Stitch Me Deadly (16 page)

I knew it was highly doubtful that she would even consider moving here, but I found the thought a teensy bit disturbing. If she moved here, it would be the same as if I were to move back to San Francisco. I wouldn’t feel like I was maintaining my independence anymore.

I unlocked the shop door and went inside. I was being silly. I had let our jokes at the coffeehouse get in my head. I put my things behind the counter, hung up my coat in the office, and checked my phone messages. My only message was from Mom.

“Hi, darling. I won’t be in until later this afternoon. Cary called and he’s taking me to brunch and then on to his shop. We’ve decided to make a day of it. I’ll have my cell on if you should need me. Angus is in the backyard enjoying a rawhide bone.”

I
was putting the finishing touches on Riley’s burp cloth when Nellie Davis, owner of the aromatherapy shop two stores down, sashayed into the Seven-Year Stitch. Her short gray-and-white-streaked hair was sticking out all over the place. With her thick-framed red eyeglasses and her overly thin shape dressed in head-to-toe black, she looked a little comical standing there with her arms akimbo.

“Good morning, Ms. Davis,” I said, suppressing a groan. The woman had never darkened my door other than to complain about something. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Um . . . yes . . . yes, I think there is. I’d like some pink, white, and wine yarn. A skein of each should do it, I believe. I’m making a scarf.”

Dumbfounded, I had to take a second before my brain could process what she’d actually said. “You want some yarn?”

“Yes,” she said with a huff. “Pink, white, and wine, if you have it.”

I put the burp cloth on the ottoman and got up to assist Ms. Davis. “Do you have a particular type of yarn in mind? Angora, wool, cotton . . . ?”

“Is . . . Is that where it happened?” she asked. “Over there near the sofa? I mean, I imagine she’d have asked to sit down.”

“You imagine who would have asked to sit down, Ms. Davis?” I knew exactly who she meant—and now the real reason for her visit to the shop—but I decided to be obtuse. “Do
you
need to sit down? You do look a tad unwell.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “I was wondering where Louisa Ralston collapsed.”

“It was here . . . in the store,” I said, my eyes wide with feigned innocence.

“I know that.” She smirked. “In fact, I told that handsome reporter who came to ask me questions about running a business in Tallulah Falls that Louisa Ralston wasn’t the first person to die in your store.”

“Mrs. Ralston didn’t die in my store.”

“She might as well have. Timothy Enright did.”

“I don’t see how any of this concerns you, Ms. Davis.”

“It concerns me because I own a shop on this street. I don’t want people to stop shopping here because your embroidery store is cursed or something.”

I spoke through gritted teeth. “My shop is not cursed.”

The bells over the shop door jingled, and I turned to see Devon Reed stride in, looking relaxed and carefree in tan slacks and brown pullover.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said. “Ms. Davis, you’re looking well.”

She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Mr. Reed. You’re looking nice yourself. I was trying to discuss my concerns with Marcy here, but she doesn’t seem to care that her shop might run the rest of us out of business.”

“Ms. Davis,” I said, “my shop is doing well. Business is booming. If yours isn’t and you feel your customers are being driven away, you might want to look for something to blame other than my shop.”

“Yes, well, I need to get back,” she said. “I left a trusted customer in charge of the shop, and I don’t want to inconvenience her any longer.”

I didn’t ask her about the yarn she’d been looking for. I’d already realized it was merely an excuse to come in and that she didn’t actually want it, anyway.

As soon as she left, I turned on Devon. “So
that’s
where you got your information about Timothy Enright and Louisa Ralston?” I asked. “That old busybody?”

“No. I talked to you before talking to her, if you’ll recall. Besides, I did my homework on all of you before I set up interviews,” he said. “She was, however, more than happy to supply additional details about you, your shop, and the murderous happenings at the ‘Stitch.’”

“What could she possibly know about me?” I asked. “Before today, I’d spoken with her only one other time.”

“She told me you left San Francisco after being jilted by the love of your life. Neither you nor your mother is able to untie the apron strings just yet, even though you’re well into your thirties.” He gave me a snarky smile. “Shall I continue?”

“No, you most certainly shall not,” I said. “How does she know so much about me? And why does she care?”

“She knows so much about you because this is a gossipy little town.” He spread his hands. “I’m not sure
care
is the proper word to express how she feels. Maybe she’s concerned that your reputation for having people die in your store will scare away aromatherapy customers.”

“I’d like to scare
her
away,” I said.

He wandered over to the sofa and sat down. I resumed my seat on the red chair and picked up the burp cloth.

“I was driving through town this morning looking for some breakfast and saw your Jeep parked outside Adam Gray’s office,” Devon said. “Have you learned anything new?”

“No, I haven’t.” I was angry with Devon, angry with Ms. Davis, and angry with myself. I wished I was able to trust Devon, to have him help me figure out who killed Mrs. Ralston so that once again suspicion for a crime I did not commit would be off my shoulders. But I couldn’t trust him. He was a stranger and a sensationalist who seemed to want his fifteen minutes of fame, no matter what cost to anyone else.

“You seem engrossed in your work this morning,” Devon said. “It’s either that or you’re upset with me about something. Did dear old Mumsy not like the interview?”

“No, Devon, she thought it was fine. I’m doing this for a client, and I’d like to get it finished up, that’s all.” I glanced up at him. “Plus, I don’t think I’m the right person to help you figure out what happened to Mrs. Ralston. Since Ms. Davis is so well connected and informed, maybe the two of you can solve the crime, be the heroes, and write the book.”

“I don’t know why you’re getting so huffy with me.” He stood. “Call me if you get in a better mood.” He stormed out the door.

I thought about yelling after him that the daisies were a pathetic peace offering, but I didn’t want to be childish. Besides, I liked the daisies. It was their giver I didn’t particularly care for.

A customer came in excited that her granddaughter had asked her to tutor her in embroidery. The woman looked young to be a grandmother, and she reminded me somewhat of Mom.

“Iʹm going to start her out with some redwork,” she said. “Do you have any iron-on designs?”

I smiled, glad for the more pleasant company. “I certainly do.” I led the woman back to where the pattern books, kits, and iron-on design packets were located. “What is she into? Horses, unicorns, fairies, butterflies . . . ?”

The woman laughed. “All of the above!”

“Well, you pick out your design,” I said, “and I’ll go round up some red embroidery floss.”

“Thank you.”

She wound up settling on two design packets. One had butterflies and flowers; the other had unicorns and winged horses.

“She’ll love these,” I said, as I rang up her design packets and five skeins of red floss.

“I think she will, too.”

I handed her a flyer. “If the two of you would ever like to take a class together here at the Seven-Year Stitch, I offer classes on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She tucked the flyer into the periwinkle bag with her purchases before leaving the shop.

I had just deflated back onto the red chair in a renewed bout of self-pity when Ted Nash arrived, looking business-casual in his dark blue suit and blue-and-white pin-striped shirt open at the collar.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I guess.” I sighed. “No, I’m actually not all right. That reporter who did the entrepreneur interviews wants me to help him discover who killed Louisa Ralston. Even though I’d love to find out who
did
kill Mrs. Ralston, I don’t want to share information with him. I don’t trust him.”

“Follow your instincts on that one,” Ted said. “I don’t trust him, either, and I’ve never even met the guy. I can tell there’s something more, though. What else is eating you?” He took a seat on the navy sofa.

“It’s Mom. She went to brunch with Cary Ellis today. He’s Louisa Ralston’s nephew.”

“The one taking the needlepoint class?”

“Yeah,” I said. “How did you know?”

“Sadie was talking about him with Blake this morning when I was buying coffee.”

“What was she saying?”

Ted shrugged. “Only that he’s taking the class and he seems to really like your mother.”

“That’s what bothers me,” I said. “Mom barely knows this man!”

He chuckled. “A little role reversal going on here? Some
Freaky Friday
on a Wednesday?”

“It’s more than that,” I said. “Her life is in San Francisco.”

“And if she decides to make a life for herself here, she steps all over your toes, right?”

I bit my lower lip.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not going to tell her. You
can
confide in me, you know.”

“I do know, Ted. Thank you.” I sighed again. “And I know I’m overreacting. I love Mom, but I don’t want to be in her shadow anymore. I lived in her shadow my entire life until I came here. Tallulah Falls is mine. I’m making my own friends, I bought my own house, and I bought my own furniture.” I frowned. “Does that make any sense?”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“Maybe. But it still makes me feel like a selfish jerk,” I said. “This case has me a jittery mess.”

He smiled. “You aren’t a selfish jerk. And here’s another thing—you don’t need Devon Reed to help you figure out what happened to Louisa Ralston.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “The Tallulah County Police Department is working on it.”

“They’re not the only ones. I’m working on it, too, when I have the time . . . mostly on my own time.”

“Really?” My eyes watered a little. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “I haven’t been able to turn up very much, and you are still a suspect. But I did find this out.”

Before he could finish that thought, the two detectives from the Tallulah County Police Department—Detectives Bailey and Ray—burst into the shop. They were both wearing tweed sport coats, and I immediately thought,
Oh, super. It’s Tweedledee and Tweedledum
.

“Ms. Singer,” Detective Bailey said, “we need to speak with you privately.”

I tentatively got to my feet, my eyes pleading with Ted to do something.

“I’m Detective Ted Nash of the Tallulah Falls Police Department.” Ted stood and took out his badge to show to the other two officers. “What’s this about?”

“This doesn’t concern you, Detective Nash,” Detective Bailey said. “If you’re questioning Ms. Singer about another matter, we’ll wait our turn.”

“I’m not here at the moment as a representative of the department,” Ted said. “But as a professional courtesy, I would appreciate your telling me what this is about.”

“All right,” Detective Bailey said, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Adam Gray had a heart attack in his office this morning.”

I gasped. “Poor Mr. Gray. . . . But I saw him earlier, and he appeared to be fine.”

“We know you saw him earlier,” Detective Ray said, nodding. “That’s why we’re here.” He took a notebook from his breast pocket and flipped it open. “The secretary—a Ms. Sherman—said you arrived at the office just after they opened. She said you had no appointment but insisted on seeing Mr. Gray.”

“I don’t think I
insisted
,” I said. “I requested to see him, and he agreed, since his first appointment wasn’t due to arrive for an hour.”

“What did the two of you speak about?” Detective Bailey asked.

“I went into his office and screamed, ‘Boo,’ to make him have a heart attack,” I said. “Is that your ridiculous assumption?”

Ted leaned closer to me. “Marcy, don’t antagonize them,” he whispered.

To my horror, my eyes filled with tears. “I told Mr. Gray about that reporter Devon Reed and his intention to exploit Mrs. Ralston’s murder for his own gain.” The tears overflowed and rolled down my face. “And he told me about the auction.”

Ted took a packet of tissues from his pocket, opened it, and handed me one.

“Thanks.” I dried my eyes and sniffled. “I feel terrible about Mr. Gray. He really did seem to be all right when I was there. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“Did he eat or drink anything in your presence?” Detective Ray asked. “And be honest—Ms. Sherman will be asked to corroborate.”

“No,” I said. “He didn’t have so much as a cup of coffee—at least, not that I saw. Did he have a heart condition?”

“We’re looking into that,” Detective Ray said. “We’re also requesting that the coroner look specifically for Halumet while she’s doing the autopsy.”

I frowned. “Then you think the same person who murdered Mrs. Ralston might have murdered Mr. Gray?”

“It appears that may be the case,” Detective Bailey said. “Did you retain any of the Halumet confiscated from your home, Ms. Singer?”

“No, I did not. I wasn’t even aware there was Halumet in my home until your officers discovered it. The bottle has been in your possession ever since,” I said.

“That’s all the questions we have for now,” Detective Bailey said.

Detective Ray flipped the notebook closed and returned it to his pocket. “Don’t leave town.”