Tapestry of Lies: A Weaving Mystery (22 page)

I
slept like a log, so much so that when I looked at my alarm clock, it was already eight o’clock. I’d overslept by more than an hour. I threw back the blankets and hopped out of bed.

I scrambled into the first outfit I grabbed, did a three-minute makeup job and then spent ten minutes looking for a safe spot where I could hide ten thousand dollars and feel safe that nobody would find it. I opened the can of coffee beans and hid it in there. No, too easy. I pulled it out and slipped it behind the gallon of ice cream in the freezer. I changed my mind again and shoved it inside the bag of dog kibble.

I was halfway out the door when I changed my mind again and went running back. This time I slid the envelope between the Rice Krispies cardboard box and its wax paper bag. Nobody would think of looking there.

•   •   •

No matter how late I am, there are certain things I simply cannot forgo. One is my coffee, the other my newspaper. I hurried down the street to the newspaper dispenser and was just about to head back to work when I noticed that the side door to the McDermotts’ building—the entrance to their private quarters’—was ajar. How strange, especially on a gray day like today. I stayed rooted to my spot for a few minutes, certain that Rhonda would show up to either close the door or step out—but no. The door remained open. Suddenly a gust of wind came, flapping the door back and forth.

The little voice that had been niggling that something was wrong was now screaming. I crossed the street and stuck my head in the doorway.

“Hello? Anybody home?” Silence. That same voice was now quite insistent that I walk away
now
. I disregarded it and stepped inside. “Hello? Mrs. McDermott?” Still nothing. I wandered farther.

The McDermotts’ home looked old and tired, in my books synonymous with sad and loveless. The hallway paper was peeling at the corners and seemed to date from the seventies. I popped my head into the kitchen. I noted a worn and graceless yellow oak table and matching chairs and walked on. In the living area, the walls were old rose—an awful color—the chintz sofa and armchair shapeless. On the floor, the pastel Oriental rug was gray from age and too few cleanings.

“Hello? Is everything all right?” I stepped to a doorway—a bedroom, I realized—and peeked in. “Mrs. McDermott?” As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could see the shape of a bed, a dresser and a bundle on the floor. I blinked.

That was no bundle.

It was Mrs. McDermott.

The woman was twisted in an unnatural position with one arm flung over her head. I felt along the wall for the switch and flicked it on, flooding the room with light.

“Mrs. McDermott? Are you all right?” But even as I said this, I knew from her sightless stare that the woman was dead. I stepped closer and touched her wrist—ice-cold. My hand sprang back. And then I noticed the dark circle that had pooled around her—blood. I jumped up and ran out of the room, afraid I might be sick. I stuck my head out the door and took a few deep breaths, and my good sense caught up with me. I couldn’t just leave. I had to call the police. I scrambled through my purse for my cell phone and dialed 911.

“I’m calling to report a murder.” As soon as I mentioned a pool of blood and that the deceased was Mrs. McDermott, the dispatcher’s voice rose.

“Stay right where you are. And don’t touch anything. I’m sending the police and the coroner.”

The second I hung up, it hit me. If Mrs. McDermott was the blackmailer, as I suspected, this could explain why she hadn’t shown up at the appointed time last night. She was already dead.

A new thought occurred to me. I had maybe two, three minutes at most before the police got here. It wasn’t much time, but maybe just enough for what I wanted to do. I looked around. If I had wanted to hide photographs somewhere in this house, where would I have put them?

I returned to the bedroom, stepped around the body and headed for the closet. My hand was three inches from the handle when I stopped. I didn’t want to leave prints. I pulled the sleeve of my sweater over my hand and opened the closet door. I scanned the contents: two hanger rods, one above the other, both crammed, the top one with shirts and sweaters, the bottom one with dresses and pants. On the floor a jumble of shoes. Above, no shelf. I hurried back out. I walked around the body again and moved on to the desk in the living room. I opened the drawers—pens, paper, eraser, stapler, but no pictures. I hurried to the kitchen, pulling open the cupboard doors—still nothing. I stood in the center of the room and looked around.

I was searching in places that were too obvious. The hiding spot would have to be easy access, but not so obvious as to be the first place a person might look. And then my eyes fell on the broom closet. I dashed over.

It wasn’t until I was closing the door again that I noticed the corner of a brown manila envelope peeking out from a red plastic bucket. I snatched it, being careful not to leave prints, and opened the flap. Just as I’d suspected, inside were half a dozen pictures of a young Mrs. Anderson gazing adoringly into Bernard Whitby’s eyes.

It looked as if I’d been right. Mrs. McDermott was probably the blackmailer.

Suddenly I heard the sound of a siren approaching. I stuffed the pictures back inside the envelope and slipped it back where I had found it. Moments later, when the police came bursting in, I was sitting in the living room, looking innocent.

“Well, well,” Bailey said, laying eyes on me. “I take it you called in the murder?”

I nodded. “She’s in the bedroom.”

At the same time, the second cop, who had rushed by, called out, “She’s over here.” Bailey gave me a hard look and marched off toward the bedroom.

I stayed put, waiting for the questioning I knew would follow. A minute later, Bailey was back. He sat across from me and studied me through suspicious eyes. “Explain to me again,” he said, pen poised to take down my words, “what you were doing traipsing through the dead woman’s house.”

When he put it that way, I had to admit my actions did sound suspicious. “I was across the street, picking up my paper at the vending machine. I do that every morning.” I went on to explain about the side door being open, about the gust of wind that sent it flapping. “At first I thought she’d left it unlatched by mistake. I only popped my head in to let her know. But when she didn’t answer, I started worrying.”

“So you thought, why don’t I take a stroll around her house?”

I held on to my patience. “No. By then I was worried. She’d just lost her husband. For all I knew, she might have been ill, fainted or something.”

“Is that all?” the officer said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “I can’t help but notice that every time there’s a murder around here, there you are. How can one person be involved in so many murders?”

Whoa, “involved” was a big word. “If by that you mean that I happened to find both bodies, then, yes, I’m involved. But if you’re suggesting that I had something to do with their murders, then you’re way off base.”

He was trying to rattle me. I knew I shouldn’t worry, but I couldn’t help it. Even if Officer Bailey knew I was innocent, he might well have decided to solve the case the easy way—by convicting the convenient bystander, a temptation that might be made all the greater by the fear that unless he arrested someone soon, this same convenient bystander might solve the case before he did.

I made a big show of looking at my watch. “As far as I’m concerned, I did my duty. I called in the murder. If you need to speak to me, I’ll be at work. I’d better get going.” And since he didn’t protest, I got up and out of there, hurrying more with every step, until I was almost running back to the store.

By then I was more than an hour late for work. Still, I went back to my apartment. I picked up the phone and dialed. “Mrs. Anderson, please. Della from Dream Weaver is calling.”

In the background I could hear classical music and then, “Hello, Della.” I could tell by her tone that she was not alone. And just in case somebody was listening on the line—good grief, I really was becoming paranoid—I spoke in code, praying she would understand. “Hello, Mrs. Anderson. I waited for that weaver you told me about, but she never showed up. I still have that deposit you left me. Can you tell me when you’ll stop by for the refund?” There was a long silence at the other end. “Mrs. Anderson?”

“I’m listening, and I must say, I’m very disappointed.” She sounded more furious than disappointed.

“I followed your instructions to the letter, but the weaver never showed up,” I said, a bit more insistently.
Not my fault. Get it?

“Fine,” she said, and without another word, she hung up.

I stared at the receiver in my hand. Now what was I supposed to do? I had no idea when she would come get her money. If she didn’t pick it up soon, I had a good mind to hand it over to the police. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t do that without implicating myself.

I hung up and left the apartment. On my way downstairs, a horrible idea occurred to me. Had I been made a patsy?

I sat on the bottom step, chewing my lip. If Mrs. Anderson knew that the blackmailer was Mrs. McDermott, she might have sent me to meet her, intending on searching her house in the meantime. My blood ran cold as a question popped into my mind. If Mrs. Anderson killed Mrs. McDermott, did that make me an accessory to murder?

I ran back up the stairs, picked up the phone again and dialed Matthew’s number. He answered on the fourth ring.

“What?” he barked, sounding irritated.

“Matthew. This is really urgent. You have to help me.”

“Della? What’s wrong?”

“Did you hear the news? Mrs. McDermott is dead—murdered.” I heard his intake of breath. “I found her body.” He was quiet for a moment. “Please come. I don’t want to tell you the rest on the phone.”

“I’ll be right over.”

I hung up and called downstairs. Marnie answered. “I won’t be in for a little while. Can you handle everything by yourself for an hour or so?”

I could hear the smile in her voice. “Ah, hard night, was it? I hope Matthew kept you awake for hours.”

I didn’t even have the presence of mind to respond. “I’ll see you later.” Click. I hung up.

I plopped myself in a chair with my elbows on the table and my head in my hands. “I am in such trouble,” I said to the walls. And then I hopped to my feet and grabbed the bag of coffee beans from the cupboard. I had to keep busy or I’d go crazy. By the time Matthew arrived, Winston tagging along, coffee was ready and waiting.

We were on our second cup. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You think Julia Anderson played you?”

I nodded.

“You think she sent you to meet the blackmailer—Rhonda McDermott—and during that time, she broke into the woman’s house to search for the pictures.”

“Yes, but something went wrong. Either Rhonda was late leaving, or Mrs. Anderson got there early. When they came face-to-face, Mrs. Anderson had no choice but to kill her.” I paused. “Unless her plan was to kill her all along.”

He mulled this over for a long minute. “Before you jump to conclusions, you have to promise me you won’t do anything else. Stay out of it, Della. Do not call Mrs. Anderson. Do you hear me?” He did not sound happy.

I squeaked a tiny yes, deciding he didn’t have to know I’d already made that call. “Do you think the same killer that murdered Mr. McDermott also murdered his wife?”

“It’s a logical assumption,” he said.

“In that case, we can eliminate Ricky and Emma. He’s in jail and she’s in New York. That leaves Bunny and Mrs. Anderson. And since we can’t find a motive for Bunny killing either of the McDermotts, that leaves Mrs. Anderson. It’s got to be her. Also, I forgot to tell you. I found those pictures of her and Bernard Whitby in the house.”

“Are you telling me you searched the place?” he asked, his eyes wide with shock.

“Uh . . . I didn’t search it exactly. I just looked around a little while I was waiting for the police. And in case you’re worried, I made sure I didn’t leave any fingerprints.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” he said, but in fact, he sounded quite relieved.

“So what do I do now?”

“Do?” he asked, exasperated. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough? I already told you, stay out of it. I’ll go down to the station and find out what’s going on.” He stood, and on his way out of the kitchen, he paused. “I have a good mind to turn you over to the cops myself. That might be the only way to keep you safe.” He walked out.

Winston was sitting on the floor next to me. He looked up at me with big, sad eyes.

“He wouldn’t do that, would he?” I said.

Winston sighed deeply, shuffled over to his cushion and plopped down. I picked up the empty cups, rinsed them out and popped them into the dishwasher.

•   •   •

“Sorry I’m late,” I said as I stepped into the shop. I waited for Winston to come in and closed the door. Marnie came rushing over.

“Jenny’s shop is packed, and she’s all by herself this morning. Margaret can’t be here till eleven,” she whispered, wild-eyed. “Everybody’s talking about how, since you found both bodies, maybe you had something to do with them being murdered.”

I closed my eyes and grimaced.
Damn
. I looked at my watch—ten o’clock. “Maybe I can use that to our advantage. I can try scaring them into spending a lot of money in here.”

“Very funny.”

“So how do you suggest I handle it?”

“You’re innocent, aren’t you? Then just behave like normal.”

A moment later, a few customers left Jenny’s shop, and noticing me, made a dash for the front door. I looked at Marnie. “Gee, you’d think I was aiming a gun at them.”

Another group of women walked out of Jenny’s shop and scampered away when they saw me. This was not good for business.

When her shop was empty, Jenny came forward, carrying a tray of coffee cups and muffins.

I’d already had two cups this morning, and considering the way my hands were shaking, another was the last thing I needed. But when Jenny handed me a mug, I took it with a sigh of relief.

“I was ready to kill for one of these,” I said.