Looming Murder (13 page)

“Sorry, Winnie. You know I’d take you along if it wasn’t for these.” I pointed to my crutches. He eyed me with such a pained look that I swallowed a lump of guilt the size of a fist. I closed the door and hurried down the walk, turning toward Anderson Lane.

It was a gorgeous day, the kind of day that brought a smile to everyone—everyone except me, that is. My crutches were turning out to be a real pain. Literally.

D
a
vid’s place was a modest but well-kept beige clapboard house, trimmed in taupe. I liked the color combination. It was crisp and elegant. But I wasn’t there to admire the man’s taste. I was looking for evidence—what exactly, I wasn’t sure. Something that proved David was telling the truth about having been attacked. On his front walk, I turned my attention to the hedge that bordered the gate—American holly, about eight feet tall. It was thick enough to swallow an army. Stepping closer, I examined the immediate area on one side of the entrance. After deciding that it looked untouched, I crossed to the other side and repeated my inspection.

That was when I spotted it: a damaged area in the hedge. Branches were broken, creating a depression deep enough to conceal a person. I laid my crutches on the ground and bent down, balancing my weight on one foot—very inefficiently, I might add—to examine the soil underneath. Were those footprints? They were faint, but I could make out one imprint that might have been from a shoe. The edges, however, were so indistinct that I couldn’t tell whether the shoe that had formed it was big or small, sporty or dressy. I stood up, wobbling until I got the crutches under my arms, and proceeded to scan the damaged shrubs.

Matthew had once described the correct way to conduct a search as imagining the area as a grid and examining carefully along one imaginary line after another, first horizontally and then vertically. I did this until I got to about shoulder height and spotted something. It could have been just a piece of dried leaf, but I stepped closer, plucked it out and found myself looking at a piece of fine, dark yarn, three or four inches long. Whether it was black or navy was difficult to tell.

Feeling like Sherlock Holmes, I looked around for something to wrap it in and pulled out the paper on which I’d jotted down this address. That would do. I folded it around the thread and slipped it carefully back inside my pocket.

I continued searching until I was satisfied that I had found all there was to discover. As far as I was concerned, the indent in the hedge, the footprints and the thread all pointed to somebody having been here, somebody who had been hiding from view. That was all I needed to convince me that David was telling the truth about the attack.

“I was right,” I told myself, feeling oddly relieved as I hobbled back home. “David couldn’t be the killer. He just couldn’t.”

When I got home—or rather, to
Matthew’s
house—he and David were at the kitchen table, drinking Heinekens.

“Hey, you guys are back. How did it go?” I tried to read David’s face, hoping the police had been easier on him than they’d been on me when I was a suspect. The long and painful questioning they put me through was an experience I wasn’t likely to ever forget.

“Don’t tell me you were traipsing around town,” said Matthew, eyeing my crutches. “You must be sore as hell.”

I lied through my teeth. “I was just out for a short walk. I’m getting used to them.”

He stared down at the running shoe on my good foot. “I’m happy to see you gave up on those skyscraper heels of yours.”

I sighed. “Doctor’s orders.” I maneuvered my way around the table to the chair Matthew pulled out and collapsed into it, groaning in relief.

Matthew gave me a knowing look. “Getting used to them, are you?”

I ignored his teasing, turning to David as he plucked an olive from the bowl in the middle of the table. He tossed it a few inches above his head, then caught it in his mouth.
Oh, for crying out loud
. I bit back a comment and slipped a hand inside my pocket for the yarn I’d found. I hesitated. It was maybe not a good idea to let David know I’d been snoo— I mean, investigating. He’d think I doubted him, which I suppose I had until I’d looked at his front lawn. I’d better tell Matthew when we were alone. I left the yarn in my pocket.

“Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me everything.”

David tried to smile, but managed only a pained grimace. “Turns out I had to pay my lawyer three hundred bucks for nothing. All they did was ask me a bunch of questions I had already answered—where I was last night, who I saw, what time I got home.”

I chuckled. “That’s good. Better to pay your lawyer for doing nothing now than for defending you in court later. Don’t you think?”

He gave an appreciative smile. “You’ve got a point. I sure hope that was the end of it.”

“It might be if the police believed you. Do you think they did?”

He shrugged. “Who the hell knows? As I was just telling Matthew, they asked me for the name of the emergency doctor who treated me. I’m sure they’ll question him and everyone who saw me at the bar last night.” Fear flashed over his face again. Poor guy. Having once been wrongfully accused myself, I knew just how he felt.

“But unless somebody happened to see me passed out on the walk in front of my house,” he continued, “nobody can swear that I spent the night there.”

Matthew said, “The police have to determine the time of Jeremy’s death before they can start throwing accusations around.”

“Did they mention how he was killed?” I asked.

“That was one of the first questions they asked me—as if I knew, or as if I’d be stupid enough to admit it if I did. And they wanted to know whether I noticed a laptop in the room.”

“A laptop?” Until he nodded, I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. “But that doesn’t make any sense. If you’d seen one, it would have still been there when they got there. A laptop isn’t exactly the kind of thing a person can hide in a pocket.”

“I know. I didn’t get that either.”

My mind went back to the question of a weapon. “Considering all the blood around the body, it’s a pretty safe bet that he was either stabbed or shot.”

“Oh, it was definitely a gun. They asked me if I owned one and tested my hands for gunpowder residue.”

“That answers that question.” I faced Matthew. “That’s good, isn’t it? Once they saw there was no residue—” I turned back to David. “There wasn’t, was there?”

“Of course not,” he answered vehemently.

“Well, then, I’m sure there aren’t too many people in Briar Hollow who own guns. Do you own one?”

“No. I hate them. I never even had toy guns when I was a kid. But one thing that puzzles me is this: If Jeremy was shot, wouldn’t someone have reported hearing gunfire?”

Matthew considered the question briefly. “First of all, having no powder residue on your hands doesn’t prove anything. The police can argue that you washed your hands after killing Jeremy. As for the shooting, people might not have heard it,” he said. “Don’t forget, the murder was committed indoors and probably late at night when most people were sleeping. Also, that stretch of Main Street is commercial. The closest homes are three or four buildings away. And to anyone who isn’t familiar with the sound of gunshots, they can easily be mistaken for a car backfiring.” He looked at me and smiled, sending my pulse racing. “So, where did you go on your walk?” He said this in a perfectly nice tone, but maybe because I felt a bit guilty about my investigating, I felt put on the spot.

“What is this? Am I accountable to you now?”

He looked at me quizzically. “Don’t be silly, Della.” That was the second time he’d called me by my name rather than kiddo. “I was surprised you weren’t here when I got back. That’s all.”

“I wasn’t anywhere special. Just around,” I said, sounding guilty.

“Why are you being so vague? Are you hiding something?”

I did what I usually do when I feel cornered: I attacked. “Instead of giving me the third degree, why don’t you take Winnie for a walk for a change? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in no shape to take over your responsibilities anymore.” What the heck was wrong with me? I wanted to charm the man into letting me stay here, not make him hate me.

David glanced from me to Matthew and back again, looking puzzled. He cleared his throat. “How about filling out the paperwork for the offer? Do you want to do that now?” he asked in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

“They’re in the folder on my desk. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you think the apartments might be difficult to rent after a murder was committed there? Would I need to disclose it to prospective tenants?”

“Are you kidding? This is Briar Hollow. You couldn’t hide it if you tried. Everybody knows everything that goes on around here.” He looked pensive for a moment. “I suppose it might spook some people, but I still believe you could rent those units very easily.” He paused, looking concerned. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. Let’s do it right now.” I was sure the apartments were lovely enough to charm even the most nervous of prospective tenants.

He pulled his chair closer, spreading the forms out on the table. And then, leaning in, he explained each clause, filling in all the lines along the way. At last he pulled out a pen and handed it to me. “All I need now is for you to initial and sign.”

I initialed the clauses—dozens of them, it seemed. I signed the last line with a flourish and handed David’s pen back to him.

He picked up the forms, slid one copy into the folder and handed it to me. The remaining papers he slipped into his briefcase, grinning. I guess there’s nothing like the prospect of a nice commission check to lift a man’s spirits.

“The offer is conditional until three o’clock the day after tomorrow. If the seller is interested, he’ll get back to me with either an acceptance or a counteroffer. If we don’t hear from him by then, your offer becomes null and void. Then you can decide whether or not you want to make a new offer.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “One way or another I’ll give you a call.” I struggled to my feet, scooped up my crutches and followed him to the door.

A second later he was gone. I began to shake. It started with my hands and spread to my knees; pretty soon my whole body was trembling. This time it had nothing to do with bodies and blood and murder. I was having what had to be the worst case of buyer’s remorse in history. And I hadn’t even bought the building yet. I held on to that thought. With any luck, the seller would refuse my offer.

Matthew looked at me and chuckled. “You look scared out of your mind.”

“That’s because I
am
scared out of my mind.” I squeezed my eyes shut, grimacing. “That building represents a lot of money for someone just starting a business.”

“Come on,” he said cajolingly. “Trust me. You have nothing to worry about. This is a good thing you’re doing.”

“I sure hope so. Otherwise, I’ll have to go live in a cardboard box under a bridge.” And much to my embarrassment, tears welled up. I was a mess and had been since finding Jeremy Fox’s body. On second thought, I had been a mess since Matthew had moved back in; stumbling upon the murder had only made it worse.

He chuckled sympathetically. “You know what you need? A hug.” He moved toward me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I melted into his arms. My crutches tumbled to the floor with a loud bang, but I barely noticed. He smelled so good. His arms felt so warm, so solid.

“Matthew?” I whispered, my face buried near his shoulder.

“Yes,” he replied in a strangled voice, and when he pulled away to glance down at me, his eyes were golden. His eyes lingered on mine for a moment, and then he pulled away.

Before I could say a word, he turned and marched out of the kitchen, his footsteps echoing down the hall. A second later a door banged shut, and I was left wobbling on one foot, shocked at the overwhelming rush of sensations coursing through my body.

D
a
vid breezed in at seven o’clock sharp. “I’m not early, am I?” he asked, seemingly in a good mood. Of all the members of the beginner class he was the last one I would have expected to show up on time.

“The others should be here any minute.”

He grinned. “I faxed your offer to the seller. Keep your fingers crossed.”

I raised a hand, displaying crossed fingers.

He crouched to scratch Winston’s head and was rewarded with a slurpy kiss. “Do you mind if I use the washroom?” he asked, wiping the pooch saliva from his hand.

“Upstairs,” I said, pointing. “First door on the left.” I watched him bound up the stairs enviously. It would be a while until I could maneuver stairs so easily again. After only half a day on crutches, I was utterly exhausted. Now I had not only bruised ribs and a sprained ankle but also blistered palms and sore armpits. No matter what Dr. Green had said, these crutches were
not
very friendly.

I was about to go sit when the sound of loud voices outside stopped me. It was Mercedes and Dolores, I realized. I stepped closer to the door. They were having one doozy of an argument. What was that about? I pressed an ear to the door, but most of what they were saying was too mumbled for me to hear. Except for a few of Mercedes’s words.

“Blah, blah, blah
pretend
—blah, blah, blah
hate you
,” and “blah, blah, blah
divorce
.”

Dolores answered with something sharp, but as hard as I tried to, I couldn’t make out any of it. This was followed by some more angry words from Mercedes, ending with, “
and now he’s dead too
.” I gasped at the implications, and then, sensing that the argument was winding down, I tottered away. The doorbell jingled and, forcing a smile, I turned to greet mother and daughter.

“I thought I saw David’s car out front,” said Dolores, looking around. Then she noticed my crutches and wrapped ankle. “What in the world happened to you?” She asked this with more mockery than sympathy.

“It’s just sprained,” I said. “David is upstairs. He’ll be down in a minute.” I glanced from mother to daughter, amazed at how composed Dolores appeared, considering she’d just been in a screaming match with her daughter.

Mercedes, on the other hand, looked furious. She let out an exasperated grunt and glowered at her mother.

I pointed to the stack of papers on the desk. “I prepared some basic weaving instructions for everyone. You’ll find them very easy to follow.”

Dolores picked up a sheaf, looking at the words as if they were written in Chinese. “How am I—” She noticed Winston and blanched, for a second looking as if she might scream. To my surprise, Winnie had flattened his ears and raised the hackles on his back. And for just an instant I thought he was going to attack her.

Mercedes rolled her eyes. “You’re being ridiculous, Mom. Winston is a real pussycat,” she said, approaching to pat him. Winnie wiggled his behind with joy. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Don’t mind my mother. She’s nuts.”

“Mercedes!” Dolores retorted.

“I’ll put him in the next room,” I said, hobbling to the kitchen and calling Winston to follow. He did so, reluctantly. “Winnie, what was wrong with you? No biting. You hear me? No biting!” I said sharply, wagging my finger at him. He lowered his head between his paws, doing a good impression of remorse. “You’re such a faker.”

I returned just as David came down the stairs. Suddenly Dolores’s entire demeanor changed. She pulled back her shoulders, tossed her hair and smiled seductively. It was like seeing a tiger morph into a kitten. And then her mouth dropped open.

“Oh my God. Are you all right? What happened?” she said, looking horrified. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was really as surprised as she seemed. I would have bet that every soul in town had already heard all about both the murder and the attack on David. I tried to read Dolores’s eyes, but if she was acting, it was a performance worthy of an Oscar.

“It’s nothing. I got into a bit of a fight last night,” he said in a tone meant to put the subject to rest.

Dolores pursed her mouth, staring from David to me and back at him. “Bad day all around, I guess.” She might have tried to arch an eyebrow at that point, but her Botoxed forehead refused to cooperate. She gave David a half smile. “I hope you gave as good as you got.”

I decided that now was maybe not a bad time to change the subject. “I have some basic instructions printed out, David,” I said, pointing him toward the remaining copy on the desk. I waited for everyone to sit, then began with a two-minute history of weaving, from Stone Age times to the modern era, going on to explain the different types of looms, their advantages and disadvantages. “Which brings us to the rigid heddle loom,” I concluded. “Jenny and I have already dressed some looms for you so you can begin weaving right away.”

“That’s so cool!” exclaimed Mercedes, whose enthusiasm for the art seemed to be growing at about the same rate that her mother’s was diminishing. “But it’s such a weird-looking loom.”

I laughed. “This loom is just as real as any other.” Seeing her eyes fill with wonder, I said, “You can create just about any weave on this as on the more sophisticated looms.” To demonstrate, I opened a book showing dozens of weaving projects, all of which had been made on primitive and heddle looms. I passed it around. David was interested enough to flip through a few pages. Dolores barely glanced at the open page and handed the book to her daughter.

Mercedes studied the first picture—a Mojave rug—and said, “How long would it take a person to make a rug like this one?”

“It would probably take a long time, more than a person might want to commit to until they were proficient. But you could work your way up to it.” I picked up a long stick shuttle instead of the traditional boat shuttle I usually favored, and demonstrated the first line of weaving. “The machine does the work for you. Then you just move the heddle and you’re ready for the next line or pick of weaving. And repeat.”

“It’s just like basket weaving,” said Mercedes. “It looks so easy.” Could it be that the girl was developing a love for the craft?

“It is,” I said, chuckling. “In fact, this weave is called the plain weave. There’s another pattern called the basket weave. I’ll show it to you later.” I returned to the group instruction. “The trick is to maintain the same tension for all the rows.” Again I demonstrated, weaving another row of yarn across and pulling it loosely into the shape of an arc rather than in a tight, straight line. “Make sure you do not pull the weft too tightly. Let it form a bubble, as weavers call it. And then, when you pull the beater down”—I demonstrated—“it pushes your last row tightly against the previous one. See?”

Mercedes watched my movements with fascination. “I can do that,” she said, almost grabbing the loom from me. I was happy to see how much she enjoyed the work. At least one person in this class was interested.

“David and I will work together,” declared Dolores, without consulting him.

Next to me, Mercedes rolled her eyes in disgust.

I was about to say that it might make more sense for her to work with her daughter, but she was looking at David, and the expression that flashed through her eyes stopped me short. For a moment I was reminded of a cobra about to strike. Any theory I’d had about Dolores Hanson having romantic feelings toward David vanished. What was the woman up to? The angry words I’d overheard between Dolores and Mercedes popped into my mind—“
and now he’s dead too
.” I grappled for a logical explanation and didn’t like what I was coming up with. Dolores? The killer? Much as I preferred that theory to the one the police had embraced, it didn’t make much sense. She was the one who’d cried murder when her husband died. Sure, that could have been a ploy. As Jenny had pointed out, she stood to gain the most by her husband’s death. But what possible motive could she have had for killing Jeremy Fox?

Suddenly I realized Dolores was talking to me. “I
said
, am I doing this right?” she repeated.

“Yes, yes, you’re doing fine. Remember, change the shed, bring the weft through, then push it into place with the beater.” I stood by, shoring myself up on my crutches until I was sure she had the knack of it, and then I turned to Mercedes. “You’ve already done two inches. You’re doing very well.”

She looked almost embarrassed, saying, “It’s sort of fun,” as if admitting this made her uncool.

“I was about your age when I first started, and pretty soon I was addicted to it.” She scowled, and I remembered too late that girls her age don’t want to be compared to women my age.
Oops
.

Back at my loom, I finished my first warp and cut it off the loom. I brought it to my desk and cut the yardage into three equal lengths. I threaded a needle and began joining the pieces with a decorative cross-stitch as I lent an ear to the conversation between Dolores and David.

“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.