken. “Hello? Matthew?”

“I'm here. Ask them which station they're taking you to, and I'll drive there right away.”

I knocked on the glass partition until the blond cop turned around. “What station are we going to?” I asked.

“Mecklenburg,” he answered, and I repeated it to Matthew.

“I'm leaving right this second,” he said, and hung up.

•   •   •

The station was swarming with uniforms. I walked up the sidewalk, flanked by the two officers, and everywhere I looked, were cops. They were going in, coming out. They huddled around desks gathered in conversations. I should have felt safe. Instead, being here brought back memories of my arrest for embezzlement three years ago. And just as had been my experience that time, they fingerprinted me—“to differentiate yours from any others we find,” they said. Then, also like the last time, they put me in a small room with a camera mounted in one corner and a metal table facing a wall with a one-way mirror from which, I just knew, somebody was studying my every move. Then they left the room and closed the door.

One thing, however, had been different. This time, after taking my prints, they had also wiped my hands with some sort of plastic film. And when I asked what that was, I was told it was a gun residue test.

After half an hour of waiting, the dark-haired officer came back in. “Am I being arrested?” I immediately asked.

“No, of course not,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Where did you get that idea?”

“Then why the gun residue test?” He walked over to the corner and turned on the camera.

“We don't even know whether the victim was shot or stabbed yet, but if she was shot, we have to get all our ducks in a row for when we go to trial against the perpetrator,” he said “A good defense lawyer could argue that you might have been the shooter. This way, we'll have proof that you didn't.”

I digested this. “Then why did you just turn on the camera?”

“Normal police procedure,” he said, joining me at the table. “Why don't you tell me again, how you happened to find the victim?”

I went over the story again, explaining that Sondra Andrews was the ex-wife of Howard Swanson, who had been murdered in Belmont, and that there had subsequently been a second murder.

“So, I started poking around,” I said, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Poking around?” he repeated. “In what way?”

“Oh, you know, asking questions, getting people to talk. That sort of thing. And I must have been getting close because last night somebody called to threaten that what happened to the others could happen to me.”

“Really,” he said, with only slightly less skepticism.

“I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. And the number was blocked. But if Sondra's attacker also killed those men, I'd be willing to bet the killer is Swanson's new wife.” I went on to repeat what I'd been told—that she was young and beautiful and nobody could understand why she'd married him, unless it was for his money.

“Didn't you tell me he was a building inspector? Did he win the lottery or have family money?”

“No, but he had a lucrative sideline,” I said. “Extortion.” His eyebrows jumped up. “Turns out he wasn't inspecting, so much as selling occupancy permits.”

“And what you're telling me can all be verified?”

“It sure can.”

“Why are you so sure his wife killed him and the second victim?” I explained my theories, that either Syd had killed Swanson for her, and she got rid of him afterward, or he confronted her and she got nervous and killed him to stop him from going to the police.