Spin a Wicked Web: A Home Crafting Mystery

by Cricket McRae

  At least that's what I kept telling myself. But would it work out that way, really? They were my family. The thought of leaving them made my throat ache. On the other hand, Barr and I had been talking about taking this next step for months now. I was the one who continued to drag my feet.

  It wasn't that I didn't love him. I did. Not a single question about it.

  But I was deeply content living with my best friend and her precocious child. It's different living with females, and the three of us had been together long enough that we'd pretty much worked out the bugs. If I moved in with Barr, I could still maintain the family unit I'd built up with Meghan and Erin. Couldn't I?

   

  In the middle of Barr's living room, I turned in a full circle, taking in the contents and their arrangement with eyes tuned to how my own belongings might fit in. My attention snagged on the coffee table. Mine, a wrought-iron-and-tile affair, graced our living room at home; it fit there, and it didn't make sense to bring it over here. It wouldn't go with anything of Barr's anyway.

  I sighed. None of my stuff would look good with his. I liked metal and bright colors. He liked wood, the chunkier the better, and muted browns and greens in horrible prints. The sofa was plaid, for heaven's sake.

  Oh, but that coffee table would have to go. It was made out of some huge spool, like something a monstrous cable had once been wrapped around. Someone had attempted to sand it a little, but you still couldn't set a drink on it without balancing it between the grooves of the wood grain. And it had been shellacked, slathered with a thick coat of clear goo that had dried unevenly, so long ago that the areas where it had been applied the thickest were beginning to yellow.

  Gross.

  I'd asked him where he got it. He said a friend had given it to him. I asked if the friend lived nearby. He said no. I asked if he loved the table. I was, of course, being facetious.

  But he said yes.

  Which wasn't the answer I'd been hoping for, believe me. Not even as a dirt-poor college student would I have wanted such a piece.

   

  I wandered through the rest of the house, trying to figure out if I could squeeze into the place. Thank goodness, I didn't have much. And I could leave most of it with Meghan, so she wouldn't have to get anything new just because I bailed on her. The thought left a sour taste behind. But no matter how little I might bring, this wee house would be awfully crowded.

  Meghan's house was so nice. Four bedrooms, three levels, right downtown, so you could walk almost anywhere you needed to go. I pushed that thought aside. Barr owned this house. He wanted me to move in with him. If I did decide to make that leap, the two of us would have to make do in this tiny space. And really, how much time would we be spending here, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time. Maybe down the line we'd get a different place, a little bigger, a little closer to town.

  Gawd. What a spoiled brat I was. It was a perfectly nice house. I passed by an open window and smelled the roses again. Opening the refrigerator, I studied the contents. Not much there. If I was going to make Barr dinner, a quick trip to the grocery store was in order.

  Ariel would never eat again. The thought struck me like a snake, and I sank into a kitchen chair. I wondered what she'd eaten for her last meal.

  Loud knocking jolted me out of my reverie. I hesitated, then rose and walked to the door. Opened it.

  The woman waiting on the step blinked when she saw me. I'm sure I blinked, too.

  It was like looking into a mirror. She had green eyes. Like mine. Blonde hair, exactly my shade. Only hers was still long and worn in a braid down her back. Her features reflected mine. She was my height. My build. She was a tad thinner. And a tad younger. And she possessed the ability to make clothes look good on her. I disliked her immediately.

   

  All this happened in a split second. I smiled. She smiled.

  "Hi," she said. "Is Barr home?"

  "Um, no. Not right now. Can I help you?"

  "Well, could you tell him Hannah stopped by? And that I'm staying at the Horse Acres Bed and Breakfast, on the south side of town?"

  "I'll tell him. Will he know who you are?" Meaning, of course, that I wanted to know.

  Hannah smirked. "Oh, I think he'll know. I'm his wife, after all."

   

  SIX

  I NEVER REALLY KNEW what feeling the term "thunderstruck" referred to until that moment. But it seemed to cover the stomachswooping, knee-buckling sensation those last words engendered.

  Hannah responded to my silence with a perky, "Okay, then. Thanks."

  Then she turned and walked down the narrow sidewalk to a nondescript economy rental car and got in. I stood stupidly in the doorway, and she waved at me as she pulled away. Of its own volition, my right hand lifted in response.

  I remained rooted there for a hundred years or so, inhaling floral calm, thinking thorny thoughts, unwilling to turn around and go back inside. So I didn't. Ultimately, I walked the rest of the way out, locked the door behind me, and went to my own vehicle.

  Doppelganger.

  Wife?

   

  Of course Barr would have a good explanation for all this. Maybe she was crazy. I'd picked up a stalker a few months back; maybe it was his turn.

  A stalker who looked almost exactly like me, only ... better.

  Sure.

  I thought about living in that little house with him. I thought again about leaving Meghan and Erin, Brodie, the chickens only recently housed in the backyard. The chicken project had been my baby. They'd only laid five eggs so far.

  What was I thinking? I could leave all that to move in with ... a married man? Hardly.

  Meghan wasn't home. Erin wasn't home. There was no one to tell about Hannah except Brodie, and even he was occupied with his chicken guarding. So I did what I always do when I don't know what else to do: I worked.

  As I mixed the dry ingredients for the bath fizzies a local woman had commissioned as favors for a large bridal shower, I waited for the storm. Perhaps I was in the eye. Soon the rain would begin to fall fast and furious.

  It never did, though. The bone-crushing sadness and disappointment remained at bay.

  Instead, I got spitting mad.

  Barr would have a good explanation for Hannah? And what might that be? Was there such a thing as a good explanation for having your wife show up and leave a message with the woman you were trying to bamboozle into cohabitating with you?

   

  Well, I'd like to know what it was, then.

  I considered going to the police station and making a scene.

  Nah. I'd only end up looking like an idiot.

  My watch showed a few minutes before six o'clock. He'd be home in an hour or so. Why not meet him at the front door like a good little girlfriend? That had, after all, been my original plan. I'd be damned if I'd cook him dinner now, though.

  Dusting the citric acid off my hands, I went upstairs to my bedroom. Changed into my favorite pair of jeans, the ones that made my butt look reasonably small. Put on a tank top with a low-cut neckline. A pair of beaded sandals that showed off my pretty red toenails. I sprayed and scrunched my hair into something that looked downright feisty. Then I spent another ten minutes calming it down; no reason to be so obvious.

  Meghan opened the front door as I came down the stairs. Erin trailed behind her, reading a book while shuffling up the sidewalk.

  "Hey, I thought you were spending the evening at Barr's." My housemate turned and placed a canvas bag of books from the Cadyville library on the bench by the door.

  "I'm going back over there. But I won't be gone long."

  She whirled to face me. "What's wrong?" Pouncing on something in my tone. Her eyes narrowed as she took in my ensemble.

  Erin tripped on the door frame as she entered the house, eyes never leaving the copy of An Acceptable Time she held open with both hands. I glanced down as she caught herself and continued past me into the kitchen.

 
"I'll tell you later," I said.

  "She's in another world. Tell me now." Refusing to be put off.

   

  "I'm going back to ask him about the woman who showed up on his doorstep when I was there earlier."

  "Woman?"

  "Yeah. The one who looks freakishly like me."

  She raised one eyebrow.

  "The one who says she's Barr's wife."

  The other eyebrow joined the first.

  "Gotta go," I said, brushing by her. "Jealousy calls."

  Outside, I yanked the door of the Toyota open so hard the hinges creaked.

  Okay, so I had to admit it: I was hungry. The smell of grilling meat infused the air as I sat on the front step of Barr's little house. My growling stomach did not help my frame of mind, which was good. I needed a reservoir of anger to draw from, strength to face the idea that the future I had anticipated might well be swirling down the drain. So I sat hunched around my dudgeon and waited for him to come home.

  End of June in the Pacific Northwest. Red-winged blackbirds called liquidly to each other in the wetland down the hill to the north. It would be light until well after nine o'clock, and the sky still held a high, thin blue. Only a few clouds crouched on the horizon, waiting to erupt into the crazy pastels of the impending sunset: pinks and oranges, peach and yellow, eventually morphing to red against the navy sky. The splash of colors to come reminded me of the bamboo I'd been hoping to try in my lesson with Ruth. The stuff would be like spinning clouds, so the soft colors were more than fitting. I wondered whether the woman who dyed the roving, a local named Thea Hawke, had felt compelled to imitate the sunset as she'd chosen her dyes and lovingly applied them to the ethereal fiber.

   

  Oh, brother, Sophie Mae. Get a grip. Stop musing about spinning and think about what you're going to say to Barr when he gets here.

  My stomach growled again. The oblique angle of the light niggled at my memory. This was the time of day that, as a child, was unavailable in the other seasons. After dinnertime, still light enough to play outside, offering the promise of packing in more activity before parental summons brought you in for bed. Innocent times. Long gone times.

  Sometimes being an adult got pretty darn old, I thought. Was there any possible way to account for Hannah's appearance out of nowhere, her looks, her wifeness? I couldn't imagine a scenario in which Barr hadn't lied to me. Just flat-out lied.

  I hated being lied to. My anger flared again, accompanied by a hot, sick feeling.

  My head jerked up at the sound of a slowing engine and tires on concrete. Barr's car door opened and cowboy boots hit the ground. He strode toward me. Slowly, I stood.

  "What a nice surprise, finding you here," he said. "You're not going to believe it, but we already have a pretty viable suspect."

  His arms encircled me, and I stifled the urge to push him away. Instead I stood quietly and waited. Barr pulled back, a puzzled look in his eyes. "Ariel was having an affair with Scott Popper. We think Chris may have had something to do with it." Regret passed over his features, and I couldn't help but remember his obvious pity for Chris at the funeral.

   

  Then he shook his head, and his features smoothed. He smiled down at me. "You look great, by the way. Did you do something different with your hair?"

  Chris? Had killed Ariel? Confusion nearly swamped me. "But-" I stopped myself. Concentrate, Sophie Mae, concentrate.

  "Anyway, I for one, wouldn't mind a little help from an interested citizen who might be able to get information through, uh, unofficial channels."

  Huh?

  When I didn't respond, he said, "Hey, what's wrong with you? I thought you'd be happy to be off the hook. Plus, I thought you'd jump at the chance to help out." He tousled my hair.

  I jerked away from his hand. "Knock that off. You know I hate it."

  Slowly, his arm lowered. "What's going on?"

  I started to bite my lip, then stopped myself. "I came by earlier. While I was here, your wife stopped by. Hannah. She wanted me to tell you she's staying at the Horse Acres Bed and Breakfast."

  Barr rolled his eyes. "Great. I should've known she'd come scratching at the door about now."

  Well, I don't know what reaction I'd expected, but that wasn't it.

  "You're married?" I asked, appalled.

  "What? Of course not."

  "Have you ever been married?"

  He raised his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes. "Sophie Mae, please, you have to-"

   

  "I don't have to do anything."

  He dropped his hands. "You knew I was married." He actually dared to sound irritated.

  "I did not!"

  "Listen, can we go inside to fight? Or would you rather the neighbors take part?"

  Teeth clenched, I stomped into the house. He went into the kitchen and returned with two beers. Twisting the top off of one, he handed it to me and sank into his favorite TV-watching recliner. I sat on the ugly plaid couch and put the bottle on the spool from hell. It nearly tipped over on the rough surface, and I just managed to catch it.

  "I hate this table," I said.

  "Okay. We can get a new one."

  "It's the homeliest piece of furniture I've seen in my entire life."

  A flash of amusement crossed his features. "I told you about Hannah," he said.

  "Oh. Right. And when exactly did you do that? You tried in the car after we had Thai food the other night, but then we had to go chase an ambulance. And you never had the courage to 'fess up any of the times I've asked you since."

  His forehead wrinkled. "What are you ... wait a minute." His face cleared. "You think that's what we needed to talk about?"

  Now I was unsure. "Isn't it?" I took a shaky sip of beer.

  "No, no. Nothing like that. Remember when I told you that ten years or so ago I was involved with a woman who works at my parents' dude ranch? That it was a mistake, and didn't work out?"

  "Sure"

   

  "That was Hannah."

  I gaped at him. "Involved? Getting married is `involved'? What are we then, acquaintances?"

  He sighed. "It only lasted a couple months. It was a long time ago. I wasn't trying to keep anything from you; I really did think you understood that we'd been married for a short time."

  Damn it. That took the wind right out of my sails. Barr had indeed told me about that woman. It was just possible I'd misunderstood the level of their "involvement"

  He'd neglected to mention what she looked like, though.

  "Well, you certainly do like a type, don't you." I felt bitter and defeated at the same time.

  "Type?"

  "She looks just like me. Or rather, I look like her, since I'm the Janey-come-lately. At least I used to look like her." My hand started to go to my short hair, but at the last moment I scratched my nose.

  "God," Barr said. "Sometimes I just want to shake you."

  And I just want to shoot you, I thought, but didn't say. A bolt of understanding hit me, a very personal glimmer of how crimes of passion can occur.

  "So why is she here?" I asked.

  He looked uncomfortable. "I can't be sure, but I imagine she wants to get back together."

  Great. As mad as I'd been, as much as I'd already considered that we might be done and over with, that still hit me hard in the solar plexus. "Do you want to get back together with her?"

  "Of course not, you dope. I love you."

  I took a big swig of beer and considered him. "She still loves you?"

   

  "Maybe. I doubt it. What Hannah loves is money. Always has."

  Another swig. My stomach gurgled. "I don't get it," I said. "You don't have money."

  Now he looked uncomfortable. "That's what I was trying to tell you."

  What the heck? I put the beer bottle back on the table, and it started to tip over again. I caught it and directed another glare at Barr.

  But he was looking out the window. "My uncl
e died earlier this year. It turns out he left some money to my mom and dad, my brother and sister, and me." He looked directly at me now. "A lot of money. That's what I've been trying to figure out how to tell you.

  My mouth dropped open.

  "You have a sister?" I practically shrieked the question.

  He looked startled. "Sure. Glory. She and her husband live outside of Missoula."

  "You never told me you had a sister!"

  "I didn't?"

  "No. You didn't. Any offspring around that you also forgot to mention?" I wasn't kidding. All of a sudden, it seemed like a valid question.

  He laughed. "No"

  I very pointedly did not laugh. "You can't expect me to be happy to suddenly meet some woman who says she's your wife. You can't expect me to move in with you when that same ex-wife is staying in town."

  His eyes widened. "Listen, Sophie Mae..."

   

  I shook my head so hard my hair whipped across my cheek. "I don't know who you are, Barr Ambrose. I thought I did, but it turns out that I don't."

  He tried again. "Listen to me." His voice was reasonable, down to earth, all the things I loved about the guy.

  Aargh.

  "Hannah must know about the inheritance from my uncle. It would be just like her to think she could get to it through me. Mom will know. I'll call her after dinner."

  "Your mother? Why would she know?"

  "I told you: Hannah works at the ranch." Barr's parents owned and operated a touristy dude ranch in Wyoming.

  "She still works there?"

  He nodded. "I'll call her tonight, too. Send her packing. Hannah showing up all of a sudden does not mean anything. You can't let this mess up our plans"

  "It's not just about your ex, you know? What about the sister I knew nothing about? What else haven't you told me?"

  He shifted in his recliner, leaning toward me. "What do you want to know? I'll tell you anything you'd like."

  I shook my head. "We've been dating for eight months, Barr. This is the kind of stuff that just comes up. If I have to know the questions to ask to get basic kinds of information like siblings and past marriages, I don't want to ask them."