Weave of Absence (9 page)

“Almost half a million.”

Ouch
. “No wonder you're upset.”

“It's not the painting, or even the money, that I'm upset about.” She tightened her lips for a moment, struggling to keep her emotions in check. “I always thought of Briar Hollow as home. This is where I come to feel safe. If somebody can break into my home here, then I might as well stay in New York between filming seasons.” It occurred to me that I'd had the same bleary thoughts after discovering Helen's body.

“Anybody would feel that way after a bad shock. But, you'll see, everything will fall into place. The police will catch the culprit, and they'll find your painting.” She looked as if she didn't believe a word of it.

Marnie appeared carrying a tray with a cup and a plate of pastries. “Here you go. I brought you
something to eat. It'll make you feel better.” She set everything on the counter and handed the mug to Bunny.

“Thank you.” And then she surprised me by accepting a chocolate cupcake. This, more than anything, drove home just how upset she was. As if she'd read my thoughts, Bunny said, “I normally never eat pastries, but I haven't had a bite since dinner last night—so, just this once.” She broke a piece off her cupcake and popped it into her mouth.

“I wonder if it's the work of the same person,” Marnie said.

“What are you talking about?” Bunny asked.

“Haven't you heard?” Marnie asked. She told her about the article in the
Belmont Daily
. “I'm surprised you didn't see it.”

“I only read the
New York Times
. Tell me more about this article.”

“They've been breaking into museums and private homes all over the state and making off with valuable artworks. The article didn't give any more details than that.”

Puzzled, Bunny said, “But how would anybody know about my painting?”

“Are you kidding? A painting worth half a million dollars in Briar Hollow? That kind of news gets around,” Marnie said.

“I know the local paper made a fuss about it. But it was hardly national news,” Bunny said.

“Oh, word travels fast,” Marnie said. “How many
people do you think heard about it? It made the front page of the
Belmont Daily
. And half the people in town had dinner at the Longview just to see it. Those same people could have told friends, who told other friends.”

I didn't want to point out the obvious. Killers and robbers didn't all come from big cities. They sometimes came from small towns, too.

Bunny looked pensively into her cup. “The police have probably thought of the same possibility. They asked me for a list of all the restaurant and hotel guests we've had since the painting's been on display. It isn't enough that they questioned me and the hotel employees. Now they're going to harass my guests.”

All at once it occurred to me that one of the guests staying at the hotel was none other than Bruce Doherty. I pictured the layout of the Longview in my mind. When Bunny had converted it from a bed-and-breakfast into a hotel, she'd transformed a part of the second floor into her private quarters. She'd simultaneously expanded the back of the building to almost double its previous size, creating an extra eight suites for a total of fourteen. The main corridor accessing all the suites ran from the lobby to a back emergency exit. I couldn't help wondering which room Bruce was staying in. Was he on the second floor? Or was he on the main floor, close to the reception area where the painting was displayed? I glanced at Marnie. She was twisting her hands, wearing a worried expression.

“Thank you for the tea, ladies,” Bunny said, rising to her feet. “I think I'd better get back. Otherwise the police will imagine that I've skipped town.” She attempted a smile, resulting in a lopsided grimace. She had no sooner left than Marnie snatched the phone.

“I'd better call Bruce and warn him,” she said.

“Warn him?” I said.

Her forehead furrowed, and she put the receiver down. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I was just thinking,” I said, “that's a strange choice of words.”

Her eyes became suddenly ablaze. “What are you suggesting? That I'm warning him because I think he's involved somehow? Or maybe you think he and I conspired to steal the painting together.”

“Don't be silly. You're my friend. I would never—”

“But you think Bruce is involved. Admit it. Not only do you think he's involved in an art heist, but you suspect him of being involved in Helen's murder. Don't bother denying it. You've been hinting at it ever since you found her body.” She glared at me. “I don't know what you're trying to do, but you are not going to turn me against the man I love. Bruce is a good man, and I am damn well going to marry him—no matter what you say.” She picked up the box in which she'd placed her refolded flag, grabbed her purse, and marched over to the door.

“Marnie, don't go. I'm only worried for you because I care.”

“I suggest you stop worrying about me and start worrying about yourself. At least I have a man who loves me, which is more than you can say for yourself,” she snapped from the entrance, and the door slammed shut behind her.

I knew she'd only spoken in anger, but her words stung all the same.

“What in the world is going on?” Jenny asked as she parted the beaded curtain. “I could hear the shouting all the way from the back.” She looked around. “Where's Marnie?”

“Gone.” I told her what had just happened. “I wouldn't be surprised if she never spoke to me again. I really messed up.”

“That doesn't sound like her. It makes me wonder if she already had doubts of her own about him. That could be why she was so angry.”

“You don't think I said too much?”

“Maybe a little. Still, if she suspects that you're right, it will be difficult for her to accept that she made a mistake. It would mean having to break things off with Bruce.” She sighed. “It's much easier to get angry at you. Hopefully, you made her rethink her relationship. Give her time. She'll come around.”

“I hope you're right.” I thought about this for a second. “Do you think I should give her a call?”

“Not now. She needs distance to think things through.”

“By the way, how did the reading go?” I asked. “From what she told me, I think you didn't make it clear that Bruce was not to be trusted.”

“That's the funny thing,” she said, frowning. “I saw a lot of emotional turmoil around her, but the only danger I could see was for a dark-haired man. But I did advise her not to trust too easily.”

“But the whole point of that reading was to warn her off Bruce.”

She tilted her head, peering at me. “Hold on. I promised to give her a reading, and that's what I did. I honestly thought I'd see danger surrounding her, but I didn't. What did you want me to do? Lie? I can't predict things I don't see. That would be dishonest.”

I tried to stifle a monumental eye roll. But too late.

“Marnie said you had finally come around to believing in my gift,” she continued, looking hurt.

“I'm not saying I
don't
believe,” I said weakly. I'd already offended one friend today. The last thing I wanted was to upset Jenny too.

“Oh, gee, thanks. You just made my day.” She glared at me, and then she spun on her heel and returned to the coffee shop. She didn't so much as pop her head out for the rest of the day. At five thirty, she marched by, announcing that she was “taking off” and slamming the door shut behind her. I groaned.
Great going, Della
. I'd offended two friends in as few hours.

The door opened again and Matthew strode in.

“What's with Jenny? She practically froze me
out when I said hello.” Winston went barreling over to him, wagging his tailless behind. “Whoa, there, big fellow. I know. I know. I love you too.” He raised his gaze to me. “Got a paper towel or something? He's slobbering all over my shoes.”

I handed him the box of tissues, relieved that I wouldn't have to explain Jenny's behavior. I felt about as dumb as a doorbell and didn't really want to point out my own stupidity. He came closer and I got a whiff of his aftershave. It was faint, but sexy as the devil.

“I just stopped by the butcher,” he said, wiping his shoes. “And I picked up two nice porterhouse steaks on the off chance you might want to have dinner with me. If you say no, I'll have to feed the second one to Winston.” Winston looked at me and whimpered. I knew what he was hoping I'd say. But I wasn't about to turn down an invitation from Matthew.

“Sorry, big boy,” I said scratching his head. “But I promise not to eat the whole thing. I'll leave you a few bites. How's that?” He gave an appreciative growl.

I grabbed the cash from the register, stuffed it into my purse. I would make my bank deposit in the morning. “Ready,” I said.

When I first decided to leave the city a little over a year ago, Matthew and I struck a deal. He'd move into my modern Charlotte condo, which was conveniently located just a short drive from the
university where he taught. Meanwhile, I'd move into his house. The arrangement was perfect, but it lasted only until Matthew's book submission was accepted. He'd then decided he would be better able to write here, in peaceful and quiet Briar Hollow.

I'd known from the moment we made this arrangement that it was temporary. But I had lulled myself into believing things could go on this way indefinitely.

Now, coming back to Matthew's house almost felt like coming home. This was the same kitchen where I had repainted the cabinets and refinished the floors. The same place where I'd first come to realize I was in love with him. As soon as he came back to Briar Hollow, though, I'd learned how impossible it was to share a house with a man who didn't feel about me the way I did about him. So I hired a real estate agent, and in no time, I found the building where I now lived and worked.

“You know where everything is,” Matthew said, waving toward the pantry. “Make yourself at home while I turn on the grill. Maybe you can season the steaks in the meantime.”

I got the meat from the fridge, rummaged through the cupboard until I found the spices, and set to work. He came back in search of a lighter, and then returned again a moment later looking for matches, muttering something about “damn lighters never working.”

I popped the potatoes into the hot oven and washed the lettuce. I had just finished making the
salad dressing when he stepped back into the kitchen wearing a satisfied grin.

“I finally got it going. How long till the potatoes are ready?”

I glanced at my watch. “Maybe another half hour.”

“Sounds good. I'll put the steaks on in about twenty minutes. In the meantime, how about a glass of wine?” Without waiting for my reply, he poured two glasses and handed one to me. “To you,” he said. We clicked glasses, and I struggled to keep myself from blushing as he looked deeply into my eyes.

“Good wine,” I said, flustered under his intent gaze. “Which reminds me. Do you have any wine vinegar?”

“Sure.” He pointed me toward the cabinet next to the fridge, where I very well knew he kept his oil and vinegar. “Anything else you need?”

“I'm good. I just needed a drop of it.” I unscrewed the cap and poured in a tablespoon. “There. All done.” I busied myself getting the plates and cutlery. He dipped a finger into the salad dressing and popped it in his mouth.

“This is good,” he said, sounding surprised. “Look at you. You're a regular pro in the kitchen these days,” he said, coming closer and wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

“Just so you know,” I said, “I have a new recipe from my mother and if you're going to make fun of my cooking, I won't invite you over to test it.
And it just so happens to be one of your favorite dishes—chicken Parmesan.”

“I wasn't making fun of you. I'm impressed. You're so domestic these days—a regular Julia Child.”

“That proves it. You
are
laughing at me.”

He gave my shoulders a squeeze and I almost melted. The heat of his arm around me, the scent of his aftershave—it was too much. When I turned to face him I was suddenly breathtakingly close. My eyes met his. I leaned in, hoping—no, willing him to kiss me. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and the next thing I became aware of was his lips brushing against my forehead. And just as quickly, he let go of me, leaving me reeling.

“Medium or rare?”

“Wh-what?” I stuttered, flustered.

“How do you want your steak? Medium or rare?”

“Oh, er, medium.”

He picked up the platter of seasoned meat and headed for the door. “Medium it is.” And the door banged shut behind him.

I took a few bracing breaths and regained my composure.

Over dinner, I turned the conversation to Bruce Doherty.

“I wondered how long it would take for you to get around to him,” he said, chuckling. “I kept my promise and made a few calls. I didn't find out
much, but what I did learn you'll find very interesting.” I was already on the edge of my seat. He took his time, sipping his wine and chewing another bite of steak.

“Are you going to tell me or are we playing twenty questions here?”

“It turns out that Bruce Doherty was indeed an investment advisor. He owned his own firm for thirty years until he sold it two years ago.”

“But that doesn't make any sense. He doesn't look a day over forty-five. That would mean he was running his own investment company by the time he was fifteen years old.”

“There are a couple of possibilities. Bruce Doherty might look considerably younger than he really is. Or he could have had a face-lift. It isn't entirely unusual for men these days, especially if they are looking to prolong a profitable career.” As logical as that sounded, I didn't believe it for a minute. “Another possibility, and this is the one that's far more likely . . .” He paused and wagged a finger at me. “I don't want you to panic now.”