Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery (11 page)

Winston threw him a dirty look, as if saying, “Mind your own business,” and marched off in a huff.

I decided it would be a lot easier if I came clean without him having to pull every bit of information out of me. “It was Mrs. Anderson,” I blurted without prompting.

Matthew swung his gaze to me. “Mrs. Anderson . . . as in the mayor’s wife?”

I nodded. “One and the same.”

His eyes had suddenly grown wide. “I think we’d better wait till we’re inside to talk about this,” he said, his pace picking up. A few minutes later, we reached his house.

Being a guest in Matthew’s house—a house where I’d lived for nearly six months—felt odd. I had moved out only a month and a half ago. The decision had been an easy, albeit painful one. As much as I might have loved to continue sharing Matthew’s home, it had proved impossible. During the short time we lived together, I was constantly censoring my words, controlling my behavior, always afraid of inadvertently revealing feelings he didn’t reciprocate and in the process losing his friendship. I simply could not risk that.

He watched me. “I’m sure you hate how the house looks now.”

The first change I’d made when I moved in was to cart all of his stuff upstairs to make room for my shop and weaving studio. Now it was all back where it belonged, including his ugly green recliner.

“Actually, it looks pretty good. That’s new,” I said, pointing at a leather sofa and matching armchair.

“You did such a great job with the place—the paint job and refinishing the hardwood floors. I decided some of my stuff wasn’t nice enough anymore. So you don’t hate it?”

I wasn’t crazy about his brown leather furniture—
any
brown leather furniture for that matter—but he didn’t need to know that. I pointed to the green chair. “I still think you should get rid of that monstrosity.”

“Don’t worry. You and Jenny gave me enough flack about it that I ordered a new one. It should be here in a couple of weeks.” He headed for the kitchen, where he pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured me a glass.

“Just to loosen your tongue,” he said with smiling eyes.

My heart skipped a beat. “Thanks. Aren’t you having some?”

He returned to the fridge and pulled out a Heineken. “I’d rather have a beer.” He pulled off the cap and raised his bottle to me. “To my special informant.” He took a swig and put his bottle down. Pulling back a chair, he dropped into it. “So, what did Mrs. Anderson want exactly?”

I plopped myself onto the leather sofa. “You won’t believe this.”

“Try me,” he said.

And so I did. I repeated, as far as I could remember, everything she’d said, adding how nervous she’d looked, as if she thought she might be followed. “She said McDermott was blackmailing her, and now she’s afraid if the pictures come out, it might cost her husband his political career.”

“Holy shit,” he said when I finished. “Blackmail and politics.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

He was thoughtful for a moment. “Well, Mrs. Anderson would have been disappointed. There were plenty of pictures, but none of her. Wherever he was keeping them, it wasn’t at his studio.”

I gasped. “You mean . . . the police didn’t find any pictures of her?”

He shook his head. “None.”

“But that’s impossible.”

He looked at me, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw them myself. They were there—in the darkroom. I went through the pile so fast, I looked at only a fraction of the pictures there, but there were at least half a dozen of hers there. She and Whitby were the only people other than Emma that I recognized.”

“You’re joking.”

“I swear it’s the truth.”

“That means—”

“Somebody stole those pictures,” I said, completing his thought.

We were both quiet as we digested this for a few minutes.

“Maybe the person who knocked me down went back and got them,” I suggested.

He nodded. “But if that’s what happened, whoever he was wasn’t hired by Mrs. Anderson. She thought the pictures were still there.”

“So who—”

“Mr. Anderson?”

I shook my head. “She was adamant about not wanting him to know.”

He crinkled his forehead. “Whitby?”

“I thought about that, but Whitby is a bachelor. Even if those pictures came out, it wouldn’t hurt his reputation. The only person who would suffer is Mrs. Anderson.”

We discussed possibilities until one glass of wine turned into two and then into dinner. Matthew was no chef, but he was still a better cook than I was. He grilled a couple of steaks on the barbecue and served them with a tossed salad. Over our meal, we reviewed what we knew.

“So far we have eight suspects.”

He frowned. “How do you figure that?”

I counted on my fingers. “Emma—” I paused. “Although I can’t believe that girl is capable of murder.”

“At this point we have to look at every possibility.”

“And the girl did want those pictures back,” I said.

He continued. “There’s Ricky, Rhonda McDermott, and as you pointed out, Bunny. She did give a false tip about Jenny.”

“Oh, I found out the explanation for that.” I told him about my conversation with Emma. “She’s the one Bunny saw and mistook for Jenny.”

“I hate to point this out to you, but that now gives Emma not only a motive but also an opportunity. And then there’s Mrs. Anderson and Mr. Anderson. And before you tell me that he didn’t even know about the pictures, remember, we have only his wife’s word on that. And Bernard Whitby makes seven. How do you get to eight?”

“There’s also the woman McDermott was having the affair with. And for that matter, any woman who posed nude for him could have killed him.”

He nodded. “Good point. The blackmail angle does explain one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That photography hobby of his wasn’t cheap. I couldn’t quite figure out how he got the money to pay for the studio and all the equipment without his wife finding out.”

“I wondered the same thing. I guess that could explain how he financed it.” I crossed my arms and pondered a new idea. “How about this? If McDermott was blackmailing one person, he was probably blackmailing others. Did you see all the photos in his studio?”

Matthew leaned into the back of his chair. “The police allowed me to look at them. There were so many, I couldn’t begin to go through them all. Some went back years, decades even.”

“How can we get our hands on all of them? I’d like to try to identify the women.”

“Forget that idea,” he said. “There is no way the police will let those shots out of their hands. Besides, I don’t want you more involved than you already are.”

I’d pushed too hard, I realized, and now he wanted to end the subject. Sure enough, he glanced at his watch. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I still have some writing to do.”

I hopped off my chair. “Oh, of course. You’re not rushing me. It’s time I left anyhow.”

He walked me to the door. Before stepping out, I turned and looked up at him. “I bet the police wouldn’t mind some help in identifying those women.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “If they do, you’re the last person they’d go to. You hardly know anyone in Briar Hollow, let alone in Belmont.”

I nodded. “True, but you do.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Maybe you could offer to help. Why don’t you ask them to make photocopies of the pictures? That way we can take our time and study them carefully. After all, seeing that I’m your personal informant, I think it only fair that you help me a little bit in return.”

“You want me to get copies of all the pictures they found in his studio?” He looked so handsome looking down at me, I lost my train of thought.

“I—er—” I stood there, stammering.

He rolled his eyes. “You never give up, do you?”

I gave him a teasing smile. “Isn’t that what you love best about me?”

He looked down at me, his dark eyes softening. “What I love best about you—” He stopped and took my chin between his thumb and forefinger. His gaze lingered until I was sure he was going to kiss me. But then he said, “Is not your detective work, nor your cooking for that matter.” He chuckled, dropping his hand. And the moment was gone.

“See you tomorrow, kiddo,” he said, and he opened the door for me.

Shit, shit, shit. I walked home, wondering why I could feel such electricity for a man who appeared to feel nothing in return.

I
’d had two glasses of wine and a steak dinner. Now I craved something sweet. In search of a sugar high to drown my misery, I made a short detour to the grocery store to pick up some ice cream.

I had my head in the freezer, going over the selection—French vanilla, strawberry cheesecake, double chocolate. Vanilla would be perfect with drizzles of hot chocolate syrup and mounds of walnuts. I was already salivating. I snatched the container and was heading for the till when I heard a familiar voice. I looked back.

It was Bunny Boyd, talking into her cell phone. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again. If you don’t get that exact sofa before the next taping, you’ll be out of a job. I have two words for you: Find it!” She threw her phone into her bag and then noticed me. “Oh, Della, hi,” she said, not looking the least embarrassed.

I smiled. “Fancy meeting you in a grocery store. You’re so fashionably thin, I didn’t think you ate.”

She laughed, preening at the compliment. “Oh, I eat, all right.” She glanced down into her basket. It was filled with fruit and vegetables and yogurt and cottage cheese.

I bobbed my eyebrows. “You call that eating?”

“I’m walking back—better to keep the bags light.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Longview,” she said, naming an upscale bed-and-breakfast right across the street from the Coffee Break. She continued. “I bought it years ago. It doesn’t make a lot of money, but at least it pays for itself and it gives me a place to stay whenever I want to come back.”

I was confused. “What do you mean—come back?”

“I grew up here. Didn’t you know that? I was born and raised in Briar Hollow. I’m a regular small-town girl.”

“I would never have guessed. You’re so sophisticated. I was sure you came from Manhattan and went to college at some big-league university. Do you still have family here?”

“Unfortunately no. My father died when I was very young, and my mother passed away three years ago. I never had any siblings. I left when I was eighteen, couldn’t wait to get out of here. Ironic, isn’t it? Now that I’m away, I can’t wait to come back.”

I nodded. “Things that are unimportant when we are young take on new dimensions as we get older.”

“True,” she said in a strangled voice. I looked into her eyes and was surprised to find them watering. Was she crying? Maybe it was just her contact lenses irritating her. Yes, that must be it. Bunny Boyd did not strike me as a sentimental woman.

She blinked a few times and pulled herself up straight. “By the way, I showed my client”—oh, so he wasn’t Bernie anymore?—“and he approved one of your samples. Now I’ll need to see colors. We have to get that just right. Could you drop by his house with samples of off-whites and beiges?”

“Of course. When would you like me to drop by?”

“How about tomorrow morning, say around nine thirty?”

I agreed. She said a quick good-bye and pushed her cart down another aisle.

As I headed home, it occurred to me that Bunny had just made it back on to my list of suspects. If she was staying right across the street from the Coffee Break, she could have spied on the McDermotts and found just the right moment to strike. The only problem with my new theory was that I still had no motive for her.

•   •   •

The next morning, as I was walking over to Al’s Garage, I noticed a red Jeep parked in front of his shop. I went over and peeked inside. On the backseat was a basket with pink and white spools of yarn. This was my car, all right. I turned toward the office and stopped. A heated argument was going on inside.

“I don’t want to hear about it anymore,” a male voice was yelling.
Ricky’s?
“Not one word. Do you hear me?” It
was
Ricky, I thought, arguing on the phone with someone. But to my surprise, a female voice replied.

“I don’t know where you get the idea that you own me. I don’t belong to you. I have the right to make my own decisions, to live my own life.”

“I’m telling you, Emma. If you move to New York, you’ll be sorry.” I could picture him, his face contorted with fury, eyes flashing, and I was filled with dread for the girl.

“Is that a threat?” she was saying. I wondered if maybe I should walk in, interrupt the argument somehow.

“You can think what you want, sweetheart. But let me tell you this. I ain’t going to sit around and wait for you. If you go, me and you are through.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, we’re through whether I go or whether I stay. I’m sick and tired of your bullshit.” It didn’t sound as if she feared him, at least not physically.

The voices were getting louder and the argument was escalating. Any thought I’d had of walking in was gone. At this point, my interference would only make things worse. But I very much wanted to hear every word. I stepped closer.

“So that’s how you thank me,” Ricky was yelling, “after everything I’ve done for you?”

“What exactly do you think you’ve done for me?”
Yes, what exactly
did
you do for her?

“You know what I’m talking about. I took risks for you. If I go to jail, it’ll be your fault.”
What risks?
I wanted Emma to ask.

“You and I both know I never asked you to do anything. You decided it all on your own.”
Decided what?
“If I’d had any idea what you were planning, I would have told you not to.”

Don’t stop now,
I wanted to scream.
You would have told him not to
what
? Not to kill McDermott? Not to break into his studio?
The door flew open and Emma stormed out. She was so upset that she didn’t notice I had been listening. I put on my best smile. “Hi, Emma,” I said.

She stopped. “Oh—er—hi, Della.” She struggled for calm. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m just picking up my car. I dropped it off yesterday. My wheels needed balancing. If you want to give me a minute, I can give you a lift wherever you want to go.”

She scowled. “I doubt you’d drive me all the way to New York,” she said, and all at once, fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Stay right there,” I said. “I won’t be a minute.” I hurried inside and paid my bill. Ricky glared at me as if I were responsible for everything wrong in his life.

He handed me my receipt. “Your keys are under the mat,” he growled and stomped off into the garage.

I hurried back out and looked around. Emma was gone.
Shit
. I hopped into my car and took off, scanning up and down the street as I drove. She couldn’t have gotten very far. I’d been inside for only a few minutes, three or four tops. But she was nowhere to be seen.

•   •   •

I walked into the store and was greeted by the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
Oh, God, do I need a cup
. I popped my head through the beaded curtain. Jenny was filling her display case with fresh pastries.

“Morning,” I said. “Spare a cup of coffee for a friend?”

“I have a fresh pot on right now. Ed gave me a lift to work on his way to the hospital.”

I stepped inside. “Oh, he did, did he? I take it you two spent the night together?”

She grinned, flushing with happiness. “He’s been hinting at sharing an apartment.”

“Already? But you’ve been dating only, what? Two months?”

“About that. But”—she shrugged—“at our age, people know what’s right for them.”

“Whoa. Not that I don’t like him. Quite the opposite—I think he’s wonderful—but don’t you think you should slow down a little?” I wagged a finger at her. “And if you tell me you know he’s the right one because you read his aura, I swear I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

She gave me a cocky grin. “You’ll what?”

I smiled. “I’ll . . . be your matron of honor at your wedding?”

“Who’s putting the cart before the horse now?”

I laughed along with her.

“All right,” she said. “I promise it’s not because I read his aura. Don’t you know I can’t read the auras of people close to me? But if we ever do decide to get married, you’ll be the first to know. However, you will definitely
not
be my matron of honor.” My face fell until she continued. “You’re way too young to be a matron. But you can be my
maid
of honor.”

I grinned. “We’ve got a deal.”

•   •   •

I had already collected my color samples and was halfway through a second cup of coffee when Marnie walked in. I was surprised to see her wearing an almost normal outfit for a change. Her Lucille Ball hair was tied up in a loose bun. Her eye shadow was heavy, but brown rather than electric blue. And instead of a jungle of animal prints, today she wore black pants and a bright pink peasant blouse. She looked lovely.

“Here,” she said. “I’ve got a few more place mats for you.” She waddled over and dropped a bag onto my desk.

I opened it. “Oh, Marnie, these are beautiful.” I fingered the fabric. It was woven with thick yarn in a simple basket-weave pattern and edged with a cotton strip. I counted them—four.

As if she could read my mind, she said, “I know there aren’t many, but I’ll work on making more of the same while I’m here.”

“Thank you. Four is better than none.” I pulled out my tags and my stock book. “You sure finished these fast. How do you do that?”

“Insomnia,” she said. “It’s wonderful for production. Also, I always use extra-thick yarn for place mats. It takes a fraction of the time.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll let you tag them. I have to run. I promised Bunny that I’d stop by the Whitby house to do some color matching before I order the yarn.”

She beamed. “See? I knew you’d need me.”

“I do need you. But it’s not fair for you to work for nothing, so here’s what I propose. Whenever you mind the store, I’ll pay you by the hour for your time.”

“That’s fair,” she said, taking the tags from me. “I hope you go out a lot.”

I laughed, grabbed my purse and car keys and took off with my samples.

•   •   •

I had seen the Whitby house only once, in early evening. Now, as I drove up, the place looked even more imposing by daylight. Perhaps it was because the long drive was empty of cars, but somehow the estate seemed bigger, the house whiter and more elegant.

I parked my car to the side, at the edge of the circular drive, and hopped out. The doorbell sent peals of ringing echoing through the house. A few moments later the door opened.

“Ye-e-e-s?” said the butler, stretching that one syllable into four. He looked at me the way I might look at a reptile.

“Hi.” I beamed him a smile that did nothing to melt his icy demeanor. “I’m Della Wright of Dream Weaver. I have a nine-thirty appointment with Bunny Boyd.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, excruciatingly slowly, as if the mere mention of Bunny Boyd were painful to his ears. He stepped aside and I walked in.

Without the party crowd, the foyer looked even larger, more like that of a hotel foyer than that of a private home. For the first time, I noticed the columns that supported the two spiral staircases. They were either real marble, or painted in a faux-finish marble. I was dying to get a closer look.

“If you’ll come with me,” the butler said. I followed him up the stairs and to the study from which the gun had been stolen. I looked at him, wondering how difficult it might be to extract information. Probably like pulling teeth, I decided. But, heck, that had never stopped me before.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“That, madam, is because I didn’t give you my name.”

“Well, then.” I moved toward him, extending my hand. “Let’s start again. I’m Della Wright. And you are?”

He must have been used to people faltering before his granite demeanor. I had the satisfaction of seeing him look befuddled, if only for a moment. He bowed curtly. “My name is Sweeny.”

“Hello, Sweeny. It’s nice to meet you. I take it you’ve been with Mr. Whitby for a long time?”

“I have, ma’am. I’ve been with him for thirty-two years.” He turned as though to leave.

Quickly, I said, “Did anybody find out what happened to the missing gun?”

He swiveled around to face me, this time a hint of surprise in his eyes. “How did you hear about that, ma’am?”

“Don’t worry, Sweeny,” I said, hoping my reassurance would earn me a few points. “I didn’t hear it from the gossip mill. I was at the party and happened to overhear you telling Mr. Whitby.” All right, so I lied.

Relief washed over him. “Mr. Whitby would hate for that kind of thing to get out. He’s very conscientious about keeping his guns locked up.” Funny, I thought, how the worry of his employer’s displeasure suddenly stripped Sweeny of his snobbism.

“What kind of gun was it?”

“A Colt model 1908, ma’am, more than one hundred years old. It’s a collection piece. The first year, they made only five hundred and ninety-nine, and Mr. Whitby’s was number eleven—very valuable.”

“I take it, it hasn’t been found yet?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, not yet.”

Before I could ask him any more questions, Bunny walked in. “There you are,” she said. “I thought I heard the doorbell.” She
thought
she’d heard it? It was so loud it could probably be heard as far as Charlotte.

“I just got here,” I said, taking in her disheveled hair and slightly rumpled shirt. She looked as if she’d just tumbled, if not out of bed, then at least out of somebody’s arms.

She stepped farther into the room. “That’ll be all, Sweeny,” she said.

Sweeny left, his face devoid of expression.

She closed the door behind him and turned to me. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

For the next hour, we compared yarns to what remained of the original upholstery and curtains. We checked for color, texture and thickness until we had identified the perfect match for the project. And then we remeasured the length and width of the windows for the new curtains. I checked the amount I would need for the two chairs and stools and jotted everything down. It would add up to a lot of fabric.

“How soon can you have the order completed?” Bunny asked.

I studied my notes. “This room will need twelve panels of five yards for the curtains alone. And then another eight yards for the upholstery.” I calculated. If I got all my weavers to come in and work in shifts, I would probably be able to deliver in two months. For safety’s sake, I gave myself extra time. “I could have it ready for you in three months.”