Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery

by Martin, Carol Ann

  “Nice,” Bunny said, inspecting them. “But these weren’t made on your wide-width loom. How can I be certain the fabric will look the same if it’s made on a different machine?”

  “The heddles are the same distance apart as on my wide loom, so as long as the fabric is produced with the same yarn and the same tension, the results will be identical.”

  She nodded, still studying the samples. “You don’t mind if I take these with me, do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  She thanked me and folded them into her bag.

  Before leaving, she paused, and glancing toward the back, she said, “Does the owner of the coffee shop—Jenny, right?—does she have anything to do with the McDermotts?”

  “No,” I said, surprised. “Why?”

  “Oh, no reason really. It’s just that I thought I saw her coming out of the coffee shop just before Mr. McDermott’s body was found.”

  So Bunny Boyd had been the informant. I covered my surprise with a smile. “Actually, I suspect the person you saw was Emma Blanchard. She walks that way every morning, on her way to Al’s Garage, where her boyfriend works.”

  “Really?” Bunny said. She shrugged. “Well, I suppose I was wrong.” She threw me a wide smile. “I’ll show these to Bernie and see if he likes them as much as I do.”

  If she could ask me questions, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t have some for her. “Did Mr. Whitby find out what happened to his missing gun?” I asked.

  “You know about that?”

  “A friend of mine was standing next to him when his butler told him. He overheard.”

  “Bernie is very upset over it. That gun is a valuable antique, from before the first world war, I think.”

  “It was a collector’s piece? It didn’t actually work?”

  “Oh, it was functional, all right. Bernie took it out once a year just to test it. He does that with all his guns. They’re worth much more when they’re in working order.”

  That made sense. I adopted a pensive look. “I wonder who could have taken it. Do you know when he last saw it?”

  “It was there just before the party. Whoever stole it had to break the lock to get it.” She scowled. “Some people have no respect. Those showcases are valuable. Everything in that house is valuable. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find good antique restorers?”

  “If the gun was there when the party started, then it had to have been taken by one of the guests. Do you remember everyone who toured the house with you?”

  “Are you kidding? I think every second person in the place took the tour. Everybody wanted to see the mansion. Bernie usually never allows anyone to the second floor, so this was a rare opportunity to visit a historical mansion.” Suddenly she narrowed her eyes, looking at me with suspicion. “You’re asking an awful lot of questions. Why would you want to know all that?”

  I shrugged. “I’m sorry. My friends keep telling me to mind my own business, but I can’t seem to curb my curiosity.” And then I threw out one more hook. “I sure hope that poor Mr. McDermott wasn’t killed with Mr. Whitby’s gun.”

  Bunny’s mouth tightened. “Let me tell you, nobody needs to sympathize with McDermott. That man was a creep. He got what he deserved.” And with that, she turned and marched out of the store.

  Well, well. Bunny Boyd didn’t like the victim either. I stared at the door for a long time as a new possibility took form. Of all the people at the party, Bunny would have had the most opportunity to steal that gun. I couldn’t help but wonder whether she only disliked the victim, or if her emotions went deeper than that. The next question was, did Bunny Boyd have a reason to want him dead? I found myself adding her to my growing list of suspects. Although it occurred to me that if she were guilty of killing McDermott, she would probably not be this open about not liking him.

  I picked up the phone and punched in Matthew’s number. “What are you doing?” I asked when he picked up.

  “Okay, out with it,” he replied, a hint of mischief in his voice.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “I can think of one only reason why you would be calling me. What do you want to know?”

  I chuckled. “I don’t call only when I want something from you.”

  “Okay, so what—pray tell—is the reason for your call?”

  “Actually,” I said, now laughing out loud, “I do want something—information.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Have you told the police about McDermott’s studio?”

  He grew serious. “I went directly to the station after leaving the restaurant last night. They sent officers to search the place right away. I went along with them. And don’t worry. I kept you out of it.”

  I breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Did they find anything?”

  “You mean other than his collection of nude models? Nothing that I know of.”

  “Have they identified all the women in the pictures yet?”

  “Ah, that’s what this is all about. You’re playing detective again, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all,” I said, slightly incensed. “If you want to know, somebody just tried to hire me to do some detecting and I turned her down.” The minute the words were out, I wanted to take them back. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now he’d insist on me telling him everything.

  Matthew was silent, which only made me feel worse because that meant I was in really deep trouble. At last he said, very quietly, “Della, don’t you think you should tell me about this person? You said you wanted to be my informant. So please, tell me.”

  “Oh . . . er . . . sorry. I’ll have to call you back. A customer just walked in.” I hung up fast. I needed some time to think. The phone rang. Matthew calling back, I thought. I picked up.

  “Mrs. Wright? Ricky here. About your Jeep, the problem is just what I figured. Your wheels need balancing.” He quoted me a price, which I accepted, and he promised that I could pick up my Jeep in the morning. I thanked him and hung up.

  • • •

  By closing time, I was wondering how come Matthew hadn’t called back. When I looked up, there he was at the door, looking very determined.

  “Hey, Winnie,” I said, “there’s your daddy come to pick you up.”

  “We need to talk,” Matthew said.

  I was instantly filled with guilt. It wasn’t as if I’d promised Mrs. Anderson that I would keep her request a secret, I reminded myself. But I had implied as much.

  “Della?” He stared at me, hard.

  What the heck. I had to tell him sometime. It might as well be now. I threw him a smile. “How about you offer me a drink? I’ll tell you all about it.”

  • • •

  It was a beautiful, warm September day and the walk back to his place was pleasant—even though I knew what was waiting. Winston stopped and sniffed at every bush and every puddle along the way.

  Matthew chuckled. “What is it, boy? Did some sexy little girl bulldog walk by? Is that what you smell?”

  Winston threw him a dirty look, as if saying, “Mind your own business,” and marched off in a huff.

  I decided it would be a lot easier if I came clean without him having to pull every bit of information out of me. “It was Mrs. Anderson,” I blurted without prompting.

  Matthew swung his gaze to me. “Mrs. Anderson . . . as in the mayor’s wife?”

  I nodded. “One and the same.”

  His eyes had suddenly grown wide. “I think we’d better wait till we’re inside to talk about this,” he said, his pace picking up. A few minutes later, we reached his house.

  Being a guest in Matthew’s house—a house where I’d lived for nearly six months—felt odd. I had moved out only a month and a half ago. The decision had been an easy, albeit painful one. As much as I might have loved to continue sharing Matthew’s home, it ha
d proved impossible. During the short time we lived together, I was constantly censoring my words, controlling my behavior, always afraid of inadvertently revealing feelings he didn’t reciprocate and in the process losing his friendship. I simply could not risk that.

  He watched me. “I’m sure you hate how the house looks now.”

  The first change I’d made when I moved in was to cart all of his stuff upstairs to make room for my shop and weaving studio. Now it was all back where it belonged, including his ugly green recliner.

  “Actually, it looks pretty good. That’s new,” I said, pointing at a leather sofa and matching armchair.

  “You did such a great job with the place—the paint job and refinishing the hardwood floors. I decided some of my stuff wasn’t nice enough anymore. So you don’t hate it?”

  I wasn’t crazy about his brown leather furniture—any brown leather furniture for that matter—but he didn’t need to know that. I pointed to the green chair. “I still think you should get rid of that monstrosity.”

  “Don’t worry. You and Jenny gave me enough flack about it that I ordered a new one. It should be here in a couple of weeks.” He headed for the kitchen, where he pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured me a glass.

  “Just to loosen your tongue,” he said with smiling eyes.

  My heart skipped a beat. “Thanks. Aren’t you having some?”

  He returned to the fridge and pulled out a Heineken. “I’d rather have a beer.” He pulled off the cap and raised his bottle to me. “To my special informant.” He took a swig and put his bottle down. Pulling back a chair, he dropped into it. “So, what did Mrs. Anderson want exactly?”

  I plopped myself onto the leather sofa. “You won’t believe this.”

  “Try me,” he said.

  And so I did. I repeated, as far as I could remember, everything she’d said, adding how nervous she’d looked, as if she thought she might be followed. “She said McDermott was blackmailing her, and now she’s afraid if the pictures come out, it might cost her husband his political career.”

  “Holy shit,” he said when I finished. “Blackmail and politics.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  He was thoughtful for a moment. “Well, Mrs. Anderson would have been disappointed. There were plenty of pictures, but none of her. Wherever he was keeping them, it wasn’t at his studio.”

  I gasped. “You mean . . . the police didn’t find any pictures of her?”

  He shook his head. “None.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  He looked at me, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw them myself. They were there—in the darkroom. I went through the pile so fast, I looked at only a fraction of the pictures there, but there were at least half a dozen of hers there. She and Whitby were the only people other than Emma that I recognized.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I swear it’s the truth.”

  “That means—”

  “Somebody stole those pictures,” I said, completing his thought.

  We were both quiet as we digested this for a few minutes.

  “Maybe the person who knocked me down went back and got them,” I suggested.

  He nodded. “But if that’s what happened, whoever he was wasn’t hired by Mrs. Anderson. She thought the pictures were still there.”

  “So who—”

  “Mr. Anderson?”

  I shook my head. “She was adamant about not wanting him to know.”

  He crinkled his forehead. “Whitby?”

  “I thought about that, but Whitby is a bachelor. Even if those pictures came out, it wouldn’t hurt his reputation. The only person who would suffer is Mrs. Anderson.”

  We discussed possibilities until one glass of wine turned into two and then into dinner. Matthew was no chef, but he was still a better cook than I was. He grilled a couple of steaks on the barbecue and served them with a tossed salad. Over our meal, we reviewed what we knew.

  “So far we have eight suspects.”

  He frowned. “How do you figure that?”

  I counted on my fingers. “Emma—” I paused. “Although I can’t believe that girl is capable of murder.”

  “At this point we have to look at every possibility.”

  “And the girl did want those pictures back,” I said.

  He continued. “There’s Ricky, Rhonda McDermott, and as you pointed out, Bunny. She did give a false tip about Jenny.”

  “Oh, I found out the explanation for that.” I told him about my conversation with Emma. “She’s the one Bunny saw and mistook for Jenny.”

  “I hate to point this out to you, but that now gives Emma not only a motive but also an opportunity. And then there’s Mrs. Anderson and Mr. Anderson. And before you tell me that he didn’t even know about the pictures, remember, we have only his wife’s word on that. And Bernard Whitby makes seven. How do you get to eight?”

  “There’s also the woman McDermott was having the affair with. And for that matter, any woman who posed nude for him could have killed him.”

  He nodded. “Good point. The blackmail angle does explain one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That photography hobby of his wasn’t cheap. I couldn’t quite figure out how he got the money to pay for the studio and all the equipment without his wife finding out.”

  “I wondered the same thing. I guess that could explain how he financed it.” I crossed my arms and pondered a new idea. “How about this? If McDermott was blackmailing one person, he was probably blackmailing others. Did you see all the photos in his studio?”

  Matthew leaned into the back of his chair. “The police allowed me to look at them. There were so many, I couldn’t begin to go through them all. Some went back years, decades even.”

  “How can we get our hands on all of them? I’d like to try to identify the women.”

  “Forget that idea,” he said. “There is no way the police will let those shots out of their hands. Besides, I don’t want you more involved than you already are.”

  I’d pushed too hard, I realized, and now he wanted to end the subject. Sure enough, he glanced at his watch. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I still have some writing to do.”

  I hopped off my chair. “Oh, of course. You’re not rushing me. It’s time I left anyhow.”

  He walked me to the door. Before stepping out, I turned and looked up at him. “I bet the police wouldn’t mind some help in identifying those women.”

  He let out an exasperated sigh. “If they do, you’re the last person they’d go to. You hardly know anyone in Briar Hollow, let alone in Belmont.”

  I nodded. “True, but you do.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Maybe you could offer to help. Why don’t you ask them to make photocopies of the pictures? That way we can take our time and study them carefully. After all, seeing that I’m your personal informant, I think it only fair that you help me a little bit in return.”

  “You want me to get copies of all the pictures they found in his studio?” He looked so handsome looking down at me, I lost my train of thought.

  “I—er—” I stood there, stammering.

  He rolled his eyes. “You never give up, do you?”

  I gave him a teasing smile. “Isn’t that what you love best about me?”

  He looked down at me, his dark eyes softening. “What I love best about you—” He stopped and took my chin between his thumb and forefinger. His gaze lingered until I was sure he was going to kiss me. But then he said, “Is not your detective work, nor your cooking for that matter.” He chuckled, dropping his hand. And the moment was gone.

  “See you tomorrow, kiddo,” he said, and he opened the door for me.

  Shit, shit, shit. I walked home, wonde
ring why I could feel such electricity for a man who appeared to feel nothing in return.

  Chapter 9

  I’d had two glasses of wine and a steak dinner. Now I craved something sweet. In search of a sugar high to drown my misery, I made a short detour to the grocery store to pick up some ice cream.

  I had my head in the freezer, going over the selection—French vanilla, strawberry cheesecake, double chocolate. Vanilla would be perfect with drizzles of hot chocolate syrup and mounds of walnuts. I was already salivating. I snatched the container and was heading for the till when I heard a familiar voice. I looked back.

  It was Bunny Boyd, talking into her cell phone. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again. If you don’t get that exact sofa before the next taping, you’ll be out of a job. I have two words for you: Find it!” She threw her phone into her bag and then noticed me. “Oh, Della, hi,” she said, not looking the least embarrassed.

  I smiled. “Fancy meeting you in a grocery store. You’re so fashionably thin, I didn’t think you ate.”

  She laughed, preening at the compliment. “Oh, I eat, all right.” She glanced down into her basket. It was filled with fruit and vegetables and yogurt and cottage cheese.

  I bobbed my eyebrows. “You call that eating?”

  “I’m walking back—better to keep the bags light.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At the Longview,” she said, naming an upscale bed-and-breakfast right across the street from the Coffee Break. She continued. “I bought it years ago. It doesn’t make a lot of money, but at least it pays for itself and it gives me a place to stay whenever I want to come back.”

  I was confused. “What do you mean—come back?”

  “I grew up here. Didn’t you know that? I was born and raised in Briar Hollow. I’m a regular small-town girl.”

  “I would never have guessed. You’re so sophisticated. I was sure you came from Manhattan and went to college at some big-league university. Do you still have family here?”

  “Unfortunately no. My father died when I was very young, and my mother passed away three years ago. I never had any siblings. I left when I was eighteen, couldn’t wait to get out of here. Ironic, isn’t it? Now that I’m away, I can’t wait to come back.”