Free Loom and Doom by Carol Ann Martin Page B

is just fine. You tell me—how else would you explain it?”
    As she said this, another idea occurred to me. Could Syd have been in cahoots with Swanson? It made sense. Syd would slow down a job until the owners became desperate. And then he could be the one to suggest possibly bribing the inspector. It would look less like a shakedown that way. And since the contractor supposedly offered the bribe in the owner’s name, the chance of him going to the authorities was practically nil.
    I nodded. “I have to admit, you make a good point. But I can promise you one thing. Nobody here paid off anybody.”
    â€œOh, I never meant to suggest—”
    â€œNo offense taken. I might have come to the same conclusion.”
    Judy breathed a sigh of relief. “You know, I never met Mr. Swanson. But I did see him from a distance a couple of times. He used to drop off his wife at my place. We were in the same book club.”
    I had to ask. “Are you talking about his ex-wife?”
    â€œYes. I never met his new wife, but I have seen her around town.”
    â€œWhat is she like?”
    â€œThe ex? She’s very nice. Just a pleasant, middle-aged lady. The new Mrs. Swanson is another story. For one thing, she’s young—no more than twenty-five or so—and gorgeous.” She tittered. “The first time I saw them together, I thought he was her father. I was shocked when I heard she was his new wife. I don’t know how in the world he got her to say yes.”
    â€œI guess love is blind,” her mother said.
    â€œHow are you feeling?” Judy asked me, suddenly solicitous. She shook her head. “If I’d found a dead body, I’d probably be home, having a nervous breakdown.”
    Her mother glanced at her watch. “Can it already be two o’clock? My goodness, we’d better get going, Judy.” And just to make sure she followed, she took hold of Judy’s arm and guided her toward the exit.
    â€œGood grief. Can you believe that woman?” Jenny asked as soon as the door closed behind them.
    â€œShe was just looking for a good gossip session,” I whispered back, as I watched mother and daughter going by my window. “And hopefully you’ll have a shop full of people just like her tomorrow. Now let’s get back to work.”
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    Except for a short break for pizza, we continued painting until late into the night. By the time we finished putting everything away, it was almost two o’clock in the morning. Jenny called a cab and I stumbled up the stairs to my apartment. Five minutes later I was in bed. But as tired as I was, my mind was doing the whirlies. That’s what I call it when my thoughts keep going around and around. So I got out of bed and padded to the kitchen where I made myself a cup of hot cocoa.
    I loved my old kitchen. I had fallen in love with it the moment I’d laid eyes on it. And it was, as much as anything else, one of the reasons I’d bought the building. It was modestly sized, but it had antique glass cabinets that went all the way up to the ceiling. The counters were black Formica trimmed in nickel. Along one wall was an old farm sink complete with drain board. But what I loved most about it was the 1930s Chambers stove. It was my pride and joy.
    Rather than climb into bed and wait for sleep to come, I dragged my loom from my bedroom to the dining room and settled down for a few hours of weaving. And as my hands threw the shuttle through the shed, I replayed in my mind the conversation I’d had with Judy Bates. If she was right, that Swanson was indeed extorting money in exchange for permits, no wonder the man had ended up dead. In my book, extortion was the same thing as blackmail—just another form of getting money from victims by using threats. A person could make a lot of enemies doing that.
    From there, my mind wandered on to Syd Shuttleworth and how