Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery (24 page)

In a moment of exasperation, I blurted out, “Mom, I feel bad enough that he’s out with another girl. You don’t have to rub it in that he isn’t in love with me.”

“I knew it,” she squealed. “I just knew it. You’re in love with Matthew. Oh, that is so wonderful.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said, already regretting telling her. “I don’t see what’s so wonderful about being in love with someone who doesn’t love me back.”

“Just leave that up to me. I’ll talk to June—”

I exploded. “Don’t you dare say a word.”

“I only want to help,” she replied plaintively.

“It won’t help. If June says anything to Matthew, you might as well forget about him ever wanting to date me.”

“I don’t understand. Why would it? I think he’d be happy—”

I cut her off. “Think, Mom. How many men do you know who take their mother’s advice when it comes to love? Don’t you get it? The more you and June push him toward me, the harder he pulls away.” For once my comment was met with total silence. “Mom?”

“Yes, dear,” she said, sounding deflated. “I understand. I won’t say a word. I promise.”

“You agree with me?” I was shocked.

“Yes, dear. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. It makes complete sense.”

Now I knew she was just regrouping before another onslaught. I had to end this conversation before she got going again. “I’d better go,” I said. “I think that’s Matthew at the door now.” If she’d thought about this a minute she would have known it couldn’t be Matthew. But she wanted so much for us to be a couple that she accepted it.

Her voice went up an octave. “Good luck. And don’t forget to flirt.”

“Love you,” I said and hung up.

I returned to my pizza. But now, try as I might, I couldn’t get my mother’s words out of my head.
Damn
, Lydia wasn’t just a friend; she was an old girlfriend. They used to date. I imagined them cuddled up in a romantic restaurant, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. I gave myself a mental thump on the head. A romantic restaurant in Briar Hollow? Not likely. Chances were they were having hamburgers at Bottoms Up, surrounded by rowdy pool players and beer drinkers. Still, it didn’t make me feel one iota better. I wasn’t even hungry anymore. I pushed away from the table, and under Winston’s horrified eyes, I dropped the pizza in the trash.

I rummaged through the fridge and removed an open can of dog food. “Here, Winnie. This is much better for you than pizza.” He did not seem convinced.

I hurried to the bedroom and changed into a blue dress cut on the bias. It was formfitting without being too revealing. “There. You happy, Winnie? I’m wearing your favorite color.”

I was halfway through my glass of wine when the doorbell rang. I glanced at my watch—nine fifteen. Was their date already over? I took that as a good omen.

“Hi.” I greeted him with a smile. “Can I get you something to drink?”

He followed me to the kitchen, and I poured him some wine. We clinked glasses. I made a point of making eye contact.

“What’s that?” he asked, his gaze resting on the list I’d left on the table.

“I reworked my list of suspects,” I said.

He picked it up and headed for the living room. “Let’s take a look at this.” He scanned it quickly. “You’re down to two suspects?”

“Actually, three. I just thought of one more, someone we never even considered. I just didn’t add her to the list yet. But before we talk about that, you said you had information for me.”

“I do. It turns out that both victims were shot with the same gun—a Colt 1908 semiautomatic, the exact kind that was taken from the Whitby house. If we weren’t already convinced the killer was the same in both murders, this proves it.”

“And did you find out if it’s easy to get ammunition for that kind of old gun?”

“Easy as ordering it off the Internet. Also, both victims were shot within fifteen feet, four .25 ACP bullets in a nice tight three-inch grouping.”

“You lost me.”

“What that means is that the killer was a good shooter.”

I puzzled over this. “How do we find out which of the suspects knows how to shoot?”

He smiled. “I already know that. The police found out that both Bunny and Mrs. Anderson were fans of target shooting.”

“Oh, my God. I was right. It’s one of them.”

“You said you had a third suspect.”

I wasn’t nearly so sure anymore. Still, I told him about Margaret.

After I had explained at length about what made me think she could be the killer, he picked up the list again. “I’m not convinced.”

“Neither am I.”

“Let’s take another look at this.” He perused the list briefly. “So tell me again why you think it could be Bunny Boyd.”

“It’s simple. She is determined to marry Bernard Whitby. He is a politician, and if it came out that his fiancé had a child out of wedlock from an affair with a married man, he might not be so keen on marrying her. You know how politicians care about the moral majority.”

He nodded. “God only knows why something that happened two decades ago would even matter, but you’re right. They do go to great lengths to appear unblemished.”

“And don’t forget that Bunny made Margaret sign a confidentiality agreement. That proves how important it was to her that her past remain safely in her past. If McDermott was blackmailing one political wife, why not also a political fiancé? And if Rhonda picked up where her husband left off, or if she figured out who killed him, Bunny would have had to kill her too. Don’t forget, Bunny lives right across the street from the Coffee Break.” I had another idea. “Maybe she was watching the house and saw Rhonda leave and then used the opportunity to go in to look for”—I shrugged—“whatever she thought Rhonda had. And maybe Rhonda forgot something and went back. Then they came face-to-face and Bunny had to kill her.”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” Matthew said.

“But that’s how murder sometimes is, a bunch of coincidences that add up to somebody getting killed. As for Mrs. Anderson, if she had already figured out that the blackmailer was Rhonda, she might have purposely sent me to that meeting so she would be free to search her house in the meantime. I think either Rhonda was late, or she was early. The point is, they ran into each other and then Mrs. Anderson had no choice but to kill her.” I snapped my fingers. “I just thought of something. I always found it strange that there was only one picture of the unknown model. If Bunny murdered McDermott, she probably broke into his studio later and stole her pictures. In her rush, she missed one.”

Matthew nodded. “You’ve put together two excellent circumstantial cases. But you haven’t got a shred of hard evidence. I don’t know that there’s enough here to arrest, let alone convict, anyone. A lawyer could shoot holes the size of canonballs through those theories.”

“I know.” I let out a long, discouraged breath. “So what do we do now?”

“How about we just enjoy each other’s company?”

Had I heard right? I looked at him. He had moved closer on the sofa and was now no more than a few inches from me. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t feel like talking, that I wanted him to put his arm around me and his lips on mine. Instead I said, “How was your date with Lydia?”

He picked up his glass of wine. “It was nice. She hasn’t changed a bit since high school. Did you know she and I used to date? I was a senior and she was a junior.”

I played dumb. “No. How long ago was that?”

“A longgggg time ago,” he said with teasing eyes.

“Will you be seeing her again?” I couldn’t help it. I had to know.

He shrugged. “She’s nice, but . . . I don’t usually revisit old relationships.” He raised his eyes to mine. “That was a really good meal you made last night,” he said. “I think I should take you out to a nice dinner. Belmont has some nice places.”

“Maybe if you tell me what your second favorite meal is, I could learn to make that one for you too.”

His dark eyes lightened to a golden caramel shade, and my heart skipped a beat.

“You would do that?”

I said what I thought was light and breezy. “Sure. It’s not like I have that many friends to cook for around here.” But for some reason Matthew’s face fell.

“Right,” he said and looked at his watch. “Well, I’d better be getting home.” He downed the rest of his glass in one shot and stood. “Oh, by the way, I have to go into Charlotte again tomorrow. I can either leave Winston with you for the night or drop him off around six thirty tomorrow morning.”

I jumped to my feet. “He can stay the night, no problem. But don’t leave now. Why don’t you have—”

“I have to meet with my agent again. It seems she might have a foreign-rights deal for my book. I don’t want to fall asleep halfway through the meeting.”

I nodded. “Of course.” I followed him to the door and, determined to make up for whatever I had said that offended him, I raised my face for a kiss and closed my eyes—and got a stupid peck on the forehead. And then, to make it even worse, he clambered down the stairs, calling out, “See you tomorrow, kiddo.”

Shit! Shit! Shit! What did I do wrong this time?

•   •   •

It was the middle of the night when I awoke with a jolt. I had heard something, a noise that had penetrated my sleep. I rose on one elbow and looked around the dark room—nothing. And then I heard it again—snap. Somebody was in the apartment.
Hide
. I looked around again, this time frantically searching for a safe place to hide. Under the bed?
Of course not
. That would be the first place anybody would look. I scrambled out of bed, pulled back the covers smoothly, tiptoed to the door and slipped behind. As far as hiding places went, this one wasn’t great but at least it gave me a small chance of not being seen. A weapon. My eyes paused on the iron doorstop at my feet. I picked it up. It was heavy and could do a lot of damage even to the thickest of skulls. I waited, almost afraid to breathe. The noise was coming from the kitchen. I thought of the ten thousand dollars hidden in the box of Rice Krispies. Well, that did it. If I survived this night, the first thing I’d do tomorrow was deliver it myself to the Anderson house.

One minute stretched into ten, and I was berating myself for stupidly leaving my phone on the dining room table when I heard another noise. This one was louder and followed by a series of scratching sounds, as if somebody were tearing cardboard. How could anybody have known where . . . Suddenly, there was another great tearing sound followed by a low growl—
Winston
? I tiptoed down the hall, holding the doorstop high, and flicked on the kitchen light.

“Winston!” Garbage littered the floor: broken eggshells, coffee grinds, wet paper towels. The kitchen was a mess. “Winston Baker, what are you doing?”

Winnie bowed his head in shame.

“You should be embarrassed. You scared me half to death. What in the world were you trying to do?”

He looked at me with wounded eyes and slunk off to the corner. I reached in the closet for a broom and pail and began the gross task of cleaning up. Two minutes into the cleanup, the mystery was solved when I came upon a few bits of leftover beef bourguignon. I finished sweeping the mess, damp mopped the floor and turned to face the perpetrator.

“I’m letting you off easy this time, but only because you couldn’t resist my cooking. I take that as a compliment.”

He gave me an appreciative “Woof,” and followed me back to the bedroom.

I dropped his cushion on the floor and closed the door. “No more wandering around in the middle of the night for you,” I said. I climbed into bed and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep

M
arnie stared at me, discouraged. “Tell me again exactly what you said before he got upset.”

I had just told her and Jenny about Matthew’s sudden departure and was beginning to feel a bit defensive. “I didn’t say he got upset. He just—I don’t know—suddenly wanted to leave.” Marnie raised an eyebrow. “All right. I suggested I cook something else that he likes—which was perfectly nice of me—and he said something like, ‘You’d do something like that for me?’ And then all I said was that since I didn’t know very many people in Briar Hollow, who else was I going to cook for?”

Marnie wiped a hand over her face. “Sometimes I wonder about you.”

“What was wrong with that?”

Jenny put a pacifying hand on mine. “I know you didn’t mean to push him away, but you implied that the only reason you were cooking for him is because there’s nobody else around. If the man is already sensitive because you’ve been pushing him away for months, if not years, then that was just the kind of remark to throw him off once again.”

“Oh.” I mulled this over. “Do you really think he took it that way?”

Marnie rolled her eyes. “Duh.”

“It’s not so terrible,” Jenny said. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of some way you can make it up to him.”

At that moment, the door opened, and Bunny Boyd marched in looking less than pleased. Jenny and Marnie dispersed, leaving me to deal with her in private.

She looked at me haughtily. “I can’t stay for more than a minute. Bernie is running a few errands and I have to meet him back at the car in”—she looked at her watch—“five minutes.”

Judging by the way she glared at me, I could kiss her contract good-bye. I opened the drawer and got her check. “This is what you want, I presume,” I said, handing it to her.

“No, that is not why I’m here. I’m here to clarify a few things.” She planted a hand on her hip. “I don’t know what Margaret Fowler told you, but whatever she said, it was a complete lie. I did not take any contract away from her.”

I was speechless.

Bunny nodded. “I offered her the same job I offered you. Silly me. I should have asked her to sign a contract, but I trusted her. She seemed so happy at the opportunity, and she . . .” Bunny hesitated. “She seemed to want a relationship with me. Then, a couple of days later, I get a legal letter from her, telling me she wants nothing to do with me, that she’ll sue me for harassment if I try to contact her again. And along with it she sent back the deposit check I gave her.”

I was shocked. I had no idea what to think.

Bunny continued. “You tell
me
who dropped who.”

Before I could think of anything to say, the door opened and Margaret walked in. It took a moment for her to recognize Bunny dressed in her new subdued style.

Bunny took a step toward her. “I hear you’re spreading stories about me.”

Margaret backed up a step and shook her head. “No. I haven’t told anybody. I swear. Della just guessed.” She looked scared.

“Why are you going around lying, telling people that I took that contract away from you? And that it’s my fault that you had to close your business? I never took anything away from you. You dropped me.” Bunny’s voice was plaintive, hurt. I didn’t know who was lying. They both looked so sincere.

“Hold on, both of you.” I turned to Margaret. “Bunny says that you sent back the deposit check she gave you.”

Margaret nodded. “I did.” She looked at Bunny. “You demanded I return it in that letter from your lawyer.”

Bunny’s face went from hurt to perplexed. “What are you talking about? What letter?”

“The one where you threated to sue me unless I signed the confidentiality agreement.”

Bunny looked shocked. At that moment, the door opened and Mrs. Anderson walked in. She looked at Bunny and started to leave.

“Wait,” I said. It was like a lightbulb had turned on in my brain. Everything was suddenly so clear.

Everybody turned to me. “I’ve just figured it out.”

Bunny looked annoyed. “Figured out what?” she snapped.

I ignored her tone. “The murder!” I turned to Margaret. “Margaret, tell the truth. You went to the Whitby party, didn’t you?”

She hesitated. “Yes.” Turning to Bunny, she continued. “It was silly, but I really wanted to see the house you were working on.” She turned back to me. “But I swear, I didn’t kill anybody.”

“I know that.” I turned to Bunny. “But you had an excellent reason for wanting him dead.”

She frowned. “Me? Kill Philip? Now, why would I want to do that? Sure, I was heartbroken when he walked out on me. I was a pregnant teenager, and the man who had seduced me wanted me out of his life. But that was twenty-two years ago. I’ve moved on. Besides, I had my revenge.” At my astonished look, she continued. “Did you know that the Longview used to belong to his family?” Her eyes brightened. “Well, it did. And I had the satisfaction of knowing that every time he looked out the window and saw the Longview, he’d know that the girl he’d scorned became more successful than he ever was.” She planted her hands on her hips. “And I suppose you also think I killed Mrs. McDermott?” she asked sarcastically.

“You had the opportunity to steal the gun and you live right across the street. How better to watch their comings and goings?”

“Wrong again,” she said, making an invisible check mark in the air. “I was in New York when she was killed. And I can prove it.”

Damn. So the killer wasn’t Bunny.
Okay
. I turned to Mrs. Anderson. “You also had a motive to want McDermott dead. He was blackmailing you.”

“That’s true,” she said. “Except I told Jeffrey about the blackmail.” At that moment, Bernard Whitby walked in. Everybody turned to look at him.

“Let’s go, Bunny,” he said.

She put up a hand. “Hold on a second, sweetheart. You might want to hear this.”

He leaned against the doorframe, looking bored. His eyes traveled the group, and when they stopped on Mrs. Anderson, he shuffled nervously.

She stared back at him, and when she spoke, I had the impression the words were for his benefit as well as for mine. “My indiscretion with Mr. Whitby happened almost eighteen years ago, during a bad period of my marriage. Since then, my husband has forgiven me and our marriage is happy and healthy. So there was no reason for me to want the McDermotts dead.”

“Ahh,” I said, raising a finger. “But you only told your husband after the first murder. And I bet, as much as your husband forgave you, he still wanted all copies of those pictures destroyed, right?”

“If you’re trying to accuse me of murder—”

I couldn’t help but notice from the corner of my eye that Whitby was nervously signaling Bunny with his eyes and tapping his watch. Why was he in such a rush to leave? Suddenly it hit me. I’d been looking at everything from the wrong angle from the start. All along I’d been searching for a suspect who’d had the opportunity to steal the gun from the Whitby house because everything hinged on the weapon. But what if that gun was never stolen?

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I know you didn’t kill the McDermotts. But the guilty party is right here, in this room.”

Bunny planted both hands on her hips. “If you’re trying to say I did it, you’re dead wrong.”

“Actually, I know you didn’t do it either.” I turned to Bernard Whitby. “You killed them.”

He sneered. “That is preposterous.”

“You love Bunny, don’t you?”

“I asked her to marry me.”

Bunny walked over to him and hooked her arm in his.

I gave him a pleasant smile. “I believe you. And I also believe that becoming governor is very important to you—as important, in fact, as Bunny is.”

She looked up at him adoringly. “I didn’t kill them, Bernie. You believe me, don’t you? He tried to blackmail me, but I told him to take a hike. I didn’t care if the truth came out or not. All that is ancient history. It was twenty years ago.”

“Of course he believes you,” I said before he had a chance to answer. “Because
he
did it. He killed Philip McDermott because when he realized you weren’t going to pay up, he went to Mr. Whitby. Isn’t that right?”

He looked at me, and I detected a tinge of fear in his eyes. I took a few steps toward him. “You killed them because you wanted to be governor very badly, and you wanted to marry Bunny just as badly. And you were afraid that if those pictures hit the press, you’d have to either quit the race or drop Bunny.”

The way he grabbed Bunny by the wrist and pulled the door open told me I’d just hit the nail on the head. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Bunny pulled back. “Bernie, tell her that’s not true. Tell them you didn’t kill them.”

“Come, Bunny. We don’t have time for this nonsense.”

The angry line of her mouth softened to a pout. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me you had nothing to do with those murders.”

“I think it’s time I called the police,” I said.

He looked stunned for a moment and then he sprang into action. “Fine,” he said to Bunny. “You stay if you like, but I’m leaving.” He stormed out.

All eyes turned to me.

“I think I just solved the case,” I said and picked up the phone.