Stitch Me Deadly, page 11
Devon did replay the interview, and I had to admit it sounded good. If he did the interview based on the information he had, it would be solid reporting that might bring some new business into the Seven-Year Stitch.
“That was wonderful,” Mom said. “Now what will you do? Have it transcribed, take notes, and write the article based on what Marcy has told you, or what? How does your process work, Devon?”
“I’ll listen to the interview again and then write my article.” He stood. “I really must be on my way. Marcy, let me get a photo of you sitting there where you are, and then we’ll take one of you standing by the counter with your mom.”
“Wait. Let me move to the sofa,” I said. I wasn’t dressed as nicely as I had been yesterday. Today I’d worn comfortable jeans, a waffle-knit kelly green henley, and sneakers, but I supposed it would have to do. Comfort comes before vanity on class days. “With this green shirt on, I’ll look like a Christmas elf sitting in this red chair.”
He laughed. “You’ve got a point.” He snapped a photo of me on the sofa and then instructed me to stand in front of the counter. “Ms. Singer, stand over there with her so I can get you in the shot, too.”
“Just take the picture of Marcy,” Mom said. “It’s her shop.”
“Yeah, but it’ll give the article heart for the two of you to be photographed together,” he said.
“Come on, Mom,” I said.
She heaved out a long sigh and then rose from the chair and joined me at the counter. I put my arm around her and tilted my head toward her. I smiled, she giggled, and that was when Devon took the photo.
“I’d like a copy of that,” I said.
“I’ll e-mail it to you. I’ll let you know if I have any further questions. Thanks.” With that, he turned and left.
Mom grabbed the bag of takeout—burgers, judging by the smell—and she and I wandered back to the sit-and-stitch square.
“The interview went well this time, don’t you think?” I asked.
Mom didn’t look up from her task of distributing the food among me, her, and Angus. “It was wonderful, love. But I still don’t trust that man.”
Chapter Thirteen
After lunch, Mom minded the store while I went into the office and worked on the sampler history. I’d learned that the first known dated embroidery sampler was made in 1598 by a woman named Jane Bostocke. Jane had made the sampler to commemorate the birth of Alice Lee, presumed to be her daughter or niece. Today that sampler is part of a collection at the Victoria and Albert Museum. I included information about Jane’s sampler and added the fact that samplers predated pattern books and traveled throughout Europe and the Middle East from person to person. The samplers were used to preserve information, as well as to teach the various stitches.
I then took out the information Cary had given me on Louisa and her great-grandmother. Louisa’s great-grandmother had enjoyed a colorful—albeit hard—life. She’d come to Oregon as part of the Great Migration of 1843. She was a fifteen-year-old bride. She and her husband had settled in the Willamette Valley, and he’d obtained work as a blacksmith.
Louisa came of age on the Oregon coast in the 1930s. She’d volunteered at the orphanage that would later become her home when she was seventeen. After that, she went to Seattle to study. She came back a couple years later, married Frank, and they later bought the orphanage and turned it into their private residence.
Fairly pleased with my narrative, I put a decorative floral border around the page and printed it out. I then took the piece to Mom to get an objective opinion. She was sitting at the counter, thumbing through her script and making notes, while Angus dozed in his bed at her feet.
“Would you read this and tell me what you think?” I asked.
“I’ll be happy to.” She perused the page and then looked up at me. “Sounds great. It does make me wonder what her great-grandma’s original verse was.”
“Me, too. And I wonder why Louisa tore it out.”
“I guess we’ll never know . . . unless someone saw the piece before Louisa took the seam ripper to it.”
I nodded at her script. “How’s that coming?”
“It’s coming along fabulously,” she said, grinning broadly. “It’s a period piece set in midcentury Louisiana, and as I read through the script I can almost feel the lush fabrics I’ll be working with. It’s going to be so much fun. I’ve already spoken with Rob, the director, and we share the same vision on it . . . which makes things a lot easier when I’m planning out my costumes, jewelry, accessories, shoes. . . .”
I smiled. “It’s nice to see you like this. I’ve missed seeing you get all excited over a new project and then go through your various stages of loving it, then hating it, then loving it, then—”
She tapped me on the arm with her pen. “Then come home. We can replicate this charming shop, you can have your own house. . . . You can get a fresh start away from memories of Timothy Enright and Louisa Ralston . . . away from people like Devon Reed. You know the shop would be just as successful in San Francisco as it is here—maybe even more successful.”
I hugged her. “Thanks for the offer, Mom, but I live here now. I have a mortgage and a lease agreement.”
“We can sell the house and sublet this space.”
“I know, but I don’t want to . . . not yet, anyway. I’m making a life for myself here, and I like it. I miss you, of course, and Frances and Alfred, too. But you’re gone so much of the time, I get to see you more during your visits here than I ever did when I lived at home.”
“Is it David?” she asked. “Are you afraid you’ll run into him again and be reminded of the dreadful way he treated you?”
“No. I’m over David. Completely. I think he did me a favor by calling off our engagement at the last minute,” I said. “Can you imagine how horrible it would’ve been had he gone ahead and married me? We’d have both been miserable, and we’d have already been divorced by now.”
“I’ve just always worried it was David who drove you away from San Francisco.”
“It wasn’t. It was actually Sadie pulling me to Tallulah Falls rather than anyone driving me out of San Fran.” I laughed. “It’s all right for me to grow up, Mom. I’ll be okay.”
She leaned her head against my shoulder. “I know, darling. It’s hard to let go, though. You’ll see that one day when you have a daughter or son and want to protect that child from everything in the world. . . . And when you can’t, you’ll feel so helpless.”
I kissed her cheek. “I love you, too.”
Cary was the first person to show up for needlepoint class. “Am I on time?” he asked. “I’ve not missed anything, have I?”
“No,” I said. “You’re actually about half an hour early. But that’s good. I can show you Louisa’s sampler and the narrative I’ve laminated and placed on the wall next to it.”
“Fantastic!” he said, turning that movie star smile on me.
“You know, you really are reminiscent of Cary Grant when he was young,” I said.
“Truly,” Mom said, from the sofa in the sit-and-stitch square.
“Thank you both,” Cary said. “Let me share one of my favorite Cary Grant anecdotes with you. There was once a reporter who wired Grant’s agent asking, ‘How old Cary Grant?’ Grant intercepted the message and wired back, ‘Old Cary Grant fine. How you?’”
We laughed.
I said, “I read that Hitchcock once said Grant was the only actor he’d ever loved.”
“Yes,” Mom said, “I read that somewhere, too. I adored Grant and Kelly in To Catch a Thief.” She sighed. “Edith Head was nominated for an Oscar for her costume design in that movie.”
“That’s right. And what about Roman Holiday with Hepburn and Peck? Didn’t she win for that one?” Cary asked.
“Yes, she did. She won eight Academy Awards in all and garnered a star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame.”
“Oh, Mom, you’ll get your star and your Oscar one of these days,” I said.
“I’d better hurry, if I’m going to make it before I die.”
“Nonsense,” Cary said. “You’re far too young to be so morbid, Ms. Singer. How about showing me that sampler?”
“It’s right over here.” I led him to the wall where I’d hung the sampler. “By the way, your niece, Eleanor, was in this morning. I told her I’d let her know when I had the framed sampler on display. I’ll have to call her later.”
“Eleanor was here?” Cary asked. “That’s odd. Did she say why she came?”
“She wanted to see where her grandmother died and to ask me if she’d had any last words,” I said.
“And what did you tell her?”
I repeated to Cary what I’d told Eleanor earlier. “Before she left, she said she’d like to see the sampler once I had it framed.”
Cary was frowning when I’d finished speaking. “Did I say something to upset you, Cary?”
“No, no, ma belle. I’m just confused about Eleanorʹs attitude. The Eleanor you saw at the funeral home the other night was the Eleanor we all know and love. Whoever this is who came into your shop wasn’t Eleanor.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Unless she’s on some sort of medication or something. I’m sure the will had to be rather disappointing to her. Maybe the doc had to give her some happy pills.”
“She said she received the house and its contents,” I said. “I would think she’d be thrilled.”
“She did get the house and furnishings, but she didn’t get any money. Several of us family members received modest disbursements, but the majority of Aunt Louisa’s estate went to some charity none of us had ever heard of.” He shrugged. “Of course, Eleanor plans to sell the house and furnishings, so she’ll have plenty of money to do with as she wishes.”
I merely nodded, not quite knowing what to say.
Cary turned and spotted the sampler and laminated narrative on the wall. “Oh, this is lovely! What a wonderful homage to Aunt Louisa and dear old Millie. You’ve outdone yourself, Marcy. On behalf of the Ralston family, I thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome,” I said. “I’m glad you’re happy with it.”
At that point, Reggie Singh and Ella Redmond came in.
“Hey, there,” Reggie said. She settled into one of the red chairs by Mom. “How are you this evening, Ms. Singer? Are you planning to stitch with us?”
“Nope. No stitching for me until I go back to work. I’m content to watch and chat,” Mom said. “And please call me Beverly.”
“What’s so interesting?” Ella asked me and Cary.
“I framed the sampler Cary’s Aunt Louisa and her great-grandmother Millicent Connor made,” I said.
Ella and Reggie came over to look at the piece.
“This is exquisite,” Reggie said. “Look at all those tiny stitches. And there’s hardly any fading at all.”
“It’s been well preserved,” I said.
“Did you say the piece was done by both Mrs. Ralston and her great-grandmother? They worked on it together?” Ella asked.
“Not exactly,” I said. “Mrs. Ralston brought it into my shop. It’s her great-grandmotherʹs original, but I have reason to believe Mrs. Ralston tore out the verse initially on the sampler and replaced it with this one . . . which is actually a quote from The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“That’s unusual,” Ella said. “Don’t you think?”
“I do think it’s unusual,” I said. “I was saying to Mom earlier today I’d love to know what the original verse said.”
“I’ll check with my mother and see if she knows anything about it,” Cary said. “These days she remembers things from far in the past better than she can recall what she had for lunch. Perhaps she’ll know something of interest about the original.”
After everyone in the needlepoint class had arrived and had admired the sampler, we got to work. Cary had never done any type of needle-craft before, and I half suspected he was here only to visit with Mom. He and I chose an easy but attractive and manly pattern—a lion—for him, and he sat on the sofa beside Mom. I showed him how to get started, and Mom assured me she’d help him if he got stuck. Although Mom wasn’t working on a project, she could do just about any type of embroidery if she wanted to, so I felt Cary was in good hands. I wondered if she might like him a little, too.
“Pretty daisies,” Ella commented as she was threading her needle. “Do you have an admirer?”
“Not really. They’re from a reporter who is doing an article about Tallulah Falls entrepreneurs,” I said.
“I’d call him anything but an admirer,” Mom said. “He was rather insulting when he first came in here and started interviewing Marcy.”
“He was,” I agreed. “But he said the flowers were a peace offering.”
“Shabby peace offering,” Cary said. “Don’t get me wrong—they’re very nice—but if I were to make a peace offering, I’d bring roses.”
I grinned. “Yes, I do believe you would.”
“So, how was the reporter insulting?” Reggie asked.
“He started asking questions about . . . about things that have gone wrong here in the shop,” I said. “You know, the . . . um . . . uncomfortable situation with Mr. Enright . . . things like that.” I didn’t dare mention Devon’s interest in Mrs. Ralston’s death with her nephew sitting there.
“I’m not even convinced he’s a real reporter,” Mom said.
“You aren’t?” Ella asked. “Why would a fake reporter be interested in Tallulah Falls entrepreneurs?”
“I don’t know,” Mom said, “but an Internet search didn’t turn up any articles by anyone bearing his name. I don’t trust him.”
“He said he was fairly new to freelancing,” I said, not so much defending Devon as trying to keep my class from thinking I was an idiot for not vetting him properly before agreeing to grant him an interview.
“I think you’re wise not to trust him, Beverly,” Reggie said. “Through Manu’s work, I’ve seen that people aren’t always who or what they claim to be, and you never know what they might be up to. It pays to be cautious.”
Reggie’s comments tumbled around in my head as I worked on my needlepoint project—a pair of white orchids. What did I know about Devon Reed? Nothing other than what he’d told me. Was he really interested in arriving at the truth about Louisa Ralston, or would he sell me—and anyone else—out for the story that would bring him national coverage?
Cary’s comments were interesting, too. What charity had Louisa Ralston donated her fortune to? Maybe I should go by and see Adam Gray before work tomorrow morning.
Chapter Fourteen
Once again, I left Mom and Angus snoozing while I attended to business. I didn’t mind, and since it was another class night—this time crewel—I knew it would do Mom good to sleep in. Actually, it would have done me good to sleep in, too. Mom and I had stayed up until after midnight last night talking . . . reminiscing . . . giggling.
It was really cold out this morning. I shivered as I cranked up the heater in the Jeep. Naturally, it blew out cold air because the engine wasn’t warm yet. It warmed up just about the time I reached Adam Gray’s office.
Mr. Gray had a small office in a strip of older buildings on First Street. His name was written in white Old English lettering on the front of his glass door. I opened the door and stepped inside.
“Good morning,” said a receptionist to my right. Her voice was so soft I could barely hear her. She looked thin, pale, and timid, and she had unruly copper curls hanging about her face. She suited Mr. Gray perfectly.
“Good morning,” I said. “Is Mr. Gray available? I’m Marcy Singer, and I’d love to speak with him for just about five minutes if he has it to spare.”
“I’ll check with him and see.” She picked up the phone and punched in an extension for Mr. Gray. She announced my arrival, said, “Okay,” hung up, and turned to me. “He asked me to send you back. Go down this hallway. Mr. Gray’s office is on the left.”
I thanked her and sought out Mr. Gray. His office door was open, and I saw him sitting behind his desk before he caught sight of me. He looked positively engulfed in paper . . . in his suit . . . in this large office. He looked like a child playing lawyer rather than an actual lawyer. Or he would have if he hadn’t looked so very old and tired. He appeared to have aged even since I’d seen him last.
“Mr. Gray, thank you for seeing me,” I said as I walked into the office.
“You’re quite welcome,” he said. “Sit down. Tell me how I can help you.”
I sat in one of the round-backed leather chairs situated in front of his desk. “I promise I’ll make this quick.”
“Take your time. My first client isn’t due for an hour.”
I explained the Devon Reed situation to him. “Like Mr. Reed, I do want to know what happened to Mrs. Ralston, and if she was murdered, I want her killer brought to justice. But I don’t feel it’s right for him to sensationalize her death in order to make a name for himself.”
“No, Marcy, neither do I. Besides, the police department is handling the matter. They don’t need some Truman Capote wannabe doing their jobs for them.”
“I agree.” I looked down at the scuffed hardwood floor. “How is the investigation going?”
“Well, I’ve told them it’s perfectly ridiculous for them to consider you a suspect,” he said.
“But I still am one?”
He nodded. “I’m afraid so . . . at least for now. But don’t worry. The truth will come to light.”
“I know moments ago I criticized Devon Reed for hurrying the investigation along for his own benefit,” I said, “but is there anything I can do to help the investigation along?”
“You’re not doing the same thing as Devon Reed,” he said with a consoling smile. “You’re trying to clear yourself of suspicion of murder, and you’re not planning to write some sort of tell-all about your experiences . . . unless I’m much mistaken.” He chuckled, and I laughed, too.
