Spin a Wicked Web: A Home Crafting Mystery

by Cricket McRae

   

  Remembering how I'd felt when I'd attended my own husband's funeral almost six years previously, I could understand the confused numbness that must have swamped her. My heart ached with empathy. At least with Mike's lymphoma, I'd had a little time-far too little, but still-to prepare for his death. But dying in a car accident is a sneak robbery, an unexpected blow to those left behind for which there is no preparation. Suddenly, the rest of Chris Popper's life looked different than she ever could have imagined.

  She was surrounded by Ruth Black, Irene and Zak Nelson and Jake Beagle. Jake's wife, Felicia, perfectly coifed and dressed to the nines, stood a little ways away, talking with Ruth's ninety-year-old Uncle Thaddeus.

  But someone was missing. "That disrespectful little wench," I whispered.

  Barr glanced over at me. "Who?"

  "Ariel. Ariel Skylark. From the co-op. Tiny, blonde, sticks blobs of paint on great big canvases, then calls it modern art? She's not here."

  He shook his head. "Sorry. Have I met her?"

  "I guess not." I was pretty sure any man who met Ariel remembered the occasion.

  Her absence was conspicuous, though. CRAG was closed for the funeral, so there was no need for anyone to mind the store. It was downright rude of her not to show up.

  The door to the street slammed shut. Daylight winked out save the dim glimmer of the stained glass windows arching above. The last viewers turned away from the coffin and found seats on the aisle as the funeral director quietly lowered the coffin lid. The priest appeared, and the funeral began.

   

  When we walked out of the church my dark linen suit smelled so smoky I felt like I'd been in a casino bar. Father Donegan had not stinted with the incense, and if the idea was for the rising tendrils to raise Scott's soul up to heaven, he was already well ensconced. Barr, a closet Catholic, had explained some of the service to me. I had to admit, I really liked the ritual aspect of it. My parents being dyed-in-the-wool, intellectual agnostics, I hadn't grown up with any formal religious training. I could see how it might be nice in situations like these.

  I sniffed my sleeve and wrinkled my nose. "What's in that stuff, anyway?"

  "I never thought to wonder. Frankincense and myrrh?" Barr guessed.

  "I think that might just be for Christmastime. Gifts of the three wise men, and all that."

  "Mm hmm."

  "You okay?"

  "What? Oh. Sure. Yeah. I'm fine." He watched a squirrel in a yard across the street snake onto a tree branch and then down the chain to raid a rustic wooden birdfeeder.

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. Of course he was upset about his friend's sudden death. But there was something more. I waited.

  He took a deep breath, then turned his attention to me. Brown eyes, intelligent and discerning, met mine. "If I say this, promise not to make it into something."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Was he finally going to tell me why "we have to talk"?

   

  "Just promise," he said.

  I took a deep breath. "Okay."

  "I was just thinking how odd it was for Scott to die in a car crash."

  Oh. Not about me. Go figure.

  "Because he was a cop?" I asked.

  "Well, that, for one. He had a lot of formal training for sure. But he was also an amateur racer. Stock cars."

  "Really? I had no idea."

  "Almost every Sunday he was out at the fairgrounds speedway, racing with his buddies."

  "So he knew a ton about cars. And driving."

  "Yes. Both." "

  "Do you think the crash was something besides an accident?" I asked.

  His head swung back and forth. "No, no. Don't do that. You said you wouldn't make it into anything if I told you what I was thinking."

  I shrugged. "Okay. You're the detective, and he was your friend."

  He reached over and tousled my hair. I ducked away from his hand, nearly twisting my ankle in my brand-new three-inch heels, and he grinned. I still wasn't quite used to my short bob, after having hair down to my waist for most of my adult life.

  I need to get going," he said.

  "You're not going to the reception?"

  Crap. In the last two days I'd asked him twice what he'd wanted to talk to me about, but he'd sidestepped me each time, telling me it could wait. Maybe it could, but I couldn't.

   

  "Robin's holding down the fort back at the cop shop with a lone cadet," he said. "She offered, since she hasn't been in the department all that long, and she knew everyone would want to go to Scott's funeral. But she shouldn't have to handle everything herself for too long."

  Detective Robin Lane: Barr's new partner. She was also, I might add, drop-dead gorgeous, a fact he pretended not to notice. It was even more irritating because she didn't seem to realize it, either.

  "I want to make an appearance at the reception and have a quick word with Chris," I said. "And Meghan's booked with massages all afternoon, so I need to pass on her sympathies as well." Meghan Bly was my housemate and my best friend.

  We said goodbye, and Barr walked away down the sidewalk. I watched him go, noting the lanky, confident stride. I was pretty sure he was The One, but even though he kept pushing me to move in with him, I'd resisted so far. Lately, I'd been thinking about it more seriously, about actually sharing his address on the edge of town.

  The thought sent a bolt of perfectly balanced thrill and terror through my solar plexus.

   

  THREE

  I WENT BACK INSIDE and down the worn, carpeted stairs to the church basement where the reception was already underway. A long table against the far wall sagged under an abundance of food and more food, the traditional buttress against grief. It was almost lunchtime, so I sidled up to take a look. Fried chicken, sandwich makings, and crusty rolls started off the procession of platters, followed by a steaming casserole of macaroni and cheese with ham and a crock pot of bacon-laced baked beans. Then came the pasta salad, the German potato salad, the Parmesan-laden Caesar, and an enormous fruit plate. Strawberry rhubarb pie, chocolate cake ,and raisin oatmeal cookies topped off the menu. I inhaled, slow and deep; it all smelled heavenly.

  About thirty people milled about, several in dress uniform, most with loaded plates already in hand. I picked Chris out across the room, talking to Irene Nelson, and wove my way through the knots of murmured conversation toward her. Irene broke off mid sentence when she saw me approaching, and both women turned toward me.

   

  "Chris. How are you?" I asked.

  She smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm doing all right. Thanks for coming." Her pupils were dilated-no doubt Jake's tranquilizers at work.

  "Of course," I said. "Meghan couldn't come, but she wanted me to tell you that her thoughts are with you."

  "Tell her thank you for me."

  "I will." All this felt very stilted. I took a deep breath. "I lost my own husband a while back. I know how hard it can be. If you need to talk, if you need anything, I hope you'll call me."

  Chris blinked, and her smile faded. Her head bobbed once. "Okay."

  Jake Beagle came up to us then, so I gave Chris a quick hug and left them talking. I passed Zak Nelson, who stood chatting with his boss, Dusty, from the Fix-It shop. Zak's hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he wore a decent sports jacket. It looked like he'd even burnished his various piercings, but no matter how shiny and scrubbed he was, he still couldn't get the black grease entirely out from under his fingernails.

  After I piled a few bites of everything on offer on a flimsy paper plate, I teetered over to a metal folding chair in my heels and managed to adopt a sitting position without spilling anything. Carefully holding the cardboard disk that was the only thing between my lunch and my lap, I took a hesitant bite of baked beans.

  Oh, Lord. They had onion and green pepper and little bits of sausage mixed in with the bacon, as well as a healthy dose of molasses and spices. I took anoth
er tiny bite, trying to make it last.

   

  Ruth Black plopped into the chair next to me.

  I swallowed. "Hi, Ruth. Do you know who brought these beans? They're amazing."

  She looked pleased. "I did, actually."

  "Oh, gosh. Could I get the recipe from you?"

  "Of course, dear. It was my mother's, and always seems popular at gatherings." She looked at Chris, still talking with Jake, and sighed.

  "I know," I said. "It seems wrong to have what amounts to a party right after the funeral."

  "Oh, no. It's good to do this. It gives people a chance to talk about Scott." She lowered her voice. "Of course, if Scott had been a real Irish Catholic, we'd be whooping it up big time for days. I just love an Irish wake." Her eyes twinkled.

  "I've never been to one," I said.

  "Well, if you ever get a chance, you should take it."

  I almost laughed. "I'll make a note."

  She smiled and changed the subject. "I haven't been out to Ca- ladia Acres lately. How is Tootie doing these days?"

  "Oh, you're not going to believe this," I said. "Tootie's on a cruise. The Caribbean."

  "Really? With her arthritis? I wouldn't have thought her health would allow it."

  "Ninety-five or not, Tootie has taken a turn for the better. In a big way. And his name is Felix."

  Ruth's eyebrows climbed her forehead. "You don't mean..."

  "Oh, yes. I certainly do. Tootie Hanover has a new boyfriend, and they've gone on a cruise together."

   

  "Good for her." Ruth looked at me out of the corner of her eye. "Now I just need to find me one of those."

  "A cruise?"

  "No, silly. A boyfriend."

  "I'll keep a lookout," I said.

  She laughed again. "Be warned: I'm pretty picky. Now, are you coming over to the co-op this afternoon for your lesson?"

  "I figured we'd skip it today, what with the funeral and all."

  "No, let's keep going. You're doing so well, and each day you get a little better."

  When I began spending time at CRAG, I found Ruth was there more often than not, spinning away on her wheel or giving lessons to a variety of students. I kept watching, fascinated, and one day she let me try. From then on, I was hooked. So far I'd been spinning sheep's wool, which was wonderful, but I itched to try some other, more exotic fibers, as well.

  "Well, okay," I said. "I'll be there."

  "And I think you should take the wheel home, so you'll have it to practice on."

  "But what will you use?"

  "Oh, I have a new one. You can borrow the old one until you get your own." She said this matter-of-factly, but I could tell she was pleased as punch about the new wheel. Some women love shoes. Some love jewelry. Ruth loved fiber and all the tools to work with it.

  "That'd be great," I said, a little too loud. A couple of heads turned toward the enthusiasm in my voice. I hunched my shoulders and studied my plate.

  "I have to drop Uncle Thad home, and then I'll be over," Ruth said.

   

  "How is Thaddeus?" I craned my neck and saw him, grizzled and serene, leaning on his cane by the buffet table.

  Ruth smiled fondly at him. "He's going to outlast me." She stood. "I'll see you in a little while." She moved to where Felicia Beagle stood alone, nibbling on a piece of cantaloupe and watching her husband. Felicia smiled at Ruth's approach, holding out a be-ringed hand in greeting as if they were old friends. For all I knew, they were.

  I had to dash home and change out of my hot dressy clothes into something casual, comfy, and cool, so I bolted my food, said goodbye to Chris and left early. As I drove away from the church I thought about Ruth's offer to let me borrow her wheel. Maybe I shouldn't. It might distract me too much at home.

  Nah. Surely I could keep my new obsession under control.

  I arrived at the co-op before Ruth. She'd be at the reception for a while longer, I was sure, but I wanted to take another look at a hand-painted bamboo roving begging for me to spin it into beautiful, luxurious yarn. It was awfully expensive, though, and I wasn't sure I was ready to work with it yet.

  The co-op was housed in the old library at the end of First Street, which Chris had bought for a song-and several thousand dollars-after the town had constructed a brand-new, state-ofthe-art facility across from the police station. The ancient building reflected the important role logging had once played in Cadyville, built as it was of enormous Douglas fir trunks painstakingly chinked together. Inside, gleaming wood paneling graced the walls, tongue and groove floor boards creaked underfoot and wide, rough stairs worn visibly thinner in the center from more than a hundred years of footsteps curved up to the second level.

   

  The first floor no longer held children's books, but instead offered various arts and crafts for sale. Upstairs, a collection of supplies and crafting tools dominated what was once the fiction section of the library. Toward the rear of the building, the former nonfiction and periodicals section had been divided into a half dozen small studio spaces for use by CRAG artists.

  Heavy floor cloths painted in earth tones delineated functional areas, and light spilled in from well-placed windows. Chris had asked me to develop a signature aromatherapy blend to add to the atmosphere, and the mild fragrances of sandalwood, lavender, and orange subtly permeated the air, welcoming all who entered.

  Thank goodness Ruth had wanted to continue my lessons despite the funeral. I really did walk away from those spinning sessions more calm and refreshed. With keys in hand, I hurried up the river rock path that led from the parking lot.

  A few feet away, I paused.

  The heavy wooden door was already ajar a few inches. I pushed it open, expecting to find someone manning the retail shop, but the interior lights were off. Someone must have come in to use the studio space upstairs and neglected to lock the door behind them. Cadyville wasn't exactly crime central, but risking robbery like that was downright irresponsible.

  I looked back over my shoulder at the parking lot. Three vehicles besides mine were slotted into the diagonal spaces in the parking lot, but people unassociated with CRAG were always parking there, especially in the summer. The Red Dog Antique Mall took up most of the block across from the co-op, and customers frequently used our parking lot despite the signage threatening that they'd be towed. Daydreaming about spinning, I hadn't paid much attention to the other vehicles. Now I squinted into the sunlight. A powder-blue Ford Focus peeked out from behind a monster-sized king cab pickup.

   

  Ariel Skylark's car.

  Between her unkind words about Chris the other day, her absence at the funeral, and now leaving the door to the co-op open so anyone could wander in, it was well past time someone gave that snotty little prima donna a dressing down.

  Pressing my lips together, I went inside and flipped on all the overhead lights. I strode through the eclectic displays, around tables piled with sculpture, art glass, jewelry, my Winding Road bath products, and a myriad of other items. Past those horrid blackand-white-and-red-all-over paintings and Jake's photographs hanging on the walls. Up the stairs, past shelves packed with supplies, barely glancing toward the section devoted to various fiber arts. The bamboo roving could wait.

  That girl was going to get what-for, and the words for giving it to her formed with each step I took.

  The smell of oil paint and turpentine attested to some of the activity in the studio. The area was divided into sections by moveable six-foot walls on wheels, so I could see the light was on in the far corner. That wasn't where Ariel worked; it was where Ruth had her spinning wheel and other equipment set up most of the time. Perhaps she'd arrived before me after all.

  My ire lessened. No way was I going to yell at Ruth about the front door.

   

  "Hello?" I called.

  If Ruth had beat me to CRAG, then where was the old Buick she shared with Thaddeus? And why was Ariel's car in the parking lo
t?

  "Hello?" I called again, weaving through the labyrinth of wall sections.

  Nothing.

  I came around the corner. "Ruth?"

  And pulled up short, staring at the floor.

  My jaw fell slack as my mind struggled to process the information it was receiving. The figure lying on the floor on her back. The open eyes, directed upwards, unseeing. The puff of blue and green and pink fiber curled in her fingers.

  The blue lips.

  My first skein of homespun yarn wrapped around her neck.

  I hadn't even had a chance to set the twist yet.

  "Ariel?"

   

  FOUR

  I HATE FINDING DEAD bodies. I mean, I really hate it.

  And Ariel was definitely dead. I mustered the gumption to tiptoe closer, kneel down beside her, and feel for a pulse in her neck. Not so much as a flutter under my fingertips. I couldn't even tell whether she was warm or not, my own hands had grown so suddenly cold. It seemed crucial to know. I stood again, half-aware of wiping my palm against my shirt.

  I don't like touching dead bodies much, either.

  Why was it so important to know whether she was still warm? Something about how recently she'd been killed.

  Murdered, actually. No question about it.

  And that meant a murderer.

  The thought clamped my jaw shut and sent whatever adrenaline I had left shooting through my veins like acid. I jogged to the stairs, pulling my cell phone from my pocket. As I moved, my attention ping-ponged around the room, an animal seeking a predator, fear sharpening my hearing and sight to something nearly supernatural. Air whistled through the ductwork above. Colors took on an eerie glow. One of Irene's sculptures seemed to leer at me as I hurried by.