Cross-Stitch Before Dying (13 page)

“I believe he’d forgive us just this once . . . but don’t tell him.”

“I won’t unless he asks.” I smiled and slipped off my shoes.

Ted took off his shoes and socks and put the socks inside the shoes. We rolled our pants up to our calves, and then walked hand in hand to the water’s edge. The huge crags loomed out of the water like some sort of benevolent sea monsters as the foam lapped at our ankles. I looked over at Ted and laughed, and for an instant, the moon peeped out from behind a cloud.

For a moment, I could forget about Babushka Tru, and Carl Paxton, and Mita Trublonski, and Henry Beaumont. For that brief interlude, I was just a girl falling in love. Too bad the moment couldn’t last.

T
hat night when Ted and I got to my house, Vera’s silver BMW was parked in the driveway. I’d found it odd that she hadn’t stopped by the shop today, especially given her interest in Babushka Tru and the girl’s mysterious death. I thought she’d come by today if for no other reason than to learn what Mita Trublonski had said to Mom.

I parked the Jeep, and Ted pulled in behind me.

“I hope Vera isn’t badgering Mom to tell her about her visit with Ms. Trublonski,” I said to Ted when he got out of his car.

“I imagine Vera would be a little more subtle than that,” he said. “Although, you never know.”

When we went inside, I was shocked and angry to find that Vera had brought along her boyfriend, reporter Paul Samms. Upon hearing my sharp intake of breath, Ted squeezed my hand.

“Get a handle on the situation before you react,” he said under his breath.

I nodded.

“Hey, guys,” Ted said with a smile. “Vera, I didn’t know you and Paul were waiting here on Marcy, or I wouldn’t have kept her out past class time.”

“Oh, we haven’t been here long,” Vera said. “I just wanted to check on Marcy and Beverly. Paul allowed me to canvass the crime scene with him this morning—it was so exciting—and then I bought a notebook and jotted down my observations.”

“Uh-oh. Do I need to be concerned about my job security?” Ted asked.

“You don’t,” said Paul. “But I might. She has the makings of an excellent reporter . . . or novelist.”

Paul was a nice-looking older man who would look even better if he weren’t so concerned about his age. Rather than letting his hair go John Forsythe gray, he kept it dyed a dark brown. And the skin was so taut around his eyes, that I was sure he’d had some type of surgery—either nip and tuck or a dermal filler. Not that there was anything wrong with the man trying to look his best—he kept in excellent shape and dressed as if Tim Gunn were in charge of his wardrobe—but somehow it seemed strange for the man to be that concerned about aging. We, as a society, expect women to try to stay forever young. But men are allowed to age. They become “more rugged” or “interesting.” Women become “wrinkled” or they “let themselves go.” Great, now I felt guilty for passing judgment on Paul for trying to look his best.

“What crime scene were you investigating?” I asked.

“Ford’s Mill,” Paul said. “The movie set . . . the area surrounding where the body was found. . . .”

As if I didn’t know.

“Now that the movie has stopped production, at least temporarily, there weren’t that many officers around,” he continued. “And the ones that were there didn’t have a problem with us poking around as long as we stayed away from the areas that were cordoned off. I primarily wanted to investigate the area around where the body of the gunman who shot at you was found, Ted.”

Now I had guilt for rushing to judgment about Paul on two counts.

“Manu and I were all over that area on Monday,” Ted said. “We didn’t find much of any consequence.”

“I’d have thought you’d be investigating Babs’ death,” I said.

“Well, I
am
interested in Babs’ death,” Paul said. “But while that’s important, I feel that the people of Tallulah Falls and Tallulah County will be more impacted by what we learn about this gunman. We need to find his partner, or else that threat is still out there.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Ted said, sitting on the sofa beside Paul. “Did you find anything?”

“I did,” Vera said, getting out of her chair to come over and present her prize to Ted. “It’s some sort of medallion or button or something.”

I was sitting on the arm of the sofa beside Ted, so I looked over his shoulder to examine the small, round brass disk. There was no design on it whatsoever other than the letters TCMSA.

“What does TCMSA stand for?” I asked.

“I’d imagine the A is for an association of some sort,” Mom said. I wondered if Vera had noticed how uncharacteristically quiet she was being.

“I’ll check into it when I get to work tomorrow,” Ted said.

“Are you going to admit it into evidence?” Vera asked. “Have it dusted for prints, maybe? I picked it up with a tissue, so my prints aren’t on it.”

And yet she’d handed the button to Ted, and he was now examining it; so both their prints were on it now.

“I’m sure the crime scene techs will give it a thorough exam.” Ted hid a grin. “What else did you notice, Paul? Um . . . and you too, Vera?”

“Well, it was a good time to look around because the place is all but deserted now,” Paul said. “Most of the reporters are staking out Henry Beaumont, Mita Trublonski, and other cast and crew members who are staying in town.”

“Yes, there were only a couple deputies there when we were on the scene,” Vera said.

Paul smiled at her. “I can hardly wait to read the rest of your report.”

Vera actually blushed.

“If you’ll all excuse me, I think I’ll let Angus inside and then go on up to bed,” Mom said.

“Good night,” Vera said.

“We should go,” Paul said.

“Yes, I suppose we should.” Vera stood. “Ted, you’ll let me know what you find out about the button, won’t you?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Thank you for coming to check on Mom,” I said to Vera.

“She’s not herself at all,” Vera said. “I realize she’s been through a terrible ordeal, but maybe you should have her talk with someone. If you need the name of a good therapist, I know one who’s located in Lincoln City.”

“Thanks.”

By the time Angus came bounding into the living room, Vera and Paul had left. Mom trailed listlessly behind the dog.

I gave Angus a hug and then let him go over to greet Ted.

“Mom, are you all right?” I asked.

“I’m just tired. I wasn’t expecting company this evening.”

“I wasn’t either, or else Ted and I wouldn’t have stopped by the beach on the way home.”

“I’ve set up a meeting with Henry,” she said. “Alfred and I are having breakfast with him tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” I said. “If the two of you put your heads together, maybe you can determine who killed Babs.”

“Yeah. Let’s hope.” She didn’t sound convincing.

“Are you
that
certain Henry killed her?” I asked. “Because if you are, you don’t need to be meeting with him. You need to quit the picture, talk with the police about your suspicions, and move on.”

“The only thing I’m certain of right now, Marcella, is that I’m tired, and I need to go to bed.” She left the living room and headed for the stairs as I stood speechless watching her go.

I turned to Ted. “Did you hear that? Can you believe her?”

“Stress does different things to different people,” he said. “Give her a day or two, and she’ll be fine.”

“If you say so.”

•   •   •

As soon as I got to the shop Thursday morning, I called Mita Trublonski at her hotel.

“Good morning,” I said when Ms. Trublonski came on the line. “It’s Marcy Singer. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, of course not.” Her voice was guarded, as if I might, in fact actually be disturbing her.

“I won’t keep you but a second. I was hoping you’d give me Carl Paxton’s phone number.”

“You want to speak with Carl?” she asked. “Whatever for?”

“After listening to you talk about the book you’re writing about your daughter, I thought it might be fun to write something about Mom . . . you know, some of her anecdotes . . . a tribute, in a way, though nothing compared to what you’re doing for Babs.”

Mita Trublonski was quiet for so long, I was afraid we’d been disconnected.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Yes, dear, I’m here. It’s just . . . well, I’m simply surprised by your sudden ambition, that’s all. Do you really think a book about a costume designer would sell?”

“That’s what I plan to ask Mr. Paxton,” I said. “I mean, it wouldn’t be
entirely
about Mom. The anecdotes would include her experiences with some of Hollywood’s most elite.”

“Right.”

“Again, it won’t be near the blockbuster your book will be.” I found myself trying to reassure her once again. She seemed either dubious or threatened by my book idea. Maybe I should’ve told her I hoped to break into show business and that I was hoping Paxton would represent me. “Mr. Paxton will likely tell me I’m wasting my time, but I’d just like to hear it from a professional, you know?”

“Of course. Hold on.”

I paced in front of the counter while I waited for Ms. Trublonski to return to the phone and supply me with the cell phone number of Carl Paxton. After she gave it to me, I read it back to her to make sure I had it right.

“That’s it,” she said. “Tell him I sent you his way. Maybe he’ll be kinder then. He can be a bit like a bulldog in a silk scarf, but he’s a good ally if he believes in you.”

“Thank you,” I said. As I ended the call, I was still puzzling over her comparison—a bulldog in a silk scarf? I supposed it was Ms. Trublonski’s way of saying Paxton was rough around the edges.

I called Mr. Paxton’s number. The call went to voice mail. I introduced myself and left my cell phone number. I indicated I’d like to buy him lunch and talk over a proposed project that I’d discussed with Mita Trublonski.

I figured that either he would call Ms. Trublonski or she would call him prior to our talking anyway, so my tipping him off to having discussed the book with Ms. Trublonski would speed up that aspect of the game. Whether Ms. Trublonski thought a book about my mother would sell or not, I knew that Paxton would be looking for new clients. Even if the rumor was untrue that Babs had been going to fire the manager after completing her current project, her death had left him without his most profitable client. Sentiment aside, he had to have been looking for more revenue streams.

A customer came in seeking an embroidery starter kit for her young niece. I had some inexpensive needlepoint kits that contained blunted, plastic needles, plastic canvas, and enough yarn to complete the project. I led the elegant woman to the kits.

“These will be wonderful for her,” she said, as she paid for her purchase. She patted Angus’s head and set his tail to wagging even harder than it already had been before she breezed out the door.

I stepped into my office and called Sadie before another customer came by.

“Hi,” I said. “If I come over there for lunch with a strange guy, would you please seat me at the most private table possible?”

“Yeeeah. What are you up to?”

I explained that Carl Paxton was Babs’ manager and that Kendra Morgan believed him to have been involved in her death.

“Hon, you know she’s a tabloid reporter,” Sadie said. “She was probably just trying to get you to say something she could quote you on.”

“Maybe so, but I’m going to try to talk with him anyway. I’m pretending I want to write a book about Mom’s experiences in Hollywood.”

“And what does Ted think about being stood up in favor of a murder suspect?” she asked.

“One, he doesn’t know I might be having lunch with Carl . . . at least, not yet. And two, he and Manu have returned to the crime scene to snoop around a little more, so he couldn’t have lunch with me today anyway.”

“But I didn’t think the Babushka Tru death was their case.”

“It isn’t,” I said. “They’re looking at the first crime scene—the one Reggie and I stumbled over before the movie crew got there. Paul Samms and Vera went out there yesterday.”

“Did they find anything?”

“A disk that had the initials TCMSA on it. Does that mean anything to you?” I asked.

“No. Should it?”

“I doubt it. It’s like Ted said, anyone could’ve lost a button out there. It could’ve been a hiker who lost the button a year ago, or it could’ve fallen off the gunman himself,” I said. “Still, now that the Tallulah County Police Department has pulled out all but a couple of cursory guards at the place, Ted and Manu want to see what they can find.”

“Yeah, I imagine the Tallulah County boys didn’t appreciate our Tallulah Falls guys stepping on their toes on that one, even if it was our guys’ case to begin with.”

“You’re probably right.” I got a beep. “I’m getting another call. If I come in, will you put me at the most private table you’ve got?”

“Yeah . . . private . . . but where Blake and I can keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks.” I switched from Sadie’s call to the incoming call. “This is Marcy Singer. Thank you for calling the Seven-Year Stitch. How may I help you?”

“Hi there, Ms. Singer. This is Carl Paxton returning your call.”

“I appreciate your getting back to me so promptly,” I said. “Yesterday Mita Trublonski was in my shop, and she was telling me about the book she’s writing about her daughter’s life. I got to thinking that my mom’s experiences designing costumes for some of Hollywood’s A-listers might make a good memoir. What do you think?”

“And your mother is Beverly Singer?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“Tell me one of these anecdotes.”

He was testing me. My mind raced to come up with something good . . . something involving a popular actor that would be tame enough not to get us sued should we actually write a book and yet juicy enough to be interesting.

“There are so many,” I said. “Like the time Brandi Chastain had a conniption because every single scene containing the wine-colored tea-length gown she adored and looked so magnificent wearing had been cut from the movie. She didn’t know until she saw the movie’s premiere in London—it was the first time she’d seen the finished product—and after dressing down the director, she left the theater in tears.”

“Hmm. Interesting. What else have you got?”

“Um, there was the time Jimmy Gless’s girdle burst at the seams and his beer gut jutted out from under his shirt,” I said.

Paxton laughed. “Oh my goodness, that’s great! He always looks trim in his movies. I mean, barrel-chested but not fat.”

“Now you know why.”

“What time can we meet for lunch?” he asked.

We made arrangements to meet at twelve thirty at MacKenzies’ Mochas.