“Mr.Ellington?”Jake called again.
A distant sound of rhythmic clicking answered—not a response to their call, but a mechanical noise coming from somewhere beyond the kitchen.Jenna followed the sound.A back door stood ajar, offering a glimpse of an overgrown yard and, at its edge, a weathered garden shed that had been expanded with mismatched additions.
“The studio,” Jenna said.
They crossed the weedy expanse between house and studio.The clicking grew louder—a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm that Jenna recognized as the sound of a loom in operation.The studio door was fully open, revealing a space that managed to be even more chaotic than the house.
David Ellington hunched over a large wooden loom, his lanky frame swaying slightly as his hands worked the shuttle back and forth.Strands of yarn—some of it red, but interspersed with other colors—stretched before him in complex patterns.
He didn’t look up as they entered, though the floorboards creaked beneath their weight.
“Mr.Ellington,” Jenna said clearly.“Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins.”
For nearly a full minute, he continued working as if they weren’t there, never breaking his rhythm.The shuttle clacked against the frame of the loom, the only sound in the studio.Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake, who raised his eyebrows in a silent question.She shook her head slightly—wait.
Finally, Ellington’s hands stilled.He turned slowly, his face transforming through a series of expressions too rapid to fully register—annoyance melting into curiosity, then settling into something like amusement.Behind thick glasses, his eyes appeared magnified and unnaturally bright, darting between Jenna and Jake with unsettling intensity.
“Sheriff,” he said, his voice unexpectedly melodic.“And Deputy.What an unusual surprise.Have you come to commission a piece?The department could use something to brighten those dismal walls.”
“We’re here about Derek Sullivan,” Jenna said, watching Ellington’s face carefully for any reaction.
His expression remained unchanged.“Who?”
He kept twisting strands of yarn together even as he spoke.The casual manipulation of fibers made Jenna’s skin prickle.
“Derek Sullivan,” Jake repeated.“He was found murdered early this morning.”
“Murdered, you say?”Ellington blinked owlishly behind his glasses.“And do you consider this death some kind of loss?”
“Wouldn’t you?”Jake asked sharply.
“How would I know?I don’t believe I ever met the man.But perhaps he’s … or was, forgettable.”
“Where were you between 1:30 and 3:30 this morning, Mr.Ellington?”Jenna asked.
“Here, I suppose.”His gaze drifted to the ceiling, where dusty cobwebs clung to exposed beams.“Or perhaps in the house.I often lose track of time when I’m working.The hours between midnight and dawn are particularly conducive to creativity, don’t you find?”
“Do you have anyone who can verify that?”Jake asked.
Ellington laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a storm.“Only my muses, Deputy, and they’re notoriously unreliable witnesses.”He rose suddenly, moving to a nearby table cluttered with spools of yarn.“I’ve been working on something quite special lately.A community tapestry of sorts.”
“We’ve heard,” Jenna said, following him with her eyes.“You purchased a large amount of red yarn last week.”
“Did I?”He paused, head tilting.“Yes, yes I did.Cleaned out a whole lot of poor Mrs.Henderson’s entire stock.She was quite put out until I explained the scope of my vision.A textile representation of the collective unconscious of Trentville.Every thread a thought, every knot a secret.”
“That’s an interesting concept,” Jenna said carefully.“Do the colors have symbolic meanings in your work?”
“Colors are just frequencies of light, Sheriff.The symbolism comes later, after the work decides what it wants to be.”He picked up a spool of crimson yarn, rolling it between his palms.“I haven’t thought that far along yet.The piece is still...becoming.”
“What about red specifically?”Jenna pressed.“Does it represent something to you?”
“Red?”He considered the yarn as if seeing it for the first time.“I suppose it might represent passion or some other intense feeling.Blood, perhaps.Life force.”His eyes found hers again, unnervingly direct.“What does it represent to you, Sheriff?”
Jenna didn’t answer, instead moving toward the loom to examine the work in progress.What she saw was a chaotic pattern of red interwoven with strands of black, blue, and purple—nothing recognizable, yet disturbing in its intensity.Her gaze shifted to the baskets of yarn arranged near the loom, particularly the reds.
She didn’t think that the shades and textures quite matched the sample Jake had shown her at the station—the evidence strand was deeper in color, with a slight sheen that Ellington’s yarn lacked.She couldn’t be certain without a direct comparison, but the difference seemed significant.
“Mr.Ellington, would it be possible for us to take a small sample of your red yarn?”she asked.“For comparison purposes?”
