Cross-Stitch Before Dying (10 page)

“Oh, they’re vultures, all right.” He shook his head. “Some are nice enough, I guess, just doing their jobs, you know. But others are not only intrusive, but mean-spirited.”

“Do you have a minute?” I asked, gesturing toward the sofa.

“Sure.” He glanced at his watch. “I have about ten of them actually.”

“I know you aren’t at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation,” I said. “But my Mom isn’t saying much about what happened yesterday. Is there
anything
you can tell me?”

He rubbed the lower part of his face with his free hand. “I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t say a word.” He looked at me; then his eyes darted around the shop, and then back at me. “You promise you won’t say anything?”

“I won’t say a word.”

“Not a word? I’d get fired if my captain knew I was telling you this,” he said.

“Not one word,” I said.

He sipped his coffee. “I really shouldn’t.”

I waited, knowing he was obviously dying to tell me whatever it was he
shouldn’t
tell me.

He took a deep breath and then spit his words out quickly. “I heard them fighting—your mom and Babs. Babs was telling her that Henry would ruin her if she didn’t do things her—Babs’—way. Your mom said she’d never kowtow to some still-wet-behind-the-ears diva, and that she didn’t know why Henry put up with her. Babs told her to ask Henry which one of them he preferred, and then somebody slapped somebody.”

“You mean, the fight actually got physical?”

“Yeah. I was starting to intervene when I saw Babs run past the window. Your mom went after her.” Deputy Preston took another sip of his coffee. “A few minutes later, Ms. Singer left. I know your mom didn’t mean to do anything, but it really doesn’t look good for her at this point.”

“You think my mother actually killed Babushka Tru?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that.”

I
desperately wanted to talk with Ted but didn’t want to disturb him at work, so I texted him as soon as Deputy Preston left. I’d told the deputy I wouldn’t
say
anything to anyone. I didn’t say I wouldn’t text it. Besides, I could trust Ted not to betray Deputy Preston to his superiors. I told Ted about the argument the deputy said escalated into a physical altercation between Mom and Babs.

“He seems to think Mom might’ve accidentally killed Babs,” I texted.

To my relief, Ted called me back within minutes.

“Babe, everyone at the Tallulah County Police Department has a theory about what happened to Babs, and everyone in the media does too. Try not to be too concerned . . . at least, not yet. It’s all just conjecture.”

“But she ran me off this morning,” I said. “She asked me to give her, Alfred, and Cam Whitting some privacy.”

“I think she’s trying to keep you from worrying.”

“And not knowing helps in what way?”

He laughed softly. “Talk with her about it then. Ask her why she didn’t want you at their meeting.”

“Did she say anything to you and Mita Trublonski last night that would indicate she knows more than she’s telling?” I asked.

“Everyone always knows more than they’re telling. That’s human nature,” he said. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll be there at lunch, and I’ll bring comfort food. We’ll figure this out.”

“Thanks.” I felt better after talking with Ted. If anyone could help me sort this mess out, it was him.

An attractive woman in a coral business suit came into the shop. Her hair was in a French twist, and she wore pearl earrings. She smiled at me and said, “Good morning,” before I even had a chance to welcome her to the Seven-Year Stitch.

“How may I help you?” I asked.

“I’m looking for a few . . . embroidery . . . things,” she said. “I’ll need some thread, and needles, and probably a piece of fabric.”

Uh-huh
. “How about a frame or a hoop? Do you need either of those?”

Angus bounded over to greet her.

“What a pretty dog! I don’t think I need either of those things you mentioned. I’m making this into a pillow rather than framing it or . . . hooping it.”

“Which do you generally prefer—hoops or frames?” I asked.

Her eyes darted left, then right. “I don’t know. Which do
you
prefer?”

“You don’t really embroider, do you?”

“This is going to be my first project,” she said.

“Why are you really here?” I asked. “I mean, I’ll sell you all the embroidery supplies you need, but if you’re here for some other reason, I’d rather have you be up front with me.”

“Fair enough. I’m Kendra Morgan, a reporter for the
Tinseltown Tattler
. Like the rest of the journalists in this town, I’m here to find out about the death of Babushka Tru.”

“And your investigative skills led you to an embroidery shop five miles away from the scene of the crime?”

“I know your mom is Beverly Singer, the costume designer for Henry Beaumont’s new movie,
Sonam Zakaria: A Glamorous Life
,” Kendra said. “I also know that she and Babs didn’t get along and that they had an argument the morning Babs died.”

“I don’t know anything about Babs’ accident,” I said. “I was here when the accident occurred.”

“Don’t go getting defensive on me. I don’t think your mother pushed Babushka Tru out of that loft to her death. In fact, I’ve tried to tell Detectives Bailey and Ray as much, but they won’t listen to me. They think I have some sort of angle.”

After hearing that she didn’t think my mother was guilty, I offered Kendra a cup of coffee. I didn’t entirely trust her, but I wanted to hear what she had to say.

Kendra accepted the coffee, and we sat down in the sit-and-stitch square.

“This is a nice little boutique you have here,” she said. “Maybe I could do a piece on it for the
Tattler
 . . . you know, if this all turns out well for your mom.”

“About that. Why are you so convinced she had nothing to do with Babs’ death?”

She leaned forward. “Here’s the deal. I’ve been following a story about Babs and her manager for over a year now. The manager is kind of a father-figure to Babs. But, much like her
real
dad, he’d started taking advantage of her . . . only in more ways than one, if you get my drift.”

“I get it,” I said.

“Okay, so Babs was starting to get tired of their whole arrangement, and they’d been fighting a lot,” Kendra said. “She was getting ready to fire him—I
know
she was. And when that happened, he was going to be ruined.”

“Why would he be ruined?”

“Because no one else would’ve hired him. He’s an alcoholic who is also addicted to gambling. Babs had been paying off his poker debts for years. You think anyone else would do that, given the amount of work he does?” She snorted. “Or, should I say, given the amount of work he
doesn’t
? Babushka Tru should have been working steadily since
Surf Dad
, but he sat around on his lazy butt and not only didn’t get her any substantial work, he got her into alcohol too.”

“Why do you think he’s the one who killed her?” I asked.

“He was always hanging around her. He was there on set yesterday—I saw him myself.” She sat her coffee on the table and spread her hands. “It’s like this. He had the most to gain from her death, and the most to lose from her living. It’s rumored that Babs was pregnant. If that’s the case, I’ll bet dollars to donuts that the baby was his. I’ve already told you that I believe Babs was getting ready to dump the guy. If she did, the money she got for this movie would be his last commission from her. She was poised to make a comeback with this film. She’d have hired a better manager, and he’d have been out.”

“You said that Detectives Ray and Bailey won’t listen to you,” I said. “I’d have thought they’d have to.”

“Well, they told me they were looking into everyone who was on the set as a suspect, but they thought I was just there to get some sort of exclusive.” She gave me a rueful grin. “People tend not to trust you when you tell them you work for the
Tinseltown Tattler
. Had I said I worked for CNN, I’d have been taken seriously.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.

“Because if my mother was at the top of a list of murder suspects, I’d be making sure the police took a long, hard look at a much likelier suspect.”

“Thank you.”

She reached into her small, beaded clutch and took out a card. “I’d like for you to call me if you find out anything.”

I glanced at the card before putting it in my pocket. “Okay. Thanks again for the input.”

“Anytime. I hope you’ll return the favor,” she said.

“I will if I can.”

As Kendra left, she said she might really consider trying embroidery one day and that if she did, she knew where to shop. I still didn’t trust her. Like the Tallulah County Police Department detectives, I knew Kendra was simply looking for an exclusive, but the tip about Babs’ manager could prove to be valuable information.

I needed to do something to keep my hands busy. I’d finished up my other projects in anticipation of working on the costumes for the movie—all except for the two projects I had ongoing in my two evening classes, and I preferred to work on those then. Now that the movie probably wasn’t going to be made, I didn’t have the costumes to keep me occupied. I went to the racks and found a beautiful stamped pillowcase kit. Rather than using the threads that came with the kit, however, I decided to do the entire floral design using a soft mauve floss. It would be like redwork or blackwork—a form of embroidery where one uses only black or red thread to create the design—only with mauve. The monochromatic color scheme would match the décor in my bedroom, and it would provide some stitching that I could do without having to think too much . . . about the stitching, anyway.

I found the perfect-colored floss, sat down on a red club chair in the sit-and-stitch square, and began to work. Angus lay down at my feet and chewed on one of his favorite toys—a Kodiak bear that Vera had given him.

I was a little surprised that Vera hadn’t been in today. The day was young, though.

The design on the pillowcase consisted mostly of lazy daisy stitches and French knots. I’d done a good-sized portion of the first pillowcase when my next customer came in. Or, at least, she appeared to be a customer. She looked more like a customer than Kendra had. This woman had shoulder-length chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a friendly, open smile.

“Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch,” I said. “How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for some tapestry needles,” she said, bending slightly to pet Angus who’d gone over to say hello.

I put my pillowcase on the ottoman and walked over to the counter. “What size?”

“I need a twenty-eight, and a twenty-six, if you have them,” she said. “I’m doing some petite cross- stitch on a linen tablecloth for my sister’s first wedding anniversary.”

I smiled. “I have both sizes.” This was more like it.

•   •   •

I was sitting in the sit-and-stitch square dutifully working on my pillowcase—lazy daisy, lazy daisy, French knot, lazy daisy, et cetera—when Alfred breezed into the shop. He looked dapper, carefree, and not like a man recently appointed the task of defending my mother against a murder charge.

“Good afternoon, young man,” he said to Angus.

Angus trotted over and dropped a soggy ball at Alfred’s polished loafers. Rather than picking it up, Alfred took a dog biscuit wrapped first in a napkin and then in a linen handkerchief and handed it to the dog.

“Your grandma sent you that, Angus.” He gave me a wink. “Would she die if she heard me call her that?”

“No,” I said, with a laugh. “She loves him to pieces.” I placed my pillowcase on the coffee table and offered Alfred a cup of coffee.

“No, thank you, darling. I’ve already had enough to sink a battleship.” He placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the shop. “Excellent! Beautiful place you have here. I’d seen the photos, of course, but they don’t do it justice. I’m very proud of you.”

“Thank you. Come sit down and tell me why you’re so chipper after the super-secret meeting at my kitchen table.”

Alfred moved over to the navy sofa facing away from the window and sat down. “I’m in a good mood because your mother isn’t guilty, of course.”

“You knew that—or, at least, I
hope
you did—when you first arrived this morning, and you didn’t seem so carefree then,” I said.

He gazed around the room. “I like how you’ve set this small, cozy area apart from the merchandise. It makes it very welcoming.”

“Alfred.”

He brought his eyes back to mine. “Everything your mother said to Cam Whitting and me after you left was told to us in confidence. As her attorneys, we cannot break that confidence.”

“I realize that,” I said. “But can’t you tell me
something
that will ease my mind too? For instance, was my mother in any way responsible for Babushka Tru’s death?”

“No, she was not,” he said firmly. “However, she believes she might know the identity of the guilty party. That’s causing her quite a bit of grief and consternation.”

I leaned forward. “But this could clear her as a suspect.”

“If anyone else can corroborate her story, then it certainly can,” he said, with a smile.

“And you believe someone can?” I asked.

“I do. There were enough people on set that someone had to have seen enough to confirm your mother’s . . . alibi . . . I suppose you could say. Cam is checking on that even as we speak.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, that’s all I can say about that. Show me your office and that notorious storeroom where you found that body the morning after your grand opening soiree.”

•   •   •

Ted arrived between twelve thirty and one o’clock that afternoon with sub sandwiches and baked chips. I put the cardboard clock on the door saying I’d be back in thirty minutes, locked up, and then joined Ted and Angus in my office.

As Ted set out our food, I took two bottles of water from the mini-fridge. “I’ve had an interesting morning,” I told him. “First, a reporter from the
Tinseltown Tattler
—Kendra Morgan—came by. She pretended to be a customer, but she made it obvious in a hurry that she knew nothing about embroidery.”

“Did she give you any trouble?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Not really. I didn’t appreciate her attempt to deceive me, but she did put a bug in my ear about another possible suspect. She said that Babs had been arguing a lot with her manager lately, and that it was rumored that Babs was getting ready to fire him.”

“Keep in mind that she’d already tried to deceive you once. She might’ve just been feeding you another line so that you’d tell her what you know,” Ted said.

“Maybe, but she even mentioned Detectives Bailey and Ray. She said she’d tried to get them to look into the manager as a suspect but that they’ve refused to speak with her.”

He unwrapped his sandwich. “It sounds as if they don’t trust her either. I’ll talk with them and see what I can find out.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Inch-High. They’re bound to know you and I are involved, so they might not tell me anything. I imagine they’re playing this one fairly close to the vest.”

“Still, you can tell them Kendra Morgan was here telling me that she suspects Babs’ manager,” I said. “Either they’d look at the manager a little closer, or else they’d have you warn me about Kendra. At least, we’d learn
something
from talking with them.”

“That’s true.”

I followed Ted’s lead and unwrapped my ham-and-cheese sub. “Kendra had also heard the rumor that Babs was pregnant. She believes that, if the rumor was true, that Babs was carrying her manager’s baby.”

“Babs was pregnant,” Ted said. “The medical examiner confirmed that this morning.”

“Can they do a DNA test to determine paternity?” I asked.

“I’m sure they can, but that’ll take a while. Still, it adds to motives for murdering Babs that your mother did not have.”

“Speaking of Mom, Alfred came in a little while ago. He said that she believes she knows who killed Babs. Apparently, she saw something.” I took a drink of my water. “Ted, why is she shutting me out on this? Why won’t she tell me anything?”