Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery

by Martin, Carol Ann

  “I think Bunny might have a conniption.”

  I grimaced. “I was afraid you might say that. Anyhow, for all I know Bunny might not even give me the contract. I’m asking for the deposit to be nonrefundable if she changes her mind.”

  Margaret gave me a thumbs-up. “Good luck.”

  Back in my shop, two ladies were looking at one of the cashmere afghans, debating whether the color would clash with the older woman’s living room sofa. Marnie stood by, ready to help. The younger of the two, a brunette, examined it closely.

  The older woman standing next to her said, “Maybe I should bring in one of the cushions before I decide.”

  “I have a suggestion,” Marnie said. “Why don’t you take it home and see if you like it. If you don’t, you can bring it back and choose another color. If we haven’t already got it in stock, we’ll make it for you.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “In that case, I’ll take it.” She picked it up and carried it to the counter. I wrote out the bill, put the purchase on her credit card and wrapped the afghan carefully in silk paper, attaching one of my lovely Dream Weaver tags to it. “Here you go. I hope you enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” she said, and together, the two women exited.

  I turned to Marnie. “You handled that very well.”

  “If a client is interested, you have to get them to buy right away. If they say they’ll be back and walk out without buying, nine times out of ten you’ll never see them again.”

  “You have great sales techniques for somebody who never worked in sales.”

  “I’m an old lady,” she said, grinning. “I’ve learned a lot over my lifetime. Now, how about a cup of coffee and a muffin?”

  “Great idea,” I said. “I’ll get them.” I crossed the store and parted the beaded curtains. I was happy to see that three of the six tables were full. Jenny was doing good business. She spotted me and waved.

  I reached the counter, and without preamble, she said, “Two coffees coming right up.”

  “Gee, maybe you’re not just a card reader but a mind reader too.”

  She smirked. “Very funny. One of these days you’ll take my gift seriously; you’ll see.”

  I planted my elbows on the counter, looking through the glass top at the pastries below. “And I’ll have one of those and one of those.” I pointed to the caramel-pecan and the cranberry-lemon muffins. “And those. By the way, Matthew was wondering if you and Ed were planning to go to the memorial service tonight.”

  “I’d feel weird going, seeing as he was a competitor and all.” She handed me the cups of coffee and the bag of muffins. “You can drop by my place after if you like.”

  “I’ll take a rain check on that. Matthew has those photos we want to go over together.”

  I hurried back to my shop, getting there just in time to answer the phone. “Hi, Mom.”

  “I was just calling to chat,” my mother said. I didn’t believe that for one second. My mother never called to chat. She had something on her mind.

  “Good timing,” I said. “I have a favor to ask. I want to make a beef bourguignon, and I was hoping you could give me the recipe.”

  “You are asking me for a recipe?”

  “Come on, Mom. It’s not as if I never cook.”

  “Ha!”

  I disregarded that. “And besides, if it looks too complicated, I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind talking me through the steps when I make it.” From his mat next to me, Winston raised his head and stared at me, looking very much as if he understood I was talking about food. Maybe he wasn’t so dumb after all.

  “You? Make beef bourguignon? What’s the occasion?”

  “I don’t need an occasion to—”

  She cut me off, suddenly excited. “You’re cooking for Matthew, aren’t you? That’s his favorite meal. Oh, I’m so happy. You’re finally taking my advice.”

  “Mom, if you don’t stop this right now, I’ll cancel the dinner.”

  She calmed right down. “No problem. I’ll be happy to give you the recipe. It’s actually very easy. And you should make it with mashed potatoes instead of roasted potatoes. That’s how he likes it best. And get a nice bottle of—”

  “I have a pen and paper now,” I interrupted. “Can you give me the ingredients right away?” I wrote them down and then the instructions. Actually, it did sound easy. But if anybody could ruin a recipe, it was me.

  “When are you planning to make it?”

  “I was thinking of tonight, but seeing as it takes four hours in the oven, I guess I won’t have time. Maybe I’ll make it tomorrow, or the day after.”

  “If you want an easy recipe for tonight, you could always make—”

  “No, I think I’ll stick to takeout pizza tonight. One evening of cooking is enough for one week.”

  “Oh, all right.” She hesitated, and I guessed that what she would say next was the real reason for her call.

  “Della, please tell me you’re not getting involved in the investigation of that poor man who was murdered.”

  “If you’re asking because you’re worried for me, don’t be. I would never do anything to put myself in danger.”

  “I seem to remember not so very long ago, somebody was shooting at you.”

  “He never fired, just aimed.”

  “Oh, Della, don’t you see? That’s the same thing. Another second and you could have died. Please don’t get involved. Back off. Let the police take care of it. That’s what they’re there for.”

  “Oh, Mom, you’re so sweet,” I said, deciding the nice approach was the better one. “You’ve been worrying about me my whole life. I think that’s probably why I’ll never have children.”

  This shut her right up. “What do you mean?”

  “I see you worrying all the time. If that’s the price of motherhood, I think it’s not for me.”

  “Oh, I don’t worry so much. In fact, I don’t worry at all. I know you’re an intelligent woman and that you can take care of yourself.”

  “Really? Thanks, Mom. I’m happy to hear that.” And before she figured out that she had totally been played, I told her I loved her and hung up.

  “That was cute,” Marnie said, laughing. “I take it your mother is a tiny bit controlling.”

  “To put it mildly. She’s been on a campaign to get Matthew and me together practically since we were toddlers. And recently I found out that Matthew’s mother has been playing the same number on him.”

  “Ohhhh. That explains it.”

  “That explains what?”

  “What self-respecting man will date the woman his mother has chosen for him? No wonder Matthew is immune to your charms.”

  “That’s not good. In that case, no matter what I do, I won’t stand a chance.”

  “The situation is not entirely hopeless. You’re just going to have to try even harder. As for your beef stew, you could have asked me. I’m a pretty good cook, in case you forgot. If you want to use your mother’s recipe, I’ll be happy to give you a hand all the same.”

  “You really want Matthew and me to get together, don’t you? Why?”

  “I must be an incurable romantic.” She winked. “If you have to contend with his mother, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

  I was looking around for something to do when, all at once it seemed, the shop was full of customers. Marnie left her loom to help. By the time the rush was over, I had made four sales, two of Margaret’s pashminas, four of her place mats—she’d be happy to get the money—one of Marnie’s afghans and a set of tea towels from another of my weavers. I added up the total. The amount wasn’t huge, but it was at least double what I used to sell on a typical day before I moved to this new locale. Business was definitely improving.

  “How did w
e do?” Marnie asked.

  I told her. “Not bad. Not bad at all. But there’s still room for improvement.” She came over to the counter, took a pair of scissors from the drawer and returned to her loom. “I have eight place mats just about ready. I’m taking them off the loom now.”

  The phone rang and I glanced at the display—Bunny Boyd. I gestured to Marnie frantically. “You take it. Tell her I’m not here.”

  Marnie waddled over, looking at me as if I had just sprouted a second head. “One minute you want to talk to her and the next you won’t even take her call. I don’t get you.”

  “Be polite,” I whispered just as she picked up the receiver.

  “Dream Weaver, Marnie Potter speaking. How may I help you?” She listened a few seconds. “Della is out at the moment. May I take a message? Yes. No. That’s right. I’ll tell her.” She hung up and returned to her loom.

  I chased after her. “What did she say?”

  “You know what she said. She asked to speak to you. I told her you were out, and she said to ask you to call her back.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Oh, and she might have mentioned something about the money now being in her account and that you wouldn’t have any problem when you make the deposit.”

  I stared at her. “She might have?”

  She ignored my little barb and added, “Why aren’t you already on your way to the bank?”

  I gave her a half smile. “I know. I should be. Maybe I have rocks in my head, but I seem to have lost my excitement for that project.” Knowing that Bunny was behind Margaret’s losing her business had dampened my enthusiasm.

  For once, Marnie had the grace to not say, “I told you so.”

  The next customer to walk in was Emma, looking as if she’d just lost her best friend. “I thought I’d say good-bye before I left.”

  “You’re going to New York?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I am.”

  Marnie waddled over. “Good for you. I’m sure you’ll take the city by storm.”

  Emma smiled, but a tear glistened at the corner of one eye. “It’s not easy saying good-bye. I won’t know a soul in New York.”

  “How is Ricky taking it?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Not well. But it doesn’t really matter because he was just arrested by the police.”

  I gasped. “What?” Ricky was the murderer? For some reason, I was sure that couldn’t be right.

  “He was stealing cars and breaking them down for parts, and he had the nerve to say that he did it for me—so he could get us a nice apartment.” Her eyes watered again. “That made my decision very easy.” She paused. “And he admitted that he was the one who made that crank call you got.”

  “Really?” I said, although I wasn’t the least bit surprised. “When are you leaving?”

  “I’m taking the bus from Charlotte tomorrow.”

  Marnie patted her on the arm. “The next time we see you, it’ll be on the cover of Vogue.”

  Emma laughed. “That would be nice.” She looked into the back. “Is Jenny here? I want to say good-bye to her too.”

  “Go on. That’ll make her real happy,” Marnie said.

  Emma disappeared behind the beaded curtains, reappearing a few minutes later, brandishing a bag of cookies. “For the road,” she said, smiling. “Jenny insisted.”

  • • •

  The rest of the day went by with no more than a trickle of sales, giving me ample time to review what I had just learned. The fact that Ricky had been arrested for car theft did not mean he couldn’t have killed Philip McDermott, but it did explain the argument I’d overheard between Emma and him. It also convinced me that Emma was innocent. If the girl would break up with her boyfriend because he stole, she couldn’t possibly be a killer—at least not in my opinion. I was relieved to strike her off my list of suspects.

  At five o’clock, I put up the CLOSED sign in the window and added up my daily sales. The total was not bad at all. It was reassuring to know that if things continued improving at this rate, if worse came to worst, I could survive without the Whitby job. I’d debated all afternoon whether I should ask Bunny to come in and sign the contract or not. It was high time I stopped being a wimp and called her. I stared at the phone, gathering my courage. What the heck was I waiting for? I used to be a big-city career woman who let nothing stand in my way. Before I could change my mind, I picked it up and dialed. Once again, my call went straight to voice mail.

  “Hi, Bunny. Della here. I’m sorry I missed your call. I looked over the contract you gave me and I added a small clause to protect myself. I hope you’ll understand that I can’t start work until you sign it. Please call me.” I hung up and looked at Marnie.

  She was grinning widely and gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Good girl. There’s hope for you yet.” She gathered her bag and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow, Marnie,” I called back. I was happily surprised at how much she enjoyed working in the shop. Over the last couple of days, her attitude had undergone a remarkable change. She still came in grumpy occasionally, but by midday she radiated. She was right. Working from my shop, rather than her home, was therapeutic for her.

  “And being here is therapeutic for you too, isn’t it, Winnie?” He looked up at me with his eternally puzzled eyes. “And having you here is just as good for me.”

  He blinked and went back to sleep while I prepared my deposit. “Ready to go for a walk, big boy?” He hopped off the sofa and clickety-clacked to the door. I called out a good night to Jenny, and we took off.

  Winston had a lot of qualities, but obedience was never one of them.

  “No, Winston. I don’t want to go that way.” But no matter how much I tried to direct him toward the bank, he marched on determinedly, dragging me along. I gave up and let him lead, until suddenly I found myself in front of the Coffee Break.

  “Winston, stop,” I ordered, and for some odd reason, this time he obeyed, plopping his butt onto the sidewalk. I peered inside the darkened shop. It had been only a few days since McDermott’s murder, but the place already looked abandoned. The food counters in the back were empty, the magazine racks bare.

  I was about to continue on my way when, from a second-floor window, I heard Rhonda’s voice. She sounded excited. “How dare you even ask?” she shrieked. “Of course I mind. You and my husband had an affair for years and I’m not about to forget it.” Who was she talking to—or rather, screaming at? “Sure it was a long time ago, but wives don’t forget that kind of hurt. I was never able to have children. If you show up at his funeral, I swear I’ll have you thrown out. And you can try and explain that to your boyfriend.” Boyfriend? Maybe she was talking to Bunny. But if she were, wouldn’t she have used the word “fiancé” rather than “boyfriend”? On the other hand, maybe she didn’t know about the engagement. As to her comment about never having children, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. What did that have to do with anything?

  As I stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at the window above, I became aware that to anyone watching I would have looked as if I was spying—which, granted, was exactly what I was doing. I dropped to one knee, pretending to fix a nonexistent shoe problem. The conversation—by now I had guessed that it was on the telephone—continued.

  “You can call it blackmail if you want, but frankly, letting everybody know what kind of a woman you are is exactly what you deserve.”

  Blackmail. Mrs. McDermott had actually used the word. Did that mean what I thought it did? Had she picked up where her husband had left off? If so, that would explain how Mrs. Anderson’s pictures had suddenly disappeared.

  Rhonda McDermott had probably always known about her husband’s studio. She probably also knew of his nude photography, maybe even of his little blackmail sideline. If he really had been hiding it from her, then she
must have been spying on him. How ironic.

  My mind was spinning with new theories and fresh suspicions, and it was a few minutes before I noticed that the conversation had ended. I looked up and was shocked to find Mrs. McDermott staring down at me.

  “Let’s go, Winston.” I was in such a hurry to get away from there that it wasn’t until I’d walked another block that I remembered—damn—I still had my daily bank deposit to make.

  • • •

  At just about six thirty, I was freshly showered and made-up. I had piled on the mascara and now stood in my bra and panties, riffling through my closet, looking for something that would be appropriate for a memorial service. I pulled out a dress and studied it. It was the navy number with the turtleneck collar and long sleeves. Even though it covered a lot of skin, it was formfitting. From the corner of the room, Winnie watched approvingly.

  “You like this one, don’t you, big boy? This is the one you wanted me to wear to the party. Maybe you were right.” His bat ears flicked forward and then back. “If I’d worn this dress instead of the red one, who knows, maybe Matthew would be in love with me by now.”

  He gave me a “woof,” as if to say, “That’s right.”

  “I sure hope you know what you’re barking about.” I took the dress off the hanger and pulled it on. I closed the door, posing this way and that for the mirror behind it. I stepped into a pair of four-inch heels and nodded with satisfaction. “I have to hand it to you, Winnie. I guess you were right. This dress makes me look mighty fine.”

  By six thirty, I was ready and waiting . . . and waiting . . . and waiting. My heart skipped a beat every time a car went by. I picked up the phone a dozen times to make sure the line wasn’t dead. At seven o’clock Matthew had still not arrived and hadn’t even called to explain.

  “What do you think of that, Winston?” I asked. “I’ve been stood up, and on an outing that isn’t even a date. How pathetic is that?” Winnie struggled to his feet and strolled over to lick my hand. “I love you too, big boy.”

  Well, I was not going to sit here and wait all night. I’d go by myself if I had to. I gathered my purse and my car keys, gave Winnie a pat on the head and left. I had just reached the street when a green Jaguar came to a screeching halt not ten feet away.