Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery (10 page)

“In that case, how about you weave me more place mats?”

She tilted her head. “Actually, I just noticed you’re almost out of them again. You really sell out of those fast.”

“Told you.” Seeing how hopeful she looked, I continued. “I can’t afford to pay a regular employee, but whenever I need to do some errands, I promise I’ll call you to come in. And the minute I need regular help, you’ll be the first person I ask.”

She slumped and then snapped back up. “I have an idea. Why don’t I come in a few mornings a week without you having to pay me? I’ll just sit and weave. Don’t you think it would be interesting for customers to see weaving actually being done?”

“It would,” I said slowly. “But why would you want to come in without getting paid?”

“Why? Because I’m lonely, that’s why,” she said. “I like baking and weaving, but those are things I can only do indoors. Sometimes I go days without seeing a soul. At least if I do some of my weaving here, I’ll be seeing people and having conversations.”

I’d had no idea she felt that way. Still, I wasn’t totally surprised. Marnie could be very pleasant when she wanted to be, but she was known to be irritable at times. That might explain why she didn’t have a very busy social life. “Of course. If it’ll make you happy, I have no problem with you being here—as long as you behave.”

“If you mean you want me to smile at customers instead of barking at them, I promise.”

“In that case, we’ll get along just great.”

Marnie got her purse from behind the counter, blew me a kiss and headed for the door. “I’ll go get my portable looms and yarns, and I’ll start working on more place mats right away. See you soon.” She walked out with a bounce to her step. To my surprise, an hour later she was back.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a fan around here, would you?” she asked, looking flustered.

“Eh, I gave my fans to Matthew when I moved out. I didn’t think I’d need any until next summer.” I noticed how flushed she was, a fine mist of moisture on her forehead.

“Darn menopause. I get hot flashes no matter what the temperature.”

“Tell you what. If you mind the store, I’ll just run out and pick up a fan or two at Mercantile’s. I noticed they had them on sale—getting rid of them in the off-season,” I said. “I might as well get them now rather than wait till next summer when they’ll be full price.”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said, fanning herself with her hands.

•   •   •

Mercantile’s was the local general store, founded almost a hundred years ago. In all that time, it had hardly changed. It still sold tractor wheels, overalls and tools at one end of the store, kitchen pots and pans and enamelware at the other and fresh farm eggs and jars of homemade jams and jellies from behind the counter. It was a miracle the store had survived these modern times. On the other hand, perhaps people enjoyed strolling through and purchasing items that looked as if they belonged in another century.

I was debating between models of fans when I sensed somebody nearby. I looked over to see Mrs. Anderson standing by and watching me.

I nodded a hello, and she moved closer. The woman was beautiful. She was in her midforties, with soft makeup and red hair coiffed in a simple bob.

Her eyes flickered nervously left and right. She whispered, “I understand that you helped the police solve a murder recently.”

“I don’t know that the police would agree with that statement,” I said. “I think they saw me as more of a hindrance than a help.”

She glanced around once again, and it struck me that she looked more afraid than nervous. She said, “I wonder if you would take on a little job for me. I’ll pay you very generously.”

Something told me she wasn’t talking about a weaving project. “What kind of a job are you talking about?”

She glanced over her shoulder once more, and in a low voice she told me, “Somebody has taken some compromising photos of me—photos that could cause my husband a lot of embarrassment and potentially even his political career.”

Oh, my God!
It had finally happened. Somebody wanted to hire me as a private detective. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Mrs. Anderson, I think you’d be much better off hiring a professional to do something like that. I’m a weaver.”

She shook her head. “No. Don’t you see? I can’t do that. I can’t trust an investigator. But you, as a woman, I know I could trust.”

Why she would trust me more than an investigator, I had no idea. “Mrs. Anderson, honestly, I would love to help you, but I can’t. It would be illegal.”

She looked almost panicked. “You don’t even know what I want you to do.”

“What is it?”

“This person was blackmailing me,” she whispered.

I gasped out loud. “Blackmail?”

“Not so loud,” she said, and then she closed her eyes in shame and nodded. “But now the blackmailer is dead, and that means as soon as the police find those pictures, everybody will know about them. I really need to get them back before they’re found. I don’t want my husband to find out.” She looked so miserable that my heart went out to her.

I suddenly understood what she meant about “trusting me as a woman.” I sympathized. I really felt sorry for her. But these were emotions I couldn’t afford. There was a killer loose in town, and I wasn’t about to allow my sentiments to stand in the way of discovering the truth. I kept my voice low. “I suppose you’re talking about Mr. McDermott?”

She nodded slightly, her eyes holding mine. “I had nothing to do with his death. You must believe me.”

“Mrs. Anderson, if those photos were in his studio, it’s already too late. The police already know. They are probably there as we speak.”

She blanched. “I see.” She raised her head, threw her shoulders back and plastered on a smile. “I assume you will be discreet about my request?”

I answered circumspectly. “If I’m questioned, I won’t lie.”

“Fair enough,” she said, and walked out with her head high.

There goes a lady with a secret,
I thought, realizing that since her husband didn’t know, that took him off my suspects’ list, but it also put her right at the top.

A store employee walked over, wearing a jovial smile. “Those are fifty percent off at the moment.”

Fifteen minutes later, I walked out carrying a large box.

•   •   •

I got back to the shop just as a group of women was stepping out of Jenny’s shop and into mine.

“Jeanine, come and see this,” one of them called out to another. She was holding out a place mat. “Aren’t these wonderful?”

Her friend went over and picked up another. “I love them. They would look wonderful on my dinner table.” Before they left, between the two of them, they cleaned me out of place mats again.

Marnie walked over. “Good thing I’ll be making more,” she said, looking at the fan I was pulling out of the box.

“Where would you like it? Near your loom?”

“You can leave it behind the counter,” she said. “The flashes seem to have gone for now.”

Great
, I thought.
I could have waited for my car to be fixed rather than lugging that heavy thing all the way here.

The store became quiet again. Marnie returned to her loom, and I returned to mine and finished the second sample. When Bunny Boyd walked in a short time later, Marnie had just run back for a cup of coffee. I was clipping the third sample off my loom.

“Nice,” Bunny said, inspecting them. “But these weren’t made on your wide-width loom. How can I be certain the fabric will look the same if it’s made on a different machine?”

“The heddles are the same distance apart as on my wide loom, so as long as the fabric is produced with the same yarn and the same tension, the results will be identical.”

She nodded, still studying the samples. “You don’t mind if I take these with me, do you?”

“Not at all.”

She thanked me and folded them into her bag.

Before leaving, she paused, and glancing toward the back, she said, “Does the owner of the coffee shop—Jenny, right?—does she have anything to do with the McDermotts?”

“No,” I said, surprised. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason really. It’s just that I thought I saw her coming out of the coffee shop just before Mr. McDermott’s body was found.”

So Bunny Boyd had been the informant. I covered my surprise with a smile. “Actually, I suspect the person you saw was Emma Blanchard. She walks that way every morning, on her way to Al’s Garage, where her boyfriend works.”

“Really?” Bunny said. She shrugged. “Well, I suppose I was wrong.” She threw me a wide smile. “I’ll show these to Bernie and see if he likes them as much as I do.”

If she could ask me questions, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t have some for her. “Did Mr. Whitby find out what happened to his missing gun?” I asked.

“You know about that?”

“A friend of mine was standing next to him when his butler told him. He overheard.”

“Bernie is very upset over it. That gun is a valuable antique, from before the first world war, I think.”

“It was a collector’s piece? It didn’t actually work?”

“Oh, it was functional, all right. Bernie took it out once a year just to test it. He does that with all his guns. They’re worth much more when they’re in working order.”

That made sense. I adopted a pensive look. “I wonder who could have taken it. Do you know when he last saw it?”

“It was there just before the party. Whoever stole it had to break the lock to get it.” She scowled. “Some people have no respect. Those showcases are valuable. Everything in that house is valuable. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find good antique restorers?”

“If the gun was there when the party started, then it had to have been taken by one of the guests. Do you remember everyone who toured the house with you?”

“Are you kidding? I think every second person in the place took the tour. Everybody wanted to see the mansion. Bernie usually never allows anyone to the second floor, so this was a rare opportunity to visit a historical mansion.” Suddenly she narrowed her eyes, looking at me with suspicion. “You’re asking an awful lot of questions. Why would you want to know all that?”

I shrugged. “I’m sorry. My friends keep telling me to mind my own business, but I can’t seem to curb my curiosity.” And then I threw out one more hook. “I sure hope that poor Mr. McDermott wasn’t killed with Mr. Whitby’s gun.”

Bunny’s mouth tightened. “Let me tell you, nobody needs to sympathize with McDermott. That man was a creep. He got what he deserved.” And with that, she turned and marched out of the store.

Well, well
. Bunny Boyd didn’t like the victim either. I stared at the door for a long time as a new possibility took form. Of all the people at the party, Bunny would have had the most opportunity to steal that gun. I couldn’t help but wonder whether she only disliked the victim, or if her emotions went deeper than that. The next question was, did Bunny Boyd have a reason to want him dead? I found myself adding her to my growing list of suspects. Although it occurred to me that if she were guilty of killing McDermott, she would probably not be this open about not liking him.

I picked up the phone and punched in Matthew’s number. “What are you doing?” I asked when he picked up.

“Okay, out with it,” he replied, a hint of mischief in his voice.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I can think of one only reason why you would be calling me. What do you want to know?”

I chuckled. “I don’t call only when I want something from you.”

“Okay, so what—pray tell—is the reason for your call?”

“Actually,” I said, now laughing out loud, “I do want something—information.”

“I knew it.”

“Have you told the police about McDermott’s studio?”

He grew serious. “I went directly to the station after leaving the restaurant last night. They sent officers to search the place right away. I went along with them. And don’t worry. I kept you out of it.”

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Did they find anything?”

“You mean other than his collection of nude models? Nothing that I know of.”

“Have they identified all the women in the pictures yet?”

“Ah, that’s what this is all about. You’re playing detective again, aren’t you?”

“Not at all,” I said, slightly incensed. “If you want to know, somebody just tried to hire me to do some detecting and I turned her down.” The minute the words were out, I wanted to take them back.
Stupid, stupid, stupid
. Now he’d insist on me telling him everything.

Matthew was silent, which only made me feel worse because that meant I was in really deep trouble. At last he said, very quietly, “Della, don’t you think you should tell me about this person? You said you wanted to be my informant. So please, tell me.”

“Oh . . . er . . . sorry. I’ll have to call you back. A customer just walked in.” I hung up fast. I needed some time to think. The phone rang.
Matthew calling back,
I thought. I picked up.

“Mrs. Wright? Ricky here. About your Jeep, the problem is just what I figured. Your wheels need balancing.” He quoted me a price, which I accepted, and he promised that I could pick up my Jeep in the morning. I thanked him and hung up.

•   •   •

By closing time, I was wondering how come Matthew hadn’t called back. When I looked up, there he was at the door, looking very determined.

“Hey, Winnie,” I said, “there’s your daddy come to pick you up.”

“We need to talk,” Matthew said.

I was instantly filled with guilt. It wasn’t as if I’d promised Mrs. Anderson that I would keep her request a secret, I reminded myself. But I had implied as much.

“Della?” He stared at me, hard.

What the heck. I had to tell him sometime. It might as well be now. I threw him a smile. “How about you offer me a drink? I’ll tell you all about it.”

•   •   •

It was a beautiful, warm September day and the walk back to his place was pleasant—even though I knew what was waiting. Winston stopped and sniffed at every bush and every puddle along the way.

Matthew chuckled. “What is it, boy? Did some sexy little girl bulldog walk by? Is that what you smell?”