I nodded. “Things that are unimportant when we are young take on new dimensions as we get older.”
“True,” she said in a strangled voice. I looked into her eyes and was surprised to find them watering. Was she crying? Maybe it was just her contact lenses irritating her. Yes, that must be it. Bunny Boyd did not strike me as a sentimental woman.
She blinked a few times and pulled herself up straight. “By the way, I showed my client”—oh, so he wasn’t Bernie anymore?—“and he approved one of your samples. Now I’ll need to see colors. We have to get that just right. Could you drop by his house with samples of off-whites and beiges?”
“Of course. When would you like me to drop by?”
“How about tomorrow morning, say around nine thirty?”
I agreed. She said a quick good-bye and pushed her cart down another aisle.
As I headed home, it occurred to me that Bunny had just made it back on to my list of suspects. If she was staying right across the street from the Coffee Break, she could have spied on the McDermotts and found just the right moment to strike. The only problem with my new theory was that I still had no motive for her.
• • •
The next morning, as I was walking over to Al’s Garage, I noticed a red Jeep parked in front of his shop. I went over and peeked inside. On the backseat was a basket with pink and white spools of yarn. This was my car, all right. I turned toward the office and stopped. A heated argument was going on inside.
“I don’t want to hear about it anymore,” a male voice was yelling. Ricky’s? “Not one word. Do you hear me?” It was Ricky, I thought, arguing on the phone with someone. But to my surprise, a female voice replied.
“I don’t know where you get the idea that you own me. I don’t belong to you. I have the right to make my own decisions, to live my own life.”
“I’m telling you, Emma. If you move to New York, you’ll be sorry.” I could picture him, his face contorted with fury, eyes flashing, and I was filled with dread for the girl.
“Is that a threat?” she was saying. I wondered if maybe I should walk in, interrupt the argument somehow.
“You can think what you want, sweetheart. But let me tell you this. I ain’t going to sit around and wait for you. If you go, me and you are through.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, we’re through whether I go or whether I stay. I’m sick and tired of your bullshit.” It didn’t sound as if she feared him, at least not physically.
The voices were getting louder and the argument was escalating. Any thought I’d had of walking in was gone. At this point, my interference would only make things worse. But I very much wanted to hear every word. I stepped closer.
“So that’s how you thank me,” Ricky was yelling, “after everything I’ve done for you?”
“What exactly do you think you’ve done for me?” Yes, what exactly did you do for her?
“You know what I’m talking about. I took risks for you. If I go to jail, it’ll be your fault.” What risks? I wanted Emma to ask.
“You and I both know I never asked you to do anything. You decided it all on your own.” Decided what? “If I’d had any idea what you were planning, I would have told you not to.”
Don’t stop now, I wanted to scream. You would have told him not to what? Not to kill McDermott? Not to break into his studio? The door flew open and Emma stormed out. She was so upset that she didn’t notice I had been listening. I put on my best smile. “Hi, Emma,” I said.
She stopped. “Oh—er—hi, Della.” She struggled for calm. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m just picking up my car. I dropped it off yesterday. My wheels needed balancing. If you want to give me a minute, I can give you a lift wherever you want to go.”
She scowled. “I doubt you’d drive me all the way to New York,” she said, and all at once, fat tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Stay right there,” I said. “I won’t be a minute.” I hurried inside and paid my bill. Ricky glared at me as if I were responsible for everything wrong in his life.
He handed me my receipt. “Your keys are under the mat,” he growled and stomped off into the garage.
I hurried back out and looked around. Emma was gone. Shit. I hopped into my car and took off, scanning up and down the street as I drove. She couldn’t have gotten very far. I’d been inside for only a few minutes, three or four tops. But she was nowhere to be seen.
• • •
I walked into the store and was greeted by the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Oh, God, do I need a cup. I popped my head through the beaded curtain. Jenny was filling her display case with fresh pastries.
“Morning,” I said. “Spare a cup of coffee for a friend?”
“I have a fresh pot on right now. Ed gave me a lift to work on his way to the hospital.”
I stepped inside. “Oh, he did, did he? I take it you two spent the night together?”
She grinned, flushing with happiness. “He’s been hinting at sharing an apartment.”
“Already? But you’ve been dating only, what? Two months?”
“About that. But”—she shrugged—“at our age, people know what’s right for them.”
“Whoa. Not that I don’t like him. Quite the opposite—I think he’s wonderful—but don’t you think you should slow down a little?” I wagged a finger at her. “And if you tell me you know he’s the right one because you read his aura, I swear I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
She gave me a cocky grin. “You’ll what?”
I smiled. “I’ll . . . be your matron of honor at your wedding?”
“Who’s putting the cart before the horse now?”
I laughed along with her.
“All right,” she said. “I promise it’s not because I read his aura. Don’t you know I can’t read the auras of people close to me? But if we ever do decide to get married, you’ll be the first to know. However, you will definitely not be my matron of honor.” My face fell until she continued. “You’re way too young to be a matron. But you can be my maid of honor.”
I grinned. “We’ve got a deal.”
• • •
I had already collected my color samples and was halfway through a second cup of coffee when Marnie walked in. I was surprised to see her wearing an almost normal outfit for a change. Her Lucille Ball hair was tied up in a loose bun. Her eye shadow was heavy, but brown rather than electric blue. And instead of a jungle of animal prints, today she wore black pants and a bright pink peasant blouse. She looked lovely.
“Here,” she said. “I’ve got a few more place mats for you.” She waddled over and dropped a bag onto my desk.
I opened it. “Oh, Marnie, these are beautiful.” I fingered the fabric. It was woven with thick yarn in a simple basket-weave pattern and edged with a cotton strip. I counted them—four.
As if she could read my mind, she said, “I know there aren’t many, but I’ll work on making more of the same while I’m here.”
“Thank you. Four is better than none.” I pulled out my tags and my stock book. “You sure finished these fast. How do you do that?”
“Insomnia,” she said. “It’s wonderful for production. Also, I always use extra-thick yarn for place mats. It takes a fraction of the time.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll let you tag them. I have to run. I promised Bunny that I’d stop by the Whitby house to do some color matching before I order the yarn.”
She beamed. “See? I knew you’d need me.”
“I do need you. But it’s not fair for you to work for nothing, so here’s what I propose. Whenever you mind the store, I’ll pay you by the hour for your time.”
“That’s fair,” she said, taking the tags from me. “I hope you go out a lot.”
I laughed, grabbed my purse and car keys and took off with my samples.
• • •
I had seen the Whitby house only once, in early evening. Now, as I drove up, the place looked even more imposing by daylight. Perhaps it was because the long drive was empty of cars, but somehow the estate seemed bigger, the house whiter and more elegant.
I parked my car to the side, at the edge of the circular drive, and hopped out. The doorbell sent peals of ringing echoing through the house. A few moments later the door opened.
“Ye-e-e-s?” said the butler, stretching that one syllable into four. He looked at me the way I might look at a reptile.
“Hi.” I beamed him a smile that did nothing to melt his icy demeanor. “I’m Della Wright of Dream Weaver. I have a nine-thirty appointment with Bunny Boyd.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, excruciatingly slowly, as if the mere mention of Bunny Boyd were painful to his ears. He stepped aside and I walked in.
Without the party crowd, the foyer looked even larger, more like that of a hotel foyer than that of a private home. For the first time, I noticed the columns that supported the two spiral staircases. They were either real marble, or painted in a faux-finish marble. I was dying to get a closer look.
“If you’ll come with me,” the butler said. I followed him up the stairs and to the study from which the gun had been stolen. I looked at him, wondering how difficult it might be to extract information. Probably like pulling teeth, I decided. But, heck, that had never stopped me before.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“That, madam, is because I didn’t give you my name.”
“Well, then.” I moved toward him, extending my hand. “Let’s start again. I’m Della Wright. And you are?”
He must have been used to people faltering before his granite demeanor. I had the satisfaction of seeing him look befuddled, if only for a moment. He bowed curtly. “My name is Sweeny.”
“Hello, Sweeny. It’s nice to meet you. I take it you’ve been with Mr. Whitby for a long time?”
“I have, ma’am. I’ve been with him for thirty-two years.” He turned as though to leave.
Quickly, I said, “Did anybody find out what happened to the missing gun?”
He swiveled around to face me, this time a hint of surprise in his eyes. “How did you hear about that, ma’am?”
“Don’t worry, Sweeny,” I said, hoping my reassurance would earn me a few points. “I didn’t hear it from the gossip mill. I was at the party and happened to overhear you telling Mr. Whitby.” All right, so I lied.
Relief washed over him. “Mr. Whitby would hate for that kind of thing to get out. He’s very conscientious about keeping his guns locked up.” Funny, I thought, how the worry of his employer’s displeasure suddenly stripped Sweeny of his snobbism.
“What kind of gun was it?”
“A Colt model 1908, ma’am, more than one hundred years old. It’s a collection piece. The first year, they made only five hundred and ninety-nine, and Mr. Whitby’s was number eleven—very valuable.”
“I take it, it hasn’t been found yet?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, not yet.”
Before I could ask him any more questions, Bunny walked in. “There you are,” she said. “I thought I heard the doorbell.” She thought she’d heard it? It was so loud it could probably be heard as far as Charlotte.
“I just got here,” I said, taking in her disheveled hair and slightly rumpled shirt. She looked as if she’d just tumbled, if not out of bed, then at least out of somebody’s arms.
She stepped farther into the room. “That’ll be all, Sweeny,” she said.
Sweeny left, his face devoid of expression.
She closed the door behind him and turned to me. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”
For the next hour, we compared yarns to what remained of the original upholstery and curtains. We checked for color, texture and thickness until we had identified the perfect match for the project. And then we remeasured the length and width of the windows for the new curtains. I checked the amount I would need for the two chairs and stools and jotted everything down. It would add up to a lot of fabric.
“How soon can you have the order completed?” Bunny asked.
I studied my notes. “This room will need twelve panels of five yards for the curtains alone. And then another eight yards for the upholstery.” I calculated. If I got all my weavers to come in and work in shifts, I would probably be able to deliver in two months. For safety’s sake, I gave myself extra time. “I could have it ready for you in three months.”
She nodded pensively. “Couldn’t you do it any faster than that? I’ll pay you well.”
“I can try, but I can’t guarantee any sooner than three months.” For all my businesslike demeanor, I was so excited I wanted to swing from the chandelier. But I held back my euphoria and negotiated until we reached a price I thought was fair.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll stop by your shop with the contract tomorrow.”
“I’ll need a deposit.”
“How much?” she asked, with a quirk of her eyebrow.
“Enough to cover the materials, plus a portion of the labor costs in advance. I’ll have to calculate the number of spools I’ll need before I give you an exact amount.”
“Fine. I want you to order everything as soon as possible. I’ll drop by with the contract and the check later today.” She walked over to the desk, pressed a button, and suddenly Sweeny reappeared. “Will you show Della to the door please?” she asked.
And just like that I was dismissed.
• • •
I was so happy, I wanted to dance my way back to the car. I couldn’t wait to tell Jenny and Marnie. This would by far be the biggest contract I’d ever had—bigger than most weavers ever landed—and working on a mansion would be an honor. I was already planning all the photos I would take for my portfolio.
Still, as I approached Briar Hollow, I couldn’t help wondering about the missing gun. How easy might it be to find ammunition for a one-hundred-year-old Colt? This was something Matthew might know. I made a mental note to ask him.
At the store, I found Marnie threading the heddles of her portable loom. “Hey, Della,” she called out, straightening. “I already sold those four place mats I brought this morning.”
“You sold them? Already?”
She ginned. “And I’m almost finished dressing this loom for another dozen.”
“That’s great.” I dropped my yarn samples onto the counter. “Guess what.” And before she had a chance, I added, “I got it! I got the contract!” And then I did my happy dance.
“Congratulations. That means you’d better start lining up your weavers.”
“Before I do, I’ve got to calculate the yarn I’ll need and then prepare the order.”
Marnie glanced at the large loom. “Oh, God. Much as I love to see a freshly dressed loom, doing all that threading will be murder.” She wandered toward the back. “I think I’ll go get myself a coffee and a muffin. Can I bring you something?”
It was still an hour from lunchtime and I was already famished. “Sounds great. I could use a coffee and a muffin right about now—butter pecan, if there are any left.”
Marnie marched off to the back, disappearing behind the beaded curtain. I picked up my calculator only to put it down again when the phone rang.
I picked it up. “Dream Weaver, Della speaking. How can I help you?”
“You can help yourself by minding your own business.” The voice was raspy, almost a growl. I looked back, but Marnie had already disappeared behind the beaded curtain. The voice continued. “If you don’t stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, what happened to McDermott will happen to you.” There was a click, followed by a dial tone. I stared at the receiver in my hands.
Suddenly Marnie was standing next to me, holding a tray laden w
ith coffee cups and muffins. “Are you all right? Who was that?”
“I—I don’t know.” I thought fast. “I’m pretty sure it was a man, but whoever it was disguised his voice.” I pushed the call display button—unknown number, of course.
“Disguised his voice, why? What did he want?”
“I just got a warning,” I said, dazed. “Seems I’d better mind my own business. Otherwise what happened to McDermott will happen to me.”
Her face fell. “Oh, my God. Somebody has just threatened to kill you. You have to call the police.”
I thought this over. “And tell them what? That I got a crank call? What do you imagine they’ll do?”
“What if it was the killer?”
I was wondering the same thing. “I think it might have been Ricky Arnold.”
“Emma’s boyfriend? What makes you think that?”
“I told Emma she shouldn’t allow her boyfriend to stand in the way of her dream. If she repeated to him what I said, he’d definitely think I was sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. He probably blames me for her decision to move to New York.”
She scowled. “And Emma, like most eighteen-year-olds, probably couldn’t wait to throw in his face that other people agree with her.”
I picked up the phone and punched in Emma’s number again.
“Oh, hi, Della,” the girl said when I identified myself. “Sorry I didn’t wait around for you. I just needed to get out of there.”
“Don’t worry about it. By any chance, did you tell Ricky about the advice I gave you to live your own life?”
She hesitated. “I might have. Why?”
“And you told him that I encouraged you to pursue your dream of modeling?”
“Yes. Why? Is everything all right? Ricky didn’t do anything, did he?”
“Somebody just called me, warning me to mind my own.”
“Was it Ricky?” she asked, sounding worried.
“It could have been, but I can’t be sure. Whoever it was, he disguised his voice—deep and raspy.”
There was a short silence. “I got some calls from someone who sounded exactly like that,” she said. “I’m pretty sure they were from Mrs. McDermott. She’s the only person I know who hates me. Maybe she was the one who called you too.”
Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery Page 12
