Stitch Me Deadly (13 page)

“Then allow me to drive you home after dinner. We can chat . . . just the two of us.”

“I can’t. Mom can’t drive the Jeep. She says it’s too big. Plus she hates to drive, period.”

“How about tomorrow, then?” Devon asked.

“That could work. She was with me at the shop all day today, so I imagine she’ll want to stay at home for a while tomorrow . . . especially since we have class tomorrow night.”

“Good. I’ll call before I come by.”

We returned to the table and sat down. Todd and Mom began talking at once.

“Feeling better?” Todd asked.

“What took you so long?” Mom asked.

“Everything is fine,” I said. “Devon and I have decided that since he’ll be in town for a few more days, we’ll simply enjoy dinner tonight and he can finish the interview later in the week. Right, Devon?”

“Absolutely. I let work consume too much of my time, anyway. It’ll be nice to have a dinner conversation without mentally taking notes for a change.”

“What’s the deadline for your article?” Mom asked.

“I’ve got plenty of time,” Devon said. “The editor is really flexible. Tell me about your job, Ms. Singer. Is being a seamstress pretty seasonal—proms and weddings—or is it year-round work?”

“I manage to stay busy pretty much all the time,” Mom said.

Fortunately, Sadie brought our food, saving Mom from having to further elaborate on her career as a humble seamstress.

When we first got into the Jeep to drive home, we initially shivered and refrained from talking. The temperature had dropped considerably while we’d been having dinner. But as soon as the heater kicked in, so did Mom’s mouth.

“What did Devon say to you when he had you over there at the counter all to himself?” she asked.

“He basically asked me why I seemed reluctant to give him the interview, and I told him we didn’t trust him after he began asking all those questions about Timothy Enright and Louisa Ralston.”

“How did he react to that?”

I shrugged. “He tried again to convince me that he wasn’t out to cast the Seven-Year Stitch in a bad light, and he requested another opportunity for the interview. He promised that this time there would be no mention of the
unfortunate events
and that he’d keep them out of the article.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I’m not sure, Mom. He seems sincere, and you saw how cordial he was over dinner.”

“Yes, darling, but everyone can be cordial to get what they want.”

“Which is what?”

She sighed. “I still haven’t figured that one out. Do you intend to grant him a second interview?”

I did, but I didn’t want Mom to know that. To buy time, I said, “Let’s wait and see what Ted has to say. If he found proof that Devon Reed is who he claims to be, then I see no reason not to grant him the interview. If he isn’t who he claims to be, I’ll need to decide whether or not to confront him with that information.”

I
arrived at the Seven-Year Stitch the next morning about half an hour before the store was scheduled to open. I’d left Mom and Angus in bed. Last night before turning in, Mom had instructed me not to get her up this morning. She said she would wake up, dress, and bring Angus to the shop at her leisure. And she’d said she planned to go by the frame shop to see if the sampler was ready to be picked up.

I flipped on the lights, yawned, and greeted Jill. It was a peaceful morning. The rain had slackened, and I’d even spotted a rainbow on the way to work. The birds were trilling; the waves were crashing. . . . The day had all appearances of being a good one, but I had a nagging feeling telling me not to get my hopes up.

I took out my cell phone, deposited my purse and tote bag on the shelf behind the counter, perched on the maple stool, and called Ted Nash.

“Nash,” he said.

“Morning, Ted. It’s Marcy.”

“Hi, there.” Now he had a smile in his voice. “Everything all right?”

“Yep, everything’s fine. I was just wondering if you were able to find out anything about Devon Reed.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “A simple Internet search turned up several Devon Reeds, but it’s almost impossible to follow up on credentials based on a name, occupation, and description.”

“So you didn’t find any articles by a Devon Reed?” I asked. “My Google search didn’t turn up any, either.”

“No. If we had his Social Security number or fingerprints to run through AFIS, the FBI’s fingerprint system, it would be a lot easier.”

“Yeah, I know. But even if you did, he may not be in the system,” I said.

“Spill it. Did he do something to freak you out, or what?”

I sighed. “A little.” I explained about the interview and his immediately touching on the incidents with Timothy Enright and Louisa Ralston. “What do those isolated incidents have to do with my running a shop?”

“I don’t know. I do advise you to err on the side of caution. Always.”

“Thanks.”

“Let me know if you need anything else,” he said.

I assured him I would, and we ended the conversation. I went into my office and put some water into my single-cup coffeemaker. While the coffee was brewing, I went into the storeroom to get some supplies that needed to be restocked out on the floor: embroidery hoops, needles, yarns. White yarn, in particular, had been a big seller this weekend, both with the knitters and with the customers who crochet. I hadn’t asked what was up with all the white yarn. Knowing Riley, I could imagine that she’d commissioned them all to make things for Baby Kendall.

I arranged the items on the floor and straightened up bins that had become untidy on Saturday. I had just poured my freshly brewed coffee when, a little surprisingly, Eleanor Ralston came in.

“Good morning, Eleanor,” I said. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you.” She gazed around the shop. “I hope you don’t mind my coming. I wanted to see where Grandma spent her last morning.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all.” I set my coffee on the counter and came around to Eleanor’s side. “Would you care to sit down?”

“I would, actually. Thank you.” She sat on the navy sofa facing the window. “You have a beautiful shop.”

“Thanks.” I could tell she’d been crying. Maybe she’d still been in shock or something over her grandmother’s death at the funeral and was only now experiencing grief at her loss. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can get you?”

“No,” she said. “Just . . . would you sit down and tell me about Grandma that morning? Did she seem happy?” Eleanor was wearing a gray trench coat and a white scarf and hat. She kept twisting the scarf around her fingers.

“She did seem happy,” I said, sitting down beside her. “I think she wanted to do something with the sampler. Maybe she wanted me to make her a pattern from it so she could reproduce it or something. We didn’t get a chance to discuss it.”

“No, I don’t suppose you did.” She shook her head. “I know I should’ve talked with you before now, but things have been so crazy and there was so much to do. I wasn’t myself at all on the evening of the funeral.”

“I understand completely.”

“I feel as if I’ve been numb for days,” she said. “Just sort of moving on autopilot, you know?”

“I do know. Losing my grandmother a few years back was devastating.”

“D-did she say anything?” Eleanor asked. “I know you’re aware that the police think someone poisoned Grandma or that she accidentally ingested some drug that made her have a heart attack. I’m just wondering if she said anything before she collapsed . . . if there was any indication that anything was wrong.”

“Not at all. She asked me to help her find ivy,” I said, with a slight lift of my shoulders. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Not to me. If she was working on an embroidery project, I suppose that might’ve been the color of some thread she needed.”

“I thought about that, too,” I said.

“The sampler. . . . Did you get it framed?”

“It’s at the frame shop. My mom is supposed to stop by and get it before coming in later today. Would you like to have it back?”

She shook her head. “No. I think you had a lovely idea of making it sort of a memorial to Grandma and my great-great-grandmother. Cary did bring you the genealogical information on them, didn’t he?”

“He did,” I said, “and I’m working on the narrative. I should have it finished in another day or so.”

She stood and handed me a business card. “Please let me know when the display is ready. I’d love to see it.”

“I will, Eleanor.”

She left then, turning at the door to wave good-bye. I swallowed the lump in my throat and felt guilty that I’d thought Eleanor was interested only in her grandmother’s money.

The ringing of the phone snapped me out of my reverie. It was Mom.

“Hello, darling,” she said. “Angus and I have had a lovely breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and strawberries. Then we felt simply terrible thinking about you there, probably having had nothing for breakfast yourself, and we thought I should call and ask if you’d like anything.”

I laughed. “No, thank you. Please tell Angus I appreciate his concern and thoughtfulness, and, of course, I appreciate yours, too, Mom. You could bring lunch when you come, though.”

“I’ll do that. See you about eleven thirty or twelve.”

“Say, Mom, you’ll never believe who came in this morning.”

“Was it Dreadful Devon?” she asked.

“No, it was Eleanor Ralston. And she was completely different from the way she was at the funeral home. She asked that I call her when I get the display done.”

“Really? After so thoroughly giving you the brush-off the other night?”

“Yeah. Maybe she was just overwrought then.”

“Maybe,” Mom said, although she didn’t sound convinced.

“Anyway, I have a flash drive on my desk in the office . . . just to the right of the mouse. It has the narrative of the history of samplers and the information about Louisa Ralston and her great-grandmother on it. I thought I might try to finish it before class.”

“All right. I’ll slip the flash drive into my purse when I go upstairs to get dressed.”

“Thanks, Mom. See you soon.”

“Any special requests for lunch?” she asked.

“Nah, you know what I like.”

As we ended our conversation, a customer came in. She bought knitting needles and four skeins of white yarn. Seriously, white yarn was hot. I definitely needed to have a talk with Riley.

 

 

During the midmorning lull, I sat in the sit-and-stitch square and worked on Riley’s burp cloth. It was peaceful to let everything drift out of my mind except counting and stitching. This was a cross-stitch piece, and the border was so sweet and dainty. It was going quickly, too. I figured I’d be done with it within the next day or so.

The bells above the shop door jingled. I looked up and saw Devon Reed entering with a bouquet of daisies.

“I know I was supposed to call first,” he said, “but I was in the neighborhood.” He held out the flowers. “These are for you. They’re a peace offering.”

“Thank you.” I put my work on the ottoman and went to accept the flowers. “That wasn’t necessary, but I gratefully accept. If you give me a second, I’ll just get a vase for these.” I stepped into my office and retrieved a vase, then filled it a third of the way with water from the bathroom. I cut the stems diagonally and arranged them in the vase.

“There,” I said, setting the flowers on the counter. “They look like a glimpse of spring sitting there, don’t they?”

“They do,” Devon said. “I’m glad you like them. I take it Mumsy and the hound are elsewhere this morning?”

“Yes, they are. So, let’s talk.” I returned to my red chair, and Devon took a seat on one of the navy sofas.

“The freelance business hasn’t been too kind to me so far,” he said. “I haven’t been at it all that long, and I feel a hard-hitting story is exactly what I need to get my career off the ground.”

“Well, you must have had a lucrative career prior to embarking upon your freelancing gig,” I said, looking pointedly out the window at his car.

“I did. I was a stockbroker in Seattle. But the job stress got to be too much to handle, and I decided to follow my heart and do something completely different. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“I can. I did the very same thing.”

Devon leaned forward. “That’s why I want to investigate Louisa Ralston’s murder. The sensational story of the little old lady who was murdered in a small town. It could be not only national newspaper or magazine fodder, but it could even get me on TV.”

“Devon, I don’t think it’s right to exploit a woman’s murder and her family’s grief merely to get your fifteen minutes of fame.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he said.

I arched a brow.

“Okay, it’s a
little
of what I’m doing,” he said. “But mainly I’m bringing justice to Louisa Ralston and her family. Marcy, come on. The woman died in your store. Don’t you want to know why?”