by Sue Henry
With Connie’s gossip and Shirley as a distraction, in the preceding hours I hadn’t even remembered the yarn I had selected so carefully. Sometimes I think I’m not just having senior moments, but losing my mind. One of these days, if I’m not careful, I’m going to forget where I’ve parked the Winnebago, especially since I periodically move it from one place to another in my travels.
I thanked her and took the package, intending not to lay it down until I reached the car, but that didn’t last long.
In answer to my question about Pat, Mary Ann told me she was on her way and would be there shortly, so I decided to wait.
Mary Ann went back to her work and, setting the package of yarn back on the counter in plain sight, I wandered over to take a look at the bookshelf, where I found two that interested me. One, The Thread of New Mexico, was a catalog of an exhibition of the same name that had taken place at the Albuquerque Museum several years earlier and that had featured “weavings by contemporary weavers of the three dominant cultures in the region.” It was full of color pictures of wonderful tapestries and rugs, traditional and otherwise. The other, The Weaving, Spinning, and Dyeing Book, by Rachel Brown, was, Mary Ann told me, the bible of everything to do with weaving, from types of looms to the techniques used on them. It explained weaving very clearly and thoroughly, making me feel I had missed out on a significant textile craft. Why not buy a small table loom, I thought, and try it?
Was there one that would be suitable for a traveler to use in a motor home? I asked Mary Ann.
With her help and advice, I chose what was called a school loom, about fifteen inches wide and two feet tall, which folded flat when not in use and could be stored in my closet. From that we began to collect everything else I would need to start a simple first piece: strong neutral thread with which to warp the loom, a selection of wonderful colors and textures of weft yarn, several long metal needles for weaving yarn between the alternate warp threads, a batten to pack the yarn together tightly, and a wooden comb with a handle and many teeth for the same purpose over a smaller area. Noticing a basket full of attractive flat wooden needles, I picked up one of those as well, partly just because I liked the shape and feel of the smooth, finished wood in my hand.
Mary Ann was adding another sizable purchase to my credit card and putting both the items for weaving and yesterday’s forgotten yarn together in plastic bags when Pat came hurrying in, her own coffee in hand, stopped to take a look, and laughed.
“Couldn’t resist, right? This place has a habit of inspiring that sort of thing,” she told me. “Be careful—weaving’s addictive, and you soon may find you’ve given up knitting for it. If you want help getting started, I can give you a few individual sessions, like the ones Kelly’s been giving Shirley.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but it seemed like a good idea, so we agreed on the following Monday, after the weekend opening of the new show.
“You will come for the reception, won’t you?” Pat asked. “It starts at seven tomorrow night.”
I realized I had forgotten that the next day would be Friday, though the newspaper should have told me, but I assured her I wouldn’t miss it. Not having a job to go to, children to send to school, community activities and social commitments, or other date-sensitive demands on my time, I sometimes let days slip by without paying much attention to the day of the week or the date.
Retrieving my credit card, I thanked Mary Ann for her help and she went back to the organizing of shelves.
“Come on back,” Pat invited, heading for her desk in the rear of the shop. “And speaking of Shirley—how did it work out—her staying with you?”
Obviously she hadn’t heard from Shirley.
“Not bad, I thought. But she called a cab and took off this morning while I was away having breakfast and thinking she was still asleep. Didn’t leave a note or any explanation, so I have no idea why or where she went—home maybe.”
Pat shook her head, frowning.
From somewhere out of sight I could hear a regular rhythmic thumping that had grown louder as we neared the back wall.
“What is that sound?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s Kelly, our shop production weaver. She’s working next door—want to see?”
We walked out a back door into a hallway where through a large window I could see into a room behind the wall of yarns we had left. Kelly was using a large floor loom that I recognized from Rachel Brown’s book as a treadle loom.
“It’s sometimes called a walking loom,” Pat explained, “because of the treadles she’s stepping on to raise and lower the harnesses that create the sheds.”
“Sure it is,” I told her. “Like I really understood those terms—other than loom.”
She grinned and tried to explain in more simple language.
“The treadles are the long wooden beams she’s depressing by stepping back and forth on them to pull down one set of harnesses at a time.
“On this loom there are two sets of harnesses, one set attached individually to every other warp thread, and one to the rest. When Kelly steps on a treadle, all the alternate warp threads are pulled down, leaving the rest up and creating a space between for her to throw across the shuttle that contains the yarn she’s using to weave. That space is called a shed. When she releases that treadle and steps on the one connected to the other harnesses, the process is reversed, pulling down the rest of the warp threads to form a different shed—a space in opposition to the previous one. Alternating treadles—and, therefore, sheds—as she throws the shuttle back and forth is what creates the fabric she’s weaving.”
I nodded wisely, as if I understood and, after watching as Kelly walked the treadles for a few minutes, realized that I did, if a bit simplistically.
The shuttle that held the green yarn with which she was weaving flew quickly back and forth, but the fabric grew slowly, one weft thread at a time, reminding me how laborious it must have been back in the days before machines were invented to do the work. No wonder pioneer women insisted on carrying their looms west in the back of their Conestoga wagons and thereafter spent hours spinning yarn that they used at their looms to make the fabric to clothe their families. After the weaving was done, came the hand sewing to create those items of clothing. I hoped they were appreciated and decided I would never develop a yen to weave enough fabric for anything I intended to wear.
“How much can she weave in, say, an hour?”
“About a yard of simple-weave single-color fabric,” Pat told me. “But weaving patterns takes much longer, not including the work of getting the threads ready and warping the loom. It’s a lengthy process.”
“It’s so rhythmic it’s almost hypnotic.”
“It can be. I’ve always thought weavers, especially on these big looms, are part mystic. The work becomes automatic, allowing your mind to fall into a kind of meditative state that is a condition of the cadence of the occupation. A few of us sing while we work, as well—or work to music. Keeps the pace even.”
In a few minutes we went back to Pat’s desk, where we chatted about weaving, then about my traveling in the Winnebago. It made me remember Shirley’s disappearance and the article about the dead man in the paper.
Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the front page of the Taos News and laid it in front of Pat.
“Did you see this?”
“Oh God, yes! It was all over town before the police had even finished their investigation out at Doris’s place. The very idea makes me ill. I can’t imagine she’d ever want to use that vat again. But she couldn’t anyway—the crime lab people took it, of course.”
“Do they know yet who it was she found?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
We stared at each other, both contemplating the revolting discovery.
“Do you think this Doris had something to do with it?”
“Not a chance. She’s a solitary sort who doesn’t even come in here often. I think she dyes her own wool not just to get the colors sh
e wants but partly because she’s more comfortable at home. It must have been a nasty shock for her, but I doubt she’d ever . . .” She let the sentence trail off.
“But you know her?”
“Sure. She’s had a piece in a show or two here.”
I hesitated for a second or two, not sure what I was about to ask, or why. “Does Shirley?”
“Know Doris, you mean?”
“Yes.”
She stopped shuffling papers on her desk and gave me a sharp, inquisitive look.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
Then I felt ridiculous.
“I don’t know why,” I told her. “It just popped into my head, for no particular reason.”
Pat nodded and went back to what she was doing, slowly.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I told her, knowing she had things to do before the show. Otherwise, I might have shared what Shirley had told me about Tony Cole, to see if Pat knew about the con he had perpetrated, or had any ideas about Shirley’s odd behavior.
She looked up again, her eyes narrowed in contemplation.
“There’s something about Shirley, isn’t there?” she said.
We stared at each other as I nodded. She was right. But neither of us seemed able to get a handle on what that something was, so we let it go without another word.
My loom and the other weaving accoutrements were waiting for me on the counter. As I went to claim them, Pat called after me.
“There’s a good bluegrass group at the Adobe Bar tonight. I’m going. Would you like to come with me?”
I nodded yes—both because I have a fondness for that kind of music and because I wouldn’t mind having a look at the place where Shirley had met Tony. Though what it could tell me, if anything, I had no idea.
“Meet you in the lobby of the Taos Inn at seven?” she suggested.
I agreed, collected my purchases, and headed downtown.
TWELVE
ON THE MAP OF TAOS I HAD NOTICED THAT THERE WAS a large parking area behind the Moby Dickens Bookshop, and by taking Camino de la Placita, which ran parallel a block west of Paseo del Pueblo, I found my way there and pulled into a space in the shade of a large tree. Knowing the bookstore would probably frown on animals, I left Stretch in the car to wait—and was glad I had when I noticed a cat sitting in a window near the front counter. It was a pleasant shop, packed with books of general interest, as well as a fascinating assortment of local history, and I spent a half hour exploring its literary offerings. Selecting two, one on Mabel Dodge Luhan and another on Colorado, where I meant to go sometime soon, I went upstairs and found the mystery section, where I picked out a third, Margaret Maron’s latest, Rituals of the Season.
Living in a motor home has its limitations, as well as its benefits. One of the former is lack of space in which to keep books. Admittedly, I am a book collector of the pack rat sort. I like the feel of them, the size and texture of their covers and pages, the smell of print on paper. At home my tall bookshelves full of books of many sizes and colors are better than wallpaper, more vibrant and interesting, full of the promise of new and old friends. Raised by parents who loved books and encouraged reading, I have always had trouble letting go of my books, though the shelves may be full to overflowing into stacks on the floor. During my first trip in a motor home with restricted space I therefore established a rule for myself: For every book I bring into the Winnebago, one must go out—unless—and I do have an escape clause—unless I elect to ship those I cannot bear to part with to a friend in Homer, Alaska, who holds them for me until I eventually come home to claim them.
So, by picking up three new books, I would be honor bound to make decisions concerning which three that were already aboard my rig would not leave Taos with me, one way or another. Later, I told myself. I’ll decide later, but definitely before I drive out of town. So, paying for the new ones, I ferried them back to the car, where I left them, took Stretch on his leash, and set out to explore the Taos Plaza.
To reach it, we walked through a parklike area—JOHN DUNN HOUSE SHOPS, a sign told me—with benches that circled shade trees and other plantings, making a pleasant place to stop and sit, if one was so inclined. A few white, yellow, and blue flowers were in bloom and I caught a whiff of a perfume that was vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t identify it. Care had been taken in the selection of trees for their color and they made a lovely contrast in dark and light greens, dark plum, and a bright yellow green.
The area was lined on either side by a number of shops and galleries. Some were housed on a second story, accessed by a stair leading up to a covered balcony. The buildings were the usual tan adobe, but rather than the lovely, typical shade of blue I had first noticed at the Kachina Lodge, then on the trim of other places, the woodwork on the stair rails, windows, and doors was, like that of the Apple Tree, painted white—also attractive against the brown of the walls.
Small birds warbled in the branches overhead and flew down to pick at crumbs scattered by a young woman who sat in front of a fabric shop called Common Thread, peeling crusts from the sandwich she was eating to share with feathered appetites. She smiled and nodded as we passed.
Glad to be out of the car, Stretch trotted along in well-behaved fashion, keeping close and pausing only to check out a planter or two as we passed. He paid scant attention to the birds, with only a sidewise glance or two, having learned early that chasing them—like the saucy squirrels we have in Homer—would be fruitless and cost him more dignity than he was willing to sacrifice.
Following a curve in the walkway, we passed between two buildings and came to the southeast corner of the Historic Taos Plaza, where I stopped to take a look before moving on. There again the buildings were the adobe brown, but the trim was the traditional blue that seemed so popular. Most were two stories and full of a variety of shops that surrounded the rectangular square itself, which was about the size of a city block. It was paved, except for one grassy area and planters that held a few shrubs and a number of trees, much older and larger than those in the smaller and newer John Dunn shop area. There were two or three evergreens, but most of the dozen or so were cottonwoods of a smaller-leafed variety different in appearance from those I am used to in Alaska. A number of low walls and benches provided casual seating space for the few people I could see resting there, and several more were walking across from one side of the open plaza to the other.
From a book I had browsed in Moby Dickens, I knew that the plaza had an ancient history even before the first Spaniards visited the place. In 1540, Coronado sent a Captain Alvarado on a reconnaissance party to the north and these Europeans were the first to see the Indians of the Taos Pueblo, which is still in existence north of town, with a population of about nine hundred. The plaza continues to belong to these people, though they have given ownership of the streets that run between the square and its surrounding buildings to the town. At one time the plaza was a trading site for Indians from all around the area.
Watching out for traffic, which moved counterclockwise around the inner square where there was diagonal parking in front of the shops and businesses, I took Stretch across to the middle of the plaza, where I could see everything and decide where to go first. A red-lettered sign on a second story midway down the west side identified the Hotel La Fonda de Taos. At street level I could see an outfitters store, a restaurant, and at least one jewelry shop. To the east were several galleries, a bookstore, what looked like a drugstore, and, at the far end, Noisy Water, whatever that was. Across from it on the northeast corner a sign read CHARLEY’S CORNER, next door to a continuing line of shops and galleries to attract tourists.
Turning south, I noticed on the second floor of the building that took up that whole end of the plaza a patio with tables and chairs for a restaurant I remembered from my map. It was time to recharge the batteries, and Ogelvies Taos Grill & Bar looked like the perfect place to find lunch for myself and watch the people going back and forth in the plaza below. Even better,
Stretch would probably be accepted in this outdoor section.
He was, and in ten minutes I was seated at a table with him, on the floor at my feet, charming the friendly waitress who arrived to take my order for soup and half a sandwich to go with a bottle of Dos Equis she had brought with the menu at my request. I’m not much of a beer drinker, but it seemed the right thing to go along with spiced vegetable beef soup.
Between the patio and the street below rose the tops of two or three trees in full bloom, white with a hint of pink. I thought they must be some kind of fruit trees, but had no idea what kind. From where I sat, except for the closest, southeast corner, obscured by the blossoms, I could see over them and down to the square. On a bench near the center a man sat facing me as he read a newspaper. Closer, near the street, two other men stood talking, one of them watching idly as a woman carrying several plastic-bagged purchases passed them, heading across toward the west side. The hum of traffic was steady, but not constant, as cars circled the square looking for a parking place, or pulled away from the curb and were replaced by new arrivals.
I was about to turn away from my perusal of the activity below when I saw a woman step from behind the blossoming trees into the corner of the square and go hurriedly at what was almost a trot toward its center, crossing the space diagonally from southeast to north-west, with slight deviations as she avoided a low wall and two benches. Though she was moving away from me, I thought I recognized the blue denim pantsuit from the day before. Without stopping, she turned halfway round to cast a glance back over a shoulder, as if she expected someone to be following. It was Shirley—in yesterday’s clothes, including the blue and white blouse she had been wearing when we left the duplex—and she looked either angry or frightened. I couldn’t tell which from half a block away, but I could see that she was not happy.
From where I sat I knew there was no way I could leave the patio, go back through the restaurant, down the stairs to the front of the building, and cross the street to the square in time to catch up with her. Knowing this, and not being sure that I wanted to anyway, I sat where I was and watched her reach the far side of the square and cross the street. As she was disappearing around the corner of one of those most distant shops, a male figure came running into my line of sight from behind the cover of the flowering trees. He took the same line as he crossed the square, clearly following her, though from the way she acted, I didn’t think she wanted to be caught.