Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery

by Martin, Carol Ann

  One minute stretched into ten, and I was berating myself for stupidly leaving my phone on the dining room table when I heard another noise. This one was louder and followed by a series of scratching sounds, as if somebody were tearing cardboard. How could anybody have known where . . . Suddenly, there was another great tearing sound followed by a low growl—Winston? I tiptoed down the hall, holding the doorstop high, and flicked on the kitchen light.

  “Winston!” Garbage littered the floor: broken eggshells, coffee grinds, wet paper towels. The kitchen was a mess. “Winston Baker, what are you doing?”

  Winnie bowed his head in shame.

  “You should be embarrassed. You scared me half to death. What in the world were you trying to do?”

  He looked at me with wounded eyes and slunk off to the corner. I reached in the closet for a broom and pail and began the gross task of cleaning up. Two minutes into the cleanup, the mystery was solved when I came upon a few bits of leftover beef bourguignon. I finished sweeping the mess, damp mopped the floor and turned to face the perpetrator.

  “I’m letting you off easy this time, but only because you couldn’t resist my cooking. I take that as a compliment.”

  He gave me an appreciative “Woof,” and followed me back to the bedroom.

  I dropped his cushion on the floor and closed the door. “No more wandering around in the middle of the night for you,” I said. I climbed into bed and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep

  Chapter 18

  Marnie stared at me, discouraged. “Tell me again exactly what you said before he got upset.”

  I had just told her and Jenny about Matthew’s sudden departure and was beginning to feel a bit defensive. “I didn’t say he got upset. He just—I don’t know—suddenly wanted to leave.” Marnie raised an eyebrow. “All right. I suggested I cook something else that he likes—which was perfectly nice of me—and he said something like, ‘You’d do something like that for me?’ And then all I said was that since I didn’t know very many people in Briar Hollow, who else was I going to cook for?”

  Marnie wiped a hand over her face. “Sometimes I wonder about you.”

  “What was wrong with that?”

  Jenny put a pacifying hand on mine. “I know you didn’t mean to push him away, but you implied that the only reason you were cooking for him is because there’s nobody else around. If the man is already sensitive because you’ve been pushing him away for months, if not years, then that was just the kind of remark to throw him off once again.”

  “Oh.” I mulled this over. “Do you really think he took it that way?”

  Marnie rolled her eyes. “Duh.”

  “It’s not so terrible,” Jenny said. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of some way you can make it up to him.”

  At that moment, the door opened, and Bunny Boyd marched in looking less than pleased. Jenny and Marnie dispersed, leaving me to deal with her in private.

  She looked at me haughtily. “I can’t stay for more than a minute. Bernie is running a few errands and I have to meet him back at the car in”—she looked at her watch—“five minutes.”

  Judging by the way she glared at me, I could kiss her contract good-bye. I opened the drawer and got her check. “This is what you want, I presume,” I said, handing it to her.

  “No, that is not why I’m here. I’m here to clarify a few things.” She planted a hand on her hip. “I don’t know what Margaret Fowler told you, but whatever she said, it was a complete lie. I did not take any contract away from her.”

  I was speechless.

  Bunny nodded. “I offered her the same job I offered you. Silly me. I should have asked her to sign a contract, but I trusted her. She seemed so happy at the opportunity, and she . . .” Bunny hesitated. “She seemed to want a relationship with me. Then, a couple of days later, I get a legal letter from her, telling me she wants nothing to do with me, that she’ll sue me for harassment if I try to contact her again. And along with it she sent back the deposit check I gave her.”

  I was shocked. I had no idea what to think.

  Bunny continued. “You tell me who dropped who.”

  Before I could think of anything to say, the door opened and Margaret walked in. It took a moment for her to recognize Bunny dressed in her new subdued style.

  Bunny took a step toward her. “I hear you’re spreading stories about me.”

  Margaret backed up a step and shook her head. “No. I haven’t told anybody. I swear. Della just guessed.” She looked scared.

  “Why are you going around lying, telling people that I took that contract away from you? And that it’s my fault that you had to close your business? I never took anything away from you. You dropped me.” Bunny’s voice was plaintive, hurt. I didn’t know who was lying. They both looked so sincere.

  “Hold on, both of you.” I turned to Margaret. “Bunny says that you sent back the deposit check she gave you.”

  Margaret nodded. “I did.” She looked at Bunny. “You demanded I return it in that letter from your lawyer.”

  Bunny’s face went from hurt to perplexed. “What are you talking about? What letter?”

  “The one where you threated to sue me unless I signed the confidentiality agreement.”

  Bunny looked shocked. At that moment, the door opened and Mrs. Anderson walked in. She looked at Bunny and started to leave.

  “Wait,” I said. It was like a lightbulb had turned on in my brain. Everything was suddenly so clear.

  Everybody turned to me. “I’ve just figured it out.”

  Bunny looked annoyed. “Figured out what?” she snapped.

  I ignored her tone. “The murder!” I turned to Margaret. “Margaret, tell the truth. You went to the Whitby party, didn’t you?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.” Turning to Bunny, she continued. “It was silly, but I really wanted to see the house you were working on.” She turned back to me. “But I swear, I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “I know that.” I turned to Bunny. “But you had an excellent reason for wanting him dead.”

  She frowned. “Me? Kill Philip? Now, why would I want to do that? Sure, I was heartbroken when he walked out on me. I was a pregnant teenager, and the man who had seduced me wanted me out of his life. But that was twenty-two years ago. I’ve moved on. Besides, I had my revenge.” At my astonished look, she continued. “Did you know that the Longview used to belong to his family?” Her eyes brightened. “Well, it did. And I had the satisfaction of knowing that every time he looked out the window and saw the Longview, he’d know that the girl he’d scorned became more successful than he ever was.” She planted her hands on her hips. “And I suppose you also think I killed Mrs. McDermott?” she asked sarcastically.

  “You had the opportunity to steal the gun and you live right across the street. How better to watch their comings and goings?”

  “Wrong again,” she said, making an invisible check mark in the air. “I was in New York when she was killed. And I can prove it.”

  Damn. So the killer wasn’t Bunny. Okay. I turned to Mrs. Anderson. “You also had a motive to want McDermott dead. He was blackmailing you.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “Except I told Jeffrey about the blackmail.” At that moment, Bernard Whitby walked in. Everybody turned to look at him.

  “Let’s go, Bunny,” he said.

  She put up a hand. “Hold on a second, sweetheart. You might want to hear this.”

  He leaned against the doorframe, looking bored. His eyes traveled the group, and when they stopped on Mrs. Anderson, he shuffled nervously.

  She stared back at him, and when she spoke, I had the impression the words were for his benefit as well as for mine. “My indiscretion with Mr. Whitby happened almost eighteen years ago, during a bad period of my marriage. Since then, my husband has forgiven me and our marriage is happy and healthy. So there was
no reason for me to want the McDermotts dead.”

  “Ahh,” I said, raising a finger. “But you only told your husband after the first murder. And I bet, as much as your husband forgave you, he still wanted all copies of those pictures destroyed, right?”

  “If you’re trying to accuse me of murder—”

  I couldn’t help but notice from the corner of my eye that Whitby was nervously signaling Bunny with his eyes and tapping his watch. Why was he in such a rush to leave? Suddenly it hit me. I’d been looking at everything from the wrong angle from the start. All along I’d been searching for a suspect who’d had the opportunity to steal the gun from the Whitby house because everything hinged on the weapon. But what if that gun was never stolen?

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I know you didn’t kill the McDermotts. But the guilty party is right here, in this room.”

  Bunny planted both hands on her hips. “If you’re trying to say I did it, you’re dead wrong.”

  “Actually, I know you didn’t do it either.” I turned to Bernard Whitby. “You killed them.”

  He sneered. “That is preposterous.”

  “You love Bunny, don’t you?”

  “I asked her to marry me.”

  Bunny walked over to him and hooked her arm in his.

  I gave him a pleasant smile. “I believe you. And I also believe that becoming governor is very important to you—as important, in fact, as Bunny is.”

  She looked up at him adoringly. “I didn’t kill them, Bernie. You believe me, don’t you? He tried to blackmail me, but I told him to take a hike. I didn’t care if the truth came out or not. All that is ancient history. It was twenty years ago.”

  “Of course he believes you,” I said before he had a chance to answer. “Because he did it. He killed Philip McDermott because when he realized you weren’t going to pay up, he went to Mr. Whitby. Isn’t that right?”

  He looked at me, and I detected a tinge of fear in his eyes. I took a few steps toward him. “You killed them because you wanted to be governor very badly, and you wanted to marry Bunny just as badly. And you were afraid that if those pictures hit the press, you’d have to either quit the race or drop Bunny.”

  The way he grabbed Bunny by the wrist and pulled the door open told me I’d just hit the nail on the head. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Bunny pulled back. “Bernie, tell her that’s not true. Tell them you didn’t kill them.”

  “Come, Bunny. We don’t have time for this nonsense.”

  The angry line of her mouth softened to a pout. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me you had nothing to do with those murders.”

  “I think it’s time I called the police,” I said.

  He looked stunned for a moment and then he sprang into action. “Fine,” he said to Bunny. “You stay if you like, but I’m leaving.” He stormed out.

  All eyes turned to me.

  “I think I just solved the case,” I said and picked up the phone.

  Chapter 19

  One week later

  Yes, life is full of surprises. After coming up with all those suspects and all those scenarios, the murderer was somebody nobody had ever questioned. Bernard Whitby himself.

  After the police searched his house and found the missing gun, Whitby admitted that it had never been stolen. He had taken it himself. The night of the party, after everyone left, he and Bunny returned to the Longview “to give the Sweenys a chance to clean up,” he’d claimed. The next morning, he’d kissed Bunny good-bye, making some excuse for having to leave early, and then he waited in his car with his eyes on the Coffee Break. At a quarter to eight, when Philip McDermott came down to unlock the door, Whitby sprang into action.

  It was easy as pie for him. He was a good shooter and he knew that gun well. He’d shot it dozens of times. It didn’t take him more than a few seconds to pump four bullets into McDermott’s heart inside a three-inch group. Another few seconds and he was back in his car and driving off.

  Lucky for me, I was a few minutes late that morning, or God knows, I might have been killed too.

  The person who had sneaked into McDermott’s studio that night was none other than Whitby. He went there to retrieve Bunny’s pictures, and as I’d guessed, in his rush, he’d left one behind. While he was there, he’d come across the pictures of Julia Anderson and him and snatched them at the same time.

  Rhonda McDermott didn’t have to die. She probably never knew that her husband had tried to blackmail Whitby.

  After killing her husband, Whitby began obsessing about Mrs. McDermott and about how much she knew. Rhonda was indeed blackmailing someone—Mrs. Anderson. She had always known about the pictures of Julia Anderson and Bernard Whitby. Her husband had never felt the need to hide those and had kept copies in their home. Those were the copies I’d found in the front closet.

  Nobody will ever know for certain what Rhonda’s motivation was. What we do know is that after her husband’s death, the life insurance company refused to pay until they had proof of her innocence. With the coffee shop closed, Rhonda was short of cash. In my opinion, the woman resorted to blackmail out of desperation. She probably wasn’t planning on making a career of it—just a short-term solution for a short-term problem.

  As for Whitby, he obsessed about Mrs. McDermott until he convinced himself that she knew all about her husband blackmailing him. He must have decided that getting rid of her was the only way Bunny’s secret would remain buried.

  Yes, life is full of surprises. Everybody was sure that Bunny Boyd had wormed her way into Whitby’s affections, but it turned out that he was madly in love with Bunny and had been since high school. He was the one who’d pursued her until she’d agreed to be his wife. But, as I’d guessed, the governorship was just as important to him as she was. And when he got the first blackmail demand from Philip McDermott, Bernard Whitby decided on a simpler solution.

  “So it was Whitby himself who told Bunny that her daughter had recently moved to Belmont?” Matthew asked.

  It was early evening, and we were sitting in my living room, basking in the glow of a good meal and good wine. I’d made coq au vin all by myself. And it was delicious.

  “That’s right. Philip McDermott sent him the information as proof. And Whitby went to Bunny to find out if it was all true. She admitted everything immediately. She had never tried to hide it. When she’d gotten pregnant at such a young age, her mother had bundled her off to an aunt in New York, so nobody in Briar Hollow had any idea she’d had a child. But when Whitby told her that her daughter was living only fifteen minutes away, she was overjoyed. She had been looking for her for years.”

  “I take it Whitby wasn’t thrilled by that,” Matthew said.

  “You can say that again. As much as Bunny didn’t care who found out, he didn’t want a soul to know. He was the one who sent the fake lawyer’s letter with the confidentiality agreement to Margaret, and he sent a fake personal letter to Bunny, along with the check he’d made Margaret return.”

  “Ingenious, really. He might have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you.”

  I beamed at the compliment. “Does that mean you forgive me for all the investigating I did?”

  “You mean snooping, don’t you?” He gave me a reproachful look. “You could have gotten killed. Honestly, what were you thinking? First you break into McDermott’s studio and almost get knocked out . . .”

  “That was Ricky, Emma’s boyfriend. It turns out he had been following her for a long time, and when he heard that McDermott had been killed, he broke into the studio to steal her pictures so no one else ever would see them.”

  “That guy was trouble. She’s better off without him. Speaking of better off without him, how’s Bunny doing?”

  “She is still reeling from the shock of Bernie being a murderer, but she’s spending a lot of time with Margare
t. I think they’re building a nice relationship.”

  I still hadn’t mentioned a word to Matthew about my threatening phone call, so there was no point in telling him that Ricky had admitted to it. As I’d guessed, Ricky blamed me for Emma’s decision to move to New York, and that call was just his way of getting back at me.

  I closed my eyes.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “I was thinking about Bunny and how nice she’s turned out to be,” I said.

  After Whitby was arrested, Bunny had surprised everyone by offering to purchase the mansion for herself. Whitby, as it turned out, was not nearly as rich as we all thought since he was desperate for money to fund his defense. He and Bunny had reached an agreement the same day, and now it was only a matter of time before the sale went through. She had then promised me and Margaret the contract.

  Sure, she admitted, the house was too big for her, but she pointed out that Margaret would get married someday and hopefully give her grandchildren. (At that point I had promised myself to never, ever allow Bunny and my mother to meet.)

  Margaret and I were thrilled, especially when Bunny promised to feature our work on one of her shows.

  “You’re talking about the contract.”

  I nodded.

  “All’s well that ends well,” he said.

  “All’s well that ends well,” I repeated, looking across the room at Winston, who was nuzzling with Clementine—lucky dog. Why couldn’t Matthew be nuzzling with me that way?