Cricket McRae - Spin a Wicked Web

I blanched. Turned out I couldn't imagine it.

Barr had asked me to foster gossip amongst the CRAC crowd, and I had already offered a listening ear should Chris be interested. Complying with Ruth's request was a no brainer.

"Of course I'll talk to her," I said. "Though I'm not sure what good it will do."

She shrugged and reached for a dishtowel. "To be honest, I don't know, either. But do it anyway."

Kind of pushy, I thought. "Or you'll take away the spinning wheel?" I joked.

Ruth smiled gently.

I stared at her placid face. "You're blackmailing me?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "I'm bribing you."

AFTER RUTH LEFT, I took a long shower, dressed in a soft, oversized T-shirt and crawled into bed with one of Gladys Taber's Stillmeadow books. Her descriptions of bucolic life in the lateseventeenth-century farmhouse she and her friend Jill had rehabbed in 1920s and '30s Connecticut seemed the perfect continuation of my determined affection for the home life I had with Meghan and Erin.

Meghan came and stood in my bedroom doorway. I put my book down.

"Think tomorrow will be as exciting as today?" she asked with a rueful look.

"I hope not."

"What did Ruth want?"

I pasted innocence on my face.

"Come on. I know she came over specifically to talk to you, and it wasn't just about twisting fiber into yarn."

"She wants me to talk to Chris."

"Oh. Well, that makes sense, since you're a, you know… widow."

"Yeah, that and the police think Chris had something to do with Ariel's death."

"What!"

"Ariel and Scott were having an affair. Barr wants me to talk to Chris, too. Well," I amended, "not just Chris. He wants me to talk to other people at CRAC, too. More like get them talking." I'd sort of left that out when I'd recounted my conversation with him earlier.

She stared at me. "He wants you to?"

I nodded.

"Well. I, um… " Meghan rarely looked as flummoxed as she did at that news. "I guess nothing I say is going to make any difference."

"I'm not investigating. I promise. I'm not asking a bunch of questions or putting myself in danger. I'm just acting as some extra eyes and ears because Robin Lane may be gorgeous, but she has the tact of a sledgehammer when it comes to questioning people about murder."

Understanding settled onto Meghan's face. "Ah. Promise you'll be careful?"

"Cross my heart."

She started to leave, then turned back. "You do lead an exciting life, don't you?"

I snorted. I couldn't help it. "Yeah. Maybe a little too exciting."

She grinned. "Goodnight."

"'Night," I said, and reached for the lamp. It was only ninethirty, but I was ready for some shut-eye. I heard Meghan dialing New Jersey as I drifted off.

Fitful dreams punctuated my nighttime and early morning hours, and sunlight began to creep through my window at four-thirty. Days were long on both sides in the summer.

At six I gave up trying to sleep, showered again, and donned a lightweight skirt and T-shirt in response to the weather forecast; the temperature was supposed to advance into the nineties, which was hot for this early in the summer. Humidity curled in the air like a languid animal after a big meal.

Meghan, mom of the world, had breakfast waiting for me when I came downstairs a bit before seven. Fresh strawberries from the farmer's market piled in a bright blue bowl and splashed with cream looked like a Fourth of July decoration as much as something to scarf down to start the day. Chicken and apple sausage, also from the farmer's market, was joined within minutes by eggs scrambled with fresh chives and oregano. The eggs had probably still been warm from the chickens when she'd cracked them into the bowl. A steaming cup of coffee topped the whole meal off. How could I even think about leaving this?

"Where's Erin?" I asked, between bites of sausage.

Meghan joined me at the table with her own plate. She nodded toward the backyard.

"Already?"

"Not the chickens this time," she said. "I told her if she'd weed bed three I'd take her to the river this afternoon after camp to swim."

"Nice" We only had four small vegetable beds, but they seemed to require constant attention. "I'll weed one today, too."

"Do you have time?" Meghan asked.

"Oddly enough, I'm pretty much caught up, except for the usual order filling. Cyan is coming by tomorrow, so I can have her do some of that." I bit into a juicy strawberry and let out a low moan. "God, these are good."

"Aren't they? Of course, by the time the season is over we'll be sick to death of them."

It was hard to imagine, but she was right. "That's what freezers are for. Do you have any clients today?"

"Two" Her massage business had begun to slow for the summer, too. "At noon and at one."

I have an errand to run. I'll be home later," I said.

"Sounds good."

I refrained from mentioning the errand involved spending time alone with a possible murderer.

The ranch-style house was located on ten acres of land on the east side of Cadyville, set back from the county road that wound north from Highway 2. A large black dog and a smaller brown one greeted my arrival with joyous barks and wagging tails. Laughing at their enthusiasm, I pushed their cold noses away from my bare legs. A metallic clang sounded from behind the house as I reached for the doorbell.

Chris didn't answer. Another loud reverberation carried through the air, followed by another and then another. A low droning underscored the mesmerizing rhythm. The dogs gamboled around me as I walked around the house to the backyard.

The drone became the roar of an enclosed fire as I neared the source: Chris' blacksmith shop. No walls enclosed the thirty-bythirty space, but eight thick corner posts supported the octagonal roof. The floor was bare dirt, swept smooth. Her arm, pale in the relative darkness, rose and fell, the clank of the hammer on redhot metal sparking with each blow. The pounding stopped, and, with a pair of tongs, she transferred a flat, tapering rod from the anvil to the forge.

Chris turned and saw me watching. I raised a hand in greeting.

"Oh. It's you," she said, swiping at the sheen of sweat on her forehead with the back of her wrist. She beckoned me in. "Be careful. Forge's hot."

The air close to the blaze warped and shimmered with heat. The tang of hot iron mingled with the earthy scent of Chris' perspiration. It smelled like hard work.

"Do you want some iced tea?" she asked.

"Sure"

"Oh. Well, there's some in the big thermos over there. Should be some cups by it."

I found the cups and opened the thermos. "Do you want some?" I asked. "You must be roasting in here."

"I'm fine." She sighed. "I'm sorry. I know I'm not being very gracious."

Her hair hung lank, as if she hadn't washed it for days, and it was held back off her face on each side by blue plastic barrettes more suited to a ten-year-old girl. She wore a white tank top that needed an appointment with a washing machine, and faded jeans, frayed at the edges. I wondered whether it wouldn't be safer to wear long sleeves when working with hot metal.

"Don't worry about it," I said. I could hardly recall the period right after Mike died. Mostly I remembered having to put on a good show for all the people who were trying to be nice to me. At the time it had felt almost like an imposition, but now I realized it had been one of the things that had kept me from falling apart completely.

Chris, on the other hand didn't seem to be concerned with putting on a game face. She dipped a sopping bandanna out of a bucket of water near her feet, used it to swab the back of her neck, and then rubbed her forehead furiously, leaving behind a bright pink patch of skin.