Stitch Me Deadly, page 8
Mr. Patrick took the garment almost reverently. “This is for Riley’s baby? My grandbaby?”
I nodded. “It’s her christening gown.”
His eyes welled with tears. “I won’t be there to see her in it.”
“Maybe not,” I said, “but you know Riley will have someone videotape the ceremony from before it begins until well after it ends. And you’ll be out of here in plenty of time to get to know your granddaughter. You’ll likely even have the opportunity to do your share of diaper duty.”
“I’ll do it happily,” he said with a smile. “Maybe wearing a gas mask, but I’ll do it.”
Mom and I stopped for dinner near Lincoln City on the way home. We decided to try an Italian restaurant, and fortunately we didn’t need reservations. There was a slight wait, but we were seated within half an hour.
As we perused the menu, I caught Mom staring at a man sitting at the bar. I had to admit he wasn’t bad-looking. He had sandy blond hair, neatly combed to the left . . . good build . . . nicely dressed in dark jeans, a striped shirt, and a brown blazer.
“He’s a little young,” I said, “but cougars are all the rage these days.”
She huffed. “I’m not interested in the man, Marcella. Not that way. I think I saw him at the prison.”
“You mean, you think he’s one of the guards? Or was he visiting someone?”
“No, he wasn’t actually at the prison. I saw him in the parking lot across the street. I noticed him because he was driving a really nice car—a Lexus—and he was standing outside his car, watching the prison. I thought maybe he was someone’s lawyer and didn’t want to park in the prison lot or something.” She frowned. “And now he’s here.”
“What a coincidence,” I said.
“I don’t think so. Why would some guy come forty miles out of his way for a drink?”
“Maybe he’s meeting someone, Mom.”
“Or maybe he’s following us.”
The waitress arrived to ask if we’d decided on what we’d like to eat.
“Give us about five more minutes, please,” Mom said.
“Sure.” The waitress scurried off to another table.
“You don’t seriously think we’re being followed, do you?” I asked. “What possible reason would anyone have to follow us?”
“I don’t know.” She glanced at the man from over the top of her menu. “I just have a strange feeling about this.”
“Well, let’s decide on what we’re having for dinner so we’ll be prepared when the waitress returns, and we’ll simply keep an eye on the man and see what he does.”
“All right.”
“He hasn’t even looked over here,” I said. “Are you sure he’s the same guy you saw before?”
“Positive. I never forget a face. Names, yes; faces, never.”
I wanted to point out that she could barely even see his face since he was in profile to us, but I didn’t. Instead I said, “I think I’ll have the fettuccini. How about you?”
“Chicken parmigiana,” she said, closing her menu and looking at the man again.
“Okay,” I said, exasperated that she wouldn’t let this go. “Why would this man be following us, Mom? As I’ve already pointed out, he hasn’t even looked over here.”
Just as I got those words out of my mouth, he not only looked our way but raised his glass in a mock salute or greeting.
“If the waitress comes, give her my order,” I said. I rose from the table and straightened my shirt.
“What are you doing?” Mom hissed. “You can’t let him know we’re on to him. Let’s just go.”
But she was too late. I was already headed his way.
“Hi,” I said. “Do we know each other?”
“Not yet. I saw you looking at me and thought I’d let you know I’m interested, too,” he said. He held out his hand. “Devon Reed.”
I shook his hand. “Marcy Singer. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. It’s just that my mom thought she’d seen you somewhere before.”
“Oh, yeah? Where at?”
“At the prison about forty miles north of here.”
He laughed.
“I’ll tell her she was mistaken,” I said.
He caught my arm as I turned to go back to the table. “She wasn’t.”
Chapter Nine
I stared at him, not knowing what to say. Could Mom actually have been right? Could this guy have been following us?
“May I join the two of you?” he asked.
“Um . . . I guess so.” I reasoned that we were in a public place and we would cause a major scene if he gave us any trouble.
Mom’s eyes were nearly bulging out of her head when we reached the table.
“You were spot-on about the prison,” I said, my voice not as level as I’d have liked it to be. “This is Devon Reed, and he says you did see him there.”
I sat down in my chair, and Devon pulled a chair over from a vacant table.
“What were you doing there?” Mom asked.
“I’m a freelance journalist, Miss . . .”
“Singer,” she said. “I’m Beverly Singer. So you were doing a story on the prison or something?”
“Something like that,” Devon said. “Freelance journalism is an eclectic business. I was actually sent to the coast to do an article on entrepreneurs.ʺ He spread his hands. “The business magazine I’m writing the article for is interested in the various start-ups that have recently opened on the coast. I’m talking with shop owners to see what makes their businesses successful—that sort of thing.”
“I’m an entrepreneur,” I said.
“But why were you at the prison?” Mom asked, as if I hadn’t spoken.
“I was hoping to do a piece on an industrial engineer who was arrested for insider trading last year,” he said. “Thought it might be of interest to the same magazine.” He grinned. “It’s always best to pitch a new story while they’re loving your old one.”
“That’s a valid point,” Mom said. “Did you talk to the engineer?”
“Afraid not. He refused to see me.” He shrugged. “It was worth a shot since I was driving through anyway. Where are you guys from?”
“We’re from Tallulah Falls,” I said. “And if you’re doing a piece on entrepreneurs, I’d be happy to talk with you about my shop, the Seven-Year Stitch.”
“The Seven-Year Stitch?” He chuckled. “Cute name. I’m guessing it’s a quilting store or something of that nature.”
“Embroidery,” I said quickly. “Plus, I have knitting and crocheting supplies, fabrics, pattern books, kits—anything the needlecraft connoisseur could possibly want. And I offer classes.”
“The Seven-Year Stitch in Tallulah Falls,” Devon said. “Thanks. I’ll be looking you up. Any other entrepreneurs in the area I could talk with?”
“There’s Sadie and Blake MacKenzie—they own MacKenzies’ Mochas. And Todd Calloway owns the Brew Crew,” I said. “I’m sure they’d all agree to talk with you.”
“Sounds like easy money.” He smiled. “Maybe I could simply do the article on the entrepreneurs of Tallulah Falls.”
I fished a business card from my purse. “Here. This has the shop phone, my cell phone, and the shop address.”
“Terrific, Marcy. Thank you. I’ll call you when I get into town tomorrow,” he said.
“Great. I’m looking forward to it.”
The waitress arrived with our food. Devon stood and put the chair back at the empty table.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’ll let you ladies enjoy your meal.” He nodded to the waitress, returned to the bar to pay his tab, and left.
After the waitress had our assurances that we had everything we needed, she, too, departed. As soon as she was gone, Mom started shaking her head.
“I don’t like this,” she said. “I still don’t trust that guy. His story is just too . . . convenient.”
“You’ve worked on too many movies, Mom.” I squeezed her hand. “Relax. This could be some excellent free publicity for Sadie, Blake, Todd, and me.”
In anticipation of Devon Reed’s coming by to interview me, I wore a red pantsuit with a beige silk blouse and taupe platform pumps to work on Monday. Mom wore jeans, a chunky ivory sweater, and a sour expression. She still wasn’t convinced that Devon was on the level. In fact, she was convinced that he wasn’t.
Even Angus could tell Mom’s mood was off that morning. Rather than try to engage her in playing with him, he took his toy and retreated to his bed behind the counter.
I’d called both Sadie and Todd after Mom and I got home yesterday evening and told them about the article. Like me, Sadie was thrilled. Todd took more of a that’s great if it works out attitude.
We’d been at the shop less than thirty minutes when Ted Nash arrived. He’d met Mom when she visited before.
“Good morning, Ted,” I said. “You remember my mom.”
“Of course. How are you, Ms. Singer?”
“I’ll be better when this whole Louisa Ralston thing is cleared up,” she said. “Have you heard anything? Was my testimony sufficient to dispel the police officers’ suspicions about Marcy?”
“That’s actually why I’m here,” Ted said. “As you know, we’re not handling the investigation, but our department works fairly closely with Tallulah County. That, and Manu has been keeping an eagle eye on this case.” He sat down on one of the sofas, while Mom and I chose the chairs. “The investigators you spoke with, Ms. Singer, followed up with Selena Roxanis. She confirmed your story about her spilling her purse in the wardrobe room.”
“They thought I was lying about that?” Mom asked. “They thought I stole the pills from her?”
“They have to confirm everyone’s stories, ma’am. It was nothing against you personally.”
Mom settled back in her chair, somewhat appeased. “But is Marcy still a suspect?”
“I’m afraid they still haven’t ruled anything out,” Ted said. “They’re unable to find anyone else with a connection to Louisa Ralston who takes Halumet or has access to the drug.”
“But what about the streets?” Mom asked him. “Can’t people buy just about any drug they want off the streets . . . or over the Internet?”
“Yes, ma’am, they can. But until they find someone with sufficient motive, they can’t get a search warrant for computers or anything of that nature.” Ted leaned forward and looked at Mom earnestly. “But they’re looking, Ms. Singer. And, unofficially, so are we.”
“Thank you, Ted,” I said.
He gave me a reassuring smile. “We’ll figure this out, Marcy.”
“I know.” I hope.
“You both look great, by the way,” Ted said. “Big plans after work?”
“Hopefully, big plans at work,” I said.
Mom scoffed. “Yesterday I was certain we were being followed, so Marcy went over and confronted the guy. He gave her some song and dance about being a freelance journalist doing an article about entrepreneurs on the Oregon coast.”
“I gave him my business card, told him about Todd and the MacKenzies, and he said he might come by today to interview me,” I told Ted. “He said he might interview all us local entrepreneurs for his article. I think it would be super publicity for us and for Tallulah Falls in general.”
“I think Marcy is being naive,” Mom said. “I believe the guy made up the story to cover his tracks. He was following us—I’m sure of it.”
Ted took out his notepad and pen. “Give me his name. I’ll check him out.”
“I was going to Google him last night, but I didn’t have time,” I said. “I’m sure there’s no need for a background check. Besides, there are better ways you could spend your time.”
Ted grinned. “That’s true enough.”
He glanced at Mom and back and then back at me. I know he’d have said something flirtatious had she not been sitting there. Just the thought of my unintentional double entendre made me blush and made him laugh.
“He said his name was Devon Reed,” Mom said, “and he was driving a silver Lexus LFA.”
Ted gave a low whistle. “Maybe I should get into freelancing.”
“Or the con man game,” Mom said.
“What makes you think this man was following you?” Ted asked.
“We saw him at the prison, and then—”
“The prison?” Ted interrupted. He hated it when I went to the prison.
“Yes,” I said. “Riley asked me to go up to the prison and visit her dad. She said he’s been really down lately. I showed him the christening gown I embroidered for Riley’s baby, and it made him cry.”
“Anyway, the prison is where I first saw this so-called Devon Reed,” Mom said. “He was parked across the street and was standing outside his car when we arrived.”
“So he was at the prison when you got there,” Ted repeated.
“Exactly,” I said. “Which means he couldn’t possibly have followed us to the prison.” I shot Mom a triumphant glance, but she merely rolled her eyes.
“But when we stopped for dinner forty miles away, he was there, too,” Mom said.
“I think it’s just a stroke of serendipity,” I said.
“Maybe,” Ted said. “But I will check up on this guy to see if he’s legitimate.”
“Thank you,” Mom said.
After Ted left, I sat at the counter and got to work on Riley’s burp cloth. It was cute. It had pink, blue, and yellow blocks around all four borders, and upon completion there would be fringe around the edges. I would have liked to work on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams piece, but I couldn’t do that while Mom was visiting, since it was to be her birthday gift.
Mom took Angus for a walk. While they were gone, Ella Redmond came into the shop. She looked more cheerful than she had on the other occasions that I’d seen her. Rather than black or drab gray clothing, she was wearing jeans and a light blue sweater that played up her blue eyes.
“Hey, Ella. What brings you by this morning?”
“I’m looking for some ribbon,” she said. “I’d like either a pretty floral or maybe a single-color pastel.”
I put my work down and led her to where the spools of ribbon were displayed. “What type of project is this for?”
“My mother gave me an eyelet table runner that has a ribbon trim around it. The ribbon has become really frayed, and I want to replace it.”
I picked out some thin ribbons I thought could be easily worked through the eyelet. “In pastels, I have this lovely pink, a seafoam, a lemon, and a peach that would be thin enough to thread through eyelet. And here are some florals. I particularly like this one with the violets.”
“Oh, I like the violets, too,” Ella said. “I think I’ll take that one.”
We went back to the counter. As I rang up her purchase, Ella looked at the burp cloth.
“This is sweet,” she said.
I laughed. “I’ve done so many sweet projects for Riley’s baby, I’m afraid they’re going to give me cavities. After this, I think I’ll look for something a little edgier.”
Ella laughed, too. “You look very nice today, by the way. Not that you don’t look nice every day, but I notice you’re more dressed up today than usual. Anything special going on?”
I told Ella about the man Mom was convinced was following us but who turned out to be a freelance journalist seeking Oregon coast entrepreneurs to interview. “What luck, right?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” she said. “I think that’s terrific. Have you heard from the guy yet?”
“Not yet.”
“You will.” She smiled. “You deserve to have some good things come your way.”
Just before Ella left, Mom and Angus returned from their walk. I introduced the two women, but Mom reminded me she’d met Ella at the needlepoint class the night of Mrs. Ralston’s visitation.
“That’s right,” I said. “I’m sorry, Ella.”
“No need to apologize,” she said. “I know you’ve had a lot on your mind lately. Your interview with this journalist will be a good break for you . . . give you something to think about other than Mrs. Ralston and that horrible situation.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Ella said her good-byes and left the shop.
“So you heard from Mr. Reed?” Mom asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “I was just telling Ella about the possibility of being interviewed for a magazine article.”
Mom sighed. “Darling, I can get you all kinds of publicity. I know a lot of people—”
“You know a lot of people in the entertainment business, Mom. Besides, I want to do this on my own. Don’t you think there’s anything I can do on my own? Without someone being there to hold my hand?”
“I find you very capable. I’m just offering my help. Is that such a bad thing?”
I was saved from answering by the phone ringing. It was Devon Reed. He wanted to know what time he could come by and interview me.
Chapter Ten
Mom’s lips tightened as soon as she saw Devon Reed’s silver Lexus pull up outside. Today he was wearing jeans, a white polo, and a brown leather bomber jacket. As he approached the shop door, he took off his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. Considering there was precious little sunshine outside, I thought that was a good idea. Still, I supposed the man wanted to look cool—and he did.
I was sitting with Mom on the navy sofa poring over the script for her next project. I started to jump up and try to appear busy, but I figured what was the use? I was too excited about the interview to do anything but rehearse answers to imagined questions floating around in my head, anyway.
“Hello, Marcy . . . Ms. Singer. How are you both today?” Devon asked, standing just inside the shop and surveying his surroundings. He nodded toward Jill. “What’s with the mannequin?”
I cleared my throat. “Sheʹs . . . um . . . more of a prop than anything. Since I named the store the Seven-Year Stitch, I thought it would be cool to have a Marilyn Monroe look-alike in the shop. You know, because of the movie The Seven-Year Itch?”
