He closed the door behind him and scowled. “Is this the place for the charity weaving group?”
“Yes, it is.” I set the fan on the floor. “Are you here to join the group?”
“What else would I be doing here?” he grumbled, looking about as pleased as a bear in a trap.
I sensed trouble. Why was it that every group had to have at least one churl?
Chapter 2
He looked at us like a poker champ sizing up the other players. When his eyes fell on Marnie Potter, the redhead met his gaze with a frosty stare.
She pointed an index finger at him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, cupcake, but something tells me you don’t have much weaving experience.”
“You’re damn right, Mrs. Potter,” he replied, looking uncomfortable. “And to tell you the truth, I can think of a dozen things I’d rather be doing with my time.”
I can pretty safely say that we were all taken aback, except for Marnie, who crossed her arms.
“So what exactly brings you here?” Before he could answer, she added, “And maybe you could show a little politeness and introduce yourself, unless you expect Della here to call you cupcake too.” Oddly, Marnie’s comments seemed to amuse him. His scowl melted into a cocky grin.
“I’ve been called worse.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “David Swanson, ma’am, at your service.”
I glanced at it. COTTAGE AND CASTLE REALTIES, it read, followed by his name and the address and phone number of his firm.
“If you don’t want to be here, why aren’t you out having a beer, or watching baseball, or doing whatever the heck you’d rather be doing?” continued Marnie. But something in her tone piqued my curiosity. I had the strange impression she was baiting him.
His grin slipped, and he looked pained. “On the off chance that you haven’t already heard, which I seriously doubt”—he glared at Marnie, who glared right back at him, and I realized that whatever David Swanson was about to say would come as no surprise to her—“I’ve been ordered to do community service. They let me choose between some kind of charity work and pulling up nutsedge,” he said, naming a local invasive plant. “Call me lazy, but weaving seemed easier on my back than weeding.”
This admission was followed by a heavy silence. What, exactly, had David Swanson done to earn himself this penalty? Briar Hollow being such a small town, I suspected I might be the only person in the room who didn’t know.
He caught me staring at him. “Hey, don’t look at me like that,” he said defensively. “A coworker charged me with assault, when all I did was grab him by the collar.” He shrugged, looking slightly sheepish. “I guess I did sort of lose my temper. But frankly, I think I deserve a medal for the restraint I showed in just threatening to kill him. Instead, they tell me I have an anger management issue.” He made quotation marks in the air.
Susan Wood cocked a hip. “As I already told you, Mr. Swanson, I’m not so sure you chose the easier of the two. Weaving can be hard work, maybe just as hard as weeding.” She was right. Depending on the yarn used, weaving can be murder on a person’s back.
At that moment, the bell above the door tinkled, and a startlingly beautiful woman walked in with a sullen-looking teenage girl.
“I’m Dolores Hanson,” the woman said, “and this is my daughter, Mercedes.” She gently elbowed the girl. “Mercedes, say hello.”
Mercedes mumbled something that might have been a greeting. To say that she looked less than thrilled to be here was an understatement.
Mother and daughter were both blue-eyed blondes, but all resemblance ended there. The mother, probably in her mid-forties, had the kind of perfect complexion one usually saw on soap ads. She was expertly made up and wore a floral dress, strappy high-heeled sandals, a pristine manicure and—wow—my eyes nearly popped at the size of the diamond ring on her left hand.
The daughter—maybe sixteen—had the same coloring and similar height and weight. She might have been beautiful too, but the ghostly foundation and thick black eyeliner made it difficult to tell. She was dressed in top to bottom black: black T-shirt torn strategically to show off plenty of flesh, tight black jeans and black four-inch heels; even her dangling skull-and-crossbones earrings were black. But when I looked into her eyes, I saw insecurity. So the provocative exterior is a mask, I thought. I smiled at her and she averted her gaze.
Now, what in the world would bring this pair to my little group? Neither of them seemed the weaving type. But, I reminded myself, who was I to judge? “You don’t seem the type,” was exactly what my friends had said when I shared my plan to open this shop.
“I’m Della Wright. I take it you’re here to join our charity weaving group?”
“We are,” Dolores said. “But I have to warn you, we don’t know the first thing about weaving. Will that be a problem?”
“Not at all.” My eyes were drawn to her forehead, which was probably the smoothest brow I had ever seen. I was fascinated and had to stop myself from staring.
“Hi, Dolores,” David Swanson said, brightening suddenly. “I had no idea you were interested in weaving.”
She shrugged. “I’ve been a mental case since my husband’s death. I’m hoping weaving will help me relax.”
David nodded, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know the first thing about weaving either,” he said, ignoring the remark about her husband. As I looked around the room, I saw that Dolores’s comment seemed to have cast a pall over the entire group. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because she kept talking.
“Well, that means you and I will both learn something new today.” She walked over to him and put a hand on his arm possessively. “I didn’t expect to see you here, David. This is a nice surprise.”
Something in her tone told me this was not entirely true. As if to confirm it, her daughter rolled her eyes and muttered, “Yeah, right, a big fat surprise.” I swung around just in time to see—was it anger?—in the teenager’s eyes. But as quickly as it had appeared, the expression was gone, and I was left wondering if I had imagined it. Dolores turned to give her daughter a warning look.
It was time to get this meeting started. I herded the group out of the shop area and into the second room, where I had set up my looms.
“Welcome to our weaving group, everyone. I’m thrilled that so many of you decided to join, no matter what reason may have brought you.” I looked at David Swanson and gave him a smile. “There are a few different ways we can do this. We could meet once or twice a week and work together, or we can each decide what kind of blankets we want to make and then weave them on our own. I will leave the decision to you.”
This time Jenny spoke up. “How about a combination of both?” She looked around. “Maybe I can do some work on my own, but I sort of like the idea of getting together once a week or so.” Her suggestion was met with smiles and nods.
“I think that’s a good idea. Those of you who don’t have looms of your own can make appointments to come use one of mine whenever you like. As for tonight, there are seven of us, and only four looms, so we’ll have to partner up. But I’ll try to have enough looms for everyone at our next meeting. Does anyone have a portable loom we could borrow?”
Jenny looked at me. “I have a rigid heddle I can bring. I’ve only ever used it to make scarves and place mats though. Do you think it’ll work for making baby blankets?”
“Of course it will. Weaving on a simple loom is a wonderful way to learn the craft. It will be perfect for our beginners. After they learn the basics, they may want to graduate to a more complex loom.”
Marnie Potter cut in. “I’ve seen some gorgeous blankets made on simple looms.”
“That settles it, then,” replied Jenny. “I’ll bring it over.”
Susan raised her hand. “I have two looms at home. One of them is portable. I can bring it over if you like.”
> “Thank you. That would be great. I’ll need help preparing the warps and dressing the looms for the beginner weavers.” I looked around, hoping for a volunteer.
“I can do that if you like,” Jenny offered. “How about I come over tomorrow morning, say, sometime around ten thirty?”
I wondered if I looked as pleased as I felt. Since I’d moved here, all my concentration had been on setting up and I’d yet to make friends. Perhaps that was about to change. “Great. Maybe we can have coffee together afterward.”
Across the room Marnie Potter was fanning herself again. She looked at David Swanson. “Could you do this lady a favor and open that dratted window?” David struggled with the window for a few minutes and managed to raise it a couple of inches. Meanwhile, I plugged in the fan and turned it on, creating a light breeze.
“That’s the most it’ll go,” David said.
“That’s much better, cupcake,” said Marnie, beaming at him. Apparently it didn’t take much to soften her up, because the frosty woman of a moment ago had morphed into a coquettish flirt. “You are such a sweetie pie.”
“Who else here is new to weaving?” I asked, trying to bring the subject back to our project. Mercedes raised her hand, grimacing. “I have a suggestion,” I said. “Why don’t the newbies join my beginner class? Better yet, how about I organize a class for just the three of you? That way, you can learn while working on your baby blankets.”
They glanced at each other, looking unsure. The first to nod was David. “I will if you will,” he told Dolores.
“You can count on Mercedes and me.”
Her daughter scowled. “Oh, Mo-o-om,” she said, stretching the word into three syllables. “You know I don’t want to—”
“Mercedes, you will do as I say, and that’s that.”
“Let’s get to work,” I cut in enthusiastically. “I suggest our beginners join an experienced weaver—just for tonight,” I quickly added, seeing Dolores’s face fall.
Marnie headed straight for David Swanson, hooking her arm through his. “Don’t you worry, cupcake. I know enough for the two of us.” She led him toward my AVL, the largest of my looms, and began explaining its different parts to him. “These are the heddles, and every one of them has to be threaded.”
“Shit! There must be hundreds of them. It’ll take forever,” David replied.
Meanwhile, Susan had partnered with Mercedes, who still looked miserable, while Jenny and Dolores inspected my counterbalance loom.
I walked over to my table loom. “This one is only eighteen inches wide, so I think a good solution might be to make blankets of twelve-inch strips joined together.”
“That’s a great idea,” Jenny said. “A sort of variation on friendship blankets. It’ll make it easy to work on the project from home too.”
Dolores looked at me, puzzled. “Friendship blankets? I thought we were making baby blankets.”
“Friendship blankets can be made in any size. It simply means they’re constructed of many pieces, usually woven by a number of friends,” I explained.
“Oh,” she said, looking bored. Once again my eyes were drawn to her smooth forehead, and it suddenly hit me. Botox! That explained it.
“That’s why they’re called friendship blankets,” added Jenny. “They can look really pretty with strips of different weaves and colors. They can be less expensive to produce too. They can be made from leftover yarns—of which I have tons, by the way.”
I nodded. “That’s a good idea. I’ll go through my leftover yarns too. I probably have enough for the entire group. I’ll supply the warp yarns for the new weavers. You can choose what colors you want to use as weft from this collection.” I indicated the basket of partial cones of yarn at the foot of the AVL.
Jenny fished through her bag. “We’ll have more than enough if you count mine.” She pulled out a number of skeins, showing them to a very disinterested Dolores.
I wandered back to my table loom, where Susan was rummaging through her bag. “I already bought yarn.” She pulled out half a dozen spools of lovely pastels—light blue, soft pink, and creamy white. “They’re one hundred percent preshrunk Egyptian cotton.” She rubbed the end piece of the pink yarn between her fingers. “And so soft.”
“If you’d rather keep those for another project, you’re welcome to any of my leftover yarns,” I offered. “Go ahead. I’m sure you can find something appropriate.”
“No, thanks. I don’t mind making my baby blankets in a friendship pattern, but I want to make them beautiful.” And then looking contrite, she added, “Sorry. I don’t mean to imply that your blankets won’t be pretty. It’s just that I have my heart set on these yarns.”
“No offense taken. Everyone’s allowed to make their baby blankets any way they want.”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
Hmm, I thought. She was opinionated, which I rather liked in a person, most of the time. But something told me that Susan might turn out to be a bit overbearing. Standing next to her, Mercedes looked as if she was being tortured. Her eyes kept darting from the loom to her mother, throwing angry glares her way.
“If you need help, just give me a shout.”
She scowled. “Sure.”
Soon, all six of the volunteers were discussing different weaves and choosing colors and yarns. I had planned my project earlier, had already measured my warp, and was about to start dressing my dobby loom when the house phone rang.
“I’ll be right back.” And for the newbies, I added, “If you need help, maybe you can ask Jenny or Marnie.”
I hurried into the kitchen, getting almost bowled over by an ecstatic Winnie. “Whoa there, big fellow.” I bent down to give him a quick head scratch, then picked up the receiver.
“So, kiddo, how goes the weaving life?” Matthew’s deep voice greeted me.
“Matthew, how nice to hear from you.”
“You sound good,” he said. “Briar Hollow must be agreeing with you.”
“I’m happy to report that I’m back to my old self. Briar Hollow is exactly what I needed.”
“How’s Winston?”
“He’s good. There’s so much space for him to roam around in the backyard, I can understand why he’d be miserable in the city. He’s great company.”
“I knew you two would get along. Are you getting rich with your new business?” he asked.
I chuckled. “Hardly! But I already have a few customers, and I’m told the tourist season is just about to start. Also, I’ll be starting some weaving classes in a few days.”
“That’s good. With your business know-how, kiddo, I have no doubt that you could turn any venture into a success.”
Matthew’s vote of confidence flooded me with joy. “I’m in the middle of a meeting right now. But if you want to chat, I can call you back later.” As if—he was probably just calling to make sure I was taking good care of Winston.
“Actually, there is something I want to talk to you about. Give me a shout when you have a minute.” Something in his voice told me that whatever he wanted to discuss was important.
“I have a minute right now.” I wondered if maybe I should close the door between the kitchen and the front rooms. “What’s up?”
There was a pause. “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
A sinking feeling settled in my stomach. “Give me the good news.” Lord knows I could use some.
“Remember that book proposal on criminology I sent to publishers?” The excitement in his voice left no doubt as to what he was about to tell me.
“It’s been accepted? Oh, Matthew, I’m so happy for you! Congratulations. I know how long you’ve been waiting for this.”
“I can hardly believe it’s really happening. I’ve taken a sabbatical from the university”—his voice became serious—“but I’ll never get any work done in Char
lotte. I need to be somewhere quiet.”
I knew exactly where he was going with this. “You want to move back here, don’t you?” I asked, my mouth suddenly going dry. “I guess that means I’ll have to move out.” What a fool I’d been to think I could go on living here indefinitely.
“I would never ask you to move out.” He hesitated, then added, “Have you started looking for a place of your own?”
“I—I didn’t think . . . I mean, I thought you would—”
“I know,” he interrupted apologetically. “I never imagined I’d want to come back so soon. As long as I was teaching, your condo was perfect for me. Of course, if you don’t think it would work, I can—”
“Don’t be silly. This is your house. I’ll find somewhere else to live.” I kept my voice upbeat. I felt almost ill at the thought of all the work that moving and setting up again would entail.
“I have an idea. Why don’t we share the house until you find the perfect place? You can take all the time you want—no rush.” He chuckled. “Mind you, you might not want me as a roommate, so if you don’t like the idea, just tell me, and I’ll think of some other solution.”
Matthew and me living in the same house might be . . . Well . . . I had a quick vision of quiet candlelit dinners, of cozy snuggles by the fireplace, which might have had a better chance of coming true if there was a fireplace somewhere in the house and if he didn’t already have a girlfriend. Besides, I was focused on launching my weaving studio now, not on men.
The person who would be most thrilled at the prospect of Matthew and me sharing a house was my mother. For years, she’d been championing her favorite cause—getting him and me together—and she refused to understand why I wasn’t taking her advice.
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 his last holiday visit, I found myself fantasizing about running my fingers through his hair, which proved only one thing: It had been far too long since I’d gone on a date.
Looming Murder Page 2
