“I heard about what happened to Jeremy Fox. You and little Miss Weaver found the body.” Hah! I was right. Dolores had already heard. David must have nodded because she added, “You know what people are saying, don’t you?” Without waiting for his reply, she went on. “They think you killed him. Lucky for you he was shot and not strangled. After all, you did wrap your hands around his neck not too long ago.”
I had to stop myself from jumping to David’s defense. What the hell was she trying to do? Get David riled up?
I glanced over my shoulder and noted his tight jaw. But to his credit, all he said was, “Some people don’t have anything better to do than spread malicious lies.”
Dolores instantly switched her tone from taunting to sympathetic. “I agree. It makes me so mad when people gossip like that. Trust me, I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of it. You can’t believe the things that were said about me when Greg was killed. I even heard one rumor that I had a lover, and that he and I had Greg murdered so we could run off together.”
My ears perked up.
“All you can do is ignore the gossips and go on with your business,” David said. “Some people just love to hurt others. And then there are those who will say anything to get attention.”
There was a short pause, during which she seemed to be considering her next words. “Don’t you think it’s odd that Greg and Jeremy would die within months of each other?”
That was when it struck me: Dolores was fishing for information. If she suspected David of killing her husband, that meant she didn’t kill him—right?
I stole a quick glance at Mercedes, who was weaving away, her face devoid of expression. But I could sense the current of fury behind her placid exterior. That was her father’s death Dolores was talking about in such a cavalier way. My heart went out to the girl.
“How are you guys doing?” I asked, deciding a change of subject was in order. I picked up my partly assembled friendship blanket and beckoned to Mercedes. “I want you to see how your blanket will look once it’s finished.” I held it out to her.
“It’s beautiful. Look, Mom.”
When Mercedes brought it over to show them, David had the grace to at least pretend he was impressed. Dolores didn’t. She grimaced.
Mercedes came back. “I love it,” she said, fingering the different weaves. “You have so many different strips.”
“That’s because I’m using different patterns and colors. See this one? It’s the basket weave I was telling you about. And this one is called a twill.”
“Can you show me how to do those? I want my blanket to look as pretty as yours.”
“Of course I will, and I promise your blanket will be just as lovely.” She picked up her loom for me to inspect her work. “I’m impressed. You are much better than the average beginner.” My small compliment brought a beaming smile to her face. She returned to her project with zeal.
I hobbled over to the loom where Dolores and David were weaving. “That’s pretty good. But you skipped a few threads. Here and here, see? If you don’t fix them, your work won’t look very good.”
Dolores gave me a who-cares look. I ignored it. “I’ll help you,” I said, demonstrating how to unravel the rows quickly. I showed them again how to do the simple weave, and by the time I finished, Dolores seemed to have forgotten her previous conversation. Thank goodness.
About an hour later Mercedes asked for a bathroom break, grabbed her purse and ran up the stairs. When she returned David was leaving, taking one of the looms with him. Mercedes picked up the other.
“I’ll make sure I have a loom for you before the next class,” I said to Dolores.
“Don’t bother. I’ll use my daughter’s,” she replied.
We both knew she would do no such thing.
Chapter 24
“How was the class?” asked Matthew, closing his laptop and jumping up to pull over a chair for me.
I tried to read his eyes, but saw nothing other than his usual friendly expression. If he was hoping to put the earlier episode behind him, I was happy to oblige. I was still in shock at my response and wasn’t at all sure what it meant.
“Good,” I said, handing him my crutches and plopping myself down. “Especially now that I’m sitting again.”
“Listen, Della, I want you to know I’m sorry—”
I reddened and cut him off. “I think we should just forget about what happened. Er, not that anything happened. I mean—”
“If that’s what you want, that’s fine by me.” He nodded emphatically. “You’re right. Nothing happened.” He smiled and made a wiping movement with his hand. “So, if nothing happened, what are we talking about?”
I chuckled. “I think we were talking about dinner. Have you had anything to eat?”
He leaned back in his chair. “No. When I write, I forget about everything else. But now that you mention it, I am starving.”
“I’ll throw something together,” I said. At the look of incredulity in his eyes, I added, “I’m not entirely helpless, you know. But don’t expect a five-course meal.”
I struggled to the refrigerator, located the block of aged Cheddar I’d bought a few days earlier, and placed it on a board alongside a couple of sliced apples, a bunch of gorgeous grapes and some crackers. I set the board on the table and then pulled out a cold bottle of Chardonnay. As long as there was no cooking involved, I couldn’t burn anything.
“See? I can put a dinner together, no problem.” I handed Matthew the corkscrew.
“That looks terrific,” he said, filling the glasses.
We ate in companionable silence, and after we finished, Matthew turned to Winston and said, “Okay, big fellow, I think it’s time I took you for a walk. What do you say?”
Winston’s eyes popped open and he jumped up.
“Before you go,” I said. “I didn’t want to bring this up in front of David, but I did a bit of investigating this afternoon.” I fished in my pocket and triumphantly produced the small piece of black yarn still folded inside the piece of notepaper. At the confused look on Matthew’s face, I said, “Look at what I found.”
He stared at it, no less puzzled. “What is it?”
I explained about my visit to David’s house, going into the details about the indentation in the hedge, the footprint in the soil and the small piece of yarn stuck on one of the broken branches. He sat through my recital, his eyes wide in disbelief, until I concluded. “See? That’s a clue, isn’t it?” I said, unfolding the piece of paper.
His disbelief morphed into anger. “Do you realize what you did?”
Winston startled at his sharp tone. He glanced from Matthew to me, as if waiting for my response.
“What?” I asked, deciding to play stupid. “I thought you’d be excited.” Winston moved closer, protectively. I could hear a low growl in the back of his throat. “It’s okay, Winnie,” I said softly as I patted him. He quieted, but remained by my side.
“Excited? You just tampered with evidence. You should know better than to go bumbling around a crime scene—on crutches, no less. You probably erased whatever evidence was there. That was not only stupid but against the law. Didn’t you learn a thing from what happened last year?”
Now that was below the belt. “I-I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think—”
“Didn’t think? Shit! When the police find out what you did, they’ll probably charge you for interfering with a police investigation. That’s if they don’t charge you with being an accessory after the fact.”
From the corner of my eye, I could tell Winnie was becoming agitated.
I tried to keep my voice calm. “That’s just plain crazy. Why would they even think that?”
“Why? Because you and David Swanson have a personal relationship,” he sputtered back. “In their eye, that gives you a perfect motive for protecting
him.”
“I don’t have a personal relationship with—”
“Oh, don’t you? Let’s see now.” He counted on his fingers. “David is taking weaving lessons from you. He’s representing you in a real estate transaction. You have coffee together, and God knows what else. If that doesn’t make it a personal relationship, I don’t know what does.”
I blushed. “There is nothing going on between David and me. And you don’t have to bite my head off. It was just a mistake.”
He scowled in silence for a minute and Winston returned to his spot on the rug. Matthew picked up the piece of yarn and examined it. “It could be wool, or acrylic; it’s hard to say.” He dropped it in disgust. “The police will have to send it to a lab.”
“You don’t have to send it to a lab. I can tell you exactly what it is.”
He gave me a doubtful smile. “And how do you propose to do that?”
“Easy. All I need is a match.”
And just like that, his anger came charging back. “Are you out of your mind? Now you want to destroy the evidence?”
Winnie jumped off the rug and came running over, barking. I patted his head and he relaxed slightly.
“I wouldn’t destroy it. All I need is about half an inch.” I pushed back my chair abruptly, grabbed my crutches and hoofed over to my studio. I chose a few spools of yarn and, finding it impossible to hold on to them and my crutches at the same time, I stuck them inside the front of my dress. Back in the kitchen I pulled them out and set them on the table—under Matthew’s startled eyes. I hopped over to the sink on one foot, filled a glass with water, retrieved some matches and a pair of scissors from the catchall drawer, and placed everything on a plate alongside the spools.
“Look.” I cut a small piece of yarn from the first spool, then lit the match and allowed the flame to lick the end of the yarn. It sizzled for a second, and a smell similar to that of burning hair drifted from the flame. I took the match away and the flame burned out. I touched the residue and watched it disintegrate into ashes. “That, my friend, is silk.”
He was looking at the ashes on the plate. “How can you tell?”
“Well, Mr. Criminologist”—I flashed him a victorious smile—“as any experienced weaver will tell you, different yarns burn differently. Natural yarns like wool and silk have a distinct smell, very similar to that of burning hair. And when you pull the flame away they extinguish on their own. On the other hand, acrylic has a chemical smell and will melt into a ball. Cotton or linen yarns have a papery odor. And they burn more slowly, especially linen. Another difference between silk and wool is that silk burns into a soft gray bead that easily turns to ash when you crush it, whereas wool burns into a dark, irregular form.” I paused, then said, “If you don’t want me to test the yarn I found, I won’t. But just out of curiosity, what would the content of a yarn tell us?”
He gave me a half smile. “It’s not what it will tell us. It’s what it will tell the police!” He softened a bit and said, “It wouldn’t tell them much on its own, except the type of garment it’s likely to have come from. For example, if this were silk, the person wearing it would probably not be poor. So we could eliminate the homeless and itinerants.”
I rolled my eyes. “Briar Hollow doesn’t have any homeless or any itinerants, for that matter.”
He laughed, sending my heart into the chugga-chugga dance, and Winston returned to his spot by the door.
Matthew said, “Nothing gets by you, does it?”
“You’re teasing me.”
He smiled and his eyes went all gold. “You’re easy to tease, kiddo.”
I swallowed hard. Trying to hide my dismay, I said the first thing that came to mind. “How do you think it went for David at the station? Do the police still think he’s a suspect?”
His eyes went dark. “They took down his statement, but you know how cops are. They never tell you what they’re really thinking.”
“I do know, unfortunately, and I’ll be happy if I never have to deal with cops again.” He smiled, nodding, and I asked, “What do you think of the theory that Greg Hanson was also murdered?” I paused. “And why wouldn’t you answer my question when I called you?”
He studied the floor, and then said, “I know you don’t want to hear this, kiddo, but at this point we aren’t one hundred percent sure that David isn’t the killer, are we?”
“We aren’t?” I asked, my eyes widening.
“We aren’t,” he said firmly. “So I think it’s a good idea for us to avoid discussing any of the details, or any theory we might have about the murder when he’s around.”
My thoughts took a sharp turn. “I’m surprised that Briar Hollow has a coroner. I always thought coroners only worked out of big-city morgues.”
“You’re thinking of pathologists. Pathology is a science. To become a pathologist a person has to go through medical school first and then complete another four or five years of studying the specialty. Unlike medical examiners, coroners are elected officials. In some regions, the only credentials a person needs to become a coroner is a basic training course as simple as a weekend seminar. At least here, the coroner is the local doctor. I’ve met some coroners who knew less about medicine than a butcher.”
I was aghast. “But, that’s terrible. That means some murders probably go unnoticed.”
He nodded. “And worse, sometimes a natural death can be pegged as a murder, resulting in an innocent person being sent to prison.”
“Surely the doctor can tell the difference between an accident and a murder.”
Matthew nodded again. “One would think.”
I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t sound all that sure.
He picked up the small piece of yarn again. “I’ll have to think about how to explain this to the police.” He scowled and went on. “Damn—as if Mike isn’t already pissed off enough with me. Guaranteed he’s going to blame this on me. And it’ll be your fault, kiddo.” He started walking away, then turned and said, “Come, Winston.” Winston jumped up and raced over to him. Matthew clipped his leash on, and glancing at me, he said, “I have to ask you not to leave town until the police question you.”
My jaw dropped.
And then he winked, making it clear he’d been joking, and walked out.
• • •
The next morning when I opened my eyes, a sunbeam filtered through the window, and I could hear birds singing outside. Winston had snuck into my room during the night, and he was now snoring not so softly at the foot of my bed. I pushed back the blankets and sat up, swinging my legs over the side, briefly forgetting about my ankle. Arrrghhh. I flopped back on the bed, gritting my teeth.
That was one mistake I wouldn’t make again. I let the throbbing subside, and then, hopping around on one foot, I slipped on my Ralph Lauren safari-style shirtdress, pulled out the vachetta belt—just another name for fake leather—and replaced it with my favorite Hermès scarf, tied around my waist with the ends draping over one hip. I checked the mirror and decided I looked, well, maybe not hot, but at least warm.
I was stumped for shoes, until—hold on—what about those gold ballerina shoes I’d bought on sale two years ago and never worn? I located them in my closet and slipped one on my right foot. On the other, I wore a khaki wool sock that sort of coordinated with my dress. I checked the mirror one more time and decided the ballerina slipper did nothing for my height but I looked nice enough.
I heard the telephone ring and after the third time, determined that Matthew wouldn’t pick up the extension in his room. I grabbed my crutches and maneuvered down the stairs as fast as I could. Winnie brushed by so close he almost tripped me; but I made it without falling. After all that rushing, all I got when I picked up the receiver was the dial tone. Sheesh! And then the telephone rang again and I snatched it up.
“I didn’t wake you, did I? I tried your
cell phone, but I went straight into voice mail,” a voice said. It was Samantha.
“I keep forgetting to recharge the battery.” Besides, it wasn’t as if I had very many friends calling me anymore. “You sound suspiciously upbeat for so early in the morning.” Was she calling with good news? My hope surged.
“I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. My client loves your condo! He’s decided to take it.”
I squealed. “He will? For three thousand dollars a month?”
“For three thousand a month—and I have the first and last months’ checks in my hand right now.”
I let out another whoop.
She laughed. “The lease is filled out and signed. But it won’t be official until you sign it too. Where do you want me to fax it?”
“I have a fax right here. All I have to do is turn it on. Give me two minutes and you can send it to the same number.”
“Will do,” she said, and hung up
I hobbled about madly, getting the fax machine from under the desk and setting it up. Then I held my breath as I waited for the papers to come through, which they did about two minutes later. I ripped them out, reading them through until I got to the part where it said, “Three thousand dollars a month.” I kissed the page. From the corner of the room, where he had been snoring softly, Winston lifted his head and watched me with obvious disdain. “Sorry, Winnie. Go back to sleep.” That dog could fall asleep faster than you could say “time for bed.”
Chapter 25
A few minutes later Matthew padded down the stairs. I stopped my three-footed happy dance (two crutches and one leg) and turned to face him. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and had dark circles under his eyes, a two-day-old growth of beard and heavy lids.
“I’ve heard of dogs looking like their owners, but this is the first time I’ve seen an owner look like his dog.”
He glowered at me, and I wiped the grin off my face. “Uh-oh. I woke you, didn’t I?”
“What the hell was all that racket? First the phone, then the fax machine. Who were you talking to so early in the morning?”
Looming Murder Page 15
