Weave of Absence (15 page)

At that moment Margaret set the last bag on the counter. “What suggestion?”

“I was just telling Jenny that the police picked Marnie up. And Jenny asked me if Marnie killed Bruce,” I said, incensed.

“That's outrageous,” Margaret sputtered.

“I didn't mean it that way,” Jenny argued.

“What other way is there?” I asked. And then seeing the look on her face, I changed my tone. “I'm sorry. I guess I feel protective of her. Anybody who knows Marnie has to realize that she could never hurt anybody.”

“That's right,” Margaret said. “She couldn't hurt a fly.”

“Hopefully that will be everybody's opinion,” I said. “Starting with the police.”

I heard the telephone ringing from my shop and raced over. “Dream Weaver, good morning. Della speaking.”

“Della? It's me.”

“Mom? Hi. How are you?”

“How I am is worried. I just heard about a second murder victim in Briar Hollow. Please tell me you didn't find that body too.”

“Don't worry. I didn't. Matthew found him.” It was better not to mention that I happened to be present. “You know, don't you, that the victim was Marnie's fiancé?”

“He was? Oh, how terrible. You never told me she was engaged.”

“I didn't? It happened very recently,” I said. “And very fast.”

“What do you mean, fast? How long had she known him?”

“Not long at all. Only one month.”

“Really.” I could almost hear the gears in my mother's brain clicking. Any second now, she would question how Marnie could get a man to propose in such a short time when I couldn't even get Matthew to date me after years of knowing him.

“It was a terrible mistake on her part,” I said quickly. “The police are looking into him. So far all we know is that he was using an alias, and he talked Marnie into buying one million dollars of life insurance with him as beneficiary.”

There was a gasp at the other end. “Are you suggesting he was planning to kill her?”

“That's one possibility. At this point we just don't know.”

“Oh, my. That poor woman. She must be devastated.”

“She is. Totally devastated.”

“I think I'll give her a call. What do you think? Or should I just send her some flowers?”

“I'm sure she'd like to hear from you, but give her a day or two. Right now she's pretty raw.”

“You're right, of course. So how's Matthew?” she asked.

“He's well,” I said, wondering how I could preempt an interrogation. The best way was probably just to tell her what she wanted to know without waiting for the questions. “We've been having dinner pretty regularly lately.”

“Dinner . . . as in dinner dates?”

“I'm not sure. He seems friendlier these last few weeks. More affectionate too.” And before she got the wrong impression, I added, “Not romantic or anything, just—I don't know—warmer.”

“That's good. I hope you're responding in the same way?”

“I am, but I have to be careful. I want him to take the lead.”

“Right. Good thinking. Oh, I'm so happy. That is such good news,” she said, her voice rising an octave in her excitement. Before I knew it, we'd said good-bye and hung up. This was the first time in ages that I'd had a lovely conversation with my mother without feeling pressured. Maybe that was the trick—just tell her what she wanted to hear. The problem was that what she wanted to hear was not always what really happened.

I wandered over to my loom, thinking about what I'd just told my mother. It was true. Matthew had been behaving differently toward me lately.
For a long time we'd had a friendly but sparring relationship. Lately, the bickering gave way to gentleness, and the change had been so gradual that I'd hardly noticed. What could it mean? I stared at the shuttle in my hands.

There was no point in obsessing about this. I would simply have to keep my eyes open and encourage Matthew every chance I got. I loaded my shuttle with a fresh bobbin and returned to my weaving. Soon my worries for Marnie were replaced by more positive thoughts. With Matthew's help, Bruce's murder would be solved and Marnie's life would go on. I had no doubt about it.

Most days I could count on a few hours of weaving before business picked up sometime around midmorning. But today—probably because of the news of Bruce Doherty's murder—business was hopping right from the start. To my surprise, one of my first customers was Liz Carter. She came bursting through the door a few minutes after ten.

“I just heard,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “It's such a tragedy.” Her sadness seemed sincere. “Poor Marnie. How is she doing?”

“She'll recover,” I said, not wanting to say too much. “It will take some time, but she'll get over it.”

She nodded grimly. “I suppose,” she said. “Can you think of anything I can do to help her?”

“Not at the moment, but if I do, I'll let you know.”

“She wanted to take care of Helen's funeral
arrangements. Maybe I could help her do that,” she said.

“Do you have any idea when the medical examiner plans to release her body?”

“As a matter of fact, I called the police department as soon as I heard they'd picked Marnie up this morning.” I wondered how that piece of news had gotten out so fast. As if reading my mind, she explained. “Mercedes Hanson saw her get into the police car his morning. She told me about it when she stopped at the library to drop off some books.” Mercedes didn't have a malicious bone in her body. If she'd said anything, it would have been out of concern.

“What did the police say?” I asked, referring to the release of Helen's body.

“The medical examiner will soon be finished. And then they'll need someone to claim the body before releasing it. I don't mind doing that.”

“The police weren't able to locate any living relatives?”

“Seems not,” she continued in a gossipy tone. “Anyhow, I'd better get going. I'm on my way to church. I'm meeting with Father Jones to finalize the library fund-raiser. He promised me some volunteers. I'll ask him about organizing a funeral service at the same time. Helen would have wanted a religious ceremony.”

“That's very nice of you,” I said.

“The only problem is,” she said, “I'll have to get into Helen's house and find something nice for
her to wear.” I must have looked surprised because she added, “For the viewing.”

“Of course,” I said.

“I'll let you know what Father Jones suggests regarding the funeral, and you can tell Marnie.”

I watched the door close behind her, as questions crowded my mind.

Helen's body hadn't been released yet, so why did Liz need to get her a dress? Besides, she'd already been dead for nearly a week, and she'd been autopsied. Could an open-casket service even be held under the circumstances? Why did I have the feeling that this was just an excuse for Liz getting into Helen's house?
I'm definitely getting paranoid
.

The bell rang and I looked up to see Nancy Cutler walking in with two other friends of Marnie's who'd been at the party.

“Go ahead,” she told them, waving them toward the coffee shop. “I'll join you in a minute.” She came over to the counter. “Hi, Della. Can you believe what happened to Bruce Doherty?”

“It was quite the shock,” I said, and then I changed the subject before she could get away. “I've been thinking about what you told me regarding Brent Donaldson, and I can't help wondering, do you have any idea whether Helen ever saw a picture of him?”

She puckered her brow, thinking. “I know Helen never met him. But whether she ever saw a picture of him, I couldn't be sure. I remember Sybille begging Brent to come to Briar Hollow with
her. She so wanted him to meet her sister. But he never did. On the other hand, I wouldn't be surprised if she sent Helen that same picture she showed me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don't know. It just makes sense. She was so excited to show me, and even with the geographical distance, she and Helen always remained close. I'd be shocked if she hadn't. On the other hand, the police asked me for a picture of him during the investigation of Sybille's disappearance. Surely they wouldn't have asked me if they'd gotten one from Helen.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “The more pictures they have, the better.”

“True,” she agreed.

“Did you and Helen ever discuss the case?”

Her eyes widened. “Are you kidding? That was all she ever talked about. The police never found out anything, but that didn't stop her from carrying on her own investigations. For years, she called me regularly, sometimes a couple of times a week. She'd ask me the same questions over and over again. ‘Did Sybille ever mention meeting any of Brent's friends or family?' ‘Did I know where he was born?' ‘Did they have any special places where they used to go?' ‘Could they have run away together?' It got to the point where I started feeling as if I was a suspect. I finally stopped taking her calls. Then, when I moved back out here, I got an apartment in Belmont rather than in Briar
Hollow, just so I wouldn't have to run into her every day. Eventually, of course, I did. And you know, Helen probably blamed me on some level for Sybille's disappearance, because whenever she saw me she'd just pretend she didn't see me.”

“How awful for you,” I said.

“To tell you the truth,” she continued in a whisper, “I think Helen had sort of lost her grip on reality these last few years. I know it's not nice to speak ill of the dead, but honestly, she became as loony as a tune.” She made a circling gesture around her ear.

“That's so sad,” I said, wondering whether Nancy was making this up or not. It was possible. Helen had probably spent years obsessing about finding her sister. She'd fought to keep the police investigating long after the case had grown cold, putting up rewards. Had she continued until her mind had snapped? I suddenly remembered that Marnie had mentioned Helen falling apart after years of trying to find Sybille. That was when she'd turned to the courts to have her sister declared legally dead. Poor woman. It sounded as if she'd waited too long to turn the page. By then she'd already lost her mind.

“If only I could find out for sure whether Sybille ever sent Helen a picture of her boyfriend,” I said.

“What difference would it make at this point? The case is closed.” She looked at me incredulously. “Oh. I get it. You're looking for proof that Bruce and Brent are the same man. But even if she
did see his picture, that was such a long time ago. She would have thrown it away by now.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” I said. “No matter how much she may have wanted to put the whole thing behind her, she would never have gotten rid of any pictures, any letters, or for that matter, any evidence she may have gathered. I bet if we searched, we'd find a box somewhere in her house, filled with every—” I stopped abruptly as an idea came to me. That was exactly what I would do. I would search Helen's house.

“Della?”

I startled. Nancy was staring at me strangely.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. I'm fine,” I said. I couldn't remember what we'd been talking about and had to scramble for something to say. “I'm just worried for Marnie. This is devastating for her.”

“Of course. It would be for anyone.” I detected a note of condescension in her voice. She adjusted her sweater. “Well, I'd better get going. Got a lot to do today.” She marched toward the door and left.

For the rest of the day, my mind kept going back to Helen. I hadn't told a soul about my idea of sneaking into her house. She'd been dead five days now, and the police had already moved on to a fresher case—Bruce's. I wondered how risky it might be to go in.

T
he gossip train was running full tilt right through my shop, with a nonstop stream of customers, all intent on hearing the latest over a cup at Coffee, Tea and Destiny. At one o'clock, Margaret came up front and brought me a ham and cheese sandwich and a cup of java.

“I figured you'd be hungry. And seeing as you're on your own today, you wouldn't have time to get something to eat.”

“Thanks. I'm famished.”

She retreated back to the coffee shop and I was able to grab a few bites in between sales. At three thirty, the store became empty and I was just starting on the second half of my sandwich when Mercedes Hanson stopped by.

“Hi, Della,” the teenager said as the door closed behind her. “I guess Marnie's not here?”

“She might be home,” I said.

Mercedes slouched over to me, her eyes filled with worry. “No. I just went by. There's no answer.
I saw the cops picking her up this morning. I'm so scared for her.”

“I know. I'm worried too. But Marnie did not kill Bruce. If you're worried about her going to jail, remember this: the truth will prevail in the end.”

“You really think so?”

“I do,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “By the way, Liz Carter stopped by. She mentioned you went by the library this morning and told her.”

“Is that what she said? That I told her?” Mercedes exclaimed. “It was more like she forced it out of me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was walking by the library on my way to school, and she called me in to help her move a heavy desk. That turned out to be a total lie. She just wanted to pump me for information about Marnie.”

I planted my elbows on the counter. “I think you'd better tell me everything.”

“Well, first of all, the desk was on wheels, so all I did was roll it over by about two feet. She pretended to be so surprised, said she never noticed the wheels. Yeah. Right. And then she started asking questions about Marnie. How was she doing? Did I know if the wedding was going on as scheduled? I feel so stupid for it now, but before I knew it, I just blurted out how worried I was, that I'd seen the cops take her away in the police car. And,
you know, the weirdest part, is as soon as I said that, I got the feeling that this was good news to her. Of course she pretended to get all sad.”

“Really,” I muttered to myself.

“And then, at lunchtime, I found out that Marnie's fiancé was murdered.” Her brow furrowed. “That's when it hit me. I bet she already knew Mr. Doherty was dead. She wanted to find out whether Marnie knew too.”

I held back a gasp. If Mercedes was right, that would mean Liz had heard the news before anybody else. How could she have known, unless . . .
Ridiculous,
I thought.
But true that the gossip mill in this town traveled at the speed of light.

I became aware that Mercedes was still talking. “Poor Marnie. Do you think I should stop by and offer her my condolences?”

“I think that's a very nice idea.”

She nodded. “Maybe I can bring her some flowers or something. I'll ask my mom to come with me. Do you think she'll be coming back to work soon?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I have an idea. How would you feel about helping out at the store until Marnie is feeling better?”

“Really? You would let me work here?” You would have thought I'd just invited her to a party. “That would be amazing. I'd love it. Maybe I can work on those napkins I'm making for her.”

“Good idea. You've become so good with your own weaving that I think you could answer
questions and help customers just about as well as I can.”

We discussed payment and the number of hours she would come in, and by the time we came to an agreement, she was walking on sunshine.

And by then it was already after four. Matthew would be here to pick up Winston soon, and I was tempted to ask him to have dinner together. There was so much I wanted to tell him. But I also wanted to get into Helen's house before it got dark out. If I wanted to search without attracting undo attention, I'd have to do it without turning on the lights.

“How would you like to start right now?” I asked.

Her face lit up. “You mean, like, right this minute?”

“Like, right this second.”

“Sure. What do you want me to do?”

“You can start by putting your bag behind the counter and minding the store for me while I go run a few errands.”

“What do I do if somebody wants to buy something?”

I opened the drawer and pulled out a sales pad. “Here is the receipt book.” I briefed her on how to process credit cards and how to operate the cash register. “Don't worry. I know you'll do fine,” I assured her. Helen's house was only a few blocks away. The last thing I wanted was for anyone to notice my red Jeep parked in front of her house, so
I took off on foot. After making sure there was nobody on the street, I walked around to the back of her house. My fear that the door lock would have been repaired proved needless. It slid open effortlessly. The only obstacle was a yellow crime scene tape across the entrance. I stepped between the ropes of police tape, and a minute later I was inside. I left my purse on the kitchen counter and paused to think. It occurred to me that if I'd just had a nasty argument, the first thing I would have done after coming home would have been to call a friend and vent. I picked up the kitchen phone, the one I figured would have been the most likely one she would have used, and I pressed
REDIAL
. After a few rings it picked up. I was just about to hang up when I realized it was an answering system.

“Hi, I am not home right now, but—” It was Nancy Cutler's voice. I hung up before the end of the message.

My head was spinning. If Helen had called Nancy the night she'd died, why hadn't Nancy mentioned it? On the other hand, Helen's telephone was old. It had no call nor time display. There was no way I could prove exactly when that last call had been made. It could have been weeks ago. Or, for that matter, whether Helen had even reached Nancy or the answering system, or whether she'd hung up before it even started ringing. I spotted another telephone in the hallway and tried that one. To my horror, the police dispatcher picked up.

“Oh, eh, wrong number. Sorry,” I said and put the receiver down.
Shit, shit, shit
. I prayed that the woman wouldn't automatically recognize the number as coming from the phone of a murder victim. Then I realized how silly that was. She probably answered hundreds of calls a day. There was no way she would take notice of one particular wrong number. I took a deep breath.
Why would Helen have called the police?
Or was it simply that the police had used her phone when they were here? If that was what had happened, there was no way of knowing whom she had last called from that phone.
Well, that was a waste of time.

I started my search with Helen's bedroom. I opened the closet. It was full of staid dresses and skirts—grays, browns, beiges. Not a colorful garment anywhere in sight. It made me feel even sorrier for the woman. Her sister seemed to have been the only ray of sunshine in her life.

On the floor was a jumble of practical shoes. I reached for the shelf on top. Way too high. I went in search of a chair and carried one over from the kitchen. The only thing I found on the shelf was a stack of shoeboxes containing old tax returns, credit card statements, and IRA investments—money that she'd saved for her whole life and would never get to enjoy. I put the boxes back the way I'd found them and returned the chair to the kitchen. I went through the dresser drawers, then the bedside table. Nothing.

Next, I tackled the living room, looking under the sofa and inside the entertainment unit. I moved on to the hall closet and then to the bedroom. Still nothing. I was in the second bedroom, which Helen had used as a combination crafts and sewing room, when I heard a scraping noise. I froze. It sounded like the sliding door being opened. I listened, and sure enough, the next sound I heard was soft footsteps, like somebody tiptoeing through the kitchen. Somebody was in the house. I ducked down and slid under the bed.

My purse,
I thought. I'd left it on the kitchen counter. Anyone who looked inside would know right away that I was here. If the intruder was the killer, I was as good as dead. A new sound sent my heart racing. Any faster and I'd be going into fibrillation. What if this was the police? I might not be murdered, but I'd be in deep trouble. At this point, I didn't care who it was, just as long as they didn't find me. I considered bargaining with God. I could promise never to play detective again. But I doubted I could keep such a promise. The footsteps came closer and I held my breath until I thought my lungs would explode. They continued down the hall, but just as I exhaled, the steps turned around. The door opened and the intruder walked in. All I could see, in the inch of space between the dust ruffle and the parquet floor, was a pair of high-heeled shoes—definitely not policemen's shoes. I allowed myself a small measure of relief. Whoever
this woman was, at least she couldn't arrest me.
Could it be Liz?
And I was almost tempted to lift the dust ruffle and look. But if Liz had arranged to pick up a dress, she would have come in the front door. And she certainly wouldn't be searching the house. No. Whoever this was had no business being here. No more than I did, I reminded myself.

The intruder tiptoed across the room, stopping by the side of the bed, just a few inches from where I hid. There was the squeak of a tight drawer being pulled open, and then it slammed shut. The woman went through them all—the same drawers I'd just searched. But why? The high heels moved away, this time pausing at the closet. I heard a creak and the sound of shuffling.

All this time I fully expected to be discovered, but to my relief, after a while the woman moved on to another part of the house. Minutes went by. At long last I heard the sliding door open and shut, and then silence. I waited another few minutes before slipping out from under the bed. I dashed to the kitchen, grabbed my purse, and then ran to the living room window just in time to see a blue economy car speed away. I tried to remember what kind of car Liz Carter drove. Hadn't Marnie once joked about Liz's car being almost as old as she was? Yes. She'd talked about how proud Liz was of her old red Ford Mustang. So if the intruder hadn't been Liz, then who? And why?

I returned to Helen's bedroom and searched it all over again. This was the last room where the
intruder had been. If she'd ended her search here, didn't that imply that this was where she had found whatever she had been looking for? I riffled through drawers, played checkers with the shoeboxes in the closet. This time I remembered to look under the bed. Still, nothing. If something had been taken, I couldn't for the life of me guess what it was. I stood there, hands on hips, wondering where else I should search, when my eye fell upon something peeking from under the bedside lamp. When I pulled it out, I found myself looking at two snapshots. The first was a picture of Sybille smiling widely at the camera. She was standing on a beach, wearing a bathing suit that showed off her perfect figure, her long blond hair blowing in the breeze.
The girl was a beauty
.
A real knockout.
I put it aside and picked up the second picture. My breath caught.
Well, what do you know?
I was studying the grainy snapshot of a twentysomething man. It was a close-up, and even though it was yellowed with age, I had no doubt that the man in the photo was Bruce Doherty, or Brent Donaldson, as he called himself back then. I wondered if this was an enlargement of the shot Nancy had seen two decades ago.

This brought up more questions. I hadn't looked under the lamp earlier, so for all I knew, these photos might have been here all along. Or the intruder might have planted them just now. If so, why?

Another possibility was that Helen had had this picture all along. But that didn't make much sense
either. If she'd had it, she would have given it to the police. The only thing I knew for certain was that Bruce Doherty and Brent Donaldson were one and the same. And if Helen recognized him, this gave Bruce a motive for murder. I debated taking the pictures to show to Matthew, but decided against it. He would have my hide for tampering with evidence, and whatever warm feelings he had for me would be gone.

I snatched my cell phone from my bag and snapped a few shots of both photographs. And then I slid the pictures back under the lamp.

I returned to the sewing room, pulled the cardboard box out from under the bed, and lifted the cover. Inside was a mountain of old snapshots and letters. My eyes settled on the photograph on top—a young family: a mother, a father, a prepubescent girl I recognized as Helen, and a child, Sybille. I set the box on the bed and sat down next to it, sorting through the jumble of pictures. It was like seeing family members grow older before my eyes. There were old wedding photos. Helen's parents, I supposed. There were pictures of a baby girl, Helen at around two years old. Then shots of her being bounced on her father's knee. A few snaps later she became a schoolgirl with a homemade haircut complete with crooked bangs. I dug down a few inches and came across a picture of another child—pretty blond Sybille. Even back then the girl had been a looker. There were dozens more family photos, and then, suddenly, no more
of the parents and only a few of Helen. Sybille grew from a beautiful child into a stunning adolescent. I came across a picture of her taken at the beach. In this one, another young woman stood next to her. The brunette was rather plain. To my surprise, I recognized her. It was Nancy. But what really caught my eye was the way Nancy was staring at Sybille. Her expression was flat, as if she had carefully erased any emotion from her face. I studied it for a long time before dropping it back into the pile. I dumped the rest on the bed. The handful of remaining photos were all of Helen, and she seemed to grow old before her time, morphing into the image of her mother. The rest were letters and greeting cards. I pulled out a letter. It was from Sybille and was dated twenty-two years earlier.