“So, you lost your balance?”
“I think so,” she said, sounding uncertain. “All I know is one minute I was walking down, my hand on the railing, and the next thing I knew, I was bouncing down the stairs, bumping and banging every part of my body along the way.”
There was one more question I had to ask, even knowing that it was likely to upset Marnie again. “Where was Bruce during this time?”
“He was right there with me. He was so worried, my poor sweetheart. He ran down the stairs, and when he saw how sore I was, I thought he was going to cry.”
I’ll bet he was. But not because she was sore.
My cell phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. I snatched it from my purse and glanced at the call display. Matthew, at last.
“I have the picture,” he said without preamble. “And it’s just as we feared. Bruce Doherty is an alias.”
“I’m with Marnie right now,” I said. “Are you bringing it over?”
“I’ll be there in five.” The line went dead.
“Who was that?” Marnie asked.
“Matthew. He’s bringing something he wants to show you.”
“What is it?”
“I’m going to let him tell you.”
I picked up the plates and coffee cups. I carried them to the kitchen and rather than return and face Marnie’s questioning, I hid there until the bell rang. I opened the door to a grim-looking Matthew who held a brown manila envelope in his hands.
“She’s in her bedroom,” I said and led the way through the living room.
I let him into the bedroom and stepped in after him.
“What’s wrong?” Marnie asked. “Why does everybody look so glum? I’m not sick or dying. I’ll be like new by tomorrow.”
“I have something I’d like you to look at,” he said, opening the envelope. He pulled out a couple of photocopies and handed them to her. Puzzled, she studied them.
“Am I supposed to know these men?”
“I contacted the Washington State Investment Board and this is the picture they sent me of the real Bruce Doherty. I’m afraid the person you know as Bruce Doherty has been using this man’s identity.” He pointed to the picture of the older man.
She frowned, staring at the photo in her hands. “But that can’t be. I saw his business card. Last night he left his wallet on the table when he went to the washroom, and I peeked in,” she said in a defeated tone.
I came closer and pulled a chair to the edge of the bed. “Does that mean what I think it means?” I asked. “You already had some suspicions?”
Her chin quivered, but she held on to her self-control. “Not exactly. But with all the grief you were giving me about him, I just—I don’t know—wanted to check for myself.” She stared down at her hands. “I guess that means Bruce is a con artist. What did he want from me? I don’t have any money. Why didn’t he go after some rich old woman? Why me?”
“I don’t know,” Matthew said.
“That life insurance policy he made me take. I named him as my beneficiary. You don’t think—”
“I suggest you call your insurance provider and cancel that policy as soon as you can,” he said.
“And let Bruce know you did it,” I added. She blinked back tears and nodded.
“So what happens now?” she asked.
“There’s nothing much we can do. I would like to report him to the police,” Matthew told her, “but unfortunately, lying is not against the law. Neither is carrying other people’s business cards.”
“I don’t ever want to see him again,” Marnie said. All at once, her tears came bursting forth. I wrapped my arms around her, but she pushed me away. “I don’t want anybody’s pity. I should have known better. Imagine, a good-looking man like that, falling in love with a fat old lady like me. What was I thinking?”
“Marnie, don’t talk like that. It could have happened to anybody,” I said, handing her the box of tissues from the bedside table.
“Right,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to be by myself right now.”
“Are you sure? I could stay, maybe prepare you some lunch?”
“No, you’ve already done enough. Just go. Both of you.” She sounded angry as much as hurt. And I couldn’t blame her. Matthew and I had been the bearers of the worst news.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll give you a call later, see how you feel.”
“Fine.”
“But before I go,” Matthew said, “let me ask you, does Bruce have a key to your house?”
She shook her head. “I was about to give him one, but I never got around to it.”
“That’s good,” he said. “If anybody drops by, don’t answer the door. Call Della or me.”
She nodded. “He called a little while ago and said he was going to come check on me this afternoon. See how I was doing. He asked if he could borrow my key and make a copy of it, so he could drop in on me at any time and make sure I was safe.” She harrumphed. “And I thought that was sweet.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Good grief, I can’t believe how stupid I was.”
“Don’t talk like that, Marnie. His behavior has nothing to do with how smart you are. Con men are experts at manipulating people. And he’s probably got years of experience at it.”
“Promise me you won’t let him come in,” Matthew said.
“I promise,” she said, and her gaze lowered to her hands again. Noticing her engagement ring, she suddenly tore it off and tossed it into a dish on her bedside table. “He can just drop dead, for all I care.”
I wanted to tell her she’d get over it. I wanted to tell her there were plenty of nice men out there and that she would meet one someday. But my instincts told me that would only upset her more.
Matthew sat by the edge of the bed and took her hand in his. “All I have to say is, if I was just a few years older, and you were just a few years younger, I’d go for you myself.”
My heart melted. If I hadn’t already been in love with the man, I would have fallen for him right then and there.
“You don’t really mean that,” Marnie said, her face brightening. “You have a perfectly lovely woman, your own age. Forget about me and pay some attention to her.”
I felt the red flow into my face. I signaled Matthew. “I think we should both get back to work and let Marnie get some sleep.”
We let ourselves out, making sure the house was locked, and Matthew offered me a lift back to my shop. “Thanks, but I can use the walk. That was really nice of you,” I said. “What you said back there. It made her feel better.”
He smiled. “She needed a cheer-up.” He dashed across the street, hopped into his car, and waved to me as I set off on foot.
I needed to be by myself too. My suspicion that Bruce was involved with Helen’s murder was stronger than ever. And no matter what Matthew said, I didn’t want to just sit back and leave well enough alone. That man was a killer. He’d planned on killing my friend, and if he wasn’t stopped he would kill again. I knew that just as sure as my name was Della Wright.
All I had to do was figure out a way to prove it.
Chapter 11
“What are you doing back already?” Margaret asked as I walked in. Winston galloped over and threw himself at me, jubilant with excitement.
“Here you go,” I said, fishing a dog biscuit from my pocket. He ran to his cushion and chewed contentedly.
“It’s over,” I said. “Matthew showed her the picture of the true Bruce Doherty. She never wants to see him again—whatever his real name is.”
“Oh, my God. So he was using an alias. What do you suppose he was after?”
“I figure he’s a con man. He was going to take her for everything she’s got.”
“Including her life,” she added. “That’s so scary. She could have been kil
led.”
“What’s important is that she’s safe now.”
“Amen.” She tapped the sales book. “I’ve got to get back to Jenny, but on a brighter note, you’ll be happy to know that I sold three items for you while you were gone.”
I flipped it open to the last receipts. “One kitchen rug,” I read, “and a set of fingertip towels.”
“Oh, and I have an order for a handwoven shirt.”
“Really? That’s amazing.” I had priced the shirts rather high, thinking I’d readjust if they didn’t sell. But if I already had a sale so soon after making them available, maybe they weren’t unreasonable after all.
I waited until Margaret left before turning on my laptop and searching the online telephone directory for Nancy Cutler’s phone number. I punched the number in on my cell phone, got her voice mail, and left a message asking her to call me back. And then, since it was quiet, I settled at my loom and resumed working on Marnie’s dish towels. I was nearing the three-quarter mark when the bell tinkled. I headed for the cash register, and to my surprise, when the customer turned away from the display, I saw it was none other than Nancy Cutler. As usual, she wore a dark suit and a striped shirt, but this time her hair was loose. No wonder I hadn’t recognized her from behind.
“Hi, Della.” She came forward. “I was just at Mercantile’s and called home for my messages. Since I was only a few steps away, I thought I’d stop by. You wanted to talk to me?”
“Actually, I do.” Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought she suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Since Helen’s death, I’ve been wondering if there was anything that happened at the party the other night that might help the police discover why she died. I remembered the way you left so abruptly, and I can’t help wondering if something happened to upset you.”
Nancy blushed and stammered. “No, of course not. It was a lovely party. Nothing happened. I just remembered that I had to get up early the next morning.”
That story was transparently false, but I didn’t argue it. I just looked at her steadily. She squirmed under my unflinching gaze.
“Why would you think I noticed something?” she asked nervously.
“From what I gathered, you were seen speaking to Marnie’s fiancé for a few minutes. Your conversation seemed to have started pleasantly enough, but something he said must have upset you because all of a sudden you turned and fled. Tell me what he said.”
She blanched visibly and shifted from foot to foot as she seemed to struggle with her decision. “I’d heard he was a stockbroker,” she said. “Or a financial advisor. And I thought that if he was marrying Marnie, he might be settling down here and opening an office. So I gave him my name and number in case he needed an assistant or a secretary.” She stopped, and tightened her lips.
“And what happened?”
“I’d rather not say anything. I wouldn’t want to start any rumors. What if I was wrong?”
“Wrong about what?”
She sighed heavily and seemed to struggle with herself. “You must promise not to repeat this. I feel silly for even saying it, but”—she hesitated again—“I thought I recognized him. But I’ve been thinking about it since, and I must have been mistaken. It was a long time ago, and I never met the man in person. All I ever saw was a photograph, and it wasn’t even a clear one.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Helen Dubois’s younger sister, Sybille. She was my closest friend. Twenty years ago she vanished.”
“I heard about that,” I said.
“We lived in Chicago at the time—roommates. During our third year there, Sybille started dating a man named Brent Donaldson. My God, she was crazy about that man. He was all she ever talked about—how handsome he was, how smart he was. How they were going to get married.”
“Were they engaged?”
She nodded. “She showed me her engagement ring. I wanted to meet him. After all, he was marrying my best friend. She tried to talk him into coming over for dinner, but he always had some excuse. One time she insisted until he finally agreed, but he called and canceled at the last minute.”
“Maybe he was just busy.”
“So busy he had no time for a whole year?” I had to agree that sounded suspicious. “One day, she came home all excited,” she continued. “She had a picture of him. She’d taken it without him knowing, and made me swear to never tell him. It seems he had an aversion to being photographed.”
I gasped. “He didn’t want to be identified later.”
She gave me a crooked smile. “Well, he had nothing to worry about because the shot was from far away, and he wasn’t even looking at the camera. I couldn’t have picked him out of a crowd if I’d tried.” She scowled. “I didn’t put it all together until after she disappeared. That was when I came to the same conclusion you just did. The man was up to no good. Why else would he be so adamantly set against having his picture taken, or meeting her friends?”
“I think we just hit the nail on the head.”
“One day she just didn’t come home from work. At first I wasn’t really worried, but the next morning when she still hadn’t returned, I called the police. The investigation went on for months. They tried to find Brent Donaldson, but it was as if the man had never existed. They questioned me about him for hours. I told them everything I knew about him. If I hadn’t spoken to him on the phone a number of times, I might have thought she’d made him up.”
The possibilities this story stirred up were so shocking that it was a moment before I could speak. Then I said, “Hold on a second. You said you couldn’t have picked him out of a crowd. What made you think you recognized Bruce Doherty as Brent Donaldson now, twenty years later?”
“It was his voice. I was just chatting with him, thinking that his voice reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t figure out who. Brent used to call Sybille at the apartment all the time, and he’d chat with me when he did—ask me how my day was, that sort of thing. Once I knew who this Bruce sounded like, I started thinking he looked like him too. Bruce has the same body type, the same dark hair and strong nose. But as I said, the picture was taken from far away and it wasn’t clear. I’m certain I was mistaken.”
“Did you tell him he reminded you of Brent Donaldson?”
Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, my God, no. The first thing that went through my mind was that if Brent Donaldson is still alive and Sybille is still missing—legally dead, according to the courts—he probably killed her.” A veil of fear descended over her eyes. “This is not the kind of thing I’d want to have get out. If I’m wrong, I could be sued for slander.”
I reflected on all of this after she left. If Brent Donaldson and Bruce Doherty were one and the same, Nancy was probably right. Bruce was responsible for Sybille’s disappearance, or murder. But why would he have killed her? Sybille had been declared dead only a few years ago, so there was no question of life insurance or inheritance in this case. Besides, Brent disappeared around the same time she had. He must have had another motive. But what?
Hmm. I wonder . . . Could Sybille have shown her sister a picture of Brent? If so, what if Helen had recognized him? She might have confronted him at the party. Even though Nancy insisted the picture was taken from too far away for her to recognize him, that didn’t mean that was the only picture Sybille had taken. She might well have snapped more than one shot and sent the better one to her sister. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Sybille had shown her sister a picture of her boyfriend. Unfortunately, the only two people who could answer that question were Helen and Sybille, and both were dead.
If I was right about this, then Bruce Doherty had one hell of a motive for killing Helen. I snatched up my phone and punched in Matthew’s number.
“Wait till you hear what I just found out!” I said, my heart racing.
“Can it wait? I don’t have time to talk r
ight now. I spent most of the morning fiddling with my printer to get a clear picture of Bruce Doherty. If I allow any more interruptions I won’t have done any writing all day.”
“Oh.” That was disappointing. “How about dinner then?” I asked, my hope surging.
“Sure, we can grab a bite. Say around six?”
“That works for me.”
“Fine. I’ll pick up pizza, and I’ll leave Winston with you until then.”
“Great. I’ll provide the wine.” We said good-bye, then I punched in Marnie’s number. After the fourth ring, an answering machine picked up.
“Hi, Marnie, it’s me, Della. I’m just calling to”—I heard a click on the line and suddenly Marnie was on the phone.
“I’m here. Sorry. I’m screening my calls.”
“How are you feeling?
“Much better,” she said. “I took a few painkillers and I was able to get a couple of hours’ sleep. I’ve been walking around this morning. I can even move my arm a bit. I’m thinking of coming in to work.”
“Don’t even think of it. And don’t you dare take your arm out of the sling. Much as I’d love to have you here, I think you should stay in bed and get some rest. If you don’t, it’ll take you much longer to recover.” And then I asked her what I really wanted to know. “Have you heard from Bruce?”
“No,” she said, with an exasperated sigh. “He hasn’t even called to find out how I am. What a jerk. I have a mind to give him a good talking-to.”
“Not a good idea. It would only make things more difficult. Don’t forget, he’s been lying about his name, his career, and God knows what else. For all we know, the man could be dangerous. I wouldn’t even take his calls if I were you.”
“But . . . I have to give him back his engagement ring.” I heard the hopefulness in her voice. One minute on the phone with him and she’d be putty in his hands.
“Tell you what. Matthew is coming over for a bite around six, but if you like I can go with you to Bruce’s hotel later. That’s something you shouldn’t do on your own.”
Weave of Absence Page 12
