Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery (8 page)

“Yes. In this case we know it was murder. The prosecutor will need a full examiner’s report before making an arrest. The body is already on its way to the county medical examiner.”

“Was Dr. Cook able to tell what kind of a gun was used?”

“I haven’t heard. Why do you ask?”

“I wonder if the murder weapon might have been Whitby’s missing gun.”

Matthew nodded at me, much the way a professor might look at a star pupil. “The same thought occurred to me too. But we won’t know that until we find out the type of gun that was stolen and get the report from the ME.”

Jenny interrupted, her brow creased with worry. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get it out of my mind. Somebody gave a false tip about me. I want to know who told that story and why they would lie about something like that.”

“I doubt it was a lie,” I said. “I think it’s more likely that they mistook somebody else for you—just a case of mistaken identity.” I looked at Matthew, hoping he’d agree with my comment.

“You know I can’t tell you who made that call. But Della is right. The police are considering the same theory.”

This seemed to calm her. The lines on her forehead softened and she smiled weakly. “You had me really scared for a minute.”

“Tell me something, Matthew,” I said. “Could this person have called in that tip to take suspicion away from herself?”

“She might have,” said Matthew, confirming what I really wanted to know, that the caller was a woman. Interesting. I wondered if the person who called the tip line could have mistaken Emma for Jenny. I pictured her and Jenny standing side by side. Both were tall. Both were thin. And with the blond streaks Jenny had recently gotten, her hair was more blond than brown.

“One more thing,” I said. “Did anybody hear the shots?”

He shook his head. “Not a soul. If they had, we’d know the exact time McDermott was killed. Turns out the shots were muffled.”

I gasped. “The killer used a silencer?” That conjured up images of gangland killings, Mafia or organized crime.

“In a matter of speaking,” he said. “The police found a bunch of bar towels nearby. They were full of holes and gunshot residue. Apparently, the killer wrapped them around the gun. This not only muffled the shot, but it also protected him from residue.”

“That doesn’t tell us much. Anybody who watches TV could have known to do that.”

I glanced at Jenny. She was sitting on the edge of her seat, just itching to say something. She gave me a pleading look. I wasn’t sure what she was trying to say, but I suspected she wanted me to tell Matthew about McDermott’s photo studio. I gave her a small head shake. She sighed and shrugged, as if to say, “your call.”

It wasn’t that I was planning to keep it from him. I would definitely tell him, just not right now. The minute I did, he’d be obligated to tell the police. I wanted to help poor Emma, so much so, in fact, that now I was even considering snatching those nude photos of her if they were there. She’d made a valid point. They were hers, after all.

This thought led to me to another question. How probable was it that the police already knew about the existence of this studio? McDermott had kept the place a secret from his wife, so they wouldn’t have learned about it from her. As for Emma, she had every reason to keep the information to herself. There was always the possibility that somebody else had already informed the cops. But not likely. If I wanted to search the place, I’d have to do it tonight. Tomorrow would already be too late.

Call me crazy, but suddenly I was eager to get going. If McDermott kept his studio a secret from his wife, he was hiding something. I had no idea what I might find, other than Emma’s photos.
I must be spending too much time with Jenny,
I thought, because I had a strong
feeling
there had to be more in that studio than a few embarrassing photos. The question was, what had McDermott really been hiding?

A
t last the bottle was empty, the last drop of wine in every glass drunk. I dared hope Jenny and Matthew would now leave so I could set my plan into motion. I jumped to my feet and picked up the glasses.

“I’ll take these back to the kitchen,” I said.

“Not so fast,” Jenny said. “How about we open another bottle? My treat. I’ll replace it tomorrow.”

I hesitated. “I’m sorry, guys. I hope you don’t mind if I make this an early evening. Maybe it’s the shock of finding the body, but I’m wiped. I can hardly keep my eyes open.” I yawned deeply as proof.

Jenny stared at me, puzzled.

“That’s okay,” Matthew said, jumping to his feet. “It’s totally normal under the circumstances. I should have thought of it myself.” He turned to Jenny. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a bit hungry. Want to join me for a bite at Bottoms Up?” He looked at me. “You too, Della.”

“Maybe another time,” I said, yawning again. “I’m going straight to bed.”

Jenny threw me an incredulous look.
I
was turning down an invitation from
Matthew
. No wonder she was confused. To my delight, Matthew looked disappointed. Maybe I should make a point of turning down his invitations once in a while. He might appreciate me more than when I always accept.

“I’ll call Ed,” Jenny said. “If he finishes early, he might be able to join us.” She punched her boyfriend’s number into her cell phone, and a few seconds later she hung up, grinning from ear to ear. “He agreed to meet us. He’ll be there in fifteen or twenty minutes. Are you sure you don’t want to come, Della?”

“How about I take a rain check on that?” To Matthew, I said, “You can leave Winston with me if you like. That way you don’t have to detour by your place. You can pick him up tomorrow afternoon, same as usual.”

“Good idea.” Matthew patted Winston’s head. “See you tomorrow, buddy.” I walked them to the door, faking a few more yawns and squashing my guilt for deceiving my friends. Poor Emma. She needed somebody to help her. The second the door closed behind them, I sprang into action.

“Let’s go, Winston.” He followed me to my bedroom, where he plopped onto the cushion I kept in the corner for him. I tore into a pair of black jeans, grabbed a black turtleneck, and rummaged through the bottom of my closet until I located my running shoes. I knew I’d bought those for a reason. After I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, it occurred to me that I was now dressed as a cat burglar. Great. If anybody spotted me going in, they’d think I was up to no good, which I was—sort of. I hesitated, as the full impact of what I was about to do hit me. Nobody would see me. I’d make sure of it. I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight from my catchall drawer.

There is nothing like doing something you know is wrong to make you paranoid. At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped. What if Matthew had guessed my little ploy and was now lying in wait? I stuck my head outside, glancing both ways—no sign of him. I took off, sprinting around the building to the lane where I parked my Jeep. I had no sooner hopped in than I stopped again. What if somebody in Belmont noticed my Jeep? It was candy-apple red, not exactly an inconspicuous color. Supposing the cops suspected me of trespassing, what excuse could I have for being in Belmont? On the other hand, taking a cab would be more dangerous. A driver could later recognize me and testify against me. I had to use my car or not go at all. And since that was out of the question, I turned on the motor and drove out.

Everything would turn out fine, I told myself over and over. And it might have been, except that by the time I was halfway there, my steering wheel suddenly began to vibrate. It wasn’t much more than a slight tremor at first, but the faster I drove, the worse it got, and it didn’t disappear until I slowed to less than thirty miles an hour. I pulled to the side of the road and checked my tires—no flats. I hopped back in and settled for a speed somewhere between shaking like crazy and perfectly smooth. I checked the speedometer again—forty miles an hour.
Crap!
I’d be lucky if I didn’t get a ticket for driving too slow.

I entered the Belmont city limits and cruised along until I spotted the place. It was a typical old-fashioned commercial building not unlike my own, with a business on the first floor and residential apartments above. I slowed as I drove by, then turned and went by again. At the street level was a camera shop—
how appropriate
. I looked upstairs, making certain all the lights were out. They were.
So far, so good
.

I drove on, turning left at the first corner and then right. I pulled to a stop on a quiet residential street, where my Jeep would hopefully go unnoticed among half a dozen other parked cars. I hopped out and forced myself to walk slowly. I hoped that to any passersby I looked like just another person out for an evening stroll.

In front of the building, I glanced up and down the street quickly—no police vehicles anywhere. As for witnesses, the only people I could see were a block or two down the street, nowhere close enough to later be able to identify me.

I slipped the key into the lock and almost fell on my face as the door swung open on its own. Why would the door be unlocked? Was there already someone up there? I slipped inside, my heart thudding hard against my ribs, and listened. Nothing. I took a steadying breath and tiptoed up the stairs slowly, all my senses on high alert. If I heard as much as fly go by, I would be out of there. I reached the landing and stopped again, trying to get my bearings. I was already inside the studio, I realized. That meant it took up the entire upper floor of the building. I could make out a shape—the outline of a chair.

Suddenly, the dark shadow moved. It wasn’t a chair at all, but a person in a crouch. He thudded into me hard, and I went sprawling to the floor. I leaped back up, looking about frantically. Footsteps were racing down the stairs. The intruder was already on his way out. A second later, the downstairs door slammed shut. A reverberating silence followed.

My pulse slowed until I felt pretty sure that I might not die of a heart attack after all. But I had to get out of here fast. Whoever had run out could come back any minute. I groped my way toward the stairs and was halfway down when I stopped. Whoever that was, he was long gone. I had probably scared him as much as he had me.
He
? Why had I automatically thought it was a man? And then I noticed the smell of aftershave, a detail my subconscious had obviously picked up before I’d become aware of it.

Other than the fact that this person was a man, I knew nothing. What had he been after? Was he looking for photos? Or did he want something else? I stood still and thought. There was no way I was going to leave without at least taking a quick look around. I climbed back up.

I felt my way along the wall until I reached the windows. They were covered in thick feltlike fabric—blackout drapes. I made sure they were tightly closed, and when I was certain that none of the outside light shone through, I turned on my flashlight and swung the beam around.

The studio was the size of a bachelor apartment. Against one wall was a roll of white background paper stretching from floor to ceiling. Photo lights were everywhere—spotlights, umbrella lights and floodlights. There were power packs and camera stands, and the floor was a jungle of cables. McDermott must have spent a fortune on his hobby. How did he explain to his wife where all that money was going? Could she really have been oblivious to it? I found that hard to believe.

Along the opposite wall was a plush reclining chair, which conjured up images of nude models posing seductively. I looked around for cameras or photos, but there were none that I could see. How strange, so much lighting equipment and not a single camera or photo, not even a file cabinet where they might have been stored.
Probably in the darkroom
. I spotted two doors along the far wall and I tried the first. I shone my light around the floor and caught a dozen or so silverfish running around the base of a toilet.
Yuck
. This bathroom needed a good scrubbing. I shut the door, disgusted, and tried the next one. I swept the beam of light around. It was a small galley-type kitchen. On one counter were two plastic containers filled with liquid. Developing solutions. Above stretched a clothesline from which hung a dozen or so photos. I stepped closer. Each was a picture of Emma in various stages of undress, Emma posing, pouty and sultry, reclining on the chaise I’d noticed. I focused the beam of light on one of the pictures. It was seductive, yet innocent. For all her curves and the maturity of her body, Emma had a childlike innocence about her. Her expression was sweet, trying to look sexy and not quite succeeding. Nobody could have called those pictures pornographic. Still, I could understand her not wanting them to get around, especially in a small town, where the morals were more rigid. I was about to grab them when I stopped. I had somehow lulled myself into believing I could take them, but now that I was faced with it, I was hesitating. Before making up my mind one way or another, there was something I wanted to do.

I moved on to a stack of photos at the far end of the counter.
I should have brought gloves.
I glanced around for something to use and tore a paper napkin off a roll, using it to riffle through the photos. There were dozens of different girls, and judging by the makeup and hairstyles, some were as old as twenty years or more. I paused at one picture of a young brunette with a rather large nose and full lips. She reminded me of someone. But who, I couldn’t say. I flipped through the next few pictures, none of which were of the brunette.

I continued through the stack, pausing at another picture. This one was different, not a nude shot at all, but that of a couple sitting close to each other and gazing into each other’s eyes. And then I recognized the woman—
oh my
—Mrs. Anderson, the mayor’s wife. I’d had only a quick glimpse of her at the party, but there was no question that this was her. And the man with her was none other than Mr. Whitby, who was running for governor. I flipped through a few more shots, all of which were of Mrs. Anderson and Whitby.
What do you know? The mayor’s wife was involved with Bernard Whitby
.

I studied the pictures some more and, judging by her hair and makeup, concluded that the shot was at least ten years old, maybe older. That explained it. The Andersons were probably not even married at the time. Suddenly, I heard something. It was just a slight creak, but it told me that somebody else was in the studio. I dropped the stack of pictures, slipped the paper napkin into my pocket and ran out so fast that whoever was there couldn’t have seen more than a blur. That’s if the lights were on—which they were not.