Looming Murder (14 page)

“H
ow was the class?” asked Matthew, closing his laptop and jumping up to pull over a chair for me.

I tried to read his eyes, but saw nothing other than his usual friendly expression. If he was hoping to put the earlier episode behind him, I was happy to oblige. I was still in shock at my response and wasn’t at all sure what it meant.

“Good,” I said, handing him my crutches and plopping myself down. “Especially now that I’m sitting again.”

“Listen, Della, I want you to know I’m sorry—”

I reddened and cut him off. “I think we should just forget about what happened. Er, not that anything happened. I mean—”

“If that’s what you want, that’s fine by me.” He nodded emphatically. “You’re right. Nothing happened.” He smiled and made a wiping movement with his hand. “So, if nothing happened, what are we talking about?”

I chuckled. “I think we were talking about dinner. Have you had anything to eat?”

He leaned back in his chair. “No. When I write, I forget about everything else. But now that you mention it, I am starving.”

“I’ll throw something together,” I said. At the look of incredulity in his eyes, I added, “I’m not entirely helpless, you know. But don’t expect a five-course meal.”

I struggled to the refrigerator, located the block of aged Cheddar I’d bought a few days earlier, and placed it on a board alongside a couple of sliced apples, a bunch of gorgeous grapes and some crackers. I set the board on the table and then pulled out a cold bottle of Chardonnay. As long as there was no cooking involved, I couldn’t burn anything.

“See? I can put a dinner together, no problem.” I handed Matthew the corkscrew.

“That looks terrific,” he said, filling the glasses.

We ate in companionable silence, and after we finished, Matthew turned to Winston and said, “Okay, big fellow, I think it’s time I took you for a walk. What do you say?”

Winston’s eyes popped open and he jumped up.

“Before you go,” I said. “I didn’t want to bring this up in front of David, but I did a bit of investigating this afternoon.” I fished in my pocket and triumphantly produced the small piece of black yarn still folded inside the piece of notepaper. At the confused look on Matthew’s face, I said, “Look at what I found.”

He stared at it, no less puzzled. “What is it?”

I explained about my visit to David’s house, going into the details about the indentation in the hedge, the footprint in the soil and the small piece of yarn stuck on one of the broken branches. He sat through my recital, his eyes wide in disbelief, until I concluded. “See? That’s a clue, isn’t it?” I said, unfolding the piece of paper.

His disbelief morphed into anger. “Do you realize what you did?”

Winston startled at his sharp tone. He glanced from Matthew to me, as if waiting for my response.

“What?” I asked, deciding to play stupid. “I thought you’d be excited.” Winston moved closer, protectively. I could hear a low growl in the back of his throat. “It’s okay, Winnie,” I said softly as I patted him. He quieted, but remained by my side.

“Excited? You just tampered with evidence. You should know better than to go bumbling around a crime scene—on crutches, no less. You probably erased whatever evidence was there. That was not only stupid but against the law. Didn’t you learn a thing from what happened last year?”

Now
that
was below the belt. “I-I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think? Shit! When the police find out what you did, they’ll probably charge you for interfering with a police investigation. That’s if they don’t charge you with being an accessory after the fact.”

From the corner of my eye, I could tell Winnie was becoming agitated.

I tried to keep my voice calm. “That’s just plain crazy. Why would they even think that?”

“Why? Because you and David Swanson have a personal relationship,” he sputtered back. “In their eye, that gives you a perfect motive for protecting him.”

“I don’t have a personal relationship with—”

“Oh, don’t you? Let’s see now.” He counted on his fingers. “David is taking weaving lessons from you. He’s representing you in a real estate transaction. You have coffee together, and God knows what else. If that doesn’t make it a personal relationship, I don’t know what does.”

I blushed. “There is nothing going on between David and me. And you don’t have to bite my head off. It was just a mistake.”

He scowled in silence for a minute and Winston returned to his spot on the rug. Matthew picked up the piece of yarn and examined it. “It could be wool, or acrylic; it’s hard to say.” He dropped it in disgust. “The police will have to send it to a lab.”

“You don’t have to send it to a lab. I can tell you exactly what it is.”

He gave me a doubtful smile. “And how do you propose to do that?”

“Easy. All I need is a match.”

And just like that, his anger came charging back. “Are you out of your mind? Now you want to destroy the evidence?”

Winnie jumped off the rug and came running over, barking. I patted his head and he relaxed slightly.

“I wouldn’t destroy it. All I need is about half an inch.” I pushed back my chair abruptly, grabbed my crutches and hoofed over to my studio. I chose a few spools of yarn and, finding it impossible to hold on to them and my crutches at the same time, I stuck them inside the front of my dress. Back in the kitchen I pulled them out and set them on the table—under Matthew’s startled eyes. I hopped over to the sink on one foot, filled a glass with water, retrieved some matches and a pair of scissors from the catchall drawer, and placed everything on a plate alongside the spools.

“Look.” I cut a small piece of yarn from the first spool, then lit the match and allowed the flame to lick the end of the yarn. It sizzled for a second, and a smell similar to that of burning hair drifted from the flame. I took the match away and the flame burned out. I touched the residue and watched it disintegrate into ashes. “That, my friend, is silk.”

He was looking at the ashes on the plate. “How can you tell?”

“Well, Mr. Criminologist”—I flashed him a victorious smile—“as any experienced weaver will tell you, different yarns burn differently. Natural yarns like wool and silk have a distinct smell, very similar to that of burning hair. And when you pull the flame away they extinguish on their own. On the other hand, acrylic has a chemical smell and will melt into a ball. Cotton or linen yarns have a papery odor. And they burn more slowly, especially linen. Another difference between silk and wool is that silk burns into a soft gray bead that easily turns to ash when you crush it, whereas wool burns into a dark, irregular form.” I paused, then said, “If you don’t want me to test the yarn I found, I won’t. But just out of curiosity, what would the content of a yarn tell us?”

He gave me a half smile. “It’s not what it will tell
us
. It’s what it will tell the police!” He softened a bit and said, “It wouldn’t tell them much on its own, except the type of garment it’s likely to have come from. For example, if this were silk, the person wearing it would probably not be poor. So we could eliminate the homeless and itinerants.”

I rolled my eyes. “Briar Hollow doesn’t have any homeless or any itinerants, for that matter.”

He laughed, sending my heart into the chugga-chugga dance, and Winston returned to his spot by the door.

Matthew said, “Nothing gets by you, does it?”

“You’re teasing me.”

He smiled and his eyes went all gold. “You’re easy to tease, kiddo.”

I swallowed hard. Trying to hide my dismay, I said the first thing that came to mind. “How do you think it went for David at the station? Do the police still think he’s a suspect?”

His eyes went dark. “They took down his statement, but you know how cops are. They never tell you what they’re really thinking.”

“I do know, unfortunately, and I’ll be happy if I never have to deal with cops again.” He smiled, nodding, and I asked, “What do you think of the theory that Greg Hanson was also murdered?” I paused. “And why wouldn’t you answer my question when I called you?”

He studied the floor, and then said, “I know you don’t want to hear this, kiddo, but at this point we aren’t one hundred percent sure that David isn’t the killer, are we?”

“We aren’t?” I asked, my eyes widening.

“We aren’t,” he said firmly. “So I think it’s a good idea for us to avoid discussing any of the details, or any theory we might have about the murder when he’s around.”

My thoughts took a sharp turn. “I’m surprised that Briar Hollow has a coroner. I always thought coroners only worked out of big-city morgues.”

“You’re thinking of pathologists. Pathology is a science. To become a pathologist a person has to go through medical school first and then complete another four or five years of studying the specialty. Unlike medical examiners, coroners are elected officials. In some regions, the only credentials a person needs to become a coroner is a basic training course as simple as a weekend seminar. At least here, the coroner is the local doctor. I’ve met some coroners who knew less about medicine than a butcher.”

I was aghast. “But, that’s terrible. That means some murders probably go unnoticed.”

He nodded. “And worse, sometimes a natural death can be pegged as a murder, resulting in an innocent person being sent to prison.”

“Surely the doctor can tell the difference between an accident and a murder.”

Matthew nodded again. “One would think.”

I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t sound all that sure.

He picked up the small piece of yarn again. “I’ll have to think about how to explain this to the police.” He scowled and went on. “Damn—as if Mike isn’t already pissed off enough with me. Guaranteed he’s going to blame this on me. And it’ll be your fault, kiddo.” He started walking away, then turned and said, “Come, Winston.” Winston jumped up and raced over to him. Matthew clipped his leash on, and glancing at me, he said, “I have to ask you not to leave town until the police question you.”

My jaw dropped.

And then he winked, making it clear he’d been joking, and walked out.

•   •   •

The next morning when I opened my eyes, a sunbeam filtered through the window, and I could hear birds singing outside. Winston had snuck into my room during the night, and he was now snoring not so softly at the foot of my bed. I pushed back the blankets and sat up, swinging my legs over the side, briefly forgetting about my ankle.
Arrrghhh
. I flopped back on the bed, gritting my teeth.

That was one mistake I wouldn’t make again. I let the throbbing subside, and then, hopping around on one foot, I slipped on my Ralph Lauren safari-style shirtdress, pulled out the vachetta belt—just another name for fake leather—and replaced it with my favorite Hermès scarf, tied around my waist with the ends draping over one hip. I checked the mirror and decided I looked, well, maybe not hot, but at least warm.

I was stumped for shoes, until—hold on—what about those gold ballerina shoes I’d bought on sale two years ago and never worn? I located them in my closet and slipped one on my right foot. On the other, I wore a khaki wool sock that sort of coordinated with my dress. I checked the mirror one more time and decided the ballerina slipper did nothing for my height but I looked nice enough.

I heard the telephone ring and after the third time, determined that Matthew wouldn’t pick up the extension in his room. I grabbed my crutches and maneuvered down the stairs as fast as I could. Winnie brushed by so close he almost tripped me; but I made it without falling. After all that rushing, all I got when I picked up the receiver was the dial tone.
Sheesh!
And then the telephone rang again and I snatched it up.

“I didn’t wake you, did I? I tried your cell phone, but I went straight into voice mail,” a voice said. It was Samantha.

“I keep forgetting to recharge the battery.” Besides, it wasn’t as if I had very many friends calling me anymore. “You sound suspiciously upbeat for so early in the morning.” Was she calling with good news? My hope surged.

“I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. My client loves your condo! He’s decided to take it.”

I squealed. “He will? For three thousand dollars a month?”

“For three thousand a month—and I have the first and last months’ checks in my hand right now.”

I let out another whoop.

She laughed. “The lease is filled out and signed. But it won’t be official until you sign it too. Where do you want me to fax it?”

“I have a fax right here. All I have to do is turn it on. Give me two minutes and you can send it to the same number.”

“Will do,” she said, and hung up

I hobbled about madly, getting the fax machine from under the desk and setting it up. Then I held my breath as I waited for the papers to come through, which they did about two minutes later. I ripped them out, reading them through until I got to the part where it said, “Three thousand dollars a month.” I kissed the page. From the corner of the room, where he had been snoring softly, Winston lifted his head and watched me with obvious disdain. “Sorry, Winnie. Go back to sleep.” That dog could fall asleep faster than you could say “time for bed.”

A
few minutes later Matthew padded down the stairs. I stopped my three-footed happy dance (two crutches and one leg) and turned to face him. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and had dark circles under his eyes, a two-day-old growth of beard and heavy lids.

“I’ve heard of dogs looking like their owners, but this is the first time I’ve seen an owner look like his dog.”

He glowered at me, and I wiped the grin off my face. “Uh-oh. I woke you, didn’t I?”

“What the hell was all that racket? First the phone, then the fax machine. Who were you talking to so early in the morning?”

“Sorry about that. Go back to bed. I promise I’ll be quiet.”

He rejected that suggestion with a frustrated wave. “Forget it. I’m up now,” he said, heading for the kitchen.

“I made some coffee. Can I get you a cup?” I chirped, hobbling along. In the kitchen, I pointed him to a chair, grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured.

He dropped into the chair, took a few gulps, and his scowl melted slightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap your head off. I’m not much of a morning person.”

“So I noticed.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Was that fax from David by any chance?”

“No.” I grinned. “Even better. My agent in Charlotte has rented out my condo. She sent me a copy of the lease.”

He got up, went over to Winston, picked up his water bowl and filled it. Winston opened one bleary eye and closed it again. “Good for you—one less worry on your mind.” He returned to the table. “Judging from the way you were jumping around when I came down, I’m guessing that she rented it for a decent price?”

I tapped a finger on the lease, which I’d purposely left in plain sight in the middle of the table. I always was a bit of a show-off. “See for yourself.”

He picked it up and scanned it. I could tell exactly when he reached the dollar amount by the way his eyes suddenly widened. “Am I reading this right? She got you three thousand dollars a month?”

“She sure did,” I said, grinning.

His eyebrows jumped up. “Hey, good for you, kiddo. For that kind of money, I’d consider moving out and renting my house too.”

I smiled sweetly. “Eh, sorry, Matthew, but I doubt any big-shot executive will be transferring to Briar Hollow anytime soon.”

He chuckled. “You might have a point there.” He planted his hands on his hips and looked at Winston, who hadn’t stirred since he’d plopped down there after my phone call.

“Has Winston been out yet?” I shook my head, and he said, “Let’s go, big fellow.” Winston jumped up, instantly alert. Matthew got the leash and clipped it onto his collar.

“Don’t you want something to eat first?” I asked, watching him walk toward the front door.

“I’ll grab a bite along the way,” he called over his shoulder.

“On your way where?” I yelled, but the door had already swung shut. The phone rang again. This place was usually so quiet. Lately, it was turning into Grand Central Station.

“Hello,” I said into the phone, half expecting it to be Samantha calling to tell me the client had backed out.

“I can’t find it. It’s gone,” a voice wailed. Who the heck was this? I had no idea. That meant, I guessed, that I was supposed to recognize the voice—only I didn’t. “If you tell anyone about that threat I made against him, the police will be sure I killed him.”

“Marnie? Is that you?”

Disregarding my question, she added, “I looked everywhere and I can’t find it. Somebody must have stolen it.”

“What are you talking about? What’s missing?”

“My gun! It’s gone.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s plain enough English! What is it you don’t understand?” she snapped back.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You had a gun and it’s missing?”

“I’m sorry, Della. I shouldn’t have made that crack. I’m just so worried.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. I strained to hear. “After that comment I made—you know, the one about killing him—what if it turns out that he was killed with my gun?”

I was mute with shock.

“Did you hear what I just said?” asked Marnie plaintively.

“Yes, yes, I did,” I said, gathering my thoughts. “When was the last time you saw it?”

“I—I can’t remember.” She sounded so frightened, and rightly so, considering the situation. “Do you mind if I come over? I’m just such a mess. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Sure, come on. I’ve just made a pot of coffee.”

•   •   •

The front door opened and closed. “I’m in the kitchen,” I called out, grabbing my crutches. To my surprise it wasn’t Marnie but Matthew who walked in, carrying a bag of groceries and looking solemn.

“That was fast. Where did you—” I stopped short. Behind him was Mike Davis, in uniform, his mouth set in a grim line. My heart dropped.

“Della,” Matthew said, setting the bag on the counter to unclip Winston’s leash, “Mike wants to ask you a few questions.”

Oh, shit
.
How could Matthew have done this without telling me first?
I smiled tentatively. “Hello, Officer. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

He looked back at me with that same intensity I’d noticed before, without bothering to so much as nod or smile hello. This was the man who had broken Jenny’s heart? I
so
didn’t like him. He was as stern and cold as she was sunny and cheerful. To each his own, as they say.

“I guess Matthew told you about my little visit to David’s house,” I said, faking confidence in the face of the hell awaiting me. I would rather have died than let on how nervous I really was. “Have a seat.” I pulled out a chair, but again he ignored my offer, remaining in the doorway, glowering at me. Well, if he didn’t want it that was fine by me. I propped my crutches against the wall and plopped down in the chair myself. I flashed him a smile.

Mike studied me as if trying to decide whether to strangle me or boil me in oil. How much trouble was I really in? He couldn’t arrest me, could he? I took a sip of my coffee, feigning nonchalance as I squelched a feeling of dread.

He crossed his arms and said, “What you did was unconscionable. You know that, don’t you? You tampered with evidence.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. I had apologized plenty for that yesterday and was getting pretty tired of it. “Matthew already pointed that out to me.” I glanced at him as I spoke, throwing him a furious look. His mouth was still set in a straight line. I turned back to Mike Davis. “How was I supposed to know I shouldn’t go there? Besides, all I did was take that one tiny little piece of yarn.”

This didn’t make Officer Davis look any happier. He frowned and said, “David Swanson is a murder suspect. A forensic examination of his front yard could have given us enough information to prove his innocence.” I couldn’t help but notice that he’d said, “prove his innocence.” Did that mean Mike Davis believed David’s story? He went on. “But now that you’ve trampled all over the place, whatever evidence might still be there has been compromised.”

I was about to apologize again, but then remembered that the best defense is a good offense. “There was no yellow crime scene tape anywhere. What am I supposed to do? Stop going places
in case
they turn out to be crime scenes?” Okay, that last little bit was maybe pushing it, but to my surprise, Mike Davis dropped his scowl.

Looking down at my one good foot, he said, “Is that what you were wearing when you went traipsing all over Swanson’s front yard?”

I shook my head. “Yes and no. I was wearing a running shoe on my right foot, but the same bandage on my left foot.”

He gave me a tight smile that told me he didn’t find my sarcasm the least bit amusing. “Would you please get that running shoe for me?” He glanced at my crutches. “Or, if you prefer, tell me where it is and I’ll go get it myself.”

“Don’t bother. I can do it,” I said, and then added, “Do you want the bandage too?”

He rolled his eyes at me, exasperated. Turning to Matthew he said, “Do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

This was obviously a ploy to follow me. I bit back a sharp retort. What did he think I would do? Jump out the window and hobble away? I hoofed it upstairs in a huff, stepped into my room and turned to give him a dirty look. But to my surprise, he had disappeared into the washroom. So he did need to go to the bathroom. Why was I getting so paranoid? Hah! After my experience last year, a person would be nuts
not
to be paranoid.

When Mike returned to the kitchen, I handed him my running shoe, and as he reached to take it, I smelled that same odd odor I’d noticed on him yesterday. And then it hit me. It was the same smell I’d noticed on Joan Douglas, the neonatal nurse—cheap cologne and mothballs. How very strange! Could he and Joan be involved with each other? I wondered how Jenny would react to that.

Mike took my shoe and dropped it into an evidence bag. “I’ll get this back to you as soon as I can.” He closed the bag, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “of all the stupid things to do.” He added firmly, “Don’t ever let me catch you doing something like that again.”

“I won’t. I promise,” I said, biting back my frustration. My tongue was getting sore from so much biting.

Mike gave me a curt nod, turned to Matthew and said, “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll see you around.” And then he left.

The front door opened and closed. I planted my hands on my hips and glared at Matthew as he walked back into the kitchen.

“You told on me?” I sputtered. “Why’d you go and do that?”

He gave me an apologetic smile. “Did it ever occur to you that you could have incriminated yourself by going there?”

I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“It was just a matter of time before the cops combed the place for evidence. If they’d found anything indicating that you had tampered with evidence, you could have found yourself in a heap of trouble. They might think you did it to protect David—accessory after the fact. Or,” he continued, his eyes lighting up as he imagined another possibility, “they might have thought you were the one who attacked him. I figured it was better to establish the facts. I didn’t tell you ahead of time because I didn’t want you to lose sleep over it.”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would anybody think I would attack David?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You and David have been getting pretty chummy lately. Some people might think that you liked him enough to cover for him.”

Before I could give him a piece of my mind, the doorbell rang.

“This place is turning into Grand Central Station. Maybe your condo wasn’t such a bad place to write after all,” he grumbled, heading for the front door.

Seconds later he reappeared, followed by Marnie, who wore a dress that looked suspiciously like old-fashioned blue chintz curtains. The blue of her eye shadow exactly matched the cornflowers in the print. “Why were the police here?” she asked, sounding falsely casual under the furious glance she threw my way.

“Mike is a friend of mine,” said Matthew over his shoulder as he opened the cupboard. “He stops by to chat once in a while,” he added, being surprisingly discreet—discretion he should have used toward me, as far as I was concerned. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Marnie?” he asked.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she replied, the scowl on her face softening only slightly. She pulled out a chair and then mouthed something silently, nodding toward Matthew.

I answered with a small head shake, and she brought a hand to her heart in relief.

Matthew set two cups of coffee on the table and said, “I’ll go take a shower and let you ladies chat. I’m sure Della will tell you all about her exciting day yesterday.”

The minute she heard him on the stairs, Marnie whispered, “You’re sure you didn’t tell him about the gun?”

“Of course I didn’t.”

“Thank God,” she replied, collapsing against the back of her chair. “I thought I was going to pass out when I saw Mike Davis walk into your house.”

“Have you been waiting out there all that time?”

Her eyes grew wide. “I wasn’t about to come in without knowing why he was here. You could have told him about my missing gun.” She shrugged apologetically. “And he could have been here to arrest me.”

“Don’t be silly. I would never do that. As a matter of fact, he came over to give me a speech.” I explained about my little investigation of the previous day. But instead of making Marnie feel better, all my story did was excite her more.

“If the police eliminate David as a suspect, then they’re sure to come after me,” she said, tears hovering on her lashes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Do you really believe you and David are the only people in town with a grudge against Jeremy?”

She shrugged. “You might have a point,” she admitted.

I leaned forward. “Tell me about the gun.”

“I’ve had that gun for years. Jimmy—that’s my ex-husband—he bought it for me when we moved to the city ages ago. After we moved back, I always kept it in a shoebox in the back of my closet. I haven’t even thought about it since then. But when I heard that Jeremy Fox was dead, I went to check.” Her chin trembled. “It’s gone.” She twisted her hands nervously. “I just had to talk to someone, so I told Jenny, and she has a really bad feeling about this.”

I swallowed a chuckle. “Don’t put too much credence in Jenny’s feelings. I know she’s intuitive, but I suspect many of her ‘feelings’ might be hindsight.”

Marnie gave me a reproachful look. “I’m not so sure about that.”

There was no point in arguing about it. “When was the last time you saw it?”

She shook her head, still wringing her hands. “It’s been years. Somebody must have stolen it from my bedroom closet. Do you know how Jeremy was killed?” I shook my head. “What if he was shot? And what if my gun was the one that killed him? The police will think I did it.”

“I doubt you have anything to worry about. It would take more than just knowing you used to own a gun and that it’s gone missing. First, they’d have to know that your gun was the same caliber as the murder weapon. And I’ve watched enough
Law and Order
to know even that isn’t enough. They’d have to find the gun and run ballistics. What caliber was it?”