Free Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery by Carol Ann Martin Page A

as I’d found it. As I sipped, I wondered what could have happened between Emma and Rhonda. People didn’t usually go around hating others unless something happened to make them feel that way. Hmm. How could I find out what had started this animosity?
    “Jenny, how would you like to come shopping at Frannie’s with me? I think I need a new pair of pants.”
    “What?” She looked at me as if I’d just sprouted a second head. “I don’t understand. You always said the styles she carries are not for you.” A light went on her eyes, and she wagged a finger at me. “You want to question Emma, don’t you?”
    “Yes,” I admitted. “But don’t ask me why, because I’m not even sure myself.”
    •   •   •
    Word must have gotten out about McDermott’s murder and that I had been at the coffee shop when his body was found, because suddenly my shop was crawling with customers.
    “I heard there was a lot of blood,” one woman whispered over a display of tablecloths and runners. “Do you know if he was shot or stabbed?”
    “I was so overcome with shock,” I answered, “that I didn’t even notice.”
    Normally I would have been thrilled to see my shop so full of people, but I knew these were gossipmongers, not shoppers. But that didn’t have to mean I wouldn’t try my best to turn them into buyers.
    “Poor Mrs. McDermott. I can’t imagine how she must have felt. Did she completely break down?”
    I pretended not to hear. Pointing to the item in her hands, I said, “Isn’t that is a beautiful table runner? Do you read
Home & Design
magazine?”
    “Sometimes,” she said, disappointed that I was changing the subject.
    “Did you see last month’s issue? They featured a gorgeous dining room where the designer used table runners like this one instead of individual place mats. I thought it was such an original idea.” Seeing that I wasn’t divulging any juicy details, the other gossipers slowly drifted out.
    A few minutes later, I was adding up the woman’s bill. As she walked out, I looked up to see Emma walking in.
Well, what do you know?
I wouldn’t have to go shopping at Frannie’s after all.
    It’s one thing for a girl to look gorgeous all made-up and in dim lighting, but even in bright daylight and—except for a bit of black mascara—without a trace of makeup, this girl was magnificent. She wore tight jeans that showed off her long, perfect legs. Her hair was thick and golden, falling halfway down her back. I almost expected her to shake it out in slow motion, the way models do in a shampoo commercial. She was flawless.
    “Hi, Emma. Welcome to Dream Weaver. What can I do for you?”
    She hesitated, looking around warily. She came closer. “Is Jenny here?” she asked.
    “She’s in the back. Did you want to say hello? She’s got a shop full of customers right now.”
    She shook her head, relief washing over her features. “You’re the lady who caught that murderer a couple of months ago, right?” Before I opened my mouth, she continued. “I need to talk to you alone.” I waited, guessing that whatever it was, it probably had to do with Mr. McDermott’s death. She leaned in and whispered, “You didn’t happen to see any photos while you were there, did you?”
    “There?” I said, frowning. “You mean at the Coffee Break?” I couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. Some shops, I knew, had photos of famous customers displayed on their walls, but there was nothing like that at the McDermotts’ shop. “No. What kind of photographs are you talking about?”
    She blushed and then cleared her throat. “It’s just that Mr. McDermott took pictures of me . . . for my portfolio,” she added in an even lower voice. “And, well, some of them I wouldn’t want anybody else to see.”
    The image of Emma striking a calendar pose flashed through my mind. “Were these nude shots, by any chance?”
    She nodded, blushing deeper. “I should never have agreed, but Mr. McDermott