Spin a Wicked Web (28 page)

I had a fair amount of wonder in my own voice when I said,
"Are you actually implying that there aren't any murderers who get
away with it? That there aren't crimes that go unpunished because
the police don't have enough evidence?"

She frowned. "Are you saying there aren't people who are convicted despite being innocent?"

I thought of all the suspects in this case and slumped in my
chair. Put my head down on the table. Oh, God.

"If you're wrong, you've tortured that poor woman for no good
reason." She squinted. "This is a side of you I don't see very often.
I'm not sure I like it."

"Yeah," I mumbled. "I don't like it either." I didn't know what to
think, couldn't see the forest for the trees. There wasn't any real
evidence against Gabi, only my ideas about what might have happened. But she had a viable answer for everything, and simply
hadn't reacted to any of my questions in a suspicious way.

All I'd done was make a potential friend hate me for life.

THE NEXT MORNING MY alarm buzzed at seven, but I shut it off
and went back to sleep. An hour and a half later I woke again, still
feeling exhausted. It took me another half an hour to drag my sorry
carcass out of bed, clothe it, and wander down to the kitchen.

A wire basket of eggs sat on the counter, and I cracked two
small brown ones into a frying pan. Then I assembled a sandwich
with the fried eggs on Meghan's home-baked bread, mayonnaise,
catsup, dill pickles from the pantry, and a big slice of cheddar
cheese. Comfort food from my childhood. I almost moaned as I
bit into it, and immediately began to feel better. Two cups of coffee to wash down the fried egg sandwich, and I was ready for
work.

I went down to the basement. First I finished cutting and trimming the lye soaps, then laid them in neat rows on my storeroom
shelves to cure. So soon after making them, they were still quite
alkaline, but the chemical process of saponification continued internally as they sat on the shelf, ultimately resulting in a soap milder than any commercial bar. An added benefit was that cold
process soaps like mine still contained naturally occurring glycerin, adding to their humectant and emollient qualities.

Handling the new soap, though most of the time I'd worn
gloves, had been hard on my hands. So had all the gardening of
late. One of the solutions to what I referred to as "farmer's hands"
was the solid lotion bars I made from beeswax, olive oil, and cocoa
butter. These little gems were scattered all over the house for
Meghan and me to use in the summer. But I'd just run across a lotion recipe on a website that sounded soothing and smoothing,
and I wanted to try it. With all the manufacture I did for sale anymore, I didn't have as much opportunity to experiment with new
formulas.

I gathered my ingredients and started melting the oils, shea
butter, and beeswax together. The recipe called for witch hazel and
lanolin, as well as free glycerin and rose water. An emulsifier would
be necessary in order to properly blend the water-based elements
with the oils. Lecithin would serve as a perfect binder, especially
when combined with beeswax. Orange and lavender essential oils
would complement the rose water to provide a fresh, light scent.

Using a hand blender, I whipped everything together, then returned every few minutes as the mixture cooled, whipping briefly
each time. Finally, I used the blender steadily for several minutes.
The result was a pastel, peach-colored fluff that melted into my
skin. I rubbed some of it into my ragged cuticles and took a jar up
to Meghan, doing bookwork in her office.

"Thanks," she said, and immediately started massaging it into
her own hands.

"Sure" I sat down in the chair facing her desk. Through the halfopen door, the fountain in the massage room behind her made
babbling-brook noises. I closed my eyes for a few moments and
allowed the sound to flow over me.

"This smells delicious. I'm half-tempted to take a bite," she
said.

"Mmm hmmm."

A long silence, filled only with the serenade of running water.

"I'm sorry," she said, out of the blue.

I opened my eyes. "What for?"

"For coming down on you so hard about Gabi last night."

My right shoulder rose and fell. "Don't be sorry. You were
right. Are right." I shifted in the chair. "You know, the thing that's
making me so crazy? There've been two situations we've been
involved in where people died, and each time it looked like an
accident. But we figured out what really happened." I paused,
gathering my thoughts. "Now we have a straightforward murder,
and it looks like the killer-whether it's Gabi or not-is going to
get away with it."
"

Meghan shook her head. "You have to give Cadyville's finest
some credit. They're still working on finding out what happened.
Have a little faith."
"

I guess." Even I could hear the doubt in my voice.

She smiled and said, "I know Barr asked for your help, but it's
not your responsibility to find out what happened. It's their job. If
you can help, great, but you've let this whole thing get under your
skin too much."
"

I keep trying to back off."

I know. Don't let it get to you, okay?"

I stood up and took a couple of steps to the doorway. "You're
right. As always. Thanks for watching out for me."

She blew out a puff of air. "Well, geez. Somebody has to."

I'd just finished packaging the last of the custom bath fizzies for
the wedding shower when the doorbell upstairs chimed. I hurried
up to answer it.

Barr stood on the other side of the screen. "I'll trade information for food," he said.

"Funny man." I gestured him inside. "It's a deal. Tonight's dinner selection has an Asian theme. But first you have to hang out in
the workroom while I clean up. Meghan's gone to pick Erin up
from math camp."

"I love watching you fuss around down there," he said, and laid
a big smacker on me before I could bristle at the term "fuss"

He followed me downstairs and settled onto a stool at the end
of my work island. I went back to gathering small cellophane bags
together and organizing the short lengths of satin ribbon used to
tie them shut.

"Information before food," I said.

He laughed. "It's nothing much." Still, there was satisfaction on
his face.

Intrigued, I continued to tidy the packaging materials and tried
for nonchalant.

He fingered his string tie, this one a round sand-colored stone
with the imprint of a tiny fish fossil in it. "We may have figured
out who the killer is," he announced.

Nothing much, indeed.

"Who?" I leaned my elbows on the counter. "Stop teasing."

"We questioned Zak Nelson this afternoon. We hadn't before,
at least not in enough depth. After you found out from Lindsey
Drucker that he and Ariel had been dating, we decided to go back
and have another conversation with him."

"Flatterer," I said. "Does he have an alibi like everyone else?"

He grimaced. "Hard to tell."

I pushed aside the ribbons I'd been sorting. "Meaning?"

"He told us he was at home. But then he changed his story and
said he'd seen Ariel on the night of her murder." He paused for effect. "He met her at CRAG"

I sank onto the stool next to him. "Ohmygod. He was there?"

"He insists she was alive when he left"

Something wasn't quite right, but I couldn't put my finger on
it. "Did he admit to doing anything to my brakes?" I asked.

Barr shook his head. "Robin asked him point blank. He seemed
confused by the question, but then again, he could be a good
actor."

"Yesterday Zak told me he'd been seeing Ariel, but she broke
up with him. That he didn't mind because he likes Daphne Sparks,
her roommate."

"He told us the same thing. Only he admitted Ariel broke up
with him that night. The night she was killed."

"Oh, wow. Really?" I frowned, trying to take it all in. "You did
say strangulation is a crime of passion. And he could have killed
his rival, too. He had the perfect access to Scott's patrol car."

"It's a pretty tidy package," Barr said. "But listen to this: Irene
Nelson came in when we were talking to Zak and threw an absolute fit about him answering our questions. Then she told us Zak had
been home with her during the timeframe of the murder. She said
he'd been at CRAG, but that he'd gotten home before eight o'clock."

Shaking my head, I said, "But Irene is Chris' alibi. She can't be
both, not unless Zak was with her at Chris' house." I scooped up
my neatly arranged packaging materials and took them into my
storeroom.

Barr followed on my heels. "When I pointed that out, she said
she was lying about being at Chris' house"

"Was she?" I asked. "Or is she lying now to protect her son?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

We clomped up the stairs to the kitchen. "My guess is that she's
trying to protect Zak. After all, Ruth confirmed the group alibi at
Chris' It's too bad. I like the kid, even if he does look like a walking
magnet."

The screen door slammed, and a few moments later Meghan
and Erin came into the kitchen.

"Hey, just in time," I said. "The rice'll be done in a jiffy, and the
chicken and veggies are ready to hit the wok."

Erin looked horrified. "You're cooking chicken?"

"Uh, well, yeah. I thought you loved stir fry."

"Not chicken. God, Sophie Mae." She was still shaking her head
in disbelief as she went out to the backyard to gather eggs.

I turned to my housemate. "What was that all about?"

"She won't eat chicken anymore. Don't tell me that surprises
you." Meghan's tone was wry.

"Ah. Got it. The girls have made her a convert. She's a vegetarian now." I scrambled for recipes in my head that might pass muster with the newly militant member of the household.

"Oh, she's not a vegetarian." Meghan grinned. "She just won't
eat chicken."

"I'm not sure whether I'm relieved or disappointed."

"Well, I'm glad you're not going to foist a bunch of rabbit food
on me," Barr said.

Meghan laughed. "There's tofu in the fridge for her stir-fry.
And I hope she likes it, because she's eating it."

ERIN ATE HER TOFU and claimed to love it. After dinner, Barr left
to catch up on paperwork at the police station. While we did the
dishes, I told Meghan what Barr had told me about Zak.

"I don't think he did it." She reached for the wok and began to
rub oil onto the steel interior.

"Really?" I asked. "Tell me why."

"He's a nice kid."

I snorted. "That's what people always say about murderers."
Playing the devil's advocate, though I felt the same way she did.

She placed the wok on a stove burner over a low flame to heat
briefly, seasoning the metal. "He didn't try to hide where he was,
or at least not very hard. It sounds like his mother is more worried
about the police thinking he did it than he is."