Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery

by Martin, Carol Ann

  “The Andersons?” she repeated blankly.

  “The mayor of Belmont and his wife.”

  “Oh, them.” She shrugged. “I don’t know much about them, except what everybody in town knows—that he’ll be announcing his own candidacy for the gubernatorial elections, which is why I was surprised to see them at Bernard Whitby’s party.” She studied me. “Why do you ask?”

  “I wasn’t exactly honest with you last night when I said I was going to bed early.”

  She laughed. “I knew that. You would never turn down a date with Matthew unless you had something important to do.”

  “That wasn’t a date.”

  “Well, what else would you call it? I was there with Ed, and you would have been there with Matthew.” She studied me. “Sometimes I wonder if you really do want Matthew to fall in love with you. For every step he takes toward you, you take three giant steps back.”

  “I do no such thing.” She gave me the eyebrow. “Well, I did have something important to do, and it couldn’t be put off.”

  She planted a hand on her hip and gave me the eyebrow. “Like what? Or is it something I don’t want to know?”

  I told her.

  “You broke in?” She stared at me with her mouth open. “That was dangerous. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

  “I didn’t break in. I had a key, which I didn’t even need in the end. Besides, nothing happened. But guess what. Not only were there nude pictures of half a dozen different models, but there were also pictures of Mrs. Anderson having dinner with Bernard Whitby. They didn’t look recent, but it made me wonder how long she and her husband have been married.”

  “At least twenty-five years. They had an anniversary party a while back. It was covered by the Belmont Daily.”

  I gasped.

  “What?”

  “Call me crazy, but the case just took on an entirely new angle.” She looked at me, puzzled. “A political angle—and I have two new suspects.” I was talking to myself, trying my suspicions out loud. “I have no idea whether Mrs. Anderson and Bernard Whitby are still involved—probably not, but regardless, if news of her having an affair got out, I imagine it could be quite a disaster for her husband. Some people might kill to avoid that kind of scandal, especially if there was a danger of it harming their political career.”

  “You’re crazy. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You can call me crazy all you want, but somebody killed McDermott. And whoever it was had a motive.” I stopped. There was another possible new suspect I hadn’t thought of. As much as a politician might kill to avoid a scandal, a political adversary might kill to start it.

  I flashed back to the present when the bell above the door tinkled. It was one of Jenny’s regular customers.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Drummond,” she greeted the woman, then escorted her customer to the back, throwing me a backward glance. She still thought I was nuts, which was fine by me. I thought she was nuts often enough too. I gave Winston a liver treat and returned to my weaving.

  I now had five suspects, six if I counted Bernard Whitby. There were Emma, Ricky, Rhonda McDermott, the woman Philip McDermott was having an affair with, and Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. As for Whitby, I couldn’t see why he would even care about those old pictures. He was a bachelor. If anybody found out he’d had an affair with Anderson’s wife, so what? It wouldn’t hurt his reputation. But it might well hurt Mrs. Anderson’s, and he wouldn’t mind that one bit, now, would he? So make that seven suspects.

  The first thing I wanted to do was find out more about Emma’s boyfriend. But how? I was throwing the shuttle back and forth when it suddenly hit me. Emma had mentioned that Ricky worked as a car mechanic at Al’s Garage up the street, and my car needed fixing. What better way to strike up a conversation? I glanced at my watch. It was only twenty past eight, and my shop wouldn’t be officially open until ten. I usually spent the first two hours of my day taking inventory, fixing displays and weaving. I’d gotten into the habit of coming in early because, even though Jenny was no more than ten yards away, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving my shop without supervision with her clients walking through.

  As if in answer to my problem, the doorbell rang and Marnie came in, carrying boxes of pastry.

  “Marnie, can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure, sugar pie. What would you like?”

  She was in a good mood this morning. Great. “Can you keep an eye on things for a few minutes while I take my Jeep to the garage?”

  “No problem. Just let me drop these off to Jenny.” She made her way over to her shop. A few minutes later she was back, waving me off with a, “Take your time, sweetie. I won’t charge much.”

  I stifled a laugh. Knowing Marnie, she would use this as an opportunity to wheedle a part-time job out of me—as if she didn’t already have enough to do with her weaving for me and baking for Jenny.

  I hurried out back to my Jeep and drove off. Minutes later I drove into Al’s Garage, pulling up in front of an empty bay. A fat mechanic in grease-covered overalls ambled over, wrench in hand—Al.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Ricky works here, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” he said again—a man of few words.

  “If you don’t mind, since I already know him, I’d like to deal with him.”

  He shrugged and walked away, hollering, “Ricky.” The young man popped his head out from under a car hood. “Some dame for you,” Al said. Ricky came forth, looking suspicious.

  “Hi, Ricky. I’m Della Wright. Emma introduced us at the party the other night.” He nodded imperceptibly. “I hear you’re a good car mechanic.”

  He moved closer, relaxing somewhat. “You got some problem with your car?”

  “It vibrates when I drive any faster than thirty miles an hour.”

  He nodded. “Sounds like it needs a wheel balancing, but I’ll check it out, make sure it ain’t nothing worse.” He opened his hand for the car key, and I gave it to him. “You’ll have to come by the office to fill out the form.”

  I followed him into a small and filthy room with a Formica counter covered with cigarette burns. In what was the waiting area was a row of torn vinyl-covered chairs. On a coffee table was a stack of old Playboy magazines. I suppressed a shudder and took the pen he offered me, wondering what kind of germs I might be getting.

  “Fill in everything at the top,” he said. “Name, address, phone number, credit card information. And I can do the rest.”

  I jotted down the required information and handed the form back. “So you’re Emma’s boyfriend,” I said, for lack of a better way to start the conversation.

  He nodded, saying nothing, and started filling in the spaces at the bottom of the form.

  “How long have you two been together?”

  He glanced up from the form. “A couple of years. Why do you care?”

  I shrugged. “I just think you’re a lucky guy. She’s so beautiful. Has she ever thought of taking up modeling?”

  He put the pen down, placed his hands on the counter and glared at me. “Don’t you go putting any stupid ideas in her head. Emma is perfectly happy right here in Briar Hollow, with me. It’s hard enough to keep her out of trouble here. I’d never be able to protect her in the city.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. He looked at me blankly. “What kind of trouble can a girl possibly get into in a small town like Briar Hollow?”

  He scowled, and for a moment I thought he was going to ignore my question. “Some damn photographer got her all excited about taking pictures.” And then, as if he knew he’d already said too much, he tightened his lips and finished filling out the form. “I’ll call you just as soon as I’ve looked at it and let you know what’s wrong and how much it’ll cost to fix.”

  There were many more questions I would have liked to ask, but something a
bout Ricky frightened me. I could just imagine him holding a gun to a man. I could even picture him pulling the trigger.

  I thanked him and got the heck out of there.

  • • •

  I walked back to the store, grappling with what Ricky had just said. He knew Emma wanted to model. He knew a photographer had taken pictures of her. And he said he protected her. How exactly did he do this? By killing the photographer? Or by breaking into his studio to grab Emma’s pictures? Those were certainly possibilities, but I wasn’t even certain he knew the photographer was McDermott. Emma might not have told him his identity. On the other hand, I wouldn’t put it past him—possessive as he was—to have secretly followed her. I somehow suspected he was the intruder who had rammed into me last night. If I was correct, that probably meant I had interrupted him before he found her pictures. I stopped. I had completely forgotten about the aftershave. I should have noticed whether Ricky smelled of aftershave or men’s cologne. On the other hand, the smell of oil and gasoline from the garage had been so strong, I probably couldn’t have smelled it if I tried. I walked on.

  I pushed open the door to the sound of the tinkling bell. From behind the desk, Marnie looked up, grinning. “Welcome to Dream Weaver,” she said. “Can I help you with anything?”

  I played along. “Thanks, but I just want to look around.”

  Marnie chuckled. “Gee, thanks. That’s the same reply I got since you left.”

  “At least that means some people came in.” I walked over to the counter, peeling off my sweater.

  “Yes,” she said, excitedly. “Mrs. Anderson, the mayor of Belmont’s wife, came in and made a purchase. She was disappointed you weren’t here, but I sold her that extra-long tablecloth that was in the window display.”

  “You did?” That was one of the most expensive items I had in the store. “For full price?”

  Marnie beamed. “For full price—look.” She proudly showed me the sales slip. “So, what do you say? Can I come and work for you a few mornings a week?”

  “How do you propose to do that and still find the time to continue baking for Jenny and weaving for the shop?”

  “I can do it, no problem,” she said eagerly. “At my age, not only do I have to deal with hot flashes, but now I also have insomnia. So I stay up most of the night anyhow—baking and weaving. I have plenty of time on my hands.”

  “In that case, how about you weave me more place mats?”

  She tilted her head. “Actually, I just noticed you’re almost out of them again. You really sell out of those fast.”

  “Told you.” Seeing how hopeful she looked, I continued. “I can’t afford to pay a regular employee, but whenever I need to do some errands, I promise I’ll call you to come in. And the minute I need regular help, you’ll be the first person I ask.”

  She slumped and then snapped back up. “I have an idea. Why don’t I come in a few mornings a week without you having to pay me? I’ll just sit and weave. Don’t you think it would be interesting for customers to see weaving actually being done?”

  “It would,” I said slowly. “But why would you want to come in without getting paid?”

  “Why? Because I’m lonely, that’s why,” she said. “I like baking and weaving, but those are things I can only do indoors. Sometimes I go days without seeing a soul. At least if I do some of my weaving here, I’ll be seeing people and having conversations.”

  I’d had no idea she felt that way. Still, I wasn’t totally surprised. Marnie could be very pleasant when she wanted to be, but she was known to be irritable at times. That might explain why she didn’t have a very busy social life. “Of course. If it’ll make you happy, I have no problem with you being here—as long as you behave.”

  “If you mean you want me to smile at customers instead of barking at them, I promise.”

  “In that case, we’ll get along just great.”

  Marnie got her purse from behind the counter, blew me a kiss and headed for the door. “I’ll go get my portable looms and yarns, and I’ll start working on more place mats right away. See you soon.” She walked out with a bounce to her step. To my surprise, an hour later she was back.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a fan around here, would you?” she asked, looking flustered.

  “Eh, I gave my fans to Matthew when I moved out. I didn’t think I’d need any until next summer.” I noticed how flushed she was, a fine mist of moisture on her forehead.

  “Darn menopause. I get hot flashes no matter what the temperature.”

  “Tell you what. If you mind the store, I’ll just run out and pick up a fan or two at Mercantile’s. I noticed they had them on sale—getting rid of them in the off-season,” I said. “I might as well get them now rather than wait till next summer when they’ll be full price.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” she said, fanning herself with her hands.

  • • •

  Mercantile’s was the local general store, founded almost a hundred years ago. In all that time, it had hardly changed. It still sold tractor wheels, overalls and tools at one end of the store, kitchen pots and pans and enamelware at the other and fresh farm eggs and jars of homemade jams and jellies from behind the counter. It was a miracle the store had survived these modern times. On the other hand, perhaps people enjoyed strolling through and purchasing items that looked as if they belonged in another century.

  I was debating between models of fans when I sensed somebody nearby. I looked over to see Mrs. Anderson standing by and watching me.

  I nodded a hello, and she moved closer. The woman was beautiful. She was in her midforties, with soft makeup and red hair coiffed in a simple bob.

  Her eyes flickered nervously left and right. She whispered, “I understand that you helped the police solve a murder recently.”

  “I don’t know that the police would agree with that statement,” I said. “I think they saw me as more of a hindrance than a help.”

  She glanced around once again, and it struck me that she looked more afraid than nervous. She said, “I wonder if you would take on a little job for me. I’ll pay you very generously.”

  Something told me she wasn’t talking about a weaving project. “What kind of a job are you talking about?”

  She glanced over her shoulder once more, and in a low voice she told me, “Somebody has taken some compromising photos of me—photos that could cause my husband a lot of embarrassment and potentially even his political career.”

  Oh, my God! It had finally happened. Somebody wanted to hire me as a private detective. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Mrs. Anderson, I think you’d be much better off hiring a professional to do something like that. I’m a weaver.”

  She shook her head. “No. Don’t you see? I can’t do that. I can’t trust an investigator. But you, as a woman, I know I could trust.”

  Why she would trust me more than an investigator, I had no idea. “Mrs. Anderson, honestly, I would love to help you, but I can’t. It would be illegal.”

  She looked almost panicked. “You don’t even know what I want you to do.”

  “What is it?”

  “This person was blackmailing me,” she whispered.

  I gasped out loud. “Blackmail?”

  “Not so loud,” she said, and then she closed her eyes in shame and nodded. “But now the blackmailer is dead, and that means as soon as the police find those pictures, everybody will know about them. I really need to get them back before they’re found. I don’t want my husband to find out.” She looked so miserable that my heart went out to her.

  I suddenly understood what she meant about “trusting me as a woman.” I sympathized. I really felt sorry for her. But these were emotions I couldn’t afford. There was a killer loose in town, and I wasn’t about to allow my sentiments to stand in the way of discovering the truth. I kept my vo
ice low. “I suppose you’re talking about Mr. McDermott?”

  She nodded slightly, her eyes holding mine. “I had nothing to do with his death. You must believe me.”

  “Mrs. Anderson, if those photos were in his studio, it’s already too late. The police already know. They are probably there as we speak.”

  She blanched. “I see.” She raised her head, threw her shoulders back and plastered on a smile. “I assume you will be discreet about my request?”

  I answered circumspectly. “If I’m questioned, I won’t lie.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, and walked out with her head high.

  There goes a lady with a secret, I thought, realizing that since her husband didn’t know, that took him off my suspects’ list, but it also put her right at the top.

  A store employee walked over, wearing a jovial smile. “Those are fifty percent off at the moment.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I walked out carrying a large box.

  • • •

  I got back to the shop just as a group of women was stepping out of Jenny’s shop and into mine.

  “Jeanine, come and see this,” one of them called out to another. She was holding out a place mat. “Aren’t these wonderful?”

  Her friend went over and picked up another. “I love them. They would look wonderful on my dinner table.” Before they left, between the two of them, they cleaned me out of place mats again.

  Marnie walked over. “Good thing I’ll be making more,” she said, looking at the fan I was pulling out of the box.

  “Where would you like it? Near your loom?”

  “You can leave it behind the counter,” she said. “The flashes seem to have gone for now.”

  Great, I thought. I could have waited for my car to be fixed rather than lugging that heavy thing all the way here.

  The store became quiet again. Marnie returned to her loom, and I returned to mine and finished the second sample. When Bunny Boyd walked in a short time later, Marnie had just run back for a cup of coffee. I was clipping the third sample off my loom.