“I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “No matter how much she may have wanted to put the whole thing behind her, she would never have gotten rid of any pictures, any letters, or for that matter, any evidence she may have gathered. I bet if we searched, we’d find a box somewhere in her house, filled with every—” I stopped abruptly as an idea came to me. That was exactly what I would do. I would search Helen’s house.
“Della?”
I startled. Nancy was staring at me strangely.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. I’m fine,” I said. I couldn’t remember what we’d been talking about and had to scramble for something to say. “I’m just worried for Marnie. This is devastating for her.”
“Of course. It would be for anyone.” I detected a note of condescension in her voice. She adjusted her sweater. “Well, I’d better get going. Got a lot to do today.” She marched toward the door and left.
For the rest of the day, my mind kept going back to Helen. I hadn’t told a soul about my idea of sneaking into her house. She’d been dead five days now, and the police had already moved on to a fresher case—Bruce’s. I wondered how risky it might be to go in.
Chapter 14
The gossip train was running full tilt right through my shop, with a nonstop stream of customers, all intent on hearing the latest over a cup at Coffee, Tea and Destiny. At one o’clock, Margaret came up front and brought me a ham and cheese sandwich and a cup of java.
“I figured you’d be hungry. And seeing as you’re on your own today, you wouldn’t have time to get something to eat.”
“Thanks. I’m famished.”
She retreated back to the coffee shop and I was able to grab a few bites in between sales. At three thirty, the store became empty and I was just starting on the second half of my sandwich when Mercedes Hanson stopped by.
“Hi, Della,” the teenager said as the door closed behind her. “I guess Marnie’s not here?”
“She might be home,” I said.
Mercedes slouched over to me, her eyes filled with worry. “No. I just went by. There’s no answer. I saw the cops picking her up this morning. I’m so scared for her.”
“I know. I’m worried too. But Marnie did not kill Bruce. If you’re worried about her going to jail, remember this: the truth will prevail in the end.”
“You really think so?”
“I do,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “By the way, Liz Carter stopped by. She mentioned you went by the library this morning and told her.”
“Is that what she said? That I told her?” Mercedes exclaimed. “It was more like she forced it out of me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was walking by the library on my way to school, and she called me in to help her move a heavy desk. That turned out to be a total lie. She just wanted to pump me for information about Marnie.”
I planted my elbows on the counter. “I think you’d better tell me everything.”
“Well, first of all, the desk was on wheels, so all I did was roll it over by about two feet. She pretended to be so surprised, said she never noticed the wheels. Yeah. Right. And then she started asking questions about Marnie. How was she doing? Did I know if the wedding was going on as scheduled? I feel so stupid for it now, but before I knew it, I just blurted out how worried I was, that I’d seen the cops take her away in the police car. And, you know, the weirdest part, is as soon as I said that, I got the feeling that this was good news to her. Of course she pretended to get all sad.”
“Really,” I muttered to myself.
“And then, at lunchtime, I found out that Marnie’s fiancé was murdered.” Her brow furrowed. “That’s when it hit me. I bet she already knew Mr. Doherty was dead. She wanted to find out whether Marnie knew too.”
I held back a gasp. If Mercedes was right, that would mean Liz had heard the news before anybody else. How could she have known, unless . . . Ridiculous, I thought. But true that the gossip mill in this town traveled at the speed of light.
I became aware that Mercedes was still talking. “Poor Marnie. Do you think I should stop by and offer her my condolences?”
“I think that’s a very nice idea.”
She nodded. “Maybe I can bring her some flowers or something. I’ll ask my mom to come with me. Do you think she’ll be coming back to work soon?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I have an idea. How would you feel about helping out at the store until Marnie is feeling better?”
“Really? You would let me work here?” You would have thought I’d just invited her to a party. “That would be amazing. I’d love it. Maybe I can work on those napkins I’m making for her.”
“Good idea. You’ve become so good with your own weaving that I think you could answer questions and help customers just about as well as I can.”
We discussed payment and the number of hours she would come in, and by the time we came to an agreement, she was walking on sunshine.
And by then it was already after four. Matthew would be here to pick up Winston soon, and I was tempted to ask him to have dinner together. There was so much I wanted to tell him. But I also wanted to get into Helen’s house before it got dark out. If I wanted to search without attracting undo attention, I’d have to do it without turning on the lights.
“How would you like to start right now?” I asked.
Her face lit up. “You mean, like, right this minute?”
“Like, right this second.”
“Sure. What do you want me to do?”
“You can start by putting your bag behind the counter and minding the store for me while I go run a few errands.”
“What do I do if somebody wants to buy something?”
I opened the drawer and pulled out a sales pad. “Here is the receipt book.” I briefed her on how to process credit cards and how to operate the cash register. “Don’t worry. I know you’ll do fine,” I assured her. Helen’s house was only a few blocks away. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to notice my red Jeep parked in front of her house, so I took off on foot. After making sure there was nobody on the street, I walked around to the back of her house. My fear that the door lock would have been repaired proved needless. It slid open effortlessly. The only obstacle was a yellow crime scene tape across the entrance. I stepped between the ropes of police tape, and a minute later I was inside. I left my purse on the kitchen counter and paused to think. It occurred to me that if I’d just had a nasty argument, the first thing I would have done after coming home would have been to call a friend and vent. I picked up the kitchen phone, the one I figured would have been the most likely one she would have used, and I pressed REDIAL. After a few rings it picked up. I was just about to hang up when I realized it was an answering system.
“Hi, I am not home right now, but—” It was Nancy Cutler’s voice. I hung up before the end of the message.
My head was spinning. If Helen had called Nancy the night she’d died, why hadn’t Nancy mentioned it? On the other hand, Helen’s telephone was old. It had no call nor time display. There was no way I could prove exactly when that last call had been made. It could have been weeks ago. Or, for that matter, whether Helen had even reached Nancy or the answering system, or whether she’d hung up before it even started ringing. I spotted another telephone in the hallway and tried that one. To my horror, the police dispatcher picked up.
“Oh, eh, wrong number. Sorry,” I said and put the receiver down. Shit, shit, shit. I prayed that the woman wouldn’t automatically recognize the number as coming from the phone of a murder victim. Then I realized how silly that was. She probably answered hundreds of calls a day. There was no way she would take notice of one particular wrong number. I took a deep breath. Why would Helen have called the police? Or was it simply that the police had used her phone when they were here? If that was what had happened
, there was no way of knowing whom she had last called from that phone. Well, that was a waste of time.
I started my search with Helen’s bedroom. I opened the closet. It was full of staid dresses and skirts—grays, browns, beiges. Not a colorful garment anywhere in sight. It made me feel even sorrier for the woman. Her sister seemed to have been the only ray of sunshine in her life.
On the floor was a jumble of practical shoes. I reached for the shelf on top. Way too high. I went in search of a chair and carried one over from the kitchen. The only thing I found on the shelf was a stack of shoeboxes containing old tax returns, credit card statements, and IRA investments—money that she’d saved for her whole life and would never get to enjoy. I put the boxes back the way I’d found them and returned the chair to the kitchen. I went through the dresser drawers, then the bedside table. Nothing.
Next, I tackled the living room, looking under the sofa and inside the entertainment unit. I moved on to the hall closet and then to the bedroom. Still nothing. I was in the second bedroom, which Helen had used as a combination crafts and sewing room, when I heard a scraping noise. I froze. It sounded like the sliding door being opened. I listened, and sure enough, the next sound I heard was soft footsteps, like somebody tiptoeing through the kitchen. Somebody was in the house. I ducked down and slid under the bed.
My purse, I thought. I’d left it on the kitchen counter. Anyone who looked inside would know right away that I was here. If the intruder was the killer, I was as good as dead. A new sound sent my heart racing. Any faster and I’d be going into fibrillation. What if this was the police? I might not be murdered, but I’d be in deep trouble. At this point, I didn’t care who it was, just as long as they didn’t find me. I considered bargaining with God. I could promise never to play detective again. But I doubted I could keep such a promise. The footsteps came closer and I held my breath until I thought my lungs would explode. They continued down the hall, but just as I exhaled, the steps turned around. The door opened and the intruder walked in. All I could see, in the inch of space between the dust ruffle and the parquet floor, was a pair of high-heeled shoes—definitely not policemen’s shoes. I allowed myself a small measure of relief. Whoever this woman was, at least she couldn’t arrest me. Could it be Liz? And I was almost tempted to lift the dust ruffle and look. But if Liz had arranged to pick up a dress, she would have come in the front door. And she certainly wouldn’t be searching the house. No. Whoever this was had no business being here. No more than I did, I reminded myself.
The intruder tiptoed across the room, stopping by the side of the bed, just a few inches from where I hid. There was the squeak of a tight drawer being pulled open, and then it slammed shut. The woman went through them all—the same drawers I’d just searched. But why? The high heels moved away, this time pausing at the closet. I heard a creak and the sound of shuffling.
All this time I fully expected to be discovered, but to my relief, after a while the woman moved on to another part of the house. Minutes went by. At long last I heard the sliding door open and shut, and then silence. I waited another few minutes before slipping out from under the bed. I dashed to the kitchen, grabbed my purse, and then ran to the living room window just in time to see a blue economy car speed away. I tried to remember what kind of car Liz Carter drove. Hadn’t Marnie once joked about Liz’s car being almost as old as she was? Yes. She’d talked about how proud Liz was of her old red Ford Mustang. So if the intruder hadn’t been Liz, then who? And why?
I returned to Helen’s bedroom and searched it all over again. This was the last room where the intruder had been. If she’d ended her search here, didn’t that imply that this was where she had found whatever she had been looking for? I riffled through drawers, played checkers with the shoeboxes in the closet. This time I remembered to look under the bed. Still, nothing. If something had been taken, I couldn’t for the life of me guess what it was. I stood there, hands on hips, wondering where else I should search, when my eye fell upon something peeking from under the bedside lamp. When I pulled it out, I found myself looking at two snapshots. The first was a picture of Sybille smiling widely at the camera. She was standing on a beach, wearing a bathing suit that showed off her perfect figure, her long blond hair blowing in the breeze. The girl was a beauty. A real knockout. I put it aside and picked up the second picture. My breath caught. Well, what do you know? I was studying the grainy snapshot of a twentysomething man. It was a close-up, and even though it was yellowed with age, I had no doubt that the man in the photo was Bruce Doherty, or Brent Donaldson, as he called himself back then. I wondered if this was an enlargement of the shot Nancy had seen two decades ago.
This brought up more questions. I hadn’t looked under the lamp earlier, so for all I knew, these photos might have been here all along. Or the intruder might have planted them just now. If so, why?
Another possibility was that Helen had had this picture all along. But that didn’t make much sense either. If she’d had it, she would have given it to the police. The only thing I knew for certain was that Bruce Doherty and Brent Donaldson were one and the same. And if Helen recognized him, this gave Bruce a motive for murder. I debated taking the pictures to show to Matthew, but decided against it. He would have my hide for tampering with evidence, and whatever warm feelings he had for me would be gone.
I snatched my cell phone from my bag and snapped a few shots of both photographs. And then I slid the pictures back under the lamp.
I returned to the sewing room, pulled the cardboard box out from under the bed, and lifted the cover. Inside was a mountain of old snapshots and letters. My eyes settled on the photograph on top—a young family: a mother, a father, a prepubescent girl I recognized as Helen, and a child, Sybille. I set the box on the bed and sat down next to it, sorting through the jumble of pictures. It was like seeing family members grow older before my eyes. There were old wedding photos. Helen’s parents, I supposed. There were pictures of a baby girl, Helen at around two years old. Then shots of her being bounced on her father’s knee. A few snaps later she became a schoolgirl with a homemade haircut complete with crooked bangs. I dug down a few inches and came across a picture of another child—pretty blond Sybille. Even back then the girl had been a looker. There were dozens more family photos, and then, suddenly, no more of the parents and only a few of Helen. Sybille grew from a beautiful child into a stunning adolescent. I came across a picture of her taken at the beach. In this one, another young woman stood next to her. The brunette was rather plain. To my surprise, I recognized her. It was Nancy. But what really caught my eye was the way Nancy was staring at Sybille. Her expression was flat, as if she had carefully erased any emotion from her face. I studied it for a long time before dropping it back into the pile. I dumped the rest on the bed. The handful of remaining photos were all of Helen, and she seemed to grow old before her time, morphing into the image of her mother. The rest were letters and greeting cards. I pulled out a letter. It was from Sybille and was dated twenty-two years earlier.
Dear Sis, Sorry I haven’t written in so long, but I’ve been crazy busy with work.
As I read, the love between the two sisters was almost palpable. Sybille went on to describe her recent promotion and the added responsibilities it involved. She chatted about a recent splurge, a new dress she had purchased for a date with a new boyfriend—no mention of his name. I finished the letter and selected another. This one was dated November of the same year. Here, Sybille described a recent date she’d had with her boyfriend, and this time she named him—Brent. He had taken her to dinner at a fancy restaurant and then they had club-hopped until the wee hours of the morning. She went on to admit that she was head over heels and that she expected a proposal by New Year’s. I read a few more letters, learning more about the relationship. Brent was secretive, Sybille complained. He resented her asking questions, got moody whenever she asked him to meet her friends. And then I found one letter that had stirred even more que
stions. In this one Sybille talked about Nancy, mentioning that she seemed cold and distant lately, and wondering whether she might be jealous of her new success at work or perhaps of her romantic life. I put the letter down, staring at the blank wall.
I wondered if Nancy had been the good friend she professed to be, or if she resented her beautiful and successful roommate? Sometimes envy and jealousy could turn into hatred. I was beginning to wonder if Nancy might not have been so sad to see Sybille disappear.
With Sybille gone, she wouldn’t have to keep comparing herself to someone who would always be more beautiful and more successful than she could ever hope to be.
When I picked up the letter to read it again, I noticed that it was growing dark. I looked at the time—seven thirty. I’d left the store more than three hours ago. Matthew would have picked up Winston, and was probably—I hoped—wondering where I’d disappeared to. And I’d completely forgotten about Mercedes. I’d told her I would be right back. Was she still waiting for me, or had Jenny sent her home before locking up? I stuffed the letter in my pocket, threw the pile of paper into the box, and shoved it back under the bed. On my way back to the shop, the evening shadows disappeared into the night.
To my relief, the shop was dark and locked up. I turned and headed upstairs to my apartment.
“Where the hell have you been all this time?” The question, coming from the darkened hall, nearly startled me out of my skin. I flicked on the light.
“Matthew. What in the word are you doing here? You nearly scared me to death.”
“Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”
“You were?” I said, smiling. “For me?”
“I got here at five thirty. Jenny was already gone. And Mercedes told me you should have returned an hour earlier. I waited with her for another hour until, finally, I sent her home and called Jenny to come lock up.”
“Oh, no. Poor Mercedes. Was she very upset?”
Weave of Absence Page 16
