Weave of Absence (6 page)

“Does she think somebody from the party might have killed Helen?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. She seemed interested in who was talking with Helen at the party, and if anyone had argued with her.”

“And?”

“And, I did see her arguing—with none other than Bruce.” A new idea occurred to me. “You don't think he has anything to do with her death, do you?”

Jenny gave me an incredulous look. “Now, you're being completely paranoid. The man might be a flirt, but that doesn't make him a murderer.”

“You're probably right,” I said. “I'm so worried about him hurting Marnie that I'm painting him
as a worse villain than he is.” At that moment a car came to a stop a few feet away and I recognized Ed Green, Jenny's boyfriend, at the wheel.

“Oh, there's Ed,” she said, beaming. “See you tomorrow,” she called, sliding into the passenger seat. I watched them drive away, wondering if Jenny was right. Was I becoming paranoid? Every time anyone so much as mentioned Bruce's name, I grew more suspicious of him. I glanced at my watch. If I wanted to freshen up before Matthew got here, I had better get a move on.

“Let's go, big boy. We have to go do that bank deposit and get back in time to get pretty for Matthew.” He looked at me as if I had rocks in my head. “Come on. The sooner we get home, the sooner you get a treat.” He broke into a gallop, dragging me along at the end of his leash.

I
was ready. I had changed into my blue dress, one I knew Matthew liked. My makeup was fresh—smoky eyes and a new color of lipstick called Kissable Pink. And I looked hot. Hopefully, he would think so too. A bottle of Chardonnay was cooling in the refrigerator, and in case he preferred red, I also had a bottle of Brunello. I had just finished setting the table when the phone rang. I glanced at the call display—my mother.

“Honestly, Della, I don't know how you do it,” she blurted. “Why is it that if there's a death anywhere within a hundred miles, you're going to find the body?”

“Nice talking to you too, Mom.”

“I'm sorry, sweetheart. It's just that I worry for you. Promise me you're not going to start poking around, trying to find out who killed that poor woman. That can only get you into trouble, or worse—dead.”

“I suppose you read about that online?” A few years ago, I'd taught my mother to use the
Internet—a momentary lapse of judgment on my part. Now, my sixty-nine-year-old mother could check on the latest news or gossip from Briar Hollow with no more than the stroke of a key. She'd even arranged for local news to stream directly into her in-box. Any little thing that happened near me sent her into a panic. Okay, so a murder wasn't exactly any little thing, I admit. Still, she often made me feel like a teenager with overprotective parents.

“Did you know the woman?” she said, ignoring my question.

“I'd only met her a few times. She was the local librarian and had just registered for one of my weaving classes.”

“A librarian. Honestly, what is this world coming to? Why in the world would anybody want to kill a librarian? The article didn't say how she died, just that her death looked suspicious. But I'm right, aren't I? She was murdered, wasn't she?”

“Until the coroner confirms it, I don't really know.” There was no point in getting my mother more riled up than she already was.

“What does Matthew think?”

“I haven't had a chance to talk to him about it yet. He was in Charlotte all day. But he's coming over for dinner. I'm sure we'll discuss it then.”

Her tone went up an octave. “He's coming over for dinner? Are you cooking for him? Does that mean what I think it does? Are you two starting to date?”

“Yes. No, no, and no,” I said. “It'll be takeout. It only means that we're friends and, no, we are not starting to date.”

She clucked her tongue, and I had a vision of her wagging her finger at me. “If only you'd take my advice and flirt with him. He's such a nice boy.”

“Matthew is hardly a boy, Mom.”

“And he'd make a great husband,” she added, ignoring my comment.

“Stop it, Mom. I don't want to hear this.”

“Fine. I won't say another word. But let me at least say this. When Matthew tries to talk some sense into you, will you please take his advice? One of these days, Della, you're going to find yourself in real trouble.”

“Don't worry, Mom. I have no intention of getting involved in a murder case.”

The long sigh at the other end of the line told me she didn't believe a word I'd just said. Truth be told, she had a right to her skepticism—not that I was actually planning anything, at least not until I had a suspect. All at once, it occurred to me that I did have a suspect. Bruce Doherty and Helen had argued at the party. Of course, I was stretching a bit here, but seeing as he was engaged to Marnie, wasn't it my duty as a friend to look into the background of this man? All for Marnie's sake, of course. The best part was that I could keep my hands clean, if I could convince Matthew to investigate the man. Hmm. That idea might be worth
exploring. With his police connections, it would be easy as pie for him. Before teaching criminology, Matthew used to work with the FBI. When he moved here, it didn't take long for the local police department to hear about his experience and start asking for his help on some of the more complex cases.

“Della? You still there?” My mother's voice brought me back.

“Sorry, my mind was wandering. Oh, will you look at the time?” I said. “Matthew will be here any minute and I'm far from ready.” Another fib. Why did I always find myself lying to my mother? I was a bad, bad daughter.

“I hope you're wearing a dress. Men like to see women in dresses.”

“Yes, I am.”

“And I hope you're wearing makeup. Sometimes you don't wear enough eye makeup.”

“I do my makeup very nicely; thank you.”

“And make sure to do some listening for a change. Don't hog the conversation all night. Let him put in a word now and then.”

“I'm hanging up now, Mom. Love you. Bye.” I dropped my phone into my bag, just as the buzzer rang. Winston galloped past me, coming to a screeching halt at the door.

“It's me.” Matthew's voice came through the receiver. A moment later, he appeared, carrying two bags of takeout sporting the mountain-range logo of the Longview. He looked drop-dead
gorgeous in a plaid shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans.

“Dinner for two,” he said, handing me the bags. “Southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy as a main course, and pecan pie for dessert.” He gazed down at me.

“Sounds yummy,” I said, tearing my eyes away from his before I lost myself in them. “After all those calories, I'll just have to starve myself for the rest of the week.”

“You're in perfect shape. I wouldn't worry about it if I were you.”

He thought I was perfect? I felt a blush rising and turned away. “Would you like red or white?” I asked, leading the way to the kitchen and handing him the bottle opener.

“White,” he said.

I opened the fridge, pointing to the bottle inside. “Help yourself.” I plated the food and carried the dishes to the dining room. And then I lit the single candle I'd set in the center of the table and dimmed the lights.

“Wow. Aren't we being fancy?”

All at once I felt foolish. A second later, when the candle went out. I turned the light back on.

“That's much better. Now we can see what we're eating,” I said. For a moment I thought he looked disappointed—projection, no doubt.

He cleared his throat. “Helen Dubois, the dead woman—she was a good friend of Marnie's, wasn't she?”

“She was. Marnie put up a good front. She insisted on staying at work all day. But I could tell she was upset. Even the news about your friend agreeing that her flag is worth a fortune barely cheered her up.”

“That's understandable,” he said, as he poured the wine. “Losing a friend is a painful experience.” He offered me a glass and raised his. “To happier days.” We sipped. “By the way, you didn't tell me how Helen was killed.”

“She was strangled, by the looks of it. I only had a quick glance, but her face was bloated and almost purple.”

“Well, if that's how she died, chances are the killer was a man, and a strong one at that.”

I shuddered as a picture of Marnie's fiancé with his hands wrapped around Helen's throat flashed through my mind. “Strangled. I can't imagine a worse way to die. I'd rather be shot.”

“Nice thought.” He gave me a crooked smile. “I'd rather die in my sleep.”

“Let's not talk about murder and death while we're eating, please—if you don't mind.”

“Don't tell me you're getting squeamish. I always thought murder was one of your favorite subjects.”

I ignored that comment and dove into my meal with enthusiasm. “Good chicken,” I said between bites. “By the way, I told you that Marnie is getting married, remember?”

“Yes, of course. I realized after I got back in my
car this morning that I'd forgotten to congratulate her.”

“Don't you know? You never congratulate the bride—only the groom.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” he said, chuckling. “Didn't this all happen really fast? Didn't you tell me she just met the guy?”

“It's way too fast if you ask me. But that's only one of the reasons I'm worried. I don't like that man one bit.”

He paused, fork in midair. “You usually like everyone. What did he do to make you dislike him?”

“If you'd seen the way he was behaving at last night's party, you wouldn't like him either.”

“Tell me.”

“I had some friends over—a sort of surprise wedding shower in Marnie's honor. I wasn't expecting him to show up, but he was with her when she came—”

“You can't seriously be holding that against him.”

“That has nothing to do with it. It was the way he behaved. It was the first time most of Marnie's friends met him. I know it was mine. Instead of standing by Marnie's side, he went off and started flirting with one of the guests.”

“Flirting? In front of everyone? That's rather rude.”

I hesitated. “Well . . . in all honesty, I can't swear that they were flirting, but it sure looked like it to me. And then, as if that wasn't enough, he got into
a nasty argument with another of the guests.” I told him about the secretive way he and Melinda Wilson carried on their conversation, but before I got to the confrontation with Helen, he put up a hand.

“Melinda Wilson . . . I've heard that name before.”

“She's a baker from Belmont—a friend of Marnie's.”

“Nice friend. Although, in all fairness, even if you're right and they were trying to cover up the fact that they were talking, that doesn't automatically mean they were doing something illicit. They weren't necessarily arranging to meet.”

“If it was all so innocent, why were they being so covert?”

“Don't get upset. I'm just saying. Any possibility you misread their body language?” He must have been reading
my
body language right, because he abruptly changed the subject. “Okay, let's move on. Tell me more about the argument he had.”

“I couldn't hear what he and Helen Dubois were arguing about—”

“Whoa. Are you talking about the same Helen Dubois who was murdered?”

“That's right,” I said. “Now do you get it?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me more.”

“I was across the room, so I didn't hear what they were saying. But I can tell you she looked mad
as hell, jabbing him in the chest with her finger. Meanwhile, he was glancing around nervously.”

“Sounds like more than just a mild disagreement.”

“That's what I think too,” I said, knowing that my next words were bound to get a rise out of him. “Which brings me to my problem.” His eyes narrowed. “Officer Lombard came to the shop to ask me who Helen was talking with last night and if I'd seen her arguing with anyone. And . . . well . . . I sort of lied. I said I was too busy all evening to notice.”

His eyes suddenly turned dark, a clear sign I was about to get a good talking-to. “Why the hell did you do a stupid thing like that?”

“You would have done the same thing,” I said. “Marnie was standing right next to me when the policewoman was questioning me. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't very well blurt out that I thought her fiancé was a murderer.” I tried to read his eyes as they lasered into mine.

His brows rose. “Murderer? Are you suggesting he killed Helen? What gave you that idea? Just the fact that he and Helen had an argument at your party?”

“Well, if he didn't, don't you think it's quite a coincidence? He's seen arguing with a woman, and then a few hours later she turns up dead. Isn't that one of the first things the police do? Look for people with whom victims recently argued?”

He picked up his fork again and resumed eating. “You're adding one plus one and coming up with ten. If the only evidence you have against him is that he was arguing with the victim the night before she died, that's no evidence at all. Certainly nothing worth concluding he's a killer.” His next words were exactly what Jenny had said. “He might be a flirt, but that doesn't make him a murderer.”

“I just remembered something,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Bruce announced to Marnie over breakfast this morning that he wasn't so crazy about living in Briar Hollow after all. And this is after weeks of telling her how much he loved it here.” Okay, so this was a bit of an exaggeration, but he had talked about loving the weather here. “He said he wanted to move. Don't you think that's strange?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Well, I think it is,” I continued. “He has a huge argument with Helen Dubois. The next morning he announces that he doesn't like it all that much here after all. Then, as soon as Marnie announces to him that Helen Dubois is dead, he suddenly changes his mind about wanting to move. What do you make of that?”

“Interesting,” he said. “But that hardly proves anything. For one thing, if he murdered her, as you want to believe, he would have already known she was dead. So his decision to stay in Briar Hollow probably had nothing to do with Helen Dubois's death.”

I deflated. “I hate when you get so logical.”

“I thought my logic was one of the things you like best about me,” he said. I glanced up from my plate. His smile was all mischief, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Hardly,” I said, assessing whether this was an attempt on his part to flirt or if he was just being the bratty kid that used to drop ice cubes down the back of my T-shirt. Definitely the brat, I decided. “Still,” I said, “don't you think we should investigate?”

“We? You know how I feel about you playing detective.”

“Okay, so not we. You.”

“I am not going to investigate someone for the reasons you just outlined.”

“Well, here's what really has me worried. Bruce talked Marnie into taking out a life insurance policy for one million bucks.”

That got his attention. “Are you telling me she named him as beneficiary?”