Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery

MOURNING COFFEE

I walked into the dark interior of the Coffee Break and hesitated. That was odd. If they’d already unlocked the door, why hadn’t they also turned on the light?

“Hello? Rhonda?” I called out, advancing a few steps. “Mr. McDermott? Anybody here?” I stood uncertainly halfway between the entrance and the counter until the door behind the counter opened.

Rhonda McDermott appeared, flicking on the lights. “Oh, hello, Della.” She looked around, puzzled. “Where’s Philip? Didn’t he give you your purse yet?”

“I didn’t see him. I just got—” Before I could finish, Rhonda screamed. And then she dropped behind the counter. I rushed over.

I rounded the counter and froze. Mr. McDermott was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. His face was ghostly white, his strangely dark gray eyes staring blindly and his white shirt soaked red. My pulse raced. For a second I thought I might faint.

Rhonda was kneeling next to her husband, almost as pale as he was. “Philip, look at me.” She shook him. “Philip, say something.” But her husband remained motionless.

Also Available from Carol Ann Martin

Looming Murder

Tapestry of Lies

A WEAVING MYSTERY

CAROL ANN MARTIN

OBSIDIAN

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ISBN 978-1-101-63783-8

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Eddie

L
ife is full of surprises. A bit over a year ago, I was a business analyst for an investment firm in Charlotte, North Carolina. I owned a great condo on Third and Tryon, drove a BMW, carried a laptop everywhere I went and wore designer clothes and skyscraper shoes. (Actually, I still wear four-inch heels.) The last thing I expected was to suddenly find myself living in Briar Hollow, a small town at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains, owning and operating a weaving shop. Yes, life is full of surprises.

I only wished life would surprise me now by turning my shop into a success.

Since my opening of Dream Weaver a few months ago, money had been flying out of my business account faster than it was coming in. And since I’d cashed in my Roth IRA to buy the building where I now lived (upstairs in one of two apartments) and operated my business (downstairs, in a space way too large for my little business alone), my financial safety net was almost entirely gone. Needless to say, I was not feeling very secure. Oh, what the hell? The truth is, I was scared to death.

But not scared enough, it seemed, to prevent myself from making one more impulse buy.

I studied that purchase now—an antique Irish loom I’d picked up on craigslist. The contraption was a thing of beauty—more than a hundred years old and in perfect working order. It was also a monster—eight feet wide and imposing as hell. Now that it stood in the middle of my shop, I wasn’t at all certain what I would do with it. The thought of actually working that loom was overwhelming. Perhaps I would just use it for display purposes.

I took a few steps back and studied it again. It did look amazing, and it helped fill the store, which otherwise still seemed way too bare. I planted my hands on my hips and took in the entire area.

The ceiling was fourteen feet high, with schoolhouse pendant lights hanging from large wood beams. The floor was made of wide oak planks, worn and darkened from decades of footsteps and waxed to a sheen. One of the previous owners had chipped away the plaster wall, exposing the red bricks on the west side and giving the store even more character.

No wonder I’d fallen in love with the place at first sight. It was filled with architectural details that would cost a fortune to emulate. But everything here was original—the real thing—right down to the two windows of diamond-paned leaded glass that looked on to Main Street.

When my friend Jenny had suggested we separate the floor space into two distinct areas so she could open a tea shop in the back, I jumped at the offer. Having someone pay a small part of the mortgage helped. But even with Jenny’s shop, the space was still too large, so I’d brought in some furniture and my woven goods. I’d scattered colorful rugs on the floor in one corner, the old armoire full of white hand towels, napkins, place mats and tablecloths in the other. Behind the counter at the entrance, a bookshelf held skeins of yarn in a rainbow of colors. I had shawls, afghans, blankets, tapestries and countless other items on tables, in shelves and on chairs. The place looked so beautiful it could have been professionally decorated. I allowed myself a self-congratulatory sigh.

The bell above the door jingled. I swung around just as Jenny breezed in, carrying a large box of assorted goodies—cakes, muffins and pies. She looked stunning, as usual, wearing black leggings with a flowing turquoise top and a Navaho squash blossom necklace. I had the tiniest moment of envy. I had always wanted to be tall and thin, but I was five-foot nothing and more curvaceous than lean. What can I say? Eating was right up there among my favorite things.

“Good morning,” she said with a bright smile. She came stumbling over and plunked the large box onto my counter. “Ooh, will you look at that,” she said, ogling the loom I’d just bought. “What is it?”

“What do you think it is? A loom, of course.”

She gave me an exasperated smile. “Of course it’s a loom. What I mean is, what in the world will you do with it? It’s gigantic. You could probably weave widths of ten feet with it.”

I chuckled. “Actually, that’s what it’s for—wide yard goods. I saw it on craigslist, and after seeing the picture, I just had to go and take a close-up look.”

She laughed. “And knowing you, you were smitten the minute you laid eyes on it.”

I tilted my head. “Something like that. It was so inexpensive, I couldn’t afford to pass it by.” That last bit wasn’t quite true. Considering my circumstances, any amount was too much.

She wandered over for a closer look. “It’s not broken or anything, is it?”

I shook my head. “Not at all. The owner was hardly more than a teenager. I think it was incredibly risky for her to start a business at her age, and in the end she had to close her studio. But she was passionate about weaving. I got the feeling she would never have sold this loom if she hadn’t absolutely had to.”

“That’s sad.” And then, seeing the concern on my face, she continued. “Don’t worry. You’ll be successful. It’s just a matter of time.”

“I only hope it’s during this lifetime. What do think of this loom as a display piece? Doesn’t it look amazing here? I could drape tablecloths on it.”

“It sure uses up a good chunk of space.” Her tone told me she thought that was probably the only good thing about it.

She returned to the counter. “By the way, have you found a tenant yet for your apartment?”

Of the two apartments in my building, I used the larger for myself and was trying to rent the other. I had been posting ads on craigslist weekly since I’d taken possession, but so far, nothing. I guess not many people were looking for apartments—at least in Briar Hollow.

“Not yet.”

“It shouldn’t take long. It’s such a pretty apartment.”

I nodded. “I know, but it had better be soon. I need the money.”

She picked up her box of goodies, heading to the back of the store, where a glass-beaded curtain hung between two rows of tall shelves separating her area from mine.

“How about a cup of tea?” she called over her shoulder. Her question was followed by the tinkling of glass as she parted the curtain.

“Make mine a coffee,” I replied. “You should know by now I need my daily dose of caffeine.” Coffee was my weakness. I’d already had a few cups of Kona before leaving my apartment and should have refrained from yet another. But I didn’t smoke. I didn’t gamble—except for launching a business in this terrible economy, that is. I hadn’t even dated in almost a year. Coffee was my one vice. I was bloody well going to enjoy it.

A second later the smell of freshly ground coffee wafted over, and my mouth watered in anticipation. For all her outspoken preference for tea, Jenny still made a mean cup of coffee.

At that moment, the bell above the door jingled, and a stunning blonde in a bubblegum pink leather pantsuit walked in. My eyes nearly popped at the sight of the diamond earrings she wore. They were practically chandeliers. Their sparkle told me they were real. They must have cost a king’s ransom. This woman had money, and if she liked my wares, I just might have a good day.

I wandered over to greet her. “Welcome to Dream Weaver. Can I help you?” I’d picked the name at the spur of the moment the day I decided to chuck my career and follow my dream.

The blonde smiled, tossing her mane of bleached hair. “I’ll just look around, if you don’t mind.”

“Take your time.” I returned to my counter, under which a box of merchandise waited to be priced and tagged. I hefted it up to the counter and opened it. Gently unfolding the silk paper, I counted the number of place mats—an even dozen—and sighed. Only twelve—I needed at least double that many. Place mats outsold all other items three to one, and I was almost out of them as it was. I was constantly pressuring my weavers to bring in more; even my friend Marnie, who was by far my best supplier, couldn’t crank them out fast enough. That was in part because she also happened to be the wonderful baker who supplied all the pastries for Jenny’s tea shop. I might have been tempted to put pressure on her to give up the baking so she could concentrate solely on weaving, but I couldn’t do that to Jenny. She was my best friend; plus a lot of customers came for the muffins and left with a handwoven item. Besides, a year ago, Marnie had put in a professional kitchen as an addition to her house. Now she needed the income from her baking to help pay for that expensive renovation. No, my only recourse was to find more weavers. I made a mental note to ask the students in my next advanced-weaving class. As a last resort, I could always place a wanted ad on craigslist.

I opened the drawer, pulling out the stock book and a box of my beautiful tags. One of the first things I’d invested in when I opened the shop was thick, creamy store tags with the name “Dream Weaver” embossed in gold. They looked so rich, they made every item to which they were attached seem all the more precious. I flipped open the book and entered the merchandise, all the while keeping a discreet eye on the flashy blonde.

She was examining a tablecloth and matching napkins displayed on an antique sideboard I’d brought in a few days earlier. I’d worked on that thing for weeks, sanding down the old finish before repainting it a lovely creamy white. I’d given the edges a quick sanding, and voilà, shabby-chic. That was where I now displayed all my priciest pieces. I held my breath, hoping she would bring the items to the counter. But she dropped them casually and moved on to an occasional table, where she picked up a table runner. I was tempted to point out that the table was for sale too—not only the woven items—but decided that might have seemed pushy.

After purchasing this building, I’d scored a houseful of old furniture for next to nothing, which was a good thing, because next to nothing was all I could afford. There had been more than enough pieces to furnish my apartment. And even after deciding to use the remaining pieces in the store, I still had many left over. Since then I’d been working on refinishing them to sell alongside my weaving. It was hard work—sanding and painting and buffing—but I’d already sold three pieces last week alone, making the extra effort well worth it.

I finished entering the merchandise and began tagging the pieces, still keeping a surreptitious eye on the woman. There was something oddly familiar about her, but try as I might, I couldn’t imagine where I might have met her. She couldn’t have been a local. Briar Hollow was tiny, and I already knew—at least by sight—everyone in town. I was also sure she wasn’t someone I’d known back in Charlotte. So where could I have . . .

Bunny Boyd
. The name came to me in a flash. I had seen this woman on television. She was an interior designer with her own reality-TV show.
Wow
. Bunny Boyd was in my shop! A surge of hope flashed through me. Maybe she would buy a ton of my merchandise, mention it on one of her television shows, and the plug would turn my business into a huge success.
Hey, a girl can always dream.

She moved away from the occasional table and stopped at a rocking chair, picking up a handwoven afghan. She examined it for a moment, and then, noticing a tablecloth on the gateleg table a few steps away, she dropped the throw as if it were a rag. She snatched the delicate cloth, fingering it for a second and then discarded that too. She wandered on from one display to the next, turning her nose up at everything she saw. But as I decided that—just my luck—she was heading for the door without buying so much as a napkin, she stopped before the antique loom and circled it, wearing a puzzled expression, much as Jenny had just a few minutes earlier.

“This is for weaving yard goods, isn’t it?” she called over to me. “That’s what weavers use to make woven fabric by the yard, right? Do you use it?”

I left the counter and joined her. “Yes, it is. I’m surprised you know that. I haven’t used it yet—I just got it—but that’s the reason I bought it.” Now, that was stretching the truth, but—hey—if Bunny Boyd was looking for handwoven fabric, far be it from me to not seize the opportunity. “You’re Bunny Boyd, aren’t you?”

She smiled.

“I’m Della Wright, the owner.”

She nodded. “Nice to meet you. I’ve been looking for handwoven fabric heavy enough for draperies and upholstery. Would you be able to produce that?”

My hope surged. “Of course I can. But it would be expensive.”

She chuckled, as if I’d just said something amusing. “If I like it, the price won’t matter. I have an important client, and I’m redoing his entire house—twelve thousand square feet.”
Twelve thousand square feet? How much yardage will she need?
“I’ll need at least fifty yards of material,” she added as if she’d read my thoughts.

At least fifty yards?
That was an insane amount of yardage—months and months of work. It was the best news I’d heard in a long time. I was almost giddy with excitement.

Bunny returned to the display table and picked up a hand towel, bringing it over. “This is the pattern I want.” She pointed to the fine chevron. “But I want it much larger, at least two inches.”

I studied the cloth. “That wouldn’t be a problem. I do that sort of thing all the time.”

“As for color, I’m looking for something discreet. I like simple and elegant.”

Clearly not when it came to her hair and makeup, but all I said was, “That sounds lovely.”

She snapped her fingers as an idea came to her. “My client, Bernard Whitby, is throwing a small party tomorrow. He sent out hundreds of invitations. Everyone in town is welcome.”

She calls that a small party?

“Did you get one?”

I shook my head. “No. But if it was just addressed to ‘occupant,’ I might have thrown it away without a glance.”

At that moment, Jenny came forward with my cup of coffee. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Can I get you something?” she asked Bunny.

“Jenny, I’d like you to meet Bunny Boyd.”

Bunny gave her a patronizing smile and then continued. “The party is tomorrow at five o’clock—cocktails. I’ll introduce you to my client and walk you through the house. You’ll see what I’ve already done, and I’ll explain my plans for the rest of the house. You’ll understand exactly what I’m looking for.” She paused. “You’ll come, won’t you?”