Thread End: An Embroidery Mystery (9 page)

He trotted to the door.

Our drive to the Seven-Year Stitch, despite the drizzle, was happy and carefree. When we got there . . . not so much. I could’ve sworn I heard the commingled themes to
Jaws
and
Psycho
swelling as I saw Nellie Davis standing on the sidewalk. Nellie “Scentsibilities” Davis, who had no sensibilities. There she stood, short gray and white hair sticking out in all directions, red glasses sitting cockeyed on her beaklike nose, fists on her hips.

From the time I arrived in Tallulah Falls, she’d been trying to drive me away. It wasn’t my fault that a few people had met their untimely ends in or near the Seven-Year Stitch. It also wasn’t my fault that I leased the shop before Nellie’s sister decided she’d like it for herself. Every encounter I’d had with this woman had been unpleasant.

I pretended to search for something in my purse. My intention was to wait her out. Darned if she didn’t knock on my window! Naturally, that made Angus bark.

“Just a second!” I called to Nellie.

As usual, Nellie was dressed all in black. It emphasized her paleness . . . and her thinness . . . and made her seem sort of like a mime. I half expected her to do that sideways shuffle mimes do when I got Angus out of the car.

“What can I do for you this morning, Nellie?” I unlocked the door, unclipped Angus’s leash, and let the dog go on inside.

“Who was that man you found in the alley?” she asked.

“His name was Dr. Geoffrey Vandehey,” I said. “Don’t you read the newspaper?”

“Yes, I read the newspaper . . . when I have time.” She compressed her lips before continuing. “And I saw the article Paul Samms wrote. He said the body was found near the museum, but everybody knows it was behind your shop.”

“Technically, it was behind your shop, too.” I went inside, and she came with me. “We do share an alley, you know.”

I could tell by the way her eyes bulged behind those big glasses that she hadn’t liked that at all.

“Still,
you
found him, not me.”

“What’s your point, Nellie?”

“Did I ever tell you that before you leased this shop my sister wanted it?” she asked, looking all around the room.

“I seem to recall hearing something about that.”

“Well, now I’m glad she didn’t take it.”

“Because you believe it’s cursed?” I asked. “My mom is thinking along those lines, too. She suggested I consult an exorcist.”

“Maybe you should,” she murmured.

“I might just do that,” I said. “Thank you for your concern. I truly appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sarcasm was completely lost on this woman.

She began fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “You should be more careful whether you get someone to do an exorcism or not.”

She was beginning to scare me . . . even for her.

“I will. Thank you.” I watched her closely, but she refused to meet my eyes. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

“I was here late Friday night. I had a shipment come in late, and I wanted to get it all displayed and ready before Saturday morning. I have a lot of customers who come in first thing on Saturday,” she said. “Sometimes they’re even waiting when I get here.”

I was thrilled that her business was booming, but I didn’t think that was why she was telling me to be careful. “Did you see something? Hear something?”

“No . . . um . . . of course not. I’m just saying that it could’ve been dangerous had one of us been working whenever this . . . this incident took place.”

Like the Bard, methinks Nellie doth protest too much.
“Nellie, are you
sure
you didn’t see or hear anything while you were here Friday night?”

She nodded. “Of course I’m sure. Do you think I’m a ninny? Why wouldn’t I be sure?” She grabbed my arm. “Please don’t let it get out that I was here at all on Friday night. I’m so afraid someone will find out and think I saw something. But I didn’t. I swear, I didn’t see a thing.”

S
adie came over just after Nellie Davis left.

“Is everything okay?” she asked. “I saw Nellie leaving.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I said. “She was actually civil today.”

Sadie had bent down to pet Angus. Now she straightened. “That makes me suspicious.”

“Me, too.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Sadie asked.

“I’ll have to swear you to secrecy,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Spill it.”

“Nellie was working late at her shop on Friday night.”

Sadie’s eyes widened. “Did she see anything? Does she know who murdered Geoffrey Vandehey?”

I tilted my head. “She
says
she didn’t see anything . . . but the way she kept saying it over and over makes me wonder. Plus, she doesn’t want it to ‘get out’ that she was here that night.”

“She knows something, Marce.”

“I believe she does, too,” I said. “Getting her to admit that and to tell the police what she knows is something else entirely. You know what else? She told me to be careful. Me! The person voted
Hopefully Most Careless
by Nellie Davis.”

“You have to find out what she knows.” She looked at her watch. “I have to get back. But I’ll be thinking on this . . . and I’ll put Blake on it, too.”

“I’m wondering if the museum doesn’t have some sort of security camera that would show footage of our alley,” I said.

“I hope they do,” Sadie said. “I’ll check back with you later.”

I restocked the flosses and embroidery kits while Angus lay in the sit-and-stitch square gnawing on his Kodiak bear. I glanced toward the door and saw someone getting ready to come inside. At first, I was startled because I just saw the thin, black-clad figure and thought Nellie Davis was coming back. But when my visitor opened the door, I could see that it was Simon Benton, the art collector.

“Good morning, Mr. Benton.”

“Hello, Ms. Singer.”

Angus got up and came to greet Mr. Benton.

“I brought something for you today, young man,” Mr. Benton said. “Perhaps it will make you more agreeable toward me.” He reached into his pocket and took out a shrink-wrapped dog biscuit. He handed it to Angus. Angus sniffed it but was reluctant to take the treat.

“Thank you,” I told Mr. Benton, taking the treat. “That was thoughtful.”

I stepped behind the counter, got a pair of scissors, and cut away the shrink wrap. Then I handed Angus the biscuit. He took it and returned to the sit-and-stitch square to eat it.

“I learned—as likely you did—that the rug in question was indeed the kilim that belonged to my friend Anderson Padgett,” said Mr. Benton.

“I did. I’m sorry . . . about the entire collection. Do you think there’s any hope of it being recovered?”

“I don’t know. At this point, we can only hope.”

“How’s your friend taking the news?” I asked.

“He was rather stoic over the phone, but I imagine he’ll be upset when he arrives and the reality of the loss strikes him,” he said.

“He’s on his way to Oregon, then?”

“Yes. I’m to pick him up in Portland later today.”

“I hope the trip won’t be too taxing for him,” I said, remembering Mr. Benton saying that Mr. Padgett was in poor health.

“Yes. Well, from your mouth to God’s ear, eh?”

“Could I get you a cup of coffee or a bottle of water, Mr. Benton?”

“No, thank you, dear. I merely came by to reiterate my offer to dine,” he said. “This evening is out of the question, or course, but would you care to have lunch with Andy—Anderson Padgett, that is—and me tomorrow? I’d like for your young man—the detective—to join us also.”

“I’ll have to check with Ted as to his plans, but I’d enjoy meeting Mr. Padgett and discussing textiles with the two of you,” I said. “By the way, how did you know I was dating a detective?”

“Someone mentioned it. The museum curator, I think.” He thought a moment. “Yes, I’m sure it was he. That chap doesn’t seem to have any luck in the romance department. Shame.” He smiled. “Anyway, Andy and I shall be able to do double duty if you both are available. We can thank Detective Nash for his hard work and have an engaging chat with a lovely young lady. Can’t beat that, can we?”

“Thank you,” I said, not knowing quite what else to say to that. “What time would you like to meet?”

“Will eleven thirty suit?” Mr. Benton asked. “Andy tends to be a late riser, and that will definitely be the case tomorrow. I imagine our lunch will be his breakfast.”

“That’ll be fine. Could we eat next door at MacKenzies’ Mochas?”

“Of course. We’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

After Simon Benton left, I got the laptop from the office to look up Anderson Padgett. If I was going to be having lunch with him tomorrow, I wanted to find out more about him. I pulled up my favorite search engine and typed in his name. From the extensive list of links that popped up, I chose the top three.

Anderson Padgett had made his fortune as an architect. He’d married at age twenty and remained married until his wife died four years ago. He had been eighty at the time, so the couple had been married for sixty years.

“Wow, maybe that’s why he’s a billionaire,” I mused aloud. “What do you think, Jill?”

No, I didn’t actually believe my mannequin could talk, but, like the dog, I sometimes conversed with her anyway.

I’ll say,
Jill said silently in her breathy Marilyn voice.
Most Hollywood billionaires would have had to be paying alimony to at least four wives by the time they were eighty.

“True. I don’t think they marry as often as they used to, though.”

You know, I always said—or, at least, Marilyn said—the public doesn’t mind people living together without being married, provided they don’t overdo it.

“Hmm . . . and what do you think about the Padgetts being married sixty years?”

I think it’s very sweet . . . very special. Don’t you? Or are you worried that you won’t have that? Are you afraid that you and Ted won’t see sixty years of bliss?

“Hush, Jill. You’re a mannequin. You aren’t supposed to be talking.” That was the thing about Jill. Since she was essentially a manifestation of my subconscious, I could never be certain what she might say.

I went back to reading about Anderson Padgett. His extensive art collection included textiles, such as those displayed at the Tallulah Falls Museum and Historical Society; Japanese art from the Meiji period; modern sculpture, including a piece by Jeff Koons; and fine art photography by Richard Prince.

I didn’t get much further along in my reading before a customer came in and had me show her how to make a queen stitch. That was all right, though. I felt I had enough information to be able to talk with Mr. Padgett intelligently.

*   *   *

The three hours from the time the shop opened until Ted came for lunch seemed to have flown by. I was thrilled—as was Angus—when he got there.

“I brought chef’s salads today,” he said, holding the bag he carried out of reach of Angus’s nose. “I hope that’s all right. I didn’t have time to text and ask you about it, but after spending time around some of those unhealthy people who were at the museum exhibit premiere, I wanted healthy food.”

I laughed. “Sounds great. So, did you have to talk with everybody who attended the premiere?”

“The deputies did,” Ted said as we walked into my office. This time I had not forgotten to put the clock on the door. “The ones who remembered seeing something the deputies thought important were sent on through to Manu or me.”

“I wasn’t questioned.”

He put the bag on my desk and pulled me to him for a kiss. “You have an airtight alibi.”

“Oh, yeah.” I went to the mini fridge. “Water all right?”

“Water is fine. In fact, bring me two.” He took off his navy jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. “The rain cooled things off a little, but not a whole lot.”

“Especially not when you’re wearing a suit.”

“Rub it in, Miss Jeans-and-T-shirt.” He grinned.

“At least, I’m not wearing shorts or a skirt.”

“I wouldn’t mind that in the least.”

I blushed and then changed the subject. “You said the deputies had been talking with everyone who attended the museum event Friday night, right?”

“Yes.” He uncapped the first bottle and drank deeply. “Why?”

“They talked with the shop owners here in the square, too, didn’t they? About Geoffrey Vandehey?”

“Yes.” He drew out the word, which made me think he wanted me to get to the point.

“Nellie Davis came to see me this morning. She wasn’t her usual battle-axy self, and she mentioned that she was here Friday night,” I said. “I think she saw something, Ted. Are there any surveillance cameras—maybe from the museum—that cover our alley?”

“There is one that partially shows the alley. We’ve looked at it, but the footage is lousy.”

“It didn’t show
anything
?”

“We saw a van leaving the alley at one point. But since it only partially covers the area and we had a side view of the van, we can’t get a plate number to question the driver or anything.” Ted finished off his bottle of water before opening the lid to his salad. “I’ll go have a word with Nellie before I return to the office.”

“She was so jumpy, Ted. I think she knows more than she’s willing to let on.”

“You’re probably right. But please leave the sleuthing to me. You have enough on your plate right now.”

“Speaking of plates, would you be able to have lunch tomorrow with Anderson Padgett and Simon Benton?” I asked. “I’ve already accepted for myself, but I didn’t presume to speak for you. We’re eating at MacKenzies’ Mochas.”

“I can do that.” He frowned. “Why would Padgett and Benton want to have lunch with us?”

I scoffed. “Because we’re wonderful!”

“I
know
that, but I’m looking for the ulterior motive.”

“You’re always looking for ulterior motives,” I said.

“It’s my job,” he reminded me.

“Well, according to Mr. Benton, they want to thank you for your hard work.”

“Which means they want to drill me about the investigation . . . informally, of course. Makes sense.”

“I imagine that is why they invited you,” I said. “As for why they invited
me,
I’m charming and a fabulous conversationalist.”

“True.”

I giggled and squeezed a packet of dressing onto my salad. “Sometimes you’re hard to tease.”

“No . . . not always,” he said, his voice suddenly low and seductive. “You often tease me without even realizing it.”

Lovely! He was making me blush again.

“Mr. Padgett is coming in tonight,” I said. “Mr. Benton is picking him up at the airport in Portland and said our lunch would likely be Mr. Padgett’s breakfast.”

“George Vandehey was flying in this morning. He should be in the office sometime this afternoon.” He wiped his mouth on a napkin. “I might not get to see you until after your class tonight.”

“That’s okay.” I frowned. “I read that Dr. Vandehey had two children. Isn’t the daughter coming?”

He shook his head. “Elizabeth Vandehey Hart was in an accident and paralyzed from the neck down shortly before Vandehey stole the painting from Chad Cummings.”

I gasped. “That’s why he did it, then! He was trying to pay for her medical expenses!”

“I suspect you’re right about that. The feds looked into the Vandehey children’s bank accounts, and during the months after the robbery, a deposit of fifty thousand dollars was placed in George’s account and a deposit of one hundred fifty thousand dollars was added to Elizabeth’s account.”

“See? I
knew
he was a good guy.” I took a sip of my water. “He only stole the Cézanne because he was desperate.”

“That doesn’t explain why he offered to buy it, Inch-High.”

I took another drink. I didn’t have an answer for that one . . . yet. “Maybe he didn’t want Mr. Cummings to think he needed money. That would throw Cummings off his guard so that Vandehey could steal the painting.”

“Maybe.” Ted went back to eating his salad.

“And maybe
that
was why Vandehey was back in town,” I said. “Maybe Elizabeth was out of money and needed more care. Maybe Dr. Vandehey was in on the heist after all . . . which doesn’t make him a bad man, only a desperate one.”

“Why is it so important to you that Dr. Vandehey be a good man?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Because I found him in the alley wrapped in a rug?”

“Wouldn’t you feel better if you thought him to be a
bad
man, then?”

I tilted my head as I gave that some thought. “But he wasn’t. I knew that the instant I saw him.”

Ted smiled. “I love that you always find the best in people.”

“I don’t always,” I admitted. “In fact, in all the months I’ve lived in Tallulah Falls, I could never find anything good to say about Nellie Davis. I couldn’t even tell you anything nice about her shop, because I haven’t ever stepped foot in the place. But today, I felt downright sorry for her.”

“You must’ve felt downright sorry for Josh Ingle, too,” he said. “You know, it wasn’t our fault that he went to the Brew Crew and got drunk.”

“Who told about the muffin basket? Blake or Sadie?” I asked.

He laughed. “Blake. He said I might have some competition.” He took my hand and caressed the back of it with his thumb. “Do I?”

“You know better.” I grinned. “Come to think of it, though, a muffin basket might not have been the best gift to give someone recovering from a hangover. But, on the bright side, I saw that girl Kelly in MacKenzies’ Mochas and she said she might stop by and see Josh this afternoon.”

“You didn’t tell
him
that, did you?”

“Of course not. I was afraid she wouldn’t show,” I said. “Why? Do you think she was lying?”

“I don’t know if she was
lying
, but she might change her mind,” Ted said. “From what Josh said yesterday, he didn’t have a clue about why one sister wouldn’t date him after he dumped the other one.”

“I’m kind of on the fence about that one myself,” I said. “Granted, I have no siblings, but in the case of Kelly and her sister and Josh—from what I understand—Josh only dated the sister a time or two. Two dates do not a relationship make. Therefore, Josh was okay in asking out the sister. Am I right?”