Stitch Me Deadly, page 5
“Would you mind helping me put these in my Jeep?” I asked.
“Thought you were in a hurry.”
“Please,” I said.
He shrugged and slowly picked up two of the bags. I got the other one and managed to wrestle it over to the Jeep. The cabdriver didn’t seem to be having a problem toting his bags, but mine seemed to weigh a ton. If not for stringent airport security, I’d have wondered if Mom might’ve smuggled the unconscious body of Selena Roxanis to Tallulah Falls to make the woman confirm that she’d spilled her purse in the wardrobe room.
The driver put all three bags into the back of my Jeep, then strolled back to his car and announced his new fee. I paid it and gave him a small tip. He nodded and drove away.
I took a deep breath and hurried into the police station.
A deputy-secretary sat behind bulletproof glass and spoke to me through a microphone. “How may I assist you?”
“I’m looking for my mother,” I said. When I realized how childish that made me sound, I smiled. The woman behind the glass did not.
Since there were no chairs in the stark hallway, I decided there must be a waiting room somewhere and that this gatekeeper had to know where my mother was—well—waiting. The last time I was here, I’d been given the VIP—very improper person—treatment and ushered right on into the interrogation room.
I dropped the smile and tried again. “I’m Marcy Singer. My mother, Beverly Singer, has important information in the Louisa Ralston investigation, and I was supposed to meet her here. Has she arrived?”
“One moment.” The deputy-secretary turned off the microphone so I couldn’t hear what she was saying into her intercom. After her brief exchange with whomever, she turned the microphone back on to tell me she’d “buzz” me in.
Sure enough, there was a buzz, and then I could hear the tumblers in the lock click. I opened the door and stepped into the adjoining room.
Deputy-Secretary Fife—not her real name, but she had a pervasive air of Barney Fife about her—was there to greet me. She had a metal detecting wand.
“Raise your arms, please.”
I complied. When Ms. Fife was satisfied that I carried no weapons or contraband, she buzzed me through another door, where Detective Bailey awaited me.
“Hello, there, Ms. Singer. Nice to see you again. Detective Ray and I have just started taking your mother’s statement. You can join us, but you may not speak during our interrogation unless directly questioned by Detective Ray or myself. Otherwise, you will be escorted from the premises. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, sir.” If I wasn’t going to be allowed to speak during the interrogation, how could I keep Mom from doing or saying something stupid? Something that might get one or both of us thrown in jail?
“Very well. Follow me.”
Detective Bailey led me down the now familiar hallway containing the framed photographs of groups of officers from days gone by. He stopped at the door of the same interrogation room where I’d been questioned. Was this the only one they had? And did they all look alike? Wonder what Detective Bailey would say if I asked if Mom could be questioned in the executive suite? Could he lock me up for contempt? Or could only a judge do that?
Detective Bailey reminded me not to speak until I was spoken to and allowed me to go into the room in front of him. He nodded toward the only empty chair—the one Manu had occupied near the door. I sat on it.
I gave Mom a searching look, but she barely glanced at me. Her expression was as enigmatic as that of the Mona Lisa.
“Let’s continue,” Detective Bailey said with a nod at his partner.
“Ms. Singer,” Detective Ray began in a gravelly voice. Then, with a pointed look at me, he corrected, “Ms. Beverly Singer.”
I know, I thought. I’m keeping my mouth shut.
“How did you come to be in possession of a bottle of pills belonging to”—he flipped through pages of notes—“Selena Roxanis?”
Mom reiterated the story she’d already told me, but this time she added, “Had I discovered them before I was en route to the airport, I’d have given them back to her discreetly before anyone hanging around the studio could make tabloid fodder out of the discovery. However, I did call the director and alert him to the situation. When I came across the pills later at my daughter’s house, I put them in the nightstand with the intention of packing them up and returning them when I got back to work.”
“Did your daughter know the pills were in the nightstand?” Detective Bailey asked.
“No. I didn’t mention the incident to her.”
“Why not?” Detective Ray asked.
“Frankly, Detective Ray, I saw no reason for doing so.”
“Why didn’t you overnight the pills to Ms. Roxanis?” he asked.
Mom pursed her lips as she looked at him, and I silently prayed she wouldn’t say anything stupid.
“Ms. Roxanis is not especially kind to me. She basically tolerates my presence. That doesn’t sit well with a professional who is as good at her job as I am.”
I literally bit down on my lower lip to keep from telling her to be quiet. I considered having a coughing fit or pretending to faint.
She continued. “I hoped doing Ms. Roxanis such a huge favor as protecting her secret—and having her know it was I who’d protected her secret—would garner some respect from her.”
“Did it?” Detective Ray asked.
“No. As I told you, I forgot I had them and didn’t see her again until I’d returned to San Francisco. By that time, she’d already refilled her prescription, and I never mentioned her losing the other bottle in the wardrobe room.”
“Thank you,” Detective Bailey said. “If we need anything further from you, we’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll be staying with my daughter for a few days should you need to speak with me again,” Mom said. “My testimony certainly absolves Marcella from any suspicion in this poor woman’s death, does it not?”
“You’ve explained how the drug came to be in your daughterʹs possession,” Detective Bailey said, “but you haven’t given us sufficient proof that she was unaware of its presence in her home or that she didn’t use some of the pills on the deceased.”
Mom’s eyes narrowed, and I closed mine.
“My word should be sufficient proof, Detective,” she said. “I give you my word it’s true, and I’d swear to it under oath—and I have to tell you my word has never been in dispute before.”
“It isn’t now, Ms. Singer,” Detective Bailey said, “but you can’t testify that your daughter didn’t find the pills after you’d left Oregon.”
“How many pills are in that bottle?” Mom asked.
“How many were in it when it came to be in your possession?” Detective Bailey asked.
“I didn’t count them,” she said, “but you can be sure I’ll find out. And when I do, you’re going to put it in writing that my daughter had nothing to do with this Ralston woman’s death, and you’re going to apologize to both of us.”
“Very well, Ms. Singer,” said Detective Bailey, “but for now, you are both free to go.”
I continued to remain silent until Mom and I were in the Jeep.
“Are you out of your mind?” I asked as I started the engine. “Were you trying to antagonize them?”
“No,” she said, “but neither was I going to be intimidated by them.”
My right temple was beginning to throb, so I massaged it with my thumb before backing out of the parking spot. “You’ve read way too many movie scripts, Mom. And when you’re angry, you talk like one.”
Chapter Five
Mom insisted on coming with me to the needlepoint class that evening. Afterward, we were going to Mrs. Ralston’s visitation, which meant I was going to have to cut the class a few minutes short. I was sure everyone would understand.
Mom had met everyone when she’d visited previously, so introductions weren’t necessary. I noticed some of the women looking speculative, as if they were wondering why Mom was back so soon, but given my current situation, maybe they simply thought she was here for moral support.
Vera Langhorne was in attendance. She’d done so well in a previous cross-stitch class that she was out to master as many needlecraft techniques as possible. Frankly, I was glad she was giving needlepoint a go because her cross-stitch project had been a little too difficult and I’d wound up “helping” a bit more than I’d intended. Translation: I pulled out and redid so many stitches, the piece was more like a collaboration than a solo effort on Vera’s part.
Still, I liked Vera. She was fun, and she certainly knew how to liven up a class.
Reggie was in this class, too. She was a pro at chikankari, an Indian white-on-white embroidery technique, and she, too, had taken the cross-stitch class. Reggie was a gifted stitcher. With her husband being so recently named Tallulah Falls’ chief of police, I think she used the classes mainly as a social gathering when her husband was working evenings.
I was happy to see that Reggie’s friend and coworker Ella Redmond had decided to join the needlepoint class. The group had eagerly welcomed her. In a small town like Tallulah Falls, it was always nice to have fresh meat—I mean, new friends.
I was even able to talk Sadie into taking the class. I convinced her that needlepoint was easier and faster than cross-stitch, and she was reluctantly giving it a go. Though she and Blake now had their relationship firmly on the mend, stitching gave her a girls’ night out-let I think she still needed. It had to be tough both living with and working with her husband, especially while there had been tension between them. Even now, it had to be nice for her to take a break a couple nights a week.
I noticed Mom was talking with Ella Redmond. “The last time I was here,” Mom said, “I noticed a lovely Queen Anne Victorian house. Where was that, Marcy?”
“You mean the one in Newport?” I asked.
“Oh, I know that house,” Ella said. “It’s the Burrows House Museum. It was built for a couple of newlyweds who married when both were in their sixties. It dates back to eighteen ninety-five.”
“What a gorgeous place for them to share their golden years,” Mom said. “Did either of them have children?”
“I don’t know,” Ella said. “They divorced shortly after the house was built. Everything went to the wife, and she sold it to another couple, who turned it into a funeral parlor.”
“Ewww,” I said. “That’s kind of creepy.”
Reggie laughed. “Not necessarily. You have to have funeral parlors.”
“But did the people live there while the house was also serving as a funeral parlor?” I asked.
“Probably,” Ella said. “After all, there was enough room.”
I shuddered, images of zombies flooding my mind.
“You know,” said Vera, “the Ralston house has a similar history. I happened to think of it after seeing Mrs. Ralston’s obituary in the newspaper. That house was once a home for unwed mothers.”
“Really?” I asked. “It’s a gorgeous place. Were the mothers allowed to live there with their children?”
Vera inclined her head. “I think it was more of a case of the women having their babies there and then putting them up for adoption.”
“Oh.” I bit my lower lip. “That’s sad.”
“Yeah. Mrs. Ralston and her husband bought the house when they were first married,” Vera said. “I remember her telling my mother that she wanted to fill the house with happy memories.”
“If the children were adopted into happy families,” Reggie said, “then there were happy memories there.”
Vera shrugged. “Just repeating what I heard.” “And you have to believe,” Sadie said, “if there were that many children being given away, there was a great deal of sadness in the place. Too many brokenhearted mothers.”
I tried to lighten the mood by asking, “How’s everyone doing on their projects? Anyone need any help?” But the mood was somber throughout the rest of our class.
After class, Mom and I went back to my house to freshen up and change clothes before going to the visitation. She wore a dove gray suit and I wore a black shift. Since the shift was too restricting for me to climb into the Jeep, and since Mom flatly refused to be seen “flinging” herself out of the Jeep with her skirt hiked up to her thighs, we called a cab to take us to the funeral home. Life would have been simpler had Mom rented a car, but she preferred to be chauffeured.
When we arrived at the funeral home, Mom asked the driver to “get our doors, please.” He did so, and she gave him a whopping tip. She has the regality thing down pat.
We hurried inside out of the cold wind. Mom immediately took out her compact and checked her makeup, then snapped the compact shut and dropped it back into her purse. We were greeted by a funeral home director, who told us where to find the Ralston family. We made our way to the proper room, and I noticed Adam Gray standing just inside the door. He looked even smaller than he had the first time I’d seen him. His black suit hung on his slight frame and made him appear wan and hollow-eyed.
“Hello, Mr. Gray,” I said.
He smiled. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Singer.”
“This is my mother, Beverly Singer. She’s visiting from San Francisco.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I love San Francisco, though I haven’t had the opportunity to visit in years.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Gray,” Mom said. “And you’ll have to look me up when you do get back to San Francisco.”
“I’ll do that.” He glanced around the room. “Louisa was a wonderful person. She deserved . . . more.”
I followed his gaze and saw the sparse crowd, most of whom appeared bored. “I wish I could’ve known her better.”
“I wish you could have, too,” Mr. Gray said. “I think you and she would’ve been friends.”
I thought of asking Mr. Gray if he knew of anyone associated with Mrs. Ralston who took the drug Halumet, but I decided this probably wasn’t the right time or place.
A tall, thin man in a navy suit, pale blue shirt, and white-and-blue ascot strode toward us. His black hair was combed over to the right and so rigid I wondered if it would move even if I put both hands in it and tried to mess it up. “Gray,” the man said with a bob of his head at Mr. Gray. “Who are your charming companions?”
“Carrington Ellis, meet Marcy and Beverly Singer,” Mr. Gray said. “Marcy, Beverly, this is Carrington. He is Louisa’s sisterʹs son.”
“Cary, please,” the man said, giving a slight chivalrous bow. “I’m enchanted to meet you both. Did you know my aunt well?”
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “She . . . I was . . . with her when she . . . when she . . . became ill.”
“Ah, you own the embroidery shop,” he said. “The Seven-Year Stitch, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Charming. I’ll have to come in and check it out.” He smiled. “I’ve been searching for an outlet to relieve my stress. Perhaps some sort of needlecraft is what I need.”
I wondered if that was true, or if he was an old playboy wannabe simply looking for a new venue to meet women.
“Indeed,” Mr. Gray said drily.
I was getting the impression Mr. Gray didn’t have a lot of affection for Cary. But, as he was the first family member I’d met, I asked him if he would be interested in the sampler, the sewing kit, or the locket I’d found inside.
“Not me, but thank you for asking,” Cary said.
“I told you when I gave you those things that you’d be keeping them from the auction block, Ms. Singer,” said Mr. Gray. “Apparently, you didn’t believe me.”
“He’s quite right,” Cary said. “Eleanor has already contacted an auction house. She’s planning to sell off everything.”
“Everything?” I asked.
“Everything that was left to her . . . which is probably the bulk of the estate. Eleanor was Aunt Louisa’s only grandchild.”
“Are Eleanorʹs parents still living?” Mom asked.
“Her mother is living, but her father—Louisa’s son—died several years ago,” Cary said.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mom said.
I looked toward the people standing closer to the closed casket. “Which one is Eleanor? I’d like to speak with her.”
Cary offered his arm, a gesture I thought was outdated for someone his age. He couldn’t be more than fifty, yet he conducted himself like a gentleman from the 1950s. Still, not wanting to offend him, I placed my hand in the crook of his arm and allowed him to escort me to his niece. Mom elected to remain behind, and Mr. Gray seemed happy to keep her company.
Eleanor bore no resemblance to her dainty grandmother whatsoever. She was at least five nine and had a sturdy, muscular build. She wore her chestnut hair pulled away from her face, and other than some bronze lip gloss, she wore no makeup.
“Eleanor,” Cary said, “this is Marcy Singer. She owns the Seven-Year Stitch.”
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” I said. “Your grandmother struck me as a delightful person.”
Eleanor nodded. “She was dear to all of us.”
“I’m sure you’re aware she was in my shop when she became ill,” I said.
“Yes, well, no one is accusing you of anything, Ms. Singer.”
I could’ve told her otherwise, but I didn’t. “She left an embroidery sampler at the shop, and I thought you might want it back.”
“I’m not one for embroidery, Ms. Singer. I leave that sort of thing to ladies of leisure.”
“But it’s very old,” I said. “Her great-grandmother made it. Your great-great-grandmother, I think that would be, right?” Hello? Don’t you want this piece of your history, for goodness’ sake?
“Fascinating,” Cary said.
“Is it worth anything?” Eleanor asked.
“Monetarily, I doubt it. The original work has been altered. But the sentimental value—”
“Sentiment is something else best left to ladies of leisure,” Eleanor interrupted. “Feel free to keep the . . . sampler, did you call it?”
