Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery (18 page)

“How is Ricky taking it?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Not well. But it doesn’t really matter because he was just arrested by the police.”

I gasped. “What?” Ricky was the murderer? For some reason, I was sure that couldn’t be right.

“He was stealing cars and breaking them down for parts, and he had the nerve to say that he did it for me—so he could get us a nice apartment.” Her eyes watered again. “That made my decision very easy.” She paused. “And he admitted that he was the one who made that crank call you got.”

“Really?” I said, although I wasn’t the least bit surprised. “When are you leaving?”

“I’m taking the bus from Charlotte tomorrow.”

Marnie patted her on the arm. “The next time we see you, it’ll be on the cover of
Vogue
.”

Emma laughed. “That would be nice.” She looked into the back. “Is Jenny here? I want to say good-bye to her too.”

“Go on. That’ll make her real happy,” Marnie said.

Emma disappeared behind the beaded curtains, reappearing a few minutes later, brandishing a bag of cookies. “For the road,” she said, smiling. “Jenny insisted.”

•   •   •

The rest of the day went by with no more than a trickle of sales, giving me ample time to review what I had just learned. The fact that Ricky had been arrested for car theft did not mean he couldn’t have killed Philip McDermott, but it did explain the argument I’d overheard between Emma and him. It also convinced me that Emma was innocent. If the girl would break up with her boyfriend because he stole, she couldn’t possibly be a killer—at least not in my opinion. I was relieved to strike her off my list of suspects.

At five o’clock, I put up the
CLOSED
sign in the window and added up my daily sales. The total was not bad at all. It was reassuring to know that if things continued improving at this rate, if worse came to worst, I could survive without the Whitby job. I’d debated all afternoon whether I should ask Bunny to come in and sign the contract or not. It was high time I stopped being a wimp and called her. I stared at the phone, gathering my courage. What the heck was I waiting for? I used to be a big-city career woman who let nothing stand in my way. Before I could change my mind, I picked it up and dialed. Once again, my call went straight to voice mail.

“Hi, Bunny. Della here. I’m sorry I missed your call. I looked over the contract you gave me and I added a small clause to protect myself. I hope you’ll understand that I can’t start work until you sign it. Please call me.” I hung up and looked at Marnie.

She was grinning widely and gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Good girl. There’s hope for you yet.” She gathered her bag and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, Marnie,” I called back. I was happily surprised at how much she enjoyed working in the shop. Over the last couple of days, her attitude had undergone a remarkable change. She still came in grumpy occasionally, but by midday she radiated. She was right. Working from my shop, rather than her home, was therapeutic for her.

“And being here is therapeutic for you too, isn’t it, Winnie?” He looked up at me with his eternally puzzled eyes. “And having you here is just as good for me.”

He blinked and went back to sleep while I prepared my deposit. “Ready to go for a walk, big boy?” He hopped off the sofa and clickety-clacked to the door. I called out a good night to Jenny, and we took off.

Winston had a lot of qualities, but obedience was never one of them.

“No, Winston. I don’t want to go that way.” But no matter how much I tried to direct him toward the bank, he marched on determinedly, dragging me along. I gave up and let him lead, until suddenly I found myself in front of the Coffee Break.

“Winston, stop,” I ordered, and for some odd reason, this time he obeyed, plopping his butt onto the sidewalk. I peered inside the darkened shop. It had been only a few days since McDermott’s murder, but the place already looked abandoned. The food counters in the back were empty, the magazine racks bare.

I was about to continue on my way when, from a second-floor window, I heard Rhonda’s voice. She sounded excited. “How dare you even ask?” she shrieked. “Of course I mind. You and my husband had an affair for years and I’m not about to forget it.” Who was she talking to—or rather, screaming at? “Sure it was a long time ago, but wives don’t forget that kind of hurt. I was never able to have children. If you show up at his funeral, I swear I’ll have you thrown out. And you can try and explain
that
to your boyfriend.”
Boyfriend?
Maybe she was talking to Bunny. But if she were, wouldn’t she have used the word “fiancé” rather than “boyfriend”? On the other hand, maybe she didn’t know about the engagement. As to her comment about never having children, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. What did that have to do with anything?

As I stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at the window above, I became aware that to anyone watching I would have looked as if I was spying—which, granted, was exactly what I was doing. I dropped to one knee, pretending to fix a nonexistent shoe problem. The conversation—by now I had guessed that it was on the telephone—continued.

“You can call it blackmail if you want, but frankly, letting everybody know what kind of a woman you are is exactly what you deserve.”

Blackmail
. Mrs. McDermott had actually used the word. Did that mean what I thought it did? Had she picked up where her husband had left off? If so, that would explain how Mrs. Anderson’s pictures had suddenly disappeared.

Rhonda McDermott had probably always known about her husband’s studio. She probably also knew of his nude photography, maybe even of his little blackmail sideline. If he really had been hiding it from her, then she must have been spying on him. How ironic.

My mind was spinning with new theories and fresh suspicions, and it was a few minutes before I noticed that the conversation had ended. I looked up and was shocked to find Mrs. McDermott staring down at me.

“Let’s go, Winston.” I was in such a hurry to get away from there that it wasn’t until I’d walked another block that I remembered—damn—I still had my daily bank deposit to make.

•   •   •

At just about six thirty, I was freshly showered and made-up. I had piled on the mascara and now stood in my bra and panties, riffling through my closet, looking for something that would be appropriate for a memorial service. I pulled out a dress and studied it. It was the navy number with the turtleneck collar and long sleeves. Even though it covered a lot of skin, it was formfitting. From the corner of the room, Winnie watched approvingly.

“You like this one, don’t you, big boy? This is the one you wanted me to wear to the party. Maybe you were right.” His bat ears flicked forward and then back. “If I’d worn this dress instead of the red one, who knows, maybe Matthew would be in love with me by now.”

He gave me a “woof,” as if to say, “That’s right.”

“I sure hope you know what you’re barking about.” I took the dress off the hanger and pulled it on. I closed the door, posing this way and that for the mirror behind it. I stepped into a pair of four-inch heels and nodded with satisfaction. “I have to hand it to you, Winnie. I guess you were right. This dress makes me look mighty fine.”

By six thirty, I was ready and waiting . . . and waiting . . . and waiting. My heart skipped a beat every time a car went by. I picked up the phone a dozen times to make sure the line wasn’t dead. At seven o’clock Matthew had still not arrived and hadn’t even called to explain.

“What do you think of that, Winston?” I asked. “I’ve been stood up, and on an outing that isn’t even a date. How pathetic is that?” Winnie struggled to his feet and strolled over to lick my hand. “I love you too, big boy.”

Well, I was not going to sit here and wait all night. I’d go by myself if I had to. I gathered my purse and my car keys, gave Winnie a pat on the head and left. I had just reached the street when a green Jaguar came to a screeching halt not ten feet away.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Matthew said, jumping out of the car. He hurried to the passenger side and held the door open. “I was writing, and I completely lost track of time.”

“I wondered what happened.”

He closed the door behind me and jogged over to the driver’s side. “You weren’t really leaving without me, were you?” he asked, buckling his seat belt. “If that ever happens again, don’t just leave. Call me.”

“It’s a deal,” I said.

The service was being held at a funeral home in Belmont. Along the way, I told Matthew about Mrs. McDermott’s conversation that I’d overheard.

“She actually used the word ‘blackmail’?” he said, keeping his eyes on the road.

“She did. Her exact words were, ‘You can call it blackmail if you want.’”

“And you have no idea who she was talking to.”

“None. At one point she said something like ‘try explaining that to your boyfriend.’ I thought it might be Bunny, but then she would have said ‘your fiancé.’” From the look on his face, I realized I’d never told him about Bunny’s engagement ring. I filled him in.

He was quiet for a few seconds. “The only thing we can conclude is that Mrs. McDermott must have known about her husband’s blackmail scheme. Maybe she picked up where he left off. Now the question is, who is she blackmailing, Julia Anderson or somebody else?”

“I came to the same conclusion. But because of the ‘boyfriend’ comment, I doubt it would be Mrs. Anderson—unless she’s having an affair with someone. After all, it’s her pictures that are missing.”

“True.”

“It sounds as if she was telling someone to stay away from the service tonight. We’ll soon see who is missing.” I was quiet for a second. “I’m not convinced that Rhonda killed her husband, but I’m pretty sure she was the one who stole the pictures from the studio. After she found his body and finished answering the police’s questions, I think she hightailed it over there and went through those pictures. Who knows? Maybe she got others at the same time.”

“Didn’t you tell me the person who bumped into you was a man?” He paused. “Oh, you mean the second person, the one who showed up while you were in the darkroom.”

“Yes. You know, there’s one possibility we never considered,” I said. “Maybe McDermott was never behind any of the blackmail. Maybe it was his wife all along.”

“I never even considered that,” he said. “Who knows? You could be right.”

We got off the highway and onto a country road. Soon, clusters of houses went by and then the sign for Belmont. Matthew slowed. More houses went by, and then we were in the downtown commercial area. A few blocks later, I spotted the sign,
PEACEFUL MEADOWS FUNERAL HOME
, and Matthew drove into the parking lot. It was packed with cars, as if every car in town were there.

“McDermott must have been well liked.”

He slowed to a crawl, looking for a spot. “In small communities like Briar Hollow, it’s normal for all of the townspeople to show up to pay their respects.” He slid into a parking space and we made our way to the building’s entrance.

The parlor was packed. We snaked through the crowd to the far end, where, in lieu of the usual casket, since the body was still in the hands of the Charlotte ME, a large photo of the deceased was displayed. Around it were dozens of smaller pictures. A few feet away and dressed in black, Mrs. McDermott cried softly into a tissue. A woman whispered in her ear, and she looked up with red-rimmed eyes.

Matthew approached. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. She nodded and thanked him. He moved aside, and I stepped in front of her, saying the same thing. She looked at me. Her mouth tightened, but she didn’t say a word.

I moved away. Was her coldness my imagination? Or had she guessed that I’d been listening in on her conversation earlier? She’d seen me being questioned by the police after finding her husband’s body. She probably suspected that I was helping them again. But why would that upset her? Wouldn’t a wife want her husband’s killer found?

I made my way through the crowd, nodding and smiling hello to familiar faces as I took note of those who were absent.

Jenny had already told me she wouldn’t be here, but I’d wondered whether Marnie would come. There was no sign of her. Across the room I noticed Jeffrey Anderson chatting with an elderly couple. I looked around for his wife, but she was nowhere around. Maybe she
had
been the person to whom Rhonda had been speaking. I wandered farther and noted Mr. Whitby surrounded by a small group of people. To my surprise, Bunny was nowhere around either. That was more than odd. I would have expected her to latch onto her fiancé’s side and not let go for a second. A few steps later, I spotted the Sweenys, both looking very stiff and proper in black suits. Who was missing? Emma Blanchard wasn’t here, obviously, since she was on her way to New York. And neither was Ricky Arnold, who was enjoying the hospitality of the local police. Mrs. Anderson’s and Bunny’s absences were the only two I noted as suspicious. Didn’t political wives and fiancés always accompany their men for such occasions? Who else? I glanced around the room one more time and came up blank.

I scanned the room for Matthew and discovered him near the entrance chatting with Officer Bailey. I was surprised to see Bailey dressed in civilian clothes—making his presence less conspicuous, I guessed. A few feet away were two other men I recognized as policemen, also not in uniform. So the police were here. Were they keeping track of everyone who came? I was tempted to tell them that what they should really take note of was those who weren’t.

Matthew looked around and saw me. He wandered over.

I leaned in. “I forgot to ask you. Did you find out if Mr. McDermott had life insurance?”

Matthew’s smile stiffened. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Mrs. McDermott. She was staring at me through narrowed eyes. And then she turned and walked away.

“Uh-oh. Do you think she heard that?” I whispered.

Matthew bobbed his brows. “I’d say that was pretty obvious.”

“How about we get out of here?” I said. “I don’t think she’ll be very happy if we stick around.”