Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery (9 page)

I
drove out of Belmont like a bat out of hell, or rather, like a bat in a martini shaker, and didn’t slow down until I was halfway back to Briar Hollow. Only then did I take the pressure off the gas pedal, slowing down to thirty. I prayed I wouldn’t be pulled over by the cops.

Who had come into the studio? Was it the same man who had knocked me down? Or was it someone new? The only thing I was certain of was that whoever it was had no more business in there than I did. Otherwise they would have turned on the light.

As I got closer to Briar Hollow my thoughts moved on to the pictures I’d seen. The mayor’s wife and Bernard Whitby—I still couldn’t believe it. It made me wonder if the person who had crashed into me had been sent to destroy those pictures. Damn! I suddenly realized that in my panic, I’d forgotten all about Emma’s pictures.

What was I supposed to do now? There was no way I was going back. Another thing occurred to me. The police should be told about that studio. Should I call them with an anonymous tip? Or say nothing and hope somebody else did?

By the time I reached the town limits of Briar Hollow I had decided to leave it all up to Matthew, and I headed for Bottoms Up, where he, Ed and Jenny had gone. I needed to calm down, and time with my friends would be perfect. With any luck, they’d still be there.

•   •   •

Bottoms Up was Briar Hollows’s foremost restaurant. Their menu used to offer everything from Thai to Chinese to French to Japanese and Italian, most of which was barely edible. But they had recently hired a new cook and changed their menu to good, old-fashioned home cooking. And their desserts were to die for.

I walked in and stood still while my eyes adjusted. Before me was a bar that ran the length of the entire far wall. On one side of the cavernous room was a pool table, which was surrounded—as always—with a rowdy group of men. On the other side was the main dining area. That was where I headed, my eyes darting around for my friends. I discovered them sitting at a table near the window, Matthew on one side of the table and Jenny and Ed on the other.

“Della, what are you doing here?” Jenny asked when she spotted me.

“I couldn’t sleep, so decided to join you. Am I too late for dessert?”

Matthew hopped to his feet, pulling out a chair for me. “Are you sure you only want dessert? If you’re hungry, order something. We’ll keep you company until you’re finished.”

“I would love to stay, but my shift is starting in an hour,” Ed said apologetically.

“Don’t worry. I really only want a piece of cherry pie and ice cream.” I smiled at Jenny and winked. “I’m happy your boyfriend gets an evening off once in a while.”

He looked at Jenny, smiling. “She’s the only person who can pull me away from my ER.”

“Did you hear that? ‘
My
ER’ he says. He really believes he’s the only doctor capable of saving lives. When he’s not there, the entire system falls apart.”

“Trust me, it does,” he said, grinning.

Matthew raised a hand and waved, catching the waiter’s attention. He turned back to me. “Cherry pie? Each time we come here, that’s what you order. Have you ever had anything else from this menu?”

“A couple of times. They make great fried chicken and biscuits. But I like their pie. What can I say? I’m a girl of simple tastes. When I like something, I like it for life.”

“Does that go for love too?” he asked with a teasing glint in his eyes.

I felt myself blush, but answered casually. “When I fall in love, it will be for life.”

“Whoever he is, he’ll be a lucky guy.” He leaned back and studied me over the rim of his wineglass.

I looked at Jenny, but she shrugged, smiling casually. Had she said something to him? If she had, I would so kill her.

“So what have I missed?” I asked, suddenly in a rush to change the subject. “Anything interesting?”

“You missed an amazing pot roast,” she said, looking toward the waiter a few tables away. “Thank goodness they got that new chef.”

The waiter, a big burly guy with curly red hair, ambled over. “Hey there, Della. What can I do you for? I have a great pot roast on special tonight. I also have fried liver with bacon and onions and chicken cordon blue.”

“I’ll have the usual.”

“Cherry pie and ice cream,” he said, jotting it down. “And a cup of coffee. It’ll be ready in two minutes.” He took off.

Matthew slid out of his seat. “I’ll be right back,” he said and headed for the washrooms.

As soon as he was out of earshot, I leaned in to Jenny and whispered so Ed would not hear. “What did you say to him?”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything.”

“Then why was he making those comments about me falling in love?”

She raised her brows. “How would I know? Ask him, not me.”

“What are you two gossiping about?” Ed asked.

Jenny turned to him and gave him a smile. “Just girl talk. Della wants to know how to get a man to ask her out.”

Ed laughed. “Easy. Get him to talk about himself, bat your eyes and listen in rapt attention. That should do it.” He grinned. “Is there anybody in particular you’re hoping to attract?”

I prayed this conversation would end before Matthew’s return. I forced a teasing smile. “I was asking because I was wondering what trick Jenny used to catch you.”

He looked at Jenny adoringly. “Ah, well, that’s different. She didn’t have to do a thing. It was love at first sight.”

Jenny gave him a peck on the cheek. “Isn’t he the best?”

Matthew came strolling back just as the waiter returned with my order. “Here you go. Enjoy.” He set the plate before me and took off.

I was halfway through my pie when Jenny and Ed excused themselves and left. Matthew waited until they had walked out and then turned to me. “Now, tell me the truth. What were you really up to tonight?”

I gave him my most guileless look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play innocent with me, Della Wright. Did you really think I’d fall for your whole ‘I’m so tired’ routine? You never go to bed early. And you never turn down an invitation to dinner. And you never, ever wear flats, and here you are, not two hours later, dressed like a cat burglar and wearing running shoes.” He crossed his arms. “Out with it.”

I scrambled for a way to tell him without sending him into an apoplectic fit. Since I’d moved to Briar Hollow, I’d gone clue hunting a few times, and I had gotten hell from Matthew for it. As a criminologist, he was a stickler for the law. One time he’d been horrified to learn that I’d, as he put it, “tampered with evidence.” Granted, that was exactly what I had done. But, as I’d pointed out, I was only trying to get at the truth. And I had succeeded. Remembering that episode, I was almost grateful I hadn’t taken Emma’s pictures after all. I just hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed.

He glared at me. “Are you going to sit there and shovel pie into your mouth all evening, or are you going to give me an answer?”

I rolled my eyes. “First of all, I am not shoveling. I am eating. And second, I was about to tell you. I was just deciding
how
I should tell you.”

“How about you start from the beginning?”

So, for the second time that day, I recounted Emma’s visit and her request that I stop by McDermott’s photo studio.

Matthew choked on his coffee. When he recovered, he glared at me. “Please tell me you didn’t go.”

At that moment, the waiter returned and refilled our cups, during which time Matthew struggled to remain calm. Meanwhile, I was seriously considering lying. The waiter left and Matthew said, “At least tell me you didn’t steal any of the pictures.”

I threw him a reassuring smile. “Steal a picture? Me? How can you even ask? I left everything exactly as it was.” I took a bite of pie, wondering if I should tell him about the man who’d sent me sprawling. And about the second intruder—or third, if I counted myself as one. “But I think somebody else might have.”

“Might have what?”

“Might have stolen some pictures.” He looked at me suspiciously, and I explained. “Somebody else was in there when I walked in. He ran by me so fast he knocked me down.”

“Della!” he said, gasping. “You could have gotten hurt, killed even. What if that was the murderer?” He was looking at me with such concern. And then he continued. “Forget what I said earlier. Any man who falls in love with you should get his head examined. You, my dear, are nothing but trouble.”

I covered my dismay with a laugh.

“Did you happen to see his face?”

I shook my head. “I smelled his aftershave. I might recognize it if I came across it again.” I told him the rest of the story.

“Another person! You’re lucky you’re still alive.” He gave his head a shake. “Are you absolutely sure neither of those people saw you?” He scowled at me. “If either of them was the killer and they think you might be able to identify them, you could be in serious danger. Witnesses have a way of turning up dead.” Seeing the fear in my eyes, he softened his tone. “Della, I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I just want you to be careful. You can’t go around taking chances the way you do. One of these days you’ll find yourself in jail—or worse, dead.”

I nodded. “You’re right, of course.”

“Promise me you’ll never do anything stupid like that again?” he asked. And then before I answered, he continued. “Forget it. Even if you gave me your word, you’d only break it.”

I have him my most earnest look. “I promise to be more careful in the future.”

He sighed, obviously not believing me. “All right. Now give me the address of the studio—and the key.”

“Under one condition.”

He gave me a hard look. “What’s the condition?”

“I don’t want the police to know I gave you the information.”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the back of his chair. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not? The police have confidential informants all the time.”

“I’m not the police.”

“You can argue that since you help them on cases, you having a private informant is to their own benefit.”

His glare melted into a mocking grin, and I knew I’d just won my argument. He threw some money on the table and rose. “Ready to go?”

I nodded, and a minute later we parted in the parking lot, but not before he gave me another piece of advice, this one, to make sure my door was locked tonight. I went home, shaken up by his warning. What if someone
had
recognized me? I’d been so worried about being stopped by the police that it had never occurred to me to be afraid of anyone else.

I got home, filled Winston’s water bowl, patted him on the head and climbed into bed, wishing Matthew would have decided to protect me in person rather than with a piece of advice.

I was half asleep when I realized I had completely forgotten about the Anderson-Whitby photos.

T
he next morning when I stepped into my store, I was surprised to find the message light on my answering machine blinking.

“Come, Winston.” He lumbered over to his cushion behind the counter, and I pushed the playback button.

I had not one, but two messages, both from Bunny. “Hi, Della, I’m sorry to call you after hours. I’m hoping you’ll get this message tonight. If you do, please call me back.” I took down the phone number and moved on to the next message. “Hi again, Della. I don’t know what time you open in the morning, but I just want you to know that I need to see some samples of the handwoven fabric for the master bedroom chairs as soon as possible. Tomorrow, if possible.”

Bunny had left the message last night. “Tomorrow” meant today. I erased the messages and picked up the phone. This time it was my turn to get her voice mail.

“Hi, Bunny. I just got your messages. I started working on those samples yesterday, and I should have two, maybe three, ready to show you by the end of the day.” I hung up and hurried over to my loom. The sample I’d started sat half finished. I settled before the loom and picked up where I’d left off. Before long, I was walking the pedals rhythmically while throwing the shuttle from hand to hand.

The bell above the door tinkled. I looked up to see Jenny walking in wearing a glowing smile.

“Hey, aren’t you the busy bee?” she said.

“You sure look like a happy lady,” I said. “I thought the good doctor had a night shift, but looking at you now, I suspect that might have been a fib.”

Jenny blushed and hurried through to the back, ignoring my comment. Instead, she called, “How about a cup of tea?”

I chuckled to myself. It had become a daily routine. She offered tea. I requested coffee. “I’ll have the usual, thanks.”

“Coming right up.”

The phone rang. I put down my shuttle and picked it up. As I half expected, the call was from Emma. “Hi, Della. I’m just wondering if you had a chance to—you know—drop by the studio.”

“I did go. But I’m afraid it was a waste of a trip. I did see your pictures. But somebody else came in while I was there. I just ran out and I’m afraid the pictures stayed behind.”

There was a groan at the other end of the line. “Oh, God, Della. You could have gotten hurt. I’m so sorry I asked you to do that. It was really stupid of me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m here now and that’s all that counts. If it’s any consolation to you, I thought the pictures were lovely—not at all something to be ashamed of.”

“Thank you for saying that. It’s just . . .” There was a long pause, and I knew she was thinking about Ricky. “Do you have any idea who was there?”

“I have no idea. I never saw his face.”

Her voice quavered. “It couldn’t have been Ricky, could it?”

“You would know that better than me. Do you think he might have known about the studio?”

“I told him a photographer was taking pictures of me, but not about me posing nude.” She was quiet for a long time. “It had to be somebody else. He would never do something like that.”

“Emma, I need to ask you something,” I said. “Yesterday, did you happen to walk by the Coffee Break around eight o’clock in the morning?”

“I didn’t walk
by
it,” she said. “I was on my way to Al’s Garage to drop off Ricky’s lunch, same as I do every morning. Ever since that scene Mrs. McDermott made, I won’t even go past the shop without crossing the street.”

“So what you’re telling me is that you did walk by, but on the other side of the street.”

“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I said, and turned the subject back to her photos. “Emma, my fear is that Ricky will find out about those pictures.”

“I know,” she said in a tone steeped in worry.

“Please let me know if there’s anything I can do,” I said. “I worry about you.”

“That’s sweet,” she said. “But Ricky wouldn’t hurt me.” I wasn’t convinced.

After we hung up, I got back to work, mulling over what I knew of the murder as I wove. By the time Jenny returned with a hot cup of coffee, I was no closer to figuring out who was the most likely killer.

“Thanks.” I put down my shuttle and took the cup. “Tell me something. What do you know about the Andersons?”

“The Andersons?” she repeated blankly.

“The mayor of Belmont and his wife.”

“Oh, them.” She shrugged. “I don’t know much about them, except what everybody in town knows—that he’ll be announcing his own candidacy for the gubernatorial elections, which is why I was surprised to see them at Bernard Whitby’s party.” She studied me. “Why do you ask?”

“I wasn’t exactly honest with you last night when I said I was going to bed early.”

She laughed. “I knew that. You would never turn down a date with Matthew unless you had something important to do.”

“That wasn’t a date.”

“Well, what else would you call it? I was there with Ed, and you would have been there with Matthew.” She studied me. “Sometimes I wonder if you really do want Matthew to fall in love with you. For every step he takes toward you, you take three giant steps back.”

“I do no such thing.” She gave me the eyebrow. “Well, I did have something important to do, and it couldn’t be put off.”

She planted a hand on her hip and gave me the eyebrow. “Like what? Or is it something I don’t want to know?”

I told her.

“You broke in?” She stared at me with her mouth open. “That was dangerous. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“I didn’t
break
in. I had a key, which I didn’t even need in the end. Besides, nothing happened. But guess what. Not only were there nude pictures of half a dozen different models, but there were also pictures of Mrs. Anderson having dinner with Bernard Whitby. They didn’t look recent, but it made me wonder how long she and her husband have been married.”

“At least twenty-five years. They had an anniversary party a while back. It was covered by the
Belmont Daily
.”

I gasped.

“What?”

“Call me crazy, but the case just took on an entirely new angle.” She looked at me, puzzled. “A political angle—and I have two new suspects.” I was talking to myself, trying my suspicions out loud. “I have no idea whether Mrs. Anderson and Bernard Whitby are still involved—probably not, but regardless, if news of her having an affair got out, I imagine it could be quite a disaster for her husband. Some people might kill to avoid that kind of scandal, especially if there was a danger of it harming their political career.”

“You’re crazy. You know that, don’t you?”

“You can call me crazy all you want, but somebody killed McDermott. And whoever it was had a motive.” I stopped. There was another possible new suspect I hadn’t thought of. As much as a politician might kill to avoid a scandal, a political adversary might kill to start it.

I flashed back to the present when the bell above the door tinkled. It was one of Jenny’s regular customers.

“Good morning, Mrs. Drummond,” she greeted the woman, then escorted her customer to the back, throwing me a backward glance. She still thought I was nuts, which was fine by me. I thought she was nuts often enough too. I gave Winston a liver treat and returned to my weaving.

I now had five suspects, six if I counted Bernard Whitby. There were Emma, Ricky, Rhonda McDermott, the woman Philip McDermott was having an affair with, and Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. As for Whitby, I couldn’t see why he would even care about those old pictures. He was a bachelor. If anybody found out he’d had an affair with Anderson’s wife, so what? It wouldn’t hurt his reputation. But it might well hurt Mrs. Anderson’s, and he wouldn’t mind that one bit, now, would he? So make that seven suspects.

The first thing I wanted to do was find out more about Emma’s boyfriend. But how? I was throwing the shuttle back and forth when it suddenly hit me. Emma had mentioned that Ricky worked as a car mechanic at Al’s Garage up the street, and my car needed fixing. What better way to strike up a conversation? I glanced at my watch. It was only twenty past eight, and my shop wouldn’t be officially open until ten. I usually spent the first two hours of my day taking inventory, fixing displays and weaving. I’d gotten into the habit of coming in early because, even though Jenny was no more than ten yards away, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving my shop without supervision with her clients walking through.

As if in answer to my problem, the doorbell rang and Marnie came in, carrying boxes of pastry.

“Marnie, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, sugar pie. What would you like?”

She was in a good mood this morning. Great. “Can you keep an eye on things for a few minutes while I take my Jeep to the garage?”

“No problem. Just let me drop these off to Jenny.” She made her way over to her shop. A few minutes later she was back, waving me off with a, “Take your time, sweetie. I won’t charge much.”

I stifled a laugh. Knowing Marnie, she would use this as an opportunity to wheedle a part-time job out of me—as if she didn’t already have enough to do with her weaving for me and baking for Jenny.

I hurried out back to my Jeep and drove off. Minutes later I drove into Al’s Garage, pulling up in front of an empty bay. A fat mechanic in grease-covered overalls ambled over, wrench in hand—Al.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Ricky works here, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” he said again—a man of few words.

“If you don’t mind, since I already know him, I’d like to deal with him.”

He shrugged and walked away, hollering, “Ricky.” The young man popped his head out from under a car hood. “Some dame for you,” Al said. Ricky came forth, looking suspicious.

“Hi, Ricky. I’m Della Wright. Emma introduced us at the party the other night.” He nodded imperceptibly. “I hear you’re a good car mechanic.”

He moved closer, relaxing somewhat. “You got some problem with your car?”

“It vibrates when I drive any faster than thirty miles an hour.”

He nodded. “Sounds like it needs a wheel balancing, but I’ll check it out, make sure it ain’t nothing worse.” He opened his hand for the car key, and I gave it to him. “You’ll have to come by the office to fill out the form.”

I followed him into a small and filthy room with a Formica counter covered with cigarette burns. In what was the waiting area was a row of torn vinyl-covered chairs. On a coffee table was a stack of old
Playboy
magazines. I suppressed a shudder and took the pen he offered me, wondering what kind of germs I might be getting.

“Fill in everything at the top,” he said. “Name, address, phone number, credit card information. And I can do the rest.”

I jotted down the required information and handed the form back. “So you’re Emma’s boyfriend,” I said, for lack of a better way to start the conversation.

He nodded, saying nothing, and started filling in the spaces at the bottom of the form.

“How long have you two been together?”

He glanced up from the form. “A couple of years. Why do you care?”

I shrugged. “I just think you’re a lucky guy. She’s so beautiful. Has she ever thought of taking up modeling?”

He put the pen down, placed his hands on the counter and glared at me. “Don’t you go putting any stupid ideas in her head. Emma is perfectly happy right here in Briar Hollow, with me. It’s hard enough to keep her out of trouble here. I’d never be able to protect her in the city.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. He looked at me blankly. “What kind of trouble can a girl possibly get into in a small town like Briar Hollow?”

He scowled, and for a moment I thought he was going to ignore my question. “Some damn photographer got her all excited about taking pictures.” And then, as if he knew he’d already said too much, he tightened his lips and finished filling out the form. “I’ll call you just as soon as I’ve looked at it and let you know what’s wrong and how much it’ll cost to fix.”

There were many more questions I would have liked to ask, but something about Ricky frightened me. I could just imagine him holding a gun to a man. I could even picture him pulling the trigger.

I thanked him and got the heck out of there.

•   •   •

I walked back to the store, grappling with what Ricky had just said. He knew Emma wanted to model. He knew a photographer had taken pictures of her. And he said he protected her. How exactly did he do this? By killing the photographer? Or by breaking into his studio to grab Emma’s pictures? Those were certainly possibilities, but I wasn’t even certain he knew the photographer was McDermott. Emma might not have told him his identity. On the other hand, I wouldn’t put it past him—possessive as he was—to have secretly followed her. I somehow suspected he was the intruder who had rammed into me last night. If I was correct, that probably meant I had interrupted him before he found her pictures. I stopped. I had completely forgotten about the aftershave. I should have noticed whether Ricky smelled of aftershave or men’s cologne. On the other hand, the smell of oil and gasoline from the garage had been so strong, I probably couldn’t have smelled it if I tried. I walked on.

I pushed open the door to the sound of the tinkling bell. From behind the desk, Marnie looked up, grinning. “Welcome to Dream Weaver,” she said. “Can I help you with anything?”

I played along. “Thanks, but I just want to look around.”

Marnie chuckled. “Gee, thanks. That’s the same reply I got since you left.”

“At least that means some people came in.” I walked over to the counter, peeling off my sweater.

“Yes,” she said, excitedly. “Mrs. Anderson, the mayor of Belmont’s wife, came in and made a purchase. She was disappointed you weren’t here, but I sold her that extra-long tablecloth that was in the window display.”

“You did?” That was one of the most expensive items I had in the store. “For full price?”

Marnie beamed. “For full price—look.” She proudly showed me the sales slip. “So, what do you say? Can I come and work for you a few mornings a week?”

“How do you propose to do that and still find the time to continue baking for Jenny and weaving for the shop?”

“I can do it, no problem,” she said eagerly. “At my age, not only do I have to deal with hot flashes, but now I also have insomnia. So I stay up most of the night anyhow—baking and weaving. I have plenty of time on my hands.”