Weave of Absence (17 page)

“And you didn't notice anything else that looked different or out of place.”

“Sorry.”

“So, if we look at all the evidence we've uncovered today,” he said, and I couldn't help noticing how he said “we.” “We know that A, the killer poisoned Helen; B, he or she remained in Helen's
house long enough to make certain she was dead; and C, he or she then cleaned up some of the evidence—the foam—perhaps hoping that her death would be attributed to manual strangulation. We also know that this killer is likely to be a woman, but we still don't know who or why.”

“I've been thinking about it,” I said. “And even though I have no proof, I bet the intruder was Nancy Cutler.” I pulled the letter from my pocket. “Wait till you read this.” I handed it over.

“What is it?”

“It's one of the last letters Sybille wrote to Helen before she disappeared.”

He pulled his hands back as if I was holding out a venomous snake. “Are you crazy? That's evidence. You shouldn't even be touching it.”

“This is not evidence. It has nothing to do with Helen's murder. It was written more than twenty years ago.” I read it out loud to him.

“I hate to tell you this,” he said when I finished, “but if Nancy Cutler killed Helen, that letter would most definitely be classified as evidence. You have to give this to the police.”

“I can't do that,” I said. “I'd have to explain how I got it.”

“You either give it to the police or you put it back where you found it.”

“Fine. I'll put it back. But why would it be evidence?”

“Think about it. That letter is in Sybille's own words. She talks about Nancy becoming cold and
distant. The first conclusion you came to when you read that was that Nancy was jealous.”

“It makes sense,” I said. “Sybille was gorgeous,
and
successful,
and
she had a boyfriend.”

“That makes me wonder if Helen and the police could have had it wrong all these years.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm beginning to think that Brent might have had nothing to do with Sybille's disappearance.”

“You think Nancy killed Sybille?” All at once it hit me. “Of course. That's totally logical. But there's one thing I don't understand. If Brent, or Bruce, was innocent, why did he take off when Sybille disappeared? Nancy said the police searched high and low for him and never found so much as a trace of the man.”

“I suspect he was using an alias even back then. Even if he had nothing to do with Sybille's disappearance, he probably figured, and rightfully so, that as soon as the police found out he was using a false name, they'd think he was guilty. And let's not fool ourselves. He may not have been responsible for Sybille's disappearance, but he was guilty of something. Otherwise, why use an alias?”

“Hmm, I just remembered something,” I said. “Nancy told me that at one point after Sybille's disappearance, Helen was calling her, asking the same questions over and over again. She began to wonder if Helen considered her a suspect.”

“Could be,” he said thoughtfully. “I wonder . . .”

“What? Tell me.”

“Let's suppose for a moment that Nancy killed Sybille twenty years ago. And somehow she managed to make everybody believe that Brent did it. That would have been easy, considering that there was never a body and that Brent disappeared around the same time she did. Now, we move forward twenty years, and Nancy recognizes Bruce at a party. What do you think her first reaction would be?”

I gasped. “No wonder she ran out in a panic. Bruce was the only person in the world who knew what had really happened, and if he said anything she could be charged for murder.”

“Then,” he continued, “she's home wondering how she can keep him from talking, and the phone rings. When she answers, it's not Bruce—even worse, it's Helen. She's recognized him as Brent and she wants to call the police.” Matthew picked up his glass and raised it. “And that, my dear, gives us a recipe for not only one but two murders.”

“You're right. The only thing she could have done to stay safe was kill both Helen and Bruce.” I raised my own glass to him. “Damn. You're good at this.” I took a sip of wine and put my glass down. “So what do we do now? Do we call the police and tell them?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because as likely as this scenario may sound, it isn't the only possibility. The only thing on which we can agree on right now is that Sybille
was probably right. Nancy was envious of her. She may have secretly been in love with Brent.”

“That's ridiculous. Nancy said they never even met.”

“So she says. But, even then, a lot of women fall for men they've never met—movie stars, the man they see every day at the bus stop, the model in the aftershave ad. It happens all the time. There are even cases of women falling in love with convicted murderers who are in prison for life.”

I could imagine how that might have happened in Nancy's case. “Sybille was crazy about Brent, so she probably gushed about him all the time—how wonderful he was, how handsome he was. Even if Nancy never met him, Sybille fed her a continuous stream of fantasy about him. Nancy did tell me that they spoke on the phone a few times when he called for Sybille. If he was flirtatious during their conversations, Nancy may have given those chats a lot of importance.”

“Or,” he said, “they could have been having an affair.”

“He and Nancy?” I said, laughing. “I'm sorry. That's just ridiculous. You have no idea how gorgeous Sybille used to be.” I pulled out my cell phone again and showed him. “Look at her.”

“She certainly was,” he said, handing me back my phone.

“Next to her, nobody would have looked twice at Nancy.”

“You'd be surprised how many men will fool
around with unattractive women even when they have beautiful wives at home,” he said. “Some men are cads.”

“So I'm told,” I said.

“Present company excluded,” he said with a wink.

“But of course.”

“So let's say Nancy was infatuated with Brent. When Sybille vanished, she might have thought that she now had a chance to get him for herself. She probably never imagined he had anything to do with Sybille's disappearance, but even if she did, she would have wanted to protect him. Who knows what kind of excuses she made for him in her mind?
Sybille was a bitch. She ran off with another man. If he did something to her, she deserved it
.”

“That's awful.”

“It's called denial. People do it all the time when they don't want to look at the truth. When the police showed up, she might even have given them a wrong description of Brent.”

“And hidden his picture,” I added. I could see where he was going, and this scenario sounded as plausible as the first.

He continued. “Except, of course, that for all her hopes and fantasies, once Brent Donaldson fled, she never saw or heard from him again. Then, suddenly, years later, she runs into him.” He shrugged. “There are dozens of other possibilities. Maybe Nancy took one look at him at the party and all her
dreams came flooding back. Even though he was engaged to somebody else, she thought this was destiny. He had just landed right in the town where she lived. If she tried, she could probably get him. That same night she gets a call from Helen, who tells her she recognized him and that she knows he killed Sybille. Nancy may have rushed over to Helen's to stop her from calling the police.”

“Or,” I said, seeing where he was going with this, “Nancy could have called him at the hotel and warned him that Helen recognized him. And then he went to Helen's house and killed her.” I paused. “But if he killed Helen, who killed him?” I opened my hands. “We're back at square one.”

He didn't answer. He just stared at me. And then it hit me.

“You still think Marnie killed him, don't you?”

Up until that moment, the evening had been surprisingly pleasant. After Matthew's initial reaction to my news, he had mellowed and become warm and amiable. But try as I might not to let his opinion of Marnie affect me, I couldn't help but be hurt.

“How can you even imagine that Marnie could be guilty? She would never hurt another person.”

“I'm not saying I'm convinced she's guilty,” he said.

“But you're also not sure she isn't,” I snapped back.

He leaned forward, placing a hand over mine. “Della, I just want you to prepare yourself for the worst. You know as well as I do that sometimes good people do bad things. When emotions get involved, control can just as easily fly out the window. The moment I saw the crime scene, I knew this murder was not planned. Nobody plans to kill someone by hitting them over the head with a vase. The way I see it, Bruce knew his killer. He let her”—seeing the look in my eyes, he added, “or him—into his room. There was no sign of forced entry, and except for the victim's body and the cracked vase, no sign of a violent argument. I imagine he and the killer were having a conversation. At some point Bruce said something that angered his visitor. She picked up the vase without even realizing it, and before she could stop herself, he was lying on the floor with his skull bashed in.”

“You keep saying ‘she,' as if you are certain the killer is Marnie.” The truth was I wasn't entirely convinced of her innocence either. After listening to Matthew's description of how the crime might have happened, I could imagine Marnie doing it. Hell, the truth was, given the right circumstances, I could imagine anybody committing murder—even me.

Matthew pushed away his empty plate. “That was delicious, but I'd better be getting home. It's already nine thirty.” It wasn't late, but I could feel the tension in the air, and he could too. I declined
his offer to help me clean up, and I walked him and Winston to the door. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and left. So much for friendly and warm.

Like Scarlett said. Tomorrow is another day.

I
was in no mood to do anything but sulk. I left the dishes to soak and contemplated going straight to bed. But what was the point of that? I wouldn't sleep a wink all night.

And instead of having a better idea of who had killed Helen and Bruce, I was more confused than ever. I was even beginning to think that Matthew was right and that maybe, just maybe, Marnie had killed Bruce in the heat of the moment. I was worried sick about her. I hadn't heard from her all day, and that was beyond strange. Was she avoiding friends out of grief? Or guilt? Or maybe a combination of both? I imagined her lying prostrate in bed. I pictured her holding a knife in her hands and considering suicide. That horrible image took anchor in my mind until a typhoon wouldn't have shaken it.

I grabbed the letter from Sybille, snatched my car keys, and raced down the stairs. Minutes later I was in front of Marnie's house, traipsing through her infant garden beds and peering through
windows. The rooms were too dark to make out any more than faint outlines of furniture. But when I got to the end of the house I noticed a dim light—probably a night-light in the bedroom. Surely she was just sleeping. She had once confessed to me that she hated the dark and couldn't go to bed without a night-light. I trudged to the window and peeked inside. Sure enough. I could make out the shape of Marnie's body in her bed. At that moment she shifted her weight, and I felt a tidal wave of relief. Matthew was right. Marnie was all right. She must have been exhausted from her insomnia of the night before and simply taken a sleeping pill. I hastened back to my car before some neighbor mistook me for a thief and called the police. I drove to within a block of Helen's house and made my way over to it, sticking to the shadows. I went around back, feeling my way along the clapboard wall. Soon I was inside again. I tiptoed in the dark to the second bedroom, felt around until I found the box under the bed, and dropped the letter in. The second I was out of the house, I ran all the way to my car, with my heart beating a staccato in my chest.

I shoved the gear stick back into drive and pulled away from the curb. I was half a block away when an idea occurred to me. Nancy Cutler owned a small house on the outskirts of town. All I had to do was drive by and take one quick look at her car. Then I would know instantly if she'd been the intruder.

I took Main Street all the way out of town, which sounds like a longer distance than it is. A few minutes later I reached the edge of Briar Hollow, passed the city limits, and turned right at the first road. Soon I saw half a dozen bungalows. I slowed to a crawl and peered out in the dark. One of these, I knew, was Nancy's house. But which, I wasn't sure. In the moonlight all the houses looked the same. I tried to remember the one time I'd been to her home, what distinguishing feature it might have had. But the houses, like Nancy, were all as plain as unpainted clapboard. I was halfway down the street when I noticed the white curtains in the windows of one house, and it came back to me in a flash. I recognized them. I'd made them for Nancy myself. I slowed to a stop and tried to see the color and make of the car in the driveway. But in the dark of the night, it could have been any color. I couldn't have said what color it was if my life had depended on it. I put the car into reverse and backed up until the headlights of my Jeep lit up the driveway like a pair of searchlights. The car was a red midsized sedan—so different from the car that I'd seen speed away from Helen's house that even a total car ignoramus like me could tell them apart.

Whatever crimes Nancy might be guilty of, breaking and entering into Helen's house is not one of them.

I was at my loom the next morning, working on Marnie's gift, when Jenny showed up. “There you
are,” I said, putting down my shuttle. “I was getting worried. It's almost eight thirty. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. I overslept, that's all. Where's Margaret?”

“She's in the back, making coffee.”

“Oh, good. Have you heard from Marnie? Do you know if she's done any baking?”

“I'd be surprised if she did,” I said, making my way to the counter. I didn't mention that I'd spied her in bed last night. “I know she was exhausted. She's been going through hell. I wouldn't be surprised if she was still sleeping. If you like, I can drive into Belmont and pick up whatever you need.”

“Really? You don't mind? I'd owe you huge,” she said.

“A cup of coffee will do.” I picked up my bag from behind the counter and fished out my car keys. “Just keep an eye on the store till I get back.”

“Will do. Here's the list of everything I need. Anything else that looks too scrumptious to pass up, you have my permission to buy,” she said, handing me a piece of paper. “Hold on. Let me give you some money.”

“You can give it to me later,” I said and walked out. I could have gone to Marnie's, but I didn't want to wake her up. Besides, I had an ulterior motive for going to Melinda's.

Soon I was in my Jeep, driving toward Belmont. I liked driving. Like weaving, it was an activity I
especially enjoyed when I was preoccupied. Until I'd climbed into bed last night, I hadn't realized just how much I hoped Nancy Cutler would turn out to be the owner of the blue car. Because at this point I was pretty sure the intruder who'd snuck through Helen's home was the killer and most likely the owner of that car too. Now I was certain that Nancy had nothing to do with the blue car, or anything else to do with the murder after all.

As for Marnie, I knew she didn't own that blue car. And I knew she hadn't been the intruder. For one thing, her choice of shoes ran toward the comfortable rather than the fashionable. Besides, Marnie was my friend. She and Jenny were the first two friends I'd made when I'd moved to Briar Hollow. I would have trusted them with my life. Matthew's point, that sometimes good people did bad things, was a valid one, and for a moment I wasn't convinced of Marnie's innocence. But after going to bed, I'd turned it over in my mind until I was sure again. I had to look for others with a motive for wanting Helen and Bruce dead.

I passed the Belmont city limits and turned onto Main Street, and maybe because I was on my way to her bakery, my mind wandered to Melinda.

My instincts led me to think that the story she had told me about her interaction with Bruce at my party was a fabrication. But at this moment, I knew I could be wrong about that too. I had no idea who to trust anymore. My instincts were
about as reliable as Jenny's predictions. What could I ask her, I wondered, that might help me uncover the truth? And then, as if by magic, the answer appeared right before my eyes. I was pulling into a parking spot in front of Melinda's bakery when I noticed the car in front. It was a royal blue economy car.

“Well,” Melinda said, tossing her hair, “if it isn't my new best customer. I take it Marnie is still not feeling well?”

“Unfortunately not,” I said, noticing that she looked a little peaked herself. Her eyes were bloodshot and underlined with dark shadows. She'd either been doing a fair amount of weeping or hadn't slept in a few days—possibly both.

She put on a jaundiced smile and said, “Please give her my condolences. I was completely floored when I heard.”

As she said this, I couldn't help but note that her appearance, red eyes and dark shadows, was much the same as Marnie's yesterday. Could her sleepless night, like Marnie's, have also been caused by grief? I wondered again whether something had been going on between Marnie's fiancé and the beautiful blonde.

She wiped her hands on her baker's jacket and came forward. “So what will it be? Everything in the shop? Next time, maybe you could do me a favor and let me know ahead of time that you're planning on buying me out? I'd double my batches.”

“I'll do my best, I promise,” I said and handed her the list.

“It's not that I don't appreciate the business, but having to turn away regulars is not a great way to instill loyalty.” She picked up a stack of cardboard boxes and began filling them. “Two dozen assorted muffins,” she read, moving on from one counter display to the next.

“By the way,” I said, “would you happen to know whose car that is out front? I hate to admit it, but I bumped it when I was pulling in.”

She stared out the window, looking worried. “Which car did you say?”

“The little blue one across the street. The one in front of the red Jeep.” A flash of something went through her eyes. Suspicion? Fear? Whatever it was, it had been no more than a flicker. If I hadn't been watching for it, I would never have seen it.

“For a minute I was afraid you'd dented my new Honda. That's Nick's car. And boy, does he love it. He'll kill you if you so much as scratched it.” I guessed that Nick was the pimply-faced teenager who worked for her.

“Hold on,” I said. “I didn't say I damaged it. At least not that I could tell. I just felt bad that I'd bumped it.”

She crossed her arms and stared at me. “Why would you even bring it up, unless you wanted to give somebody a heart attack?”

“You're right, of course. I'm sorry.”

She went back to filling the boxes with pastries,
running an ongoing monologue as she did. “One dozen lemon tarts. One dozen brioches. Ten scones.” Soon she had packaged everything on the list, and the top of her counter was cluttered with bags and parcels. “Let me help you carry all these to your car.” We darted through a sudden surge in traffic. “There you go,” she said, her smile more sincere this time. “And don't forget to give me some warning the next time you plan on emptying my shelves.”

As I headed back to Briar Hollow, I couldn't help but wonder. Had I imagined the wary look in Melinda's eyes when I mentioned the blue car? I had the impression she had lied.The only way I would know for certain was if I did a bit of sleuthing.

“That didn't take long,” Jenny said as I walked in, loaded down with parcels. “How much do I owe you?”

I handed her the bill and while she wrote the check, I went back out for the second load. When I returned, Liz Carter was at the counter, chatting with Margaret.

“Hey, Della,” she said. “How's Marnie doing? I still can't believe it. Such a tragedy. At least she wasn't left standing at the altar.”

It was an odd comment, and totally inappropriate. Thankfully, Marnie wasn't around to hear it. “I haven't spoken to her today,” I said. “I didn't want to wake her up this morning. I imagine she
needs all the sleep she can get. But I'm sure she'll be all right.”

“Of course. But so soon after poor Helen. Marnie just lost two people in less than a week. I'd hate to call myself a good friend of hers right about now. It might be bad for my health.”

“How is your exhibit coming along? It's starting in a day or two, isn't it?”

“Actually, it's starting tomorrow morning.” She stopped short and said, “I had such a fright this morning. When I got to the library, I found the door unlocked. I don't understand how that could have happened. I know I locked it last night, but there it was—not only unlocked, but open.” She shook her head. “Thank goodness nothing was missing. I think I would have died if something had happened to Marnie's flag. Anyhow. The reason I'm here is this.” She made a big production of opening her handbag and pulling out a few small white envelopes. “These are invitations,” she said. “Admission is free. But a donation is welcome. There's one for you, one for Jenny, and one for Marnie. I promised to be back in”—she glanced at her watch—“oh, fifteen minutes. So I'd better get going.”

“You're not doing all the work by yourself, are you?”

“No. Thank goodness. I found a few volunteers—ladies from the church group. There are two of them at the library right now. They're helping set up the registration line.” She lit up again. “You
should see the number of people who already pledged to donate. If everyone gives generously, I bet we'll make enough money to pay for the new roof we need.”

“That would be great.”

“When can you come? I'd like you to be one of the first to come through. The exhibit opens at nine tomorrow.”

“Well, then, that's what we'll do. That way, I can be at the store by ten o'clock, and the rest of the day I'll remind all my customers to stop by.”

“Brilliant!” she exclaimed. She blew me a kiss and almost waltzed out. Jenny popped in from the back, carrying a fresh cup of coffee.

“Who was that?” she asked, setting the cup on the counter.

“Liz Carter. She dropped off a bunch of invitations to the exhibit. Here's one for you,” I said, handing her one of the white envelopes. “It's opening tomorrow at nine. That's when I think I'll go, before the crowds.”

Jenny raised her brows. “Crowds? How many people do you imagine will show up?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. She seems very optimistic. She hopes to make enough to repair the roof.”

“Maybe if all it needs is a small patch,” she said. The phone rang and she went back to the coffee shop.

“Dream Weaver,” I answered. “Della speaking.”

“Della? It's me.” It was Marnie and she sounded terrible.

“Marnie? Are you all right? Do you have a cold or something?”

“I'm fine,” she said, and I realized she was hoarse from sleeping. “I went to bed about fourteen hours ago. I just woke up.”

“You obviously needed it.”

“Would you mind if I came in? I know I'm a murder suspect and all, but—”

The door opened and a few women walked toward the coffee shop. I waved and waited until they had disappeared behind the curtain.

“Don't even say such a thing. You know you're welcome here as often and as long as you like. In fact, I think you should move in with me for a little while. Just until you feel better.”