Stitch Me Deadly, page 18
“Hey, there,” I said, sitting on a stool. “Did you wind up buying anything at the auction?”
“No.”
I frowned but wasn’t ready to give up yet. I wasn’t sure if I’d done something or if she was upset about something else. “Well, did you have a good weekend?”
She shrugged. “I guess so. Probably not as good as you had . . . with your two dates.”
“I don’t know that I’d call either of them dates.”
“No, I suppose not. Todd was more of a standby in case you needed some muscle to help you carry home something from the auction.” She went to help another customer.
So Sadie had found out about my date with Ted, and she wasn’t happy about it. Part of me wanted to stay and explain, but part of me—the biggest part—simply did not want to deal with an attitude this early on a Monday morning. I got up and left, thinking there had to be another coffee shop between here and Adam Gray’s office.
There was. After all, this is the Pacific Coast we’re talking about. Coffeehouses are as plentiful as gas stations . . . maybe more so.
I bought two cappuccinos and a box of assorted muffins, and everything was still piping hot when I arrived at Adam Gray’s office. I walked in but did not see Marsha.
“Marsha?” I called.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Marcy Singer. I’ve brought cappuccino and muffins.”
“I’m in Adam’s office. Come on back.”
I found Marsha wearing jeans, a faded sweatshirt, and hiking boots. Her face was devoid of makeup, and her copper hair had been pulled back.
“Housecleaning?” I asked.
She nodded. “Let me wash my hands, and I’ll be right back.”
She stepped out of the office, and I placed the cappuccinos and muffins on the desk. I glanced around to see what Adam might have been working on the morning he died, but the desk was too messy to really tell. Marsha returned and sat in Adam’s chair. I sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“What kind of muffins did you bring?” she asked, licking her lips as she peered into the box.
“I didn’t know what kind you might like, so there’s a banana nut, a blueberry, an apple cinnamon, and a chocolate chip.”
“Which one do you want?”
“You pick first,” I said, sipping my cappuccino.
She chose the chocolate chip, and I settled on the blueberry.
“Thank you,” she said. “This is awfully nice of you.” She tore off a piece of her muffin. “But why do I feel you have an ulterior motive?”
“Maybe I do. I’d like to know who killed your boss . . . but I think you want to know that, too.”
She popped the bite of muffin into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I do . . . but I don’t want to be next.”
“Do you think Mr. Gray’s death had anything to do with Louisa Ralston?” I asked.
“Possibly.” She was still being vague. I could see her reasoning, but I didn’t have time to tap-dance around her fears.
“Let me lay out a scenario for you,” I said, “and you tell me whether I’m hot or cold.”
She simply stared at me and tore off another bite of her muffin.
“Ever since Frank Ralston died however many years ago,” I continued, “Louisa has been looking for the child she had when she was a teenager and had to put up for adoption at the Tipton-Haney House.”
Marsha’s jaw dropped. “Louisa had a child when she was a teenager?”
“So you didn’t know?”
“No,” she said. “Are you sure?”
“My mother, Riley, and I were able to piece together much of Louisa’s story yesterday,” I said. “We think Louisa had a daughter by Edward Larkin and that she has been looking for her daughter, Ivy. I think she wanted Ivy to have the majority of her vast estate . . . sort of to make it up to Ivy for having to abandon her all those years ago. And I was sure Adam would have been helping her with her search.”
“I don’t think he was. If he had been, I’d have known about it.”
“I believe Louisa was afraid she might have been unable to find her daughter, so she had Adam set up a trust for a corporation called Ivy League, in which Louisa and Ivy Larkin were the sole proprietors. But if Louisa died and Ivy couldn’t be found, the money would go to a children’s home called Sunshine Manor.”
“You’re right about that,” Marsha said. “Adam did set up a trust for Louisa in both her name and the name Ivy Larkin.”
“But you’re telling me Adam didn’t know Ivy was Louisa’s daughter?” I asked.
“He might’ve suspected, but I don’t think he ever knew for certain. He put Louisa Ralston on a pedestal. He would never have admitted anything—even to himself—that might have knocked her off it.” She pinched off another piece of her muffin. “But you seem to know all about the trust, so why do you need me?”
“To find out why Adam was killed,” I said. “And Louisa, too, for that matter.” I took another sip of cappuccino and leaned forward. “Riley was able to figure out that Sunshine Manor is not a children’s home but a dummy corporation. I think Adam found that out, too.”
Marsha shook her head. “I don’t think so. Although he had begun trying to find one of the nonprofit’s principals after Louisa died so he could discuss the trust with them.”
“Was he also attempting to find Ivy Larkin?” I asked. “I saw something at the historical society that said Ivy was adopted by a Mildred and Arthur Sutherland,” I said.
“He was trying to find Ivy Larkin in order to disburse the trust, but he didn’t really believe anyone would ever find her. He had Eleanor looking into it, but that was mainly in order to give her practice in doing record searches.”
“Did Eleanor find anything?”
“Only that a child named Ivy Larkin was adopted by the Sutherlands, as you already know. She also learned that the Sutherlands had left the state of Oregon and relocated in Kansas or somewhere. I typed up her notes to give to Adam.” Marsha took a sip of her cappuccino and kept the warm cup in her hands.
“What about Edward Larkin?” I asked. “Did Louisa ever hear anything more from him? Or did he ever look for the baby?”
“I have no idea.”
I frowned. “How did Mrs. Ralston get mixed up with Sunshine Manor?”
“She was looking for a children’s home to donate the money to if she was unsuccessful in her attempts to find Ivy. She didn’t want to give it to some large organization. She wanted to keep it local . . . give the money to a smaller children’s organization here in Oregon.”
“That’s nice,” I said.
“Mrs. Ralston was top-notch,” said Marsha. “Anyway, her sister had told her about Sunshine Manor and given her a brochure. Sunshine Manor was located in Portland, was a large home for needy and abandoned children, and was run by a Christian foundation. Mrs. Ralston thought it would be perfect.”
“Do you still have the brochure?” I asked.
“I think so. It’s here in Mrs. Ralston’s file.” She got up, opened a file cabinet and flipped through the files until she located Mrs. Ralston’s. She took out the brochure and handed it to me.
When I saw the cream-colored Victorian mansion with the spire on the left towering above the gazebo, my jaw dropped.
“What is it?” Marsha asked.
“This isn’t Sunshine Manor,” I said. “It’s the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos. It’s a bed-and-breakfast.” I recognized it because Mom and I had stayed there one weekend.
“So Sunshine Manor really was a dummy corporation. No wonder Adam couldn’t locate any of the administrators.”
I looked through the brochure and saw photographs of children and happy administrators. Whoever had made this brochure had “borrowed” their location from Los Alamos, so I figured the photos had been borrowed as well.
“May I make a copy of this?” I asked Marsha.
“Keep it. Just let me have it back when you’re through. I don’t know who’s going to handle the administration of Mrs. Ralston’s estate now that Adam’s gone”—she shook her head—“but I don’t think the new administrator will need that garbage, do you?”
“No,” I said. “But I might be able to use it to track down the person who set Mrs. Ralston up.”
Chapter Twenty-four
I stopped by the house on my way to work to pick up Mom and Angus. I ran inside and called to Mom because I really needed to grab them and get to the shop.
“Hi, darling,” Mom called from the top of the stairs. “You and Angus go on to the shop. I need to stay here and pack.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yeah. After the producer and I talked, we realized we need to meet in person and collaborate on sketches, materials we plan to use, and things like that,” she said. “Trying to pin it all down electronically just won’t work with what we’re doing.”
“Maybe I should go with you,” I said.
Mom started down the stairs. “Why? Did something happen?”
“Sort of. Do you remember the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos? The cast and crew of Summer Showers had a party on the set, and you were too tired to drive us all the way back home.”
“That’s right,” she said. “So we stopped there and stayed in the Egyptian Room. Lucky for us it was available. As I recall, it’s the only room with a balcony.”
“Right.” I took the brochure for Sunshine Manor out of my pocket. “Check this out.”
She came down the steps to look at the brochure. “This says Sunshine Manor, but it’s the back entrance to the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos.”
“I know. I want to go there and check their books from one to two years ago to see who might’ve been there and used this photograph to set Louisa Ralston up for this scam.”
Mom opened the brochure and frowned as she perused its contents. “You don’t think this could actually be Sunshine Manor, do you? Maybe it only looks remarkably like the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos.”
I shook my head. “Riley is sure Sunshine Manor is a dummy corporation. That’s why I need to see if anyone connected with Louisa Ralston has stayed there.”
“Who says the person stayed there? Maybe someone just lifted the photo from the site.”
“You’ve got a point. When I get to the shop, I’ll run into the office and check. But if I’m right, and the photo taken from the back isn’t available online, I’m going to Los Alamos.”
“Even if you are right—and you probably are—” Mom said, “you don’t have to shut down your shop and go there. Simply call the owners and give them a list of suspects.”
“Okay. You’re right. This is just the first solid lead I’ve run across as to who might’ve killed Louisa and Adam. What time does your flight leave?”
“Not until seven o’clock this evening. I’ll make dinner.”
“Let me take you out,” I said.
She smiled. “Deal.”
I retrieved Angus from the backyard, and he and I got into the Jeep and headed for the shop. Though it was cloudy, it wasn’t rainy today, and I was glad of that. When I arrived at the shop, there was a car parked in my usual space. I parked beside it, and Angus and I got out. Eleanor Ralston got out of the other car.
“Marcy, good morning,” she said. “I was waiting to talk with you.”
“Come on in,” I said, unlocking the shop door. I went inside and flipped on the lights. “Is anything wrong?”
“Oh, no,” Eleanor said. “The opposite, really. I was at Adam Gray’s office earlier helping Marsha—I’m going back there in a bit—and I wanted to thank you for being so kind to her. Mr. Gray was practically the only family she had.”
“It’s my pleasure.” I didn’t tell Eleanor I was mainly fishing for information, and her compliment about my kindness made me feel a twinge of guilt. “Have a seat. I’ll put my jacket and purse in my office and be right with you.”
I put my things in my office and took a rawhide chew for Angus out of his toy box. He stretched out on the floor with the treat, and I returned to the sit-and-stitch square.
“How long had you worked for Mr. Gray?” I asked Eleanor.
“I’m just finishing up paralegal training in a few weeks,” she said, “but he was letting me work with him as a favor to Grandma. It was a great way to gain experience.”
“What will you do now?”
“I’m applying for jobs in sunny California.” Eleanor gave me a half smile. “I’m so tired of Oregon. Besides, I have nothing to keep me here now. The house is gone, the furnishings are gone. . . . I’m going to sublet my apartment and use the proceeds from the auction to start over in northern California.”
“Good for you. I know all about starting over,” I said. “I left accounting in San Francisco to become an embroidery shop owner here in Tallulah Falls.”
Eleanor chuckled. “Like Cary told you on Saturday, I was a nurse for a little while. It was a shame to throw away the education and the expense of nursing school. But after being in that field for three years, I couldn’t do it anymore. It’s exhausting—physically, mentally, emotionally.” She sighed. “There was one patient in particular. Her name was Clarissa Simons. She was young. She appeared to be so full of life when I met her, but her body was riddled with cancer. I watched her deteriorate day after day until she died.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It was then I decided life is too short to waste. The day she died was the day I gave up nursing.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s quite a story.”
“It was quite an experience.” She turned to me, seeming to shake off the melancholy of reminiscing about Clarissa Simons. “So, Marcy, do you know any attorneys in northern California who might be looking for a good paralegal?”
“I’ll check with my mom’s attorney and see,” I said. “He has excellent connections.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She stood. “I’ll be in town for at least another month, so if you come up with anything, please let me know.”
I assured her I would, and she left. I returned to the office and booted up my computer. As soon as I had logged on to the Internet, I did a search for the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos. As suspected, the photograph of the back of the building wasn’t on the bed-and-breakfast’s Web site. I couldn’t find it on any of the other search sites, either. I copied down the B and B’s phone number.
The photograph encompassed the mansion’s large yard surrounded by the white picket fence—a perfect illustration for a brochure advertising a children’s home. And whoever had taken it had been there.
I took out the Boulevard of Broken Dreams piece I was working on for Mom’s birthday. Since she wouldn’t be in today, I hoped I could get quite a bit of work done on it.
I returned to the sit-and-stitch square with the project, the phone number, and my cell phone. I punched in the number for the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos, and then I put the phone on speaker and waited for someone to answer. Since the project was stamped on the fabric, I was able to stitch without worrying about counting, which made multitasking much easier.
“Good morning, the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos,” a cheerful voice answered.
“Good morning. My name is Marcy Singer, and I’m calling from Tallulah Falls, Oregon. My mother and I stayed in your Egyptian Room several years ago.”
“And you’re calling to reserve the room again?” she asked.
“No, I’m afraid not. I believe someone used a photograph of the Victorian Mansion in a brochure for a nonexistent children’s home called Sunshine Manor.”
“Are you certain it’s our bed-and-breakfast?” she asked.
“I’ll be happy to fax you the brochure, and you can see for yourself,” I said.
“Would you?”
“Of course. I know this is a long shot, but the reason I’m calling is to ask you to go back through your records of the past couple years to see if any of the people suspected in defrauding this lady stayed at your bed-and-breakfast.”
“I guess I could do that,” she said. “Are you a police officer or federal agent or—”
“Um . . . actually, I’m. . . .”
At that moment, Ted Nash walked through the door. I held up the phone to let him know I was on speaker.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m with Chief Detective Ted Nash of the Tallulah Falls Police Department.”
“All right,” the woman said. “If you’ll fax me the brochure and the list of names, I’ll look into this matter right away.”
“Thank you so much for your help,” I said.
I ended the call and smiled at Ted. “Hello.”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m being punked or something?” he asked. “I come in, and you’re on the phone and you suddenly tell the person on the other end, I’m with Ted Nash.”
I bit my lip. “Well, I needed her help and I . . . kinda thought it would sound better coming from you.”
“You thought what would sound better coming from me?”
I explained about Sunshine Manor, the brochure, and the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos. Then I backtracked and told Ted about Mom and me going to the historical society and learning about Louisa’s baby by Edward Larkin. “Mom, Riley, and I were able to find out that Louisa had a baby named Ivy while she was at Tipton-Haney House. The baby was adopted by a couple with the surname Sutherland.”
“Having a child in a women’s home like that would make Louisa open to supporting a similar charity,” Ted said.
“Right. And whoever set her up knew that. I believe that if the woman at the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos can look back through her guest records and find a person connected to Louisa Ralston, then we have our fraud agent and we just might have Mrs. Ralston’s killer.”
“Excellent work, Inch-High Private Eye.” He grinned.
“Thanks,” I said, ignoring the jibe. “But get this—according to Marsha, Adam Gray’s secretary, Ms. Ellis is the one who told Louisa Ralston about Sunshine Manor.”
“Then you believe Ms. Ellis is involved?” Ted asked.
