Weave of Absence Read online

  The aroma of freshly brewing coffee drifted out from the back. A moment later, Jenny popped her head through the curtain.

  “Here you go,” she said, carrying a small basket of pastries and two mugs. She set everything on the counter. “I’m beginning to worry about Margaret,” she said, looking at her watch. “She should’ve been here by now. By the way, the muffins are from Saturday, so they’re not the freshest.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine.” I looked at the selection. “What kind have you got here?”

  “Cranberry-orange and carrot-raisin.”

  I picked one. “What do you think of Bruce Doherty?” I asked.

  But before she could answer, the door swung open and Marnie came in, carrying half a dozen boxes of freshly baked goods and effectively putting an end to that conversation. She set them on the counter.

  “You look happy this morning,” Jenny said, catching my eye with a meaningful gaze. She wanted me to keep my mouth shut. “How did you like the party?”

  “I don’t know how to thank you girls. Bruce was so touched by the way my friends all made him feel so welcome.”

  Especially Melinda, I thought.

  “Don’t thank me,” Jenny said. “It was all Della’s doing.”

  “It was my pleasure,” I said.

  Jenny lifted the flaps of the top box. “Fresh scones!” she said. “I could kiss you.”

  Marnie grinned. “I had such a good time last night, I couldn’t get to sleep. So I spent the night baking.”

  “What about Bruce? He doesn’t mind you getting up in the middle of the night and leaving him alone in bed?” Jenny asked.

  Marnie did a double take. “What in the world are you talking about? Bruce doesn’t spend nights at my place—not until we’re married.” She smiled secretly. “He respects me too much for that.”

  This struck me as more than just a little bit odd. Two mature people who were already engaged did not—at least did not usually—hold off on spending nights together. And I especially did not buy Bruce’s being okay with that, unless . . . I wondered what he was doing with his nights, and with whom he might be doing it.

  I glanced at Jenny and found her looking at me, her brows raised quizzically. She gave me a slight nod, which told me that she was asking herself the same questions.

  Marnie picked up a couple of the boxes. “I’ll drop these off in the back and be right back. I have something to show you. Wait till you see!” Jenny picked up the other boxes and followed. A moment later Marnie was back, carrying one of the boxes.

  “I should have told Jenny to leave this one here. This is what I want to show you.”

  The front door opened and a couple of women walked in, nodding their hellos on their way to the coffee shop.

  “Morning, Della. Morning, Marnie.”

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  Marnie waited until they disappeared behind the beaded curtain and then she opened the box. “Take a look at this.” She lifted out a parcel wrapped in dark blue onionskin paper. She pulled the paper back, and I was looking at a neatly folded piece of striped fabric. She spread it out, revealing a blue square stitched to one corner. Inside the square was a patchwork of stars in a circle.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  It looked like an early version of the American flag. I ran my hands over it, smoothing the wrinkles along the way. The fabric was rough and full of slubs—linen, most certainly homespun, and old, very old. The white had yellowed with age, the red had faded to pink. But the most important detail, I noticed, was the number of stars that had been hand-appliqued on the blue square. There were only thirteen.

  “How old is this?” I asked.

  “I did a Google search, and found out that this particular flag is what’s called the Betsy Ross design. It was adopted in 1777, and remained the official flag until 1894. But because communication was slow in those days, some parts of the country continued to make them for some time after, so it could be from as late as the early 1900s.”

  I snatched my hands away, realizing that this piece of history could be worth a fortune. “Have you had it evaluated?”

  “I have no idea how much it could be worth. I remember my grandmother telling me about it when I was a child. She got it from her mother, who got it from her mother. I got it from her when she died. I put it in a drawer and forgot about it. I came across it just a few days ago, when I was going through my stuff to figure out what I would sell and what I would keep when Bruce and I get married.”

  I leaned in to examine one corner where the fabric seemed to be unraveling. “This could be worth tens of thousands of dollars,” I said, awed. “You’d better get an expert to look at it as soon as possible.”

  “That’s what Bruce said when I showed it to him. He wanted to take it into Charlotte right away and get the curator at the Charlotte Museum of Art to take a look at it. But I wanted to show it to you first.”

  “Put it back in the box and keep it somewhere safe. You shouldn’t even let anybody touch it until it’s evaluated.”

  The bell above the door tinkled. I turned around to see Matthew strolling in with Winston, his French bulldog. My heart leapt and I just knew I was grinning like a fool. I turned my smile down a few degrees.

  “Hi, Matthew,” Marnie said.

  Matthew was tall, nearly six feet, which meant that when I stood next to him in my high heels, I almost reached his shoulder. His hair was dark, and his eyes could change color—from a light golden brown when he was in a good mood, to almost black when he was furious. I’d seen them both ways, but lately they were more often the former. I dared to hope that meant the friendship he felt for me might be growing into something more. He walked over to the counter.

  “I have to go into Charlotte today,” he said. “So, if you don’t mind, could you keep Winston until dinnertime?”

  “As if you need to ask,” I said.

  Winnie padded over and dropped his butt to the floor, staring at me. He had a flat, wrinkled face on a squat, muscular body. His large soulful eyes softened his otherwise ferocious mug into that of an adorable teddy bear.

  From the day I’d opened my store, Matthew had been dropping him off each morning. It was an arrangement that made everyone happy. Matthew needed peace and quiet while he wrote, whereas poor Winnie was miserable without attention all day. And truth be told, I liked having him around. What I liked best about it was that once Matthew had finished his daily word count, he’d come by and pick him up. So I got to see him twice a day. And once in a while, I’d get an invitation to dinner out of it. What this girl wouldn’t do for a date.

  “How’s your book coming along?” Marnie asked. “This is your second one, right?”

  “It’s going well. I just hope I finish it on time.” A year ago, a publishing house had accepted Matthew’s proposal for a book on criminology. He’d quit his teaching job at UNCC, moved back to Briar Hollow, and settled down to write. He’d finished his first book and was now hard at work on a second one. “I never realized how stressful these deadlines can be.”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “You can just leave Winnie with me until you’re finished.” I ruffled the fur on Winston’s head. “You love spending time with me, don’t you, big boy?”

  Winston rolled over on his back, no doubt hoping for a belly rub. I fished through my drawer for a doggy biscuit and he scrambled back onto his feet and lunged for it. And then he trotted over to his cushion, chewing contentedly.

  “What have you got there?” Matthew asked, noticing the flag. He leaned forward to get a good look.

  “It’s Marnie’s,” I said. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  Marnie explained, “It’s a sort of family heirloom. I’m not sure exactly how old it is, but I know it goes back a few generations.”

  He studied it in silence for a few seconds, then said, “You
should have this looked at by an expert.”

  “That’s what we were just talking about,” I said.

  He paused, looking thoughtful. “I have a friend at the Charlotte Museum of History. Actually, he’s the curator. If he can’t tell us, I’m sure he knows some expert who would know.”

  Marnie’s eyes widened. “Really?” She seemed about to agree and then she frowned. “I don’t know. Bruce really wanted to take it to Charlotte himself.”

  “Didn’t you say Bruce would take it to the Charlotte Museum of Art?” I said. “Surely the museum of history would be a better place to bring an antique flag. Besides, Matthew knows the curator. I’m sure Bruce won’t mind.”

  “I’m on my way to Charlotte to see my agent now,” he interjected. “I’ll be driving right by there. I could drop it off on my way. But I don’t want to cause an argument. If Bruce wants—”

  “No, you’re right,” Marnie said, cutting in decisively. “Bruce won’t mind. In fact, he’ll probably be happy he won’t have to make the drive.” She repackaged the flag and handed it to Matthew. “Please be careful with it.”

  “I promise.” He gave me a peck on the cheek, patted Winnie on the head, and walked out. A minute later he was gone, the roaring of his car engine fading in the distance.

  Marnie looked at her watch. “Is it already eight forty-five? I’d better get going.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “I’m having breakfast with Bruce at the Longview,” she said, naming a local bed-and-breakfast that had recently expanded into a boutique hotel, complete with an adjoining fine-dining restaurant. “Don’t worry,” she continued, heading for the entrance, “I’ll be back before ten o’clock.” The door swung shut behind her.

  She walked away with new energy, her flaming red hair bouncing with every step. Damn that fiancé of hers. If he broke my friend’s heart, he would have to answer to me.

  “Do you know what I think, Winnie?” He looked up at me. “I have a feeling something bad is about to happen.” Good grief. Had I really just said that? That proved it. I was spending way too much time with Jenny. I was beginning to have woo-woo feelings. Next, I’d be seeing auras.

  Chapter 3

  My paper was spread open and I was sipping my coffee and reading an article about yet another museum robbery. There seemed to have been a string of them all across the state over the last couple of years. Every month or so, another priceless painting or historical artifact went missing. This latest one had occurred two nights ago at the Charlotte Museum of Art. So far, all the police would say was that a thief, or thieves, had broken into the museum during the night and escaped with a collection of contemporary paintings by local artist Herb Jackson.

  Before I could read any more, the same group of Jenny’s customers who had come in a short time ago walked through my shop on their way out.

  “I love that shirt you’re wearing,” one of them called to me.

  “I’m glad you like it,” I said. “I made the fabric myself, right here on my Irish wide-width loom.” I pointed across the store to the huge loom, which I hadn’t used in a few months.

  “Really?” the woman said. She and one of her friends came over for a closer look. “It’s gorgeous.” She looked around. “Do you sell these shirts?”

  I hadn’t even considered stocking them, but quickly I said, “I haven’t got any ready-made. They’re special-order items. If you place an order, I’ll be happy to whip one up for you.”

  “How much would that be?”

  We discussed price, and I explained the labor involved. Before she left, I had her measurements, plus a deposit. Luckily, I had recently completed a large order of yard goods for Bunny Boyd, a famous interior designer. The commission was the largest I’d ever had and one of the most interesting. She was restoring a historical mansion and wanted all the period fabrics replicated. I had yards left over, and it wouldn’t take me more than a few hours to sew a shirt. Since I’d been getting so many compliments on mine, I would use the rest of the fabric to make extra shirts. The women left, and just as I noticed my cup was empty, Jenny appeared in the doorway with a fresh pot.

  “Ready for a refill?”

  “I’m beginning to think maybe you do read minds after all.”

  “I never claimed to read minds. I read auras.”

  I grinned. “And palms, and tarot, and tea leaves.”

  “You’ll see. One of these days you’ll be a convert,” she said, pouring. “It’s so quiet today. I suppose it’s a good thing, considering Margaret hasn’t come in. I’ve only had a handful of customers. I wonder why.”

  “Maybe it has something to do with the party we had last night. Most of your customers are friends of Marnie’s, and everyone was here.”

  “You have a point. People went home late.”

  “By midafternoon you’ll be crazy busy as usual. Don’t worry.” We turned as Margaret walked in.

  “Speak of the devil.”

  “Hi, Della. I’m so sorry I’m late, Jenny. I don’t know what was wrong with me. I slept right through my alarm. I promise it will never happen again.”

  “We were just wondering how come you hadn’t showed up.”

  Margaret blushed. “Sorry,” she repeated. “I shouldn’t have had so much to drink last night.”

  I’d met Margaret last summer when she was closing her weaving studio and had listed her extra-wide loom on craigslist. I’d bought it, and when she learned that I had an apartment to rent, she’d become my tenant.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” Jenny said. “The place is deserted today. I hope it gets busier soon.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I’d better get to work. Good thing I live upstairs. I only got up ten minutes ago and I’m already here.”

  I chuckled. “That’s one advantage of living above your place of work. You just have to roll out of bed and keep rolling all the way down the stairs.”

  Margaret headed for the back. “That was a good party last night—too good,” she said, over her shoulder.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. Marnie looked like she was having the time of her life,” I said.

  She stopped abruptly and returned to the counter. “Speaking of Marnie, what did you guys think of that fiancé of hers?” By the tone of her voice, I suspected she didn’t like him any more than I did. “Isn’t he a bit young for her?”

  Jenny hesitated, then spoke. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but, yes. He is sort of young—not that we can hold that against him,” she said with a smile. “What really worries me, though, is his aura. It was filled with danger.” I refrained from smiling, but too late. Jenny had already noticed the twitch at the corner of my mouth.

  “I know you don’t believe in auras, but his was gray, almost opaque. And you know what that means—trouble. I’m telling you, there’s something not right with that man.” In my opinion, anybody who noticed the way he was behaving, having a surreptitious conversation with Melinda Wilson at his fiancée’s engagement party, would’ve come to the same conclusion. And it had nothing to do with auras.

  Margaret nodded. “I totally agree. He’s trouble.”

  “What makes you say that?” I said.

  Margaret shrugged. “I got the impression he was just waiting for all the women in the place to flock to him.”

  “One of them sure did,” Jenny said.

  “What I can’t figure out is why Melinda would behave that way. Isn’t she a good friend of Marnie’s?”

  Jenny looked at me. “I was talking about Nancy Cutler. Why? What did Melinda do?”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t notice. She and Bruce were carrying on this covert flirtation. Well,” I added, “I can’t swear that they were flirting, but something was definitely going on.” I described what I’d seen.

  “But—” She looked stunned. “I know Melinda has been w
idowed for almost a decade, but according to everyone, she’s still carrying a torch for her dead husband. It doesn’t make sense that she’d flirt with her friend’s fiancé.”

  “Like I said, maybe it wasn’t flirting, but something was going on, and it was something neither of them wanted to be caught at.”

  “Well, it was Nancy’s behavior that really surprised me,” Jenny said. “She asked me for a pen and paper. I was standing right next to her, so I know she scribbled down her name and telephone number, and then she scampered over and whispered something in his ear and handed him the note.”

  I widened my eyes. “Did he take it?”

  “He sure did, but not before sneaking a look around the room to make sure nobody was watching. And then he slipped it in his pocket.”

  “Seriously? That really surprises me. Nancy Cutler is just about the last person I would suspect of making advances to a man—especially one who’s involved with one of her friends.”

  Nancy was a bit spinsterish—not that I would say this out loud, but she was not attractive. She had moved back to Briar Hollow a few months ago after years of living in Chicago and then more recently in Charlotte. She was probably in her early forties and might have been more attractive if she tried. Other than that, I didn’t know much about her. It seemed to me that every time I saw her, she was wearing tweed skirts and twinsets. She wore her hair tied back in a smooth chignon, and her makeup was nonexistent. “She looks more like a stern schoolmistress, not exactly the flirtatious type. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen her smile. Maybe there’s some other explanation. We don’t know what she said to him. It might have been something completely innocent.”

  “Oh, I don’t think she was flirting,” Margaret said. “One minute she was talking to him, and the next she turned around and walked away as fast as she could.”

  “I wonder what that was all about,” I said.