Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery (12 page)

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 with 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.”

“Mrs. McDermott,” I repeated, stunned. Could that have been her? “Well, don’t worry about it. It was probably just a crank call.” I wished her good luck on her trip again and hung up.

Marnie stared at me. “Did I just hear right? You think Mrs. McDermott made that crank call?”

“That’s what Emma believes, but I can’t see why she would do that.” I repeated what Emma had said. “She sounded pretty sure.” I was quiet for a moment as a thought occurred to me. “You know, I’ve been wondering if money could have been a motive for McDermott’s murder.”

She gasped. “You think Rhonda killed Philip?”

“I don’t think anything right now. I’m just looking at all the possibilities.”

“Well, as much as I don’t like the woman, I doubt she is capable of murder. In fact, I’d probably be more likely to kill someone than she would. She’s such a wimpy, whiny, dishcloth of a woman.”

The telephone rang again. I looked at it, wondering if this was going to be another threat. I snatched it up before I lost the nerve.

“I just saw an ad on craigslist about an apartment for rent,” a girl’s voice said. “Is it still available?”

Next to me, Marnie looked even more worried than I’d been. I threw her a reassuring smile. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

“I’d like to make an appointment to come and see it. Would it be possible to come by today?”

“No problem. I work in the same building, right downstairs, so you can pop by anytime.” I gave her the address.

“Great. I’ll be there in half an hour or so.”

“That must have been good news. You’re grinning from ear to ear.”

“Somebody’s coming over to see the apartment. She sounded young, but nice.” I frowned. “I hope she can afford the rent.”

“You listed the price in the ad?”

I nodded.

“In that case, don’t worry. And if she asks you to lower the price, you don’t have to agree.” She picked up her coffee and muffin and returned to her loom.

“It’s not like people have been lining up to rent it.”

“Bah, don’t worry about it. You’ll rent it in time.”

I was sure I would, but every month the apartment remained empty was another month of rental income I would never recover. I picked up the notes I’d taken at the Whitby estate, pulled out my calculator, and began punching in the length and width of the fabric I needed to produce.

Planning a weaving project consists of counting the amount of yarn needed. First one needed to calculate the amount for dressing the loom, then the amount for the weft. This project was so large that when I completed my calculations, the total was way more than I’d imagined.

Could this be right? I went over the figures once again. This time the total was even higher. After repeating the calculation half a dozen times, I was confident that I had arrived at the correct amount. “I hope Bunny won’t be put off by the advance I’m going to ask.”

The bell tinkled and I looked up. “Oh, hi,” I said, surprised to recognize the girl from whom I’d bought my wide loom. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Margaret,” she said, coming forward, hand extended. “Margaret Fowler.” Margaret was in her late teens or early twenties, with short brown hair. Her eyes were a deep shade of gray. They were arrestingly beautiful. The only flaw in her otherwise lovely face was a rather unfortunate nose. It dwarfed the rest of her delicate features. Still, her smile was so engaging that it made up for the graceless trait.

She came forward. “I had no idea when I called about the apartment that I was talking to you.”

“You’re here for the apartment?” I said, surprised. “When I saw you walking in, I thought you were dropping by to take a peek at my store.”

“I’d love to do that too, if you don’t mind.”

Marnie came over and introduced herself. “I’m Della’s store manager.”

I suppressed a chuckle. If she considered herself the store manager, she had to be the worst-paid manager in history.

Marnie continued. “You’re going to love the apartment. It’s just beautiful.”

“It sounded lovely in the ad. It’s a little more than I wanted to pay, but that won’t be a problem for long. I’m sure I’ll find a job soon.”

My hope deflated. The last thing I wanted was an unemployed tenant. I needed someone who could afford the rent and pay it on time.

I turned to Marnie. “Margaret used to have a weaving studio.”

Marnie’s eyes widened. “You’re a weaver? Why, that’s just too fortuitous to be a coincidence. Della just picked up a huge contract and will be needing help. Maybe you could work for her.”

Margaret turned and looked at me with such hope that I was tempted to agree. That could solve her money problems and, at the same time, assure me of getting the rent.

“It’s still a bit premature to be talking about hiring anybody. I don’t even have a signed contract yet.” Now that I was looking at her again, I had the impression she reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t for the life of me think of whom. I pushed that thought away and turned to Marnie. “Would you mind the shop while I run upstairs with Margaret?”

Marnie beamed. “No problem. Take your time.”

Margaret followed me out of the shop and up the stairs. I pointed to the second door down the hall. “I live right there.”

“Do you own the building?” she asked, looking impressed.

“Well, right now I think it would be more accurate to say that the mortgage company owns it.”

“I really hope I like it,” she gushed.

“I hope so too,” I said and then was struck with an unnerving thought. If Margaret and I became friends, as I had a feeling might happen, that could present a problem. I was notoriously bad at saying no, and if she had financial difficulties, it would be impossible for me to ask her for the rent if she fell behind. One more reason for me to hire her as soon as the contract with Bunny was signed.

“Why are you moving?” I asked, pausing in front of the door. “I saw your apartment. I thought it was lovely.”

“It is,” she said. “And I love it. But the place is huge. Now that I’ve sold off all my weaving equipment and closed my studio, I should really find something much smaller and less expensive.”

The place was huge, I remembered. And even as large as it was, the old loom I’d bought had taken up the entire living room. The rest of her equipment was in her dining room, the setup similar to the way I’d designed my space when I was using Matthew’s house.

“You sold off everything?” I was surprised.

“I still have tons of yarn—enough to last me a lifetime—and a lot of woven goods.” She chuckled. “And even more that are only in the planning stage. Actually, I kept one loom for my personal use.” She stood aside while I unlocked the door. “I love weaving, but I wasn’t able to earn a living at it.”

I wasn’t surprised. It was difficult enough to attract clients with a shop right smack in the middle of Main Street. With a studio in her home, it must have been near impossible. “That’s too bad.” I opened the door and let her in. “What kind of work are you hoping to find?”

She stepped into the main room: a kitchen, living and dining room combo. Her eyes widened. She forgot all about my question and made a beeline for the stove.

“Oh, I love it. I’ve always wanted one of these.” The stove was an antique Wedgewood gas range, more than sixty years old and still in impeccable condition.

“I have a thing for antique stoves too,” I said. The more she and I spoke, the more I found myself liking her. She was so nice, so very likable.

She looked at the refrigerator and chuckled. “I guess that’s almost old enough to be an antique too.”

“I’m planning to replace the refrigerator. These old things use up way too much electricity. It’s more economical in the long run to buy a modern appliance.”

“Really? A new refrigerator? That would be wonderful.” She trailed her hand along the countertop, which was made of black Formica and trimmed in aluminum, just like mine. She grinned. “The kitchen is gorgeous. I wouldn’t change a thing—except the fridge.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

She wandered over to the living area, standing in the center of the room. She looked around, tapping her chin with an index finger as she furnished the apartment in her mind. “I could put my sofa there and my table over by the window.” She looked outside. “Nice view.”

She turned to me. “Can I see the bedroom and the bathroom?”

I showed her down the hall to the bedroom and opened the door.

She walked in, gave it a cursory inspection and moved on to the bathroom, which like mine, had an old claw-foot tub with a nickel-plated showerhead and a wraparound rail for the curtain. The floor was tiled in small white lozenge-shaped tiles and edged with a black border.

“Everything is so beautiful,” she said, awed. “It looks like everything is original to the building.”