“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.”
We wove our way out through the crowd, and minutes later, we were back at the car. Matthew slid into his seat, pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Who are you calling?”
“Bottoms Up,” he said to me, and then into the phone, “One extra-large pizza with the works, extra cheese, to go. Matthew Baker. I’ll pick it up in ten minutes.” He dropped his iPhone into his pocket. “I take it beef bourguignon is not on the menu tonight?” He winked, and my heart fluttered.
We took off.
“Did you notice that neither Mrs. Anderson nor Bunny Boyd were there? Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”
“I suppose,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “But there could be countless reasons for them not being there.”
“Why do you think the police were there? Do you think they were keeping track of who came and who didn’t?”
“That’s standard procedure. They always show up for services and funerals of murder victims.”
“In that case, they might be forgetting about the one person who had to be there whether she killed him or not—Mrs. McDermott.”
He glanced at me. “I’m sure they didn’t forget about her.”
“How sure are you that she overhead me ask about her husband’s insurance?”
“Of course she heard. Didn’t you see the look on her face?”
I shivered. “For a moment I wasn’t sure what she’d do.”
“Put yourself in her place,” he said in a pacifying tone. “If she’s innocent, how do you think she feels, overhearing someone ask about her husband’s life insurance? Losing a loved one is difficult enough without being subjected to everyone’s suspicions. Under the circumstances, I think anybody would have reacted the
same way.”
Matthew was right, and I felt a pang of guilt for suspecting her. Poor woman. She had looked completely devastated after finding her husband’s body. Still . . .
“All I’m saying is, let’s not forget about her. By the way, you never answered my question. Did you find out whether her husband had life insurance?”
“The police already questioned her about that. She admitted to owning a fifty-thousand-dollar policy on her husband’s life, which he bought when they first got married, more than twenty-five years ago.”
“Fifty thousand dollars? That’s all? I’d expected it to be for a larger amount.”
He slowed and looked both ways before turning onto the highway. “People have been killed for less. Anyhow, the cops are not taking her word for it. They’re still looking, but it’s a lengthy process. It means contacting all the insurance companies. They’re also monitoring her bank account for any unusual activity. So far, they’ve found nothing suspicious.”
I pondered all of this for the rest of the drive, and ten minutes later Matthew pulled up in the parking lot of Bottoms Up. He ran in, returning with the pizza, and we were on our way back to my place, where Winston greeted us with his usual overexuberance.
Matthew dropped the pizza box on the counter and crouched to Winston’s level. “I know. I know.” He scratched his back. “I’m happy to see you too.” He stood. “I forgot something in the car.” He ran out, returning moments later with a thick file, which he dropped on the dining room table.
“What’s that?”
“The pictures of McDermott’s models—we’ll go over them later.”
He opened a bottle of wine and I set the table. My eyes kept going to the file. I could barely wait to see who else might be in there.
As last, he returned and handed me a full glass of Pinot Noir.
“Thank you.” I waited for him to sit, and then I served us each a slice of pizza. I took a bite. “Sorry,” I said, reaching out for the file. “But I’ve been waiting for this for two days. I can’t wait any longer.” I opened it.
The first picture was a head shot of Emma. The girl was truly gorgeous, her features incredibly photogenic. Her eyes were large and widely spaced, her cheekbones high and her lips generous.
“She really could make it in modeling,” I said. “I’m glad she didn’t let that boyfriend of hers stand in her way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I guess I didn’t tell you what happened.” I told him about the vibration in my steering wheel and my visit to Al’s Garage the next day. “When I went to pick it up the morning after, I overheard Ricky and Emma arguing.” I repeated what I’d heard. “She dropped by the store earlier to say good-bye. She’s on her way to New York. And get this. Ricky is in jail for car theft. I suspect she might have turned him in.”
“I knew about his arrest,” Matthew said. “And you’re right. Emma was the one who reported his thefts to the police.”
“And you didn’t think of telling me?”
He ignored the jab and continued. “The police also searched Al’s Garage and found parts from tons of stolen vehicles.”
“So Al was in on it too?”
“He claims that Ricky drove into Charlotte for parts every other week and that he had no idea they were stolen.”
“A likely story,” I said. “Getting back to Emma, I’m convinced she had nothing to do with McDermott’s murder or the stolen pictures.”
“I agree.”
“Well, isn’t this a refreshing change? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you voice a firm opinion, especially not one that agrees with mine.”
He chuckled and picked up Emma’s photo, studying it. “I guess one could say she’s attractive. She’s just not my type.”
My pulse quickened. “What is your type?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
He looked at me and his dark eyes lightened. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I just prefer brunettes.” He was looking at my hair. My mouth went dry. And then he continued. “Lydia Gerard—now, there’s a beautiful woman.”
My heart sank, and I struggled to keep my smile from dropping. “She is, isn’t she?” I said as if I didn’t care in the least. I couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
The next dozen pictures were of Emma. “The cops were thorough. They didn’t need to give us so many head shots of the same models.”
Then there was a picture of a pretty redhead. “Who’s she?”
He gave me a name I’d never heard before. “She used to live in Belmont but moved to Los Angeles about ten years ago. The police checked and she was at her job the day McDermott was killed. There is no way she could have made it here, killed McDermott and gotten back to LA in time for work.”
“What about the gun? Any news from the examiner on what type it was?”
“They’ve confirmed that the gun was a Colt semiautomatic.”
“So it wasn’t Whitby’s gun.”
“We still don’t know that.”
I looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean you don’t know for sure? Whitby’s Colt was more than a hundred years old, and you just said that the murder weapon was a semiautomatic.”
He smiled. “Colt semiautomatics already existed a century ago. So it could have been the same weapon.”
“Oh. I had no idea. I always thought semiautomatic meant modern.” I thought quickly. “If it was the same weapon and they never find it, can they still make a case?”
“Presumably, but it will be much harder. Without the murder weapon, the prosecutor will claim it was Whitby’s missing gun, and unless we can prove beyond any shadow of a doubt who stole it, the defense will point out that anybody at the party could have taken it.”
“So this might turn out to be the perfect murder.”
“Perfect murders don’t exist. With forensic science, nowadays even decades-old murders are being solved.” He gave me a crooked smile. “It ain’t over till it’s over, kiddo.”
He picked up another photo, this one of a brunette. This picture also looked as if it had been taken during the seventies or eighties. “Beatrice Mallory,” Matthew said. “Happily married and living in Charlotte. And she also has an unshakable alibi. She was nowhere near here the day of the murder.” He set that picture aside along with the dozen or so more shots of the same woman. He continued on, identifying and setting aside model after model until he got near the bottom of the pile. “This one is still unidentified.” He handed it to me.
“I noticed this one in the darkroom.” The shot was old, like so many of the others. The model was rather plain, with brown hair, brown eyes and unmemorable features, yet there was something familiar about her. “I have the feeling I’ve seen her before but I have no idea where.”
He nodded. “Bailey said the same thing. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t think of who.”
“Can I borrow it? I’ll show it to Jenny and Marnie. They might recognize her.”
“I don’t see why not.” He handed it to me.
“Give me a few more of her. She might look different from other angles.”
“That’s the only one the police found of her.”
“That’s odd. McDermott had dozens of pictures of every other model. Are you sure?”
He glanced at me. “If I say there is only one, that’s because there is only one.” He answered my silent question. “She wasn’t very photogenic. He might not have taken more than a few pictures of her to begin with.”
It was true that the girl certainly wasn’t very attractive. He pulled out the picture, studied it again and set it aside. We continued through the pile until I had seen them all.
He picked up the stack and shoved them all back into the folder, all except the unidentified girl. “Every woman in those pictures has an alibi except for Emma and this unknown woman.”
“And
we’ve already eliminated Emma as a possibility. What about Mrs. Anderson? Even though her pictures weren’t there, she’s still a suspect.”
“Nobody’s eliminating her.”
I turned over a new idea. “I’m beginning to think that maybe McDermott’s murder had nothing to do with the nude photos,” I said, plopping back against my chair.
“Could be,” he said vaguely, eyeing the last piece of pizza. “You want it?”
I waved it away. “You go ahead. I’m full.” Two minutes later it was all gone except for a small piece on my plate. I picked up the plates and carried them back to the kitchen with Winston hot on my trail. I threw him the piece and he lunged for it.
From the dining room, Matthew called him back. “Ready to go home, Winston?” Winston galloped back.
“Don’t look so happy to leave, big boy,” I said, joining them in the foyer.
Matthew was already clipping on his leash. “All he knows is that he’s going for a walk—his favorite thing, along with food, belly rubs and head scratches.” As if to confirm this, Winston wiggled his butt, barking happily. “Sorry to be leaving so abruptly. I want to get an early start on my writing tomorrow.”
I might have been tempted to suggest he stay for another glass of wine, but after his comment about Lydia, I was not about to.
“I’ll see you when I drop off Winston in the morning,” he said, and a minute later he was gone. The downstairs door closed, its sound reverberating under my feet. Suddenly I was alone, and the apartment felt incredibly lonely. I wondered idly if Margaret had already moved in next door. It would feel reassuring to have someone living close by. I shrugged off the unease as normal after a visit to the funeral parlor. I poured myself a second glass of wine as I got ready for bed.
• • •
The next morning was miserable, wet and cold. I slipped on a raincoat and made a mad dash to pick up my paper, throwing a quick glance at the empty coffee shop across the street. The lights of the McDermotts’ living quarters were turned on, but the shop was still dark. Maybe Rhonda would never reopen. If she sold her shop, maybe Jenny would consider buying it. I slipped the paper under my coat and hurried back to my shop. I wiped my feet on the entrance mat and dropped the paper on the counter.
Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery Page 19
