“Hi, Emma. Welcome to Dream Weaver. What can I do for you?”
She hesitated, looking around warily. She came closer. “Is Jenny here?” she asked.
“She’s in the back. Did you want to say hello? She’s got a shop full of customers right now.”
She shook her head, relief washing over her features. “You’re the lady who caught that murderer a couple of months ago, right?” Before I opened my mouth, she continued. “I need to talk to you alone.” I waited, guessing that whatever it was, it probably had to do with Mr. McDermott’s death. She leaned in and whispered, “You didn’t happen to see any photos while you were there, did you?”
“There?” I said, frowning. “You mean at the Coffee Break?” I couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. Some shops, I knew, had photos of famous customers displayed on their walls, but there was nothing like that at the McDermotts’ shop. “No. What kind of photographs are you talking about?”
She blushed and then cleared her throat. “It’s just that Mr. McDermott took pictures of me . . . for my portfolio,” she added in an even lower voice. “And, well, some of them I wouldn’t want anybody else to see.”
The image of Emma striking a calendar pose flashed through my mind. “Were these nude shots, by any chance?”
She nodded, blushing deeper. “I should never have agreed, but Mr. McDermott was so convincing. He said that if I wanted to break into the New York market, I would need nude shots for my portfolios.”
I was pretty certain this was not true—on the part of McDermott, not Emma. I suddenly remembered what Jenny had told me about Rhonda hating Emma. “Is that why his wife doesn’t like you?”
Emma’s eyebrows jumped up. “No, thank God. If she’d known, she probably would have killed me. Did you see the way she dragged him out of the party when she spotted me last night?”
I pictured the way Rhonda had blushed and the hateful look she’d launched in our direction. At the time I’d thought it was meant for Marnie, but as I remembered, Emma had been standing right behind us. So she was the person Rhonda had been looking at. Interesting. “I noticed,” I said sympathetically. She seemed so nice; it was difficult to imagine anybody hating her.
The girl’s eyes widened. “She really hates me. Do you know what she called me? A whore—just because I phoned her husband at home one time. All I wanted was to find out when I could pick up my new pictures. Any girl who so much as glanced at her husband was a whore in her books. It’s a wonder that shop of theirs ever made a profit. With the way she treated the female clients, I can understand why so many of them prefer coming to Jenny’s shop.” And then, looking worried, she added, “Believe me; I never, ever had sex with him.”
I was surprised that Emma was sharing all this with me. “I never imagined you did.” At least I was pretty sure she hadn’t. On the other hand, I knew that young girls sometimes did desperate things to become fashion models.
“She was crazy,” Emma continued earnestly. “She even called me at home and left me the bitchiest message. I wish I’d kept it, but I was afraid Ricky might hear it.” Her voice lowered. “He doesn’t know about the nude shots. He’d kill me if he ever found out.” And then, as if realizing what she’d just said, she blanched. “Oh, I don’t mean that he . . . He would never.”
“We all say things we don’t mean literally,” I said, as I tucked that little bit of information into my mind. Well, well, what do you know? I already had a suspect.
“One time I stopped by the shop for coffee and Mr. McDermott was behind the counter. All I did was say hi and give him my order and Mrs. McDermott had a fit. She was screaming that if she ever caught him talking to me again, he was as good as dead. Everybody in the shop overheard. It was so embarrassing.”
My suspicious mind reared up. Mrs. McDermott sounded as if she was obsessively jealous. Another interesting tidbit, one that conjured up an entirely new possibility.
I wanted to hear more about the McDermotts. “How odd,” I said. “Why would she be so jealous?”
She shrugged. “Maybe because he was having an affair, only not with me. I had an appointment to meet him at his studio one night, and when I showed up about half an hour early, he was in his darkroom with the door partly open. I didn’t see much, but I saw enough to know he was with another woman and that his hands were all over her. I got out of there before he saw me.”
Within minutes, I had gone from no suspects to three suspects—Ricky, Rhonda and McDermott’s mistress. “Did you happen to see who the woman was?”
“No,” she said, sounding disappointed. “I wish I had. I would have been more than happy to tell the bitch who her husband was really screwing.”
“Maybe you should tell the police what you know.”
“Oh, no.” Her mouth twitched. “I could never do that. I don’t want anyone to find out about . . . you know.”
By “anyone,” I figured she meant Ricky. Otherwise, why would she be telling me?
Emma hesitated. “He rented an apartment in Belmont. He wanted to keep it a secret, which I thought was really weird.” She scowled. “He said he couldn’t have it in Briar Hollow without half the town knowing about it.”
“That does sound strange. Why would he have wanted to keep it a secret?”
“I suspect it was because of his wife.”
I supposed that made some sense, I thought.
“Della . . .” She started hesitantly, and I knew she was about to reveal the real point of her visit. “I was wondering if you would mind . . . I mean, could you do me a favor?”
“What kind of favor?”
She continued. “I don’t dare go back there myself, but if I give you the key . . .” Long pause. “Do you think—I mean, would you mind—maybe you could go and look for those pictures of me? Now that I think about it, I’m sure they’re there. He would never have brought them to his house.”
My mind raced. Go to the studio and steal those pictures? “Me? Why me?”
“I thought, since you solved that case a few months ago, maybe . . .” She let her words drift away, looking so hopeful.
The girl seemed so sweet and innocent, hardly more than a child. My heart went out to her. And the truth is, I was intrigued. If McDermott was keeping that studio a secret, I wondered what he was hiding. Surely it was more than a few nude pictures. “I’ll see what I can do,” I found myself saying, even though I knew I could never steal those pictures. Even if they were hers, as she claimed, it would be viewed as tampering with evidence. I didn’t want to get into that kind of trouble.
“I’ll write down the address for you,” she said, relief washing over her face. Looking around furtively one last time, she scribbled it on the back of one of my business cards. Then she pulled a key from her pocket. “He gave me my own key to the place.” I bet he did, I thought, getting angrier at the deceased. I hated when men took advantage of young girls. Pervert! If the man made a habit of taking advantage of girls, there could be a lot of people angry at him.
Emma handed me the white metal key. And a moment later she was gone.
She had no sooner left than the doorbell chimed and Officer Bailey walked in carrying my purse. “Mrs. McDermott asked me to bring this to you,” he said, handing it over. “And if you don’t mind fetching hers, I’ll take it back to her.”
“Of course.” I bent down behind my counter and retrieved the woman’s purse. “Here you go.” I clicked open my own bag and gave it a cursory inspection.
“Everything there?” he asked.
I nodded, closing it. “I’m sure it is.” I paused. “How is she doing?”
“As well as can be expected,” he answered, which told me nothing at all.
“Is she in the hospital?”
He shook his head. “No, the attendants gave her a shot to calm her, and she’s sleeping.”
He looked around to mak
e certain we were alone. “I forgot to ask you a couple of things. On your way to the coffee shop this morning, did you happen to notice any cars on the street?”
“There were cars,” I said. “Just normal morning traffic, but I couldn’t even tell you how many or what colors, let alone the makes or models. I am not much of a car person.”
I was tempted to ask whether the police were considering Mrs. McDermott as a suspect but changed my mind. The poor woman had just been through a terrible shock. The last thing she needed was to become a suspect in her husband’s murder. There would be time enough for that if evidence pointed in her direction. I suddenly snapped back to find Officer Bailey looking at me strangely. “Miss Wright? I was asking you a question.”
“I’m sorry,” I said apologetically. “I can’t seem to get the image of Mr. McDermott out of my mind.”
“I was asking you about the owner of Coffee, Tea and Destiny. Do you know of any feud between her and the McDermotts?”
Chapter 5
Jenny and I were in my apartment when the telephone rang. I knew even before looking at the call display that it was my mother. “Hi, Mom.”
I could hear the worry in her voice. “My God, Della. I just found out there was a murder in Briar Hollow and that you found the body.”
“How could you possibly have found that out?”
“June told me. She happened to call Matthew, and he had just heard about it.”
Trust Matthew’s mother to call my mother the minute she heard anything. Those two were thick as thieves. “Actually, I didn’t find the body. I just happened to be there when the victim’s wife found it,” I said. “Is that what you were calling about? Because if it is, there’s nothing to tell. Or were you calling to find out about last night’s party?”
That was all I needed to say to steer her off the subject. Her voice brightened. “How did it go? Did you dress up for Matthew? Has he asked you on a date yet?” I covered the speaker with my hand, mouthing, “My mother,” to Jenny. She smiled and nodded knowingly.
“No, Mom, he hasn’t. I keep telling you he’s not interested in me that way.”
“That’s not what June says.” June and my mother were coconspirators in a plan to match us up. My mother continued. “She thinks he’s secretly in love with you.”
“Well, if he is, he sure hides it well.”
“If only you’d give him a chance. I still think you shouldn’t have moved out of his house.”
I interrupted. “Jenny’s here, Mom. I can’t talk.”
“Oh, she is? Jenny is such a nice girl. Say hi to her for me.”
“I will. Bye, Mom. Love you.” I quickly put down the receiver before she started on another tangent.
“She’s still trying to match you up with Matthew, is she?”
I nodded. “Her and everybody else I know.”
Jenny laughed. “I know she drives you crazy, but I still think she’s great.”
“You do, do you? Well then, how would you like to adopt her? She can be your mother for a while. I won’t even charge you a borrowing fee.”
She waved my offer away, laughing. “Where’s that glass of wine you promised me?”
I went to the kitchen and got the half-full bottle from last night and was pouring her a glass when I mentioned Officer Bailey dropping by.
“What did he want to know?” She sat.
“He asked if you and the McDermotts had any disputes,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Can you imagine?” The minute I saw the color drain from her face, I wanted to take my words back.
“Oh, my God, they think I killed him?” She fell against the back of her chair.
“Of course they don’t think you killed him. That was just one question among many. None of the other questions had anything to do with you. You, of all people, should know how the police work.” Until her divorce a year ago, Jenny had been married to the local chief of police, a marriage that had lasted ten years. “You’ve spent years hearing stories about police procedures and investigations.”
“I have a really bad feeling about this. They’re going to try to pin this on me. I just know it.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, now you’re just being silly. They’ve barely started their investigation. You know as well as I do that everyone is a suspect at the beginning. Chances are they asked somebody else the same question about me. It’ll take them a while, but they’ll eventually get it right and catch the killer.” I paused, wondering what I could talk about that would take her mind off her worries. “Guess who stopped by today.” At her blank look, I said, “Emma.”
A spark of interest lit her eyes. “She did? Why didn’t she come to the back and say hi?”
“She wanted to speak to me privately.” I hesitated.
“I promise to not tell a soul.” Seeing me still uncertain, she continued. “If I’d been here, Emma would have told me too. She always confided in me.”
I did want Jenny’s opinion, I thought. “Maybe you’re right.” I glossed over the conversation. “I feel sorry for the girl. That man took advantage of her. She seems very embarrassed by the whole thing.”
“Nude photos—poor girl.” She shook her head. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Emma is so bent on a career in modeling she’d listen to any Tom, Dick or Harry for advice. I’m just relieved McDermott didn’t do worse.”
I shrugged. “We don’t know that he didn’t.” I was quiet for a moment. “How much do you know about Emma’s boyfriend?”
She glanced at me, frowning. “Not much. He works as a mechanic at Al’s Garage down the street. According to Emma, he has a bit of a temper. Why do you ask?”
“At the party, he seemed irritated when she was talking to us. I got the impression that he’s the possessive type. You know him better than I do. How do you think he might react if he found out about McDermott getting Emma to pose nude for him? Do you think he could lose control of his temper over something like that?”
Jenny played that over in her mind. “I have no idea. All I can say is that I got the same impression you did, that he’s possessive and controlling. But could he kill someone? I wouldn’t even want to hazard a guess.”
“You’re right. It was a stupid question.” We were quiet for a few minutes, sipping our wine companionably. I tried to get my mind on something other than the murder and gave up.
“Did you know Mrs. McDermott suspected her husband of having an affair with Emma?” I repeated Emma’s story, adding what she’d told me about catching him in the darkroom with another woman. “As it turns out, Mrs. McDermott was right about her husband having an affair. Only she was wrong about which woman.”
“Well, that explains the way she treated Emma in the store.”
“Do you have any idea who his mistress might have been?”
“How would I know? He was no more than a passing acquaintance.” She shook her head slowly. “The McDermotts are about fifteen years older than I am. Imagine a man that age still being unable to keep it in his pants. Shameful.”
“You think they’re in their late forties, early fifties?”
She nodded. “They must be. My aunt—my mother’s younger sister—went to school with them, and she’s forty-nine.”
I took a long breath. “The way I see it, I’ve already got three suspects: Ricky, Mrs. McDermott and the woman McDermott was having an affair with. I just wish I knew who she was.”
She threw me an amused glance. “Playing detective already, are you?”
“No, not at all. I just feel so awful for poor Mrs. McDermott.”
“Poor Mrs. McDermott, yet you consider her one of the suspects.”
She had a point. “I don’t really. Still, there is something about her that just seems off—obsessively jealous.”
“I say everybody has a bit of ESP. Maybe you should listen to your gut feelings.”
I almost laughed.
She frowned, looking pensive. “Whose idea was it that you stop by the coffee shop before they opened this morning, yours or Rhonda’s?”
“Rhonda’s. Why?”
“Well,” she said, tilting her head, “if Rhonda was already planning to kill her husband, she might have been setting you up as her alibi. You were there when she found the body. You can confirm how upset she was, that she tried to resuscitate him. That sort of thing.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” I remembered something. “Hmm, I was surprised she insisted I come by at precisely eight forty-five this morning, rather than last night.” Another idea came to me. “She was at the party last night. I wonder if she happened to take a tour of Whitby’s house too.”
Jenny’s eyes flashed with sudden understanding. “You think she might have stolen Whitby’s gun.”
“All I’m doing right now is looking at possible scenarios.” Without saying another word, I pushed back my chair and went to the kitchen, returning with the house phone in hand. I punched in a number.
“Who are you calling?”
“Matthew.”
A second later, his deep voice answered. “It’s me,” I said. “I hear you told your mother about McDermott’s murder.”
“Uh-oh. I take it your mother called,” he replied.
“Is the pope Catholic?” I replied with all the sarcasm I could muster. “I wish you wouldn’t say anything to your mother that you think I might not want mine to know.” And then, feeling slightly bad for my sharp tone, I added, “Am I interrupting your writing?”
“No. I was just about to take Winston for a walk.”
“Oh, good. Mind if I take a few minutes of your time?”
He chuckled. “What difference will it make what I say? You’ll just go ahead anyhow.”
Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery Page 7