Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery (5 page)

I scanned the room for Matthew and spotted him moving toward us through the crowd.

“Let’s go,” Jenny said as soon as he reached us. “We have to get out of here.” Without giving us a chance to argue, she rushed to the entrance. I looked around for my purse and spotted it on an occasional table a few feet away.

“Come with us,” I said to Marnie.

We stepped outside, and Matthew handed his ticket to the parking attendant. “Right away, sir,” the young man said and jogged away.

“Why are we leaving so soon?” Marnie said. “I never get to go anywhere. For once I was having a good time.”

Jenny looked worried. “I can’t explain it. I just know we have to get out of here. Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it.”

“Something bad like what?” Marnie asked, looking wistfully through the open door into the room we’d just left.

“Jenny might be right,” Matthew said.

He was agreeing with Jenny about a bad
feeling
she had. I was skeptical about Jenny’s
feelings
, to put it mildly, but Matthew was an out-and-out disbeliever. What the heck was going on? Noticing the confusion in my eyes, he said, “I’ll explain later.”

Soon, the attendant returned with the Jaguar. He stepped out, handed the key to Matthew and we piled in.

“Okay, so what’s going on?” I said, buckling my seat belt. “What makes you think something bad is going to happen?” The question was for Matthew as much as for Jenny.

He waited until we were halfway down the drive. “You know, at the end, when the butler whispered something in Whitby’s ear?”

“Yes,” Marnie and I answered simultaneously.

“I was standing right there. I overheard him tell Whitby that one of his guns was missing.” I was still mulling over the meaning of this when Matthew continued. “As far as I’m concerned, whenever a gun goes missing, it spells trouble, especially in a large crowd. I don’t want to be anywhere around if anybody starts shooting.”

I thought he was making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe the gun had just been misplaced.

He glanced at me. “I hope you’re not too disappointed, getting whisked out of there before you could start investigating.”

“I would never do such a thing,” I said, maybe a touch defensively.

He gave me a look of patent disbelief. “Yeah, right.”

Although I would never have admitted it, I did have a niggling desire to turn around and go back. “Did Whitby happen to mention what kind of a gun was missing?”

He grinned. “Aha! I knew it. You’re already investigating. You can’t help yourself.”

In the backseat, Jenny burst out laughing. “You might as well admit it, Della. Matthew knows you too well.”

“It’s not that I want to get involved,” I argued, my voice rising. “It’s just that I happened to be in Whitby’s study no more than half an hour ago. I saw his gun collection. He has an entire wall of cabinets full of guns. He’s got rifles, pistols, handguns. Some of them looked really old. Others looked modern—not that I know anything about guns.”

Matthew took his gaze off the road for a second and glanced at me. “Did you happen to notice if any of the spaces was empty? That could help determine when the gun was taken. If all the guns were there when you were in the room, then it had to have been stolen between the time you visited and the time the butler found it missing. Only somebody at the party could have taken it.”

I tried to picture the racks, but all I could remember was rows of guns stored according to size. “I couldn’t swear to it, but I think all the guns were there when I was in the room. I bet it will turn up. And even if somebody did steal it, how would they ever find out who? There must have been two hundred people at the party.”

“What I’d like to know,” Matthew said, “is what kind of gun was stolen. Was it a valuable gun? If it was, then it was probably taken for its intrinsic value.”

“What other reason would anybody risk stealing an old gun for?” Marnie asked.

The car was silent as we all mulled that over.

“I suppose,” I said, chuckling, “that if somebody was planning the perfect murder, then stealing a gun during a party would be a great idea. It would be nearly impossible to trace the weapon back to the killer.”

Jenny did not find my comment funny. “Don’t joke. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

I glanced at Matthew. He looked as worried as Jenny.

I
fumbled through my pocket for my house keys and stepped back to let everyone in.

“Marnie, you’ve never seen my place. Come. I’ll show you around.” I walked through the foyer. “I fell in love with its charm. Don’t you just love the oak floors?”

She nodded approvingly at every detail I pointed out. “I can see why you would like this place. But personally, I prefer a place with a bit more character.” I almost laughed out loud. Her house had so much character, it would have looked perfect in a circus. “But to each her own,” she concluded, making a beeline for the kitchen, where Jenny was dropping a fistful of fettuccini into a pot of boiling water. Winston watched in rapt attention.

“Winnie, get away from there. That’s people food.” He slouched away with a look screaming of being abused. “You started dinner,” I said to Jenny. “Thank you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She laughed. “I boiled the water.”

Matthew laughed. “That’s about all Della knows how to do.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said.

I filled Winston’s water bowl and poured some kibble into his food bowl. He lunged for it the second I set it down. “Just like a man,” I said. “Not even a thank-you, you ingrate.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Matthew asked, chuckling.

“If the shoe fits, wear it,” Jenny teased.

“I haven’t lived in Briar Hollow for long, but having my friends around makes it feel like home,” I said. “It’s nice having you all here. I should invite you over more often.”

“It’s nice being here,” Matthew replied, and something in his voice made me look up at him. He was staring back at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. I felt heat rise to my face and quickly turned away. I grabbed an apron from the hook behind the kitchen door and tied it behind my neck.

“It’s true I’m not the best of cooks,” I said to Jenny. “My mother is still trying to get me to take lessons.” I opened the refrigerator and retrieved the container of ready-made Alfredo sauce I’d bought. “But as long as I know how to cook pasta, that’s all I need to know.”

I threw a discreet look at Matthew. He was no longer looking at me. He was at the kitchen table, struggling with the cork from a bottle of red wine. At last he pulled it out with a soft pop. “Who wants a glass of zinfandel?”

I pointed to the cabinet at the left of the sink. “The glasses are in there.” While Jenny set the glasses on the counter and Matthew filled them, I busied myself setting plates and cutlery.

“What beautiful dishes,” Jenny said, picking up one of the plates I’d just put down and admiring it.

“You’ve seen those before, haven’t you?” I asked. “They were part of Mrs. McLeay’s estate.” That was the houseful of furnishings I’d bought for a bargain.

“They’re beautiful, especially on this gorgeous linen tablecloth.”

“That set was part of the estate too. And so was this set of bone-handled cutlery. I still can’t believe all the wonderful treasures Mrs. McLeay kept hidden in those cupboards.”

Matthew picked up one of the knives. “I hope you have some sharper knives than this. It won’t cut anything harder than butter.” He set it back down.

“That might be because it
is
a butter knife,” I said.

He shrugged. “What do I know about table knives? The only ones I know well are weapons.”

Jenny shuddered. “Oh, God, will you please stop talking about weapons? Guns, knives, next you’ll be talking about hatchets and meat cleavers.” Even Marnie joined in the laughter.

Soon we were sitting around the dining room table, sipping wine and enjoying our dinner. Across from me, Marnie was batting her lashes madly—sending me a message to flirt. I chanced a look at Matthew. He was twirling pasta on his fork. I racked my brains for something flirtatious to say and came up blank. I gave Marnie a furious look. I hoped she got the message and stopped pushing.

Jenny reached for the bread basket. “What did you think of Whitby’s house?” she said as she buttered her roll. “Isn’t it spectacular?”

“I’ll say,” Marnie said, between bites of pasta.

I glanced up, relieved that she’d introduced a casual subject. “It’s so gorgeous I don’t quite know why Whitby hired a decorator.”

Marnie smiled knowingly. “I suspect the lady may have pushed her way into Whitby’s life. It looked to me like this designer has designs on more than just the house.”

“I noticed that too,” I said. “But after seeing the rooms she worked on, I have to admit, she knows what she’s doing.”

Jenny looked up from her plate. “In more ways than one, I’m sure.”

Marnie glanced at her. “I wonder if she’s after the man or his money.”

Jenny shrugged. “You said yourself that he probably dated all the women in the state. He doesn’t have to flash his money. He’s handsome enough. I’m sure he can get a woman with his charm alone.”

I put my fork down. “Jenny warned me that Bunny is trouble. She thinks I should turn down the contract if she offers it.”

Marnie’s eyes grew wide. “She did? You’d be crazy not to take her advice. When Jenny has a feeling, I, for one, take her seriously. As far as I know, she’s never been wrong.”

I put on my most serious face. “I’d be more inclined to take her advice if I didn’t need the business so much.”

The house phone rang. I excused myself and hurried to the extension in the kitchen. Winston plodded along, hoping for a treat. I opened the doggy cookie jar and threw him a dog biscuit. He dove in the air and caught it. I picked up the phone.

“Is this Della Wright?” asked a voice I didn’t recognize.

“Yes, it is.”

“Hello, Della. This is Rhonda McDermott. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I think you and I left with each other’s bags this evening. I got home a little while ago, and when I went into my bag, I discovered somebody else’s wallet inside. I checked the driver’s license and it’s yours. I’m sorry about the inconvenience. Your bag looks so much like mine, it was an easy mistake to make. The only difference is yours has a silver clasp instead of a gold one. Still, it was silly of me not to check before leaving.”

I remembered how abruptly the McDermotts had left. “Well, if you’re right, then I made the same mistake.”

“Would you mind taking a look at the bag you have?”

“Hold on. I’ll be right back.” I walked through the dining room under the curious glances of my friends. I explained. “Rhonda McDermott and I seem to have left with each other’s purses.”

Marnie muttered something indistinct. I picked up the purse from the foyer console where I’d left it and looked inside. Sure enough, instead of my familiar black leather wallet, there was a brown suede one. I hurried back to the telephone. “Hello, Mrs. McDermott? You’re right. I do have your bag. I’m just sitting down to dinner, but if you like, I can drop it off later this evening.”

“Actually, I’d rather you stopped by tomorrow morning, if you don’t mind. Maybe just before we open—say, seven forty-five or so?”

We agreed on the time and I returned to the table, where the mere mention of the McDermotts’ name had put Marnie in a bad mood.

“And do you know,” she was saying, “that they copied every single one of my recipes, right down to my burnt-caramel muffins, which are my own personal creation? They even copied my pies and my cakes.”

Jenny smiled soothingly. “But none of them taste anywhere as good as yours.”

Marnie leaned back in her chair, pushing her plate away. “I wish I could be sure of that.”

“If it will make you feel better,” I said, “I have to drop by their shop tomorrow morning. While I’m there, I’ll pick up an assortment of their pastries and we can have a taste test.”

Marnie frowned worriedly. “But she knows you and Jenny work right next to each other—in the same space, for heaven’s sake. Won’t she figure out what you’re doing?”

I shrugged. “What is she going to do? Take her bag and kick me out? I already know who the winner will be. Your baked goods will outshine theirs, hands down. And then you’ll be able to stop worrying about those people once and for all.”

“The only way I’ll stop worrying about them is if they went bankrupt.”

Jenny looked shocked. “Marnie! You should never wish harm on others. It brings bad karma.”

Marnie looked only slightly embarrassed. “Okay then, if they moved out of town.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t know why they had to be such creeps. I don’t give a damn that they turned me down. What I can’t forgive is the way they tricked me into giving them all my baking secrets.”

“Baking secrets are a dime a dozen,” Jenny said. “The real secret is the love the baker puts into their work. And that’s what you do. You put all your love into it.”

Matthew turned to me. “Have you found a tenant for your apartment yet?” It was an obvious attempt at changing the subject. To my relief, it worked. When I said that, no, in fact, I had gotten only a handful of inquiries, Marnie suggested she create tear-off ads and put them up on all the local stores’ bulletin boards.

I frowned. “I hadn’t thought of it, but it sounds like a good idea. You wouldn’t mind?”

“Where were you advertising?” she asked.

“Craigslist.”

“That’s good, but a lot of older folks around here aren’t computer savvy. However they all read bulletin boards. I’ll put one up at Mercantile’s and another at the church.” She named half a dozen other places. “This way, you’ll be reaching more people.”

Jenny looked around. “Who wants a piece of Marnie’s flourless chocolate cake?”

There were yeses all around. Matthew pushed away from the table. “I’ll clear the dishes.”

“And I’ll serve the dessert,” Jenny added.

Over coffee and dessert everyone agreed that this was the best chocolate cake they had ever eaten. This seemed to pacify Marnie a bit, and by the time the party broke up, she was her usual charmingly gruff self.

“Okay,” she said, as she was leaving. “Anybody in favor of me running them out of town with my baking?”

“Be my guest,” Jenny said. “I’d be ever so grateful.”

They continued chatting on their way down the stairs.

“Bye, everyone. See you tomorrow,” I said.

A chorus of thank-yous and good-byes replied.

“Bye, Winnie.” He didn’t even look back. I closed the door and headed for bed.

•   •   •

The next morning was the third Tuesday in September, still a long time away from it being officially winter, but the day brought a chilly wind, a hint of the season ahead. I buttoned myself up in a red wool jacket and wrapped a long white silk scarf around my neck. I looked a bit dressed up by Briar Hollow standards, but my wardrobe was full of clothes from my days of living in Charlotte. I wasn’t about to chuck them out.

Across the street from the Coffee Break, I stopped by a newspaper vending machine and picked up a copy of the
Belmont Daily
. I glanced at the headline, and just as I’d expected, there, in big bold typeface, the headlines screamed,
LOCAL MAN ENTERS STATE ELECTIONS
. Underneath the caption was a picture of Bernard Whitby standing on the third step of his staircase and smiling to the camera. I remembered that Bunny Boyd had sidled up to him, but all that remained of her in the picture was her right elbow and a wisp of her hair. The woman had been cropped out.
She wouldn’t be pleased about that,
I thought, stifling a chuckle.

I folded the paper under my arm and hurried across the street to the McDermotts’ shop. I hated to be late. It wasn’t eight o’clock yet, but no more than a minute or two away. Mrs. McDermott had made a point of wanting me to drop by before the shop opened. I glanced at their window. It looked on to a seating area—the ubiquitous leather armchairs and dark wood coffee table. It looked nice and modern but no different from every other coffee shop in the country—except for Coffee, Tea and Destiny, I thought.

When Jenny and I had first agreed to share the shop, I’d given her one of the two large windows that looked on to Main Street. I had decorated mine with an armoire full of skeins of colorful yards, a small loom from which hung tea towels and place mats, and a large wicker basket filled with an assortment of rolled-up rugs in a fanlike arrangement. It was so attractive that people often popped in just to compliment me on my display.

A few feet away, Jenny’s window was furnished with a small shabby-chic tea table and two antique wing chairs slipcovered in a large pink, cabbage-rose chintz. On the table was a crystal ball, a teapot and teacups. Neither of our windows would attract the testosterone set, I had concluded upon studying them, but that hardly seemed to matter. Most of my clients were women. Only rarely did men walk in, and when they did, they usually hurried out, much the way they do when they accidentally find themselves strolling through the lingerie department of a store. As for Jenny, she had wisely pointed out that, since most of the career people worked out of town, it left mainly stay-at-home mothers in town during the day. It was good business to go after the female clientele. She must have been right because her business was flourishing.

I walked into the dark interior of the Coffee Break and hesitated. That was odd. If they’d already unlocked the door, why hadn’t they also turned on the light?

“Hello? Rhonda?” I called out, advancing a few steps. “Mr. McDermott? Anybody here?” I stood uncertainly halfway between the entrance and the counter until the door behind the counter opened.

Rhonda McDermott appeared, flicking on the lights. “Oh, hello, Della.” She looked around, puzzled. “Where’s Philip? Didn’t he give you your purse yet?”

“I didn’t see him. I just got—” Before I could finish, Rhonda screamed. And then she dropped behind the counter. I rushed over.

I rounded the counter and froze. Mr. McDermott was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. His face was ghostly white, his strangely dark gray eyes staring blindly and his white shirt soaked red. My pulse raced. For a second I thought I might faint.

Rhonda was kneeling next to her husband, almost as pale as he was. “Philip, look at me.” She shook him. “Philip, say something.” But her husband remained motionless.

I stood frozen for a moment, horrified at the scene before me. The poor woman was beside herself. My eyes took in the details. The blood had come from at least one wound in the man’s chest—a knife, a gun? I didn’t know. I glanced around but saw no weapons. Nor were there any spent cartridges. If Mr. McDermott had just come in to open the store, that would mean the attack had happened a short time ago, maybe only minutes before I walked in. Yet I hadn’t heard any gunshots. A few feet away from the body, a bundle of soiled bar towels littered the floor. I knew better than to touch them. They were now part of the crime scene.