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.
Chapter 7
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.
Chapter 8
The 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 someb
ody 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?”
Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery Page 9
