Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery

by Martin, Carol Ann

  I thought of Mrs. Anderson. If she read the article, she was probably beside herself with worry. Impulsively, I pulled out my laptop, turned it on and searched the online phone directory for Jeffrey Anderson of Belmont. The number popped up.

  I glanced over my shoulder. There was still no sign of Marnie. I picked up the phone and punched in the Andersons’ number.

  A woman came on. “May I speak to Mrs. Anderson please?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Anderson. I hope I’m not calling you at a bad time. This is Della Wright of Dream Weaver.”

  I imagined, more than heard, the small gasp. “What can I do for you, Della?”

  “I hope you don’t mind my calling. I thought you might be happy to know that the police searched the photo studio and found pictures of dozens of women, but none of you.” There was a long silence. For a moment I thought she had hung up. “Hello?”

  “I’m here,” she said, and then nervously, she asked, “Are you absolutely certain?”

  “I am. I have a friend helping the police, and he saw all the pictures. There were none of you among them.”

  Horrified—“You mean, you told somebody?”

  “Not at all. He gave me the names of the women he knew. And he would have recognized you if your picture had been there.” I was lying again, but I just saw no point in upsetting her more.

  There was a long silence as she digested this. “That doesn’t make me feel any better. Now I have to worry about where those pictures disappeared to. Somebody must have taken them.”

  “Are you absolutely sure your husband didn’t know about them? When he heard about Mr. McDermott’s murder, he might have sent somebody to get rid of them.”

  “Impossible,” she said. “My husband would never condone anything illegal. And furthermore, he would have come to me. No. I’m afraid if those pictures are missing, it’s more likely they were taken by somebody planning to use them against us.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I felt worse for having called her.

  She continued. “If you find out any more, please let me know.” And suddenly I heard a click followed by a dial tone. She had hung up. I stared at the receiver in my hand and returned it to its cradle.

  Behind me, footsteps approached. Marnie was returning.

  “I got you a bowl of vegetable soup and a chopped egg sandwich.” She set them on the counter and went back to her loom, already biting into her submarine.

  “Thanks. Are you going to work right through lunch? You can join me if you like.”

  She shook her head. “That’s nice, but I want to get back to those place mats. I aim to finish them as soon as possible.”

  I swallowed a spoonful of soup. It was good. And I flipped to the second page of the newspaper, where I was surprised to find an article about Jeffrey Anderson. He had just announced his candidacy for governor. My eyes widened. That made him Whitby’s political opponent.

  I read on. Anderson’s decision had been announced at a press conference the previous evening—only one day following the murder of McDermott. No wonder Mrs. Anderson had been so frantic to get her hands on those pictures. A few pages later, I found McDermott’s obituary. The deceased had been fifty-one years old, I read. He left behind his wife of twenty-eight years and a sister who lived in Virginia. There was no mention of children. The article went on to announce that a short memorial service would be held at St. Pat’s Church at seven o’clock the next evening. That got me thinking.

  It was likely that the killer would have been someone in the community. I wondered if he or she would attend the funeral. You never knew what you could learn from watching people mourn.

  I turned the page to an article about the local grade-school spelling bee. The next page was all about a Belmont gardener’s prizewinning roses. I tuned another page—the Social Scene. I stopped.

  LOCAL MILLIONAIRE SEEN OUT AND ABOUT WITH TELEVISION PERSONALITY, the headline of the column read. It went on to say that a certain local millionaire had been seen at a Belmont restaurant in a tête-à-tête with a television interior designer. The writer hinted at a romance between the two, describing them as “gazing into each other’s eyes over a candlelit dinner, in a discreet corner of the restaurant.” Nowhere were names mentioned, but who else could it be but Whitby and Bunny? There weren’t dozens of millionaires in these parts and even fewer television interior designers.

  I chuckled to myself. How much of the short article was true, I had no idea. I read the paragraph a second time. And then I saw, just below that little piece of gossip, another article, this one about Bunny Boyd, the celebrity designer working on restoring one of North Carolina’s most famous historical homes. The story went on to describe Bunny as one of best decorators in the country and the house in question as belonging to Jeffrey Whitby, who was running for governor. How the newspaper imagined its readers would not make the link between the two gossip pieces was beyond me.

  A few lines later, the writer mentioned that the beautiful Bunny Boyd had never married. That was odd. I paused to think about that. Neither Bunny nor Bernard Whitby had ever been married. I wondered if maybe their affair had been going on for many years. Come to think of it, it was a bit strange that he had never married either. Over the years there must have been dozens of women vying to capture his heart, or at least his bank account. Which of the two was Bunny really after?

  I had finished my soup and was halfway through my sandwich when the phone rang, and speak of the devil, the call display showed none other than Bunny Boyd’s number.

  “Della, hi. I’m sorry I didn’t drop by. I got so busy. Time just ran away from me. Did you have a chance to look over the contract?”

  I was tempted to mention that I’d seen her come to the door, but that might not be a good idea. “I looked at it. It all seems fine, except that it makes no mention of a deposit.”

  “That’s not important. If you tell me the amount, I’ll draw up the check and drop it off this afternoon, tomorrow at the latest. I hope you placed that order. You need to get going if you’re going to finish on time.”

  Not important to her maybe. But to me it was crucial. “I’ve already calculated the amount of yarn I’ll need, and I was planning to place the order as soon as I get the deposit. In the meantime, I’ll start calling weavers today, so we can work in shifts.”

  “You haven’t placed the order yet? That can’t wait. I promise I’ll stop by and drop it off before the end of the day. And please make sure you order the entire amount of yarn. Otherwise we’ll end up with different dye lots. We can’t have that.”

  She was so insistent I found myself unable to argue. “I always order the full amount I need for a project, and the company I order from is very good. They usually deliver the next business day.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I’ll want to double check the color before you start production. Call me the second the order comes in. If they deliver within a day, there’s no point in dropping by today. I’ll come by tomorrow to check the color and drop off the deposit at the same time. Two birds with one stone. See you then.” And before I could utter a word, she had hung up.

  I stared at the receiver in my hands. She had promised to drop off a check and then reneged on it, all in one short conversation. And she still expected me to have all the materials for the project within twenty-four hours. Now what was I supposed to do?

  “Who was that?” Marnie asked, pausing in her weaving.

  “Bunny Boyd,” I said. “I all but promised to order the yarn, but if I place the order and she reneges on the deposit, I’ll be stuck with an immense amount of yarn. It would take me years to go through all of it. My only other option would be to return it to the distributor and pay a hefty restocking fee. Damn it. I should have been more insistent.”

  “If you want to know what I think,” she said, rising from her chair and stretching her
back, “don’t take the chance. You have too much at risk.”

  I had already arrived at that decision. Still . . . “What if I lose her contract?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. How many weavers have the competence to produce the quality she’s looking for? And how many do you think have the right kind of loom?”

  Marnie had a good point. “You’re right. She’ll just have to understand.” I stared down at the loom again, gathering my courage. What was it about the woman that intimidated me so? “This brings up another problem.”

  “What?”

  I picked up the rope of warp. “I’ve already measured all this yarn. What am I supposed to do with it? Discard it? She said she wants to check all the dye lots to make sure they’re identical. I’ve never seen one plain white linen yarn look any different from another—as long as they’re the same weight. But I wouldn’t put it past her to insist that she can see a difference.” Marnie laughed. “I’m glad you see the humor in this, because I sure don’t,” I said, scowling.

  “Sometimes, sugar pie, there is some money that’s just not worth the effort.”

  I groaned. That was not what I wanted to hear. I wanted her to tell me not to worry, that the contract was mine and that everything would work itself out. Well, the only thing left to do was pray Bunny would be understanding and that she dropped off the deposit and signed the agreement including the clause I’d added.

  • • •

  My weavers were a varied bunch. Four were experts, middle-aged ladies who had wandered into my store, looking for yarns. They had little else but time on their hands. I had no difficulty getting them on board. Of my three younger weavers, Lydia Gerard was close to my age—in her midthirties—and taught English at the local high school. I’d met her when she walked through on her way to Jenny’s shop. She’d stopped and we’d chatted for a few minutes. A couple of days later she’d dropped by again to show me a few of her weaving projects. I picked up the phone.

  “That’s wonderful,” she exclaimed, when I told her about Bunny’s project. “I have fewer classes this semester, so I have a couple of free periods back-to-back during the week. I’d be happy to help if you need me.”

  I still felt nervous talking about the contract as if it were a done deal. “Whether I get it or not, I hope you can weave me some place mats. I can’t keep them in stock.”

  “Sure,” she said. “But from what you tell me, that new loom of yours is a monster. Is it dressed?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  She was quiet for a minute as she went over her schedule. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. I can stop by in the morning if you like. I could give you a hand dressing the loom. If you get that contract, you’ll need it ready to go, and it could take you weeks.”

  “That’s true, but the yarn hasn’t arrived yet. If you want to come in and take a peek at my new loom, you’re more than welcome.”

  “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow, say ten thirtyish?” We said good-bye, and I called another of my weavers, this time getting only an answering machine. I left a voice mail and made my last call.

  Mercedes Hanson was the youngest of my helpers—a teenager. A few months ago she took a few weaving classes and developed a love of the craft. Since then, Mercedes had made a few items beautiful enough to show in my shop and had been thrilled to get a check once they had sold. She was not proficient enough to work on a project like Bunny’s, but there were other things she could do to help. There would be bobbins to fill, warp lengths to measure and probably a half dozen other small chores.

  “You want me to help produce handwoven fabric for a designer?” Her voice was filled with equal measures of excitement and concern. “Do you really mean it?”

  “I’ll keep you busy helping in little ways, and you could learn a lot just from watching.”

  She sounded relieved. “I’d like that. How big is the loom?”

  “It’s ninety-eight inches wide and six feet tall, with two sets of treadles and eight harnesses.” I pictured her trying to imagine the size.

  She gasped. “It sounds like a loom on steroids.”

  I laughed. “That’s an excellent way to describe it. It is a bit imposing when you first see it.”

  “How many yards of fabric do you have to produce?”

  When I told her, she gasped again, exclaiming, “You don’t have a cottage industry anymore; you’re going into the manufacturing business.”

  I chuckled. “It does feel a bit like that. But once this contract is completed, I doubt I’ll ever land another one near its size. I’ll be back to weaving afghans, coverlets, tea towels and place mats.”

  “Can I come and see it?”

  “Of course you can. I have a weaver coming over to look at it tomorrow. Why don’t you come around the same time? And then we can check your class schedule and decide when you can work.” She agreed on the time and hung up.

  When I looked around, Marnie had left her loom and was pulling on her jacket. “I think I’m going to head home,” she said. “I have a lot of baking to do. Was that Mercedes you were talking to?”

  “Yes. She’ll be coming in to help whenever she can.”

  “That was nice of you to ask her to help. I know she’s been dying to drop by the shop, but she’s afraid of being a pest.”

  “That’s just silly,” I said. “She should know better than that. I like having her around. I’ll make sure she feels welcome when she drops by tomorrow.”

  Marnie nodded. “Good. That’ll make her happy.” With that, she marched toward the door, calling over her shoulder, “See you in the morning.”

  The door closed behind her, and suddenly the shop felt very lonely. I glanced at my watch—six fifteen. It was more than an hour later than my usual closing time. No wonder the place had been so quiet for the last hour. I glanced toward the back, wondering what Jenny was still doing here. She should have left an hour ago too.

  “Yoo-hoo,” I called as I headed for her shop. I pushed the beaded curtain aside. “What are you still—”

  Jenny had climbed on top of her counter and was struggling with a light fixture. “I’m changing this bulb. Here. Hold this.” I moved closer and took the old bulb while she twisted in the new one. “Done.” She hopped off the counter. “So, any new developments on the murder?”

  I let out a long sigh. “Every time I turn around I discover something new, some element that throws new light on the case. I have so many suspects now, I’m more confused than ever.”

  “I have no doubt that you’ll figure it out.”

  “This time I’m not so sure.”

  She picked up her bag and hooked it over one shoulder. “Were you just about to leave?”

  “You bet I am. I’m tired.” I tapped my watch. “It’s twenty past six. Want to come up for a glass of wine?”

  “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.” She grabbed her sweater and followed me out.

  Upstairs, I pointed her toward the fridge. “You pick a bottle and I’ll be right back.” I hurried to the second bedroom, which I’d turned into my office. I carried the twenty-four-by-thirty-six-inch whiteboard back to the kitchen, where Jenny was struggling with the cork from a bottle of pinot grigio. It came out with a soft pop.

  “Here we go.” She noticed the board and frowned. “What is that for?”

  I set it up next to the kitchen table. “You are going to help me look at all the suspects and analyze their motives.”

  “Gee. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” she said sardonically. From the cupboard, she pulled two stem glasses and filled them. She handed the first one to me. “I knew I’d have to pay for this wine somehow.” She pulled up a chair. “Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

  I picked up a felt marker. “I spoke to Mrs. Anderson today. I guess I didn’t tell you about the photos I found of her having a romantic dinner with—you
won’t believe this—Bernard Whitby.” Her eyes went from bored to total disbelief as I filled her in.

  “Mrs. Julia Anderson? The one who’s married to the mayor?” she asked, shocked. “I can’t believe it. I always thought they had such a great marriage. Mind you, I used to think the same about my marriage, and look at what happened there.”

  “Even politician’s wives sometimes make mistakes.”

  “But having an affair with your husband’s political adversary? That’s suicide. It’s crazy.”

  “Hold on. Those pictures were taken a long time ago, maybe as much as twenty years ago. Back then her husband was probably not involved in politics, and if he was, Whitby was not his adversary. He wasn’t even involved in politics until—what—just a few days ago.”

  “That’s true,” she said, more calmly.

  I shrugged. “And who knows what was going on. Maybe the pictures look more incriminating than the situation really was. Or maybe she and her husband were separated for a while. Or maybe he was having an affair. We shouldn’t judge. The point is that those pictures disappeared. When the police went in, they were all gone—every last one of them. And just the night before, there were at least a dozen of them. I saw them myself.”

  Jenny’s eyebrows bobbed. “When you turned her down, maybe she got somebody else to steal them.”

  I discarded that as a possibility immediately. “She swears she knows nothing. And rather than relieved, when I told her the pictures had disappeared, she sounded more worried. She’s convinced they were stolen by someone planning to use them against her. What I wonder is, does somebody want to cause trouble in her marriage? Or is this a politically motivated maneuver?”

  Jenny’s mouth dropped. “Jeffrey Anderson just announced his candidature for governorship.”

  I nodded. “And his opponent is Whitby—”

  “Maybe he stole the pictures.”

  Again, I shook my head. “I thought of that, but Whitby is in the running himself, and those pictures don’t exactly shine a flattering light on him.”