Death Among the Doilies (15 page)

Cora knew about marriage disputes, but she didn't know anything about insurance fraud. As she lay in bed that night with Luna curled up next to her and the moon shining through her lace curtains, she mulled over what she knew about the murders. In a way, it comforted her to know that it was likely not a drug situation that led to the Waterses being killed. She turned over on her side, trying not to disturb Luna. Her thoughts drifted to Jude. How was she going to approach a grown man about the fact that he was sleeping with her guests? She felt like a chaperone at a craft camp for teenagers, and she resented him for making her so uncomfortable. Poor Ivy. It once had been hard for her to believe that women cheated on their husbands—but at this point, at the ripe old age of thirty-two, Cora had seen everything. Well, almost. She had never seen a broom worth thousands—or an opium kit worth millions.

The next morning was gray and cloudy. The weatherman had said it was going to rain, and it looked like an accurate prediction. As Cora descended the stairs, she saw a group of early risers like herself, already drinking coffee and chatting.

“Good morning,” she said. “How is everybody this morning?”

They all said good morning in turn, and then Cora went into the kitchen for coffee. She came back into the living room with her coffee and sat in an overstuffed chair next to the fireplace, which was still giving off a bit of heat from last night's fire.

“Are you having a good time, Martha?” she asked the guest sitting next to her.

“Oh yes, I love it here,” she said. “I've made a broom and a couple of candles already and we still have two days left. It's been productive.”

Diane tittered on the other side of her. “I've told her she needs to relax a bit while she's here and not worry about what she can accomplish.”

“Keeping busy helps me to relax,” Martha said. “It sounds crazy, I know.”

“As Cora says on her blog, there is something to that,” one of the other crafters piped up. It was Miranda, the woman from Tennessee with pretty blue eyes and dimples to match. She was a knitter, and if she wasn't drinking coffee and eating a croissant, she'd be knitting right now. “I know knitting helps me to think.”

“I hear you,” a guest named Piper said. Piper was a long lean woman with fingers to match. Cora observed her yesterday manipulating the broom straw easily with those fingers. Her nails were painted bright purple.

“I was just reading an article about the health benefits of crafting,” Jennifer chimed in.

Jude came into the room. Had he just awakened? No, Cora realized, he must have been out and was just now getting in.

“Well, where have you been this early?” Miranda asked.

“Out for a run,” he said. “How's everything, ladies?” Cora watched him turn on his trademark charm.

The assembled women seemed to respond, as they sat up a bit straighter, smiled, and murmured niceties back to him.

“I need to get in the shower,” Jude said. “I'll see you all in a bit.” And then he was gone.

“He's absolutely beautiful,” Diane said, in a wistful voice.

“He's all right,” Martha replied.

“He needs to learn to keep it in his pants,” Miranda said, and reached for her knitting needles.

Cora's face heated. “What?”

“He was sleeping with Ivy. Now he's sleeping with Linda,” Miranda said. “We've been watching the shenanigans. It's been quite entertaining.”

“I'm so sorry about all this,” Cora said. “This is not at all what I had in mind for the retreat.”

“No worries,” Diane spoke up. “As Miranda said, it's been quite entertaining.”

“Does everybody know about this?” Cora managed to say, her face so hot now that she felt it might ignite.

“Well, we all do,” Martha said. “We're not sure about the others. They've kind of kept to themselves.”

Cora frowned. She'd have to talk with Jude as soon as she could. He was distracting her crafters. They were here to craft and reflect—not gossip about who was bedding whom. Still, she mused, they didn't seem to mind all that much.

She drank more of her coffee and felt herself perk up a bit more.

“I love the way you dress,” Diane said to Cora.

Today, she wore another seventies vintage dress. It was a red minidress, with a Peter Pan collar and white polka dots. She wore it with modern leggings, which helped update it a bit.

“Thanks,” Cora said. “You know, it's part of my mission to wear as many vintage clothes as possible. I found this in a shop in New York City. I thought it was in great shape. It looked as if it had only been worn once or twice. So wasteful.”

“We don't have many vintage stores where we live,” Diane said. “But I've found some great things at the Goodwill. It takes so much time to dig through everything.”

“Yes, it does, but it's so worth it,” Cora said, nodding in agreement.

The group quieted for a few moments before Martha said, “How about that murder? Do you know anything about it?”

Cora almost choked on her coffee. “Excuse me?”

“I read about this man who was murdered night before last,” Martha explained.

“Yes . . . a tragedy,” Cora hedged.

“Did you know him?” Martha persisted.

“Not really,” Cora said, trying to downplay her involvement. Had her voice just gone up a octave? She squirmed a bit in the soft chair.

Luckily, Jane walked into the room with a couple of boxes from Mac's Doughnuts, a local family-owned doughnut shop. “Hey, everybody, look what I brought. Doughnuts, anyone? Consider it your reward for getting up early.”

Cora allowed Jude a few minutes for coffee and a croissant, and then she pulled him into the paper-crafting room, shutting the door behind her.

“What's going on?” Jude said, sitting down at one of the crafting tables.

Cora handed him the note that Ivy left. He read it over and placed the note on the table, then made eye contact with Cora. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It should never have happened. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“So this is all true?” Cora said, sitting down across the table from him. She had expected a denial. At least he was being honest.

“Yes,” he said. “I'm afraid so.”

“Look, it's not my business who you sleep with . . .”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, shifting around in his seat. “I know. But you hired me and I'm working for you?”

His face paled and jaws tensed; one of his cheeks twitched. Humiliated, he couldn't even look at Cora. A ball of nerves and tension formed in the pit of Cora's stomach. Oh, how she hated confrontation. Why was she so embarrassed, when his behavior was the problem? She was certain his philandering would stop, now.

“If you want to have a relationship with Linda or Ivy, you can contact them after the retreat, okay?” she said.

“Relationship? Hell no,” he said, lurching back a bit and causing his chair to squeak. “Look, Ivy kind of flung herself at me. She's a lot older than me, but I figured we could have a good time and then move on. But she started to get a bit clingy. She also had this wild temper.”

“This all happened in one day,” Cora said, more to herself than him. They met, slept together, and things went wacky—all in one day. And Jane wondered why Cora didn't get involved with men?

“Yeah, I know. It was like, bam, she was in love. I was upfront with her from the get-go. Then Linda came along and we hit it off and one thing led to another, as they say,” he said matter-of-factly. The humiliation appeared to be gone. “I'm sorry Ivy felt like she had to leave,” he said.

Cora's hands formed into fists. Suddenly all she wanted to do was to ask him to leave. Her mind was racing. She knew her retreaters wanted to take his next class. But who did he think he was?

“Really?” she piped up. “You can't understand why a woman who you had just slept with didn't want to see you with another woman? You can't be that clueless.”

He lurched back in his chair again, looking as if he had been slapped.

“You are thirty-five years old. It's not like you are an eighteen-year-old boy,” she added, concentrating on keeping her voice even and not shrill. “I know you're Mister Popular in craft circles. But, you're no rock star. In fact, the more I get to know you, the sorrier I feel for you.”

“Feel sorry for me? Why?” his mouth curled into a grin. “Okay, so I have a weakness when it comes to women.”

Cora saw this conversation was going nowhere. She stood up. “Break it off with Linda—gently. Blame it on me. And keep it in your pants or you will be asked to leave and never come back.” She surprised herself by the forcefulness in her own voice.

But it shut him up.
All about “weakness” and grins, is he?

With her knees shaking slightly, her pulse racing, Cora left the room and headed upstairs to her apartment. She didn't even peep at the crafters who were gathered in the living room. She needed a few moments to herself.

She walked into her apartment and plopped down on her fluffy, inviting papasan chair and took some deep, cleansing breaths.

Men! Jude was too old to be acting as if he just discovered sex. She'd seen this extreme version of the Peter Pan syndrome before, but it was almost as if he had feigned his initial embarrassed reaction. The rest of the time, he had been cool and calm about bedding two of her guests. That was not the kind of retreat she was running. It wasn't supposed to be like this at all.

Supposed to be,
she reminded herself. Those words were often triggers for depression and disappointment.
Okay, this isn't what I planned, but I need to focus on the positive things going on this weekend, all the friendships developing, the great crafting, and move forward. Lesson learned.

She glanced at her box of doilies. How could she ever consider them now without remembering poor Josh Waters?

Her class started in ten minutes—a thirty-minute class on making pumpkins out of old burlap sacks. She had had a hard time making up her mind which craft to do, until she found those sacks in the basement. These miniclasses were offered as little creative breaks through the day. She sighed.

Jude would be teaching this afternoon, and tomorrow was Ruby's class on soap and candle making. Then, the final party. If she made it through this weekend, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

Her head still ached. Images of bloody doilies kept popping into her brain. And the image of poor Josh Waters, lying there with a blade sticking out of him, surrounded by doilies, poked at her.

She needed time to process this—but time was the one thing she didn't have. A room full of retreaters was waiting for her class to begin, her best friend was still being accused of murder, and her guest teacher was sleeping around. What else could go wrong?

“Look at how wonderful those pumpkins are. I mean, who would've thought?” Martha said, admiring the pumpkins Cora had fashioned out of burlap sacks.

“The stuffing is old plastic grocery bags,” Cora said.

“How many of us have plastic grocery bags full of other plastic grocery bags?” Linda asked and laughed. They all raised their hands.

“Thanks for helping me make my point, Linda,” Cora said and grinned. “To make the pumpkins, you stuff bags into one another and tie them with some jute.” She demonstrated as she held up the thick fiber, and all the crafters followed. “Now look at your sack. You can cut it into a square. Or an oblong shape. Or leave it as it is. It's totally up to you.”

The room filled with the sounds of the shuffling around of bags and scissors, accompanied by chatter.

“Then gather the corners of the burlap at the top of your plastic bag,” Cora said, demonstrating once again.

“In order to get the pumpkin shape, wrap the burlap with jute as if you were wrapping a present. Be sure to pull tightly on the jute to create grooves in the burlap. As you get closer to the end, bend the burlap to create a bent stem. Then wrap the pumpkin stem with jute.”

“I like mine, but it's way different than Linda's,” Diane said, holding up a short plump pumpkin and an oblong one with a much curlier stem.

“That's part of the beauty of this,” Cora said. “Every pumpkin is unique. Just like real pumpkins.”

“I have boxes of old burlap bags I could be using for something like this,” Diane said.

“Everybody has boxes of things they could reuse,” said Cora. “The whole point to upcycling is repurposing the things around us. We remake them into something useful and beautiful instead of being packed away in boxes.”

“I love your cup and saucer bird feeders in the garden,” Diane said. “I'm not sure which I like better. The hanging feeders or the ones on the poles. Very clever. You made those, right?”

Cora nodded. Making bird feeders out of old cups and saucers was one of her favorite upcycling crafts. It was a craft with seemingly endless variations. It could be as simple as gluing the cup and saucer on a stick and placing it in the yard, or as fancy as hanging crystals off it. She'd even used melted forks and spoons as part of the design.

“Yes, and the directions are on her Web site,” one of the other crafters said. “I made them, too. Your directions are always so easy to follow.”

“I tore up one of my aunt's old quilts and made different things with it for people in our family. A table runner. A wall hanging. Place mats. And a vest. And I'll tell you something . . . it was strange. But it was a cathartic experience for me. My aunt died a painful death and she loved to quilt. But there was only this one quilt of hers left. So I split it up. It was like, I don't know . . . I think it was the best way to remember her,” Diane said.

Cora suddenly knew she had to do something with those doilies in a box in her apartment. And why hadn't she seen that it would help her properly deal with all these recent events? She needed to replace the bad memories with good ones. Now, what could she make...

As the class exited the room, Cora smelled cinnamon and nutmeg and knew the caterers were setting things up in the dining room. She went to check on the preparations.

Darla mumbled a greeting to her. What was wrong with her? What had happened to the cool, crisp woman that she hired to cater this first retreat? It was as if she was almost a different person. She was barely put together, on the verge of frumpy, with her apron askew and her hair unbrushed.

“Are you okay?” Cora asked.

“Yes, sure,” Darla replied, grabbing a tray off the kitchen counter. “Just working.”

“You look kind of... tired,” Cora said.

Darla left the room with the tray of food, ignoring Cora's comment. Cora caught the eye of one of Darla's helpers. He frowned and then went back to work.

What was going on?

Cora heard Jude's voice in the hallway before she saw him. “Darla, please,” he said as he followed her back into the kitchen. “Don't be like that.”

Cora stood rooted to her spot, dumbfounded. She hadn't been aware that the two of them even knew one another. Was she yet another of Jude's conquests?

Darla shot Jude a pointed glare, cluing him in to Cora's presence.

“What is she being like?” Cora said.

Jude turned, flummoxed, and managed a smile. “Cora—I didn't see you there.”

“Obviously,” Cora said. “What's going on here?” Bad vibes were zinging through her. Was she being paranoid?

Jude Sawyer, brilliant broom maker, lover of women, was not quick on his feet. His mouth hung open and his hands fluttered at his sides. “You know what? I don't know what's going on and that's the truth,” he said and then stomped out of the room.

“Well then, perhaps you can fill me in,” Cora leveled her gaze at Darla.

“It's a personal matter,” Darla said. In other words, she wasn't going to tell her anything.

Cora started to steam beneath her vintage clothes. “Please deal with your personal situations on your own time,” she said.

Darla looked at her for a moment before her face crumpled and she turned away.

Oh God, was she crying?

“Darla—”

“Just go away and leave her alone,” one of her helpers said. “She's had a bit of a rough morning. We'll get it together and make sure your guests are taken care of.”

“I didn't mean to . . .” Cora said.

The man threw her an icy glare, and Cora had nothing left to do but leave her own kitchen.