Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery

by Martin, Carol Ann

  I nodded encouragingly and she continued. “Not long after, I happened to visit Briar Hollow—it’s so picturesque—and stopped by the Coffee Break. Funny how things happen,” she said as if to herself. “When I went to the counter, I noticed that the woman who served me was looking at me very strangely. She couldn’t peel her eyes off of me. I had the impression I reminded her of someone.” She paused and picked up Clementine, who had been scratching at her leg. The dog settled in her lap and she continued. “I wanted to talk to her in private, so I went back around closing time, but she was gone. In her place was her husband. The minute he saw me, he turned white. And as soon as I saw his eyes, I knew I was looking at my own father.

  “He seemed to compose himself, and he asked me what I wanted. Afterward, I realized that he meant what kind of coffee. But at the time, I thought he wanted to know why I had come. So I told him I was looking for my birth parents and asked him if he was my father.

  “You would have thought I’d accused him of a crime. He came storming around the counter, grabbed me by the arm and marched me out of the shop. And then he told me that if I ever came back, he’d call the police.”

  I was quiet for a few moments as I digested this. “You’re certain he was your father? He could have been an uncle or something.”

  She shook her head and continued. “No, Mrs. McDermott made that plenty clear later. Anyhow, I was so upset that my own father had kicked me out that for weeks I obsessed about trying to talk to him again. I decided I’d shocked him. I was sure, now that he’d had time to think, he’d want to get to know me. So I decided to write. I sent him a letter with my name and telephone number. I thought he’d give me a call, but he never did. I waited a bit longer and then I went back to his shop. But this time I decided that I should approach his wife first. For all I knew, she could have been my mother.” She looked at me with pleading eyes. “It could have happened that way. A young couple have a baby. They’re not married, so they decide to put it up for adoption, and then some time later they get married. I convinced myself that once Mrs. McDermott saw me, she’d want to get to know me and we’d have an instant mother-daughter bond.” She met my gaze sheepishly. “I know. It was silly.”

  “Go on.”

  She sighed and continued. “I waited until she left the coffee shop and ambushed her. I told her that I had been adopted and was looking for my birth parents, and I blurted out that I thought she might be my mother.” Margaret gave a strangled laugh. “That didn’t go over very well. She made it plenty clear that I was no daughter of hers, that in fact, I was the bastard child of that television slut Bunny Boyd. And that if I had any idea of approaching her husband, she was going to sue me for harassment.”

  I pictured the scene, imagining Margaret’s disappointment. “I’m so sorry. That must have hurt.” I almost regretted questioning her.

  Clementine hopped off her lap and came to me. I picked her up. Margaret continued. “It didn’t hurt at all. She wasn’t my mother. And she had just told me who my real mother was. I didn’t know how I would find Bunny Boyd, so I went on the Internet and found out that when she wasn’t filming in New York, she sometimes returned to Briar Hollow. And then, one week later, she walked into my shop.” She stopped as if she had come to the end of the story.

  “And then what happened?”

  She stared at the floor for a long time. “I’ve already told you too much. You know everything you wanted to know. Leave the rest alone, please, for my sake. It’s really personal.” She looked at me so pleadingly that I couldn’t bring myself to push. Besides, she was right. I knew all I needed to know.

  “Fair enough. I won’t bother you about that anymore.” I smiled. “But I might bother you to do more weaving for me.”

  She grinned. “That’s no bother. I’ll be happy to help you all I can.”

  I gave her Clementine back and returned to my apartment and to Winnie, who came sniffing and looking at me suspiciously. He must have smelled Clementine on me, because he turned and marched away looking disgusted.

  “I’m sorry, Winnie. I held that other dog for only a minute. I promise you’re still the only dog I truly love.” He stopped and stared at me. Prove it, he seemed to say.

  “Okay, come.” He trotted after me to the kitchen, and I held out a liver treat. His rump hit the floor with a thud. “Good boy.” I tossed it at him, and he gobbled it down in one bite.

  It was only seven o’clock, and I had two hours, maybe three, until Matthew showed up—hours that felt all the longer because I knew he was with Lydia Gerard. I wondered what she was wearing, probably some sexy little dress. I gave myself a mental thump on the head. The last thing I wanted was to become a jealous wreck. If Matthew and Lydia began dating, the only person I could blame was myself. Instead of showing him that I liked him, I’d spent the last six months trying to prove I didn’t care. Real smart, Della.

  Disgusted with myself, I put the picture of Lydia and Matthew out of my mind and forced myself to go back to my list of suspects.

  I was down to two suspects, Mrs. Anderson and Bunny Boyd, with the latter now in the lead. But what about Margaret? I thought suddenly. She might have had a reason to kill McDermott. I hopped back up and raced over to her apartment.

  “What now?” she asked, eyeing me suspiciously as she opened the door.

  “Don’t worry. It’s nothing to do with any of that.” I flicked my wrist as if waving the subject away. “Did you happen to go to the Whitby party last week?”

  She looked at me as if I’d lost all my marbles. “Are you kidding? With Bunny Boyd playing hostess? She would have kicked me out in a New York minute.”

  “Right,” I said. “Okay, I won’t bother you again.”

  “You keep saying that,” she said with a smile. “Yet you keep doing it.”

  I returned to my apartment, laughing. It was only after I closed the door that it occurred to me. How did she know Bunny Boyd was the hostess that night? Certainly she knew that the woman was working for Whitby, but it was a bit of a stretch to expect that she’d be playing hostess at his party—unless she’d lied about not being there. There had been so many people in the house. It wouldn’t have been difficult for her to keep out of sight. All she’d have to do was duck behind someone whenever she saw Bunny coming her way. I sat for a long time, trying to come to terms with my new theory.

  All this thinking was giving me a headache. I glanced at my watch and was surprised it was already eight o’clock. If I wanted to make myself gorgeous and eat before Matthew got here, I had better get a move on.

  I was halfway through a microwaved frozen pizza when the telephone rang. It was my mother.

  “Why haven’t you made Matthew that beef bourguignon yet? Don’t wait too long or it’ll be too late.”

  I groaned. “Mom—”

  She kept right on talking. “I was just speaking to June”—Mathew’s mother—“and she told me he had a date tonight with an old girlfriend.”

  Lydia Gerard was an old girlfriend? Shit. Knowing that made me feel even worse. “For your information, Mom, I already made it for him. He was over for dinner last night.”

  There was a long pause. “Well, it can’t have been very good. You didn’t even call me for instructions.”

  “It’s nice to know that’s what you think of my cooking.”

  “And with reason. You’ve never cooked a meal in your life.”

  “I have too. I can make pasta.” Then, realizing this would only prolong the argument, I said, “You’re right. I need all the help I can get, and that’s why I had a friend come over and give me instructions. The meal was delicious. Matthew had two helpings.”

  “Oh.” She was at a loss for words momentarily. “I hope your friend didn’t stay for dinner.”

  “She didn’t. We had dinner alone.”

  “Oh,” she said in a brighter tone. “I hope you wore some
thing sexy.”

  “Mo-om. Stop it.”

  “And makeup?”

  “Of course. I always wear makeup. Why do you even ask?”

  “And did you flirt?”

  In a moment of exasperation, I blurted out, “Mom, I feel bad enough that he’s out with another girl. You don’t have to rub it in that he isn’t in love with me.”

  “I knew it,” she squealed. “I just knew it. You’re in love with Matthew. Oh, that is so wonderful.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I said, already regretting telling her. “I don’t see what’s so wonderful about being in love with someone who doesn’t love me back.”

  “Just leave that up to me. I’ll talk to June—”

  I exploded. “Don’t you dare say a word.”

  “I only want to help,” she replied plaintively.

  “It won’t help. If June says anything to Matthew, you might as well forget about him ever wanting to date me.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would it? I think he’d be happy—”

  I cut her off. “Think, Mom. How many men do you know who take their mother’s advice when it comes to love? Don’t you get it? The more you and June push him toward me, the harder he pulls away.” For once my comment was met with total silence. “Mom?”

  “Yes, dear,” she said, sounding deflated. “I understand. I won’t say a word. I promise.”

  “You agree with me?” I was shocked.

  “Yes, dear. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. It makes complete sense.”

  Now I knew she was just regrouping before another onslaught. I had to end this conversation before she got going again. “I’d better go,” I said. “I think that’s Matthew at the door now.” If she’d thought about this a minute she would have known it couldn’t be Matthew. But she wanted so much for us to be a couple that she accepted it.

  Her voice went up an octave. “Good luck. And don’t forget to flirt.”

  “Love you,” I said and hung up.

  I returned to my pizza. But now, try as I might, I couldn’t get my mother’s words out of my head. Damn, Lydia wasn’t just a friend; she was an old girlfriend. They used to date. I imagined them cuddled up in a romantic restaurant, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. I gave myself a mental thump on the head. A romantic restaurant in Briar Hollow? Not likely. Chances were they were having hamburgers at Bottoms Up, surrounded by rowdy pool players and beer drinkers. Still, it didn’t make me feel one iota better. I wasn’t even hungry anymore. I pushed away from the table, and under Winston’s horrified eyes, I dropped the pizza in the trash.

  I rummaged through the fridge and removed an open can of dog food. “Here, Winnie. This is much better for you than pizza.” He did not seem convinced.

  I hurried to the bedroom and changed into a blue dress cut on the bias. It was formfitting without being too revealing. “There. You happy, Winnie? I’m wearing your favorite color.”

  I was halfway through my glass of wine when the doorbell rang. I glanced at my watch—nine fifteen. Was their date already over? I took that as a good omen.

  “Hi.” I greeted him with a smile. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  He followed me to the kitchen, and I poured him some wine. We clinked glasses. I made a point of making eye contact.

  “What’s that?” he asked, his gaze resting on the list I’d left on the table.

  “I reworked my list of suspects,” I said.

  He picked it up and headed for the living room. “Let’s take a look at this.” He scanned it quickly. “You’re down to two suspects?”

  “Actually, three. I just thought of one more, someone we never even considered. I just didn’t add her to the list yet. But before we talk about that, you said you had information for me.”

  “I do. It turns out that both victims were shot with the same gun—a Colt 1908 semiautomatic, the exact kind that was taken from the Whitby house. If we weren’t already convinced the killer was the same in both murders, this proves it.”

  “And did you find out if it’s easy to get ammunition for that kind of old gun?”

  “Easy as ordering it off the Internet. Also, both victims were shot within fifteen feet, four .25 ACP bullets in a nice tight three-inch grouping.”

  “You lost me.”

  “What that means is that the killer was a good shooter.”

  I puzzled over this. “How do we find out which of the suspects knows how to shoot?”

  He smiled. “I already know that. The police found out that both Bunny and Mrs. Anderson were fans of target shooting.”

  “Oh, my God. I was right. It’s one of them.”

  “You said you had a third suspect.”

  I wasn’t nearly so sure anymore. Still, I told him about Margaret.

  After I had explained at length about what made me think she could be the killer, he picked up the list again. “I’m not convinced.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Let’s take another look at this.” He perused the list briefly. “So tell me again why you think it could be Bunny Boyd.”

  “It’s simple. She is determined to marry Bernard Whitby. He is a politician, and if it came out that his fiancé had a child out of wedlock from an affair with a married man, he might not be so keen on marrying her. You know how politicians care about the moral majority.”

  He nodded. “God only knows why something that happened two decades ago would even matter, but you’re right. They do go to great lengths to appear unblemished.”

  “And don’t forget that Bunny made Margaret sign a confidentiality agreement. That proves how important it was to her that her past remain safely in her past. If McDermott was blackmailing one political wife, why not also a political fiancé? And if Rhonda picked up where her husband left off, or if she figured out who killed him, Bunny would have had to kill her too. Don’t forget, Bunny lives right across the street from the Coffee Break.” I had another idea. “Maybe she was watching the house and saw Rhonda leave and then used the opportunity to go in to look for”—I shrugged—“whatever she thought Rhonda had. And maybe Rhonda forgot something and went back. Then they came face-to-face and Bunny had to kill her.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes,” Matthew said.

  “But that’s how murder sometimes is, a bunch of coincidences that add up to somebody getting killed. As for Mrs. Anderson, if she had already figured out that the blackmailer was Rhonda, she might have purposely sent me to that meeting so she would be free to search her house in the meantime. I think either Rhonda was late, or she was early. The point is, they ran into each other and then Mrs. Anderson had no choice but to kill her.” I snapped my fingers. “I just thought of something. I always found it strange that there was only one picture of the unknown model. If Bunny murdered McDermott, she probably broke into his studio later and stole her pictures. In her rush, she missed one.”

  Matthew nodded. “You’ve put together two excellent circumstantial cases. But you haven’t got a shred of hard evidence. I don’t know that there’s enough here to arrest, let alone convict, anyone. A lawyer could shoot holes the size of canonballs through those theories.”

  “I know.” I let out a long, discouraged breath. “So what do we do now?”

  “How about we just enjoy each other’s company?”

  Had I heard right? I looked at him. He had moved closer on the sofa and was now no more than a few inches from me. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t feel like talking, that I wanted him to put his arm around me and his lips on mine. Instead I said, “How was your date with Lydia?”

  He picked up his glass of wine. “It was nice. She hasn’t changed a bit since high school. Did you know she and I used to date? I was a senior and she was a junior.”

  I played dumb. “No. How long ago was that?”

  “A longgggg time ag
o,” he said with teasing eyes.

  “Will you be seeing her again?” I couldn’t help it. I had to know.

  He shrugged. “She’s nice, but . . . I don’t usually revisit old relationships.” He raised his eyes to mine. “That was a really good meal you made last night,” he said. “I think I should take you out to a nice dinner. Belmont has some nice places.”

  “Maybe if you tell me what your second favorite meal is, I could learn to make that one for you too.”

  His dark eyes lightened to a golden caramel shade, and my heart skipped a beat.

  “You would do that?”

  I said what I thought was light and breezy. “Sure. It’s not like I have that many friends to cook for around here.” But for some reason Matthew’s face fell.

  “Right,” he said and looked at his watch. “Well, I’d better be getting home.” He downed the rest of his glass in one shot and stood. “Oh, by the way, I have to go into Charlotte again tomorrow. I can either leave Winston with you for the night or drop him off around six thirty tomorrow morning.”

  I jumped to my feet. “He can stay the night, no problem. But don’t leave now. Why don’t you have—”

  “I have to meet with my agent again. It seems she might have a foreign-rights deal for my book. I don’t want to fall asleep halfway through the meeting.”

  I nodded. “Of course.” I followed him to the door and, determined to make up for whatever I had said that offended him, I raised my face for a kiss and closed my eyes—and got a stupid peck on the forehead. And then, to make it even worse, he clambered down the stairs, calling out, “See you tomorrow, kiddo.”

  Shit! Shit! Shit! What did I do wrong this time?

  • • •

  It was the middle of the night when I awoke with a jolt. I had heard something, a noise that had penetrated my sleep. I rose on one elbow and looked around the dark room—nothing. And then I heard it again—snap. Somebody was in the apartment. Hide. I looked around again, this time frantically searching for a safe place to hide. Under the bed? Of course not. That would be the first place anybody would look. I scrambled out of bed, pulled back the covers smoothly, tiptoed to the door and slipped behind. As far as hiding places went, this one wasn’t great but at least it gave me a small chance of not being seen. A weapon. My eyes paused on the iron doorstop at my feet. I picked it up. It was heavy and could do a lot of damage even to the thickest of skulls. I waited, almost afraid to breathe. The noise was coming from the kitchen. I thought of the ten thousand dollars hidden in the box of Rice Krispies. Well, that did it. If I survived this night, the first thing I’d do tomorrow was deliver it myself to the Anderson house.