Loom and Doom (6 page)

Eventually I must have fallen asleep, because next thing I knew it was morning. I got up with the alarm, shocked at how stiff and sore I was. The long hours of painting had done their damage. There wasn't an inch of my body that wasn't screaming in pain. I hobbled over to the washroom and stood in the shower, letting the scalding needles of water massage my sore muscles until I felt almost normal again. I was halfway through my first cup of coffee when my house phone rang.

“Mom,” I said, recognizing her number on the call display. “How are you?” I already had a pretty good idea what this call was about and sure enough, after the customary greetings, she got straight to the point.

“Honestly, sweetheart. I don't know how you do it. I heard there was a murder in Belmont and that you found the body. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry.”

“Did you know the victim?”

“I'd seen him a few times, but never officially met him. He was the building inspector in charge of the permits for my store. That was why I was going to meet him.”

“Please tell me you're not going to let yourself get tangled up in another investigation,” she said.

“Don't worry, Mom. I promise I won't let anyone push me around.”

There was a short silence, during which, no doubt, she was trying to figure out if I was being cute.

“I'm happy to hear that,” she said, deciding I wasn't. “You know how I worry.”
That,
I certainly did. “So let's talk about something more pleasant,” she continued. “How is Matthew?”
Uh-oh.
Any discussion of my relationship with Matthew would be fraught with minefields. The last thing I wanted was for her to learn about our argument. I'd never hear the end of it.

“Matthew is good,” I said. “I just saw him yesterday. He's hard at work on his second book and making good progress.”

“That's nice, but that isn't what I was asking. How are the two of you doing? Are things moving forward nicely?”

“We're doing fine. We see each other regularly—three or four times a week.”

“Has he used the ‘L' word yet?” My mind went blank for a moment. “The ‘L' word,” she repeated. “You know, as in has he said, ‘I love you' yet?”

I laughed. “I didn't know what you were talking about.”

“In my experience, when a man tells a woman that he loves her, it doesn't take much longer until he proposes.”

“Is that right, Mom? Where, in your experience, did you learn that?” My mother had married her childhood sweetheart—my father—and they were together for nearly forty years until he passed away of a heart attack five years earlier. “As far as I know, you only ever had one boyfriend and that was Dad. One man doesn't exactly qualify you as an expert.”

She heard the amusement in my voice and laughed good-naturedly. “Okay, I'll grant you that. But I have lots of women friends who have lived more than me. Also, I used to read Ann Landers and Dear Abby religiously.”

I burst out laughing. “Mom, you are something else. Please don't ever change. I'd love to talk longer, but I have tons of work today. Today is my official reopening day.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “Well, I won't keep you. Good luck. Big kisses to Matthew.”

I dropped the receiver back in the cradle, relieved that I'd been able to field her questions and end the conversation before she got to her usual subject—grandchildren. She hardly ever called without reminding me about my biological clock. And if I dismissed those comments, she'd rejoin by admonishing that I should remember that she was no longer young and that all she wanted before she died was to have grandchildren.

Talk about a guilt trip.

I swallowed the rest of my coffee in one gulp and hurried downstairs to my shop, wondering again if Jenny might have been right about Syd Shuttleworth, and how in the world I could find out?

A
nybody who knows me would tell you that I am a person of habit. Every morning, like clockwork, I walked the short distance to the nearest newspaper dispenser to pick up a copy of the
Belmont Daily
. This one happened to be conveniently located no more than ten yards away from Good Morning Sunshine, giving me the perfect opportunity to walk by and do some spying. I debated briefly and then decided, as I always did, that—what the heck—why not? I strolled by, casually glancing inside, while really scanning for every smallest detail.

Since reopening, the new owners had done little to change the interior decor. It was still furnished with the same dark leather armchairs, coffee tables and bar tables. Along the back wall was an old glass counter that had probably been there for decades. The only changes I could see was that the walls had been changed from what Bunny called contractor beige to a soft shade of blue. This morning, I noticed that they had decorated the side wall with ten or twelve childlike drawings of the sun. The effect was charming. It occurred to me that, other than a fresh coat of paint, Jenny and I had not come up with any ideas about wall decor.

Marnie's suggestion of giving out free cookies was pure genius, but there had to be something Jenny could do to create a warm and inviting decor.

“Morning, Jenny,” I called out, popping my head into Coffee, Tea and Destiny. “Sorry I'm so late. How's it going?”

“Where have you been?” she said. “It's almost eight o'clock. We have tons of work to do.”

“I don't know how much sleep you need, but unless I get a good hour or two, I can't function the next day.”

“Hour or two?” she said. “That sounds like the kind of sleep Marnie usually gets. What happened?”

“It must have been three thirty by the time I fell asleep.”

“So what are you complaining about?” she said in her best teasing voice. “You slept for a full three hours.”

“Don't I get any sympathy around here? I'm also sore all over.”

“No more than I am,” Jenny replied.

“Hi, Della,” Margaret called out from the top of a stepladder.

Margaret was in her early twenties and had been renting the second apartment in this building since I'd bought it. She and I had met around that time, when she'd posted one of her looms for sale on Craigslist. We'd become friends and, soon after, when Jenny's shop got too busy for her to handle by herself, she had hired her.

“Hi, Margaret.”

The girl had a spray bottle in one hand and a rag in the other and was dusting the shelves behind the counter. “The place is really starting to come together, don't you think?” she said, spritzing lemony wax on the antique wood and giving it a wipe.

“Good grief. How long have you two been here? I can't believe how much work you've already done.”

“Ed was waiting for me when I got home last night,” Jenny said. “I couldn't sleep after hearing about his day. So I finally gave up and drove over around five o'clock.”

“And I came in around seven,” Margaret said. “I got a message from Jenny that we were reopening today. I'm so happy to be getting back to work.”

“I heard you were shopping up a storm in Charlotte the other day,” I said.

“Yes. Thanks to my mother. She spoils me.” Margaret's birth mother and she had only recently met, and were making up for time lost.

I turned back to Jenny. “Why did Ed have a bad day?”

“It's the little Williams girl,” she said. I recognized the name of the family whose house had burned down.

“Oh, no,” I said. “Don't tell me she didn't make it.”

She nodded grimly. “She passed away last night.”

“That's terrible,” I said, thinking of the father. He had now lost his wife and his daughter. “I hope the boy makes it.”

“Oh, haven't you heard?” Jenny asked. “He passed away two days ago.”

“Oh, my God.” I'd been so busy working on my new collection, trying to finish it in time for the opening that I had a pile of unread newspapers on my counter. “I didn't know.”

“Folks took up a collection to help defray the cost of all the medical expenses,” Jenny continued. “Now . . .” She gestured vaguely.

“Have they found out what caused the fire?” I asked.

“Not as far as I know,” Jenny said. We were both quiet for a moment, humbled by the extent of the tragedy. “I saw him in church on Sunday,” Jenny continued. “He looks like he aged two decades.”

“His wife's funeral was just a couple of days ago, and now he has to arrange for his children's burial. It's a wonder he's still functioning.”

I changed the subject. “By the way, I was just walking by Good Morning Sunshine and I peeked through their window.”

Jenny turned away. “Do I really have to hear this?”

“All I wanted to tell you is that your shop looks way nicer than theirs. They have the same old leather armchairs and coffee tables every coffee shop in the country has—totally boring. The only thing they have that gives their place a bit of atmosphere is a wall of colorful drawings. It made me wonder if there's anything you could do to add some ambiance.”

“You don't think my penny-arcade gypsy woman is enough?” She was talking about the shop-warming gift Marnie had given her last year. Considering that Coffee, Tea and Destiny also offered readings, the mechanized fortune-teller was the perfect touch. “Also, I thought I might hang the beaded curtain along the far wall, if you don't mind.”

Before our renovations, we'd kept our shops separate by way of a wall of shelves with a doorway screened with an antique beaded curtain.

“I don't mind in the least. It really isn't suitable for my shop, so I'm only happy to see it being used.”

She flapped a tablecloth onto a table and paused. “Other than that, I have no idea. Got any suggestions?”

“Remember when we opened last year? You went around taking snapshots of everyone who came in that day. Do you still have all those pictures?”

“Of course. Why? Do you think I should do that again?”

“That wouldn't be a bad idea. But I was thinking of something else. Why don't you have all those shots enlarged and framed, then cover a wall with them, as a sort of customer wall of fame?”

Her eyes lit up. “I love it. It'll get people talking, and everyone will come in to see if their picture is up.”

“And any customer whose picture is not already on the wall will want their photo taken,” added Margaret.

“Why don't you go get them now?” I said. “I can take them to be enlarged. Mason's Camera Shop in Belmont has a one-hour service. That way you'll have the wall set up for your opening.”

She looked at her watch. “I'd better get going if we want to put them up today.” She grabbed her jacket and bag, and stopped. “But you have your own shop to prepare. I'm sure it won't matter if we wait a day or two.”

“I have a solution for that. I thought of calling Mercedes and asking her to come in and help. That way I'll be ready at the same time you are.”

Mercedes was a seventeen-year-old girl who had taken some weaving lessons from me when I first opened my shop. From the start she had shown a surprising ability with the craft. Now, she'd become so proficient, that she occasionally brought in some of her own projects to sell. And she was thrilled to come in and help once in a while. I pulled out my cell phone and punched in her number.

“She's coming right over,” I said, slipping it back into my pocket.

“Cool. In that case, be back in fifteen,” she said heading for the door.

She hadn't been gone five minutes when Marnie walked in, carrying a stack of boxes. “Where do you want me to put these?”

“How about right here?” Margaret said, whipping a stack of cloths off one of the small café tables. Marnie dropped the box. “I brought six dozen assorted cookies for the promotion. Do you think that'll be enough?”

“I'm sure it will be plenty,” I said.

“Where's Jenny?”

I explained about my idea to her, and said, “She's picking up the pictures so I can run out and have them enlarged and framed.”

“That'll look great.” She opened one of the boxes. “By the way, I also brought us a treat. I tried a new recipe last night—crème brûlée muffins. I want everybody's honest opinion.”

“Crème brûlée? Oh, my God. That sounds sinful,” Margaret said. “I think those muffins call for a pot of coffee.” She poured beans into the grinder.

I went over to the box that Marnie had just opened and took a deep whiff of sweetness. “They smell divine.”

“I've got another dozen boxes of assorted pastries in the car.”

“I'll help you with that,” I said.

“Della, do you want a cup?” Margaret called from behind the counter.

“Desperately. I've only had one this morning,” I said.

“Good grief. And she hasn't turned into a werewolf,” Marnie said. “Quick, get her a cup before she does.”

“Very funny,” I said, noticing Jenny's car pulling over to the curb. A moment later she came in, brandishing a box.

“I've got them all in here. There are way too many. You'll have to go through them.”

“I almost forgot,” I said. “Be right back.” I dashed over to my apartment, returning a moment later with a small wrapped box. “A shop-warming gift,” I said.

“That's so sweet. But I didn't get you anything,” Jenny said, unwrapping the box, carefully peeling off the tape so as not to tear the paper.

“That's not how you do it,” Margaret exclaimed. “This is how.” She took the box out of Jenny's hands and tore off the paper. She handed the box back to Jenny.

She opened the box, lifting the cover carefully and peeking inside, she burst into laughter. “This is great.” She pulled out an old-fashioned brass bell, and held it up. It was the same as the one I had in my shop—the type merchants installed above the door to let them know when a customer came in.

“Now you have one just like mine,” I said. “And as soon as I can get my hands on a screwdriver, I'll put it up for you.”

Margaret picked up the trash bag in which she'd just thrown the paper. “Today is garbage day,” she said. “I'll be glad when we get the last of the mess out of here. If we don't get rid of it now, this garbage will sit around until the next pickup day.”

“That reminds me,” I said. “I'd better get rid of my trash too.” I dashed upstairs again, grabbed my waste basket and dumped it inside one of the bins behind our stores. Then I helped Marnie carry the remaining boxes from her car, and while Margaret opened them, I started setting up the rest of the furniture. Half a dozen café tables and a dozen or so chairs were stacked against the far wall.

“Let me help you with that,” Marnie said. Together, we got all the furniture in place. We dragged and pushed the antique gypsy woman penny arcade to the far corner and stood back to gauge the effect.

“It's perfect,” Marnie said, still huffing and puffing from the exertion. “It adds just the right touch of mysticism to the place.”

Soon, the glass display counter was filled with pastries and the place looked ready to open.

“It already looks wonderful,” she said. “All it needs now is a bit of decor.”

“And some customers,” added Marnie, holding up her hand with her fingers crossed.

•   •   •

I was in my Jeep, on my way to the photo shop in Belmont, when I drove by Good Morning Sunshine and spotted Syd Shuttleworth's truck two doors down. I checked my rearview mirror to make sure there were no cops around, and made a fast U-turn. I went by again, this time slowing to a crawl, trying to catch a glimpse inside. But with the sun shining on the window, I couldn't see anything but glare. I turned around again and was about to speed up when I noticed a couple at the side of the shop, by the entrance to the house. They seemed to be in a serious conversation. I pulled to the curb and stopped.

I didn't recognize the blonde, but she bore a remarkable resemblance to the attractive brunette who co-owned the coffee shop with her husband. Her sister perhaps, I thought. But what really caught my attention, was the man. He was none other than Syd Shuttleworth himself.

I must have sat there for a good minute, watching them. Syd was talking animatedly, while the woman inched away from him, shaking her head. Suddenly, Syd grabbed her by the arm, hard enough to cause her to grimace. She twisted out of his grasp and ran into the house, slamming the door shut.

What was that all about? I might not have attached any importance to the argument I'd just witnessed if not for the look of fear in the blonde's eyes. Then, a moment later, when Syd turned around, I could see, even from my distance, that he was clenching and unclenching his hands furiously. I put the Jeep in gear and drove off slowly so as not to attract his notice.

During the rest of the drive, I couldn't put the picture out of my mind—Syd grabbing the blonde roughly, and her escaping into the house. I had seen a side of Sydney Shuttleworth I had never suspected. The man had a temper. I could easily picture him hitting someone over the head.