He sighed. “I guess that’s the best I can expect.” He pulled me against him again and gave me another kiss, this one lingering a few seconds. “How about having dinner with me tonight?” he asked, changing the subject to one I much preferred. “It feels like we haven’t seen each other in forever. Let’s go out for a change. I’ll take you to the Longview and we’ll celebrate your reopening.”
The Longview was the finest local restaurant. It belonged to a friend and former client of mine, Bunny Boyd, a famous interior designer and TV personality. Some years ago she had bought a local guesthouse. Then last year she’d spent a fortune turning it into a boutique hotel, complete with a fine-dining restaurant. It had been an instant success.
Before her place opened, the only other local restaurant was The Bottoms Up, a barnlike space complete with rough wood floors and a pool table. Briar Hollow had been in dire need of a more upscale place and Bunny had the vision to bring one to the community.
“Sounds great. I can get all dressed up,” I said. “I don’t often get the opportunity to do that around here.”
He chuckled. “Pick you up at six,” he said, heading for the door.
“If you want me to look great, you’d better make it six thirty.”
He laughed, and left with Winston trotting ahead. The door hadn’t quite closed when it opened again. This time two women walked in, nibbling at oatmeal raisin cookies.
“Hi, Della,” the older one said. I drew a blank as to her name, but I remembered her being around Marnie’s age, in her mid-fifties or so. She had taken a weaving class from me some months ago in the hopes of making a tablecloth and napkins. It was a rather ambitious project for a newbie, and just as I’d expected, before the end of that first session she had become overwhelmed and given up. A few days later she’d come in and purchased the items instead.
“I thought I’d stop by and see your new place.” She looked around, admiringly. I snatched a lavender sachet from the basket and gave it to her.
“An opening-day gift,” I said.
She brought it to her nose and took a deep whiff. “How lovely.” She dropped it in her bag. “I like what you did with the place.” She pointed to the studio area. “That’s good, having it in a separate area. And I love that Jenny’s coffee shop has its own entrance now. So much better this way.”
Her friend, an attractive blonde around my age, stepped forward, hand extended. “I’m Susan,” she said. “Susan Price.” We shook.
Susan Price. I had heard that name recently. And then I remembered. “Why, a friend of yours was just telling me about you yesterday—Judy Bates.”
“Oh.” Her smile faded. “I wouldn’t exactly call her a friend. She’s my next-door neighbor.”
“She told me you had some trouble with the building inspector,” I said, hoping to get her talking about it. “That man drove me crazy. I thought the renovations would never end.”
“Mr. Swanson?” she asked.
“Who else?” I replied.
“He’s the same one I had to deal with. I hope I never see that man again.”
“Well,” Marnie said, returning from the studio. “I can assure you, you won’t.”
“Why? Was he fired?” Susan asked, sounding hopeful.
“I’m afraid the man is dead,” Marnie said.
Susan’s eyes widened. “That’s terrible. How did it happen?”
“All I know is that he was murdered,” I said quickly. “I went by his office yesterday, and found him dead. Somebody hit him over the head with a bookend.”
“His office?” Susan said, her face suddenly tense with fear. “You mean it happened at city hall? Yesterday? At what time?”
“I found his body around ten thirty,” I replied. “Why?”
Her friend looked startled. “Why, isn’t that exactly the time you—” Susan gave her a quick jab with her elbow. The woman closed her mouth.
Susan gave me a look that reminded me of a trapped animal. “Er . . . I was supposed to meet with him around that time, but in the end, I got caught up with errands and never made it there.” She turned to her friend, who was staring at her, befuddled. “Let’s go.” The older woman came out of her trance and followed Susan out of the shop.
Chapter 12
“What did you make of that?” I asked Marnie once the door was shut.
“I got the distinct impression the lady has something to hide,” she said, still staring at the closed door.
“My thoughts exactly. And I bet I know what it is. She probably saw Swanson shortly before I found him.” Suddenly, I remembered the silver car that had shot out of the lot. “Marnie,” I said. “Do me a favor. Run out and see what kind of car Susan Price drives. I’m curious to know the color.”
Her eyes widened. “Do you think she could be the killer?” she asked as she dashed to the door.
“I have no idea. But one thing I do know is that killers generally look like your next-door neighbor. And they sometimes do turn out to be your next-door neighbor.”
A few minutes later, she was back, shaking her head. “They got into a car, but her friend got behind the wheel. It was a blue Volvo. Now, explain to me why you wanted to know about her car.”
“Maybe it had nothing to do with Swanson’s murder, but when I drove into the city hall parking lot yesterday, a car came screeching out of there and almost crashed into mine. Later, I wondered if the driver might have been the killer making his getaway.”
“Did you see the person’s face?”
“It all happened so fast, all I know is the driver was wearing a light blue baseball cap and large sunglasses.”
“A baseball cap you say? It must have been a man.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Women wear them nowadays. And if somebody wanted to disguise their appearance, what better way than to cover their eyes with sunglasses and pull up their hair under a cap. It’s as good as a mask and won’t attract any undue attention.”
She gave me a teasing smile. “In other words, the driver may or may not have been the killer, and might have been a male or a female. That sure narrows it down.”
“You’re giving me as much grief as Lombard.”
“Just teasing.”
“I’m getting nowhere fast on this investigation, aren’t I?”
“Good thing this isn’t your investigation, Sherlock,” she said, laughing. “It’s the police’s.”
• • •
For the remainder of the day, customers dropped by to watch Marnie’s weaving demonstrations or simply to see the changes to my store. Meanwhile, I busied myself by completing my displays.
“I guess that’s it,” Marnie said, coming forward at five thirty. The last customer had left about half an hour ago. “All in all I think we had a good first day.”
I opened my cash register. There wasn’t much money inside, but I had made a few credit card transactions. “Not bad,” I said. “Let’s find out how Jenny did.” I locked the door and we went over.
Jenny was sprawled out on one her chairs.
“You look like someone who has just finished a marathon,” I said.
“That’s because she did,” Margaret said from the next table. She looked just as weary.
“Good God,” Jenny said, pulling herself to her feet. “If I’d had to serve even one more cup of coffee, I think I would have collapsed.”
“And just yesterday you were crying that your customers might not come back. Now you’re complaining? Make up your mind.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled. Thrilled but exhausted.” She made her way behind the counter. “I think I can summon just enough energy to make us all a cup. How about it? You can tell me about your day.”
“I have a better idea,” I said. “Why don’t we give you a break, and Marnie and I can make the coffee?”
“I’ll ta
ke you up on that,” she said, returning to her chair and letting herself fall into it. She waved toward the glass display. “I think we might have a few cookies left. Help yourselves.”
“Sorry,” Margaret said. “We’re all out. I think we still have some carrot cake, but that’s about it.”
“Thanks,” I said, spooning coffee into the coffeemaker. “But I’m having dinner with Matthew tonight. I don’t want to spoil my appetite.”
“Well, I might regret it when I get on my scale tomorrow, but I’m not saving my appetite for anything or anyone,” Marnie said, helping herself to a large slice. “So, you had a great day?” she asked, joining Jenny at her table.
“An amazing day. Giving out those cookies made the difference. Marnie, what would you say, we do this once in a while, especially when we want to test out some new pastries?”
“Great idea.”
I set mugs on the table. “Nothing for me,” Margaret said. “I hope you don’t mind but I’ll just take off now.”
“See you tomorrow,” Jenny called out as Margaret let herself out.
“Marnie and I had a good day too. I didn’t sell much, but a lot of people stopped by.”
“And we already have a few people signed up for classes,” Marnie added.
Jenny took a sip of her coffee and put her mug back down. “I’m sorry, guys, but I’m completely wiped. Would you mind terribly if I called it a night, too? Maybe we can get together tomorrow instead.”
“No problem,” Marnie said. “I’ll take my cake and coffee next door and finish it there.”
“Before you go,” Jenny said, “one of my customers was telling me that she had renovations done in her house and she and her husband used Syd Shuttleworth too. She said Syd and the city inspector hated each other. She thinks that might be why our renovations were taking so long. It wasn’t Syd stretching out the job. It was Swanson. And it wasn’t because of us. It was because of some conflict they have with each other.”
“Great,” I said. “Now we find out—once the work is all done. I wish someone had told us before. The work might have been finished a lot sooner.”
“Does that mean you don’t think Syd was plotting against you with the owners up the street?” Marnie asked.
“Who knows?” Jenny replied. “I’m too tired to think about anything but sleep right now.”
I made a mental note of that tidbit as we left her shop. If Jenny’s customer was right, chances were that Syd and Swanson were not working the scam as partners. Marnie and I had just returned to our side and I was calculating the total of my sales and preparing my bank deposit slip, when the door opened and Johanna Renay, the lady from city hall, popped her head in. Her hair was a darker shade of blond today. And the cut was shorter and more modern.
“Johanna, you look wonderful,” I said. “I love what you did to your hair.”
“Oh, er, thank you,” she said, bringing a hand to her hair. At that moment it hit me that the woman was wearing a wig. My heart went out to her. She was probably a cancer patient. No wonder she wore such thick foundation. Underneath the heavy makeup, she was probably deathly pale.
“I was in the neighborhood,” she continued, “and decided to drop by and say hello. Are you still open?”
“For you, of course. Come in.”
She closed the door behind her, giving me a wide smile. “A few of my friends told me about your place and it wasn’t until you left yesterday that I made the connection that you’re Della Wright, the owner of Dream Weaver. I’ve heard so much about your shop.”
“How nice of you to come by. This is my friend and right-hand woman, Marnie Potter.”
Marnie looked at her through narrowed eyes. “You look familiar. Haven’t we met before?”
“Not unless you came by city hall. I’m sort of a floater. I work in all the departments at some time or other.”
Marnie snapped her fingers. “That’s it. You were the lady who served me when I stopped by to pay my house taxes.”
“I hope you won’t hold it against me,” she said, laughing. “Working in that department doesn’t always make me very popular.”
I cut in. “Let me show you around.” She followed me as I pointed out the different areas of the shop, ending with the studio. “And this is where I give classes. I’ve had to put those off during the renovations, but I’m about to start again.”
“Really? I wonder if I’d like weaving,” she said. “I’ve been thinking of adopting a new hobby. I’ve been lonely since my husband and I divorced.”
Marnie, who had followed along, said, “Let me show you how it works.” She sat at my dobby loom and picked up the shuttle, demonstrating the way the bobbin fit inside. “This is what we use to weave the warp through the weft.”
“It looks so simple.”
“As you can see,” Marnie continued, “I’ve already started working on a project. This is a place mat I’m halfway through.” She worked the loom for a few minutes and Johanna watched as row after row of yarn was added to the piece. Within a few minutes the place mat had grown an inch longer.
“I think even I could do that,” Johanna said.
“I’m sure you could,” I said. “Although it does take some dexterity. Most beginners have trouble keeping the tension even.”
She nodded. “I knit. And it’s the same thing.”
“The dressing of the loom is a lengthy process. Not everybody likes that part.”
“When are your next classes?”
“I’m planning a new beginners’ course in about two weeks. I’ll need that much time to register enough students.”
She asked the price, and then said, “Put my name on that list, would you? I’d like to give it a try.”
We made our way back to the counter, where I took down her name and telephone number. “I’ll give you a call when I have a definite date.”
Before she left, she asked me if I’d heard anything about the murder case.
“No,” I said. “How about you?”
“The police kept at us for hours after you left. They kept asking us the same questions over and over—if we saw anybody go to, or leave, his office—whether or not we heard any unusual sounds. That sort of thing.”
“And did you?”
She wrinkled her forehead. “We came to the conclusion that he must have been killed very shortly before you found him—no more than a few minutes.”
“What makes you say that?”
“A few of the other employees saw him when the snack truck came by at ten o’clock. He always gets himself a coffee and doughnut.” So the victim had been alive half an hour before I found his body. I stored that little piece of information in my head.
“Was anybody seen going in or out?”
“I’m afraid not.” She looked at the floor, as a flash of worry crossed her eyes.
“What is it?”
“Well . . . I don’t want to alarm you, but somebody told the police that he saw you trying to wipe blood off your jeans, and that when you couldn’t wipe it off, you ran to the car and put on a raincoat to hide it.”
My mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious.” I thought back, trying to remember. “I was trying to wipe off vomit. I might have had some red paint on them. I repainted my front door a couple of days ago.” I marched over and opened it. “See?” I said, pointing to the outside.
“Of course, I believe you. And I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” she said. “I didn’t want to worry you for no reason, but then”—she shrugged—“I figured I’d want to know if I were you.”
“Thank you.” It suddenly occurred to me that after receiving that kind of a tip, the police would surely want to question me again. “When did this happen?”
“About half an hour ago. He only remembered it this afternoon. The police came by again just before closing.”
&nb
sp; I felt as if I’d just been punched in the stomach. The police would probably show up at any second. I could bet my life on it.
“Is there anything else I should know?”
She sighed. “One of the clerks who wasn’t questioned yesterday spoke to the police today. She claims that she heard an argument coming from Mr. Swanson’s office shortly before you ran out of the building.”
“What?”
She nodded, looking miserable. “And she insisted that the second voice was that of a woman.” She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, dear. I feel as if I have nothing but bad news for you.” And with that, she gave an apologetic smile and left.
I stood paralyzed. What was I supposed to do? Call a lawyer? I’d seen enough cop shows to know that the police would twist anything a person said during an investigation. My pulse was galloping.
Marnie looked at me strangely. “Are you all right, Della? You’re very pale.”
“I’d better call Matthew.” I snatched my cell and pushed the SPEED DIAL button for his number. “The police are on their way to question me,” I said, not giving him the chance to so much as say hello. “One of the city employees told them he saw me wiping blood off my clothes, and that when it wouldn’t come off, I got my coat from the car to hide it. What do I do?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in my shop. I was just about to close.”
“Go home. Lock the door and don’t open it until I get there. I’m coming right over. And don’t say a word. You hear me? Not. One. Word.”
• • •
“I’ll lock up,” Marnie said. “You go.”
I ran straight upstairs—and paced. Who would have said those things to the police? Could it have been Mr. Goodall? No. It must have been some other employee. I tried to remember the faces of all the people working behind the counter, but other than Tom Goodall, I could picture only women. Had there been any other men? I could have sworn not. But Johanna had definitely said “he.” So that meant kind old Mr. Goodall, was not so nice after all.
Besides, no one other than he, Ronald Dempsey, and Johanna had come close enough to see the splotches of red on my jeans. They were so close, in fact, they should have clearly seen that those stains were paint, not blood. The color was more raspberry than red.
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