Spinning had helped to relax me the other night. Might as well try it again.
After arranging the wheel, I oiled the moving parts, and attached the bands. Soon I was working my way through a length of off-white sheep's wool. It would be a while before I'd be spinning any more of Thea Hawke's light-as-thistle-down bamboo. The very thought of it left a sour taste in my mouth, after my bad behavior toward Gabi Kaminski. Tonight I even avoided the raw alpaca I'd given in and bought at the co-op. It seemed a good idea to go back to doing something I knew at least a little about.
But the act of spinning was just as soothing as ever. The Zen of it overtook me: the enthralling rhythm of the foot treadle combined with the soft whir of the fly wheel. The wool fairly flew out of my fingers, twisting into a uniform yarn and wrapping neatly onto the spool. It looked good. Really good. Way better than the stuff that had been used to strangle Ariel.
Ruth would be proud of me when I showed her.
***
The next morning I walked to the little house Ruth and Thaddeus Black shared and found their mint-green Buick gone from the carport. I knocked anyway. Rustling sounded from inside, and finally the interior door swung open. Thaddeus peered out.
Recognition dawned. He pushed the screen door open. "Sophie Mae! Come in, come in. Glad you dropped by. I'm not getting out as much as I used to, and it's nice to have a visitor"
"Hello, Thaddeus. Is Ruth around? I wanted to show her some yarn I spun last night."
"Nope. Went to the store. That woman shops for groceries every day. I just don't understand it." His cane thumped in exclamation.
"Oh" I couldn't keep the disappointment from my voice.
"She'll be right back, though. Never takes her long. You come on in and wait." He waved me in. The house smelled of fake lavender air freshener. I made a note to bring them some Winding Road gel fresheners, made with essential oils. Some nice soap, too, and bath salts. It was the least I could do to pay Ruth back for letting me borrow her wheel and teaching me so much.
Thaddeus trailed behind me into the living room. "I heard what happened to that little truck of yours. You're a lucky girl."
"Don't I know it."
He nodded. "Sit down for a minute."
I sat. No good trying to get out of a little socializing, and besides, I liked Thaddeus Black.
"Can I get you anything? Coffee, maybe?" he asked, the gracious host.
"I'm fine."
He settled into his own chair and smiled broadly.
I smiled in return. "How's Ruth holding up, with all the trauma and drama over at CRAC?"
"You mean that little girl getting herself killed?" He waved his hand dismissively. "Ruth and I go to a couple of funerals a month."
"This was a little different, wouldn't you say?"
"Well, sure. All I'm saying is that Ruth isn't exactly a wilting vine when it comes to the difficulties in life. She's gentle as a lamb, but tough as nails, too."
"I'm glad she was able to provide an alibi for Chris Popper," I said. "It saved Chris a lot of grief."
"Well now, I didn't realize she had. That was good of Ruth."
Good of her? "But she was over at Chris' house that night."
He nodded. "I remember. Some kind of meeting she had to go to.
"It was a meeting? I thought everyone was over there because it was the night before Scott's funeral."
"Huh. Well, I thought Ruth said it was a meeting about something going on at the co-op. Maybe I got that wrong. And who knows why she hightailed it out of here later."
I blinked. "I'm talking about the night of the twenty-second. The night Ariel Skylark was killed."
"I know which night you're talking about." He spoke carefully, like maybe I was a little slow. "Ruth went to her meeting at Chris, then she came home, and then she got that phone call and had to leave again. I was surprised, because it was almost nine o'clock, and she doesn't usually like to take the car out that late."
"Now, Thaddeus, I don't want you to think I'm questioning your recollection, but what time did Ruth come home from Chris' that night?"
"Oh, couple minutes after eight, I'd say. I'd just started watching a show on the history channel. You ever watch that channel? A lot of interesting things you can learn from it." He chuckled. "Even if you're an old fart like me. 'Course some of what they call, 'history' I call, `childhood"'
But I barely heard him, my brain was so busy trying to assimilate this new information. Ruth had lied, actually lied-to the police, to me, to everyone-about being at Chris Popper's during the time Ariel was killed.
Jake Beagle said he'd left before eight. That gave Felicia an alibi for the time of the murder, and providing her with an alibi meant he had one, too.
Irene said she was at Chris' until Zak got in trouble, and then she said she was at home, with him. Which gave him an alibi, but took away part of Chris' alibi. And now I'd just found out that Ruth couldn't give Chris an alibi, either.
The way I saw it, everyone supposedly had someone else who could account for them during the time Ariel was murdered-but no one really did.
"Sophie Mae?" Thaddeus leaned toward me with concern on his face.
"And you don't know why Ruth left the second time that night?" Tone it down, Sophie Mae. Way too eager.
Too late. Wariness settled across his face. He said, "I think maybe I've said enough. Maybe I do have the night wrong. After all, Ruth already told the police everything she knows."
Keeping my tone mild, I said. "I'm sure she was very helpful. Did the police talk to you?"
He shook his head. "Why would they? I didn't have anything to do with that whole business." Using his cane as leverage, he stood.
I stood, too, understanding that my welcome was over. "I have a few errands I need to run, Thaddeus. I enjoyed our chat. I'll drop by another time to show Ruth my yarn. Will you tell her thank you for me, for letting me borrow the wheel?"
"I sure will." His voice was hearty, smoothing over any misunderstanding we might have had. The sound of an engine wafted in through the open front door. Thaddeus pointed. "In fact, there she is. You can tell her yourself."
I kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks"
He smiled, at ease again.
Outside, I hurried around to the carport. "Let me get that," I said and lifted the grocery sack from the back seat before Ruth could protest.
"Why, thank you, dear."
"Glad to help. I just came by to thank you again for letting me borrow your wheel, and I wanted to show you some of the yarn I spun.
"I'm always happy when someone converts." She made spinning sound like a cult of some kind. Heck, maybe she was right.
I set the bag on the hood of the car. "Um, Ruth?"
She had already started for the back door that led into the kitchen. Now she stopped and turned. Watched and waited.
"The night Ariel was killed? Where did you go when you left here the second time? After you got back from Chris'?"
For a few moments she considered me. Then she nodded and said, "Let me put these groceries away, and then we'll go downtown and get a cup of coffee."
"But-"
She turned and went inside.
Picking up the bag again, I followed her into the kitchen.
THIRTY
"I DIDN'T WANT TO talk about this in front of Thad," Ruth said.
She sipped her iced latte and gazed at the Cadyville River. We were sitting on a park bench beside the river after stopping in at Beans R Us to get drinks. The afternoon sun was warm on our faces, and the sound of moving water had the usual soporific effect. I'd been patient, waiting until she was ready to tell me what had happened that night.
Now I prompted, "You, Chris, Irene, and Jake met to discuss something to do with CRAC."
Her eyes slewed my way, gauging what I already knew. Looking back at the sunlight sparkling on water, she nodded. "Yes" Another sip of latte.
Carefully erasing judgment from my voice, I asked, "You had a meeting about the
co-op the night before Scott's funeral?"
"Yes."
"Must have been something pretty important."
"There was a problem that needed to be solved. We discussed it and decided what to do."
"You're being very vague." Frustration leaked out of my voice. I didn't like the way this conversation was going, didn't like it at all. Dread settled into my gut.
I hesitated, then pushed forward. "What else happened that night? After the meeting."
A long silence, and then a bracing breath. "Jake left first. A few minutes later I left."
Why, oh why, had Ruth provided a false alibi for Chris? With great effort I kept my mouth shut and let her continue.
"I went home," she said.
"And then you left again."
Slowly she nodded. But she didn't speak.
"Why, Ruth?"
Turning to look at me, she said, "Because Chris needed me. She insisted she wanted to be alone, but shortly after I got home, she called. Wanted me to come back. Irene had been getting ready to leave, but then Chris broke down, and she agreed to stay for awhile longer. So I drove back to Chris' house, and we spent two more hours with her, talking some, but mostly listening as she talked about Scott."
That wasn't so bad. I shook my head. "You lied about being with Chris all evening. I don't want that to come back on you. Why did you do it?"
"Right off the bat, that Detective Lane decided Chris had killed Ariel. I knew she hadn't. Irene knew she hadn't. Any gap in our story, and that detective would have arrested that poor woman for something she didn't do."
Relief breezed through me. "You have to tell the police the truth. Tell Barr if you don't want to talk to Detective Lane "
She stood and walked to the garbage can placed a few feet away from the bench. Tossed in her empty latte cup. Came back and stood beside me, looking down.
"We'll see."
"No! Ruth, this is murder. It's a small detail, you going home and coming back, and it probably doesn't affect a thing. But you need to tell them, anyway."
Resignation weighed her features, her shoulders, as she turned away. "I know, Sophie Mae. I know."
"Where are you going?"
"Home"
I stood.
"No," she said. "I need to think."
Not knowing what else to do, I let her go.
Ruth's compassion for Chris was going to get her in trouble. But what had really happened wasn't that big of a deal.
Was it?
***
Meghan and I had picked up Erin from her last session of math camp-a half-day of awards and cupcakes-and gone down to the airport to pick up Tootie Hanover and her new, ninety-eight-yearold beau, Felix. They'd flown in from Florida after their cruise to the Virgin Islands. They'd looked tan and ridiculously happy, but were understandably exhausted. So we'd taken them directly to Ca- ladia Acres, the nursing home where she and Felix both lived. Tired or not, they were both more energetic and spry than they'd been before they'd started… dating?
Now it was late afternoon, and I sat at the retail counter at CRAG gazing out the open door to where Meghan's Volvo sat in the parking lot. She'd been booked with massages all afternoon, so I'd borrowed it. Ariel's painting leaned against the wall by the door where Zak had left it. It was so big it hid half of a tropical-themed batik wall hanging.
Why hadn't Zak picked it up, after going to all the trouble of buying that egregious piece from Gabi in the first place? And it hadn't been cheap. Given his determination to have Ariel's creation and the state of Gabi's pocketbook, I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd paid even more than the exorbitant price her sister-in-law had originally asked.
Had he really killed Scott out of jealousy, and then Ariel when she tried to break up with him?
I thought about the look on Zak's face when he'd told me he'd attached a note to a painting, hoping he'd be allowed to buy it. Then later, what I'd seen as his straightforward honesty about his breakup with Ariel and affection for Daphne Sparks.
Maybe Robin and Barr were right. Maybe he did have both motive and opportunity for not only one, but two murders. But, like Meghan, I liked the kid. When he'd spoken of Ariel, there had been emotion on his face, certainly, but it hadn't struck me as either love or hate. Nothing even approaching such passion, good or bad.
I still thought Gabi had motive and opportunity. Did I want her to be guilty, just to prove myself right? Or was I gun shy about believing Zak was the murderer, after my failure to prove anything against Gabi?
But something was off.
I just knew it.
My, that painting was ugly, wasn't it? I glanced up at the clock. Jake would be here any moment to relieve me. I began to gather my things in anticipation.
Right on time, he walked through the door. His wife followed.
"Hi," I said, not sure how she'd react, since Felicia and I hadn't parted the best of friends the last time I'd talked to her.
"Hello, Sophie Mae. It's nice to see you"A warmer greeting than I anticipated, and I welcomed it. I was growing tired of making enemies of everyone I talked to. Then again, she was an actress, so for all I knew she hated my guts for asking her about Jake and Ariel. It was a sour thought, and reminded me how much my cynicism had increased since I'd become involved in murder investigations.
Jake and I exchanged greetings as well, and I grabbed my bag. "Okay, I'm going to take off now. And as long as I have the Volvo, I'm going to drop this by Zak's house on the way home."
Awkwardly, I lifted Ariel's painting. It would barely fit in the car if I put the back seat down.
"I wonder which end goes up?" I smiled. "Or if it even matters."
Felicia looked away, but not before I caught the look of amusement that flashed across her face.
Jake raised his eyebrows. "You're taking that to Irene's?"
"Don't worry. I won't say anything to set her off."
"I think the painting itself might set her off."
"I'm afraid that's Zak's problem. We can't leave this laying around, blocking items that are actually for sale." I maneuvered the canvas out the door.
"Maybe the back room…" Jake's voice followed me out to the parking lot.
"It'll be fine," I called over my shoulder.
I'd never been to the Nelson home before. I wasn't surprised to find Irene's house was painted beige, with lighter beige trim. The front door, on the other hand, was taupe. Even the flower beds were brown, containing only bark and a few small azaleas. She hadn't planted any other flowers.
As I wrestled the splotches of black and white and red out of the car and up the steps, it occurred to me that the addition of all that stark color might actually be an improvement if the interior decoration reflected the exterior.
Zak answered the door. His eyes grew round when he saw what I'd brought. "Hi, Sophie Mae," he stammered out.
"Hi. I brought your painting over."
"Uh, thanks." He peered furtively over his shoulder. "Let's put it in the garage."
"Really?" Maybe he was having second thoughts about gracing his wall with his ex-girlfriend's creative efforts.
Irene came around the corner of the house and stopped cold. "What's that doing here?"
"Um," Zak said.
I raised my eyebrows and waited.
"Well?" Irene demanded. She was looking at me, not at her son.
"Oh. Well, I brought this by for Zak…" My voice trailed off as anger blazed in her eyes. Anger, and something else.
I'd seen that look on her face every time Ariel's name came up.
She shifted her gaze. "You bought this monstrosity?" she hissed. "After everything she did?"
"Aw, Mom. Ariel didn't do anything. She was just a girl, that's all."
Irene looked pointedly at the canvas his hand rested on. "I won't have it in my house."
And, of course, Zak had known that. Which was why he'd left it at the co-op until he had someplace to put it. I wondered whether he'd thought that far when he decided to bu
y it in the first place. Somehow, I doubted it.
Either way, I'd moved the thing out of CRAG. However, it was obvious any hope I'd had of getting more of a read on Zak's guilt or innocence was now dashed by Irene's angry presence.
I watched her, glaring at her son. So much anger under that mousy exterior. Anger at a lot of things, but certainly an abundance of it directed at Ariel Skylark. Anger and, I realized, fear. That was what I'd been trying to pin down.
Irene Nelson was angry, but she was also intensely afraid.
THIRTY-ONE
"ARE YOU GOING To bed?" Meghan asked. "You're starting to scare me with that thing."
I sat in the living room, glued to the spinning wheel, treadle pumping furiously in the hope that the smooth, neat yarn forming from the messy bundle of raw alpaca on my lap would spark the ordering of my own chaotic thoughts. So far it wasn't working.
"Not yet. I have to do more," I said.
"Have to? You sound like you're addicted."
I loved my housemate, but right then I wanted her to go away and leave me alone. I stopped pumping and allowed the wheel to come to a standstill.
"You don't understand," I said. "I'm thinking. This helps me think."
"And you have more thinking to do."
"Exactly." I began to spin again.
"Right," she said. "Well, goodnight."
"'Night" I said. Didn't look up.
Keep the strands smooth. Alpaca was exacting, the raw uncarded curls of wool irregular. Challenging. Maybe that was why I wasn't figuring this thing out. Maybe I had to concentrate on the wool too much.
I heard Meghan going upstairs to bed. After some time, a car went by on the street outside. If it hadn't, I wouldn't have realized how quiet the house had become. The wheel whirred. The yarn twisted. Gradually, I got the hang of it. Relaxed into it.
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