Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery

by Martin, Carol Ann

  “We?”

  “My husband and I.”

  “You mean you’re married to Sweeny?” I shouldn’t have been surprised. It wasn’t unusual for married couples who both worked as servants to be hired in the same household. “Sweeny was telling me about Mr. Whitby’s missing gun—an old Colt, right?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Jimmy told you about that?”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Marnie rising from her chair. I gave her a warning look and she sat back down.

  “Oh, we didn’t talk for very long,” I answered vaguely. “I just feel so awful for poor Mr. Whitby. He cares so much about his collection. I hope that Colt wasn’t too valuable.”

  She was already shaking her head. “Oh, no, not at all. It was one of the least important in his collection. I mean, it was still valuable, but the gun right next to it was worth ten times as much. It was just lucky the thief took that one instead.”

  “I hope the collection is well insured.”

  She nodded. “The police were already there to take down the report. They left black fingerprint powder all over that room. Such a mess.” And then, leaning in, she whispered, “I’ve been wondering if that poor man—you know, the one who was murdered—might have been killed with Mr. Whitby’s gun.” So Mrs. Sweeny liked to gossip, I thought. Well, I was not about to disappoint her.

  I adopted a whispery tone. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. If it was the murder weapon, it would mean one of the guests at the party is the killer. Does anybody have any idea who could have taken it?”

  “Nobody has the faintest idea. It’s a mystery. I’ve been going over and over in my mind the people I saw going upstairs. There were so many of them—at least two hundred.”

  “Two hundred.” I scowled. “That’s a lot of suspects. I’m surprised Mr. Whitby allowed guests to walk around the house.”

  “That was not his idea. It was Miss Boyd’s.” She grimaced at the name. “He normally never allows people to walk about like that. He hates people nosing around his house.” She sneered. “But she wanted to show off, no doubt.”

  Bunny’s idea—how interesting. I stored this new tidbit of information. “It just gives me goose bumps to think that the killer might be somebody I know,” I said, widening my eyes dramatically.

  “It does me too,” she said, and then, as if suddenly realizing that she was participating in gossip, she straightened up. “Well, then,” she said stiffly, “I’ll let Ms. Boyd know I gave you the envelope.” She turned and walked out.

  I tore open the envelope and pulled out the agreement. After reading it carefully, I bent down to get the fax machine from under the counter. It was time to place that yarn order. And then I stopped. As excited as I was about starting this project, I had to be smart. I had to get the deposit first.

  I turned my thoughts to something Mrs. Sweeny had said. The gun next to the one that had been stolen was worth ten times as much. This suggested the Colt was not stolen for its value. If not for that, then what? Its practical value? Yes, it was possible that whoever took it had stolen it to use it.

  Marnie wandered over, eyeing me suspiciously. “Poor Mr. Whitby? Really? The man is a gazillionaire.”

  “Was I being very obvious?”

  She smirked. “I’ll say. I was surprised she didn’t see through you right away. What did you hope to find out?”

  “Nothing in particular. I was just gossiping. You never know what you might find out from gossiping.”

  She tilted her head, repeating, “So, what did you find out?”

  “I think it’s interesting that of all the guns, the one that was stolen turns out to be not terribly important.”

  “I’d say it was lucky rather than interesting.”

  I didn’t comment. After a few seconds of silence, she said, “Are you going to sign that contract?”

  I rolled my eyes, laughing. “You sure are nosy.”

  She didn’t bat an eye. “Why would you ever think otherwise? Everybody knows I’m curious.” She regarded me suspiciously. “You’re not sure you want the job anymore, are you?”

  I laughed. “Don’t be silly. I just want to go over it carefully a second time and make sure it’s right before I sign it.”

  “Good idea,” she said, and returned to her loom.

  • • •

  Matthew answered on the first ring. “Well, if it isn’t my very own personal informant. I take it you have some new and important information to share with me?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Good timing, I just had lunch and was about to take Winston for a walk. Why don’t we meet in the park behind the church? We can chat without risk of anyone overhearing.”

  “Where are you going?” Marnie called as I grabbed my sweater and headed for the door.

  “I’m joining Matthew for a walk.”

  Her frown morphed into a grin. “Have fu-un, and for heaven’s sake, flirt,” she called out as the door swung closed behind me.

  The church was a block down the street, right next to Briar Hollow Mercantile, almost equidistant between Mathew’s house and my shop. I walked briskly, figuring my pace would be close to Matthew’s and Winston’s so we should meet about halfway. Sure enough, as I approached the church, I spotted them coming toward me from the opposite side. Suddenly, Winnie spotted me and took off at a gallop, his lead whipping along behind him.

  He threw himself at me, almost knocking me down. “Whoa there, big boy.” I took hold of his leash and handed it to Matthew as he caught up.

  “Bad boy,” he said firmly. Any other dog would be squirming with guilt. Not this dog, though—he stared up at Matthew, wagging his nonexistent tail.

  I chuckled. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Winnie. With an ugly mug like yours, you should at least be really smart.” Winston gave me a happy bark, proving my point exactly. “You’re not even smart enough to know when you’re being insulted.”

  Matthew gave him a pat on the head. “Don’t you mind what Della says, Winston. You’re not ugly at all. And I know you’re smart. You’re the hero who saved my life last summer.”

  Winston looked up at him, as confused as ever.

  “He doesn’t understand a word you say. To him, people talk is just as incomprehensible as barking is to us. Isn’t that right, big boy?”

  He looked back at me. “Woof.”

  I grinned at Matthew. “See?”

  We strolled along the sidewalk bordering the church and picked a bench at the edge of the park.

  “Out with it. What did you find out?”

  “A couple of things.” I didn’t want to mention the crank call I’d gotten. He’d only worry. But I told him that I’d run into Bunny last night and learned that she owned the Longview. “Which means she had not only the opportunity to steal the gun, but also the opportunity to get inside the Coffee Break without anybody seeing her.”

  “Good job,” he said.

  “That’s not all. It turns out that giving tours of the Whitby house during the party was her idea. Whitby never allows it. So if she wanted to steal the gun herself, what better cover?”

  “Maybe she just wanted to show off her work.”

  “That’s what Mrs. Sweeny said.” I shrugged. “It’s true that I still don’t have a motive for her, but I don’t want to take her off my list, at least not yet.”

  “Listen to you,” he said, chuckling. “Your list. By the way, I have news too. The police have agreed to make copies of McDermott’s photos.”

  “Great. When can I look at them?”

  “They won’t be ready until tomorrow. They’re having them cropped so all I get are the head shots.”

  “That makes sense.” I nodded. “Oh, and before I forget. I overheard an argument between Emma and her boyfriend.” I tried to repeat it as best I could. “I have no id
ea what he did that was so terrible that he could be in jail, but whatever it was, Emma had nothing to do with it.”

  “You’re good at this,” he said.

  I beamed. “Do the police know what kind of gun killed McDermott?”

  “I’m sure they do. But they’re keeping that information from the public.”

  “How difficult would it be to get ammunition for an antique gun?” I asked. “The butler told me it was more than a hundred years old, a Colt, a model 1908.” He gave an incredulous look. “What? I was a business analyst. I have a memory for numbers.”

  “Good for you. God knows I don’t. Right offhand, I have no idea what kind of ammo it would use. I’ll have to look it up.”

  “And here’s another thing. Mrs. Sweeny said the stolen gun was not terribly valuable. It was sitting right next to one of the most expensive weapons in Whitby’s collection. Why would somebody steal a relatively inexpensive gun when there’s another, worth ten times as much, right next to it?”

  Matthew nodded. “Interesting.”

  I continued. “I think it was stolen by the killer because he intended to use it.”

  “It could be,” he said.

  I planted both hands on my hips. “I hate when you’re vague like that. Tell me what you’re really thinking.”

  “It’s still early to jump to these kinds of conclusions. We have to keep in mind that we still don’t know what kind of gun was used. All I know is that McDermott was shot four times from a distance of about fifteen feet, and all the bullets hit him in the heart, within an inch of one another.”

  “So whoever shot him was good with guns.”

  “So it would seem.”

  I groaned. “There you go again. You never commit to an opinion. No wonder you’re still unmarried. You can’t commit to a woman either.” Just as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to bite them back. I felt the heat rise to my face. Rather than sit there and suffer more embarrassment, I jumped to my feet and hurried away.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did I always do things like this? Maybe Jenny was right. I was afraid. Rather than risk getting hurt, I was subconsciously pushing Matthew away. I headed back to the shop, feeling like an utter failure.

  At the newspaper vending machine, I picked up a copy of the Belmont Daily and walked on. I opened the door, stepping aside to let in a trio of women. They made a beeline for the coffee shop. One of them was telling her friends about the amazing prediction that Jenny had told her that had come true.

  To each her own, I thought.

  Marnie looked at me as I walked in. “Hey, why the sullen face? Or am I being nosy again?”

  I was so upset, I was near tears. “I really messed up this time.”

  She got up from her loom. “Uh-oh, what did you do?”

  “Me and my big mouth—I couldn’t have made things worse.” Suddenly tears were quivering on my lashes, and before I knew it, I was spilling out the whole story to Marnie.

  She clucked along sympathetically. “Sugar pie, that’s not so bad. Sure you feel silly, but you can make things right very easily. But you have to do some changing. Everybody knows you’re head over heels with him—everybody, that is, except him. When he’s around, you start behaving like somebody else. You’re not yourself anymore. You have to start being nice to the man. You know what they say about attracting flies with honey.”

  I groaned. “You’re telling me to flirt again, aren’t you?”

  She widened her eyes. “Yes. And what’s so bad about that? I happen to think he’s in love with you too. But you’ve been sending him such mixed signals, the guy probably doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.” She wagged a pudgy finger at me. “If you want that man, you’re going to have to go after him.”

  In love with me. What crock. “I must be the most awkward woman in the world when it comes to attracting a man.”

  Marnie regarded me without the least bit of sympathy. “I’m going to give you your first lesson.”

  I looked at her. Marnie, with her carrot hair and outrageous outfits, was going to give me lessons on how to attract a man. I would have protested if I hadn’t been so bummed out. Instead, I said, “What do you suggest?”

  “The most intoxicating thing to a man is a woman who shows interest in him. The few times I’ve seen you with him, you’re so busy talking about clues and investigating and all your suspicions that he probably has no idea you even like him.”

  That was almost word for word what Jenny’s boyfriend had said, and she had nabbed him within months of being single again. Is that how she’d done it? Maybe I should start taking her advice—at least about this.

  “It’s the easiest thing in the world,” Marnie continued. “Ask him about his day. Show some interest in his activities, in things that are important to him. Try to look at him adoringly, for a change.”

  “What do you mean, for a change? How do I normally look at him?”

  “Sweetie, you look at him the way a big sister might look at a younger, idiotic brother.”

  “I do not.” I tried to think back on how I usually behaved around Matthew. It was true that I constantly worried that I might inadvertently show my feelings. Perhaps that fear did tend to make me seem distant. But the thought of exposing the way I felt . . . I gave myself a shake. Maybe Marnie was right. I grimaced. “What if he tells me he doesn’t feel the same way? Or worse, what if he laughs at me?”

  Marnie scoffed. “Don’t be silly. Take my advice—you know, flutter your lashes and flirt with him a little. And remember, you can’t do worse than you are right now.”

  I so didn’t see myself doing the flirty thing. I was an intelligent woman, cerebral. Or at least I wanted to see myself that way. I was not the silly eyelash-fluttering type. But nonetheless, I said, “Okay, fine. I’ll give it a try.”

  She gave me a hard look. “Don’t try. Do.” And then, turning on her heel, she went back to her weaving.

  Bat my lashes and flirt? I could just imagine how Matthew would react to that. He’d fall over laughing. I pushed that image out of my mind and glanced at my to-do list—order the yarn for Bunny’s project and start dressing the wide loom. I had already filled out the order form and had almost faxed it to the distributer. I was tempted to do so now. But I hadn’t even looked at the contract a second time yet. I’d do that tonight. I’d go over it line by line and make sure it protected me.

  Glancing around for something to do, I picked up a pad and pencil and went to the shelves of yarn along the far wall. Even if I decided to not take it, it wouldn’t hurt to take inventory of the skeins of white linen I had on hand. And I could dress the loom. If things went horribly wrong and I lost the contract, I could still use it for other projects. I got to work, and soon I had counted the skeins and was ready to start measuring the warp.

  This presented an entirely new challenge. I had a number of measuring racks, but none of them was nearly big enough to prepare for a loom of this size. I looked around and my eyes fell on the chair behind my dobby loom. Chairs, they would work. I pulled two chairs into the center of the shop, placing them eight feet apart. And using their backs, I began winding my warp around one, then crossing between the chairs before winding around the other. Normally I would have measured for the entire project at once, but in this case it was easier to do the dressing in stages. Back and forth I went until I had no more yarn. And then I carefully tied small pieces of ribbon around each group of yarn to make sure the cross remained intact. When I removed it from the chairs, the measured warp looked like a giant rope.

  • • •

  Customers began streaming through my shop on their way out from Coffee, Tea and Destiny. Lunchtime was over. The aroma of vegetable soup and grilled bread had been driving me mad since I’d come back from my short meeting with Matthew. Now that the shop was emptying, I wouldn’t feel so guilty taking up Jenny’s time
. My stomach rumbled.

  From her loom, Marnie said, “Come see what I’ve got so far.”

  I coiled the rope of warp on top of my loom and went over for a look. She was working on place mats in a classic fire stitch in blue, white and yellow. “They are gorgeous,” I said.

  “I was hoping you’d like the design.” She beamed. “I measured enough warp to make twelve, but I’m thinking of making only eight and weaving a couple of runners to match, instead. What do you think?”

  “That’s not a bad idea. A lot of people use runners instead of trivets. Why don’t we test them? If they sell well, we’ll make place mats and matching runners a regular stock item.” I started back toward my own project and stopped. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I’m going to ask Jenny to fix me a sandwich. Can I get you something while I’m there?”

  She got up from her bench. “I’ll go. What kind of sandwich do you want?”

  While Marnie disappeared into the back, I gave my counter a cursory wipe and pulled out Bunny’s contract, going over it again. The terms were exactly as we’d agreed, except that it made no mention of a deposit. I picked up a pen and at the bottom of the document, I wrote, “Client agrees to a nonrefundable deposit of”—I checked my calculations and entered the amount—“which will cover materials needed to complete the project, plus a percentage of the labor.” I initialed the line and signed at the bottom. Unless Bunny agreed to this clause, accepting the job would be risky. Surely she would agree. I returned the contract to its envelope, put it away and unfolded the newspaper.

  The first page was devoted to the murder of McDermott, as it had been since his death. The police, I read, were no closer to solving the case than they had been on the first day. My eyes swept through the article, which told me nothing I didn’t already know. The last paragraph mentioned that McDermott was an amateur photographer and even that he had a photo studio in Belmont. I wondered if this information might encourage tips from the public. The police must have been hoping for exactly that because two lines later the paper gave the number of a tips hotline and a plea for anyone with information to call in.