Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery (16 page)

Jenny’s eyebrows bobbed. “When you turned her down, maybe she got somebody else to steal them.”

I discarded that as a possibility immediately. “She swears she knows nothing. And rather than relieved, when I told her the pictures had disappeared, she sounded more worried. She’s convinced they were stolen by someone planning to use them against her. What I wonder is, does somebody want to cause trouble in her marriage? Or is this a politically motivated maneuver?”

Jenny’s mouth dropped. “Jeffrey Anderson just announced his candidature for governorship.”

I nodded. “And his opponent is Whitby—”

“Maybe he stole the pictures.”

Again, I shook my head. “I thought of that, but Whitby is in the running himself, and those pictures don’t exactly shine a flattering light on him.”

“All the more reason for him to want them gone.”

“Normally I might agree with you except for two things. How would he have known about the pictures? Also those pictures wouldn’t hurt him nearly as much as they would Jeffrey Anderson. Don’t forget. Whitby was a bachelor.”

Jenny nodded. “Yes, but a bachelor having an affair with a married woman isn’t exactly guiltless either.”

That was a good point. I turned to the whiteboard and made a series of horizontal lines. At the top left corner, I wrote, “Suspects.” Then, along the same line, in the center, I wrote, “Motives.”

“My first suspect is Emma.” I marked down her name, and under motive, “desperate to keep her boyfriend from finding out about her nude photos.”

“Do you really think she could have killed McDermott and then broken into his studio to steal her photos? It doesn’t make sense. She gave you the key so that you could get the pictures for her.”

“That’s true. However, that doesn’t mean she didn’t kill McDermott.” I thought out loud. “She might have worried that if the cops found her pictures there, they’d know she was the killer. But she might have been afraid to go there herself in case the cops were already there.” At Jenny’s incredulous look, I continued. “You told me yourself, not very long ago, that we never really know what goes on in another person’s mind. Everyone is always shocked when somebody they know turns out to be a killer. It is traumatizing when a neighbor, a friend or a relative turns out to be a murderer. But some of the worst murderers in history were highly respected people. Look at John Wayne Gacy. He was a pillar of his community. Yet he had murdered dozens of victims, some of whom he’d buried in his own backyard.”

She shuddered. “I can’t imagine what his aura must have looked like.”

I suppressed a smile. “Back to my list—then there’s the boyfriend, Ricky Arnold.” I scribbled along as I explained my theory. “Who knows? He might have known about those nude photos all along, never telling Emma. He could have killed McDermott out of jealousy or anger.”

Jenny was beginning to enjoy the process. “He could have killed McDermott and stolen the pictures for a number of reasons. A: He’s possessive. He sees Emma as his property and didn’t want anybody else to see her naked. And B: After killing McDermott, he had to get rid of the pictures because they gave him a motive for the murder.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that scenario.” I wrote it down. “My third suspect is Mrs. McDermott. She could have killed her husband out of jealousy or anger. I suspect they didn’t have a very good marriage if he was having affairs. Another possibility is that he had life insurance. In that case, money could have been her motive.”

Jenny stared into the distance. “I wonder if either one of them was thinking of divorce.”

I widened my eyes. “You are good at this.”

“It’s all those years of living with a cop.”

Before his death, Jenny’s ex was not only a policeman, but the local chief of police.

“Now the question is,” I said, “how do we find out whether he had life insurance and whether one of them wanted a divorce?” I turned back to my whiteboard and wrote down the name of my next suspect, Mrs. Anderson. “We know she had a motive to kill McDermott. The man was blackmailing her. And even though she says she had nothing to do with the disappearance of her pictures, she could be lying.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Jenny said. “I just can’t picture her skulking around in the middle of the night.”

“I agree that it’s not likely, but it’s not impossible.” I continued. “And then there’s her husband. He could have known about the photos. Maybe McDermott was blackmailing him too. After all, he had as much to lose as his wife did—probably more. If those pictures became public, he could kiss his political career good-bye.” I paused. “If he knew about his wife’s indiscretion, then he certainly had motive to get rid of both the blackmailer and the evidence.”

Jenny seemed unimpressed. She took a sip of wine, looking at me skeptically over the rim of her glass. “Any other suspects?”

“There’s also Bernard Whitby.”

This time, Jenny laughed out loud. “I can’t wait to hear your reasoning on this one.”

I shrugged. “I can’t really find a motive for him wanting to kill McDermott. But he had a motive for wanting those photos, maybe not a great one but a motive nonetheless.”

Jenny nodded. “Amazing, isn’t it? But we have to remember that in politics, any semblance of impropriety is enough to turn the voters against a candidate. And newspapers love sex scandals. They can stretch out a one-line story into months of headlines.”

“My next suspect is Bunny.”

Jenny frowned. “I know I told you the woman was trouble, but how does she fit into all of this?”

“I might be stretching somewhat, but it occurred to me that if she wants to be the next governor’s wife strongly enough, she might have wanted to get rid of Whitby’s competition. Didn’t you see how she was sidling up to Whitby at the party? Maybe she knew about those photos and took it upon herself to get them. That would be one way of making Whitby owe her.”

Jenny gave me a sardonic look. “Much as I don’t like the lady, I think that theory is pretty weak. That doesn’t give her any kind of motive for killing McDermott. And how would she have known about those pictures? The way I see it, whoever broke into his studio was probably also the killer, or at least working with the killer.”

“My last suspect is the woman McDermott was having the affair with.” I shrugged. “But so far, I have no idea who she is.”

“Or if she even exists,” Jenny added. “For all you know, Emma could have made her up.”

“You’re right.” I scribbled a few words onto the whiteboard and crossed my arms. “All of these people were at the party, maybe even the mistress. Any one of them could have stolen the gun. Any one of them could have lain in wait for McDermott to open the shop that morning. And any one of them could have broken into the studio. But since Mrs. Anderson’s are the only pictures we know for certain are missing, I think the whole case somehow revolves around her photos.” I put the felt marker down. “Those are the only suspects I have for now, unless you can think of someone I forgot.”

“You are forgetting one important person.” I waited.

“You,” she said. “You were there when Mrs. McDermott walked into the shop. You could have come in quietly, killed McDermott and then returned to the entrance, called hello a few times for Mrs. McDermott to come in. That way she would have been a witness for you.”

I nodded and played along. “Not a bad scenario. What’s my motive?”

She thought for a second. “You did it out of friendship for Marnie and me. You wanted to get revenge for them hurting Marnie’s feelings, and for me, so my shop wouldn’t have any competition.”

“Wasn’t that nice of me?” Laughing, I pulled out a chair and sat. “I’m glad you’re not working for the police. You’d have me arrested in a New York minute.” I took a sip of wine and put my glass back down. “All kidding aside, there is one possibility we haven’t considered. McDermott was a blackmailer. Who’s to say he wasn’t blackmailing other people too?”

“How would you find out?”

“Matthew got the police to give him copies of all the photos they found in the studio. There were more than a dozen women. Our first step will be to identify them.”

“You’ve been here less than a year. You couldn’t possibly know all of the people from around here.”

I took another sip of wine and set down my glass. “If I can’t, maybe you and Marnie can.”

“Me?” She thought this over and nodded slowly. “I’ve never tried it, but I wonder if I might get a reading, or an impression of some sort, just by looking at a person’s photo.”

This time I couldn’t hold back. I gave her the mother of all eye rolls.

T
he next morning, I picked up a newspaper and glanced across the street at the darkened windows of the Coffee Break. I wondered what Rhonda’s plans for the future might be. She’d probably take some time off to mourn and then she might continue the business on her own, or maybe sell it and retire. I didn’t know her well enough to like or dislike her, but I felt sad for the woman all the same. I headed to work with the paper under my arm and was just about to walk in when I heard the sound of a car door slamming.

“Della, hi.” I turned around. It was Margaret. She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt as she came around a beat-up Honda, carrying a large cardboard box. “I decided to bring over my weaving projects. I was just going to drop them off upstairs and ask you when you’d like to see them, but—”

“I’m here now. Why don’t we do it right away?”

“Gee, thanks.” She grinned and followed me inside. I walked around the shop, turning on lights, while she dropped the box on the counter and pulled open the flaps. “I hope you like them.”

“I’d be surprised if I didn’t.”

She unfolded sheets of silk paper, revealing a beautiful light blue wrap. She lifted it out carefully. The yarn was fine, the weave tight and perfectly even. “Is this what I think it is? A pashmina?”

She beamed. “Yes. Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful.”

She touched it gently. “It’s actually silk and cashmere, not real pashmina, but I think it’s just as lovely.”

“How many of these do you have? I’m sure I can sell them—and for a good price.”

She parted the box flaps again and took out a small pile. “I have four more—white, cream and two black.”

“Would you be willing to leave them with me on consignment?”

“Willing?” she gushed. “You bet.”

“How much do you want for them?”

The bell rang, interrupting our conversation. I turned. Jenny was walking in, carrying a box of pastries.

“Hi, Margaret. Hi, Della. What are you two doing here so early?”

“I was showing Della my weaving, and she’s agreed to sell them on consignment.”

“Her work is beautiful,” I added.

“I can’t wait to see. I’ll get the coffee going and be right back.” She disappeared behind the curtain, and I returned to the girl’s beautiful pieces.

“What else have you got in there?” I asked.

She dove back into the box, this time bringing up a pile of fine linen hand towels. “I know these aren’t so popular anymore, but I love making them.”

“I disagree. They sell reasonably well in my shop. Many of my clients use them as fancy dish towels, or they display them in their powder rooms.”

“That’s what I would do with mine if I had a powder room.” She went back into the box and brought out a stack of place mats.

“I could kiss you,” I exclaimed. “I never have enough of these. They sell out faster than I can get them in.”

“Really?” she said. “That’s so great. I have piles more at home. They’re one of my favorite things to make. They’re so easy. I didn’t want to bring in too many in case I’d have to cart them all back upstairs.”

“Bring them all, please. I’ll be happy to take them.” I glanced into the box. “Any other surprises in there?”

“No. That’s all I brought with me. But I can show you more when I bring my next load.”

“That would be great. The sooner, the better.” I pulled out my stock book and store tags, and for the next few minutes we discussed pricing. We had just come to an agreement when Jenny appeared, carrying a tray with coffeepot, mugs and a basket of muffins. “Coffee’s ready.”

I looked into her basket of goodies. “What kind have you got there?”

“Marnie and I are trying a new recipe. I’m not charging for these. They’re samples. If everybody likes them, I’ll make them a regular item on the menu.”

Margaret hesitated. “They all look delicious. What is this one?”

Jenny glanced at it. “Raspberry chocolate.” She nodded toward the basket. “The other one is blueberry and white chocolate.”

“Oh, good heavens, this is sinful,” I said between mouthfuls. “If I don’t stop eating muffins, I won’t be able to fit into any of my clothes anymore.”

Jenny waved away my comment. “Don’t be silly. You look great.” She poured two cups of coffee, handed them over, and then came around to the other side, where Margaret’s items were stacked. “Show me everything.”

Margaret handed her the blue pashmina.

Jenny fingered it. “This is absolutely divine.”

“Jenny is a weaver too.” I pointed in the direction of one of my displays. “The rugs over there are hers.”

“I noticed those yesterday. I love them.”

“So do the customers,” I continued, giving Jenny a teasing look. “Unfortunately, once those are gone, I won’t be getting any more. Since Jenny got herself a new boyfriend and opened her business, she has no more time for weaving.”

Jenny chuckled. “And Della has been trying to make me feel guilty ever since.”

She continued to admire everything until Margaret glanced at her watch. “I’d better get back to work. I have half a dozen boxes to bring upstairs, and then I have to run back and get changed so I can go job hunting.” She gulped down the rest of her coffee, thanked Jenny and hurried out.

From the window, I watched her grab an open box of pots and pans and head for the side door leading upstairs to the apartments. “She’s very talented,” I said. “Maybe I should ask her to work on Bunny’s project.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not sure about wanting that project anymore?”

“What are you talking about? I can’t wait to get started. The only thing holding me back is I need the deposit and for her to sign the contract.”

“I hope you won’t be making a mistake.” She picked up the tray. “I’d better get back to work.”

Jenny disappeared into the back just as Bunny appeared in the entrance. To my surprise, she was dressed with considerably less flash today. She wore a knee-length beige skirt and matching jacket over a pearl silk blouse. Her makeup was softer, her eye makeup more subdued. She looked . . . elegant. Somebody must have given her a few tips about how a politician’s wife should dress. Now she looked the part.

“I was just on my way to do a bunch of errands,” she said, “and decided I might as well stop by to pick up the contract and give you your deposit.” She walked over and pulled out her checkbook. My eyes landed on her left hand and nearly popped out of my head.

“Whoa, that is one beautiful diamond.” It was the size of a doorknob.

She preened and wiggled her fingers. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Is it what I think it is? An engagement ring?”

She smiled, and I had the uncanny impression I was watching a satisfied cat licking its paws after dining on a mouse. Her next words came out as a purr. “It is.” She smiled. “And before you ask—no, I can’t tell you who. He wants to make the announcement himself.” And if those words weren’t enough of a clue, she continued. “I would hate the papers to get ahold of the story before he announces it officially.”

“Of course,” I said, but I couldn’t help adding, “I’m very happy for you and Mr. Whitby.”

She was making a big show of denying it when suddenly the door opened and Margaret breezed in. “I just wanted to let you know I’m leaving,” she called from the doorway.

Bunny turned, and Margaret froze. A moment stretched into two as both women stared at each other, neither saying a word. Then Margaret spun around and stormed out, the door swinging shut behind her.

What was that all about
? When Bunny looked at me, the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes had given way to a worried frown.

Her voice was tight. “How much did you want for that deposit?”

I gave her the sum, half expecting her to argue the amount. But she didn’t say a word. She scribbled fast, tore out the check and handed it to me. “Call me the minute the yarn comes in. I don’t have to come back. I’ll trust you to make sure they’re all from the same dye lot. Then you can bring a sample to the house to compare to the original drapes and upholstery.” She turned on her heel and walked out.

“Wait. You forgot the contract,” I called after her, but she was already striding down the street.

How incredibly odd
. I must have been already living in Briar Hollow for too long, because I had the sudden uncontrollable urge to gossip. I hurried through the store to the back. Jenny was behind the counter, setting out fresh muffins on trays and sliding them into the display case.

“Jenny, something really weird just happened.” I wasn’t sure why I was whispering. Except for her and me, the shop was empty.

She stared at me. “What are you talking about?”

I told her about the confrontation Bunny had narrowly avoided with Margaret yesterday. “And now it just happened. Bunny was inside, showing off her diamond engagement ring—”

Jenny’s eyes popped. “Hold on. Her
engagement
ring? Who is she marrying?”

I raised my brows. “Take a wild guess.”

“You don’t mean Bernard Whitby?”

“She didn’t come out and say it, but she gave enough hints that only an idiot wouldn’t have guessed.” I continued my story. “She was at the counter, having a grand old time showing off her ring, when Margaret walked in. When they saw each other, they both froze. You could have heard a pin drop. They must have stared at each other for a full minute, neither one saying a word. And then Margaret spun around and stormed out.”

“Did Bunny say anything after Margaret left?”

“Not a word. I mean, she pretended nothing had happened, but she looked livid. She just went on, talking about business.”

She scrunched her forehead. “What do you think is going on?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

The bell rang again, and I hurried to the front. It was a group of women, customers of Jenny’s. They called out hellos and good mornings as they walked on through to the back. Then I was alone again, with nothing to do but ponder my new questions.

How did Margaret and Bunny know each other?

What was the meaning of their odd behavior?

I couldn’t question Bunny, but surely Margaret would tell me.