Stitch Me Deadly (7 page)

Still, I liked Vera. She was fun, and she certainly knew how to liven up a class.

Reggie was in this class, too. She was a pro at
chikankari
, an Indian white-on-white embroidery technique, and she, too, had taken the cross-stitch class. Reggie was a gifted stitcher. With her husband being so recently named Tallulah Falls’ chief of police, I think she used the classes mainly as a social gathering when her husband was working evenings.

I was happy to see that Reggie’s friend and coworker Ella Redmond had decided to join the needlepoint class. The group had eagerly welcomed her. In a small town like Tallulah Falls, it was always nice to have fresh meat—I mean, new friends.

I was even able to talk Sadie into taking the class. I convinced her that needlepoint was easier and faster than cross-stitch, and she was reluctantly giving it a go. Though she and Blake now had their relationship firmly on the mend, stitching gave her a girls’ night out-let I think she still needed. It had to be tough both living with and working with her husband, especially while there had been tension between them. Even now, it had to be nice for her to take a break a couple nights a week.

I noticed Mom was talking with Ella Redmond. “The last time I was here,” Mom said, “I noticed a lovely Queen Anne Victorian house. Where was that, Marcy?”

“You mean the one in Newport?” I asked.

“Oh, I know that house,” Ella said. “It’s the Burrows House Museum. It was built for a couple of newlyweds who married when both were in their sixties. It dates back to eighteen ninety-five.”

“What a gorgeous place for them to share their golden years,” Mom said. “Did either of them have children?”

“I don’t know,” Ella said. “They divorced shortly after the house was built. Everything went to the wife, and she sold it to another couple, who turned it into a funeral parlor.”

“Ewww,” I said. “That’s kind of creepy.”

Reggie laughed. “Not necessarily. You have to have funeral parlors.”

“But did the people
live
there while the house was also serving as a funeral parlor?” I asked.

“Probably,” Ella said. “After all, there was enough room.”

I shuddered, images of zombies flooding my mind.

“You know,” said Vera, “the Ralston house has a similar history. I happened to think of it after seeing Mrs. Ralston’s obituary in the newspaper. That house was once a home for unwed mothers.”

“Really?” I asked. “It’s a gorgeous place. Were the mothers allowed to live there with their children?”

Vera inclined her head. “I think it was more of a case of the women having their babies there and then putting them up for adoption.”

“Oh.” I bit my lower lip. “That’s sad.”

“Yeah. Mrs. Ralston and her husband bought the house when they were first married,” Vera said. “I remember her telling my mother that she wanted to fill the house with happy memories.”

“If the children were adopted into happy families,” Reggie said, “then there
were
happy memories there.”

Vera shrugged. “Just repeating what I heard.” “And you have to believe,” Sadie said, “if there were that many children being given away, there was a great deal of sadness in the place. Too many brokenhearted mothers.”

I tried to lighten the mood by asking, “How’s everyone doing on their projects? Anyone need any help?” But the mood was somber throughout the rest of our class.

After class, Mom and I went back to my house to freshen up and change clothes before going to the visitation. She wore a dove gray suit and I wore a black shift. Since the shift was too restricting for me to climb into the Jeep, and since Mom flatly refused to be seen “flinging” herself out of the Jeep with her skirt hiked up to her thighs, we called a cab to take us to the funeral home. Life would have been simpler had Mom rented a car, but she preferred to be chauffeured.

When we arrived at the funeral home, Mom asked the driver to “get our doors, please.” He did so, and she gave him a whopping tip. She has the regality thing down pat.

We hurried inside out of the cold wind. Mom immediately took out her compact and checked her makeup, then snapped the compact shut and dropped it back into her purse. We were greeted by a funeral home director, who told us where to find the Ralston family. We made our way to the proper room, and I noticed Adam Gray standing just inside the door. He looked even smaller than he had the first time I’d seen him. His black suit hung on his slight frame and made him appear wan and hollow-eyed.

“Hello, Mr. Gray,” I said.

He smiled. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Singer.”

“This is my mother, Beverly Singer. She’s visiting from San Francisco.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I love San Francisco, though I haven’t had the opportunity to visit in years.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Gray,” Mom said. “And you’ll have to look me up when you do get back to San Francisco.”

“I’ll do that.” He glanced around the room. “Louisa was a wonderful person. She deserved . . . more.”

I followed his gaze and saw the sparse crowd, most of whom appeared bored. “I wish I could’ve known her better.”

“I wish you could have, too,” Mr. Gray said. “I think you and she would’ve been friends.”

I thought of asking Mr. Gray if he knew of anyone associated with Mrs. Ralston who took the drug Halumet, but I decided this probably wasn’t the right time or place.

A tall, thin man in a navy suit, pale blue shirt, and white-and-blue ascot strode toward us. His black hair was combed over to the right and so rigid I wondered if it would move even if I put both hands in it and tried to mess it up. “Gray,” the man said with a bob of his head at Mr. Gray. “Who are your charming companions?”

“Carrington Ellis, meet Marcy and Beverly Singer,” Mr. Gray said. “Marcy, Beverly, this is Carrington. He is Louisa’s sisterʹs son.”

“Cary, please,” the man said, giving a slight chivalrous bow. “I’m enchanted to meet you both. Did you know my aunt well?”

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “She . . . I was . . . with her when she . . . when she . . . became ill.”

“Ah, you own the embroidery shop,” he said. “The Seven-Year Stitch, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Charming. I’ll have to come in and check it out.” He smiled. “I’ve been searching for an outlet to relieve my stress. Perhaps some sort of needlecraft is what I need.”

I wondered if that was true, or if he was an old playboy wannabe simply looking for a new venue to meet women.

“Indeed,” Mr. Gray said drily.

I was getting the impression Mr. Gray didn’t have a lot of affection for Cary. But, as he was the first family member I’d met, I asked him if he would be interested in the sampler, the sewing kit, or the locket I’d found inside.

“Not me, but thank you for asking,” Cary said.

“I told you when I gave you those things that you’d be keeping them from the auction block, Ms. Singer,” said Mr. Gray. “Apparently, you didn’t believe me.”

“He’s quite right,” Cary said. “Eleanor has already contacted an auction house. She’s planning to sell off everything.”

“Everything?” I asked.

“Everything that was left to her . . . which is probably the bulk of the estate. Eleanor was Aunt Louisa’s only grandchild.”

“Are Eleanorʹs parents still living?” Mom asked.

“Her mother is living, but her father—Louisa’s son—died several years ago,” Cary said.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mom said.

I looked toward the people standing closer to the closed casket. “Which one is Eleanor? I’d like to speak with her.”

Cary offered his arm, a gesture I thought was outdated for someone his age. He couldn’t be more than fifty, yet he conducted himself like a gentleman
from
the 1950s. Still, not wanting to offend him, I placed my hand in the crook of his arm and allowed him to escort me to his niece. Mom elected to remain behind, and Mr. Gray seemed happy to keep her company.

Eleanor bore no resemblance to her dainty grandmother whatsoever. She was at least five nine and had a sturdy, muscular build. She wore her chestnut hair pulled away from her face, and other than some bronze lip gloss, she wore no makeup.

“Eleanor,” Cary said, “this is Marcy Singer. She owns the Seven-Year Stitch.”

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” I said. “Your grandmother struck me as a delightful person.”

Eleanor nodded. “She was dear to all of us.”

“I’m sure you’re aware she was in my shop when she became ill,” I said.

“Yes, well, no one is accusing you of anything, Ms. Singer.”

I could’ve told her otherwise, but I didn’t. “She left an embroidery sampler at the shop, and I thought you might want it back.”

“I’m not one for embroidery, Ms. Singer. I leave that sort of thing to ladies of leisure.”

“But it’s very old,” I said. “Her great-grandmother made it. Your great-great-grandmother, I think that would be, right?”
Hello? Don’t you want this piece of your history, for goodness’ sake?

“Fascinating,” Cary said.

“Is it worth anything?” Eleanor asked.

“Monetarily, I doubt it. The original work has been altered. But the sentimental value—”

“Sentiment is something else best left to ladies of leisure,” Eleanor interrupted. “Feel free to keep the . . . sampler, did you call it?”

“Yes. Little girls used to make embroidery samplers to review their alphabet and verses while learning to make various stitches,” I said.

“Well,” Eleanor said, “do whatever you’d like with it.”

“If you’re sure you don’t want it, I’d love to frame it and display it in the shop with a history of samplers and a bit of information about Mrs. Ralston and her great-grandmother.”

“That’d be nice.” She looked up at her uncle. “Will you take care of getting whatever information Ms. Singer needs?”

“Of course,” Cary said.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Eleanor said, “I need to speak with Adam.” She headed off in the direction of Mr. Gray and my mother.

I turned to Cary. “Thank you for your assistance, but I’m afraid my mother and I must be going.”

“I enjoyed meeting you, Ms. Singer. I’ll be around within the next day or so with that information you wanted.”

I smiled. “Thank you.” I caught Mom’s eye just as Eleanor Ralston reached her and Mr. Gray. I gave a slight nod in the direction of the door. Mom said something to Mr. Gray and then made her way to the door.

We both wished we’d asked our cabbie to stay as soon as we stepped out into the cold. Being from San Francisco, we were used to taxis always being at the ready. That wasn’t the case in this little section of the country.

Fortunately, there was a coffee shop across the street. We decided to call a cab from there so we could stay warm and drink hot cocoa while we awaited the cab’s arrival.

Mom went to the counter to order our drinks, and I sat at a table near the window and dialed a local cab company. By the time Mom brought our drinks to the table, I was just finishing up the call.

I dropped my phone into my black clutch. “The dispatcher said he’ll have someone here in about fifteen minutes,” I said.

“All right. At least that should give us time to get started on our drinks.”

“I don’t want to take them with us,” I said. “I shudder at the thought of hot cocoa all over that pretty gray suit.”

She waved away my concern with a bejeweled hand. “That’s what dry cleaners are for, love.”

I took a sip of my cocoa. “Hot” was an understatement. It should’ve been called molten lava cocoa.

“I got a strange vibe at that place,” I said, glancing over at the funeral home. “You know, stranger than just being at a funeral home, I mean.”

“I do know what you mean. It was as if the only true mourner was Mr. Gray.”

“I know. When I mentioned the sampler, all the granddaughter seemed to care about was its monetary value. When I told her there probably wasn’t any, she told me to keep it.”

Mom frowned. “It could still be worth a couple thousand. I wouldn’t be surprised if she decides she wants it back to have it appraised, so don’t frame it just yet.”

“I won’t. But isn’t it a shame the family is interested only in divvying up the assets? Mrs. Ralston seemed like a really nice person.”

“Nice people don’t necessarily turn out nice children,” Mom said. “And when money is involved, people do crazy things. I agree it’s sad, though.”

I saw our cab pull up outside. “Our ride is here. What do you say we go home, get into our pajamas, make a big bowl of popcorn, and watch a movie?”

“An old movie?” Mom asked, standing and picking up her purse and her drink.

“We’ll even watch a silent movie, if that’s what you want.”

We smiled at each other.

“Chaplin,” we said in unison.

M
om accompanied me to work the next morning. On her previous visits to Tallulah Falls, she had divided her time between the Seven-Year Stitch, my house, and other shops up and down the coast. But today she informed me that she intended to stay with me all day. I wasn’t sure how long that would last without her going stir-crazy. Mom preferred sewing to embroidery, and I was afraid she’d get bored just keeping me company. I guess her guilt over my being caught with the type of medication used to kill Louisa Ralston had made her feel obligated to remain by my side.

For now, she was ensconced in one of the red club chairs playing tug-of-war with Angus. They were using his favorite blue-and-white braided rope toy, and it was hard to tell which of them was enjoying the game more. I had gotten some new metallic flosses in and decided to take this opportunity to set up a display for them on the counter.

I was ten minutes into my task when the bells above the door jingled, heralding the arrival of Carrington Ellis. He wore a navy pin-striped suit with a crisp white shirt, black wing-tip shoes, and a black fedora.