Looming Murder (3 page)

“Actually, there is something I want to talk to you about. Give me a shout when you have a minute.” Something in his voice told me that whatever he wanted to discuss was important.

“I have a minute right now.” I wondered if maybe I should close the door between the kitchen and the front rooms. “What’s up?”

There was a pause. “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

A sinking feeling settled in my stomach. “Give me the good news.”
Lord knows I could use some.

“Remember that book proposal on criminology I sent to publishers?” The excitement in his voice left no doubt as to what he was about to tell me.

“It’s been accepted? Oh, Matthew, I’m so happy for you! Congratulations. I know how long you’ve been waiting for this.”

“I can hardly believe it’s really happening. I’ve taken a sabbatical from the university”—his voice became serious—“but I’ll never get any work done in Charlotte. I need to be somewhere quiet.”

I knew exactly where he was going with this. “You want to move back here, don’t you?” I asked, my mouth suddenly going dry. “I guess that means I’ll have to move out.” What a fool I’d been to think I could go on living here indefinitely.

“I would never ask you to move out.” He hesitated, then added, “Have you started looking for a place of your own?”

“I—I didn’t think . . . I mean, I thought you would—”

“I know,” he interrupted apologetically. “I never imagined I’d want to come back so soon. As long as I was teaching, your condo was perfect for me. Of course, if you don’t think it would work, I can—”

“Don’t be silly. This is your house. I’ll find somewhere else to live.” I kept my voice upbeat. I felt almost ill at the thought of all the work that moving and setting up again would entail.

“I have an idea. Why don’t we share the house until you find the perfect place? You can take all the time you want—no rush.” He chuckled. “Mind you, you might not want me as a roommate, so if you don’t like the idea, just tell me, and I’ll think of some other solution.”

Matthew and me living in the same house might be . . . Well . . . I had a quick vision of quiet candlelit dinners, of cozy snuggles by the fireplace, which might have had a better chance of coming true if there was a fireplace somewhere in the house and if he didn’t already have a girlfriend. Besides, I was focused on launching my weaving studio now, not on men.

The person who would be most thrilled at the prospect of Matthew and me sharing a house was my mother. For years, she’d been championing her favorite cause—getting him and me together—and she refused to understand why I wasn’t taking her advice.

Matthew and I had known each other all our lives. His mother and mine had been roommates at college and were like sisters. In fact, our families had spent holidays together for as long as I could remember. During all those years, I had never felt anything for him but friendship—maybe because of my mother’s constant efforts to match us up. Then suddenly, during his last holiday visit, I found myself fantasizing about running my fingers through his hair, which proved only one thing: It had been far too long since I’d gone on a date.

“How about this?” he asked, sensing my hesitation. “We can give it a try for a week or two, see if it works. If it does, great; if not, we’ll think of something. What do you say?”

“That’s a good idea.” The truth was I was stunned. I’d quit my job. I’d exchanged my BMW for an eight-year-old Jeep Cherokee. I’d listed my condo for sale—which could take a long time considering the current condition of the real estate market. And then I’d spent a month scrubbing and cleaning and scraping and painting Matthew’s house until it looked as bright as the first of June, which today just so happened to be. Besides, I liked Briar Hollow. Being here, I felt peaceful and happy. I was
not
going back to Charlotte.

After hanging up, I stood rooted to the spot for a few moments, feeling as if I’d just been hit over the head. “What do you think of that?”

Winston jumped up and licked my hand.

“Do you know what I think, Winnie? I think nobody will ever be as good a roommate as you.” He tilted his head, staring at me with that puzzled expression again. Impulsively, I bent down, threw my arms around his neck and gave him a hug. “Sorry, big boy. I’ll take you for a walk later. I promise.” Ignoring the pang of guilt, I closed the door and returned to my studio.

The volunteers were poring over my collection of weaving magazines, still discussing patterns and yarns. David pulled away from the group and came closer. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you’ll be looking for a new place,” he said in a low voice.

I knew I should have closed the door. I looked around, wondering if everybody in the room had been listening in on my conversation. “I haven’t quite decided, but it’s a possibility.”

“I know of a few places that might be perfect for you. If you have time tomorrow, I can take you around to see them.”

Whoa. This was all going so fast. I wanted to think things through before coming to any conclusion. “I—I’m not sure—”

“If you decide not to move, no problem, but you should at least know your options.”

I spun that around in my mind. “I guess there’s no harm in looking.”

I noticed Jenny staring at me with surprise. She wandered over with one of my
Weaver’s Craft
magazines. She opened it and, pretending to show me something, whispered, “Did I just hear David say you’re looking for another place? I don’t understand. You just got here. And you’ve put so much work into this house.”

“The owner is moving back to Briar Hollow.”

“Matthew’s coming back?” she asked.

“You know Matthew?” I said, just as I remembered Marnie’s earlier comment that in Briar Hollow everybody knew everybody.

“He’s a friend of my ex-husband’s, so I know him very well. He’s nice.” She smiled, closing the magazine. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

I didn’t know about the world, but Briar Hollow sure was small.

A
s
I tidied the studio later—gathering weaving magazines and books and sorting skeins and cones of yarn—I could hardly believe how many people had shown up. When I’d decided to organize a charity group, I’d hoped for three, maybe four participants. I never imagined I might get as many as six. That all three beginners had registered for weaving lessons was another stroke of luck, and better yet, Jenny and Marnie had both offered to bring in some of their finished projects to sell on consignment. That would bring in more income that would go straight to my bottom line. So why did I feel like I needed Prozac?

Ha! As if I didn’t know. Matthew’s call had completely unraveled me.

What was I supposed to do?

I could think of a dozen ways living in the same house as Matthew could backfire. We’d always bickered as kids, and in the two months I’d been here, I had turned his house upside down. I had banished all of his downstairs furnishings to the smallest upstairs bedroom. There, sofa, armchairs and dining room furniture were piled topsy-turvy. What used to be the living and dining rooms now held exactly one desk, which I used as my sales counter; one maple hutch and a few tables, which I used to display my wares; my looms and half a dozen chairs and stools. Except for the kitchen, which I’d left unchanged, most everything else was gone.

I didn’t mind living this way. It was for the sake of my new business. But this was Matthew’s home. He was moving back, expecting to find his house the way he’d left it.

I sighed at the truth: There was no way I could stay here. I had to move out.
Crap!

I couldn’t blame Matthew for my predicament. Our arrangement had been clear from the start—until one of us changed his mind. Since the real estate market was bad now, I knew my condo wouldn’t be selling any time soon, but it had been wishful thinking to imagine he’d like it so much in Charlotte that he would live in my condo indefinitely. I pushed my worries away for now, took a step back and sized up the room. Before the meeting had ended, everyone had completed the planning of the blankets. Until the next meeting, patterns and yarns would remain neatly stored in the baskets at the foot of each loom. After making sure that everything was tidy, I wandered over to the shop area and made a cold, objective assessment of it. Sure, it looked pretty, but it was much too bare, which might be why Jenny and Marnie had offered to bring in their wares. Whatever the reason, I had jumped at the chance. More stock would only improve the ambience of the place. It was just rotten luck that I would probably have to move.

“Want to go for a walk, Winston?” He jumped to his feet, swinging his butt as if wagging a nonexistent tail. “I’m glad at least one of us is happy.” I clipped his leash onto his collar.

•   •   •

I closed the door behind us and headed west along Main Street, walking past Briar Hollow Mercantile—a sort of local general store where one could find anything from farm machine parts, overalls and tools to fresh eggs and baked goods. I continued on past the church and past a row of small stores—a vacuum-cleaner shop, a watchmaker, the local grocery store. Winnie, of course, stopped, sniffed and peed at every tree, every lamppost and every fire hydrant.

“There isn’t a tree you don’t love, is there, Winnie?” He trudged on determinedly to the next one. “Hey! Who’s walking whom here?”

All I got was a snort.

The evening was dark, lit only by the occasional streetlamp. I was about to turn back when I noticed a
COTTAGE AND CASTLE REALTIES
sign in a store window. I paused. Could this be one of the places David Swanson wanted to show me?

“Sit, Winnie.” His butt hit the sidewalk. I turned to the store, pressing my nose to the glass and peering in. There wasn’t much I could see in the dark, but I could tell the space was large, considerably larger than what I would need. I pulled away. No matter how wonderful this place might be, it was a shop, not a house, which meant I’d need a separate place to live.
Crap!
I couldn’t possibly afford two rents.

In fact, even if I found the perfect place, one with a setup similar to Matthew’s house, where I could work downstairs and live upstairs, the cost of moving and settling in would still be more than I could afford. Part of the problem was that I was still paying the mortgage on my condo in Charlotte, and would have to keep paying it until the place was sold. I groaned as another problem occurred to me—furniture. As my agent had pointed out, empty homes sell for considerably less, so I’d had to leave my furniture in Charlotte. That had suited me fine as long as Matthew and I were just swapping places, but if I moved, I would have to buy new stuff. Where would I get the money for that?

I was so screwed.

Unless
 . . . “What do you think, Winnie? Should I accept Matthew’s offer to share his house? Or should I move out on my own?” He looked at me blankly. “Come on, help me here. If I move, you’ll go back to living with Matthew. That means no more sleeping at the foot of my bed.”

He kept staring, unconcerned.

“You know what I think, big boy? You don’t care one way or another. You’ll live with anyone as long as they feed you.” I could have sworn he looked offended. “Let’s go home, Winnie.” He took off at a trot, dragging me along.

•   •   •

I was still obsessing about it as I got ready for bed. I picked up my toothbrush and squeezed toothpaste on it.
Look at the bright side
, I told myself, swishing water through my mouth.
Living with Matthew could turn into a blessing. It all depends on the way I manage things. We could get along great, never quarrel, and I could save enough to move into a bigger shop in a year or so.

I returned to my room, drew back the blankets and climbed into bed, filled with warm fuzzy thoughts.

But what if the opposite happened?

I wasn’t exactly Miss Personality all the time. I had been known to occasionally lose my cool. What if, after a few days or weeks of living in the same house together, he and I got on each other’s nerves? Matthew might decide he couldn’t stand the sight of me. Having a person around all the time could do that. A lump the size of a fist was forming in my throat.
I might lose one of my oldest friends and my new career at the same time.

“Enough of all this negativity.” Winston, who had snuggled at the foot of the bed, looked up. “Go back to sleep, Winnie. Don’t worry. Things will work out.” All I had to do was make sure they did.

He looked back at me, his eyes mirroring my own doubt.

I envisioned scenario after scenario—two bad ones for every good one—until sometime in the middle of the night I decided that I wasn’t accomplishing anything by tossing and turning. I propped myself up on one elbow and glanced at the time—almost five o’clock. It was too late to catch any sleep, so I might as well have a cup—or three—of java. And then what I would do was weave. I always did my best thinking at my loom.

I threw back the blankets and padded downstairs in my chenille bathrobe thrown over my favorite pajamas, light cotton covered with a print of shoes. Winston trotted along, hoping for a treat, no doubt. I fished a liver cookie from the tin on the kitchen counter and tossed it to him. He shot up and caught it in midair in a jump worthy of Shaquille O’Neal.

“So, you’re not always a lazybones.” I plugged in the coffeemaker. He was so busy chewing that he didn’t even glance my way. “Ingrate.”

A few minutes later I was back at my baby blanket project, weaving away with Winston lying at the foot of my loom, snoring—lucky dog.

I had decided to make blankets that measured thirty-six by forty-eight inches, made up of twelve-inch strips in a rosepath threading, with weft color and threading changed every twelve inches to make a sampler of variations. After a hundred forty-four inches of weaving I would have enough to cut the yardage into three strips, join them into a finished blanket, and bind it with a satin trim over the raw edges. Satisfied with my plan, I rummaged through my chest of skeins and selected enough white for the warp, and soft yellow and celery green yarns for the weft. Before long I was lost in the joy of measuring out my warp and starting to dress the loom.

I was halfway through the threading when I reached to pour myself a cup of coffee and found my pot was empty. I glanced at my watch. Ten twenty! Jenny was scheduled to stop by in a few minutes, and thankfully the warping board was ready for her. I put it down and was halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rang. I tightened my belt and hurried to the door.

“Jenny, hi.”

She stepped inside, looking like a burst of sunshine in a gauzy fuchsia top and feather earrings. Her hair was tied back in an artfully messy ponytail. Damn, she looked good. Over her shoulder was a large straw bag. She looked me up and down, then muffled a giggle. I might as well have been wearing bunny slippers.

“Nice outfit. Am I early?” she asked, giving me a teasing smile.

“No, not at all. Sorry about . . .” I gestured vaguely toward my bathrobe. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came down in the middle of the night to do some weaving. I didn’t realize it was already morning.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s one of the perks of working from home. You don’t have to get dressed if you don’t want to.” Her smile was infectious. “I have everything we need right here.” She noticed Winston lumbering over. “Oh, and look who’s here.”

“Winston, say hello to Jenny.” He sniffed her hand, unimpressed, and sat—hoping for a treat, no doubt. “Come on in. He’s as sweet as a kitten.”

“I know Winston. I’m just surprised that he’s here.”

I explained how Matthew and I had switched places and how Winston had hated being cooped up in my small condo. “But now that he’s coming back, I’ll probably move out, and then Winston will stay with Matthew.” I bent down to scratch Winston behind the ear. “I’ll miss you, Winnie.” And then to Jenny, “Would you like a cup of coffee? I was just about to make a fresh pot. I’ll run up and change while it drips.”

She followed me to the kitchen. “You must be a mind reader. I’m dying for a cup of coffee. But why don’t we get started measuring the warps and save the coffee for later?”

“That’s a good idea. Have a seat.” I offered her a chair. “How much do I owe you for the materials?”

She set the yarn on the floor and waved my question away with a flick of the wrist. “It wasn’t much. Consider it a shop-warming gift. Besides, you’ll be making me money, selling my goods.” With that, she plopped her bag on the table. A minute later, my small kitchen table was covered with piles of woven wall hangings, rugs and place mats.

“These are wonderful,” I exclaimed, picking up one of the rugs. It was so beautiful that I momentarily forgot about wanting to get dressed. Studying it, I saw it was made of rows of turquoise cotton strips interspersed with jute yarn.

“I tore up an old summer dress that I always loved, but was a bit out of date. This way, I can still enjoy it.” She chuckled. She ran her hand over the rug. “I was trying for a casual, beachy effect. What do you think?”

“I think it’s great. This is so creative. I would never have thought of mixing rows of cotton strips with rows of jute. It’s beautiful.”

“How do you like this one?” She pulled out a wall hanging made from the same materials, and I noticed the small shells and bits of sea-glass beads threaded throughout. “I have coordinating place mats too.” She sorted through the pile until she found them, and laid them out. “I made different color groupings in this style. Do you think they’ll sell?”

“I’m sure they will. They’re great. Show me the others.” I put the place mats down and riffled through the rest of her projects, pausing to admire each one. “This one is gorgeous,” I exclaimed over another rug, woven from an assortment of heavy yarns and cotton strips intermingled with occasional strips of faux fur.

“I’m glad you like them. I’m a bit unorthodox when it comes to weaving. I just use anything I have—outdated clothes, old curtains, even an old tweed coat and a faux-fur jacket.”

“I can’t believe how creative you are. I’ll take as many of your pieces as you’ll let me have.” I put down the rug I was admiring. “Let me run up and change. I’ll be back in a second,” I called over my shoulder as I hurried away.

I returned, having copied Susan Wood’s outfit of the previous night, a pair of plain jeans and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves—but with my four-inch wedge sandals, I didn’t quite pull off the casual country look. What can I say? I prefer looking at the world from a height of five feet four rather than five feet nothing.

I stepped into the shop and stopped in surprise. All of Jenny’s items were already displayed. A few were on the table in front of the window. Some hung from the doors of the hutch, and others still were nicely folded on the seat of a chair. I looked around, delighted.

She spun around to face me, looking embarrassed. “I hope you don’t mind—”

“Are you kidding? I love it. I didn’t have near enough stock. In fact, this place could use even more merchandise.”

“I thought it looked very Zen.” I caught the amusement in her eye and laughed.

“That’s just your way of saying I’m right. It still needs more merchandise, doesn’t it?”

She smiled. “Those are your words, not mine.” She was just being too nice to admit the truth.

“I have a few boxes of yarns in the garage. I might as well get them.” Winston appeared heartbroken as we left the house by the back door. He whined.

“I’ll be back,” I promised. He slunk back to his favorite spot and plopped down on the rug, looking wounded.

Jenny followed me to the garage. She looked around at the shelves upon shelves of car parts. The cement floor was covered with countless oil stains. In the far corner was a jumble of tools, car jacks and dollies.

“Wow. Will you look at this place? I knew Matthew was into antique cars, but I had no idea he collected all this stuff.” She chuckled. “You know how he is. He likes to do most of the repairs himself.”

Actually, I hadn’t had a clue, and for some reason it bothered me to know that she clearly knew him better than I did. I went to the stack of boxes against the far wall and began opening them, looking for those with the yarn.