I tried to stifle a monumental eye roll. But too late.
“Marnie said you had finally come around to believing in my gift,” she continued, looking hurt.
“I’m not saying I don’t believe,” I said weakly. I’d already offended one friend today. The last thing I wanted was to upset Jenny too.
“Oh, gee, thanks. You just made my day.” She glared at me, and then she spun on her heel and returned to the coffee shop. She didn’t so much as pop her head out for the rest of the day. At five thirty, she marched by, announcing that she was “taking off” and slamming the door shut behind her. I groaned. Great going, Della. I’d offended two friends in as few hours.
The door opened again and Matthew strode in.
“What’s with Jenny? She practically froze me out when I said hello.” Winston went barreling over to him, wagging his tailless behind. “Whoa, there, big fellow. I know. I know. I love you too.” He raised his gaze to me. “Got a paper towel or something? He’s slobbering all over my shoes.”
I handed him the box of tissues, relieved that I wouldn’t have to explain Jenny’s behavior. I felt about as dumb as a doorbell and didn’t really want to point out my own stupidity. He came closer and I got a whiff of his aftershave. It was faint, but sexy as the devil.
“I just stopped by the butcher,” he said, wiping his shoes. “And I picked up two nice porterhouse steaks on the off chance you might want to have dinner with me. If you say no, I’ll have to feed the second one to Winston.” Winston looked at me and whimpered. I knew what he was hoping I’d say. But I wasn’t about to turn down an invitation from Matthew.
“Sorry, big boy,” I said scratching his head. “But I promise not to eat the whole thing. I’ll leave you a few bites. How’s that?” He gave an appreciative growl.
I grabbed the cash from the register, stuffed it into my purse. I would make my bank deposit in the morning. “Ready,” I said.
• • •
When I first decided to leave the city a little over a year ago, Matthew and I struck a deal. He’d move into my modern Charlotte condo, which was conveniently located just a short drive from the university where he taught. Meanwhile, I’d move into his house. The arrangement was perfect, but it lasted only until Matthew’s book submission was accepted. He’d then decided he would be better able to write here, in peaceful and quiet Briar Hollow.
I’d known from the moment we made this arrangement that it was temporary. But I had lulled myself into believing things could go on this way indefinitely.
Now, coming back to Matthew’s house almost felt like coming home. This was the same kitchen where I had repainted the cabinets and refinished the floors. The same place where I’d first come to realize I was in love with him. As soon as he came back to Briar Hollow, though, I’d learned how impossible it was to share a house with a man who didn’t feel about me the way I did about him. So I hired a real estate agent, and in no time, I found the building where I now lived and worked.
“You know where everything is,” Matthew said, waving toward the pantry. “Make yourself at home while I turn on the grill. Maybe you can season the steaks in the meantime.”
I got the meat from the fridge, rummaged through the cupboard until I found the spices, and set to work. He came back in search of a lighter, and then returned again a moment later looking for matches, muttering something about “damn lighters never working.”
I popped the potatoes into the hot oven and washed the lettuce. I had just finished making the salad dressing when he stepped back into the kitchen wearing a satisfied grin.
“I finally got it going. How long till the potatoes are ready?”
I glanced at my watch. “Maybe another half hour.”
“Sounds good. I’ll put the steaks on in about twenty minutes. In the meantime, how about a glass of wine?” Without waiting for my reply, he poured two glasses and handed one to me. “To you,” he said. We clicked glasses, and I struggled to keep myself from blushing as he looked deeply into my eyes.
“Good wine,” I said, flustered under his intent gaze. “Which reminds me. Do you have any wine vinegar?”
“Sure.” He pointed me toward the cabinet next to the fridge, where I very well knew he kept his oil and vinegar. “Anything else you need?”
“I’m good. I just needed a drop of it.” I unscrewed the cap and poured in a tablespoon. “There. All done.” I busied myself getting the plates and cutlery. He dipped a finger into the salad dressing and popped it in his mouth.
“This is good,” he said, sounding surprised. “Look at you. You’re a regular pro in the kitchen these days,” he said, coming closer and wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“Just so you know,” I said, “I have a new recipe from my mother and if you’re going to make fun of my cooking, I won’t invite you over to test it. And it just so happens to be one of your favorite dishes—chicken Parmesan.”
“I wasn’t making fun of you. I’m impressed. You’re so domestic these days—a regular Julia Child.”
“That proves it. You are laughing at me.”
He gave my shoulders a squeeze and I almost melted. The heat of his arm around me, the scent of his aftershave—it was too much. When I turned to face him I was suddenly breathtakingly close. My eyes met his. I leaned in, hoping—no, willing him to kiss me. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and the next thing I became aware of was his lips brushing against my forehead. And just as quickly, he let go of me, leaving me reeling.
“Medium or rare?”
“Wh-what?” I stuttered, flustered.
“How do you want your steak? Medium or rare?”
“Oh, er, medium.”
He picked up the platter of seasoned meat and headed for the door. “Medium it is.” And the door banged shut behind him.
I took a few bracing breaths and regained my composure.
• • •
Over dinner, I turned the conversation to Bruce Doherty.
“I wondered how long it would take for you to get around to him,” he said, chuckling. “I kept my promise and made a few calls. I didn’t find out much, but what I did learn you’ll find very interesting.” I was already on the edge of my seat. He took his time, sipping his wine and chewing another bite of steak.
“Are you going to tell me or are we playing twenty questions here?”
“It turns out that Bruce Doherty was indeed an investment advisor. He owned his own firm for thirty years until he sold it two years ago.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t look a day over forty-five. That would mean he was running his own investment company by the time he was fifteen years old.”
“There are a couple of possibilities. Bruce Doherty might look considerably younger than he really is. Or he could have had a face-lift. It isn’t entirely unusual for men these days, especially if they are looking to prolong a profitable career.” As logical as that sounded, I didn’t believe it for a minute. “Another possibility, and this is the one that’s far more likely . . .” He paused and wagged a finger at me. “I don’t want you to panic now.”
“Great. Just the thing to say when you want to scare someone.”
“What I think is that Bruce Doherty might not be his real name.”
I was struck dumb. Of all the ideas that had crowded my mind, this one had never occurred to me. It conjured up a number of entirely new possibilities, each one more frightening than the other.
“Oh, my God. He’s using an alias,” I blurted. “I’ve got to call Marnie right now. She has to stay away from him.”
“Hold on a second. All we have right now is questions. You can’t do or say anything until we know more. What if it’s the first possibility?”
“You mean the face-lift? Come on, Matthew. You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
“Still, you can’t go and accuse some
one unless you’re one hundred percent sure.”
I folded my arms and glared at him. “So what do you want me to do? Sit back, while that man—”
He put up a hand. “I already called the Washington State Investment Board earlier. They have pictures of every person licensed to trade stocks and bonds or sell mutual funds in the state. They confirmed that a Bruce Doherty does exist, and they’re e-mailing me his picture. I should get it at the latest by the end of the day tomorrow. That should tell us if we’re on the right track.” He looked down at my plate and noticed my untouched steak. “If you don’t start eating your food, I won’t tell you anything else.”
“There’s more?”
“Eat,” he said. I took a bite. “That’s better,” he said. “Those are nice steaks. It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”
He was right. The steak was delicious, but I had to force myself to swallow. I couldn’t shake the picture of Bruce with his hands around Helen’s throat. As soon I dispelled that image, it was replaced by one of him strangling Marnie.
“Stop worrying. There’s nothing either one of us can do right now.”
“How can you expect me not to worry? I won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight. Poor Marnie. By the way,” I said, changing the subject, “Bunny stopped by the store earlier. Did you know her Grandma Moses painting was stolen?” He nodded and I continued. “The police think she did it, because the painting was wired directly into the security system, and she was the only one with the code.”
“That hardly proves anything. Getting around a security system is a piece of cake for a professional thief.”
“Really? Knowing her, she probably spent a fortune for some fancy security system, and now you’re telling me it’s a waste of money?”
“All I’m saying is that when a burglar sets his mind to something, he can usually figure out a way to do it.”
“I just hate that she’s under suspicion. Don’t the police know who she is? She works in some of the most expensive homes in the country. If she was convicted of theft, even if it was for theft of her own painting, she never get another decorating contract again.”
“She has nothing to worry about. You know cops. They suspect everyone in the beginning.”
“Listen to this. Bunny happened to mention that the police want to question all the hotel guests. Marnie grabbed the phone to warn Bruce—her words, not mine—as soon as she left. And then she stormed out when I commented that ‘warn’ was a strange choice of words. What do you make of that?”
“Don’t be too hard on her. You’ve been known to overreact at times too.”
“Hey! I resent that. I am not in the habit of overreacting.” Before he could come up with specific examples, I changed the subject. “I wouldn’t have said anything to Marnie, except that she got this concerned look in her eyes, as if she was worried about him being questioned.”
“Hmm. Do you think she’s beginning to suspect him?”
“Funny, that’s what Jenny suggested. But even if she is, she’s more likely to make excuses for him or, worse, protect him. I wouldn’t put it past her to provide him with an alibi if he needs one.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions. From what I know of Marnie, she’d more likely shoot the man than protect him.”
“You can’t imagine how much in love she is.”
“I wish somebody would feel that way about me,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. I wanted to blurt out, “Just open your eyes. Can’t you see that I’m in love with you?” But, as usual, I kept that information to myself.
“This is no time for joking,” I said. “Don’t forget that Helen Dubois had an argument with that man, and just a few hours later, I found her dead. I’m beginning to think I should just come right out and tell Marnie everything we know.”
“Normally, I’d agree with you. But in this case, I’d say there’s no point.”
“What do you mean there’s no point?”
“If you tell her without having something to back up your claim, the first thing she’ll do, after slamming the door in your face, will be to pick up the phone and tell him. Then she’ll be in even graver danger.”
“Oh, my God. I never thought of that. If he wants to get his hands on her life insurance, he’ll kill her right away.”
“That’s why I keep telling you to wait.”
“Okay,” I said, subdued. “But you’ve got to bring me that picture the minute you get it.”
“I will. I promise.”
Now that we had a firm plan, I felt a bit better. Matthew would get the picture tomorrow—twenty-four hours from now. Surely nothing could go wrong in just one day.
Chapter 10
I spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning. My mind raced, conjuring one frightening scene after another—Marnie lying on her sofa, her face purple and bloated. As this image faded, it was replaced by one of Marnie at the altar in a white wedding dress, splashed with blood, staring into the eyes of a stone-cold killer. By five o’clock, I gave up trying to sleep. I tossed back the covers and crawled out of bed. After making myself a pot of coffee, I wandered down to the shop.
I was appraising the results of my latest marketing effort. I’d brought in the handwoven shirt my client had admired the other day and used it as the central piece in a display. I’d moved the hand towels out of the armoire and set the shirt in their place. Around it I’d hung a few of Margaret’s magnificent shawls, and on the other side, a half dozen of Marnie’s afghans. This was the first time I’d created a fashion grouping, and much to my relief it looked lovely. With any luck my customers would think so too, and the orders would come rolling in. I returned to the counter, where I’d left the pot of coffee I’d made, and poured myself another cup. When I got to my third, I came to the conclusion that no amount of caffeine would sweep the cobwebs from my brain this morning.
I made my way over to my loom. It wasn’t yet six. Jenny wouldn’t be here for another two hours, Marnie not for three or four. That’s if she showed up at all. Hopefully she would, and by then I should have made some serious progress on her white and purple dishcloths. When she saw how hard I’d worked on them, she would get over her anger.
I had originally planned for four dishcloths. One was finished, which meant my loom was dressed for three more. I measured the amount of purple yarn I would need, wound it on a bobbin and popped it into the shed. Soon I was swept away in the rhythm of working the loom.
Before I knew it, the bell tinkled and I glanced at my watch—ten to eight. Already?
It was Jenny. “You’re here early,” she said, coming over to see what I was working on. “Is this one of the dish towels you’re making for Marnie?”
“It is.”
“I’d better get going on the hand towels, then. Otherwise, everyone will be finished with their pieces except me.” The bell rang again, and this time Margaret walked in and wandered over to join us.
“Nice,” she said, admiring the dish towel. “I’ve finished dressing my loom for a set of place mats. I’m glad I didn’t start the weaving. I understand she wants purple?”
“That’s what she wants.”
Margaret shrugged. “Oh, well, to each his own. Did you start the coffee?” she asked. Jenny shook her head, and Margaret said, “I’ll go put it on.”
Jenny turned her attention back to me, and frowned. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
“Gee, thanks.” I stood and stretched my back. “I couldn’t sleep,” I said, searching her face. To my relief I saw none of the miffed attitude of yesterday—just concern.
“I hope it wasn’t over the . . .” She pointed to me and then to herself. “I don’t know why I got so upset. It’s not as if I should have been surprised. You’re a pragmatist. You don’t believe in tarot and tea leaves.”
“I’m sorry. I wish—”
“Nothing
to be sorry about. You are who you are. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
“It’s okay. As you said, you are who you are too. And I shouldn’t have expected you to lie to Marnie.” She beamed me a smile.
“Well, I’m glad that’s over.” She made a hand-wiping gesture. “There, all forgotten. Now, how about a cup of coffee?” When she returned with the coffee, I repeated what I’d learned from Matthew.
“He thinks Bruce Doherty is an alias?” she said, aghast. “Oh, my God. Maybe you were right about that life insurance policy he made her take.”
“That’s the part that really scares me.”
“Maybe Margaret is right. We have to warn her right now.”
“We can’t do that,” I said, explaining Matthew’s theory that telling her would only place her in even graver danger. “Like Matthew says, she won’t believe a word unless we have proof. And he should be receiving a photo of the real Bruce Doherty from the Investment Board today.”
“I can’t believe I just gave her a reading and saw none of that in there.” Luckily, I was able to keep a straight face. “Although,” she continued, “that would have more likely shown up in Bruce’s—or whatever his name is—cards than hers. Are you sure we can’t tell her?”
“Not until Matthew brings me the photo. I promised. Besides, unless we have indisputable proof, Marnie would never believe us.”
At that moment the telephone rang and Jenny picked it up.
“It’s Marnie,” she said, covering the mouthpiece. Into the phone, she said “Yes” a few times and then, “What?” All at once the blood seemed to drain from her face, leaving her looking gray.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, but she only waved me away, gripping the receiver tighter.
“How bad is it? Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Did something happen to Marnie?” I mouthed again. She turned her back to me, covering her other ear with her hand.
Weave of Absence Page 10
