Spin a Wicked Web (30 page)

"Home"

I stood.

"No," she said. "I need to think."

Not knowing what else to do, I let her go.

Ruth's compassion for Chris was going to get her in trouble.
But what had really happened wasn't that big of a deal.

Was it?

Meghan and I had picked up Erin from her last session of math
camp-a half-day of awards and cupcakes-and gone down to the
airport to pick up Tootie Hanover and her new, ninety-eight-yearold beau, Felix. They'd flown in from Florida after their cruise to
the Virgin Islands. They'd looked tan and ridiculously happy, but
were understandably exhausted. So we'd taken them directly to Ca-
ladia Acres, the nursing home where she and Felix both lived. Tired or not, they were both more energetic and spry than they'd been
before they'd started ... dating?

Now it was late afternoon, and I sat at the retail counter at CRAG
gazing out the open door to where Meghan's Volvo sat in the parking lot. She'd been booked with massages all afternoon, so I'd borrowed it. Ariel's painting leaned against the wall by the door where
Zak had left it. It was so big it hid half of a tropical-themed batik
wall hanging.

Why hadn't Zak picked it up, after going to all the trouble of
buying that egregious piece from Gabi in the first place? And it
hadn't been cheap. Given his determination to have Ariel's creation
and the state of Gabi's pocketbook, I wouldn't have been surprised
if he'd paid even more than the exorbitant price her sister-in-law
had originally asked.

Had he really killed Scott out of jealousy, and then Ariel when
she tried to break up with him?

I thought about the look on Zak's face when he'd told me he'd
attached a note to a painting, hoping he'd be allowed to buy it.
Then later, what I'd seen as his straightforward honesty about his
breakup with Ariel and affection for Daphne Sparks.

Maybe Robin and Barr were right. Maybe he did have both
motive and opportunity for not only one, but two murders. But,
like Meghan, I liked the kid. When he'd spoken of Ariel, there had
been emotion on his face, certainly, but it hadn't struck me as either love or hate. Nothing even approaching such passion, good or
bad.

I still thought Gabi had motive and opportunity. Did I want
her to be guilty, just to prove myself right? Or was I gun shy about believing Zak was the murderer, after my failure to prove anything
against Gabi?

But something was off.

I just knew it.

My, that painting was ugly, wasn't it? I glanced up at the clock.
Jake would be here any moment to relieve me. I began to gather
my things in anticipation.

Right on time, he walked through the door. His wife followed.

"Hi," I said, not sure how she'd react, since Felicia and I hadn't
parted the best of friends the last time I'd talked to her.

"Hello, Sophie Mae. It's nice to see you"A warmer greeting than
I anticipated, and I welcomed it. I was growing tired of making enemies of everyone I talked to. Then again, she was an actress, so for
all I knew she hated my guts for asking her about Jake and Ariel. It
was a sour thought, and reminded me how much my cynicism had
increased since I'd become involved in murder investigations.

Jake and I exchanged greetings as well, and I grabbed my bag.
"Okay, I'm going to take off now. And as long as I have the Volvo,
I'm going to drop this by Zak's house on the way home."

Awkwardly, I lifted Ariel's painting. It would barely fit in the
car if I put the back seat down.

"I wonder which end goes up?" I smiled. "Or if it even matters."

Felicia looked away, but not before I caught the look of amusement that flashed across her face.

Jake raised his eyebrows. "You're taking that to Irene's?"

"Don't worry. I won't say anything to set her off."

"I think the painting itself might set her off."

"I'm afraid that's Zak's problem. We can't leave this laying
around, blocking items that are actually for sale." I maneuvered
the canvas out the door.

"Maybe the back room..." Jake's voice followed me out to the
parking lot.

"It'll be fine," I called over my shoulder.

I'd never been to the Nelson home before. I wasn't surprised to
find Irene's house was painted beige, with lighter beige trim. The
front door, on the other hand, was taupe. Even the flower beds
were brown, containing only bark and a few small azaleas. She
hadn't planted any other flowers.

As I wrestled the splotches of black and white and red out of
the car and up the steps, it occurred to me that the addition of all
that stark color might actually be an improvement if the interior
decoration reflected the exterior.

Zak answered the door. His eyes grew round when he saw what
I'd brought. "Hi, Sophie Mae," he stammered out.

"Hi. I brought your painting over."

"Uh, thanks." He peered furtively over his shoulder. "Let's put
it in the garage."

"Really?" Maybe he was having second thoughts about gracing
his wall with his ex-girlfriend's creative efforts.

Irene came around the corner of the house and stopped cold.
"What's that doing here?"

"Um," Zak said.

I raised my eyebrows and waited.

"Well?" Irene demanded. She was looking at me, not at her
son.

"Oh. Well, I brought this by for Zak..." My voice trailed off as
anger blazed in her eyes. Anger, and something else.

I'd seen that look on her face every time Ariel's name came
up.

She shifted her gaze. "You bought this monstrosity?" she hissed.
"After everything she did?"

"Aw, Mom. Ariel didn't do anything. She was just a girl, that's
all."

Irene looked pointedly at the canvas his hand rested on. "I
won't have it in my house."

And, of course, Zak had known that. Which was why he'd left
it at the co-op until he had someplace to put it. I wondered
whether he'd thought that far when he decided to buy it in the
first place. Somehow, I doubted it.

Either way, I'd moved the thing out of CRAG. However, it was
obvious any hope I'd had of getting more of a read on Zak's guilt
or innocence was now dashed by Irene's angry presence.

I watched her, glaring at her son. So much anger under that
mousy exterior. Anger at a lot of things, but certainly an abundance of it directed at Ariel Skylark. Anger and, I realized, fear.
That was what I'd been trying to pin down.

Irene Nelson was angry, but she was also intensely afraid.

"ARE YOU GOING To bed?" Meghan asked. "You're starting to scare
me with that thing."

I sat in the living room, glued to the spinning wheel, treadle
pumping furiously in the hope that the smooth, neat yarn forming
from the messy bundle of raw alpaca on my lap would spark the
ordering of my own chaotic thoughts. So far it wasn't working.

"Not yet. I have to do more," I said.

"Have to? You sound like you're addicted."

I loved my housemate, but right then I wanted her to go away
and leave me alone. I stopped pumping and allowed the wheel to
come to a standstill.

"You don't understand," I said. "I'm thinking. This helps me
think."

"And you have more thinking to do."

"Exactly." I began to spin again.

"Right," she said. "Well, goodnight."

"'Night" I said. Didn't look up.

Keep the strands smooth. Alpaca was exacting, the raw uncarded curls of wool irregular. Challenging. Maybe that was why I
wasn't figuring this thing out. Maybe I had to concentrate on the
wool too much.

I heard Meghan going upstairs to bed. After some time, a car
went by on the street outside. If it hadn't, I wouldn't have realized
how quiet the house had become. The wheel whirred. The yarn
twisted. Gradually, I got the hang of it. Relaxed into it.

Ariel. Sex. Gabi. Ruth. Anger. Love. Chris. Jealousy. Scott. Hate.
Daphne. Jake. Rocky. Irene. Fear. Zak. Lindsey. Barr. Thaddeus.
Felicia. Robin.

Death.

Each person involved with this case, all those emotions, tumbled
through my thoughts like stones being polished. The rough edges
smoothed, allowing the truth to begin shimmering through.

The yarn grew on the spool. Soft and gray. Tidy.

All the strands coming together.

And my gray matter tidied what I knew. Categorized. Theorized. Motivations combined with circumstances, opportunities
juxtaposed with temperaments.

An hour and a half later, when the alpaca wool was gone, I had
two spools of single spun yarn, ready to ply and set the twist. And
I'd figured out a few twists of my own.

This time all the puzzle pieces fit perfectly together. I knew
who had killed Ariel Skylark.

Detective Lane had gathered her abundant mane into a sleek, practical bun. She wore black slacks and a white shirt with a minimum
of jewelry. Instead of coming across as utilitarian, though, she
looked like she was ready to walk down a red carpet to a chorus of
oohs and aahs.

It had taken a day for Robin to obtain the arrest warrant for Zak
Nelson. This was, she assured us, less due to a lack of evidence than
bureaucratic doings. She was convinced he had killed Ariel, and
once he was in custody for that crime, she would further investigate
Scott Popper's death. She was obviously delighted to be able to close
a murder case so quickly, yet another feather in her cap. Despite her
lack of interviewing and social skills, she had quickly developed a
reputation with her superiors for the ability to efficiently solve any
crime that came her way. This reputation meant a lot to her.

Perhaps too much.

Barr had arranged for me to be there when they arrested Zak
after I'd laid my theory out to him. I don't know how he did it, and
counted myself among the luckiest of women that he would even
consider including me, especially as I could tell he had a few reservations. But despite Robin being the lead detective on Ariel's murder case, he was still senior in the department, and they had to
work together every day. In any case, she'd acquiesced, however
much it went against her grain.

But she didn't exactly welcome me with open arms.

We were alone in the parking lot of the cop shop, waiting for
Barr to join us. Robin opened the back door of the patrol car she
and Barr were using for this trip and gestured for me to get in. The
undercover Impala they usually used didn't have the wire screen to separate the slick, one-piece vinyl backseat (easier to hose out, I'd
been told) from the law enforcement up front. This one did.

"Um," I said, craning my neck to see if Barr was coming. "I'm
not that excited about small spaces."

Her eyes narrowed. "You know, everything you've done regarding this investigation has caused me grief."

I bristled. "That's not true! What about-"

"Neither of us are riding in the back, so if you're coming, that's
where you get to sit. Your choice."