Stitch Me Deadly, page 12
“That said,” he continued, “I do believe it’s best to leave the detecting to the detectives.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll do that. By the way, Eleanor came to see me at the shop yesterday.”
“Did she?”
“Yeah. She wanted to see the sampler her great-great-grandmother—or would that be great-great-great-grandmother?”
“Ms. Connor,” Mr. Gray said.
I smiled. “Yes. She wanted to see it. Unfortunately, my mom hadn’t picked it up from the framers yet, so she didn’t get to look at it yesterday. I plan on calling her today to tell her to come back by when she gets a chance.”
“Did it turn out well?” he asked.
“Very well. It looks wonderful. You should come by and see it when you have time.”
“I’ll do that. It’s strange that Eleanor would stop in out of the blue,” he said. “Did she ask for the sampler to be returned?”
“No. She said she thought it was a nice idea to display it in the shop with the brief history of samplers and the narrative about her relatives.”
He steepled his fingers. “Yes, well, I imagine she asked around and found out that since the original was tampered with, it doesn’t have much monetary value.”
“You know, Cary also said her stopping by and acting nice was out of character,” I said. “He was at the needlepoint class yesterday evening. He said Eleanor was disappointed with her settlement and that maybe the doctor had her on some sort of happy pills.”
Mr. Gray chuckled again. “If anyone needs happy pills, it’s Eleanor.”
I shrugged. “She was really nice to me yesterday and didn’t seem at all disappointed. She said she got the house and its contents.”
“She did,” Mr. Gray said. “Be sure to bring your mom to the auction on Saturday.”
“I’m supposed to work on Saturday, but I suppose I could come before work. What time does the auction start?”
“It begins at nine a.m. Louisa had some lovely things I believe might interest you.”
“Did she have an umbrella stand?” I asked. “That’s what I realize I need every time someone comes in and props an umbrella in the corner of the Seven-Year Stitch.”
“As a matter of fact, she did. She had a lovely nineteenth-century cast-iron umbrella stand.” He smiled. “If you’re interested, though, bring a young man—maybe two—with you. That thing weighs a ton.”
I laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. One other thing, Mr. Gray—do you by any chance know what the original verse on the sampler was? Or why Mrs. Ralston tore it out and replaced it with one from The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”
“Not a clue,” he said. “In fact, the first time I’d ever seen that sampler was the day you brought it to Louisa’s house.” His face took on a wistful look. “Louisa could be private about some things. I don’t think even Frank knew her as well as he thought he did.”
“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” I said. “Do stop by when you have a chance so you can see the sampler. I think you’ll be pleased with the narrative I worked up about Mrs. Ralston, too.”
“I’ll see you soon,” he said.
Before going on to work, I stopped at MacKenzies’ Mochas. Blake was manning the counter while Sadie was serving some customers at a table in the back. Both of them were wearing red. Blake had on a red turtleneck and jeans. Sadie was wearing a red sweater dress with black ballerina flats.
“It’s still January, right?” I asked.
“As far as I know,” Blake said. “Why?”
“You guys look like you’re dressed for Valentine’s Day.”
He grinned. “Yeah, I guess we are. We didn’t plan it that way, but we thought it was pretty cool and decided neither of us should change.”
“Aw, ain’t love grand?” I laughed.
“Yep, it is. Speaking of which . . .” He nodded toward the door.
I turned to see Todd walk in.
“You guys talking about me?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “I was asking Romeo here why he and Juliet are dressed like valentines.”
Sadie arrived at the counter in time to hear my comment. “Because every day is St. Valentine’s Day when you’re with the one you love.” She gave Blake a peck on the cheek.
That was an excellent sign. I hadn’t seen Blake and Sadie this happy in weeks.
“So what’s up with you this morning, Blue Bell?” she asked.
It was true. I was wearing a blue cowl-neck sweater that threatened to swallow me up. I love oversized sweaters on cold days.
“I came to see if any of you would like to go with me to an auction on Saturday,” I said. “Sadie mainly, but you guys, too, of course.”
“Of course,” Blake said. “I know how you enjoy our shopping trips together.”
I laughed. “Seriously, it’ll be fun.”
“I’ll pass,” Blake said. “Someone needs to stay here and mind the store. I’ll be here when you guys finish your bidding.”
“To do our bidding?” Sadie asked.
“Maybe you can persuade me,” he said. “We’ll see.”
Todd made gagging noises. “Where’s the auction, and what are they selling?”
“The auction is at Louisa Ralston’s house, and they’re selling off all her stuff. Mr. Gray said they have an umbrella stand I might be able to use at the Seven-Year Stitch . . . if I’m the winning bidder.” I gave Todd a sidelong glance. “He did say it’s really heavy, though.”
“Oh, I see what this is,” Todd said. “I’m being invited along for my muscles.” He feigned a hurt look. “I feel so used.”
“Haven’t I warned you about these two?” Blake asked. “They’re wily.”
“Come on, Todd,” I said. “Will you go? Mrs. Ralston has—had—some gorgeous things. Mom will probably come along, and if she has her way about it, she’ll buy so much she’ll need to hire a moving van. You probably won’t have to carry a thing.”
“Well, that’s fine. I’m being used for my muscles, and now you’re saying you might not even want them,” Todd said.
“You’d better mind your p’s and q’s, Todd,” Sadie said. “That Cary Grant guy has been hanging around Marcy’s shop quite a bit lately.” Sadie winked, encouraging me to go along with her joke.
“And he scoffed at the daisies Devon Reed brought me as a peace offering,” I said.
“Indeed he did,” Sadie said. “The gentleman said he’d have brought roses.”
“What’re you saying here?” Blake asked. “You saying Marce here has her eye on the old guy?”
“He isn’t all that old,” I said.
“And I don’t think he’s as interested in needlepoint as he’d have us believe,” Sadie said.
“Me, either. There’s definitely another reason he’s making frequent visits to the Seven-Year Stitch,” I said. Then I giggled. “And I call her ‘Mom.’”
Sadie laughed, too. “I know. Isn’t it great? It’s so obvious he’s into her, and I think she likes him, too.”
“They have so much in common,” I said. “It isn’t often you find a man outside of Hollywood who can talk knowledgeably about the world of costume design.”
“Wouldn’t it be something if your mom fell in love with this guy and moved to Tallulah Falls?” Blake asked.
“Um . . . yeah,” I said, my smile fading. “That . . . that would be something.”
After securing Todd’s promise that he would go with me to the auction on Saturday, I walked slowly up the street to work. I thought it was fantastic that Mom had found someone here in Tallulah Falls with similar likes, and the fact that the someone was a handsome guy was even better. But I wasn’t sure I was ready for her to settle down here in Oregon. I mean, her home was in San Francisco. She was closer to work there . . . although, granted, her work took her all over the country and occasionally the world.
I knew it was highly doubtful that she would even consider moving here, but I found the thought a teensy bit disturbing. If she moved here, it would be the same as if I were to move back to San Francisco. I wouldn’t feel like I was maintaining my independence anymore.
I unlocked the shop door and went inside. I was being silly. I had let our jokes at the coffeehouse get in my head. I put my things behind the counter, hung up my coat in the office, and checked my phone messages. My only message was from Mom.
“Hi, darling. I won’t be in until later this afternoon. Cary called and he’s taking me to brunch and then on to his shop. We’ve decided to make a day of it. I’ll have my cell on if you should need me. Angus is in the backyard enjoying a rawhide bone.”
Chapter Fifteen
I was putting the finishing touches on Riley’s burp cloth when Nellie Davis, owner of the aromatherapy shop two stores down, sashayed into the Seven-Year Stitch. Her short gray-and-white-streaked hair was sticking out all over the place. With her thick-framed red eyeglasses and her overly thin shape dressed in head-to-toe black, she looked a little comical standing there with her arms akimbo.
“Good morning, Ms. Davis,” I said, suppressing a groan. The woman had never darkened my door other than to complain about something. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Um . . . yes . . . yes, I think there is. I’d like some pink, white, and wine yarn. A skein of each should do it, I believe. I’m making a scarf.”
Dumbfounded, I had to take a second before my brain could process what she’d actually said. “You want some yarn?”
“Yes,” she said with a huff. “Pink, white, and wine, if you have it.”
I put the burp cloth on the ottoman and got up to assist Ms. Davis. “Do you have a particular type of yarn in mind? Angora, wool, cotton . . . ?”
“Is . . . Is that where it happened?” she asked. “Over there near the sofa? I mean, I imagine she’d have asked to sit down.”
“You imagine who would have asked to sit down, Ms. Davis?” I knew exactly who she meant—and now the real reason for her visit to the shop—but I decided to be obtuse. “Do you need to sit down? You do look a tad unwell.”
“I’m fine,” she snapped. “I was wondering where Louisa Ralston collapsed.”
“It was here . . . in the store,” I said, my eyes wide with feigned innocence.
“I know that.” She smirked. “In fact, I told that handsome reporter who came to ask me questions about running a business in Tallulah Falls that Louisa Ralston wasn’t the first person to die in your store.”
“Mrs. Ralston didn’t die in my store.”
“She might as well have. Timothy Enright did.”
“I don’t see how any of this concerns you, Ms. Davis.”
“It concerns me because I own a shop on this street. I don’t want people to stop shopping here because your embroidery store is cursed or something.”
I spoke through gritted teeth. “My shop is not cursed.”
The bells over the shop door jingled, and I turned to see Devon Reed stride in, looking relaxed and carefree in tan slacks and brown pullover.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said. “Ms. Davis, you’re looking well.”
She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Mr. Reed. You’re looking nice yourself. I was trying to discuss my concerns with Marcy here, but she doesn’t seem to care that her shop might run the rest of us out of business.”
“Ms. Davis,” I said, “my shop is doing well. Business is booming. If yours isn’t and you feel your customers are being driven away, you might want to look for something to blame other than my shop.”
“Yes, well, I need to get back,” she said. “I left a trusted customer in charge of the shop, and I don’t want to inconvenience her any longer.”
I didn’t ask her about the yarn she’d been looking for. I’d already realized it was merely an excuse to come in and that she didn’t actually want it, anyway.
As soon as she left, I turned on Devon. “So that’s where you got your information about Timothy Enright and Louisa Ralston?” I asked. “That old busybody?”
“No. I talked to you before talking to her, if you’ll recall. Besides, I did my homework on all of you before I set up interviews,” he said. “She was, however, more than happy to supply additional details about you, your shop, and the murderous happenings at the ‘Stitch.’”
“What could she possibly know about me?” I asked. “Before today, I’d spoken with her only one other time.”
“She told me you left San Francisco after being jilted by the love of your life. Neither you nor your mother is able to untie the apron strings just yet, even though you’re well into your thirties.” He gave me a snarky smile. “Shall I continue?”
“No, you most certainly shall not,” I said. “How does she know so much about me? And why does she care?”
“She knows so much about you because this is a gossipy little town.” He spread his hands. “I’m not sure care is the proper word to express how she feels. Maybe she’s concerned that your reputation for having people die in your store will scare away aromatherapy customers.”
“I’d like to scare her away,” I said.
He wandered over to the sofa and sat down. I resumed my seat on the red chair and picked up the burp cloth.
“I was driving through town this morning looking for some breakfast and saw your Jeep parked outside Adam Gray’s office,” Devon said. “Have you learned anything new?”
“No, I haven’t.” I was angry with Devon, angry with Ms. Davis, and angry with myself. I wished I was able to trust Devon, to have him help me figure out who killed Mrs. Ralston so that once again suspicion for a crime I did not commit would be off my shoulders. But I couldn’t trust him. He was a stranger and a sensationalist who seemed to want his fifteen minutes of fame, no matter what cost to anyone else.
“You seem engrossed in your work this morning,” Devon said. “It’s either that or you’re upset with me about something. Did dear old Mumsy not like the interview?”
“No, Devon, she thought it was fine. I’m doing this for a client, and I’d like to get it finished up, that’s all.” I glanced up at him. “Plus, I don’t think I’m the right person to help you figure out what happened to Mrs. Ralston. Since Ms. Davis is so well connected and informed, maybe the two of you can solve the crime, be the heroes, and write the book.”
“I don’t know why you’re getting so huffy with me.” He stood. “Call me if you get in a better mood.” He stormed out the door.
I thought about yelling after him that the daisies were a pathetic peace offering, but I didn’t want to be childish. Besides, I liked the daisies. It was their giver I didn’t particularly care for.
A customer came in excited that her granddaughter had asked her to tutor her in embroidery. The woman looked young to be a grandmother, and she reminded me somewhat of Mom.
“Iʹm going to start her out with some redwork,” she said. “Do you have any iron-on designs?”
I smiled, glad for the more pleasant company. “I certainly do.” I led the woman back to where the pattern books, kits, and iron-on design packets were located. “What is she into? Horses, unicorns, fairies, butterflies . . . ?”
The woman laughed. “All of the above!”
“Well, you pick out your design,” I said, “and I’ll go round up some red embroidery floss.”
“Thank you.”
She wound up settling on two design packets. One had butterflies and flowers; the other had unicorns and winged horses.
“She’ll love these,” I said, as I rang up her design packets and five skeins of red floss.
“I think she will, too.”
I handed her a flyer. “If the two of you would ever like to take a class together here at the Seven-Year Stitch, I offer classes on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She tucked the flyer into the periwinkle bag with her purchases before leaving the shop.
I had just deflated back onto the red chair in a renewed bout of self-pity when Ted Nash arrived, looking business-casual in his dark blue suit and blue-and-white pin-striped shirt open at the collar.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I guess.” I sighed. “No, I’m actually not all right. That reporter who did the entrepreneur interviews wants me to help him discover who killed Louisa Ralston. Even though I’d love to find out who did kill Mrs. Ralston, I don’t want to share information with him. I don’t trust him.”
“Follow your instincts on that one,” Ted said. “I don’t trust him, either, and I’ve never even met the guy. I can tell there’s something more, though. What else is eating you?” He took a seat on the navy sofa.
“It’s Mom. She went to brunch with Cary Ellis today. He’s Louisa Ralston’s nephew.”
“The one taking the needlepoint class?”
“Yeah,” I said. “How did you know?”
“Sadie was talking about him with Blake this morning when I was buying coffee.”
“What was she saying?”
Ted shrugged. “Only that he’s taking the class and he seems to really like your mother.”
“That’s what bothers me,” I said. “Mom barely knows this man!”
He chuckled. “A little role reversal going on here? Some Freaky Friday on a Wednesday?”
“It’s more than that,” I said. “Her life is in San Francisco.”
“And if she decides to make a life for herself here, she steps all over your toes, right?”
I bit my lower lip.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not going to tell her. You can confide in me, you know.”
“I do know, Ted. Thank you.” I sighed again. “And I know I’m overreacting. I love Mom, but I don’t want to be in her shadow anymore. I lived in her shadow my entire life until I came here. Tallulah Falls is mine. I’m making my own friends, I bought my own house, and I bought my own furniture.” I frowned. “Does that make any sense?”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“Maybe. But it still makes me feel like a selfish jerk,” I said. “This case has me a jittery mess.”
He smiled. “You aren’t a selfish jerk. And here’s another thing—you don’t need Devon Reed to help you figure out what happened to Louisa Ralston.”
