Weave of Absence (18 page)

“Don't be silly. I'm fine. It's just that I hate being by myself all the time.”

“And we miss you,” I said. “So that's settled. How soon can you get here?”

“I didn't do any baking. I hope Jenny won't mind if I make up her order out of my frozen pastries.”

“Don't worry. I drove out to Melinda's and stocked her up for the day. Her baking isn't as good as yours, but I figured you needed your sleep. If you're not up to baking tonight, maybe you can bring in your frozen goods tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” she said without argument. She must be feeling even worse than I thought. “I'll be there in an hour or so. I thought I might drop by the library and see how the exhibit is coming along. It would be nice if you could come with me.”

“It's not open yet.”

“I know. All I wanted was a quick peek.”

“I can't leave the store right now. But I was planning to go tomorrow. Why don't you come with me then?”

“That's an idea. “

“Great. See you soon,” I said, and we hung up.

“Was that Marnie?” Margaret asked. She had come up behind me. “You know people are saying she killed her fiancé,” she said in a low voice as she poured me a cup of coffee.

I'd been afraid that would happen. “Like who?”

She nodded toward the back. “Nancy Cutler is in there right now with some of her friends. I overheard them talking.”

“She said that, did she?” My blood boiled. I marched around the counter and headed to the coffee shop.

“Wait,” Margaret called out. “Please don't make a scene. I shouldn't have said anything. This is a small town. You know how people around here like to gossip. Tomorrow they'll be on to something else.”

I paused and took a steadying breath. “Still, this is Marnie they're talking about.”

“It will only make matters worse if you say anything.”

Margaret was right. But, damn it, I couldn't let people talk that way about my friend. I had to do something. I returned to the counter. A few minutes later the beaded curtains parted, and Nancy, along with a trio of her friends, came through.

“Hi, Della,” Nancy called out.

“Nancy,” I said, “I've been dying to tell you.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Margaret blanch. I threw her an innocent smile. “I've heard the most amazing gossip.” The four women scampered over eagerly.

“Pray tell,” the oldest one said. She was tall and skinny. She must have fed on nothing but gossip.

“Well, this may not come as a complete surprise to you,” I said to Nancy, “but it looks like Bruce Doherty was using an alias, and that he was, in reality, Brent Donaldson, the same man Sybille Dubois was seeing when she disappeared.”

“Really?” the middle woman said. She was a chubby redhead with too many teeth for her mouth. She turned to Nancy, who was noticeably silent. “You were Sybille's roommate back then, weren't you?”

“She was,” I said, and continued sympathetically, “That must have been such a difficult time for you. Especially since Helen suspected that you might have had something to do with her sister's disappearance.”

“She did?” the tall woman said. She turned to Nancy. “You never told me this.”

Nancy's eyes narrowed. “That's ridiculous.” I didn't point out that she'd said as much to me herself.

“It seems that Sybille was convinced you were jealous of her. She wrote to Helen about it.”

Her voice rose an octave. “Where did you hear
that?” I noticed with satisfaction that her friends were watching her with growing interest.

“You know, what really surprises me is that you didn't recognize Bruce as Brent at my party.”

The blood drained from her face, and for a second I thought I'd gone too far. But then she seemed to pull herself together, and even managed a weak laugh. “Good grief. You should know better than to repeat stories like that. That kind of talk could get all over town in a flash. Anybody who doesn't know me will start imagining all sorts of crazy things.”

“That's true,” I said, pretending sheepishness. “I should watch what I say. After all, by the time this investigation is over, the police will probably have suspected half the people in town. If we went around gossiping about everything we hear, there'd be no end to the trouble we could cause.”

“That's right,” she said. “And gossip can ruin a person's life.”

The tall, skinny woman's eyes lit up with sudden understanding. “I guess we should be careful what we say about others too, shouldn't we?”

I smiled. “I'm sorry, ladies. I hope you'll forgive me. I only wanted you all to think twice before you said anything more about Marnie.”

“So, none of what you said was true?” the skinny woman said.

“If you mean did I hear this from anybody?” I shook my head. “Not one word.” Nancy had the grace to blush. And the relief in her eyes was so plain I was surprised the other ladies didn't see it.

“You made it all up?” one of her friends said.

I didn't answer.

“You really had me going.”

She didn't look angry, but as the women walked toward the door, I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever see any of them again. Of course I would. No matter what they thought of me, they would never stop going to Coffee, Tea and Destiny.

Margaret came over and planted a kiss on my cheek. “That's for Marnie,” she said. “I only hope the day I need it, I'll have a good friend like you to stand up for me.”

Half an hour later, when Marnie walked in, I was just cutting the second purple-on-white dishcloth off my loom.

“Did you go to the exhibit?” I asked, bringing the dishcloth to the counter.

“I decided it will be more fun to go with you.”

“I'm glad we'll be going early,” I said. “I hate waiting in line.”

“I'll get myself a coffee and be right back,” she said, and disappeared into the coffee shop. She reappeared a moment later with a mug and a scone. “Jenny says Melinda's baking isn't as good as mine. I think she's wrong.” She bit into it and chewed, giving it her full attention. “I hate to say this, but these are delicious.”

“They may be, but yours are better.”

She brightened up. “Maybe I should give her a few tips.”

I raised a brow. “If you give her too many, she
will
get as good as you.”

“I guess we can't have that,” she said good-naturedly, and took another bite.

“So, how are you feeling, really?”

She froze, and her eyes welled with tears. “I'm okay as long as I don't think about it.”

“If you need to talk, I'm here. You know that, don't you?”

She nodded. “I'm just finding it difficult to believe that everything that came out of his mouth was a lie, even his name. I was so sure he loved me.” Her voice broke. “Meanwhile, he was planning to kill me.”

“We don't know that for sure,” I said. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. Try to put it out of your mind. Thinking about it will only make you feel worse.”

“Believe me, I couldn't feel worse than I already do.” She stared at me. “You've found out more, haven't you? Tell me.” I hesitated. “You know I'll find out eventually.”

“Two things. It turns out that Bruce used to be known as Brent Donaldson, about twenty years ago.”

“Brent Donaldson.” She played the name over her tongue. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

“He was the man Sybille Dubois was involved with when she disappeared twenty years ago.”

If somebody had hit her over the head with a rolling pin, she wouldn't have looked more stunned. “Bruce and Brent? They're the same person?”

“So it seems.”

“How did you find out? Did Matthew tell you?”

“I discovered it,” I said. “I decided to search Helen's house.” I described how I'd sneaked in, and she listened, entranced, as I told her about the intruder showing up while I was there. “I hid under the bed.”

“No wonder Matthew was so upset with you. What if that woman killed Helen? If she'd found you there, she could have killed you.”

“I know. I know.” I snatched my cell phone from my bag and scrolled through my pictures until I found the ones I'd taken of Brent Donaldson's snapshot.

She stared at it for a long time, holding her breath. “It's him, all right,” she said, handing me the phone. She blinked back the moisture in her eyes. “I didn't want to believe it, but you're right. Brent Donaldson and Bruce are the same person. Does that mean he killed Helen's sister?”

“That was my impression at first, but the more I thought about it, the less sense it made. The fact that he was using an alias makes me pretty certain he was up to something illegal. But I don't know if it had anything to do with Helen's death, at least not directly.”

“What do you mean, ‘not directly'?”

“This is just an idea I discussed with Matthew,” I said. “Maybe Helen recognized Bruce as the same man who used to date her sister.” Marnie opened her mouth as if to argue, but I put up my hand. “Hear me out. Since her disappearance, the number one suspect has always been Brent Donaldson. But what if he was innocent, and meanwhile, somebody in this town was responsible? Then, out of the blue, twenty years later, Brent Donaldson shows up. Except he's calling himself Bruce Doherty these days. This local person knows that if Bruce is recognized by anybody else, he'll probably be brought in for questioning, and who knows where his answers will lead the police? The only way to make sure Bruce remains the number one suspect in Sybille's disappearance is to kill him.”

Marnie's mouth dropped open. “Are you saying the killer is Nancy Cutler?”

“I didn't say that.”

She nodded, her red hair bouncing on her shoulders. “You might as well have. Who else could it be but Nancy? She lived with Sybille back then, didn't she? They were roommates.”

“That's true, but that doesn't mean anything. For all we know, somebody from Briar Hollow could have traveled to Chicago and killed her.”

I could see from the look in her eyes that she didn't believe a word of it. I had pretty much discounted it too, but I'd been curious to know what she thought. Now I knew. I decided to change the subject before she began obsessing about it. “Did
Bruce ever say or do anything to make you suspect that he wasn't everything he pretended to be?”

She shook her head. “Never. But then, I wasn't really watching for it.”

“Think back. Did you ever get a niggling feeling over something he said? Something you told yourself you were being silly about?”

“Maybe,” she said, but she clearly had no intention of expanding on that. “What else?”

I looked at her blankly.

“You said you found out two things,” she said.

“Oh, right. It turns out that Helen wasn't strangled. She died of cyanide poisoning.”

“Cyanide? But isn't that impossible to get these days?”

“Not according to Matthew. It's still used industrially. So that means anybody who works with it would have access to it.”

“We have to look into this,” she said. “Find out every possible job where people would have access to it. That's how we'll find out who killed Helen.”

“Let me pull out my laptop. I'll Google it.” Five minutes later I had a short list. Marnie and I looked it over.

“Do you know anybody who works in mining, gold or silver plating, medical research, pest control, or who fumigates ships?” Marnie said.

“No. But listen to this. You can actually make cyanide at home, out of apple seeds.”

“You're kidding. Let me look at that.” I moved over and Marnie took my place at the laptop. “That's
awful,” she said. “That means anybody could have done it. How are we ever going to find out who killed her?” She picked up her cup and went to her loom. Soon she was walking the pedals at a brisk rhythm, and the set of place mats on which she was working grew at an astounding pace. Unlike me, when Marnie was upset, her output increased.

Some time later, the doorbell jingled and Matthew walked in. Winston came bounding behind him, covering me with slobbery kisses.

“Sit, Winnie.” His butt hit the floor with a thud, and I dug through the drawer for a liver treat. He caught it in midair and scrambled to his cushion.

I mouthed to Matthew, “Marnie's here.”

He glanced across the room. “Hi, Marnie. It's nice to have you back.”

She waved and returned to her weaving.

He lowered his voice. “How's she holding up?”

“As well as can be expected.” My eyes fell onto the invitation to the library exhibition. “By the way, how would you like to go by the library with me tomorrow morning? Marnie's flag will be on display. I was thinking of stopping by at nine. Marnie's coming too.”

“Sure. How much are the tickets?”

“There's no fee. Visitors are invited to make a donation.”

“I'll meet you here at nine.” He leaned in a bit closer. “I'm just back from the police station. I told them about Bruce Doherty and Brent Donaldson being the same person. That just blew the old case
wide open. By the time I left, they were already getting organized to search Helen Dubois's house.”

“How did you explain knowing?”

“I didn't. I offered it as a theory only. I told them that the idea came to me because of something Nancy Cutler said—that she thought she recognized Bruce at our party. And I suggested that Helen might have had a picture of the man her sister was dating when she disappeared. I said I'd looked into Bruce Doherty's background, and I showed them the picture of the real Bruce Doherty. Turns out they already knew. They looked into him as part of the investigation into his murder. Then I told them about the argument Helen had with Bruce at your party, and suggested that she might have recognized him as the man her sister was dating when she disappeared. They jumped on that like fleas on a dog.”