Weave of Absence (12 page)

“Don't talk like that, Marnie. His behavior has nothing to do with how smart you are. Con men are experts at manipulating people. And he's probably got years of experience at it.”

“Promise me you won't let him come in,” Matthew said.

“I promise,” she said, and her gaze lowered to her hands again. Noticing her engagement ring,
she suddenly tore it off and tossed it into a dish on her bedside table. “He can just drop dead, for all I care.”

I wanted to tell her she'd get over it. I wanted to tell her there were plenty of nice men out there and that she would meet one someday. But my instincts told me that would only upset her more.

Matthew sat by the edge of the bed and took her hand in his. “All I have to say is, if I was just a few years older, and you were just a few years younger, I'd go for you myself.”

My heart melted. If I hadn't already been in love with the man, I would have fallen for him right then and there.

“You don't really mean that,” Marnie said, her face brightening. “You have a perfectly lovely woman, your own age. Forget about me and pay some attention to her.”

I felt the red flow into my face. I signaled Matthew. “I think we should both get back to work and let Marnie get some sleep.”

We let ourselves out, making sure the house was locked, and Matthew offered me a lift back to my shop. “Thanks, but I can use the walk. That was really nice of you,” I said. “What you said back there. It made her feel better.”

He smiled. “She needed a cheer-up.” He dashed across the street, hopped into his car, and waved to me as I set off on foot.

I needed to be by myself too. My suspicion that Bruce was involved with Helen's murder was
stronger than ever. And no matter what Matthew said, I didn't want to just sit back and leave well enough alone. That man was a killer. He'd planned on killing my friend, and if he wasn't stopped he would kill again. I knew that just as sure as my name was Della Wright.

All I had to do was figure out a way to prove it.

“W
hat are you doing back already?” Margaret asked as I walked in. Winston galloped over and threw himself at me, jubilant with excitement.

“Here you go,” I said, fishing a dog biscuit from my pocket. He ran to his cushion and chewed contentedly.

“It's over,” I said. “Matthew showed her the picture of the true Bruce Doherty. She never wants to see him again—whatever his real name is.”

“Oh, my God. So he
was
using an alias. What do you suppose he was after?”

“I figure he's a con man. He was going to take her for everything she's got.”

“Including her life,” she added. “That's so scary. She could have been killed.”

“What's important is that she's safe now.”

“Amen.” She tapped the sales book. “I've got to get back to Jenny, but on a brighter note, you'll be happy to know that I sold three items for you while you were gone.”

I flipped it open to the last receipts. “One kitchen rug,” I read, “and a set of fingertip towels.”

“Oh, and I have an order for a handwoven shirt.”

“Really? That's amazing.” I had priced the shirts rather high, thinking I'd readjust if they didn't sell. But if I already had a sale so soon after making them available, maybe they weren't unreasonable after all.

I waited until Margaret left before turning on my laptop and searching the online telephone directory for Nancy Cutler's phone number. I punched the number in on my cell phone, got her voice mail, and left a message asking her to call me back. And then, since it was quiet, I settled at my loom and resumed working on Marnie's dish towels. I was nearing the three-quarter mark when the bell tinkled. I headed for the cash register, and to my surprise, when the customer turned away from the display, I saw it was none other than Nancy Cutler. As usual, she wore a dark suit and a striped shirt, but this time her hair was loose. No wonder I hadn't recognized her from behind.

“Hi, Della.” She came forward. “I was just at Mercantile's and called home for my messages. Since I was only a few steps away, I thought I'd stop by. You wanted to talk to me?”

“Actually, I do.” Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought she suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Since Helen's death, I've been wondering if there was anything that happened at the party the other
night that might help the police discover why she died. I remembered the way you left so abruptly, and I can't help wondering if something happened to upset you.”

Nancy blushed and stammered. “No, of course not. It was a lovely party. Nothing happened. I just remembered that I had to get up early the next morning.”

That story was transparently false, but I didn't argue it. I just looked at her steadily. She squirmed under my unflinching gaze.

“Why would you think I noticed something?” she asked nervously.

“From what I gathered, you were seen speaking to Marnie's fiancé for a few minutes. Your conversation seemed to have started pleasantly enough, but something he said must have upset you because all of a sudden you turned and fled. Tell me what he said.”

She blanched visibly and shifted from foot to foot as she seemed to struggle with her decision. “I'd heard he was a stockbroker,” she said. “Or a financial advisor. And I thought that if he was marrying Marnie, he might be settling down here and opening an office. So I gave him my name and number in case he needed an assistant or a secretary.” She stopped, and tightened her lips.

“And what happened?”

“I'd rather not say anything. I wouldn't want to start any rumors. What if I was wrong?”

“Wrong about what?”

She sighed heavily and seemed to struggle with herself. “You must promise not to repeat this. I feel silly for even saying it, but”—she hesitated again—“I thought I recognized him. But I've been thinking about it since, and I must have been mistaken. It was a long time ago, and I never met the man in person. All I ever saw was a photograph, and it wasn't even a clear one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Helen Dubois's younger sister, Sybille. She was my closest friend. Twenty years ago she vanished.”

“I heard about that,” I said.

“We lived in Chicago at the time—roommates. During our third year there, Sybille started dating a man named Brent Donaldson. My God, she was crazy about that man. He was all she ever talked about—how handsome he was, how smart he was. How they were going to get married.”

“Were they engaged?”

She nodded. “She showed me her engagement ring. I wanted to meet him. After all, he was marrying my best friend. She tried to talk him into coming over for dinner, but he always had some excuse. One time she insisted until he finally agreed, but he called and canceled at the last minute.”

“Maybe he was just busy.”

“So busy he had no time for a whole year?” I had to agree that sounded suspicious. “One day, she came home all excited,” she continued. “She had a picture of him. She'd taken it without him
knowing, and made me swear to never tell him. It seems he had an aversion to being photographed.”

I gasped. “He didn't want to be identified later.”

She gave me a crooked smile. “Well, he had nothing to worry about because the shot was from far away, and he wasn't even looking at the camera. I couldn't have picked him out of a crowd if I'd tried.” She scowled. “I didn't put it all together until after she disappeared. That was when I came to the same conclusion you just did. The man was up to no good. Why else would he be so adamantly set against having his picture taken, or meeting her friends?”

“I think we just hit the nail on the head.”

“One day she just didn't come home from work. At first I wasn't really worried, but the next morning when she still hadn't returned, I called the police. The investigation went on for months. They tried to find Brent Donaldson, but it was as if the man had never existed. They questioned me about him for hours. I told them everything I knew about him. If I hadn't spoken to him on the phone a number of times, I might have thought she'd made him up.”

The possibilities this story stirred up were so shocking that it was a moment before I could speak. Then I said, “Hold on a second. You said you couldn't have picked him out of a crowd. What made you think you recognized Bruce Doherty as Brent Donaldson now, twenty years later?”

“It was his voice. I was just chatting with him,
thinking that his voice reminded me of someone, but I couldn't figure out who. Brent used to call Sybille at the apartment all the time, and he'd chat with me when he did—ask me how my day was, that sort of thing. Once I knew who this Bruce sounded like, I started thinking he looked like him too. Bruce has the same body type, the same dark hair and strong nose. But as I said, the picture was taken from far away and it wasn't clear. I'm certain I was mistaken.”

“Did you tell him he reminded you of Brent Donaldson?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, my God, no. The first thing that went through my mind was that if Brent Donaldson is still alive and Sybille is still missing—legally dead, according to the courts—he probably killed her.” A veil of fear descended over her eyes. “This is not the kind of thing I'd want to have get out. If I'm wrong, I could be sued for slander.”

I reflected on all of this after she left. If Brent Donaldson and Bruce Doherty were one and the same, Nancy was probably right. Bruce was responsible for Sybille's disappearance, or murder. But why would he have killed her? Sybille had been declared dead only a few years ago, so there was no question of life insurance or inheritance in this case. Besides, Brent disappeared around the same time she had. He must have had another motive. But what?

Hmm. I wonder . . .
Could Sybille have shown her sister a picture of Brent? If so, what if Helen had
recognized him? She might have confronted him at the party. Even though Nancy insisted the picture was taken from too far away for her to recognize him, that didn't mean that was the only picture Sybille had taken. She might well have snapped more than one shot and sent the better one to her sister. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Sybille had shown her sister a picture of her boyfriend. Unfortunately, the only two people who could answer that question were Helen and Sybille, and both were dead.

If I was right about this, then Bruce Doherty had one hell of a motive for killing Helen. I snatched up my phone and punched in Matthew's number.

“Wait till you hear what I just found out!” I said, my heart racing.

“Can it wait? I don't have time to talk right now. I spent most of the morning fiddling with my printer to get a clear picture of Bruce Doherty. If I allow any more interruptions I won't have done any writing all day.”

“Oh.” That was disappointing. “How about dinner then?” I asked, my hope surging.

“Sure, we can grab a bite. Say around six?”

“That works for me.”

“Fine. I'll pick up pizza, and I'll leave Winston with you until then.”

“Great. I'll provide the wine.” We said good-bye, then I punched in Marnie's number. After the fourth ring, an answering machine picked up.

“Hi, Marnie, it's me, Della. I'm just calling
to”—I heard a click on the line and suddenly Marnie was on the phone.

“I'm here. Sorry. I'm screening my calls.”

“How are you feeling?

“Much better,” she said. “I took a few painkillers and I was able to get a couple of hours' sleep. I've been walking around this morning. I can even move my arm a bit. I'm thinking of coming in to work.”

“Don't even think of it. And don't you dare take your arm out of the sling. Much as I'd love to have you here, I think you should stay in bed and get some rest. If you don't, it'll take you much longer to recover.” And then I asked her what I really wanted to know. “Have you heard from Bruce?”

“No,” she said, with an exasperated sigh. “He hasn't even called to find out how I am. What a jerk. I have a mind to give him a good talking-to.”

“Not a good idea. It would only make things more difficult. Don't forget, he's been lying about his name, his career, and God knows what else. For all we know, the man could be dangerous. I wouldn't even take his calls if I were you.”

“But . . . I have to give him back his engagement ring.” I heard the hopefulness in her voice. One minute on the phone with him and she'd be putty in his hands.

“Tell you what. Matthew is coming over for a bite around six, but if you like I can go with you to Bruce's hotel later. That's something you shouldn't do on your own.”

“That's a good idea.” The tone of her voice told
me she did not think it was a good idea at all. This was a bad sign. She was probably already second-guessing her decision to stay away from him. If she was left alone for too long, I had no doubt that she'd give him a call. “Or, if you'd rather,” she said, “maybe we could do it tomorrow?”

“No,” I said. “Tonight is good.” She grudgingly agreed that I pick her up around eight thirty. This would give me ample time to bring Matthew up-to-date and decide what our next move should be.

The rest of the day was slow, which in a way was a relief since I was without help. This gave me the chance to finish the second of Marnie's dishcloths and get through almost half the third. At five o'clock, when Jenny closed her shop, I closed mine too.

“I hope pepperoni is okay with you,” Matthew said, dropping the box on the table. “Because that's what I got.”

“Sounds great,” I said, pouring the Chianti. I handed him a glass and he sipped while I set the table.

He eyed me over the rim. “You look good.” I flushed with pleasure. He had been paying me way more compliments lately.

“You're looking mighty fine too,” I said.
See, Marnie? I can so flirt
. I was hoping for a bit more pleasant banter, but Matthew tackled his slice of pizza with enthusiasm.

“You won't believe what I found out,” I said. “Nancy Cutler stopped by the store today.” I told him about Nancy's behavior at the party, the way she had been chatting pleasantly with Bruce one minute and then running out in a panic the next. “She isn't one hundred percent sure, but she thinks she recognized Bruce as the same man who used to date Helen's sister before she disappeared. If it's him, he was using a different name back then. She knew him as Brent Donaldson.”

“Are you serious?” he said. “Interesting—Bruce, Brent—both names start with the letter
B
.”

“So do the family names,” I pointed out. “Doherty and Donaldson. Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Maybe so. Don't ask me why, but people who use aliases frequently choose names with the same initials. If he turns out to be the man Helen's sister was dating, the name Brent is probably an alias too. He might have been using dozens of aliases over the years. If and when we find out his real name, I bet it starts with the same initials.” He took another sip of wine and then said, “What doesn't make sense to me is why he would show up here, in a town where he knows he runs the risk of being recognized.”

“I forgot to mention that Nancy and Helen's sister, Sybille, lived in Chicago at the time. And here's another interesting tidbit. Nancy never met Brent Donaldson in person. It seems that every
time Sybille invited him to come and meet her roommate, he made some excuse to put it off. I get the feeling the man didn't want to be seen.”

“By the way, if Nancy never saw him, how does she explain recognizing him?”

“She'd seen that one picture of him. And get this—when Sybille showed it to her, she made her promise never to mention it to him. It seems he wouldn't let her take his picture, so she had to take it secretly.”