“Never saw it.” He strolled around, taking in all the displays and nodding occasionally. I couldn’t tell from his expression whether the nods were appreciative or critical. I glanced at Mom. Her expression was windowpane clear. She was flat-out disgusted.

  “Feel free to take whatever photographs you’d like,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Devon said, “I’ll do that before I leave.” He smiled and took a recorder from his pocket. “Shall we get down to business?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  “Let’s sit over here on this couch across from your mother,” he said. “That way, Ms. Singer, if you have anything to add, you can jump right in.”

  “Thanks,” Mom said drily. I noticed she’d closed the script and turned it facedown beside her on the sofa. She was ever vigilant in maintaining the confidentiality of her clients’ projects.

  Devon turned on the recorder. “This is Devon Reed talking with Marcy Singer, proprietor of the Seven-Year Stitch, an embroidery specialty shop. Also with us is Marcy’s mother, Beverly Singer. Marcy, how long have you been in business here in Tallulah Falls?”

  “Only a few months,” I said, “but business has been booming. Tallulah Falls is a generous, welcoming community, and the people here have been very supportive of me and the Seven-Year Stitch.”

  “This, despite the fact that there seems to be some sort of curse hanging over your store?” he asked.

  “I . . . um . . . Excuse me?” I replied.

  “Well, first you found a man dead in your storeroom shortly after you opened—during your first week, in fact, wasn’t it? And now there has been another death in your store. Isn’t that correct?”

  Slack-jawed, I turned to look at Mom, but she was already coming to my defense.

  She stood up and snatched the recorder from Devon’s hand. Glaring at him, she snapped the recorder off. “What’s the meaning of this? My daughter thought you were coming here to interview her about her shop and her experiences as an entrepreneur.”

  “But I am, Ms. Singer,” Devon said. “I believe my readers would be interested in knowing how Marcy has weathered these unusual storms.”

  “She’s weathered them with strength and dignity,” Mom said. “And she doesn’t need someone like you to come along and undermine everything she’s worked so hard to build.”

  “Mom, it’s okay,” I said.

  “No,” Devon said. “Your mother is quite right. I overstepped here, and I apologize. I’ll take that out of the interview.”

  “I’d prefer not to continue the interview just now,” I said. I’d been blindsided by Devon’s initial line of questioning, and now I didn’t feel I could trust him, either.

  “I understand.” He rose and held his hand out for the recorder. Mom slapped it into his hand hard enough to hurt, but Devon didn’t flinch. “I’ll talk with the other entrepreneurs you told me about and stop back by before leaving town.”

  “I knew there was something untrustworthy about that man,” Mom muttered under her breath as Devon walked out the door.

  Rather than get into his car, he consulted a card he’d taken from his pocket and strode down the street toward MacKenzies’ Mochas.

  “Should I call and warn Sadie?” I asked. “She’s as excited about being interviewed as I was.”

  Mom shook her head. “There’s no time. Besides, it’ll be interesting to see if he questions Sadie and Blake about the chamomile tea that Mrs. Ralston tasted just prior to her collapse.”

  “Yeah . . . I guess. It’s terrible, though, that I got everyone’s hopes up about this guy, his article, and our free publicity, and he winds up being a total jerk.” I fought to hold back tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Mom said.

  “I should’ve listened to you,” I said. “You smelled a rat all along.”

  She shrugged. “When you get to be my age, you get cynical. I’m glad you’re still too young to be suspicious of everyone.”

  “Too young or too naive?” I sighed. “I wonder what—if anything—Ted will turn up on Devon Reed.”

  Mom didn’t have the opportunity to comment on that. A customer came in wanting a fantasy or mythological cross-stitch kit. By the time I’d helped the young lady find a design featuring a unicorn and a medieval princess standing in a moonlit meadow, Mom had gone back to studying her script and penning notes in the margin.

  After the customer left, I resumed work on Riley’s burp cloth and kept glancing surreptitiously out the window to see what Devon might be up to. I didn’t catch sight of him, but his car was still parked outside the shop.

  Had I been too hasty in ending the interview? Maybe he did think his readers would be interested in how a new entrepreneur would handle two such potentially devastating blows in the short amount of time she’d been in business. Maybe he’d intended to slant the article to make me look like a real trouper . . . someone who had a dream and was determined to make that dream come true no matter what.

  Or maybe he’d meant to make me look guilty. He had to know that reporting the occurrence of two murders in my shop within a few months of each other would be detrimental to my business. Even I knew—and I wasn’t a journalism major—that when you’re trying to portray local entrepreneurs in a favorable light, you accentuate the positive. Unless he was intent on portraying us in an unfavorable light.

  Todd came into the shop following his interview with Devon. “How’d your interview go?” he asked me.

  “It didn’t go very far,” I said. “He started asking questions about my finding a corpse in the storeroom my opening week and then about Mrs. Ralston’s death.”

  Todd frowned. “Are you serious?”

  Mom looked up from her script. “He’s lucky I didn’t shove that recorder up his nose.”

  “How did your interview with him go?” I asked.

  “Fine,” Todd said. “He didn’t ask me anything out of the ordinary. Just a few basics like, ‘How long have you been in business?’ ‘How do you keep customers coming back?’ Things like that.”

  “He didn’t ask you anything about Marcy?” Mom asked.

  “Come to think of it, he did ask how long I’ve known her,” Todd said. “But that was about the extent of it.” He winked at me. “I told him I hadn’t known Marcy nearly long enough.”

  “Where did he go after talking with you?” I asked.

  “I think he was going to speak with the aromatherapy woman, Nellie Davis,” Todd said. “I doubt he’ll get much out of her, though.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said. “After Todd Enright died, she raked me over the coals. She’ll probably have plenty to tell Mr. Reed if he asks any questions about me.”

  “I’ll talk with Alfred—he’s my attorney and lifelong friend—” Mom explained to Todd, “and see if we can get some sort of injunction against this guy if we have to. I rather doubt it, but it won’t hurt to ask.”

  Todd sat beside Mom on the sofa. “Do you think these interviews are merely a ruse to get to Marcy in some way?”

  “I don’t know,” Mom said. “I’ve racked my brain trying to figure out what’s up with that man.”

  “Speak of the devil,” I said softly. Devon Reed was entering the shop.

  “Hi, guys,” Devon said, his smile encompassing all of us. “Marcy, I’d really like to finish up that interview. I have some great stuff from Mr. Calloway there and from your friends Blake and Sadie.”

  “How about Nellie?” I asked. “Did she have anything to say?” I figured she’d told Devon plenty about the bohemian who she thought ran Tim Enright out of business with an artsy shop that would draw more customers than Mr. Enright’s hardware store.

  “Oh, sure,” Devon asked. “I found her to be particularly loquacious and accommodating.”

  “I’ll bet. Did you take her a little something from the Brew Crew?” I asked.

  Devon laughed. “Nope. I didn’t get her drunk. She did ask me to dinner, so maybe she just liked me.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I told her I have plans for dinner. I hope you won’t make me out to be a liar,” he said.

  I frowned, not following him.

  “I told her I was taking you to dinner to finish up our interview,” Devon said.

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” I said. “Mom is only here for a few more days. I couldn’t possibly—”

  “Nonsense,” Mom interrupted. “Todd and I will join you . . . that is, if you don’t have any other plans, Todd.”

  “What? But—”

  “I don’t, and if I did I’d change them,” Todd said, interrupting me. “I think this evening will be a lot of fun.”

  Devon looked as if he was about to argue that point but then changed his mind. “Yeah . . . it’ll be . . . fun. Should I pick all of you up at Marcy’s house, then?”

  “Why don’t we have dinner at MacKenzies’ Mochas,” Mom said, “and all of us simply meet there?”

  I continued staring at Mom as if she’d just sprouted a second head.

  “That way,” she continued, “you’ll have Blake and Sadie on hand if you think of any other questions for them.” She looked at me. “What do you think?”

  “I . . . I guess.”

  “Devon, what do you think?” Mom asked.

  “Fine,” he said tightly. “I’ll meet all of you at MacKenzies’ Mochas at . . . say, six o’clock?”

  “It’s a date,” Mom said with a smile.

  “See you then.” Devon plodded out to his car, got in, slammed the door, and sped off.

  Mom looked at Todd and me with a barely concealed grin on her face. “Humph, I’d almost think he hadn’t wanted to include us in his invitation, Todd.”

  “I, too, got that impression, Ms. Singer.” Todd feigned a pompous voice. “But, of course, we must be mistaken. How could he not desire our company?”

  “Quite right, my dear. Quite right.”

  “Mom, what’s up with you?” I asked. “I thought we were through with that guy.”

  “Not yet,” Mom said. “We still don’t know what he’s up to . . . and I intend to find out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I took Angus home, fed and walked him, touched up my makeup, and then returned to the shop. From there, Mom and I went over to MacKenzies’ Mochas. I love stepping into MacKenzies’. The smell is intoxicating: coffee, cinnamon, vanilla, hazelnut, chocolate—all those scents blend into ambrosia for the nose.

  Todd was already there and was standing at the counter talking with Blake. He was still wearing jeans but had changed into a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt. Blake, looking boyishly mischievous with a lock of blond hair falling into his eyes, raised a brow at Mom and me when we walked in. He knew something was going on, but I couldn’t tell if he knew quite what it was. If he did, I wished he would explain it to me.

  “Hi, there,” Sadie said, coming from our left with an empty serving tray in her hand. She wore black jeans and a black-and-white tuxedo-style blouse. “What a nice surprise. I didn’t know you guys were coming in this evening.”

  “Actually, neither did we until just a little while ago,” I said. “Todd’s joining us.”

  Sadie shot me a look full of questions she knew I couldn’t answer at the moment.

  “So am I.”

  I turned to see that Devon Reed had just walked in. If Sadie’s dark brown eyes were full of questions before, they were practically swimming in them now.

  “Okay . . . um . . . table for four, then,” she said, setting the tray on the counter. “Follow me.”

  Todd fell into step beside us, and we trailed along behind Sadie like a group of schoolchildren following their teacher. She led us to a table that was within easy viewing distance of the counter.

  She took our drink orders, said she’d bring the menus with our drinks, and hurried back up to the counter.

  “Is the food good here?” Devon asked. “I’m famished.”

  “It’s excellent,” I said.

  “Interesting decor they have,” Devon said, glancing around the room.

  “Yep,” said Todd. “It was a bar before Blake and Sadie converted it into a coffee shop.”

  The long, polished bar remained and now served as the counter. Oak tables and chairs were placed throughout the rest of the shop. On shelves behind the bar, there were MacKenzies’ Mochas mugs, house-blend coffees for sale, chocolate-covered coffee and espresso beans, biscotti, and other packaged goods. Covered cake plates situated along the bar displayed the day’s muffins, pies, and other pastries. The counter behind the bar was where the coffeemakers, cappuccino machines, and espresso machines were located. The kitchen was in the back.

  Devon nodded. “The MacKenzies mentioned that during their interview. Which reminds me, I need to finish yours, Marcy . . . but not until after dinner, of course.”

  I gave him a small smile. “Of course. What photographs did you take here for your article?”

  “I photographed the charming couple behind the counter. I thought it would be good to show readers our entrepreneurs hard at work, along with some of the products they’re selling on the shelves behind them,” Devon said.

  “That’s clever,” I said. “Any others?”

  “No,” Devon said. “I think that photograph will be sufficient to convey the friendly ambience of the shop.”

  “How about Todd and the Brew Crew?” Mom asked. “I hope you got some interesting photos there.”

  “I believe I did,” Devon said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Todd?”

  Todd shrugged. “Yeah, I think they’ll be okay.”

  “Once again, Marcy, you’re our holdout.” Devon smiled at me. “But we’re planning on remedying that as soon as possible.”

  Sadie brought the drinks and menus. After handing them out, she turned to me. “I could use your opinion on something.” She looked around at Mom, Todd, and Devon. “Do you guys mind if I steal Marcy away for a minute? I promise I’ll have her back in just a sec.”

  Everyone nodded noncommittally, and Sadie spirited me away to the kitchen.

  “What do you need my opinion on?” I asked, knowing full well she didn’t need my opinion on anything.

  “Has the entire world gone nuts? That’s what I need your opinion on.”

  I tilted my head. “Possibly.”

  “So what’s really up?” she asked.

  I explained how my interview went and Mom’s reaction. “And then Mom totally blew me away by accepting my dinner invitation from Devon and inviting Todd to come along, too.”

  Sadie giggled. “Your mom is wild. What is she up to?”

  “With Mom, you can never tell. She says she’s trying to see what Devon Reed is up to, but I’d just as soon we’d told him to forget about the interview as well as dinner and simply be done with the whole mess.”

  “No, I’m with your mom. I think she’s right.”

  I clamped my lips together. “Please tell me he didn’t give you guys the third degree in your interview.”

  Sadie flipped her palms. “I don’t know that I’d go as far as to say he gave us the third degree, but he did ask several questions about you.”

  “Such as?”

  “How long we’ve known you, what we think about the string of bad luck you’ve been having—”

  “But I haven’t been having bad luck as far as business goes,” I interrupted. “And that’s what he’s supposed to be interested in.”

  “That’s why I think your mom is right. We need to discover his true motives.” She started to step out of the kitchen but turned back. “You don’t think he’s a tabloid reporter, do you?”

  “No,” I said. “Why would a tabloid reporter care about me?”

  “Maybe it’s your mom he’s after.” Sadie shrugged. “I mean, what if the chick who dumped her purse in the wardrobe room and lost her pills is paying this guy to get something on your mom? You know she and your mom have to be like two circling wolves.”

  “I never thought of that angle—and never would have if you hadn’t brought it up—but I suppose it could be possible.”

  “Think about it,” Sadie continued. “If Devon had something to hold over your mom’s head—like running a story that could jeopardize your business—then he could blackmail her into laying off Selena Roxanis.” She inclined her head. “Or if he isn’t working with her, he could use this to try to get your mom to give him information about the actors she’s working with. Tabloid reporting pays awfully well.”

  “Still, that’s pretty far out there, Sadie. I mean, everybody in Tallulah Falls knows I found Timothy Enright in the storeroom, but they still come in and shop. How could Devon threaten to use a story against me that everyone in town already knows? Where’s the logic in that?”

  “He could put a bad spin on things . . . maybe make people think you had something to do with people dropping dead in your store . . .” She let the implication hang there.

  I took a deep breath. “Yeah, I don’t know. As I’ve already said, I just want to put this entire mess behind me. So the sooner we get this dinner over with, the better.”

  Sadie and I returned to the table. I sat down and Sadie took our food orders. Lucky for me, I always order the chicken salad on a croissant, so I didn’t have to take up more time ordering. I didn’t want to be responsible for holding everyone else up.

  “So, Ms. Singer,” Devon said, “what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a seamstress,” Mom said.

  I’d just taken a sip of my diet soda, and at that statement I strangled on it. My eyes watered, and I sat there coughing while Mom patted me on the back.

  “Try to breathe, darling,” she said. “Maybe you should take another drink.”

  “I think you should have a drink of water,” Devon said, hopping up from his seat. He then took me by the arm and steered me up to the counter. “Blake, may we please have a glass of water?”

  “You okay, Marce?” Blake asked as he opened a bottle of water and poured it into a glass.

  I nodded. “I got strangled, that’s all.” I gratefully accepted the water and took a drink. “That does help, Devon. Thank you.”

  “No problem,” he said. “But now that I have you away from your mom and Todd, what gives? I understand why you cut the interview short and didn’t want to continue, but now I feel I’m getting the runaround. Care to explain?”

 

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