Weave of Absence

Tapestry of Lies

“This second book in the Weaving Mystery series knocks it out of the park. There are plenty of twists and turns to keep you guessing whodunit. I enjoy the cast of quirky characters that are Della's friends and neighbors. The plotting is stellar. . . . If you like your mystery with a crafty touch, then you should be reading
Tapestry of Lies.
”

—MyShelf.com

“With her direct approach and fearless sleuthing, the second Weaving Mystery finds Della throwing herself into an investigation and uncovering several surprise twists. The charming small-town setting and Della's likability add dimension and warmth to this intriguing mystery, [which] keeps readers guessing until the very end. Weaving tips are included.”

—
RT Book Reviews

Looming Murder

“I loved
Looming Murder
.”

—Amanda Lee, author of
Thread End

“The small-town setting and community vibe of the weaving studio enhance the mystery by providing a central location to introduce key players. Della is a smart and likable sleuth who has a penchant for high heels and nasty spills. Her sleuthing skills and her relationship with Matthew provide plenty of drama to keep readers hooked.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Martin scores a real hit with this one. . . . The book was very well written and I loved all the information about weaving . . . a great book.”

—Debbie's Book Bag

“I really love it when I find a new series and can't put down the book until I finish it. There are quirky characters and red herrings that will keep you turning the pages.”

—MyShelf.com

Looming Murder

Tapestry of Lies

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014

USA|Canada|UK|Ireland|Australia|New Zealand|India|South Africa|China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

ISBN 978-1-101-63844-6

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To my beloved sister Rachel. You are so, so
missed.

M
arnie was getting married.

After the initial shock passed, I decided I was happy for her. More than that—I was thrilled . . . and maybe just a tiny bit envious too. Marnie had met Bruce only a month ago, and she was getting married in June—two months from now. Meanwhile, I'd known Matthew my entire life. Our mothers being best friends since college, our families had spent holidays together since we were kids. For much of that time he'd been just a friendly acquaintance to me, same as I'd always been to him. And then a year ago I'd had to admit that I'd fallen in love with him. Unfortunately, while my feelings had changed, his hadn't. Recently, though, we'd started getting together for dinner once, sometimes even twice a week. But I couldn't call it dating. It was just an occasional dinner with a friend. And in case I got the wrong idea, he still called me “kiddo,” driving home the point that he had no romantic feelings for me. Unfortunately, the only wedding
bells in my near future were going to be my friend Marnie's.

What I had to do was think positive, I told myself.
If it happened to Marnie, it could happen to me.

I stepped off the ladder, folded it, and carried it to the cupboard in the back. When I returned, I scanned the room with satisfaction. All evidence that this place was my recently opened weaving shop, Dream Weaver, was gone. I'd spent the entire day turning it into a party room.

I mentally ran down the items on my list. Balloons? Check. The ceiling was covered in white and silver helium-filled balloons. Drinks? Check. The sales counter was now a self-serve bar. On it was a bucket of ice, filled with half a dozen bottles of sparkling wine. Alongside were three neat rows of champagne flutes. Shower gifts? Check. Farther back, in the area I'd designated as my weaving studio, was a pyramid of gifts all wrapped in silver and white. (As you might have guessed, those were the colors I'd chosen as the theme of the party.) Nibbles? Check. I'd put away my collection of lovely handwoven afghans and set out trays of fresh fruit around a chocolate fountain on the sideboard, and on the nearby table was a prominently displayed white-frosted cake. On the top tier was an embroidery ring to which was glued a diamond-shaped paperweight—my idea. It looked like a giant version of the engagement ring Marnie had so proudly shown off one week earlier.

As a finishing touch, I'd hung a large banner above the counter. Originally, I'd planned for it to read
CONGRATULATIONS
, but my friend Jenny had quickly informed me that one should congratulate the groom, not the bride. To the bride, one offered one's best wishes. Anything else was sure to bring bad luck. So now the banner read
MUCH HAPPINESS IN
YOUR NEW LIFE
, in big pink letters. Jenny, it seemed, was not only a clairvoyant but a superstitious clairvoyant.

“Done,” I said, more to myself than to Liz Carter, who was standing by the counter. She had shown up half an hour ago to
“help,” but had headed straight for the bar. I glanced at the bottle she'd cracked open. It was already three-quarters empty.

“The place looks beautiful,” she said, adding, “if I do say so myself,” as if she had done any of the work. “All that's missing now are the guests.” I detected a slight slur to her voice.

“And the bride to be,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Everybody should be here soon.” I made my way to the bar and poured myself a glass of soda water, then added a splash of white wine, an ice cube, and a slice of lemon. I leaned back against the counter. Maybe I could relax for a few minutes before everyone showed up. But relaxing wasn't easy, worried as I was about my friend. She'd been so secretive about Bruce, not even telling me he existed until she was already engaged, and then refusing to introduce him. I couldn't help but
wonder about that. Did he have some terrible flaw she didn't want me to know about? Was she ashamed of him?

“I haven't met Marnie's fiancé yet. She said you introduced them. What's he like?”

She peered at me above the rim of her glass. “He's nice, and very successful—a financial advisor from Seattle. He just sold his business and came out East looking for the perfect place to retire.”

“In that case, I'm surprised he's here and not in Miami.”

“He says he loves the temperate climate here. It rained all the time in Washington, even in winter.” She shrugged.

“To each his own,” I said.

She took another sip. “I'm happy for Marnie. I'm just surprised.”

“So was I,” I said. “It all happened so fast.”

“It did happen fast, but that's not what I'm talking about. I mean, Bruce Doherty is such a . . . an attractive man. And Marnie is—well . . .” Bruce was good-looking? That meant she had not kept him a secret out of embarrassment. I jumped to my friend's defense.

I cut her off. “Marnie Potter has wonderful qualities. She's just about the nicest person I've ever met. Any man she marries should consider himself very lucky.”

“Maybe he has a mother fixation. Or perhaps it's her cooking,” Liz continued as if she hadn't heard a word I'd just said. Considering the amount
of alcohol she'd already imbibed, she probably hadn't. “She is such an incredible baker. You know, if it wasn't for her baking, I doubt Jenny's coffee shop would have done as well.” Jenny was the owner of Coffee, Tea and Destiny.

“She's not just a great baker. She's also a gifted weaver. I owe much of my success to her too.” When I'd first opened my shop, Marnie had agreed to sell her weaving through me on consignment. To this day, her pieces regularly outsold those from all my other suppliers. Then, after Jenny rented part of my floor space and opened her shop next to mine, Marnie began baking for her. It wasn't long until she started hanging around after dropping off her baked goods. Soon she was spending entire days here, and even doing most of her weaving in my shop rather than in her home. “I need the company,” she'd insisted, but I knew better. It was just like Marnie to do me a favor, all the while pretending I was doing her one. Before I knew it, she was in my shop practically all the time, helping me with customers and accepting only a fraction of the pay she should really be getting—thank goodness, because God knows I couldn't afford to pay her more.

“Anyone who knows Marnie will tell you she'll spoil that man to death,” I added.

I wasn't sure whether the sound Liz made was a chuckle or a hiccup. “Maybe somebody should warn him to stay away from her baking, otherwise he'll end up fat like her.”

The woman was beginning to seriously irritate me. “You don't like her very much, do you? So why did you set them up?”

She bristled. “It's not that I don't like her. I was chatting with her at the church picnic last month, when Bruce wandered over. All I did was introduce them. I didn't exactly expect them to start dating.”

Liz's reaction assured me of one thing. Bruce was not the bad catch I'd imagined. So, the mystery remained. Why had Marnie kept him a secret? I studied the woman, wondering if there was maybe a bit of jealousy in those malicious words. After all, she was not only single but also a few years younger than Marnie—in her mid- to late forties. I didn't know her well, but from what I had learned, her life seemed empty. She traveled extensively, but lived alone. When she was in town, she volunteered a few hours a week at the local library. Except for Marnie, she didn't have many friends. And from the sound of it, the two of them were not as close as I'd imagined. She might have hoped to get the man for herself.

I was going to say something snippy, but at that moment the door flew open and Jenny walked in, struggling under the weight of a large gift-wrapped box.

“There you are,” I said, thanking my lucky stars that she had chosen that moment to arrive. Another minute and I might have blurted something I'd later regret. “I was beginning to worry about you.”

“Sorry I'm late. I ran all over town for silver wrapping paper, and finally had to drive to Belmont.” She noticed Liz. “Oh, good. I see you had some help. Hi, Liz.”

“If you call drinking help,” I muttered under my breath. Jenny gave me an understanding smile. Did Liz have a reputation for drinking? Hmm. After a year of living here, I still wasn't up-to-date on all the local lore and gossip. But I was catching up fast. I grabbed one end of the box and we carried it across the room to where the rest of the gifts were piled, dropping it alongside the others with a thud.

“I hope there was nothing fragile in it.”

She chuckled, shaking her head, sending her sandy hair bouncing. “No wonder I couldn't find silver wrapping paper anywhere in town. Will you look at that pile? There must be two dozen presents here. Lucky Marnie.” She stretched her back, glancing around. “Nice. You did a great job with the decor.”

“What did you get her? That box weighs a ton.”

“Marnie's been complaining that her bakeware is starting to fall apart. I got her a complete professional set.”

“That's generous of you.”

She shrugged. “Not really. She hardly charges me for all the baking she does for the shop. I'd be surprised if she makes a decent profit. And I know she's still paying off the loan she took out for her kitchen.” Last year, Marnie had hired an architect
and had an extension built in the back of her house. Now she was the proud owner of a professional industrial kitchen.

“That would be just like her. She hardly charges me for all the time she works in the shop. She insists that she'd rather be here than by herself at home all day.” A thought came to me. “Now that she's getting married, do you think she'll still want to work for us?”

Jenny blanched. “Oh, my God. If she quits, I might as well kiss my business good-bye.”

That possibility troubled me too. It might not be as disastrous to my shop as it would be to Jenny's, but still, I couldn't imagine going to work every day and not having Marnie to keep me company. Funny thing—she'd started coming in because she was lonely, and now if she stopped coming, I'd be the one who would be lonely.

Marnie had never admitted her age to any of us, but she was constantly complaining of hot flashes, so I guessed her to be in her early fifties. She was overweight, had Lucille Ball hair, wore bright blue eye shadow, and loved animal prints and anything spandex. She was the last person in the world I would have expected to like so much. But to my surprise, she'd become like family to me. My mother, who was my only real family, lived an hour or so away from Briar Hollow, the small town at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains where I now lived. Poor Mom—she'd been so worried for me when I left Charlotte. To this
day, she couldn't understand why a woman my age—mid-thirties—would leave a perfectly good job as a business analyst to become a weaver. Her only consolation was that Matthew lived here too. Her greatest hope was that he and I would fall in love, get married, and give her lots of grandchildren. And since I'd inadvertently blurted out that I had feelings for Matthew, her hopes had become a near obsession.
Me and my big mouth
.

The sound of the bell above the door startled me back to the present.

“Hey, Della,” called Melinda Wilson from the doorway. The beautiful blonde was in her early forties, a baker from nearby Belmont—the only baker I knew whom Marnie would not mind catering her party. A few years ago, when Melinda's husband was killed in Afghanistan, she'd moved to Belmont and opened a bakery. If not for Marnie taking a job there, it might have gone bankrupt. In the year she'd worked for Melinda, Marnie had taught her many of her best recipes. Now the two women's baked goods were so similar, Melinda's could almost be mistaken for Marnie's. Almost, but not quite.

“Need any help?” she asked, looking around. She'd dropped off the food a few hours earlier, mentioning that she would do her best to come to the party.

“Melinda, I'm so glad you could come.”

“I had to do a lot of rescheduling, but I really wanted to be here for Marnie's party.” She looked around. “Wow, you've been busy. The place looks
great.” And then noticing the food trays, she set off to check that everything was just right.

“How long has this food been sitting out here?” she asked.

“Not long,” I said. “I took it out of the fridge no more than fifteen minutes ago. Which reminds me, I have to bring down more bottles of wine.”

Suddenly, half a dozen other women traipsed in. The few who had not dropped off their gifts earlier carried them over to the pile. The door had barely closed when it swung open again as more guests arrived.

“Everybody, the bar is over there,” I yelled over the cacophony of chatter, and then pointed for good measure. A group of women wandered over.

Another group walked in, and soon the room was full. Wine was flowing and conversation bubbling—or vice versa—when suddenly my telephone rang twice and then stopped. This was the agreed-upon signal that I'd prearranged with Mercedes Hanson, a pretty teenager who lived a few houses down from Marnie.

“Marnie's on her way,” I called out. “Everybody to the back of the room, and be quiet.” There was a rush to the area where I'd relocated the looms. Jenny hurried to the front to lock the door and turn off the lights. Then she scurried to join the group. We waited in hushed silence until, a few minutes later, the door swung open and the lights switched on.

“Surprise!”

For a second I thought Marnie was going to have a heart attack. She wasn't a young woman, and since she was overweight, something like that could happen. Her hand flew to her chest and her face turned white. And then she burst out laughing. I exhaled. She'd live, I decided, laughing myself. Behind her, I noticed a good-looking man blinking in shock. Bruce Doherty, no doubt. I hadn't expected that he would show up too. I was about to meet the mystery man. At that moment, Mercedes burst through the door and grabbed Marnie's arm, hopping with excitement.