The Quick and the Thread (24 page)

I stood up and took my unwrapped burger to the trash. This time I looked directly at the family. And they looked at me. In fact, one of the young men gave me quite a once-over as I passed.

And there was no doubt in my mind that his father was John Langhorne.

I
arrived at Sylvia’s split-level home, feeling like a James Bond martini—shaken, not stirred. From the restaurant to Sylvia’s house, I’d tried to envision a scenario that made even a modicum of sense.

The man was John Langhorne’s identical twin. Their mother, unable to tell them apart, had called them both John. It had made her life so much easier. She could call, “John, come eat your dinner!” and both boys would race to the table.

Okay. That was stupid. But it gets worse. My other theories ran the gamut from clone to parallel universe. So, beyond trying to make myself believe that seeing a man who looked and sounded exactly like John Langhorne and whose first name was John was merely an extraordinary coincidence, all that was left was the knowledge that John Langhorne was leading a double life.

I parked in Sylvia’s driveway and checked my appearance in the visor mirror. The Giants cap had left my hair flat, and the shock of seeing John Langhorne with a wife who was not Vera—along with two sons—had left me pale. I remembered Vera’s tortured expression when she’d told me she was unable to have children, as I dug through my purse for a lipstick. I found my favorite shade—a rosy mauve—but putting it on didn’t do much to ameliorate my wan complexion.

I flipped the mirror back up, got out of the Jeep, and walked to Sylvia’s door. Before I could raise my hand to ring the doorbell, Mrs. Trelawney flung open the door and enveloped me in a bear hug. She had surprising strength for a woman her age.

She then held me at arm’s length so she could examine me. “You don’t look well, dear. Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m just a little tired from the drive, I guess. How are you?”

“I’ll do,” she said. “Come on inside. Sylvia has made a tea for the three of us.”

I thought Mrs. Trelawney had misspoken when she’d said
a tea
until I saw that Sylvia had, in fact, prepared much more than a pot of tea. On the dining room table, there were blueberry scones, oatmeal-raisin cookies, two fruit platters, and apple-walnut muffins. Although my appetite had deserted me at the restaurant, it now returned with a vengeance.

Sylvia came from the kitchen with a tea tray. “We were beginning to think you’d gotten lost.” She placed the tea tray on the table.

“Sorry.” I shrugged. “Friday traffic.”

“Hmm. You and Maggie have a seat and tell me which type of tea you’d like. I have orange pekoe, green, white, and chamomile.”

I chose green, Mrs. Trelawney opted for orange pekoe, and Sylvia made herself a cup of chamomile.

As we filled our plates with Sylvia’s goodies, Mrs. Trelawney asked me if everything appeared to be getting back to normal in Tallulah Falls. I knew she was asking because she wanted to come home. While I couldn’t blame her for that, I still didn’t feel it was safe for her to come back home. I wanted to stress that to both Mrs. Trelawney and Sylvia, but I didn’t want to scare them.

“Riley Kendall is pregnant,” I said to buy myself some time. “She came in and commissioned me to make some things for the baby.”

“Oh, how nice,” Mrs. Trelawney said.

“That’s not what she meant about things getting back to normal,” Sylvia said. “She’s asking if there are any new developments in the case and whether or not you think it’s safe for her to come home.”

So much for tact and trying to candy-coat my concerns. “No,” I said. “I don’t think it’s safe for Mrs. Trelawney to come home yet.” I looked at Mrs. Trelawney. “The night after your house was broken into, I got an anonymous call from someone asking me what you know.”

Sylvia returned the scone she’d been holding to her plate and wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin before answering. “I saw a man skulking about outside the house that night after the break-in. I know this will sound strange, but for some reason, he reminded me of that young man who runs the coffee shop.”

“MacKenzies’ Mochas?” I asked.

“Yes. That’s the one.”

“Did you call the police?” I asked.

“Of course. But by that time, the man was gone.”

“Did you tell the police who you suspected?” I asked.

Mrs. Trelawney watched our back-and-forth exchange as if she were at a tennis match.

“Yes,” Sylvia said. “They found him at some place called the Brew Crew. He said he’d been there during the time of the incident, and the proprietor confirmed it.” She picked up her scone. “I must have been mistaken, but he did resemble that young man very much.” She shook her head and took a bite of the scone.

I digested this information while eating a strawberry. Based on the phone call I’d received from Blake the night after the Trelawney break-in, I wondered if he had been the man Sylvia saw . . . and if Todd had lied to protect him. That both Sylvia and I would see dead ringers for Tallulah Falls residents was too much of a coincidence for at least one of us not to have seen who we think we saw. See?

“How much do either of you know about John Langhorne?” I asked.

“I don’t know the man at all,” Sylvia said. “I met him at Bill’s visitation, but he didn’t leave me with much of an impression.”

“I know he travels a lot,” Mrs. Trelawney said.

I nodded. “I think I saw him here in Portland. He was with a woman and two college-age boys. They called him Dad.”

Mrs. Trelawney frowned. “That’s peculiar. I never knew John had been married before Vera.”

I smiled. It was the one scenario that hadn’t even crossed my overly dramatic mind. The woman was John’s first wife, and they’d maintained an amicable relationship for the sake of their children.

“Here I was thinking Mr. Langhorne was leading some sort of double life,” I said with a laugh. “I get it from my mother. She’s a costume designer.”

“In Hollywood?” Sylvia asked.

“Yes. Although right now, she’s on location in New York.”

“Does she know Sean Connery?” Sylvia asked. “I think he’s marvelous.”

“How about Bob Hope?” Mrs. Trelawney asked.

“He’s dead,” Sylvia said.

“Jack Parr?” Mrs. Trelawney asked.

“Dead.”

“George Burns?”

“Dead,” Sylvia said. “They’re all dead.”

To end the Hollywood obituary, I said, “I’ll speak with Chief Myers to see if he has any new developments in the case.” I patted Mrs. Trelawney’s arm. “I know everyone in Tallulah Falls wants you to come home as soon as possible.”

“And God knows I want that, too,” Sylvia muttered.

 

 

When I got home, everyone and his mother—actually, it was everyone and
my
mother—had left a message on my answering machine, wondering where I was. I always turn off my cell phone when I’m driving. Otherwise, it’s too much of a distraction for me.

Besides Mom, there were messages from Sadie, Todd, Ted Nash, and Reggie. I called Mom first. I didn’t think there would be any surprises coming from her.

“How are you, love?” she asked. “It appears I’ll be wrapping up here in a couple weeks. Maybe then I can pay you a visit.”

“That would be terrific. I’d love to have you pay us a visit, and I know Angus would eat it up.” Literally. Mom is constantly giving him little treats when she’s around.

“What else is going on in your little world?” she asked.

“Sadie and I had an argument.”

“Don’t tell me she’s borrowing your jewelry without asking,” Mom said with a giggle. “That’s what the two of you were always fighting about in college.”

“I know, and it still bugs me that she did that. It only goes to show how inconsiderate she is.”

“Whoa, now. I didn’t intend to bring up past indiscretions. What’s going on between the two of you?”

“She set me up with a guy even though she thinks he’s still pining over his old girlfriend.”

“How old?” Mom asked. “Are we talking days, weeks, months, or years?”

“Three years.”

“Has he mentioned this woman to you?”

“Only when I brought up her name. At that point, I didn’t know they’d ever dated.”

“Ah,” Mom said. “And what did he say about her?”

“Um . . . I think he told me she was fair.”

“Fair as in
beautiful
, or fair as in
just
?”

I laughed. “Just, Mom. Who describes pretty women as
fair
anymore?”

“You’d be surprised. Did he tell you they’d dated?”

“No.”

“Did he go on and on about how great she is?”

“No.”

“Did he say something along the lines of, ‘She’s a selfish hag, but I have to admit she’s fair’?”

“No, Mom, he didn’t say anything like that. All he said was that she was tough but fair.”

“Then he’s over her.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive. What I’m not sure about is whether you’re still pining for David.”

“I’m not, Mom. I’m completely over him. . . . You haven’t seen him or anything lately, have you?”

“No. Have you heard from him?”

“No. I wonder if he even knows I’ve moved.”

“He knows. Too many of your friends know for him not to be aware of it. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Absolutely. Hurry and wrap that shoot up, will you?”

“As quickly as I can, love. As quickly as I can.”

After talking with Mom, I felt better about talking with everyone else . . . except maybe Reggie and Detective Nash. I could never be sure of why those two might be calling. And Todd. I wasn’t really ready to talk with him, either. He might be over Riley, but I had to wonder if he was helping Blake cover up something about Four Square Development . . . or vice versa.

So, in reality, the only other person I felt halfway ready to talk with was Sadie. I dialed her number and was greeted with, “Marce, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

“I went to Portland to visit Mrs. Trelawney. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that I came to see you at three thirty this afternoon and saw that you’d closed the shop. I thought maybe you’d caught my stomach bug and gone home. When I called and couldn’t reach you at home, Blake and Todd went out looking for you.”

“Even if you guys thought I had a stomach bug, wouldn’t it make sense that I might’ve gone to the doctor?” I asked. “I mean, I am a grown woman.”

“I know that, Marcy. But with all the crazy stuff that’s been going on, I was worried. Excuse me.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s just that we hadn’t spoken since Tuesday, and I . . . I didn’t think to leave word with anyone that I’d gone to Portland.”

“How is Mrs. Trelawney?” Sadie asked.

“She’s all right. She and Sylvia are driving each other bonkers.”

“Did she say when she’d be coming home?”

“No. She and Sylvia asked whether or not it was safe for her to come home, and I said I didn’t think it was yet.”

“You don’t?” Sadie asked. “Why not?”

“I think there’s someone still out there who believes Mrs. Trelawney knows too much about Four Square Development. And it’s like Ted Nash once told me: This person has already killed to protect his secret twice—well, once if you believe Timothy Enright’s death was an accident. Oh, and hey, guess what?”

“What?”

I told her about seeing John Langhorne in the burger restaurant in Portland and how I’d tried in vain to put it all together until Mrs. Trelawney said she hadn’t realized John had a first wife. We had a good laugh over that.

“I thought he was doing well to get Vera,” Sadie said. “Much less anyone else. What did this first wife look like?”

“She was really attractive. And the boys were good-looking, too.”

“Hmm. Maybe Mr. Langhorne was handsome when he was young,” Sadie said. “Before the pressures of banking got to him.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

We both dissolved into another laughing fit. It was good to have things back to normal between Sadie and me. I hate it when we fight.

After speaking with Sadie, I felt like working on the MacKenzies’ Mochas logo project I’d neglected while she and I were on the outs. I decided to turn in early, work on the project while propped up against the headboard of my bed, and talk with everyone else tomorrow. Stitching and listening to a calming playlist on my MP3 player was sure to relax me and ensure a good night’s rest.

I
was overly tired Saturday night and fell asleep before ten p.m. while sitting on the sofa in front of the television. I was watching a detective show; but I fell asleep so quickly, I never even really got the gist of what it was about.

I woke up about eleven o’clock. The detective show had gone off, but a true-crime show was running. I couldn’t quite break through my lethargy long enough to get up and drag myself to bed, so I watched the show.

An elderly woman had killed her husband by giving him alcohol sponge baths to reduce his fever. The show was trying to determine whether his death had been accidental or intentional.

A coroner came on screen. “Doctors once prescribed these sponge baths for patients to reduce fever. However, it was discovered that isopropyl—or rubbing alcohol—absorbs through the skin and suppresses the central nervous system.”

A narrator explained that isopropyl is twice as deadly as ethyl alcohol, the alcohol found in alcoholic beverages, while a couple reenacted the sponge bath.

The show returned to the coroner. “An overdose of isopropyl can cause hemorrhaging in the trachea and bronchial tubes,” he said gravely. “And our victim’s autopsy showed that to be the case in his death.”

I retrieved my wallet and took out Ted Nash’s business card. He’d written his home number on the back. I snatched up the cordless phone and dialed the home number.