Stitch Me Deadly, page 2
“Okay. Be careful in this rain, Riley.”
She winked. “I’m used to it. Besides, I’m not sweet enough to melt.”
After Riley left, I took the sampler into my office to make a color copy of it. Even though I was planning to call Mr. Gray to see if I could drop the sampler off at his office after work, I still wanted to make a pattern so I could duplicate the sampler and display it here in the shop. I cleaned the copier glass and allowed it to dry before laying the sampler on the surface. I closed the lid and made the copy on eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper. I removed the sampler from the copier and sat down at the desk with a pen, paper, and a thread chart.
Although I had the colors on the copy, I wanted to try to capture the original hues of the threads as much as possible. I painstakingly searched within color families for the variant that would best correspond to Mrs. Ralston’s original. The letters were done in blue . . . not a cornflower or a periwinkle . . . not a Wedgwood blue. . . . This was a blue that fell somewhere between Wedgwood and Colonial blue. I felt triumphant when I found a close enough match.
My eyes were nearly crossing by the time I got to the stitching that made up the verse. As with the rest of the stitches, I tried to determine what the thread had looked like at its most vibrant, before it had been faded by time. This thread was a shade of green . . . not too dark and not too light. I decided to start in the jade family.
I looked up at my white ceiling for a moment to readjust my eyes. When I looked back at the sampler, it appeared that the verse stitching was not as faded as the stitching in the rest of the sampler. I picked the sampler up and turned it over. From the back, it was even more obvious that someone had torn out the sampler’s original verse—which had apparently been done in a shade of rose, judging by the scraps of thread that had been run under existing stitches prior to cutting—and replaced it. But why would someone ruin this antique sampler just to change the verse? What was so important about this particular verse?
Chapter Two
As the rain began coming down harder, I felt a stab of guilt over having left Angus at home today. We have a fenced backyard and a covered porch, so I knew he wouldn’t spend the day wet, cold, shivering, and pitiful. He also had plenty of food, water, and toys on the porch. I gave in to a fit of coughing. Who was I kidding? I was the one who was shivering and pitiful today.
Still, I know Angus prefers coming to the shop with me. But since I was on my way to Mrs. Ralston’s house to drop the sampler off to her lawyer, I felt it best that Angus stay at home. I’d have loved to stay home with him . . . with a box of tissues, cough drops, throat lozenges, and a vat of chicken soup.
I keyed into my GPS unit the address Mr. Gray had provided me after I’d explained the situation. Mrs. Ralston’s home was farther out of town than I’d expected . . . farther inland. At last the monotone navigator informed me that “after four hundred yards, you have reached your destination.”
My destination was a Victorian-style house—white with black shutters and gingerbread trim. There was a black Cadillac in the driveway. I parked my red Jeep beside it, pulled my jacket hood up, and hopped out. I jogged to the door. Before I could ring the doorbell, however, the door was opened by someone who I could only imagine was Mr. Gray—and the name suited him.
A stooped, mousy man with a red bow tie that looked huge on his small frame, he looked too old to have gone to law school with Norman Patrick. Maybe Mr. Gray had gotten a late start. His hair was . . . well . . . gray, and he had cloudy blue eyes and wire-framed glasses. Plus, he was no more than a head taller than me. Between him and poor Mrs. Ralston, I was beginning to feel positively Amazonian.
Mr. Gray extended his hand. “You must be Marcy.”
“That’s right.” I smiled, surprised he had such a firm grip. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Gray, though I’m sorry it’s under these particular circumstances.”
“As am I.” He stepped aside. “Won’t you come in?”
I stepped into the home’s foyer and nearly gasped. This place was gorgeous . . . like something out of House Beautiful or Architectural Digest . Or maybe even MTV’s Cribs.
There was a stairway to my right with white posts, a mahogany banister, and mahogany stairs. A custom-made blue and rose Oriental rug ran down the middle of the stairs.
I pictured myself coming down those stairs wearing the white dress with green trim that Scarlett O’Hara had worn to the Wilkeses’ barbecue. As I floated down the stairs to the swelling musical score of Gone With the Wind, Todd and Ted would come to stand—one at each banister.
I gave myself a mental shake. I must have a fever.
I couldn’t see much of the living room behind Mr. Gray, but I could make out an ornate white mantel. An oil painting of a beautiful woman in a midnight blue evening gown hung above the mantel.
Mr. Gray noticed me looking at it. “That’s Louisa in her younger days.” He stepped into the living room and motioned for me to do likewise. “She was a lovely person . . . outside and inside. I’ll miss her.”
As I stood beside Mr. Gray, I noticed him trying to inconspicuously swipe a tear off his sallow cheek. The gesture made me wonder if he and Mrs. Ralston were more than counsel and client. “Had you known Mrs. Ralston long?”
He nodded. “I guess twenty-five years or so . . . thirty, maybe. She was a dear friend.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Mr. Gray stared at the painting for another moment before turning away. “Thank you, Marcy.”
I handed the sampler that I’d rewrapped in Mrs. Ralston’s tissue paper to Mr. Gray. “This is the sampler I told you about over the phone.”
He sat down on the floral print sofa and carefully unwrapped the layers of tissue paper to expose the sampler. “You say she brought this to your shop yesterday morning?”
“Yes,” I said, going to sit near him on the sofa. “She said she wanted me to help her find ivy.”
He frowned. “Maybe she intended to restore the piece or something. It is awfully faded.”
“Mr. Gray, this sampler was embroidered by Mrs. Ralston’s great-grandmother. I wouldn’t think she’d have wanted to change it.” I waved my hand near the verse. “Although someone did change that . . . so I suppose anything is possible. Did this verse have special significance to Mrs. Ralston or some other member of the family?”
He was silent as he read the verse. Then he answered, “Not that I’m aware of.” He rewrapped the sampler in the tissue paper and handed it to me. “Why don’t you keep this? I believe Louisa would want you to have it.”
My heart leaped at the possibility of being able to keep the sampler—which really was a work of art. But I knew how I’d feel if one of my family members’ treasured possessions was given to a stranger rather than to me. “I’m honored, Mr. Gray, but I’m sure one of Mrs. Ralston’s family members would love to have the sampler.”
“You’re quite wrong. The Ralston family is sorely lacking in sentimentality. Your taking the piece would likely save it from the trash heap.”
“Really?”
Mr. Gray pursed his lips at my horrified expression. “Really. So please, take it. And if you’ll wait here while I get it, there’s something else I’d like you to have.” He crossed the foyer into another portion of the house.
I’d have loved to follow him, and I was brimming with curiosity about what he would return with. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
When he returned, he was carrying a small lidded sewing box. “I have no idea what’s in here,” Mr. Gray said, “but Louisa kept it with her almost all the time. Please take it.”
“But don’t you think—”
“I think it is one less thing for the trash heap or the auction block if you’d be so kind as to take it.”
I smiled. “Then I’ll gladly take this and the sampler.” I gave him a business card from my purse. “But please pass my number along to any of the family members who might want these items back.”
“I’ll do that, Marcy, if anyone asks about them. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gray.” I left the Ralston home with the sampler and the sewing kit. In one way, I felt I’d hit the jackpot, but in another way, I felt terribly sorry for the family if none of them could see the value in either of these items.
Before going to the shop, I stopped by the pharmacy. I bought throat lozenges, honey, chamomile and echinacea tea bags, nondrowsy cold medicine, and tissues. Hopefully, my purchases would get me through the day.
I’d awakened feeling worse this morning than I had yesterday. The tickle in my throat had become a full-blown ache, and my head was stuffy. I almost—mind you, almost—wished Mom was still visiting. It would have been nice to have some maternal pampering. But I didn’t need the temptation that she’d offered over and over again to “come back home to San Francisco and open your little shop there.”
This was my first winter on the Oregon coast, and frankly, I was finding all this rain a little dismal. While winters in San Francisco had had their fair share of rain, there had been also plenty of mild, sunny days. Plus, winters in San Francisco had Mom’s cook, Frances, spoiling me with chowders, pasta salads, and cookies. Winters here, so far, consisted of umbrellas, raincoats, and sniffles.
Not that I wouldn’t get used to it. And it wasn’t that there weren’t things to love about Tallulah Falls in the winter. There was the whale watching, of course. And the agate hunters gathering in the early mornings to check out the bedrock. I went myself once and even found a stone large enough to have made into a pendant. Plus, Sadie and Blake had assured me there would be some warm, clear days when Angus and I could play on the beach to our hearts’ content.
I opened the shop and went to the back to stash my cold remedies. Almost immediately, the bell above the door signaled that I had a visitor . . . a customer, I hoped. I popped a throat lozenge into my mouth and went out to the counter.
Rajani “Reggie” Singh—the local librarian and an embroiderer extraordinaire—and a woman I’d never met were standing just inside the shop.
“There you are,” Reggie said, approaching the counter. She wore a long, light blue tunic with white trim, matching trousers, and a matching scarf. Her short gray hair was covered by a white rain hat and her small round glasses were spattered with rain. She took the glasses off and cleaned them with the tail of her scarf, then returned them to her face. “Marcy, I’d like you to meet Ella Redmond. Ella is the library’s new genealogist.”
I smiled at Ella, a tall, angular woman dressed completely in black. The color wasn’t very complementary to her auburn hair and wan complexion, but overall, she was an attractive woman who appeared to be in her mid- to late forties. “It’s nice to meet you, Ella.”
I wasn’t aware libraries employed genealogists, especially a library as small as the one here in Tallulah Falls. But Reggie was an excellent librarian, and if she felt she needed a genealogist, I’m sure she did.
“Rajani”—Ella glanced at her companion—“or, rather, Reggie, has told me about your embroidery classes, and I’d love to attend one. I’m new in town, and I think it would be a great way to meet people. Plus, I’m really interested in learning some needlework techniques.”
“We’ll be delighted to have you. Reggie’s class meets tomorrow night.”
“Okay,” Ella said. “I’ll be there.”
I looked at Reggie. “Did you know Louisa Ralston?”
Reggie frowned. “The name sounds familiar. I’d probably recognize her if I saw her. Why?”
I explained the events of yesterday morning.
“That’s odd,” Reggie said. “Had she been sick, or did this just strike her suddenly?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I totally forgot to ask Mr. Gray if Mrs. Ralston had been sick. He seemed to have been really close to her.”
Reggie tapped a forefinger against the counter. “I wonder what was so pressing that she came out in that driving rain yesterday to find—What did you say it was? Ivy?”
“That’s what she said.” I retrieved the sampler and unwrapped it for them.
“Oh, this is gorgeous,” Reggie said.
“It is.” Ella frowned slightly. “The verse does mention ivy.”
“Right,” I said. “I thought she might be looking for that particular shade of green, but the green used in the verse is more of a jade. Don’t you think?”
“I do.” Reggie studied the sampler intently.
“Here’s the other weird thing,” I said. “The original verse was torn out and replaced with this one not all that long ago. Why would someone do that?”
“You know,” Ella said, “people sometimes incorporate their family trees into embroidery projects. You don’t think Ivy could be a person, do you?”
“I hadn’t considered that,” I said, “but I kind of feel I should look into it. I mean, she wanted to find ‘ivy’ so badly.”
We chatted for a while about some new embroidery projects, a new recipe Reggie was trying on her husband, Manu, tonight, and Ella’s move and her new apartment in Tallulah Falls. Then another customer stopped by to pick up a needlepoint pattern book, and Reggie and Ella took that as their cue and went on their way.
After the customer had left, I called Mr. Gray to ask if Mrs. Ralston had a relative named Ivy.
“Not that I’m aware of, dear, but you might check with some of the Ralston family. Were you planning to attend the visitation tomorrow?”
Actually, I hadn’t given it any thought. But now I found myself saying, “Yes, Mr. Gray. I’ll be there.”
Despite the fact that only a few more brave customers battled the rain to visit the shop, the morning passed surprisingly fast. I was sitting at the counter having some tomato soup when Detective Ted Nash came in. Ted and I had become acquainted during the Timothy Enright case. We somehow had progressed from detective-suspect status to friends, and I felt there was some chemistry between us. We could probably be more than friends if I gave Ted any encouragement. But on the one hand, I’d been casually dating Todd Calloway, who owns the craft brewery across the street. And on the other hand, after being left practically at the altar by my fiancé, David, a year ago, I was rather gun-shy on romance.
Like everyone else who had come into the shop the past two days, Ted parked his umbrella in the corner beside the door. For some reason, this finally drove home to me the necessity of putting an umbrella stand in that corner. I made a mental note to get one as soon as possible.
“Would you like some soup?” I asked.
Ted shook his head. “I’m here off the record.”
“And your being here off the record prevents you from having soup?”
“No, it’s not. . . . I’ve already eaten lunch. I’m here because I’m concerned about you.”
Wow. I’d heard about the small-town grapevine, but this was ridiculous. “It’s only a cold. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”
“I wasn’t talking about your cold. I’m talking about Louisa Ralston.”
“Oh, I know. Wasn’t that terrible? She seemed like a wonderful person. Did you know her?”
Ted closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He gave a big sigh before dropping his hand and opening his eyes. “Later today you are going to be questioned about Mrs. Ralston’s death.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? That’s it? Okay?”
I shrugged. “Um . . . yeah. I mean, after the whole Timothy Enright debacle, answering a few questions about a woman who had a heart attack in my store will be easy. Right?”
Ted stared at me as if he’d never seen me before. Then he said, “Come sit down with me.”
Leaving my mug on the counter, I slowly joined Ted on the navy sofa facing the window. “Why are you looking at me that way?” I asked. “She did die of a heart attack, didn’t she?”
He ran his hand through his dark hair, which was prematurely streaked with gray. “Technically, yes, Mrs. Ralston suffered a myocardial infarction. But it was caused by a drug used to treat manic depression.”
“Mrs. Ralston was manic-depressive?”
“No, Marcy, she wasn’t. And that’s why the drug—a central nervous system depressant—caused her to suffer a heart attack.”
“That’s terrible! That means . . . Mrs. Ralston was murdered.”
“Precisely.”
“And the police want to question me because . . .” I let the question hang there.
“Because Mrs. Ralston ingested the medication shortly before her death. You were the last person to speak with her and . . .”
“And what?” Although the weight in the pit of my stomach told me even before Ted did.
He sighed again. “And you gave her a cup of tea.”
“So? It hadn’t even been opened. The worst thing I could’ve done to Mrs. Ralston would have been to give her a cold. There’s no way the tea did her in. Besides, I had a cup of tea that came from the same pot just after the paramedics left with Mrs. Ralston.”
“What did you do with the cup Mrs. Ralston drank from?”
“I threw it away, of course.”
“Of course.” He rubbed his chin. “All right, here’s what you need to do. Since you have nothing to hide, allow the police to search your shop and house.”
“Search my house? That’s a total invasion of my privacy.” I could not believe yet another murder was being linked to me and my shop. Instead of the Seven-Year Stitch, people were going to start calling it Embroidery Shop of the Dead or Little Embroidery Shop of Horrors. Or worse: Closed.
“Still,” Ted said, “it keeps them from being suspicious and getting a search warrant.”
“Don’t they need to have grounds for a search warrant?” I asked. “I only met Mrs. Ralston yesterday. What reason would I possibly have to want to harm her?”
