I hesitated. “Are you sure your client won’t mind?”
She waved my concern away. “Don’t be silly. He’ll be thrilled. The more the merrier. He has an announcement to make and wants as many people as he can get.” Seeing me still hesitate, she turned to Jenny. “If you or any of your friends didn’t get an invitation, please bring them along too. I mean it.”
A party did sound like fun. I hadn’t been to one since moving here from Charlotte months ago. And if it increased my chances of landing this contract—“All right, I will.”
“Wonderful.” She moved over to my counter, pulled out a business card, and on the underside, wrote the address. She handed it to me. “After you’ve seen the place, if you’re interested, you can make me some samples, and we’ll take it from there.”
“I’m sure I will be.”
She nodded. “See you tomorrow.” And just as quickly as she’d walked in, she was gone, leaving me in a daze. This was almost too good to be true. It was the answer to all my prayers.
Jenny handed me my cup of coffee “You know who Bunny Boyd is, don’t you? She has her own decorating show—one of the most popular ones on television. You should have turned her down.”
I turned to her, dumbfounded. “I don’t understand. Why should I turn her down?”
“Believe me. She’s trouble.”
Jenny was possibly the nicest person I’d ever met. I had never, ever, heard her say a mean thing about anyone, which was why I was so surprised. “What in the world makes you say that?”
“If you saw her aura, as I just did, you’d know that all that smiling sweetness is just a veneer.” Ah . . . her aura. Whenever Jenny mentioned people’s auras, or her feelings about them, I had to hold back from rolling my eyes. She continued. “Underneath, she’s hard and calculating. Mark my words. If you do business with her, you’ll regret it.”
Even though I knew Jenny was convinced everything she’d just said was irrefutably true, I didn’t believe in auras and tea leaves and tarot. But I had to choose my words carefully or risk offending her.
“What if you’re wrong? You once told me that auras can sometimes be misread.” Her frown melted, and I continued. “Can you imagine what that contract would mean to me? It would make the difference between barely eking out a living, and my business thriving.”
She sighed. “You’ve already agreed to go to the party, so I suppose you have to. But make sure you think twice about signing any contract with that woman.”
“Fair enough.” And then, being curious, I asked, “By the way, did you get an invitation to that party?”
“No, but I’m like you. Anything that comes unaddressed, I simply chuck out.”
“What about her TV show? I’ve seen promos for it, but I’ve never actually watched. Have you seen any of them?”
She nodded. “I have to hand it to her; the woman is talented. You should see the rooms she does. She can turn the ugliest places into showcases.” She grew quiet for a moment. “She’s sweet as sugar when she wants something, but I’ve seen her get hard as nails when things don’t go her way.”
I was tempted to point out that the networks were known for editing reality shows until the characters seemed totally different from the way they really were—which begged the question, where was the reality in reality shows?
Jenny planted a hand on her hip and sighed. “I wish you’d seen her aura, like I did.”
As I said, Jenny was the nicest person in the world, but she was also a bit flaky—believing in crystals and runes and palm reading. On the other hand, that was what made her Jenny. It was also the reason she’d originally named her shop Tea and Destiny, where she not only served tea and coffee and all sorts of delicious pastries, but she also told fortunes. This service she sold solely as entertainment, but her clients swore by her predictions. As for me, I was of the opinion that all Jenny really had was an ability to read people—nothing magical about it. If she was right about Bunny being difficult, so what? Believe me. During ten years as a business analyst, I’d seen more than my share of difficult clients. They didn’t scare me.
Jenny was staring at me. “Something tells me you’ve already made up your mind.”
This proved my point. All she really did was read people.
At the sound of a bell in the back, she hurried away, calling over her shoulder, “That’s the oven. Your muffin is ready. Don’t let your coffee get cold.” She paused at the beaded curtains and turned. “You should know by now, I’m always right about my feelings. I hope I won’t have to say I told you so.”
Chapter 2
I finished tagging and putting away the new stock and moved on to sorting through my supply of linen yarns. If Bunny Boyd wanted to see samples, I would be ready. The bell above the door tinkled. I looked up to see Winston, my friend Matthew’s French bulldog, come trotting in. Winnie, as I had nicknamed him, was thirty pounds of hard muscles in a compact body. His eyes held a perpetually puzzled look. And even though his squashed face and pointy teeth gave him a ferocious appearance, an intruder was in more danger of being licked to death than bitten. Behind him, Matthew appeared for no more than a second. He propped open the door with a brick and disappeared again—probably going back to his car to get something.
“Winnie, what are you doing here?” I hurried to my counter and fished through my catchall drawer for a liver treat. Winston’s butt hit the ground with a thud. He looked at me with pleading eyes. I threw him the treat, and he gobbled it up faster than I could say “woof.” “Good boy.”
“Are you spoiling my dog again?” From the doorway, Matthew came stumbling in under the weight of a large beribboned box. “No wonder he prefers your company to mine.”
Matthew was a heartthrob—at least to me he was. He was not movie star handsome, but he was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes that turned more golden than brown whenever he smiled. And when he did, my knees turned to jelly.
I grinned. “All that proves is he has good taste.”
A second later my friend Marnie Potter came waddling in. Marnie was a middle-aged redhead with a propensity for wearing clothes that were way too tight for her weight or age. As if to prove this, today her outfit was a pair of zebra-striped leggings coordinated with a leopard-print three-quarter-sleeve jacket. The woman sure liked her animal prints. Her lids were painted with heavy black eyeliner and electric-blue eye shadow. I stifled a chuckle.
She smiled brightly. “Surprise.” Her double chin wobbled.
Matthew lugged the box to the counter and, with a grunt, hefted it on top. “I ordered this weeks ago,” he said, breathing heavily. “I was hoping to get it here in time for your official opening, but it arrived only this morning.”
I’d thrown a small party for the few local friends I’d made, most of them weavers who placed their goods on consignment in my shop—hardly what anybody would call an official opening.
I came around the counter. “You got me a present?”
“Of course I did. You didn’t really think I’d let a special occasion like that go by without a housewarming gift, did you?”
I grinned. “Are you sure this isn’t in celebration of my moving out?” When I’d first moved to Charlotte, he and I had switched homes. I had moved into his house, opening my shop in his two front rooms. Meanwhile, he had moved into my condo in Charlotte, and somehow I had lulled myself into believing the arrangement could go on like that indefinitely. After all, Matthew was a professor of criminology, teaching at the University of Charlotte. Why in the world would he choose to move back to Briar Hollow and a two-hour daily commute when he could live in my condo, ten minutes from his work?
Then, out of the blue, Matthew had suddenly landed a book deal—his lifelong dream—and had chosen to move back to Briar Hollow, where he could write in peace and quiet.
He laughed. “I admit, it is good to get my living and dining r
ooms back, but it was nice having you around.” I felt myself blush.
Matthew and I had known each other all our lives. His mother and mine had been roommates at college and were like sisters. In fact, our families had spent holidays together for as long as I could remember. During all those years, I had never felt anything for him but friendship—maybe because of my mother’s constant efforts to match us up. Then suddenly, during last year’s holiday visit, I found myself fantasizing about running my fingers through his hair.
When he moved back into his house, we found ourselves sharing the same home for a few weeks. It wasn’t long before I realized I had to find a place of my own. Living in close quarters with someone who doesn’t share your feelings is a tenuous situation at best.
Jenny, of course, professed to know otherwise. She had a feeling, she said, that if I’d only give him time, Matthew would come around. He’d realize he was just as in love with me as I was with him. It sounded so much like something my mother would say that I couldn’t help wondering if she was bribing my friend to have a talk with me. I wouldn’t put it past her.
Jenny came hurrying from the back, carrying a tray of coffee cups. “Hi, Matthew. Hi, Marnie. I heard you come in and brought you some coffee, and, Della, your muffin.” She set the tray at the other end of the counter. She looked at the box, then at me. “A gift. Wow. What are you waiting for? Open it.”
I tore open the flaps of the box, pulling out handfuls of shredded paper until the entire area around my counter was littered with paper. I pushed aside a few more rumpled sheets and gasped. “You got me a cash register?”
“And not just any cash register,” Marnie said. “It’s a candy cash register.”
Matthew lifted it out. I pulled the cardboard box from under it, and he carefully set it back down.
“It’s magnificent.” My fingers trailed the engraved silver top, touched the ivory keys carefully. “I love it.”
Jenny systematically picked up the shredded paper, throwing it back into the box. “It’s exactly what your counter was crying out for.”
Matthew grinned. “When you mentioned that you could just imagine an antique nickel-plated register in your shop, I knew I had to find one for you.”
My throat tightened. He had gone to all that trouble—for me. Surely that meant he had some feelings for me? I was so afraid he might read the emotions on my face that I dared not look him in the eye.
I cleared my throat. “That’s so generous of you, Matthew. I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, kiss the man, won’t you?” Marnie exclaimed with a hint of exasperation.
I leaned over and gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. Over his shoulder, I spotted Marnie rolling her eyes.
“I have a gift too,” she said. “But this one is for Jenny.”
“For me?” she said, looking stunned.
Marnie gave her a teasing smile. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know? Didn’t you read your tea leaves this morning? Some soothsayer you are.” And with that, she marched out of the shop. Matthew hurried to catch up. A few minutes later he reappeared, pushing a dolly carrying something tall and wide. Whatever it was, it was covered with a cloth, on top of which was a big pink polka-dot bow.
“I know what it is,” I exclaimed.
Marnie wagged a pudgy finger at me. “Don’t you dare spoil her surprise.”
I had been to Marnie’s house only once, but it was an experience I was not apt to forget. Her living room was right out of a comedy. It was a mishmash of oddities and memorabilia, all crammed together in the most whimsical way. She had a red sofa shaped like a giant pair of lips. Her lamps were Hawaiian hula dancers. One of the most interesting pieces in the room had been an antique fortune-telling machine. It was in perfect working order, right down to the gypsy gazing into a crystal ball. I had oohed and ahhed over it and innocently commented that Jenny would go nuts over something like that. But I never expected that she would give it to her. Those machines were rare and worth a fortune.
Marnie followed Matthew back into the store. “I know just where it should go.” She hurried ahead, leading the way through the beaded curtains.
Matthew grunted with the effort. “Winston, get out of the way.” Winston galloped away from the dolly’s wheels in the nick of time. I grabbed Jenny’s arm and we trailed along.
Coffee, Tea and Destiny was a small but charming shop. It held half a dozen luncheon tables, each covered with a simple white cotton tablecloth and a lovely woven runner—my shop-warming gift to her. Every table had a three-tiered pastry dish, begging to be filled with an assortment of tiny cucumber or watercress sandwiches and Marnie’s wonderful scones. Along the back wall was a long counter with an array of tempting pastries on display. Behind it was a bookshelf filled with coffee-making and tea-making paraphernalia: teapots, fancy cups and saucers, boxes of fine imported teas, and for the coffee lovers, there were mocha and espresso machines and bags of rich coffees.
“What are you staring at, Winnie?” Jenny whispered. His nose was pressed against the glass counter, behind which sat a row of muffins.
She hurried around the counter and sneaked him a peanut-butter cookie. Winston gulped it down and then stared at her with large wounded eyes, no doubt hoping for another treat—the bum.
Marnie pointed to the far corner. “There. That’s the perfect spot for it.”
Matthew rolled the dolly in place, leaned it forward and very carefully wiggled the large piece off.
Jenny came closer, placing a tentative hand on the cloth covering. “What is it?”
“Well,” Marnie snapped, “you won’t know unless you take off the wrapping. Or do you want to divine it?” Marnie Potter was most certainly an eccentric—and at times a curmudgeon—but underneath her gruff exterior beat the heart of a pushover. It was my theory that her harsh attitude was no more than self-protection—a veil to keep people from taking advantage of her generous nature.
Jenny pulled at the bow, which dropped to the floor. She tugged at the tablecloth, which instantly followed. She slapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh! It’s gorgeous.” She circled the machine. “I remember seeing one of these at a penny arcade when I was a kid. You’re giving it to me? I can’t take it. It’s too much.”
“Don’t be silly,” Marnie replied, sounding almost curt. “If we added up all the times you read my cards without charge over the years, I’d probably owe you two of these. Besides, I don’t have room for it in my place anymore.”
This was a blatant lie. The more cluttered her home, the better she loved it.
Jenny whooped and threw her arms around her. “Thank you so, so much. I love it. I absolutely love it.”
“Glad you do,” Marnie said, sounding embarrassed. She disentangled Jenny’s arms from her neck. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go enjoy that coffee you got me before it gets completely cold.” She marched out front to my shop. We followed.
She picked up her cup and took a sip. And then she said curtly, “So, what’s new?”
“I have news,” I said. “We’re all invited to a cocktail party tomorrow night—five to seven. Afterward, you can all come to my place and I’ll make dinner.”
Marnie scowled. “You? Cook? What do you want to do, kill us?”
Jenny laughed. “Come on. She’s not that bad. I’ve had perfectly good frozen pizza at her place.”
“Ha-ha, very funny. For your information, I make excellent pasta.”
Matthew winked. “As long as the sauce comes out of a jar.”
“Tell you what,” Jenny said. “We’ll be happy to accept your invitation, as long as you let me do the cooking.”
I shrugged. “Fine. If that’s the way you want it. I was just trying to be—”
“Poison us,” Marnie said. “I’m with Jenny on this one. I’ll be happy to come, but she has to cook.”
&nbs
p; “Tell us more about the party,” Matthew said, offering a welcome change of subject.
I told them about Bunny Boyd’s short visit. “Didn’t any of you get an invitation?”
“I think I did,” Matthew said. “I guess I forgot about it. I’m not much of a party type.”
“I did too,” Marnie said. “But I threw it away. I can’t even remember where it’s being held.”
I shuffled through my drawer for Bunny’s card and read the address. “She said Bernard Whitby was throwing the party.”
“The Whitby place?” Marnie repeated, surprised. “Are you sure?”
“Della’s right,” Matthew said, reading the address. “It is the Whitby place.”
I looked from one to the other. “What’s the Whitby place, and why is everyone behaving as if it’s a big deal?”
“Because it is a big deal,” Matthew answered. “Bernard Whitby is one of the richest men in North Carolina—”
Marnie corrected him. “One of the richest men in the country.”
“His family goes back generations,” Matthew added. “They made a fortune in cotton. When slavery was abolished, they sold off most of their land parcel by parcel, but kept the house. I think it was recently designated a historical property. Then the family invested their money, first in coal and in railroads, getting out just in time. They then invested in electricity. During the twentieth century, the Whitby men became interested in politics. Bernard Whitby’s grandfather was the first. He became governor of North Carolina in the fifties, and then some years later, Bernard Whitby’s father followed in his father’s footsteps. That was sometime during the seventies or eighties, if I remember right.”
“That family sure has a gift for making money,” Marnie said. “Everything they invest in seems to turn to gold. They’re as rich as Croesus. I wish I knew what he’s investing in these days. I’d copy all his moves.” Scowling, she added, “Not that I have any money to invest.”
Matthew looked puzzled. “What I’d like to know is why he’s inviting so many people to this party. He’s practically been a hermit his entire life. Suddenly he becomes gregarious?”
Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery Page 2
