Stitch Me Deadly (14 page)

“Of course, I do, but—”

“Then help me find out. You know people in this town. They’ll talk to you.” He propped his elbows on his knees. “I’ll let you share the byline, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t care about sharing the byline,” I said. “And I don’t know as many people in this town as you seem to think. I haven’t been here all that long myself.”

He sat back and sighed. “Then you won’t help me?”

“I’ll help you . . . but only because I want Louisa Ralston’s killer brought to justice.” I still didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but if he found out something about Louisa Ralston or her murder, I wanted him to let me in on whatever it was.

He grinned. “Terrific. Hey, maybe Reese Witherspoon will play you in the movie.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sure. It’s the role she’s been waiting for.”

“How about we get that interview knocked out while I’m here?” Devon asked, taking his recorder from his coat pocket. “I don’t want my editor to think I’ve completely forgotten him.”

“Let’s do it.”

Devon flipped the recorder on. He repeated his bit about being Devon Reed and interviewing me as the entrepreneur of the Seven-Year Stitch. He then asked me how long I’d been in business. I told him, and he moved on to, “What did you do prior to opening your business, Marcy?”

“I was an accountant in San Francisco. When this space became available, my friend Sadie—she and her husband own MacKenzies’ Mochas down the street—called me and convinced me to open my embroidery store.”

“So you simply dropped everything and moved to Tallulah Falls?” Devon asked.

“Yeah . . . I guess basically that’s what I did.”

“No real roots in San Francisco, then, eh?”

“I’ll always have roots in San Fran,” I said. “It’s still home in many ways. But every day, Tallulah Falls is becoming more of a home to me, too.”

I’d no sooner finished that sentence than Mom and Angus came bursting through the front door. Devon paused the recorder. Angus bounded over to greet me and then gave Devon a curious sniff.

“He doesn’t bite, does he?” Devon asked.

“No,” I said. “He’s a sweetheart.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Mom said.

I shot her a warning glance, and she gave me a saucy shrug.

“What’s going on?” she asked, putting a large bag that I assumed contained the framed sampler behind the counter and a bag of heavenly-smelling takeout on the counter beside the daisies. “Did I miss anything?”

“Devon decided to come by and finish the interview,” I said.

“Please continue,” she said, coming over to sit in the vacant red chair. “Don’t let Angus and me interrupt.”

When Devon had concluded the interview, Mom made him replay the entire thing. “Just so I can see what I missed before I got here,” she said. “This may be an exciting opportunity for my daughter, and I don’t want to miss a single word.”

Devon did replay the interview, and I had to admit it sounded good. If he did the interview based on the information he had, it would be solid reporting that might bring some new business into the Seven-Year Stitch.

“That was wonderful,” Mom said. “Now what will you do? Have it transcribed, take notes, and write the article based on what Marcy has told you, or what? How does your process work, Devon?”

“I’ll listen to the interview again and then write my article.” He stood. “I really must be on my way. Marcy, let me get a photo of you sitting there where you are, and then we’ll take one of you standing by the counter with your mom.”

“Wait. Let me move to the sofa,” I said. I wasn’t dressed as nicely as I had been yesterday. Today I’d worn comfortable jeans, a waffle-knit kelly green henley, and sneakers, but I supposed it would have to do. Comfort comes before vanity on class days. “With this green shirt on, I’ll look like a Christmas elf sitting in this red chair.”

He laughed. “You’ve got a point.” He snapped a photo of me on the sofa and then instructed me to stand in front of the counter. “Ms. Singer, stand over there with her so I can get you in the shot, too.”

“Just take the picture of Marcy,” Mom said. “It’s her shop.”

“Yeah, but it’ll give the article heart for the two of you to be photographed together,” he said.

“Come on, Mom,” I said.

She heaved out a long sigh and then rose from the chair and joined me at the counter. I put my arm around her and tilted my head toward her. I smiled, she giggled, and that was when Devon took the photo.

“I’d like a copy of that,” I said.

“I’ll e-mail it to you. I’ll let you know if I have any further questions. Thanks.” With that, he turned and left.

Mom grabbed the bag of takeout—burgers, judging by the smell—and she and I wandered back to the sit-and-stitch square.

“The interview went well this time, don’t you think?” I asked.

Mom didn’t look up from her task of distributing the food among me, her, and Angus. “It was wonderful, love. But I still don’t trust that man.”

A
fter lunch, Mom minded the store while I went into the office and worked on the sampler history. I’d learned that the first known dated embroidery sampler was made in 1598 by a woman named Jane Bostocke. Jane had made the sampler to commemorate the birth of Alice Lee, presumed to be her daughter or niece. Today that sampler is part of a collection at the Victoria and Albert Museum. I included information about Jane’s sampler and added the fact that samplers predated pattern books and traveled throughout Europe and the Middle East from person to person. The samplers were used to preserve information, as well as to teach the various stitches.

I then took out the information Cary had given me on Louisa and her great-grandmother. Louisa’s great-grandmother had enjoyed a colorful—albeit hard—life. She’d come to Oregon as part of the Great Migration of 1843. She was a fifteen-year-old bride. She and her husband had settled in the Willamette Valley, and he’d obtained work as a blacksmith.

Louisa came of age on the Oregon coast in the 1930s. She’d volunteered at the orphanage that would later become her home when she was seventeen. After that, she went to Seattle to study. She came back a couple years later, married Frank, and they later bought the orphanage and turned it into their private residence.

Fairly pleased with my narrative, I put a decorative floral border around the page and printed it out. I then took the piece to Mom to get an objective opinion. She was sitting at the counter, thumbing through her script and making notes, while Angus dozed in his bed at her feet.

“Would you read this and tell me what you think?” I asked.

“I’ll be happy to.” She perused the page and then looked up at me. “Sounds great. It does make me wonder what her great-grandma’s original verse was.”

“Me, too. And I wonder why Louisa tore it out.”

“I guess we’ll never know . . . unless someone saw the piece before Louisa took the seam ripper to it.”

I nodded at her script. “How’s that coming?”

“It’s coming along fabulously,” she said, grinning broadly. “It’s a period piece set in midcentury Louisiana, and as I read through the script I can almost feel the lush fabrics I’ll be working with. It’s going to be so much fun. I’ve already spoken with Rob, the director, and we share the same vision on it . . . which makes things a lot easier when I’m planning out my costumes, jewelry, accessories, shoes. . . .”

I smiled. “It’s nice to see you like this. I’ve missed seeing you get all excited over a new project and then go through your various stages of loving it, then hating it, then loving it, then—”

She tapped me on the arm with her pen. “Then come home. We can replicate this charming shop, you can have your own house. . . . You can get a fresh start away from memories of Timothy Enright and Louisa Ralston . . . away from people like Devon Reed. You know the shop would be just as successful in San Francisco as it is here—maybe even more successful.”

I hugged her. “Thanks for the offer, Mom, but I live here now. I have a mortgage and a lease agreement.”

“We can sell the house and sublet this space.”

“I know, but I don’t want to . . . not yet, anyway. I’m making a life for myself here, and I like it. I miss you, of course, and Frances and Alfred, too. But you’re gone so much of the time, I get to see you more during your visits here than I ever did when I lived at home.”

“Is it David?” she asked. “Are you afraid you’ll run into him again and be reminded of the dreadful way he treated you?”

“No. I’m over David. Completely. I think he did me a favor by calling off our engagement at the last minute,” I said. “Can you imagine how horrible it would’ve been had he gone ahead and married me? We’d have both been miserable, and we’d have already been divorced by now.”

“I’ve just always worried it was David who drove you away from San Francisco.”

“It wasn’t. It was actually Sadie pulling me to Tallulah Falls rather than anyone driving me out of San Fran.” I laughed. “It’s all right for me to grow up, Mom. I’ll be okay.”

She leaned her head against my shoulder. “I know, darling. It’s hard to let go, though. You’ll see that one day when you have a daughter or son and want to protect that child from everything in the world. . . . And when you can’t, you’ll feel so helpless.”

I kissed her cheek. “I love you, too.”

 

 

Cary was the first person to show up for needlepoint class. “Am I on time?” he asked. “I’ve not missed anything, have I?”

“No,” I said. “You’re actually about half an hour early. But that’s good. I can show you Louisa’s sampler and the narrative I’ve laminated and placed on the wall next to it.”

“Fantastic!” he said, turning that movie star smile on me.

“You know, you really are reminiscent of Cary Grant when he was young,” I said.

“Truly,” Mom said, from the sofa in the sit-and-stitch square.

“Thank you both,” Cary said. “Let me share one of my favorite Cary Grant anecdotes with you. There was once a reporter who wired Grant’s agent asking, ‘How old Cary Grant?’ Grant intercepted the message and wired back, ‘Old Cary Grant fine. How you?’”

We laughed.

I said, “I read that Hitchcock once said Grant was the only actor he’d ever loved.”

“Yes,” Mom said, “I read that somewhere, too. I adored Grant and Kelly in
To Catch a Thief
.” She sighed. “Edith Head was nominated for an Oscar for her costume design in that movie.”

“That’s right. And what about
Roman Holiday
with Hepburn and Peck? Didn’t she win for that one?” Cary asked.

“Yes, she did. She won eight Academy Awards in all and garnered a star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame.”

“Oh, Mom, you’ll get your star and your Oscar one of these days,” I said.

“I’d better hurry, if I’m going to make it before I die.”

“Nonsense,” Cary said. “You’re far too young to be so morbid, Ms. Singer. How about showing me that sampler?”

“It’s right over here.” I led him to the wall where I’d hung the sampler. “By the way, your niece, Eleanor, was in this morning. I told her I’d let her know when I had the framed sampler on display. I’ll have to call her later.”

“Eleanor was here?” Cary asked. “That’s odd. Did she say why she came?”

“She wanted to see where her grandmother died and to ask me if she’d had any last words,” I said.

“And what did you tell her?”

I repeated to Cary what I’d told Eleanor earlier. “Before she left, she said she’d like to see the sampler once I had it framed.”

Cary was frowning when I’d finished speaking. “Did I say something to upset you, Cary?”

“No, no,
ma belle
. I’m just confused about Eleanorʹs attitude. The Eleanor you saw at the funeral home the other night was the Eleanor we all know and love. Whoever this is who came into your shop wasn’t Eleanor.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Unless she’s on some sort of medication or something. I’m sure the will had to be rather disappointing to her. Maybe the doc had to give her some happy pills.”

“She said she received the house and its contents,” I said. “I would think she’d be thrilled.”

“She did get the house and furnishings, but she didn’t get any money. Several of us family members received modest disbursements, but the majority of Aunt Louisa’s estate went to some charity none of us had ever heard of.” He shrugged. “Of course, Eleanor plans to sell the house and furnishings, so she’ll have plenty of money to do with as she wishes.”

I merely nodded, not quite knowing what to say.

Cary turned and spotted the sampler and laminated narrative on the wall. “Oh, this is lovely! What a wonderful homage to Aunt Louisa and dear old Millie. You’ve outdone yourself, Marcy. On behalf of the Ralston family, I thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” I said. “I’m glad you’re happy with it.”

At that point, Reggie Singh and Ella Redmond came in.

“Hey, there,” Reggie said. She settled into one of the red chairs by Mom. “How are you this evening, Ms. Singer? Are you planning to stitch with us?”

“Nope. No stitching for me until I go back to work. I’m content to watch and chat,” Mom said. “And please call me Beverly.”

“What’s so interesting?” Ella asked me and Cary.

“I framed the sampler Cary’s Aunt Louisa and her great-grandmother Millicent Connor made,” I said.

Ella and Reggie came over to look at the piece.

“This is exquisite,” Reggie said. “Look at all those tiny stitches. And there’s hardly any fading at all.”

“It’s been well preserved,” I said.

“Did you say the piece was done by both Mrs. Ralston and her great-grandmother? They worked on it together?” Ella asked.

“Not exactly,” I said. “Mrs. Ralston brought it into my shop. It’s her great-grandmotherʹs original, but I have reason to believe Mrs. Ralston tore out the verse initially on the sampler and replaced it with this one . . . which is actually a quote from
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”