Loom and Doom (21 page)

Lombard nodded. “Even if she got convicted of second-degree murder, or maybe even manslaughter, she won't serve more than ten years. She'll still be a young woman when she gets out.”

“And a couple of million bucks will go a long way in rebuilding her life,” I added.

“That hardly sounds fair,” she said.

“I agree with you there,” I said. “Sounds like things are lining up nicely.” I noticed her glass was empty so I poured her a bit more.

“Hopefully, when Sondra Andrews comes out of her coma, she'll be able to testify against Mona. And that will be the last nail in the lady's coffin.”

“Have you heard anything more about how she's doing?” I asked.

“I spoke to her doctors and her condition has improved slightly. She's no longer critical, but she's still listed as serious. They couldn't tell me how long she might remain in that state.”

“I'm going to Charlotte tomorrow to pick up my Jeep. The police impounded it for forensic testing. God only knows why.”

She gave me the eyebrow. “You
did
find the body,” she said. “I spoke to one of the officers. You're getting a bit of a reputation in Charlotte, too. Seems you helped them solve an embezzlement case a few years back.”

“They'd caught the wrong guy,” I said. “Me.”

She laughed. “I guess you had no choice but to get involved that time.” She looked at her watch and got to her feet. “Anyhow. I don't want to keep you. Just thought I'd stop by and share the news.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” I said, walking her to the door.

“By the way,” she said, “I just wanted to tell you what a nice-looking couple you and Matthew make.” Before I had a chance to respond, she was gone.

I was in the kitchen, tossing myself a salad for dinner—my attempt at a healthy diet—when the telephone rang. I glanced at the call display.

“Mom. You must have read my mind. I was just going to have a bite and then call you.”

“It must be telepathy,” she replied. “I was thinking about you all day. I had a feeling something was wrong. Are you all right?”

To my surprise, my throat constricted and tears welled in my eyes. As soon as I could speak, I found myself blurting out the whole story about Matthew's declaration of the previous night. “He doesn't want to get married.” She was silent for a few long seconds. “Mom? Are you still there?”

“Yes, yes. I'm just thinking, before you do anything drastic—like breaking up with the man—why don't you have an honest conversation with him? Tell him how you feel.”

“You think I should tell him I want to get married and have children? What good is that going to do? He's already made it plenty clear that he doesn't.”

She hesitated. “Well, sometimes men can be dense. In my experience—”

“You're drawing from the one relationship you've had in your life again?” I said, hearing the smile in my own voice.

“Yes, I am,” she replied seriously. “Joke all you want about my lack of experience, but I have learned a lot about men from your father. He once gave me a speech much like the one Matthew gave you before we were married.”

“He did? What made him change his mind?”

“I left him. I was very nice about it, but I was firm. I sat him down not long afterward and told him that as much as I loved him, what he was offering me was not enough. And I said that I respected him too much to make him change his mind, and that in my opinion we had irreconcilable differences. Therefore, the only intelligent thing to do was to stop seeing each other.”

“How did he take it?”

“Oh, he put up a big fuss. Starting telling me things like, he couldn't predict the future. That maybe he'd change my mind someday. Or maybe I would. So I gave him a peck on the cheek and walked out.”

“Weren't you afraid you'd never hear from him again?”

“Of course I was. But I knew I was doing the right thing, and that if he loved me he'd be back. Of course,” she added gently, “that's the kind of measure a woman takes as a last resort.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too.”

I returned to the kitchen, poured myself another glass of wine and sat down to a lovely dinner as I reflected on everything my mother had told me.

For the last few years, she'd been so obsessed with my getting married and giving her grandchildren, that our entire relationship had become contentious. We couldn't have a conversation without me wanting to beat my head against the wall. But today's conversation had been lovely. I couldn't remember the last time she had given me such good advice.

Maybe my mother still had lessons to teach me after all.

T
he next morning I woke up after a good night's sleep, feeling more positive than I had in days. I hurried through my routine and was in my shop by seven thirty, having coffee with Jenny at my counter as I poured over the paper. Today's headlines were all about Mona Swanson's arrest. But I flipped right by the article and searched until I found the article about Judy Bates' house.

“Here it is.” I was looking at a full-page spread with color pictures of an elegant decor with rustic overtones. And smack in the middle of the center shot was the sofa with my cushions and throw. “They look great.”

“Let me see,” Jenny said, crowding me away. She squealed. “Look. They mention your name and the name of the store.”

Halfway down the first column, the writer described the details that pulled the decor together. And, sure enough, there were the credits—Della Wright of Dream Weaver, complete with address and phone number. “That kind of advertising is priceless.”

“It might not be the best timing,” I said. “Matthew is driving me to Charlotte this afternoon so I can pick up my Jeep. I got Mercedes to come in and help.”

“She and Marnie will handle everything like pros. I have no doubt the article will bring in more business, but I imagine it will come in a gradual trickle rather than a boom.” She chuckled. “Did you happen to notice that I predicted everything that's happened? Remember? I told you a friend would do you a favor. And Judy Bates just did. I also told you that your business would become profitable. And see? The article, on top of your new merchandise will keep customers coming. Now do you believe?”

“Weren't there more predictions?”

“Why, yes. There was the friend who would recover. And your mother would surprise you.”

“I wonder,” I said, “if the friend could be Sondra. I'd imagined a recovery from an illness, but the prediction could just as well be regarding an injured person.” It came to me that the last prophecy had also come true. My mother had surprised me last night. She had given me excellent advice. I shared with Jenny the conversation I'd had with my mother. “Now all I have to do is put it into action. Easier said than done.”

“Don't forget,” she said, her forehead scrunched worriedly, “that she also told you to only do this as a last resort.”

“True. But I wonder if waiting might be a mistake. I don't know how good I'd be at keeping calm and waiting patiently. When I'm stressed I tend to get snappy. If we're arguing all the time, there's no way Matthew will ever want to marry me. And I wouldn't blame him. Who'd want to tie themselves down to a woman who's an emotional mess all the time?”

“You're not giving yourself enough credit. You're the last person I'd describe as an emotional mess.”

“I've been known to have a crying jag once in a while.” I brushed the subject away and submersed myself in the article. We both read it in full—the section pertaining to my shop aloud—until Jenny had to return to her own shop. Soon, Marnie showed up.

“Didn't you say that with both shops having their own private entrances you would be able to come in later? When are you planning to start doing that?” It was only a few minutes past eight and I was already at my Navajo loom, working away.

“Look at who's talking. You're here early every day.”

“It's different for me. I have to drop off Jenny's pastry order. Once I'm already here, why would I want to go back home?”

“Well, I have a very good reason for coming in early today.” I pointed her toward the paper on the counter. “The article about Judy's house is out.”

“I totally forgot about that,” she said, making a beeline over. She studied it quietly for a few minutes. “I think this deserves a celebration. How about a coffee?”

“A refill sounds good.”

Soon, she was back carrying a tray with mugs and brioches. “Any news from the man?” she asked.

“If by ‘the man' you mean Matthew, no. Not a word.”

“Have you decided what you're going to do?”

“I had a long talk with my mother about it last night.” Her eyes registered surprise. “It seems my father pulled the same stunt on her before they got married.”

“You're kidding. And what did she do?”

“She told him she had too much respect for him to try to change his mind. So she broke it off with him.”

“Are you serious? Well, it seems to have worked. They got married, and they had you.”

“And stayed married for over four decades,” I said.

“So you're going to give Matthew his walking papers?”

“I think we should have a talk first.” I glanced at my watch. “And that will be in about six hours.”

“That could turn out to be a tense drive,” she said, voicing my fears aloud.

•   •   •

The morning went by swiftly with customers coming in to congratulate me on my new collection, which they'd seen in the newspaper article. By the time Mercedes came in, we had sold twice as much as we would have on a normal day. But soon after, the sunny day changed to a light drizzle and now the shop was empty.

“There's no question that Marnie and I can handle the store on our own now,” Mercedes said, looking out the window at the empty sidewalk.

A few minutes after one, Matthew showed up with Winston in tow. “I thought I'd spend the morning with him and drop him off now since I was coming by anyhow. And since we're only driving to Charlotte and back, I can pick him up at five as usual. If that's okay with Marnie.”

“Of course it's okay with me. Winnie's never any trouble. He doesn't do much more than sleep behind the counter.”

Winston gave her a bleary look, as if to say, “Are you calling me lazy?”

“The place is simply not the same when you're not here,” Marnie added, scratching his ear. “Did you hear that, Winnie? We all love you.”

He gave her a bark that I interpreted as, “If you love me so much, where's my liver treat?” I riffled through the drawer and found one. Satisfied, he trotted over to his cushion, and Matthew and I took off.

We were on the highway, with the radio playing some romantic song from the eighties, when I turned it off.

“Don't you like that music?”

“It's not the music,” I said, a lump already forming in my throat. “It's just that I think we have to talk.”

“Uh-oh. Sounds ominous.”

I strove for a lighter tone. “Not at all. It's just that all relationships, sooner or later, come to the same questions. ‘What have we got here? And where are we going?'”

“And you think we're already there?”

“I do.”

“Feels to me like we just started.”

“I know we haven't been romantically involved for very long. We've only been officially a couple for—what—six months?”

“About that.” There was amusement in his voice.

“On the other hand, we've known each other our entire lives. So perhaps this talk isn't about you and me, so much as about what each one of us wants from our lives, and if our goals are compatible.” This was met with heavy silence. I gathered my courage and continued. “The other night over dinner, you mentioned that you don't see marriage in your future.”

“I never said never.”

“You said ‘in the foreseeable future.' I don't know about you, but when somebody talks about the foreseeable future, I interpret that as being five or ten years, maybe more. If I'm wrong, then tell me.”

Instead of answering, he came back with, “Aren't you happy having me as a boyfriend?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Don't you agree that we get along?”

I nodded.

“So why don't we take it one day at a time and see where it goes?”

“Matthew, that's like saying, ‘Isn't this a nice boat? It doesn't have oars or paddles, but let's just get on it all the same and see where it takes us.' That might be fine for somebody who has all the time in the world, but not for me.” I stopped. I had almost said the words “my biological clock.” I was beginning to sound like my mother.

“Why not? We do have all the time in the world. What's the big rush?”

My voice took on a defensive tone. “Here's the thing. You might not know or care where you want to go. But I do. I want what my parents had—a happy marriage and children.”

“Ah,” he said. “So that's what it is. The famous biological clock.” I could have clobbered him.

“It has nothing to do with my biological clock. I know where I want to go and I don't want to go on a long ride to nowhere,” I said, noticing that the discussion was suddenly going very differently from what my mother suggested. It was quiet in the car for a long time after this. The silence grew until we got to the outskirts of Charlotte.

At last, Matthew said, “How long have we known each other?”

I look at him, puzzled. “What kind of a question is that?”

“All our lives, like you said. You should know by now that I'm honest and loyal. Why don't we keep seeing each other? Who knows? Maybe you'll change your mind.” He was giving me the same argument my father had given my mother.

I had prayed I would not have to use them, but all at once, I heard myself speak my mother's words.

“I'm glad we had this discussion.” He glanced at me, and I continued onward. “I think it's important for two people who are in a relationship to know each other's goals and objectives. The problem is that you and I don't want the same thing, and I have too much respect for you to try to make you change your mind.”

A look of relief washed over his face, but it disappeared as soon as I said, “So, that's why I think it best if we stop seeing each other. This way, we will each have fond memories of each other. If we don't, we risk the relationship deteriorating into one of frustration and resentment. And that way, we can each look for a partner whose goals will be more compatible to ours.”

When I finished, I noticed that we had arrived at our destination. I couldn't have planned it better if I'd tried.

Matthew pulled to a stop and turned to me. “So that's it? You're breaking it off with me?”

“We're just traveling different roads,” I said. I leaned over, gave him a kiss on the cheek and hopped out of the car. I walked over to the police building, without turning around. If I had, I would probably have had a meltdown.

Inside the building, I made my way to a counter where I presented my claim ticket. The clerk pointed me to a bank of elevators.

“Take the first on the left down to P and hand in your ticket there.”

Fifteen minutes later I'd initialed and signed half a dozen forms, inspected my Jeep and was already driving out of the garage. As I wove my way through the city, I spotted a hospital sign and remembered that I was only blocks away from the hospital where Sondra was being treated.

On a spur of the moment decision, I turned at the next light and made my way there.

•   •   •

The drizzle had grown to a light rain. I was lucky and found a parking spot near the hospital. I dashed inside and stopped at the information counter.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

“I'm looking for Sondra Andrews' room.”

She consulted her computer. “She's in room five oh six. Take a right at the corner and take the elevator to the fifth floor.” I followed her directions, amazed at the number of people in the building. I had to keep an eye on where I was going or risk bumping into someone. I stepped into the elevator, sharing the space with a gurney and a couple of men dressed in surgical greens. On the fifth floor a nurse pointed me in the right direction and soon I found myself facing Sondra's room. I had no more than touched the door when somebody called out to me.

“Excuse me, but you can't go in there.”

“This is Sondra Andrews' room, right? I'm a friend of hers.”

She marched over. “That patient is allowed only one visitor at a time. Those are the rules.”

“She's got a visitor?” I grabbed the door handle to take a quick peek inside.

Sondra was on her back with her eyes closed. Machines were all around her, beeping at different intervals. I had an immediate impression of countless tubes connecting her to machines and vice versa.

Next to her bed were flower arrangements. And then a person moved into my view. It was Susan Price. As she noticed me, a look of guilt washed over her face.

“Della,” she said. “Come on in. I was just about to leave.”

I looked at the nurse and she nodded reluctantly.

Susan snatched her bag and hurried out, whispering a quick, “See you.” I stepped in, waiting for the door to shut and then grabbed my cell, punching in Roxanne's number.

“Lombard,” she replied immediately.

“It's Della.”

“Hey, how are you?”

“I'm at the Carolinas Medical Center, in Sondra Andrews' room. Maybe I'm overreacting, but something strange just happened. Susan Price was here when I came in. And I had the strangest impression that she wasn't happy being discovered here.”

“Susan Price? What's she got to do with anything?”

I remembered that I had never even mentioned her name in relation to Swanson's murder. “It's a long story,” I said. I gave her the
Reader's Digest
version.

“We already have the killer,” she replied, sounding none too pleased.

“I hate to ask you this, but is there any possibility that Mona might be telling the truth, that she killed Shuttleworth, but had nothing to do with her husband's death or with the attack on Swanson's ex-wife?”

“Are you telling me you think you got it wrong?” she asked. I couldn't help noticing that all of a sudden it was “I” got it wrong. Not the “we” she'd used earlier. “Because if that's what you're telling me, I'll be one very unhappy cop.”