Loom and Doom

by Carol Ann Martin

  “Good,” I said, determined to behave normally. “Did you hear? They arrested Mona Swanson.”

  “I take it that means no more detecting for you?”

  “I guess not. By the way, I got a call from the Charlotte police. My Jeep is ready to be picked up.”

  “Okay. When would you like to go?”

  “How’s early tomorrow afternoon? That way you can do your word count in the morning and we can head back before rush hour.”

  “Sounds great. Pick you up at one, how’s that?”

  “Perfect.”

  To my surprise, he opened the door and left without so much as making plans to get together. Marnie, who had been in the studio, came over.

  “What happened? Did you two have a fight?”

  “No. He just picked up Winnie and left.”

  “So why do you look so miserable?”

  “Normally he hugs me and gives me a kiss. And he didn’t say anything about the next time we’d go out together.”

  “Didn’t I hear him offer to drive you to Charlotte? You’ll see him then.”

  I knew what she was saying was logical, but I had a bad feeling Matthew was pulling away rather than getting closer. What I needed was a shoulder, and much to my surprise, the shoulder I wanted most was my mother’s.

  Tonight I’d give her a call and ask her advice—something I hadn’t done in years.

  • • •

  I was returning from making my nightly deposit when I saw somebody waiting by the door to my building. It was Officer Lombard and for the first time since I’d met her, she was dressed in civilian clothes: casual beige pants, a floral shirt and a sweater.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” I said. “You look nice.”

  “You mean, wearing normal-people clothes?” she said. “I was hoping you might have a few minutes.”

  “Sure. Come on up.” She followed me up the stairs, and I offered her something to drink.

  “Thanks—anything but coffee. I must have had half a dozen cups already.” That was something we had in common.

  “Good idea. I always drink way too much of it. Since you’re not in uniform, does that mean you can have a glass of wine?”

  “That’d be great. Anything you have already open will be fine.” I hurried to the kitchen and checked the fridge. Sure enough I had a half bottle of chardonnay. I carried it back along with two glasses.

  “Sorry for the mess, by the way. I don’t always have a loom in the living room.”

  “And here I thought it was part of the decor.” I saw the teasing glint in her eyes. I could hardly believe it, but the woman was growing on me. Could it be that she and I could actually become friends?

  “This almost feels festive,” I said, handing her a glass.

  “Well, we certainly have something to celebrate,” she said as we clicked glasses. She leaned back into the sofa. “Considering much of the case we have against Mona Swanson is from information you provided, I thought I at least owed you an update on everything that’s happened. After leaving here, I went to Judge King and got a search warrant for Mona’s home.”

  “You found the gun.”

  “No such luck,” she said. “But we did find a pair of jeans and a shirt she’d buried in the backyard. They were covered in blood and the type matches Syd Shuttleworth’s. But until we get the DNA, we can’t be one hundred percent sure.”

  “Buried!” I said in disbelief.

  She nodded. “She wanted to get rid of the jeans but was afraid of throwing them in the garbage in case we searched. She thought burying them would be the best way to go. The good news is she’s admitted to killing him, but claims it was in self-defense. She swears she had nothing to do with her husband’s murder, or with the attack on Sondra Andrews.”

  “I don’t get it. Why would she admit to one murder and not to her other crimes?”

  “For one thing, it would be near impossible for her to claim innocence in Syd’s murder. We may not have the results of the DNA test of the blood on her clothes yet, but she must have known it would be just a question of time.”

  That made sense. “What does she say about her husband’s murder?”

  “Oddly enough, she admits to driving over to city hall that morning, to supposedly show him the picture of a sofa she wanted to buy for the new house. But she insists that he was already dead when she got there and she panicked. All she did was walk into his office, and run back out. According to her, that’s why she drove out of there like a bat out of hell. And she also insists that she had nothing to do with the attack on Sondra Andrews.”

  “A likely story,” I said, harrumphing. “But if she’s already going up for murder, why not admit to both? Everybody already knows she did it. But she probably feels that a jury will be more lenient toward her for one murder than two, plus an attempted murder.” I snapped my fingers. “Also, legally a person cannot profit from a crime. So, in order to inherit her husband’s estate, she can’t be convicted of killing him.”

  Lombard nodded. “Even if she got convicted of second-degree murder, or maybe even manslaughter, she won’t serve more than ten years. She’ll still be a young woman when she gets out.”

  “And a couple of million bucks will go a long way in rebuilding her life,” I added.

  “That hardly sounds fair,” she said.

  “I agree with you there,” I said. “Sounds like things are lining up nicely.” I noticed her glass was empty so I poured her a bit more.

  “Hopefully, when Sondra Andrews comes out of her coma, she’ll be able to testify against Mona. And that will be the last nail in the lady’s coffin.”

  “Have you heard anything more about how she’s doing?” I asked.

  “I spoke to her doctors and her condition has improved slightly. She’s no longer critical, but she’s still listed as serious. They couldn’t tell me how long she might remain in that state.”

  “I’m going to Charlotte tomorrow to pick up my Jeep. The police impounded it for forensic testing. God only knows why.”

  She gave me the eyebrow. “You did find the body,” she said. “I spoke to one of the officers. You’re getting a bit of a reputation in Charlotte, too. Seems you helped them solve an embezzlement case a few years back.”

  “They’d caught the wrong guy,” I said. “Me.”

  She laughed. “I guess you had no choice but to get involved that time.” She looked at her watch and got to her feet. “Anyhow. I don’t want to keep you. Just thought I’d stop by and share the news.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate it,” I said, walking her to the door.

  “By the way,” she said, “I just wanted to tell you what a nice-looking couple you and Matthew make.” Before I had a chance to respond, she was gone.

  I was in the kitchen, tossing myself a salad for dinner—my attempt at a healthy diet—when the telephone rang. I glanced at the call display.

  “Mom. You must have read my mind. I was just going to have a bite and then call you.”

  “It must be telepathy,” she replied. “I was thinking about you all day. I had a feeling something was wrong. Are you all right?”

  To my surprise, my throat constricted and tears welled in my eyes. As soon as I could speak, I found myself blurting out the whole story about Matthew’s declaration of the previous night. “He doesn’t want to get married.” She was silent for a few long seconds. “Mom? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m just thinking, before you do anything drastic—like breaking up with the man—why don’t you have an honest conversation with him? Tell him how you feel.”

  “You think I should tell him I want to get married and have children? What good is that going to do? He’s already made it plenty clear that he doesn’t.”

  She hesitated. “Well, sometimes men can be dense. In my experience—”
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  “You’re drawing from the one relationship you’ve had in your life again?” I said, hearing the smile in my own voice.

  “Yes, I am,” she replied seriously. “Joke all you want about my lack of experience, but I have learned a lot about men from your father. He once gave me a speech much like the one Matthew gave you before we were married.”

  “He did? What made him change his mind?”

  “I left him. I was very nice about it, but I was firm. I sat him down not long afterward and told him that as much as I loved him, what he was offering me was not enough. And I said that I respected him too much to make him change his mind, and that in my opinion we had irreconcilable differences. Therefore, the only intelligent thing to do was to stop seeing each other.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Oh, he put up a big fuss. Starting telling me things like, he couldn’t predict the future. That maybe he’d change my mind someday. Or maybe I would. So I gave him a peck on the cheek and walked out.”

  “Weren’t you afraid you’d never hear from him again?”

  “Of course I was. But I knew I was doing the right thing, and that if he loved me he’d be back. Of course,” she added gently, “that’s the kind of measure a woman takes as a last resort.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “I love you, sweetheart.”

  “I love you too.”

  I returned to the kitchen, poured myself another glass of wine and sat down to a lovely dinner as I reflected on everything my mother had told me.

  For the last few years, she’d been so obsessed with my getting married and giving her grandchildren, that our entire relationship had become contentious. We couldn’t have a conversation without me wanting to beat my head against the wall. But today’s conversation had been lovely. I couldn’t remember the last time she had given me such good advice.

  Maybe my mother still had lessons to teach me after all.

  Chapter 28

  The next morning I woke up after a good night’s sleep, feeling more positive than I had in days. I hurried through my routine and was in my shop by seven thirty, having coffee with Jenny at my counter as I poured over the paper. Today’s headlines were all about Mona Swanson’s arrest. But I flipped right by the article and searched until I found the article about Judy Bates’ house.

  “Here it is.” I was looking at a full-page spread with color pictures of an elegant decor with rustic overtones. And smack in the middle of the center shot was the sofa with my cushions and throw. “They look great.”

  “Let me see,” Jenny said, crowding me away. She squealed. “Look. They mention your name and the name of the store.”

  Halfway down the first column, the writer described the details that pulled the decor together. And, sure enough, there were the credits—Della Wright of Dream Weaver, complete with address and phone number. “That kind of advertising is priceless.”

  “It might not be the best timing,” I said. “Matthew is driving me to Charlotte this afternoon so I can pick up my Jeep. I got Mercedes to come in and help.”

  “She and Marnie will handle everything like pros. I have no doubt the article will bring in more business, but I imagine it will come in a gradual trickle rather than a boom.” She chuckled. “Did you happen to notice that I predicted everything that’s happened? Remember? I told you a friend would do you a favor. And Judy Bates just did. I also told you that your business would become profitable. And see? The article, on top of your new merchandise will keep customers coming. Now do you believe?”

  “Weren’t there more predictions?”

  “Why, yes. There was the friend who would recover. And your mother would surprise you.”

  “I wonder,” I said, “if the friend could be Sondra. I’d imagined a recovery from an illness, but the prediction could just as well be regarding an injured person.” It came to me that the last prophecy had also come true. My mother had surprised me last night. She had given me excellent advice. I shared with Jenny the conversation I’d had with my mother. “Now all I have to do is put it into action. Easier said than done.”

  “Don’t forget,” she said, her forehead scrunched worriedly, “that she also told you to only do this as a last resort.”

  “True. But I wonder if waiting might be a mistake. I don’t know how good I’d be at keeping calm and waiting patiently. When I’m stressed I tend to get snappy. If we’re arguing all the time, there’s no way Matthew will ever want to marry me. And I wouldn’t blame him. Who’d want to tie themselves down to a woman who’s an emotional mess all the time?”

  “You’re not giving yourself enough credit. You’re the last person I’d describe as an emotional mess.”

  “I’ve been known to have a crying jag once in a while.” I brushed the subject away and submersed myself in the article. We both read it in full—the section pertaining to my shop aloud—until Jenny had to return to her own shop. Soon, Marnie showed up.

  “Didn’t you say that with both shops having their own private entrances you would be able to come in later? When are you planning to start doing that?” It was only a few minutes past eight and I was already at my Navajo loom, working away.

  “Look at who’s talking. You’re here early every day.”

  “It’s different for me. I have to drop off Jenny’s pastry order. Once I’m already here, why would I want to go back home?”

  “Well, I have a very good reason for coming in early today.” I pointed her toward the paper on the counter. “The article about Judy’s house is out.”

  “I totally forgot about that,” she said, making a beeline over. She studied it quietly for a few minutes. “I think this deserves a celebration. How about a coffee?”

  “A refill sounds good.”

  Soon, she was back carrying a tray with mugs and brioches. “Any news from the man?” she asked.

  “If by ‘the man’ you mean Matthew, no. Not a word.”

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

  “I had a long talk with my mother about it last night.” Her eyes registered surprise. “It seems my father pulled the same stunt on her before they got married.”

  “You’re kidding. And what did she do?”

  “She told him she had too much respect for him to try to change his mind. So she broke it off with him.”

  “Are you serious? Well, it seems to have worked. They got married, and they had you.”

  “And stayed married for over four decades,” I said.

  “So you’re going to give Matthew his walking papers?”

  “I think we should have a talk first.” I glanced at my watch. “And that will be in about six hours.”

  “That could turn out to be a tense drive,” she said, voicing my fears aloud.

  • • •

  The morning went by swiftly with customers coming in to congratulate me on my new collection, which they’d seen in the newspaper article. By the time Mercedes came in, we had sold twice as much as we would have on a normal day. But soon after, the sunny day changed to a light drizzle and now the shop was empty.

  “There’s no question that Marnie and I can handle the store on our own now,” Mercedes said, looking out the window at the empty sidewalk.

  A few minutes after one, Matthew showed up with Winston in tow. “I thought I’d spend the morning with him and drop him off now since I was coming by anyhow. And since we’re only driving to Charlotte and back, I can pick him up at five as usual. If that’s okay with Marnie.”

  “Of course it’s okay with me. Winnie’s never any trouble. He doesn’t do much more than sleep behind the counter.”

  Winston gave her a bleary look, as if to say, “Are you calling me lazy?”

  “The place is simply not the same when you’re not here,” Marnie added, scratching his ear. “Did you hear that, Winnie? We all love you.
”

  He gave her a bark that I interpreted as, “If you love me so much, where’s my liver treat?” I riffled through the drawer and found one. Satisfied, he trotted over to his cushion, and Matthew and I took off.

  We were on the highway, with the radio playing some romantic song from the eighties, when I turned it off.

  “Don’t you like that music?”

  “It’s not the music,” I said, a lump already forming in my throat. “It’s just that I think we have to talk.”

  “Uh-oh. Sounds ominous.”

  I strove for a lighter tone. “Not at all. It’s just that all relationships, sooner or later, come to the same questions. ‘What have we got here? And where are we going?’”

  “And you think we’re already there?”

  “I do.”

  “Feels to me like we just started.”

  “I know we haven’t been romantically involved for very long. We’ve only been officially a couple for—what—six months?”

  “About that.” There was amusement in his voice.

  “On the other hand, we’ve known each other our entire lives. So perhaps this talk isn’t about you and me, so much as about what each one of us wants from our lives, and if our goals are compatible.” This was met with heavy silence. I gathered my courage and continued. “The other night over dinner, you mentioned that you don’t see marriage in your future.”

  “I never said never.”

  “You said ‘in the foreseeable future.’ I don’t know about you, but when somebody talks about the foreseeable future, I interpret that as being five or ten years, maybe more. If I’m wrong, then tell me.”

  Instead of answering, he came back with, “Aren’t you happy having me as a boyfriend?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “Don’t you agree that we get along?”

  I nodded.

  “So why don’t we take it one day at a time and see where it goes?”

  “Matthew, that’s like saying, ‘Isn’t this a nice boat? It doesn’t have oars or paddles, but let’s just get on it all the same and see where it takes us.’ That might be fine for somebody who has all the time in the world, but not for me.” I stopped. I had almost said the words “my biological clock.” I was beginning to sound like my mother.