Cross-Stitch Before Dying (7 page)

She waved me on as her call was answered. “Hi, it’s me. Have you heard about Babs Tru?”

As I hurried out the door, I hoped Vera wouldn’t include the bit about my mother being a suspect as she relayed to Paul the scintillating news of Babs’ murder. But I knew it was bound to come out sooner or later.

I
was familiar with the location of the Tallulah County Police Department because I’d been questioned there myself after an elderly woman named Louisa Ralston had collapsed in the Seven-Year Stitch a few months earlier. Ms. Ralston had died, and her death had been ruled a homicide. Come to think of it, Mom had been questioned by the TCPD during their investigation into Ms. Ralston’s death too. She’d been determined to exonerate me as a suspect in Ms. Ralston’s homicide and had not endeared herself to the detectives in charge during that interrogation. As I swung the Jeep into the first available parking space, I hoped her attitude then wouldn’t come back to bite her in the butt now.

I rushed inside where the dour-faced deputy-secretary sat behind a bulletproof-glass enclosure. She was chatting on the phone and turned away from the window. From her demeanor, I could tell she was on a personal call, and she’d turned her back to me while my mother was undergoing the Tallulah County Inquisition somewhere in the recesses of this building!

I banged my palm against the glass. She continued to ignore me.

I took my phone from my pocket, looked up the phone number, and called the Tallulah County Police Department. The deputy-secretary turned to put the first call on hold so she could take the incoming call.

“Tallulah County Police Department,” she droned. “What is the nature of your call?”

“I need to speak with someone in charge so that I can report a rude secretary who’s ignoring me while she takes a personal call.”

Glaring at me, the deputy-secretary slammed down the receiver and buzzed me in. Before allowing me to proceed, she scanned my body with a metal-detecting wand and examined the contents of my purse. She then called someone to come and escort me before buzzing me through another door.

“Thank you,” I said.

She merely aimed another baleful look in my direction before resuming her phone call.

When I stepped through the door, I was greeted by a familiar—albeit not particularly friendly—face.

“Well, well, well, Ms. Singer, I guessed you’d be paying us a visit today.”

“Your instincts are dead-on.” I regretted using the phrase
dead on
to Detective Bailey as soon as I’d said it, given the circumstances; but once said, I couldn’t very well reel the words back so I let them go, acting as if it wasn’t awkward after all.

Warmer weather had made him trade the tweed sport jackets I’d previously seen him in for a lighter-weight navy jacket. His dark blond mustache still obscured his upper lip, though, and his bald spot reflected the overhead fluorescent lights as we walked down the hall.

“How’s Detective Ray?” I asked, glancing at the framed photos of groups of officers that lined the hallway.

“Ask him yourself.” Detective Bailey opened the door to an interrogation room.

Amid the sea of yellow and green plaid carpet, Mom sat at a gray metal table that had been bolted to the floor. I’d expected her to appear frightened or intimidated. Maybe it was some sort of projection of my own feelings because it was not a projection of hers.

“Detective Ray, would you be a dear and top off my coffee please?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Ms. Singer—Marcy—you can have ten minutes with your mother in the company of Detective Bailey and me.”

I looked over at the square-bodied, gray-haired Detective Ray, and he raised his hand in a gesture that was not so much a wave as an acknowledgment of my presence. I nodded.

“I’ll be right back.” Detective Ray took Mom’s coffee cup from the table. “Bailey?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

I wasn’t offered a beverage. I sat on the rust-cushioned metal chair across from Mom. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine, darling. How are you? You look upset.”

“Mom, I
am
upset. You’re being questioned in a homicide investigation. This is not simply coffee and catching up with our buddies, Detectives Bailey and Ray.”

“Oh, I know that,” she said. “Although it
has
been delightful catching up with you.” This comment was directed to Detective Bailey. “But don’t get so jumpy, Marcella. I’m not the only one being questioned, and I’ve called Alfred. He’s on his way.”

Alfred Benton had been Mom’s attorney for the past thirty years. My father had died when I was young, so Alfred had been a surrogate dad to me almost all my life.

“You heard that,” I said to Detective Bailey. “Her attorney is on his way. You have no right to question her without her attorney being present.”

“That’s correct,” he said. “We don’t. Your mother chose to speak with us voluntarily.”

I turned back to Mom. “Are you sure that’s wise? Wouldn’t you rather wait until Alfred gets here to give a statement?”

“Not really, darling. My statement is simple: I’m innocent. In fact, I’m not sure Babs’ death was a murder at all. She might’ve just slipped and fell.”

Detective Ray returned. He put Mom’s coffee in front of her and then sat on the chair beside me.

“Mom, what happened?” I asked.

“Babs was messing around that old mill, and she fell,” Mom said.

“Blunt-force trauma to the back of the victim’s head combined with a possible murder weapon found at the crime scene indicate that the victim didn’t fall but was knocked down through the hole to the floor eighteen feet below,” Detective Bailey said.

“How do you know she didn’t get the trauma when she fell?” Mom asked. “Falling eighteen feet is bound to have an adverse effect on one’s body.” She looked at me. “This is the issue the detectives and I keep going around and around on. We simply can’t agree.”

“Trust us,” said Detective Ray. “We know that some of the victim’s injuries occurred perimortem.”

“How can you be sure of that?” I asked. “Has the autopsy been done?”

“No, but I saw the body myself,” Detective Ray said. “When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you know some things without having the benefit of the autopsy.”

“Why do you think my mother had anything to do with Ms. Tru’s death?”

“Like she said, we’re talking with everybody,” said Detective Ray. “But she was reportedly the last person to see the victim alive.”

“And they were overheard having a heated argument,” Detective Bailey added. He looked at his watch. “I’m afraid your time is up, Marcy. If you’d like to wait out in the hall, you may drive your mother back to Tallulah Falls when we’re done talking with her.”

I pushed back my chair. “Mom, would you like for me to call Riley Kendall?”

“No, thank you, darling. Alfred will be here tomorrow. Just let me finish up with Detectives Ray and Bailey, and I’ll be right out.”

I had to wonder if on the inside she was as nonchalant about this whole ordeal as she appeared to be on the outside.

•   •   •

A few minutes later, Mom stepped out of the interrogation room. I started to hug her, but she kept walking. I couldn’t blame her. I was eager to put this place behind me too.

“Let us know if you plan to leave town, Ms. Singer,” Detective Bailey said.

“I will,” Mom and I said simultaneously.

I smiled uncomfortably and gave the officer a little wave before turning and following Mom down the hall.

We left the building and got into the Jeep. She remained stoic until I’d pulled out of the parking lot. Then she uttered a slight squeak and slumped in her seat.

I put on my signal light to move onto the shoulder of the road.

“Don’t you dare stop here,” Mom said. “I don’t want them to see us and think I’m upset. Take me to your place.”

“Okay.” I turned the signal light off and accelerated. “What happened when you went to the set this morning?”

“Henry said Babs was aggravated with me because the initial costumes I’d made for her didn’t fit properly.” She huffed. “If you’d seen how that girl has been gorging herself at the hospitality table, you’d understand
why
the clothes I fitted her with last week will barely button now.”

“So Henry called you over there to get new measurements?” I asked.

“Yes. So I went to the tent the crew has set up near an old mill. Ms. Hoity-Toity was in the tent waiting for me, attitude and all.” Mom checked herself for a second. “I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, and it’s a tragedy she died so young. But that’s just the way it happened. We had words.”

“That would be where the
heated argument
overheard by witnesses comes in.”

“Hey, she started it, not me,” Mom said. “She insinuated that I’d measured her incorrectly the first time. She told me that if I’d known what I was doing to start with, we wouldn’t be doing this again.”

I pursed my lips.
Ouch.

“I told
her
that if she’d ever met a cookie she could resist, we wouldn’t be remeasuring,” she said.

I winced.
Double ouch.

“And that’s when the argument got heated,” Mom finished.

“I can imagine. Did the argument escalate into any slapping or hair-pulling . . . ?”

“Or blunt-force trauma? No, Marcella, it did not!”

“Oh, Mom, I know you didn’t kill her. That’s not what I meant. I’m just trying to get all the facts to help ensure you’ll have a good defense.”

“You
do
think I did it!”

“No, I don’t,” I insisted. “But if you end up getting charged with murder, you’re going to need an excellent attorney to
prove
you didn’t do it.”

“I’m not being charged with anything. I didn’t
do
anything.”

“And how many movie scripts have you read where the heroine said the same thing and had a heck of a time proving it?”

She sighed. “Just take me home please. I’d like to lie down.”

•   •   •

I dropped Mom off at home and returned to the Seven-Year Stitch. Vera was full of questions, as I’d expected her to be. Like Mom, I was worn out with the entire ordeal, so I merely told Vera that Tallulah County police detectives were questioning everyone to determine exactly what had happened to Ms. Tru.

“But they do believe Babs was murdered, don’t they?” Vera asked.

“They won’t know anything for certain until the autopsy has been done,” I said. “The girl might’ve been exploring and just took a fall.” Yeah, the thought of Babs Tru going off on an exploratory hike sounded hokey even to me, but I didn’t want Vera’s journalist boyfriend thinking—any more than he probably already did—that my mom had been accused of murder. So far, she had not been arrested, and I prayed she wouldn’t be.

I thanked Vera for watching the shop and asked her to please excuse me while I called students and canceled the evening’s classes.

“Of course, dear.” Vera gave both Angus and me a quick hug. “Let me know if there’s anything you or Beverly needs. I’m sure Paul would be more than glad to let her tell her side of the story.”

“Thank you so much.” I was proud to be able to say that without clenching my teeth. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I blew out a breath as the door closed behind Vera and wondered where to begin. Relieved that, at the moment, there were no customers in the shop, I sat on one of the red club chairs and checked my phone. Ted had sent me a text message asking me to call him as soon as I could. I rang his phone.

“Hey, babe,” he answered, his voice deep, slightly husky, and full of sympathy. “Are you okay? How’s Bev?”

“We’re all right. . . . Both of us are pretty shook up, though. She asked me to take her home, and I’m going to cancel this evening’s classes so I can be there with her.”

“That’s good. If you’d like, I can bring dinner.”

“A pizza with extra everything would be wonderful,” I said. “I think we could use some comfort food.”

“I’ll also send a patrolman by every so often to make sure the media hounds don’t camp out on your curb,” Ted said. “Most of them will be swarming the movie set—they might already be there if word of Babushka Tru’s death has hit the social media outlets yet—but there might be one or two that try to catch your mom once they find out where she’s staying.”

“Because she’s the main suspect in the murder?” I asked.

“Right now the official word is that she and other members of the cast and crew are being called
persons of interest
. The TCPD doesn’t want the media to jump to their own conclusions.”

“There are bound to be leaks, though. Somebody is always looking for a chance to be the center of attention, settle a grudge, make a little money . . . something.”

“Bev’s gonna need a top-notch attorney,” Ted said.

“Alfred is coming tomorrow,” I said. “And that’s a good start. But I’m afraid she’s going to need someone with more criminal law experience.”

“Yeah, she is. Remember Campbell Whitting, the guy who represented Calloway in the Graham Stott murder trial?”

“Of course. He was majorly impressive.”

“Have Bev give him a call,” he said.

“Do you think he’ll take her on? When he agreed to take Todd’s case, I gathered it was only because he was a friend of the family.”

Ted barked out a mirthless chuckle. “A high-profile case like this is right up his alley, Marce. He’ll put somebody on the back burner to sign on as your mom’s counsel because he loves being in the spotlight doing what he does best.”

A
t Mom’s insistence, I didn’t cancel my Tuesday evening class after all. I’d called and asked Ted to cancel the pizza since Mom insisted I carry on with life as usual.

I took Angus home for his dinner and realized that Mom had used cooking to try to get her mind off Babs’ murder that afternoon. When I opened the front door, the delectable aromas made my mouth water. They apparently had a strong effect on Angus, too, because he sprinted to the kitchen. I, however, lingered in the foyer in an attempt to guess what dishes Mom had made. I could detect some type of beef . . . the yeasty, buttery scent of freshly baked bread . . . onions . . . potatoes, maybe? And something chocolate. Definitely, something chocolate.

“Hi, darling,” Mom called from the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind—I made pot roast, and Ted’s coming to eat with us.”

“That’s great, Mom,” I said, kissing her cheek as I walked into the kitchen. “Thank you.”

In addition to the pot roast—which included onions, carrots, and, yes, potatoes—Mom had made rolls and brownies.

“Is there anything I’m overlooking?” she asked. “Anything else you’d like?”

“No. You’ve outdone yourself as it is.”

“Coffee,” she said. “Ted might want coffee with his dessert. I’ll make a pot of decaf.”

As she busied herself with the coffeemaker, I started to tell her that wasn’t necessary; but I realized it was. If she didn’t occupy her thoughts with dinner and mundane things, she’d give in to the worry that she could actually be arrested for Babushka Tru’s murder.

The doorbell rang, and Angus forgot his obsession with Mom and the dinner she’d prepared long enough to race to the entryway and bark. I trailed behind him and let Ted inside.

“Hey, buddy,” Ted greeted Angus, as he pulled me to him for a quick kiss and hug. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“And Bev?” he asked softly.

“She’s trying to avoid the situation as best as she can,” I said. “She spent the afternoon cooking—I hope you like pot roast, by the way—and I’m pretty sure she won’t be eager to talk about the murder.”

“But we’ve
got
to talk about it.”

“I know.” I rested my head on his muscular chest. “Just don’t jump right in with both feet. Give her time to warm up to the topic.”

“I’ll try,” he promised. “Since she insisted on your keeping to your class schedule, we don’t have a lot of time.”

“I know.” I blew out a breath before lifting my head. “Let’s go.”

Hand in hand, Ted and I walked into the kitchen.

“There you two are,” Mom said brightly. “Ted, go ahead and have a seat. Marcella, I’ve almost finished setting the table, but I still need glasses.”

“Gotcha.”

“And cups and saucers so I can serve coffee with the dessert,” she said.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ted said, with a grin. “Did I walk into Marcy’s kitchen or some fancy five-star restaurant?”

“You might want to hold off on the exaggerated praise until after you’ve tasted the food,” Mom said. “I seldom have occasion to cook anymore, so I’m out of practice.”

Ted waited until Mom and I had finished setting the table and then pulled out our chairs in order to “seat us properly.”

“Now
I
feel like the one in the fancy restaurant,” Mom said.

We were a full five minutes into the meal before Ted broached the topic of Babushka Tru’s murder. For him, that constituted not jumping in with both feet but merely tentatively testing the water with one toe
before
diving in.

“I know this is something you and Marcy are trying not to think about,” he told Mom, “but you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that you could be arrested.” He put down his fork and spread his hands. “I’m not saying that’s going to happen, but we have to be ready if it does.”

When the man dove, he dove in headfirst.

“Ted’s right, Mom,” I said, gently. “You need to tell us everything that happened today.”

“I’ve already told you. Henry called and asked me to come to the set because Babs wasn’t happy with the fit of her costumes,” Mom said.

“That’s good.” Ted picked his fork back up and cut a chunk of potato in two. “You were summoned to the set by your employer. You didn’t go and seek Babs out of your own volition.”

I saw where he was going with that line of reasoning. Even if Mom was arrested, premeditation wouldn’t be a factor. I knew Mom was innocent, and I didn’t want her to be arrested at all; but if she was, it was good to know that first-degree murder would be off the table.

“I remeasured Babs in the portion of the mill that’s serving as a makeshift wardrobe department, and then I went to gather up Babs’ costumes and to talk with my assistants about letting them out.”

“And did you talk with your assistants?” Ted asked.

Mom shook her head. “I couldn’t find anyone. I sat down at a sewing station to begin the alterations myself, but it wasn’t long before I heard a commotion. I went to see what had happened and learned that Babs had taken a fall and was dead.”

“Detective Bailey said you’d been overheard arguing with Babs,” I said.

“Yes, we argued. Babs and I clashed like pink stripes on a polka dot zebra and everyone knew it,” Mom said. “So what?”

“So what is that it gives police a motive,” I told her.

“What were you arguing about?” Ted asked.

“The initial measurements,” Mom said. “Babs said I didn’t do them correctly, and I insisted that she’d gained weight.”

“Huh.” Ted took a bite of his pot roast.

“Huh, what?” I asked.

He merely shrugged.

“Come on,” I insisted. “That was a loaded
huh
if I’ve ever heard one.”

Ted swallowed and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “It’s just that your mom might’ve been right about Babs’ weight gain.”

“See? I told you how she was always stuffing her face,” Mom said. “Anyone could see she was plumping up.”

I was still watching Ted. “That’s not it, is it? What’re you not saying?”

“One of the TCPD officers told me the medical examiner suspected that Babs might have been pregnant when she died.”

•   •   •

I was still mulling over the shocking possibility that Babushka Tru might’ve been pregnant as I drove back to the shop for the candlewicking class. Angus had stayed home with Mom, and Ted had promised to send patrol cars by both my house and the Seven-Year Stitch every half hour to keep the media at bay. He’d also said he’d come to the shop after class to see me home. I protested that all his precautions were unnecessary, but I was really touched that he cared so much.

As I took my candlewick embroidery work-in-progress out of my tote bag and placed it on the coffee table in the sit-and-stitch square, I remembered Ron Fitzpatrick telling me that it was widely believed that Henry Beaumont had been having an affair with Babs. If it was true that Babs had been pregnant, was Henry the baby’s father? Mom had dismissed the gossip about Babs and Henry, but she’d said herself time and time again that emotions run amok in the movie world. Everyone was driven by something: a desire to be loved, a need for acceptance, a hunger for money and fame, a fear of growing old and fading into oblivion. And when a beautiful young woman desperate for renewed Hollywood success crossed paths with a famous producer-director who just might be starting to worry about his age and his virility . . . well, anything was possible . . . even if that producer-director was a married man.

I checked the mini-fridge in my office to make sure it was well stocked with bottled water. Then I put an assortment of hard candies in a glass bowl and placed it in the center of the coffee table.

I looked up when the bells over the shop door jingled. I was expecting to see the first of my students arriving, not a Tallulah County Police Department deputy.

My heart fluttered up into my throat, and I sounded hoarse as I asked, “May I help you?”

The uniformed officer was wearing an eight-point cap, which he removed and held in front of him as he stood with his chest out and his feet shoulder-width apart like a soldier. “Yes. I understand Beverly Singer is your mother and that she’s staying with you for the duration of her visit to Tallulah Falls.”

My mouth went so dry that my voice emerged as a croak. “Is she okay?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry.” He stepped forward and steadied me with his strong right hand as I sank onto the sofa facing the window. “I didn’t consider that you might interpret my question as an indication something had happened to her.”

I merely stared at him.

“Gee, I do apologize,” he said after a moment. “You’ve turned as pale as a ghost. May I get you something?”

I shook my head. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, yeah.” He chuckled slightly. “My bad. I—we, that is—I mean, the captain . . . and of course, I think it’s a good idea too . . . we thought you should know that we believe you need to hire some extra security . . . you know, like a bodyguard or something.”

At some point during—I checked the nameplate—Deputy Preston’s convoluted explanation for his presence in my shop, my mouth dropped open. I thought to close it after asking, “Why do you feel that way?”

“Well, there’s a bunch of reporters and stuff already swarming the movie set,” said Deputy Preston. “They’re kind of a wily group. It won’t take long for them to realize you’re Beverly Singer’s daughter, and then they’ll be beating down your doors . . . here and at home.”

Being a county deputy instead of a townie, he was apparently unaware that I was dating a “bodyguard” and that I had a four-legged one on standby as well.

“I appreciate your concern.” I nodded toward the sidewalk where some of my students were approaching. “But if you’ll excuse me, I have a class getting ready to start.”

“Oh, sure.” He removed a business card from the breast pocket of his shirt and handed it to me. “If you need anything, just give me a call, all right?”

“Will do,” I said with a stiff smile. I read the card as I got up and went to the office to get a bottle of water.
Deputy Robert Preston.
Mom would get a kick out of the irony of the kid’s name being the same as that of a Hollywood legend.

•   •   •

Sadie was one of the first students in the shop. Normally, Sadie is as far removed from an embroidery enthusiast as one can get, other than to
ooh
and
ahh
over things other people have made. She’d signed up for the candlewicking class because it was a fairly simple beginner’s class and because we’d had a bit of a tiff just before the class commenced and signing up had been her version of extending an olive branch.

“Marce, may I speak with you privately for a sec before class gets started?” she asked.

“Sure.” I ushered her into my office and pushed up the door. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to warn you that MacKenzies’ Mochas’ customers have been asking questions about your mom and you all afternoon,” she said. “Todd told Blake that he and his staff at the Brew Crew have been dodging a lot of Nosy Nellies themselves.”

“Are they reporters?” I asked.

“Some are. Others are simply curious about the murder, especially since it happened to a celebrity.”

I rubbed my forehead. “It hasn’t even officially been ruled a homicide yet.”

“As far as these people are concerned, it has,” Sadie said. “Just be leery of them.”

“One of the Tallulah County deputies came by right before you got here and said pretty much the same thing. He advised me to hire some extra security.” I scoffed. “
Extra,
like I have bodyguards surrounding me wherever I go.”

“Well, if you count Angus and Ted. . . .” She grinned. “But, seriously, hon, you might want to give it some thought for you
and
your mom. Some of these
inquiring-mind
types can be awfully pushy.”

“I’ll talk with Mom and Ted and see what they think.” I opened the door, and Sadie and I joined the rest of the students.

Most of them were regulars—meaning, they joined at least one class a session: Vera, Reggie, Julie, and her daughter Amber. It was Amber who brought up the subject of Babushka Tru after we’d all got settled in and were working on our projects.

“Did you guys hear about BTru getting killed?” she asked. “It apparently happened somewhere near here.”

“Be true?” Reggie asked with a frown.

“Yeah,” Amber said. “That’s what the magazines in the grocery store call her—BTru. You know, like JLo for Jennifer Lopez or Biebs for Justin Bieber? Her real name is Babushka Trublonski—they shortened the last name to Tru.”

No wonder. Babushka Trublonski was a mouthful. Funny, but I’d never heard anyone mention Babs’ real last name before. Amber must be quite a fan.

“I’d forgotten the tabloids called her BTru,” Vera said. “I’ll be sure to remind Paul of that. He might want to reference it.”

While I was under the impression that any reporter worth his salt wouldn’t have to be reminded of such things because he’d thoroughly research his subject before writing about her, I held my tongue. I needed to stay out of this conversation, if at all possible.

“I’m amazed at how quickly the media has begun storming our little town,” Sadie said. “I mean, she died only this morning.”

“It’s already being reported on TMZ and E!,” Amber said.

“You watch too much of that junk,” her mother admonished.

“Are they calling the death an accident or a homicide?” Vera asked Amber.

Amber shrugged. “They said she fell to her death on the set of her new movie. Why? Did you hear she was pushed or something?”

“At this point, anything and everything said by the media and the public is mere speculation,” Reggie said. “No one knows for sure what happened.”

“How’s everyone doing on their project?” I asked. I leaned closer to an elderly lady who’d been working steadily and hadn’t even looked up during the Babushka Tru discussion. “Muriel, are you doing okay?”

Muriel raised her cottony head and smiled. “I’m fine, thanks. How are you, dear?”

I was getting ready to reply to Muriel that I too was fine when the bells over the shop door jingled. A woman in a black coat with a leopard-print collar was standing just inside the door. She staggered slightly as she tottered in black stiletto boots toward the sit-and-stitch square, and I quickly put down my embroidery to meet her halfway.