Weave of Absence (3 page)

Winston rolled over on his back, no doubt hoping for a belly rub. I fished through my drawer for a doggy biscuit and he scrambled back onto his feet and lunged for it. And then he trotted over to his cushion, chewing contentedly.

“What have you got there?” Matthew asked, noticing the flag. He leaned forward to get a good look.

“It's Marnie's,” I said. “Isn't it gorgeous?”

Marnie explained, “It's a sort of family heirloom. I'm not sure exactly how old it is, but I know it goes back a few generations.”

He studied it in silence for a few seconds, then said, “You should have this looked at by an expert.”

“That's what we were just talking about,” I said.

He paused, looking thoughtful. “I have a friend at the Charlotte Museum of History. Actually, he's the curator. If he can't tell us, I'm sure he knows some expert who would know.”

Marnie's eyes widened. “Really?” She seemed about to agree and then she frowned. “I don't know. Bruce really wanted to take it to Charlotte himself.”

“Didn't you say Bruce would take it to the Charlotte Museum of Art?” I said. “Surely the museum of history would be a better place to bring an antique flag. Besides, Matthew knows the curator. I'm sure Bruce won't mind.”

“I'm on my way to Charlotte to see my agent now,” he interjected. “I'll be driving right by there. I could drop it off on my way. But I don't want to cause an argument. If Bruce wants—”

“No, you're right,” Marnie said, cutting in decisively. “Bruce won't mind. In fact, he'll probably be happy he won't have to make the drive.” She repackaged the flag and handed it to Matthew. “Please be careful with it.”

“I promise.” He gave me a peck on the cheek, patted Winnie on the head, and walked out. A minute later he was gone, the roaring of his car engine fading in the distance.

Marnie looked at her watch. “Is it already eight forty-five? I'd better get going.”

“Where are you off to?”

“I'm having breakfast with Bruce at the Longview,” she said, naming a local bed-and-breakfast that had recently expanded into a boutique hotel, complete with an adjoining fine-dining restaurant. “Don't worry,” she continued, heading for the entrance, “I'll be back before ten o'clock.” The door swung shut behind her.

She walked away with new energy, her flaming red hair bouncing with every step. Damn that fiancé of hers. If he broke my friend's heart, he would have to answer to me.

“Do you know what I think, Winnie?” He looked up at me. “I have a feeling something bad is about to happen.” Good grief. Had I really just said that? That proved it. I was spending way too much time with Jenny. I was beginning to have woo-woo feelings. Next, I'd be seeing auras.

M
y paper was spread open and I was sipping my coffee and reading an article about yet another museum robbery. There seemed to have been a string of them all across the state over the last couple of years. Every month or so, another priceless painting or historical artifact went missing. This latest one had occurred two nights ago at the Charlotte Museum of Art. So far, all the police would say was that a thief, or thieves, had broken into the museum during the night and escaped with a collection of contemporary paintings by local artist Herb Jackson.

Before I could read any more, the same group of Jenny's customers who had come in a short time ago walked through my shop on their way out.

“I love that shirt you're wearing,” one of them called to me.

“I'm glad you like it,” I said. “I made the fabric myself, right here on my Irish wide-width loom.” I pointed across the store to the huge loom, which I hadn't used in a few months.

“Really?” the woman said. She and one of her friends came over for a closer look. “It's gorgeous.” She looked around. “Do you sell these shirts?”

I hadn't even considered stocking them, but quickly I said, “I haven't got any ready-made. They're special-order items. If you place an order, I'll be happy to whip one up for you.”

“How much would that be?”

We discussed price, and I explained the labor involved. Before she left, I had her measurements, plus a deposit. Luckily, I had recently completed a large order of yard goods for Bunny Boyd, a famous interior designer. The commission was the largest I'd ever had and one of the most interesting. She was restoring a historical mansion and wanted all the period fabrics replicated. I had yards left over, and it wouldn't take me more than a few hours to sew a shirt. Since I'd been getting so many compliments on mine, I would use the rest of the fabric to make extra shirts. The women left, and just as I noticed my cup was empty, Jenny appeared in the doorway with a fresh pot.

“Ready for a refill?”

“I'm beginning to think maybe you do read minds after all.”

“I never claimed to read minds. I read auras.”

I grinned. “And palms, and tarot, and tea leaves.”

“You'll see. One of these days you'll be a convert,” she said, pouring. “It's so quiet today. I suppose it's a good thing, considering Margaret hasn't
come in. I've only had a handful of customers. I wonder why.”

“Maybe it has something to do with the party we had last night. Most of your customers are friends of Marnie's, and everyone was here.”

“You have a point. People went home late.”

“By midafternoon you'll be crazy busy as usual. Don't worry.” We turned as Margaret walked in.

“Speak of the devil.”

“Hi, Della. I'm so sorry I'm late, Jenny. I don't know what was wrong with me. I slept right through my alarm. I promise it will never happen again.”

“We were just wondering how come you hadn't showed up.”

Margaret blushed. “Sorry,” she repeated. “I shouldn't have had so much to drink last night.”

I'd met Margaret last summer when she was closing her weaving studio and had listed her extra-wide loom on craigslist. I'd bought it, and when she learned that I had an apartment to rent, she'd become my tenant.

“Don't feel too bad,” Jenny said. “The place is deserted today. I hope it gets busier soon.”

She glanced at her watch. “I'd better get to work. Good thing I live upstairs. I only got up ten minutes ago and I'm already here.”

I chuckled. “That's one advantage of living above your place of work. You just have to roll out of bed and keep rolling all the way down the stairs.”

Margaret headed for the back. “That was a good
party last night—too good,” she said, over her shoulder.

“I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Marnie looked like she was having the time of her life,” I said.

She stopped abruptly and returned to the counter. “Speaking of Marnie, what did you guys think of that fiancé of hers?” By the tone of her voice, I suspected she didn't like him any more than I did. “Isn't he a bit young for her?”

Jenny hesitated, then spoke. “I wasn't going to say anything, but, yes. He is sort of young—not that we can hold that against him,” she said with a smile. “What really worries me, though, is his aura. It was filled with danger.” I refrained from smiling, but too late. Jenny had already noticed the twitch at the corner of my mouth.

“I know you don't believe in auras, but his was gray, almost opaque. And you know what that means—trouble. I'm telling you, there's something not right with that man.” In my opinion, anybody who noticed the way he was behaving, having a surreptitious conversation with Melinda Wilson at his fiancée's engagement party, would've come to the same conclusion. And it had nothing to do with auras.

Margaret nodded. “I totally agree. He's trouble.”

“What makes you say that?” I said.

Margaret shrugged. “I got the impression he was just waiting for all the women in the place to flock to him.”

“One of them sure did,” Jenny said.

“What I can't figure out is why Melinda would behave that way. Isn't she a good friend of Marnie's?”

Jenny looked at me. “I was talking about Nancy Cutler. Why? What did Melinda do?”

“I can't believe you didn't notice. She and Bruce were carrying on this covert flirtation. Well,” I added, “I can't swear that they were flirting, but something was definitely going on.” I described what I'd seen.

“But—” She looked stunned. “I know Melinda has been widowed for almost a decade, but according to everyone, she's still carrying a torch for her dead husband. It doesn't make sense that she'd flirt with her friend's fiancé.”

“Like I said, maybe it wasn't flirting, but something was going on, and it was something neither of them wanted to be caught at.”

“Well, it was Nancy's behavior that really surprised me,” Jenny said. “She asked me for a pen and paper. I was standing right next to her, so I know she scribbled down her name and telephone number, and then she scampered over and whispered something in his ear and handed him the note.”

I widened my eyes. “Did he take it?”

“He sure did, but not before sneaking a look around the room to make sure nobody was watching. And then he slipped it in his pocket.”

“Seriously? That really surprises me. Nancy Cutler is just about the last person I would suspect
of making advances to a man—especially one who's involved with one of her friends.”

Nancy was a bit spinsterish—not that I would say this out loud, but she was not attractive. She had moved back to Briar Hollow a few months ago after years of living in Chicago and then more recently in Charlotte. She was probably in her early forties and might have been more attractive if she tried. Other than that, I didn't know much about her. It seemed to me that every time I saw her, she was wearing tweed skirts and twinsets. She wore her hair tied back in a smooth chignon, and her makeup was nonexistent. “She looks more like a stern schoolmistress, not exactly the flirtatious type. I don't think I've ever even seen her smile. Maybe there's some other explanation. We don't know what she said to him. It might have been something completely innocent.”

“Oh, I don't think she was flirting,” Margaret said. “One minute she was talking to him, and the next she turned around and walked away as fast as she could.”

“I wonder what that was all about,” I said.

“What do you think we should do?” Margaret said. She looked from Jenny to me. “If you two are right about him and Melinda, shouldn't somebody warn Marnie?”

“Are you serious?” Jenny looked stunned. “I don't think that would be very wise. What if we're wrong?”

“A minute ago you were so sure,” I said.

She grimaced. “I know. Poor Marnie. I just hate to hurt her.”

I crossed my arms. “I, for one, think Margaret is right. Somebody has to tell her. She'll be hurt. There's no question about it. She might even hate us for it, but she'll come around. If we don't tell her now, it will be much worse later.” My comment was met with a long silence.

“I still don't like it one bit,” Jenny said, throwing up her hands. “But you are closer to her than I am.”

“How about we sleep on it for a few days?” Margaret said.

Jenny nodded. “Good idea. It's not as if she's getting married in the morning. And who knows? Maybe she'll figure it out on her own. And when that happens, we can be there to support her.” She saw the look on my face and added, “I'm being a chicken. I know.” Before I could try to change her mind, she turned to Margaret. “We'd better get back and start preparing for the lunch crowd—supposing we have one.” They disappeared behind the beaded curtain and I returned to my weaving.

As I got into the rhythm of working the loom, my mind wandered back to the events of the party and then to the argument I'd witnessed between Helen Dubois and Marnie's fiancé. Whatever it was about must have been important; otherwise I couldn't imagine Helen getting into a public confrontation in the middle of a celebration. What could have made her so angry, I wondered?

There was only one way to find out. I would
have to ask her myself. I calculated quickly. The next time I was scheduled to see Helen was five days from now—on Saturday, when she was to come in for a private weaving lesson. I was not about to wait that long. I beat in the weft on my loom and put away my shuttle.

“Margaret,” I called, hastening to the beaded curtain. She looked up from behind her counter. “Can you keep an eye on the shop for a while? I'll be right back.”

“No problem,” Margaret said, looking puzzled. “Where are you going?”

But I hurried away without answering.

I parked my red Jeep in front of Helen's house and as I approached the front door, I quickly worked out how to explain why I was popping by so unexpectedly. Helen had mentioned wanting to show me some yarns she was thinking of using. I'd simply tell her I happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to stop by and take a look at them. I knocked and waited a few minutes—no answer. I knocked again.

When I pressed my ear to the door, I could hear music from somewhere inside. Surely she was home. Why wasn't she coming to the door? I thought back to what I knew of Helen's private life. Marnie had told me the woman had been single her entire life and that she lived alone. So if anybody was here, it was likely her. I knocked one
more time, harder now, and waited. Still nothing. A bad feeling came over me.

“Hello?” I called out. “Helen? Are you home? It's me, Della.” I knocked a few more times and as the minutes ticked by, my feeling of dread grew.

What if something had happened to her? She could have slipped in the shower, taken a tumble down the stairs. Accidents happen in the home all the time. I wasn't about to break into her house, but I couldn't just walk away either. I stepped off the stoop, and tiptoeing behind the shrubs, I made my way to the living room window and peered in. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I made out the furnishings—a large open armoire with a television inside, a coffee table with a pile of books, a sofa—
There she is
.

Helen was sleeping on the sofa, still dressed in the same blue party dress she'd worn last night. Maybe she'd had too much to drink. I was about to walk away when it occurred to me that no matter how drunk she had been, she should have slept it off by now. The party had been hours ago. And nobody could sleep through all that knocking. I peered in again. Was it my imagination or was there something odd about the angle of her head? All at once my dread turned to panic.

I grabbed my cell phone from my bag and punched in 911.