Spin a Wicked Web (21 page)

After showering, I walked into my storeroom refreshed and ready
to get back to work. I trailed my fingers along the soaps stacked
neatly on the shelves, lingering on the pretty pastel labels, the colored glass bottles. A plethora of scents whirled around me.

I'd recently developed a soap especially for children and babies.
It was superfatted with avocado, almond, and jojoba oils, meaning
there was more oil in the recipe than the chemical reaction between the oil and lye-saponification-used. This left some of the
oils in the soap in emollient form. The result was a mild, moisturizing bar the color of heavy whipping cream. I didn't add any
scented oils or colorants, so parents didn't have to worry about allergic reactions with their little ones.

Soon my work island was covered with huge bottles of oil, granulated lye, bowls and measuring cups and scales, as well as stirrers,
thermometers, and my safety equipment. I donned the apron, rubber gloves, and goggles and began mixing and pouring. The oils
melted together in a big kettle on the ancient stove while I measured
water into another giant stainless steel kettle, this one with a pour
spout. Gently, I stirred in the lye pellets, careful not to splash any of
it outside of the container.

The thing about making soap was that it was just dangerous
enough that it demanded my full attention. My worries evaporated, and I found myself engaged in the magic of the soapmaking process yet again. I doubted I would ever become entirely blase
about it. At least I hoped not. And right now it made me feel better to create something both beautiful and useful.

Of course, that didn't mean I knew what I should do when I
could no longer immerse myself behind the wall of work. The
thought of a confrontation with Hannah gave me butterflies the
size of dragons.

Talk about overreaction, Sophie Mae.

I pushed the thoughts out of my head and reached for a thermometer.

The lye had heated chemically when mixed with water. When it
had cooled to the temperature I needed, I poured the warm oils
into the industrial-sized mixer I'd bought from a bakery in Seattle
when it went out of business. Then I very, very carefully added the
liquid lye and started the beater turning on the lowest speed. The
liquids swished sluggishly together.

I moved away from the mixer and removed my goggles, hanging them nearby for easy access for the next stage of the process.

"Are you busy?" I nearly dropped the wooden soap mold I was
holding when Meghan spoke from the bottom step.

"Don't sneak up on me like that," I said with one hand over my
racing heart. "What if I'd been handling lye?"

"Sorry. I guess you are. Busy, I mean."

I removed a glove and pushed back a tendril of hair that had
flopped over my eyes. "What's up?"

"Ruth's upstairs. Looking for you."

"Can you entertain her for a few minutes? I'm almost done
here."

"You got it." Meghan returned upstairs.

I could tell by the texture and viscosity of the soap that it had
reached trace and was ready to pour. Donning my glove and goggles
again, I turned off the mixer and, with a grunt, removed the bowl
and carefully took it to the work island where the wooden molds,
each of which held two dozen bars worth of soap, sat waiting. For
the first couple I climbed onto a step stool and carefully ladled the
thickened mixture into the molds. The last two I was able to pour
directly.

It took a little muscle, though. I thought of Chris wielding her
hammer and tongs in the forge. She'd be able to pour the whole
lot, I bet.

When I had finished, I covered the soap with a light cloth to let
it set up, cleaned up my workroom and myself, and headed upstairs.

"How did it go?" Ruth asked.

She, Meghan, and I sat in loungers in the strip of shade that ran
along the back of the house. Erin was still at math camp, but Meghan
would be leaving soon to pick her up. Out in the yard, the sunshine
fell relentlessly on the garden beds. I could almost hear the plants
reaching and stretching toward it, determined to procreate. Their
biological imperative would benefit our table for the rest of the year.
The hens clucked at each other in their pen, and in the neighbor's
yard a pair of spotted towhees called to each other. A squirrel ran
along the top of the cedar fence, pausing first to twitch his nose at
us, and then his tail.

The squirrel let loose with an irritated chatter, then flipped his
tail at us one more time and scampered down the fence, out of
sight.

I felt kind of funny telling them what had happened in La Conner before I told Barr, but he'd had his chance. Besides, it seemed to
fall under his gossip mandate.

Taking a sip of lemonade, I said, "Rocky, Ariel's brother, is
twenty-eight, has a wife and twin boys, an inherited tulip farm that
doesn't make enough money to survive on, a side business as a car
mechanic, prematurely thinning hair, and a lifelong blindness to
who his sister really was. Gabi, his wife, is a competent, creative,
family-oriented farm wife, doing her best to make do with what she
has. She resented Ariel's hold over her brother and the money Rocky
gave his sister."

"She's the spinner?" Meghan asked.

Ruth perked up at that.

I nodded. "She has a fabulous stash, and she quilts and sews,
too."

"No wonder you like her so much," Meghan said.

Hmmm. "I do like her," I mused. "She's one of those people who,
on paper, you have a ton in common with, but there's a lot we don't,
as well. Still, I think we could grow to be good friends."

"It's too bad she lives so far away."

"True," I said. "I did find out a few interesting things about
Ariel herself, though."

Ruth leaned forward.

"For one thing, she had an affair with a teacher in high school."

"Oh, that poor little thing," Ruth said.

"Ariel's friend from high school would agree with you. Her sister-in-law, on the other hand, said it was all Ariel's fault and that
she deliberately seduced the teacher in order to get a good grade."

"Her friend from high school?"

I told them about my conversation with Lindsey Drucker, including what I'd learned about Ariel's eating disorder.

When I'd finished, Ruth gazed at me with sadness. "She was
one messed-up kid, wasn't she?" Her eyes welled, and she looked
away, blinking rapidly. Ruth was one of the most tender-hearted
people I knew.

Meghan, another bastion of sympathy, nodded her agreement.

"Gabi suspects Ariel was also responsible for the accident that
killed her and Rocky's parents," I said.

Both women looked surprised. "Gabi sounds like a very bitter
woman," Meghan observed.

Ruth murmured her agreement. "At least when it comes to her
sister-in-law."

"Like I said, I think she's doing the best she can."

"This whole situation must be very hard on all of them," Ruth
said. "I, for one, think it was very nice of you to take that little girl's
artwork up to her family, and I'm glad you met another spinner."

"Say, Ruth?" I asked.

"Yes, dear?"

"You were over at Chris' house the night Ariel was killed, right?"

She met my eyes and slowly nodded. "Along with Irene. Her
husband's funeral was the next day, and the three of us have become quite close through the co-op."

"Jake was there, too?"

"For a little while. As her friend and her doctor. She'd asked
him for something to help her sleep, and he brought over some
samples."

"So he didn't stay long?"

"He left a little after seven-thirty."

Plenty of time to provide Felicia with an alibi.

Ruth looked at her watch. "I have to go-Uncle Thad will be
needing his dinner, and he's helpless as a newborn when it comes
to feeding himself." She stood, and Meghan and I clambered to
our feet as she took her leave.

Back in the house, Meghan collected her wallet and car keys.
"How 'bout pizza for dinner? I can whip up some dough and we
can all make our own after I pick up Erin."
"

I won't be here for dinner. Barr offered to cook for me."

She grinned. "You're kidding."

I grinned back. "Don't wait up."

I TURNED A CORNER, and the canvas bag of groceries on the seat
next to me started to topple. My hand shot out in a classic Mommove to prevent the bag from tumbling to the floor by blocking it
with the side of my forearm. Keeping my eyes on the road in front
of me, I moved the bacon to make the bag less top-heavy.

Barr might be making me dinner, but I planned on making
him breakfast the next morning.

He greeted me at the door, laying a big smacker on me and
then taking the bag. When he saw what was in it, he waggled his
eyebrows in approval and carried it into the kitchen.

"What is that heavenly smell?" I called after him.

"Garlic sauteed in butter," came the answer from the other
room.

There was a big bunch of flowers in the living room. They sat
on a simple, glass-topped coffee table.

The spool was gone.

I felt a little guilty, complaining about it so much earlier. But
not so much that I couldn't handle it.

He returned with two glasses and an open bottle of single malt
Scotch. The enticing aroma of smoky peat drifted my way.

"What's for dinner?" I asked.

"You'll see." He sat down on the sofa, and I joined him. He
poured a finger of Scotch into each glass and handed me one. We
clinked them together.

"To new beginnings," he said.

I looked at the coffee table and smiled. "To new beginnings," I
agreed. "Thank you for the flowers. And for getting rid of the spool."

He settled back against the corner cushion. "You're welcome.
Now give."

I spent the next hour telling him every detail of my trip to La
Conner. He listened carefully, only interrupting a couple of times
to clarify a point. When I'd finished, I retrieved Ariel's diary from
the tote I'd brought that also contained a change of clothes and
basic toiletries.

Handing it to him, I said, "I know it was a bad idea to take this.
I'm sorry."

But he didn't look upset. "From what you said, it probably
wouldn't come into play in any court case anyway. If it does, you're
a private citizen. If Robin or I'd taken it without a warrant, then it
wouldn't be admissible, but you're you, and while a judge might
not appreciate that you basically stole it, anything in it could still
be used in court."

"So I did good?"

He glowered melodramatically from under his eyebrows. "It's
wrong to steal."

I grinned. "Sorry."

His face relaxed. "Well, okay, then."

"It must make Robin nuts to work with you."

"If it does, the feeling's mutual."

"Uh-oh. Are things okay between you two?"

He shrugged. "Sure. She's not happy about the Hannah thing
taking up so much of my time, but then again, neither am I"

"Still don't know where she is, huh." At least she wouldn't try to
talk to me tonight, I figured.

"She's nowhere in Cadyville, and we haven't been able to find
her in any of the neighboring towns, either."

"Maybe she left after this morning."

"Maybe." He didn't sound convinced. I didn't believe it, either.

"And Ariel's murder?" I asked.

"Lots of running around, lots of follow up, not much in the
way of results. Robin's nearly apoplectic with impatience. But we're
making some progress, learning more every day."

Naturally I wanted them to find the killer, but hearing there was
a soupcon of trouble in paradise didn't exactly bother me. I nestled
my back into the cushions and took a sip of Scotch. Mmm. My favorite: Laphroaig. Barr had thought of everything.

"Do you think Ariel could have had anything to do with Scott's
death?" I asked.