Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery (19 page)

We wove our way out through the crowd, and minutes later, we were back at the car. Matthew slid into his seat, pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Who are you calling?”

“Bottoms Up,” he said to me, and then into the phone, “One extra-large pizza with the works, extra cheese, to go. Matthew Baker. I’ll pick it up in ten minutes.” He dropped his iPhone into his pocket. “I take it beef bourguignon is not on the menu tonight?” He winked, and my heart fluttered.

We took off.

“Did you notice that neither Mrs. Anderson nor Bunny Boyd were there? Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”

“I suppose,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “But there could be countless reasons for them not being there.”

“Why do you think the police were there? Do you think they were keeping track of who came and who didn’t?”

“That’s standard procedure. They always show up for services and funerals of murder victims.”

“In that case, they might be forgetting about the one person who had to be there whether she killed him or not—Mrs. McDermott.”

He glanced at me. “I’m sure they didn’t forget about her.”

“How sure are you that she overhead me ask about her husband’s insurance?”

“Of course she heard. Didn’t you see the look on her face?”

I shivered. “For a moment I wasn’t sure what she’d do.”

“Put yourself in her place,” he said in a pacifying tone. “If she’s innocent, how do you think she feels, overhearing someone ask about her husband’s life insurance? Losing a loved one is difficult enough without being subjected to everyone’s suspicions. Under the circumstances, I think anybody would have reacted the same way.”

Matthew was right, and I felt a pang of guilt for suspecting her. Poor woman. She had looked completely devastated after finding her husband’s body. Still . . .

“All I’m saying is, let’s not forget about her. By the way, you never answered my question. Did you find out whether her husband had life insurance?”

“The police already questioned her about that. She admitted to owning a fifty-thousand-dollar policy on her husband’s life, which he bought when they first got married, more than twenty-five years ago.”

“Fifty thousand dollars? That’s all? I’d expected it to be for a larger amount.”

He slowed and looked both ways before turning onto the highway. “People have been killed for less. Anyhow, the cops are not taking her word for it. They’re still looking, but it’s a lengthy process. It means contacting all the insurance companies. They’re also monitoring her bank account for any unusual activity. So far, they’ve found nothing suspicious.”

I pondered all of this for the rest of the drive, and ten minutes later Matthew pulled up in the parking lot of Bottoms Up. He ran in, returning with the pizza, and we were on our way back to my place, where Winston greeted us with his usual overexuberance.

Matthew dropped the pizza box on the counter and crouched to Winston’s level. “I know. I know.” He scratched his back. “I’m happy to see you too.” He stood. “I forgot something in the car.” He ran out, returning moments later with a thick file, which he dropped on the dining room table.

“What’s that?”

“The pictures of McDermott’s models—we’ll go over them later.”

He opened a bottle of wine and I set the table. My eyes kept going to the file. I could barely wait to see who else might be in there.

As last, he returned and handed me a full glass of Pinot Noir.

“Thank you.” I waited for him to sit, and then I served us each a slice of pizza. I took a bite. “Sorry,” I said, reaching out for the file. “But I’ve been waiting for this for two days. I can’t wait any longer.” I opened it.

The first picture was a head shot of Emma. The girl was truly gorgeous, her features incredibly photogenic. Her eyes were large and widely spaced, her cheekbones high and her lips generous.

“She really could make it in modeling,” I said. “I’m glad she didn’t let that boyfriend of hers stand in her way.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I guess I didn’t tell you what happened.” I told him about the vibration in my steering wheel and my visit to Al’s Garage the next day. “When I went to pick it up the morning after, I overheard Ricky and Emma arguing.” I repeated what I’d heard. “She dropped by the store earlier to say good-bye. She’s on her way to New York. And get this. Ricky is in jail for car theft. I suspect she might have turned him in.”

“I knew about his arrest,” Matthew said. “And you’re right. Emma was the one who reported his thefts to the police.”

“And you didn’t think of telling me?”

He ignored the jab and continued. “The police also searched Al’s Garage and found parts from tons of stolen vehicles.”

“So Al was in on it too?”

“He claims that Ricky drove into Charlotte for parts every other week and that he had no idea they were stolen.”

“A likely story,” I said. “Getting back to Emma, I’m convinced she had nothing to do with McDermott’s murder or the stolen pictures.”

“I agree.”

“Well, isn’t this a refreshing change? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you voice a firm opinion, especially not one that agrees with mine.”

He chuckled and picked up Emma’s photo, studying it. “I guess one could say she’s attractive. She’s just not my type.”

My pulse quickened. “What is your type?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

He looked at me and his dark eyes lightened. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I just prefer brunettes.” He was looking at my hair. My mouth went dry. And then he continued. “Lydia Gerard—now, there’s a beautiful woman.”

My heart sank, and I struggled to keep my smile from dropping. “She is, isn’t she?” I said as if I didn’t care in the least. I couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

The next dozen pictures were of Emma. “The cops were thorough. They didn’t need to give us so many head shots of the same models.”

Then there was a picture of a pretty redhead. “Who’s she?”

He gave me a name I’d never heard before. “She used to live in Belmont but moved to Los Angeles about ten years ago. The police checked and she was at her job the day McDermott was killed. There is no way she could have made it here, killed McDermott and gotten back to LA in time for work.”

“What about the gun? Any news from the examiner on what type it was?”

“They’ve confirmed that the gun was a Colt semiautomatic.”

“So it wasn’t Whitby’s gun.”

“We still don’t know that.”

I looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean you don’t know for sure? Whitby’s Colt was more than a hundred years old, and you just said that the murder weapon was a semiautomatic.”

He smiled. “Colt semiautomatics already existed a century ago. So it could have been the same weapon.”

“Oh. I had no idea. I always thought semiautomatic meant modern.” I thought quickly. “If it was the same weapon and they never find it, can they still make a case?”

“Presumably, but it will be much harder. Without the murder weapon, the prosecutor will claim it was Whitby’s missing gun, and unless we can prove beyond any shadow of a doubt who stole it, the defense will point out that anybody at the party could have taken it.”

“So this might turn out to be the perfect murder.”

“Perfect murders don’t exist. With forensic science, nowadays even decades-old murders are being solved.” He gave me a crooked smile. “It ain’t over till it’s over, kiddo.”

He picked up another photo, this one of a brunette. This picture also looked as if it had been taken during the seventies or eighties. “Beatrice Mallory,” Matthew said. “Happily married and living in Charlotte. And she also has an unshakable alibi. She was nowhere near here the day of the murder.” He set that picture aside along with the dozen or so more shots of the same woman. He continued on, identifying and setting aside model after model until he got near the bottom of the pile. “This one is still unidentified.” He handed it to me.

“I noticed this one in the darkroom.” The shot was old, like so many of the others. The model was rather plain, with brown hair, brown eyes and unmemorable features, yet there was something familiar about her. “I have the feeling I’ve seen her before but I have no idea where.”

He nodded. “Bailey said the same thing. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think of who.”

“Can I borrow it? I’ll show it to Jenny and Marnie. They might recognize her.”

“I don’t see why not.” He handed it to me.

“Give me a few more of her. She might look different from other angles.”

“That’s the only one the police found of her.”

“That’s odd. McDermott had dozens of pictures of every other model. Are you sure?”

He glanced at me. “If I say there is only one, that’s because there is only one.” He answered my silent question. “She wasn’t very photogenic. He might not have taken more than a few pictures of her to begin with.”

It was true that the girl certainly wasn’t very attractive. He pulled out the picture, studied it again and set it aside. We continued through the pile until I had seen them all.

He picked up the stack and shoved them all back into the folder, all except the unidentified girl. “Every woman in those pictures has an alibi except for Emma and this unknown woman.”

“And we’ve already eliminated Emma as a possibility. What about Mrs. Anderson? Even though her pictures weren’t there, she’s still a suspect.”

“Nobody’s eliminating her.”

I turned over a new idea. “I’m beginning to think that maybe McDermott’s murder had nothing to do with the nude photos,” I said, plopping back against my chair.

“Could be,” he said vaguely, eyeing the last piece of pizza. “You want it?”

I waved it away. “You go ahead. I’m full.” Two minutes later it was all gone except for a small piece on my plate. I picked up the plates and carried them back to the kitchen with Winston hot on my trail. I threw him the piece and he lunged for it.

From the dining room, Matthew called him back. “Ready to go home, Winston?” Winston galloped back.

“Don’t look so happy to leave, big boy,” I said, joining them in the foyer.

Matthew was already clipping on his leash. “All he knows is that he’s going for a walk—his favorite thing, along with food, belly rubs and head scratches.” As if to confirm this, Winston wiggled his butt, barking happily. “Sorry to be leaving so abruptly. I want to get an early start on my writing tomorrow.”

I might have been tempted to suggest he stay for another glass of wine, but after his comment about Lydia, I was not about to.

“I’ll see you when I drop off Winston in the morning,” he said, and a minute later he was gone. The downstairs door closed, its sound reverberating under my feet. Suddenly I was alone, and the apartment felt incredibly lonely. I wondered idly if Margaret had already moved in next door. It would feel reassuring to have someone living close by. I shrugged off the unease as normal after a visit to the funeral parlor. I poured myself a second glass of wine as I got ready for bed.

•   •   •

The next morning was miserable, wet and cold. I slipped on a raincoat and made a mad dash to pick up my paper, throwing a quick glance at the empty coffee shop across the street. The lights of the McDermotts’ living quarters were turned on, but the shop was still dark. Maybe Rhonda would never reopen. If she sold her shop, maybe Jenny would consider buying it. I slipped the paper under my coat and hurried back to my shop. I wiped my feet on the entrance mat and dropped the paper on the counter.

“Hello-o. Anybody here?”

From the back came the sound of the coffee grinder. Coffee would be ready in a few minutes, thank goodness. I shook the rain off my coat and picked up the phone. I dialed my message code. “You have zero messages.” Bunny had still not returned my call—what a surprise.

“Who was that on the phone?” asked Marnie from the doorway.

“Oh, hi. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I just walked in.” She shook the rain off the zebra-print umbrella, which matched her zebra-print raincoat. She closed it, leaning it against the doorframe.

“I was just checking my messages. Sill no news from Bunny.” I walked around the counter. “I’m getting myself a cup. You want one?”

Marnie chuckled. “Yes, please. If I don’t get one soon, I’ll turn into a worse grump than you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Put a smile on your face, child.”

I headed toward the back. Jenny greeted me with a cheerful “Good morning.”

“How do you do it? You’re in a good mood no matter what the weather.”

Her lips tilted at the corner. “If you’d had the night I did, you’d be happy too.”

I wiggled an eyebrow. “I take it you’re talking about a night with a certain good doctor?”

She blushed. “No, I mean I had a really good night’s sleep.”

“Sure you did.” I picked up the cups she handed me and winked. “Or maybe you were
dreaming
about the good doctor.” I hurried to the front before she could think of a smart retort.

Marnie had slipped out of her raincoat. I noticed the bag in her hands.

She carried it over. “I have another four place mats.”

“So fast!”

“I’ve been weaving so many years, it’s as easy as pie for me.” She snapped her fingers. “And speaking of pies, I gave Jenny an apple-cranberry pie I want her to test with customers. You’ll have to let me know if you like it.”

“There’s no question I’ll like it. The question is, will I still fit in my clothes afterward?”

Marnie rolled her eyes. “You are so fat—why, you’re practically obese.”

The bell rang, and Matthew came in followed by Winston. “Hey,” he said, walked over and planted a kiss on my cheek.

“Hey to you too.” He unclipped Winston’s leash and the pooch jumped up at me. I pushed him off. “Down, Winnie. You’re getting me all wet.” The dog trotted away, dropping onto his cushion. He glanced back at me, looking insulted.

“Did you show Jenny and Marnie the picture?” Matthew asked.

“Oh, shoot. I forgot it upstairs. I’ll run up and get it.” I hurried to the door. “Be right back.”

I was halfway up when I heard a door close. A moment later, Margaret appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hi, Della.”