Spin a Wicked Web (2 page)

"Slow down. It isn't a race," Ruth Black said. "Spinning yarn is
about process as much as result."

I reduced the speed with which I was pumping the treadle on
the spinning wheel. "Sorry. I guess I'm bleeding off some nervous
energy.

"Oh, I don't doubt it, after what happened to Scott Popper last
evening. But that's the beauty of it," she said. "I find spinning allows me to let go of all the other stuff in my life for a while."

That must have been why she did it so much. And why I was
rapidly becoming obsessed with spinning fiber into yarn. Today,
Ruth was teaching me how to take the two spools of single-ply
wool yarn I'd gradually managed to create over the last three
weeks, and spin them together to create a two-ply yarn. A short
and spry seventy, Ruth wore her crop of white hair spiked to
within an inch of its life. She leaned close, head bent as she
watched me work. Her claim to fame at CRAG was fiber art. I'd
always known she was an inveterate knitter but had only realized
since joining the co-op that she was also an expert in spinning,
weaving, felting, and crochet.

"Now, see how your yarn is getting too much twist in it? When
you ply the yarns together, you need to make sure the wheel is spinning the opposite direction from the one you used to spin the singles. The first way gives it an S twist. The second utilizes a Z twist so
the yarn unspins just slightly as the two strands twine together."

"Um. Okay." I stopped the wheel and tried it the other way.
"This is hard after spinning in the other direction all this time."

"You'll get used to it."

We were watching the retail shop on the ground floor of
CRAG. It was ten in the morning, and upstairs the supply area and
co-op studio spaces were still empty.

Ruth had invited me to join a couple of months earlier. I'd protested that the handmade soap and toiletries I manufactured for
my business, Winding Road Bath Products, hardly counted as art,
but the other members insisted they did. In truth, they needed as
many participants as possible to generate momentum for the coop, and I was happy to take part. It was Chris Popper who had
bought the old library and renovated it into a place for artists of
all kinds to make and sell their creations, and she'd been quite enthusiastic about adding me to their roster.

The screen door opened, signaling a possible customer, and Ruth
and I both half-stood to see over the cashier's counter. Instead of
customers, three of the core members of the co-op entered. First
through the door was Irene Nelson. Mousy. There was just no other
word for Irene. Thin hair, colorless eyes, nondescript features, wearing beige on beige on beige. I had yet to hear her say more than a
dozen words in a row, though I saw her nearly every time I came to
the co-op. Her sculptures were what I thought of as "menopause
art"-lots of chunky naked women shown in varying positions of
prayer and/or power. We are women, hear us sing.

Dr. Jake Beagle loomed behind her. Tall, broad, and coarsefeatured, he looked more like a lumberjack of old than an MD
who specialized in family medicine, but I suspected Jake's real passion lay in the nature photography he considered a hobby. He was
certainly talented. But art didn't often pay the bills, and though I
didn't really know her, his beautiful second wife, Felicia, looked
expensive.

Trailing behind Jake was Ariel Skylark: blonde, small-boned,
tan and supple as only a twenty-three-year-old can be. She had big
brown eyes, pillowy lips, and a bizarre winsomeness that men seemed to find irresistible. Her oversized canvases, all of which
sported untidy splotches of black and white and red paint, took
up most of one wall of the co-op.

The only missing member of the core group was Chris. Barr
and I had managed to get her home the evening before, and Jake
had come over, as both friend and doctor. He said he'd prescribe
something to help her sleep, but she'd refused to call anyone to
stay with her.

The screen creaked open again, and Irene's twenty-something
son, Zak, entered last. His Doc Martens thudding on the wooden
floor, he was all elbows and knees ranging under long, stringy
dark hair and an intriguing arrangement of hoops pierced his lips
and nostrils. He managed to look bored and uncomfortable at the
same time.

As everyone gathered in front of the counter, Zak and Jake both
seemed hyperaware of their spatial relationship to Ariel, situating
themselves near her, but not touching. Irene watched her son's antics with a look of unadulterated disgust. I was surprised that he
didn't seem to notice. Ariel did though, and smiled broadly at Irene,
who turned quickly away.

"I just checked in on Chris," Jake said.

"How is she?" I asked.

"Holding up. It's hard."

"She knows we're all here for her," Irene said.

Ariel waved her hand in the air. "Oh, she'll be fine. My parents
died when I was sixteen, and I'm okay."

We all stared at her.

"What? I'm just saying, people get over stuff, you know? It
doesn't help anyone to make it into a big deal."

"Time is indeed a great healer," Ruth said, ever the diplomat.

Wow. I mean, some people called me insensitive and tactless,
but those people had apparently never met Miss Ariel Skylark.

"Sophie Mae, watch your tension," Ruth said, and I turned my
attention back to my yarn.

SCOTT POPPER LOOKED GOOD dead.

I mean, he looked good when he was alive, too, but the nice
folks at Crane's Funeral Home really did a fantastic job. Crashing
his car into a telephone pole at high speed could hardly have been
kind to his face, but two days later here he was, open casket and
all, looking just as handsome as ever.

And only a bit less animated than usual.

Now, that was mean. I'd spent little time around Scott, and
even that in fairly large groups. That wasn't really enough to form
a studied opinion regarding someone's social skills. Maybe he
wasn't always as dull as he'd been in my presence. Maybe he was
just shy. Even if they don't always deserve it, I do try to give the
dead the benefit of the doubt.

In the pew beside me, Barr's attention flicked from face to face,
ever watchful, more out of habit than for any other reason. Scott lay
in peaceful repose at the front of the church. Low music seeped out of
speakers hidden behind tapestries in the apse of St. Luke's Catholic Church, the droning organ underscoring whispered voices and the
rustle of clothing as people settled into their seats. Summer was only
two days old, and the warm June air smelled of greenery and Murphy's Oil Soap. I eyed the gleaming wood pews. It must take hours
to wipe them all down.

I sighed inwardly. This probably wasn't the best time to ask
Barr what he'd been going to tell me before Scott's accident. I
watched him out of the corner of my eye, admiring how he looked
in his dress uniform while trying not to look obvious. I loved how
his chestnut-colored hair was streaked gray at the temples, how his
slightly hooked nose looked in profile, how his dark brown eyes
could be warm and inviting when he looked at me, but hard as
obsidian when the occasion called for it.

He frequently darted looks at Scott in the glossy walnut casket,
then jerked his gaze away as if it were painful to look upon the
dead for long. His eyes rested on Scott's wife, and the muscles of
his jaw slackened; he'd been clenching his teeth. Raw pity flashed
across his face for a moment, then was gone, replaced with his
usual mask of easy-going stoicism.

I touched his arm. He squeezed my hand in return.

Chris was a decorative blacksmith. You probably don't have to
be a big-boned, muscular gal in order to form the elaborate metal
pieces that she created, but it couldn't hurt. Nearing six feet in
height, with shoulders like a linebacker, her exposed arms rippled
with muscles. She wore a simple black sheath to her husband's funeral, and her straight, peanut-butter-blonde hair hung lank on
either side of her wide cheekbones, framing an expressionless face
that was notable more for its precise symmetry than for classic
beauty. Her blue eyes stared forward, unseeing.

Remembering how I'd felt when I'd attended my own husband's
funeral almost six years previously, I could understand the confused
numbness that must have swamped her. My heart ached with empathy. At least with Mike's lymphoma, I'd had a little time-far too
little, but still-to prepare for his death. But dying in a car accident
is a sneak robbery, an unexpected blow to those left behind for
which there is no preparation. Suddenly, the rest of Chris Popper's
life looked different than she ever could have imagined.

She was surrounded by Ruth Black, Irene and Zak Nelson and
Jake Beagle. Jake's wife, Felicia, perfectly coifed and dressed to the
nines, stood a little ways away, talking with Ruth's ninety-year-old
Uncle Thaddeus.

But someone was missing. "That disrespectful little wench," I
whispered.

Barr glanced over at me. "Who?"

"Ariel. Ariel Skylark. From the co-op. Tiny, blonde, sticks blobs
of paint on great big canvases, then calls it modern art? She's not
here."

He shook his head. "Sorry. Have I met her?"

"I guess not." I was pretty sure any man who met Ariel remembered the occasion.

Her absence was conspicuous, though. CRAG was closed for
the funeral, so there was no need for anyone to mind the store. It
was downright rude of her not to show up.

The door to the street slammed shut. Daylight winked out save
the dim glimmer of the stained glass windows arching above. The
last viewers turned away from the coffin and found seats on the
aisle as the funeral director quietly lowered the coffin lid. The
priest appeared, and the funeral began.

When we walked out of the church my dark linen suit smelled so
smoky I felt like I'd been in a casino bar. Father Donegan had not
stinted with the incense, and if the idea was for the rising tendrils
to raise Scott's soul up to heaven, he was already well ensconced.
Barr, a closet Catholic, had explained some of the service to me. I
had to admit, I really liked the ritual aspect of it. My parents being
dyed-in-the-wool, intellectual agnostics, I hadn't grown up with
any formal religious training. I could see how it might be nice in
situations like these.

I sniffed my sleeve and wrinkled my nose. "What's in that stuff,
anyway?"

"I never thought to wonder. Frankincense and myrrh?" Barr
guessed.

"I think that might just be for Christmastime. Gifts of the three
wise men, and all that."

"Mm hmm."

"You okay?"

"What? Oh. Sure. Yeah. I'm fine." He watched a squirrel in a yard
across the street snake onto a tree branch and then down the chain
to raid a rustic wooden birdfeeder.

I cocked an eyebrow at him. Of course he was upset about his
friend's sudden death. But there was something more. I waited.

He took a deep breath, then turned his attention to me. Brown
eyes, intelligent and discerning, met mine. "If I say this, promise
not to make it into something."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Was he finally going to tell me
why "we have to talk"?

"Just promise," he said.

I took a deep breath. "Okay."

"I was just thinking how odd it was for Scott to die in a car
crash."

Oh. Not about me. Go figure.

"Because he was a cop?" I asked.

"Well, that, for one. He had a lot of formal training for sure. But
he was also an amateur racer. Stock cars."

"Really? I had no idea."

"Almost every Sunday he was out at the fairgrounds speedway,
racing with his buddies."

"So he knew a ton about cars. And driving."

"Yes. Both."
"

"Do you think the crash was something besides an accident?" I
asked.