Weave of Absence (10 page)

“Great. Just the thing to say when you want to scare someone.”

“What I think is that Bruce Doherty might not be his real name.”

I was struck dumb. Of all the ideas that had crowded my mind, this one had never occurred to me. It conjured up a number of entirely new possibilities, each one more frightening than the other.

“Oh, my God. He's using an alias,” I blurted.
“I've got to call Marnie right now. She has to stay away from him.”

“Hold on a second. All we have right now is questions. You can't do or say anything until we know more. What if it's the first possibility?”

“You mean the face-lift? Come on, Matthew. You don't believe that any more than I do.”

“Still, you can't go and accuse someone unless you're one hundred percent sure.”

I folded my arms and glared at him. “So what do you want me to do? Sit back, while that man—”

He put up a hand. “I already called the Washington State Investment Board earlier. They have pictures of every person licensed to trade stocks and bonds or sell mutual funds in the state. They confirmed that a Bruce Doherty does exist, and they're e-mailing me his picture. I should get it at the latest by the end of the day tomorrow. That should tell us if we're on the right track.” He looked down at my plate and noticed my untouched steak. “If you don't start eating your food, I won't tell you anything else.”

“There's more?”

“Eat,” he said. I took a bite. “That's better,” he said. “Those are nice steaks. It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

He was right. The steak was delicious, but I had to force myself to swallow. I couldn't shake the picture of Bruce with his hands around Helen's throat. As soon I dispelled that image, it was replaced by one of him strangling Marnie.

“Stop worrying. There's nothing either one of us can do right now.”

“How can you expect me not to worry? I won't be able to sleep a wink tonight. Poor Marnie. By the way,” I said, changing the subject, “Bunny stopped by the store earlier. Did you know her Grandma Moses painting was stolen?” He nodded and I continued. “The police think she did it, because the painting was wired directly into the security system, and she was the only one with the code.”

“That hardly proves anything. Getting around a security system is a piece of cake for a professional thief.”

“Really? Knowing her, she probably spent a fortune for some fancy security system, and now you're telling me it's a waste of money?”

“All I'm saying is that when a burglar sets his mind to something, he can usually figure out a way to do it.”

“I just hate that she's under suspicion. Don't the police know who she is? She works in some of the most expensive homes in the country. If she was convicted of theft, even if it was for theft of her own painting, she never get another decorating contract again.”

“She has nothing to worry about. You know cops. They suspect everyone in the beginning.”

“Listen to this. Bunny happened to mention that the police want to question all the hotel guests. Marnie grabbed the phone to warn Bruce—her words,
not mine—as soon as she left. And then she stormed out when I commented that ‘warn' was a strange choice of words. What do you make of that?”

“Don't be too hard on her. You've been known to overreact at times too.”

“Hey! I resent that. I am not in the habit of overreacting.” Before he could come up with specific examples, I changed the subject. “I wouldn't have said anything to Marnie, except that she got this concerned look in her eyes, as if she was worried about him being questioned.”

“Hmm. Do you think she's beginning to suspect him?”

“Funny, that's what Jenny suggested. But even if she is, she's more likely to make excuses for him or, worse, protect him. I wouldn't put it past her to provide him with an alibi if he needs one.”

“You're jumping to conclusions. From what I know of Marnie, she'd more likely shoot the man than protect him.”

“You can't imagine how much in love she is.”

“I wish somebody would feel that way about me,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. I wanted to blurt out,
“Just open your eyes. Can't you see that I'm in love with you?”
But, as usual, I kept that information to myself.

“This is no time for joking,” I said. “Don't forget that Helen Dubois had an argument with that man, and just a few hours later, I found her dead. I'm beginning to think I should just come right out and tell Marnie everything we know.”

“Normally, I'd agree with you. But in this case, I'd say there's no point.”

“What do you mean there's no point?”

“If you tell her without having something to back up your claim, the first thing she'll do, after slamming the door in your face, will be to pick up the phone and tell him. Then she'll be in even graver danger.”

“Oh, my God. I never thought of that. If he wants to get his hands on her life insurance, he'll kill her right away.”

“That's why I keep telling you to wait.”

“Okay,” I said, subdued. “But you've got to bring me that picture the minute you get it.”

“I will. I promise.”

Now that we had a firm plan, I felt a bit better. Matthew would get the picture tomorrow—twenty-four hours from now. Surely nothing could go wrong in just one day.

I
spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning. My mind raced, conjuring one frightening scene after another—Marnie lying on her sofa, her face purple and bloated. As this image faded, it was replaced by one of Marnie at the altar in a white wedding dress, splashed with blood, staring into the eyes of a stone-cold killer. By five o'clock, I gave up trying to sleep. I tossed back the covers and crawled out of bed. After making myself a pot of coffee, I wandered down to the shop.

I was appraising the results of my latest marketing effort. I'd brought in the handwoven shirt my client had admired the other day and used it as the central piece in a display. I'd moved the hand towels out of the armoire and set the shirt in their place. Around it I'd hung a few of Margaret's magnificent shawls, and on the other side, a half dozen of Marnie's afghans. This was the first time I'd created a fashion grouping, and much to my relief it looked lovely. With any luck my customers would think so too, and the orders would
come rolling in. I returned to the counter, where I'd left the pot of coffee I'd made, and poured myself another cup. When I got to my third, I came to the conclusion that no amount of caffeine would sweep the cobwebs from my brain this morning.

I made my way over to my loom. It wasn't yet six. Jenny wouldn't be here for another two hours, Marnie not for three or four. That's if she showed up at all. Hopefully she would, and by then I should have made some serious progress on her white and purple dishcloths. When she saw how hard I'd worked on them, she would get over her anger.

I had originally planned for four dishcloths. One was finished, which meant my loom was dressed for three more. I measured the amount of purple yarn I would need, wound it on a bobbin and popped it into the shed. Soon I was swept away in the rhythm of working the loom.

Before I knew it, the bell tinkled and I glanced at my watch—ten to eight
. Already?

It was Jenny. “You're here early,” she said, coming over to see what I was working on. “Is this one of the dish towels you're making for Marnie?”

“It is.”

“I'd better get going on the hand towels, then. Otherwise, everyone will be finished with their pieces except me.” The bell rang again, and this time Margaret walked in and wandered over to join us.

“Nice,” she said, admiring the dish towel. “I've
finished dressing my loom for a set of place mats. I'm glad I didn't start the weaving. I understand she wants purple?”

“That's what she wants.”

Margaret shrugged. “Oh, well, to each his own. Did you start the coffee?” she asked. Jenny shook her head, and Margaret said, “I'll go put it on.”

Jenny turned her attention back to me, and frowned. “Are you okay? You don't look so good.”

“Gee, thanks.” I stood and stretched my back. “I couldn't sleep,” I said, searching her face. To my relief I saw none of the miffed attitude of yesterday—just concern.

“I hope it wasn't over the . . .” She pointed to me and then to herself. “I don't know why I got so upset. It's not as if I should have been surprised. You're a pragmatist. You don't believe in tarot and tea leaves.”

“I'm sorry. I wish—”

“Nothing to be sorry about. You are who you are. And there's nothing wrong with that. I'm the one who should be sorry.”

“It's okay. As you said, you are who you are too. And I shouldn't have expected you to lie to Marnie.” She beamed me a smile.

“Well, I'm glad that's over.” She made a hand-wiping gesture. “There, all forgotten. Now, how about a cup of coffee?” When she returned with the coffee, I repeated what I'd learned from Matthew.

“He thinks Bruce Doherty is an alias?” she said,
aghast. “Oh, my God. Maybe you were right about that life insurance policy he made her take.”

“That's the part that really scares me.”

“Maybe Margaret is right. We have to warn her right now.”

“We can't do that,” I said, explaining Matthew's theory that telling her would only place her in even graver danger. “Like Matthew says, she won't believe a word unless we have proof. And he should be receiving a photo of the real Bruce Doherty from the Investment Board today.”

“I can't believe I just gave her a reading and saw none of that in there.” Luckily, I was able to keep a straight face. “Although,” she continued, “that would have more likely shown up in Bruce's—or whatever his name is—cards than hers. Are you sure we can't tell her?”

“Not until Matthew brings me the photo. I promised. Besides, unless we have indisputable proof, Marnie would never believe us.”

At that moment the telephone rang and Jenny picked it up.

“It's Marnie,” she said, covering the mouthpiece. Into the phone, she said “Yes” a few times and then, “What?” All at once the blood seemed to drain from her face, leaving her looking gray.

“What's wrong?” I asked, but she only waved me away, gripping the receiver tighter.

“How bad is it? Are you sure you're all right?”

“Did something happen to Marnie?” I mouthed
again. She turned her back to me, covering her other ear with her hand.

“But how could that have happened?” She listened a bit longer, and then whispered a few words of encouragement. “You'll be all right. Don't worry about that.” At last she replaced the receiver in its cradle. “Marnie had an accident,” she said. “She fell down some stairs. She's got one arm in a sling and she's having trouble walking—something to do with one of her knees and her hips. She won't be able to come in today.”

“But how?” I asked, as a vision of Bruce pushing her down a flight of stairs popped into my mind.

Jenny nodded knowingly. “Whatever you're imagining, I think you're probably right. She said Bruce took her out to dinner at some fancy restaurant in Belmont last night. It's on the second floor of some old house. As they were leaving, she stumbled and fell down the stairs.”

“You know what's going on, don't you? He's trying to kill her,” I said. “He's got that insurance policy on her and he's trying to get rid of her. We can't wait. We have to go and tell her about him right this minute.”

Her eyes filled with horror. “I think you're right. But there's one problem. You said it yourself. We can't tell her until we have that picture. But what we can do is make sure she's not alone with that creep for one second.”

“Good idea.”

“I just thought of something,” Jenny said. “I don't have anything to serve my customers.”

“Why don't you zip up to Belmont and buy whatever you need from Melinda? Her baking is similar to Marnie's. Most customers won't even notice the difference.”

“I don't have a car.”

I turned to Margaret.

“Don't look at me,” she said. “My car is at the garage. And it's going to stay there until I can afford to pay for the repairs.”

I sighed. “I suppose I could go.” As uncomfortable as seeing Melinda again might be, making certain that Jenny's shop stayed open today took priority. And since my shop didn't open officially until ten o'clock, it made sense that I should go.

“But what about Marnie? We can't leave her by herself.”

“Margaret, you go to Marnie's. It's only a five minute walk,” I said. I turned to Jenny. “You'll have to mind both stores until I return.”

“Let me make you a list of what I need.” She picked up a pencil and a piece of paper. A minute later she handed it to me. I grabbed my purse and my keys and hurried off.

Melinda was behind the counter, handing out change to a customer. “Thank you,” she said. “Come again.” And then she turned to me. “I didn't expect to see you back so soon. What can I do for you? Are you looking for another recipe?”

“Marnie had an accident,” I said. I hadn't been here two minutes and I was already feeling defensive. “She hasn't been able to fill Jenny's order for the coffee shop. I was hoping you might have most of what she needs.” I handed her the list.

She perused it and raised her brows. “That's pretty much everything I have in the store. Let's see what I can do.” As she counted muffins, transferring them to cardboard boxes, I asked, “Have you heard from Bruce Doherty by any chance?” I knew I was fishing, but it had occurred to me that if they had been flirting at the party, he might have followed up with a call.

“No, and I don't think I'm likely to.” The way she said this, her eyes firing anger and her jaw set determinedly, gave me the impression that she was furious with him. This made no sense, unless . . . she had expected to hear from him but hadn't. I waited, hoping she'd continue without my probing. I had no way of knowing if my imagination was running rampant or if this meant nothing at all. “That's it for the muffins,” she said, tying string around a box.

She gave me a stiff smile and handed me another box. “Here are the scones.” She resumed counting pastries. Soon she had packaged everything. “Let me help you to your car.” She grabbed a few boxes by the string and carried them out.

“Come again,” she said as I closed the hatch.

“You're the second-best baker in the county,” I said, giving her the friendliest smile I could
muster. “And if Marnie doesn't make me those pecan rolls, I'll be coming over regularly.” I walked around to the passenger seat and drove away.

Fifteen minutes later I parked in front of my shop. I stumbled in carrying a stack of parcels and almost dropped everything when Winston came galloping over. What a mess that would have been.

“Down, boy. Down.”

Jenny appeared from the back, waving a manila envelope. “Matthew just came by. He sounded disappointed that you weren't here. He dropped this off for you and left. And then, just a couple of minutes ago, he phoned and asked that you call him the minute you get back.”

I set the boxes on the counter and tore open the envelope. I was looking at a photo of an older man.

“They don't even look alike,” I said, studying the scanned picture.

Jenny peeked over my shoulder for a closer look. “Oh, I don't know. It might be him if the man was about twenty years younger, fifty pounds thinner, and if his hair was dark brown instead of gray.”

“Not funny.”

“I've got to get back to work. I've got a shop full of customers,” she said.

I waved her off and picked up the phone. Matthew answered on the second ring.

“I'm looking at the picture right now,” I said.
“You were right. He's using a stolen identity. I'm going over to Marnie's this minute.”

“Hold on. Not so fast. I just got an e-mail from the Investment Board. They said they forgot to mention that they also found a BJ Doherty registered as a financial advisor. This advisor also happens to be the new owner of the firm the older Bruce Doherty sold before retiring. It could be that the
B
in his name stands for Bruce. If he was working in the same firm along with his father, he might have used initials instead of his name to avoid confusion.”

“You can't be serious. Now you're telling me that we don't know any more than we did yesterday?”

“I asked them to send me this BJ's pictures, and they promised to rush it. It shouldn't take terribly long. Probably no more than an hour or so. So, I hate to say this again, but you have to wait. Don't you dare say a word about any of this to Marnie until I get that picture.”

My voice rose an octave. “Did Jenny happen to mention that he tried to kill Marnie last night?”

“She did,” he said. “And first of all, we don't know that he tried to kill her. It could well have been an accident.”

“You don't believe a word of that yourself.”

“She also told me what you girls decided to do. I think it's a good idea. As long as one of you is by her side she won't be in any danger.”

“Okay, fine,” I muttered. “But, please, call me
the second you get that picture. I'll have my cell on.”

I hurried over to Marnie's house, stopping along the way to pick up a newspaper. At least I'd have something to keep me occupied if she refused to speak to me. I had barely pressed the bell at her house, when the door was flung open and Margaret rushed out.

“Thank God you're here. She's as ornery as a bull at a rodeo. She keeps insisting she wants to be by herself. I thought she was about to call the cops to get me thrown out. Hope you have better luck than I did.” She pulled on her sweater as she spoke, then took off at a jog.

“Who is that at the door?” Marnie called from the back of the house.

“It's me—Della,” I said, crossing the living room. Marnie's decor was punctuated with the unusual and the just plain strange. A ruby red sofa in the shape of lips dominated the living room. On either side was a Hawaiian hula-dancing-girl lamp. The walls were covered with a mixture of framed posters—everything from a movie poster of Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart in
Casablanca
, to an Andy Warhol rendition of a can of Campbell's soup, to a reproduction of Leonardo da Vinci's
Last Supper
. To say the decor was eclectic was the understatement of the year.

“Who gave you permission to come in?” Marnie called from the bedroom. “I want you to leave
right now.” I ignored the comment and pushed the door open, finding myself in a frilly pink room. The white canopy bed had a pink coverlet and a pink tulle skirt. The bedside tables were undersized white Bombay chests with mirrored tops. The curtains were pink, and even the rug was pink—not what I had expected. Having said that, I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, Marnie had painted the outside of the house pink. And she certainly did like the unusual.

I cleared my throat. “Sorry, girlfriend, but I'm not going anywhere. So, here's your choice. You can be nice, or you can give me the silent treatment. It might be more pleasant for both of us if you play nice, but either way, I'm not going anywhere.” She was lying on her back, wearing—what else—a pink bathrobe. She had one ice pack on her knee and a second one against her hip. Her arm was in a sling, and her left cheek was scraped and bruised.