Loom and Doom (5 page)

J
enny and I started in my shop since mine was already prepped. Meanwhile, Marnie armed herself with brooms and mops and countless rolls of masking tape, and began cleaning Jenny's store.

“This paint job might not be as perfect as what Sydney's crew could do,” I said, dipping the roller into the pan. “But it'll be finished faster.”

“Which is a good thing,” Jenny said.

“And we'll be saving ourselves some money.”

“Which is an even better thing,” she added, laughing. “But I think you're not giving us enough credit. I bet we can do it just as well.” She was on the ladder already cutting the edges of the ceiling with an angled brush. “As long as we stay inside the masking tape.” She chuckled. “But staying inside the lines was always a problem with me.”

“Not me. I used to be a business analyst—almost as anal as accountants. All inside the lines all the time.”

Fifteen minutes later, we had just started with the coat of primer, when Marnie came bursting in.

“Sydney's here. He's looking for his tool belt. Any idea where it might be?”

“Oops. That's my fault,” I said. “I borrowed it to put up a few pictures on my living room wall and forgot to bring it back down.” I'd put up lovely pictures of Native weaving all over my bedroom wall as inspiration for my new collection. It had worked. So far, I'd completed two blankets, a dozen place mats, a few runners and some squares I planned to make into decorator cushions.

I wiped my hands with a rag. “I'll be right back.” I raced up the stairs to my apartment, returning a few seconds later. “Here it is,” I said, walking into Jenny's shop.

“Ah, that's a relief,” Syd said. “There's not much I can do without my measuring tape and hammer.” He grabbed the tool belt.

“By the way, did you hear about Swanson?”

“You mean about the electrical panel?” he asked, dropping his measuring tape. “Jenny told me I wouldn't have to move it, and Marnie just told me the city had already passed it. I can't figure it out, unless I misunderstood. Lucky for everyone she checked.” He made a production out of rearranging all the tools in his belt, the whole time, avoiding my eyes. I glanced at Marnie again, wondering if she was also noticing how fidgety he was.

“I was talking about his murder,” I said, watching for his reaction.

“Murder? What are you talking about? Are you telling me that Swanson is dead?” I wasn't sure what was behind the expression in his eyes, except that it didn't look like surprise. There had been an instant of something like elation, quickly replaced by fear. Already my mind was jumping to conclusions.

“I'm afraid he is.”

“Swanson is dead?” he repeated, this time, as if he was trying to sound sad. It was a poor attempt.

“He was murdered. Somebody hit him over the head hard enough to split it open.”

He leaned against the wall as if his legs could no longer support him. “I knew a lot of people hated him, but I never imagined—”

I waited, hoping he would expand on this.

He blew out a breath. “He was a city inspector. He had a way of making enemies.” That was pretty close to what Ronald Dempsey had said just a few hours ago. He shook his head, as if in disbelief. This reaction also seemed off. “Poor guy. That's a real shame.” I wondered if Marnie and Jenny heard the insincerity in his comments as I did. “That'll be especially hard on his family. He just got married again a few months ago. At least his wife won't be entirely by herself. Her sister and brother-in-law moved here.” He paused. “Do the cops have any idea who did it?” This time, the nervousness in his voice sounded real.

“Not that I'm aware,” I said. “How well did you know Swanson?”

“Considering I've been a contractor for the better part of my life, not all that well. A lot of my jobs didn't involve permits—you know, flooring, kitchen cabinets, painting. That sort of stuff. I know he was buddies with some of the local contractors, but except for the occasional job, he and I never had much in common. He was a lot older than me.”

“Who was he friends with?”

He shrugged, glancing at the door as if he couldn't wait to get out of there. “I don't really know.” I waited, and after a few seconds of silence he expanded on that. “I saw him a couple of times at The Bottoms Up, with Ronald Dempsey.” I hid my surprise.

“You said Swanson was friends with other contractors. But Dempsey is a developer.”

“Developer, contractor, same difference.” He was now inching his way backward toward the exit. “He needed building permits just as badly I do. And he must have liked Dempsey's work because I heard he was buying a house from him.” He reached the door. “Marnie tells me you'll be doing the painting yourself?”

“Yes. I hope you don't mind,” I added, “but the renovations ended up costing way more than I expected. I figured I could save myself some money.”

“I understand,” he said. “So I guess that's it then. Here's my last bill.” He pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to me, almost dropping it in his rush to leave. “I'll pick up the check the next time I'm in the area.” He slung the tool belt over his shoulder, picked up the red toolbox at his feet, and stooping under the weight, he scurried out.

Marnie, who had been standing a few feet away, stared at the closed door. “Well! He sure was in a rush to get out of here. Don't you think?”

“I got the same impression. In fact, I think it was really weird that he didn't ask to be paid right away. I could have run upstairs to get my checkbook.”

“But then he would have had to stick around for another five minutes. Why do you suppose he was in such a rush?”

“He looked as nervous as a thief who'd just triggered a burglar alarm. What really surprised me is that he hadn't heard of Swanson's murder,” she continued.

“I'm surprised you didn't tell him the second he walked in,” I said.

She winked. “Because I could have bet my best brownie recipe that you wanted to tell him yourself. I knew you'd want to see his reaction.” She tilted her head sideways. “I know you. You're just dying to start snooping, aren't you? In fact, I bet you already have a suspect. Judging by the way you were looking at him while you asked him all those questions, I could tell, you think Syd was the killer.”

I wouldn't have put it that strongly, but after watching him squirm and then rush out the door, I was convinced that he was guilty of something. I just wasn't sure what. Jenny mentioned something strange earlier,” I said. “According to her, Syd's aura had been gray this morning instead of its usual blue—not that I believe any of that stuff. Her interpretation of that was he was lying.” I shrugged. “In this case, I think she might have been right—about the lying, I mean.”

Marnie nodded. “She told me the same thing.”

I remembered the fleeting expression of delight in the contractor's eyes. It had been an odd reaction upon learning about someone's death.

“I think Syd knows something,” I said.

“You mean about Swanson's murder?”

Before I could answer, the door flew open and Jenny came storming in. “You won't believe this. I was curious about what Syd was up to. So I followed him and—”

“Now
you're
playing detective?” Marnie said, giving her the eyebrow.

“Yes, I am, and for a darn good reason too. The more I've been thinking about it, the more I feel that Syd was trying to slow the work progress for as long as he could. But since it wasn't for the money, there had to be another reason. And I suspected it had something to do with Good Morning Sunshine.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Marnie asked.

“I think they're all conspiring against me,” she said.

Good grief.
Jenny was starting to lose it. What she was thinking was just plain nuts, but I kept my mouth shut. Marnie was not so polite. “Sugar pie, I think you need a good night's sleep. You're starting to imagine things.”

“Before you start thinking I'm crazy, listen to me. I waited in my car until he left, and then I followed him. And guess where he went.” She looked from Marnie to me and continued. “He made a beeline straight to Good Morning Sunshine.”

“That doesn't necessarily mean anything,” I said gently.

She harrumphed. “Do either of you remember that he was the one who told us we needed the electrical box moved? How long do you think he would have stretched that out for?”

“We don't know whether that was him or Swanson,” Marnie pointed out.

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Fine. Go ahead and believe whatever you want. But you know how I get feelings about things. By the way, do either of you know the new owners' names?”

“Jim and Lori Stanton,” I said.

“Actually, he calls himself Jack,” Marnie said. She looked from me to Jenny. “I met them at the grocery store. I was in line behind them at the cash register. They were chatting up everyone and handing out coupons for free coffees.”

Jenny gasped. “You never told me that.”

“I didn't want to upset you. Did you go?”

“Good grief, of course not. You would never forgive me if I had.”

Jenny gave her a rueful smile. “That was smart of you.” She sighed, and then said, “I bet you anything that Syd has a connection to them.”

Marnie froze. “I just remembered something,” she said. “Syd was there that day, at the grocery store with them. I didn't think anything of it then, but now . . . I wonder if they might be related.”

Jenny crossed her arms. “So, still think I'm being paranoid?”

I
still thought her theory was a stretch. However, of the two of us, Jenny had always been the calmer, more levelheaded one. When I got frantic, she would talk me down. When I got angry, she calmed me. That is why it was so strange to see her so agitated. Could she be right about any of this? Was I dismissing her suspicions too swiftly?

I had questioned, more than once, why the renovations were taking so long. I had even wondered if Syd was moving so slowly on purpose. But thinking that he was plotting with the owners of the coffee shop up the street sounded paranoid—at least upon first examination. But what if she was right?

I chose my words carefully. “I can understand why his behavior might seem suspicious, but how do we know he wasn't just stopping for coffee?”

“If he'd wanted coffee, he could have asked. I had some ready here,” she said.

“Considering we had just told him he was wrong about you needing the electrical panel moved, I think it was completely natural for him to want to leave ASAP.”

She thought this over and shook her head. “I'm telling you—there's something going on. I just know it.” An idea lit up her eyes. “Didn't somebody say they moved here to be close to family? I think Marnie is right. Syd is probably family. Or maybe they're paying him to keep me closed.”

Now she was beginning to scare me.

“I don't think there was any conspiracy,” Marnie said, looking worried. “He probably wasn't purposely stretching out the work. He was only doing what all contractors do. He took on too many contracts and juggled his time, giving everybody a few hours here and there, hoping to keep everyone happy.”

“I'm sure Marnie's right,” I said.

“When I had my professional kitchen built,” Marnie continued, “the contractor told me it would all be done in three months. Well. It was more like five months by the time it was finished. And it cost me twice as much as I'd expected. That's just how it is with renovations.”

A while back Marnie had decided that with the amount of baking she was doing for Jenny's shop, she needed to be equipped like a professional. She ordered an industrial kitchen complete with a walk-in freezer. She had spent an inordinate amount of money on it, but in the end she had a setup to make any baker proud. In spite of its cost, she was happy and had since doubled her output.

“Everything you're saying sounds logical. And any other time I would say you're right,” she replied. “But if you'd seen the way the new owner's wife greeted him when he walked in, you'd be suspicious too. She came out from behind the counter and threw her arms around him as if he was her long lost brother or something.

“I have no idea what their relationship might be, except that they're more than just casual acquaintances—of that I'm sure.” She let out a long sigh, and when she spoke again I was relieved to find her sounding more like herself. “Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just letting my imagination get the better of me. Anyhow,” she continued determinedly, “Coffee, Tea and Destiny will be open again soon. And I'll make this shop so irresistible that customers won't be able to stay away.”

“That's the spirit,” Marnie said, giving the air a punch.

“Are you planning anything special?” I asked, relieved at the change of subject.

Her resolute expression of a second ago morphed into one of defeat. “I have no idea.”

“I have one,” Marnie said. “I've got dozens of cookies in my freezer. What you should do is hire someone to stand outside for your reopening and hand out free cookies and invite people to come in. I bet every person who walks in will also order a coffee and more of those cookies to take home.”

“That's a brilliant idea,” I said.

Marnie wasn't finished. “You know what else we should do? Instead of waiting until the day after tomorrow to open, why don't we aim for tomorrow, even if it means working right through the night? We all know that nothing drives business in this town like gossip. Tomorrow, every person in Briar Hollow will have heard about Swanson's murder and will be looking for a gossip session. We have to make sure those sessions happen right here.”

Marnie was right. After the last local tragedy, Jenny's shop was packed. Customers sat at the tables, ordering cup after cup of coffee while reminiscing about the victim, grieving for the family, and speculating about who might have done the killing and why.

“Work right through the night?” I said.

“Great idea,” Jenny said, holding my gaze as if begging me to agree.

I shrugged. “Let's do it.”

“Well, then, what are we waiting for? We'll finish Della's shop in no time and then we can put all our energy into yours,” Marnie said.

We returned to my shop and picked up where we'd left off. Soon, I was so engrossed in the painting that when the bell above the door rang, I almost jumped out of my skin. Two women walked in.

“Well, hello,” one of them said. “I've been walking by here every day for two months. I'm so happy to see you're at the painting stage at last.”

Her name was Judy Bates. I had met her a few months earlier at a county fair where I'd rented a booth to promote my shop and sell my woven goods. Judy had run the stall next to mine where she sold oil paintings. She was a pretty woman a few years older than me, with brown hair and a pixie smile.

“Della, meet my mother,” she said. The woman looked like an older version of her daughter. I'd seen her around town a few times but had never officially been introduced.

“Nice of you to stop by,” I said.

They walked around,
ooh
ing and
aah
ing, even though there was nothing to see except lots of plastic drop cloths and half-painted walls.

“Careful. I don't want you to get any paint on your clothes,” I said. They scooted to the center of the room, away from buckets, brushes and rollers.

“Such a lovely shop,” Judy said. “You have such a cozy space here,” Judy continued. “I can't wait for it to reopen.” The small talk having been done, she immediately changed the subject to what she'd really come in for. “I hear you found the body of the city inspector, Mr. Swanson. I can't imagine how you must have felt. Terribly upsetting, I'm sure.”

“It was. Did you know him?”

Both women shook their heads. “But I almost feel as if I do,” Judy said. “I heard so much about him from my neighbor, Susan. She didn't like him very much, I can tell you that much. He was a”—she blushed—“oh, dear. There I go again, opening my big mouth. I should not speak ill of the dead.” She quickly overcame her embarrassment and continued. “But, in all fairness, the man did treat her shamefully when she redid her kitchen. She'd hired a contractor who did a beautiful job with the remodel. I saw the place myself. It was gorgeous. But that dratted inspector refused to give her a permit. For a while, it looked like she would have to tear the whole thing out and start over.”

I could tell by the way Jenny had paused in her painting that she was listening intently.

“How awful,” I said, hoping to keep her talking. “She must have been furious.”

“Oh, you have no idea. I thought she'd kill the man.”

Her mother looked shocked. “How can you say such a thing?”

Judy's eyes rounded as she realized what she'd just said. “I didn't mean literally. It's just a figure of speech.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Then, from one day to the next, everything was fine,” she continued. “She got her occupancy permit without having so much as an outlet changed.”

“Really?” Jenny said, coming forward. “That sounds exactly like what happened to me. It looked like I would have to change the electrical panel all over again. And then”—she opened her hands—“everything was fine. No need to change a thing.”

Judy chuckled. “What did you do? Sleep with the man?”

Shock flashed over Jenny's face, but she quickly covered it with an amused smile. “Good grief. I would have preferred to redo the electrical instead.”

Judy guffawed. “Now that is funny.”

“Who are you talking about?” I asked.

“Susan Price. Maybe you know her?” I shook my head.

“In my case,” Jenny said. “Swanson told us we needed two permits, one for Della's shop and one for mine. Then, once everything was ready, he told our contractor that we'd have to redo the electrical on my side.” She explained how we had then discovered that, since we shared the same civic address, we'd only ever needed one permit. “We can't figure out why he would have lied.”

Judy leaned in. “I don't know about your case, but in Susan's, I suspected she slipped him some money under the table.”

As soon as she said this, I knew extortion had to be the answer. It explained everything. Why else would a city inspector hold back a permit unless it was for some kind of personal gain? That also explained how a city employee could afford a luxury home.

“Honestly, Judy,” her mother said, sounding shocked. “The things that come out of your mouth.”

“Did Susan say anything to suggest that?”

Her mother gave her a gentle nudge. “Don't you think we should get on our way?”

Judy threw her an apologetic look. “Just one second.” She turned back to me. “Actually, she said, and I quote, that the solution had been expensive, but not nearly as much as if she'd had to redo the whole thing. When I asked her what she meant, she refused to elaborate.” She leaned forward and whispered, “If you ask me, a payoff is the only explanation. I mean . . . one minute she can't get her permit and has to redo the whole thing, and then just a short time later everything is just fine. You tell me—how else would you explain it?”

As she said this, another idea occurred to me. Could Syd have been in cahoots with Swanson? It made sense. Syd would slow down a job until the owners became desperate. And then he could be the one to suggest possibly bribing the inspector. It would look less like a shakedown that way. And since the contractor supposedly offered the bribe in the owner's name, the chance of him going to the authorities was practically nil.

I nodded. “I have to admit, you make a good point. But I can promise you one thing. Nobody here paid off anybody.”

“Oh, I never meant to suggest—”

“No offense taken. I might have come to the same conclusion.”

Judy breathed a sigh of relief. “You know, I never met Mr. Swanson. But I did see him from a distance a couple of times. He used to drop off his wife at my place. We were in the same book club.”

I had to ask. “Are you talking about his ex-wife?”

“Yes. I never met his new wife, but I have seen her around town.”

“What is she like?”

“The ex? She's very nice. Just a pleasant, middle-aged lady. The new Mrs. Swanson is another story. For one thing, she's young—no more than twenty-five or so—and gorgeous.” She tittered. “The first time I saw them together, I thought he was her father. I was shocked when I heard she was his new wife. I don't know how in the world he got her to say yes.”

“I guess love is blind,” her mother said.

“How are you feeling?” Judy asked me, suddenly solicitous. She shook her head. “If I'd found a dead body, I'd probably be home, having a nervous breakdown.”

Her mother glanced at her watch. “Can it already be two o'clock? My goodness, we'd better get going, Judy.” And just to make sure she followed, she took hold of Judy's arm and guided her toward the exit.

“Good grief. Can you believe that woman?” Jenny asked as soon as the door closed behind them.

“She was just looking for a good gossip session,” I whispered back, as I watched mother and daughter going by my window. “And hopefully you'll have a shop full of people just like her tomorrow. Now let's get back to work.”

•   •   •

Except for a short break for pizza, we continued painting until late into the night. By the time we finished putting everything away, it was almost two o'clock in the morning. Jenny called a cab and I stumbled up the stairs to my apartment. Five minutes later I was in bed. But as tired as I was, my mind was doing the whirlies. That's what I call it when my thoughts keep going around and around. So I got out of bed and padded to the kitchen where I made myself a cup of hot cocoa.

I loved my old kitchen. I had fallen in love with it the moment I'd laid eyes on it. And it was, as much as anything else, one of the reasons I'd bought the building. It was modestly sized, but it had antique glass cabinets that went all the way up to the ceiling. The counters were black Formica trimmed in nickel. Along one wall was an old farm sink complete with drain board. But what I loved most about it was the 1930s Chambers stove. It was my pride and joy.

Rather than climb into bed and wait for sleep to come, I dragged my loom from my bedroom to the dining room and settled down for a few hours of weaving. And as my hands threw the shuttle through the shed, I replayed in my mind the conversation I'd had with Judy Bates. If she was right, that Swanson was indeed extorting money in exchange for permits, no wonder the man had ended up dead. In my book, extortion was the same thing as blackmail—just another form of getting money from victims by using threats. A person could make a lot of enemies doing that.

From there, my mind wandered on to Syd Shuttleworth and how he might be implicated with Swanson, and possibly with the owners of Good Morning Sunshine, as well.

In the middle of the night Jenny's suspicions of him didn't seem nearly as crazy. She had made a few good points.

After ruminating about all of that for a while, I put away my shuttle and padded back to bed. By then fatigue had crowded out the stress and the only thing left was a desire for sleep. I crawled under the blankets thinking about Matthew. I hadn't heard from him all day. Maybe I should call him in the morning, and then dismissed the idea as quickly as I'd thought of it. It had been wrong of him to tell me what to do. So why should I be the one to make the first move?