Thread Reckoning (12 page)

He lowered his voice. “Her purse was found in a Dumpster between Depoe Bay and Lincoln City early this morning. There were no prints on it.”

“Not even Francesca’s?” I asked.

“No. It was wiped clean.” He paused. “I hear your brain cells buzzing. What are you up to?”

“Caleb Santiago Jr. will be at the Grand Mountain Lodge in Toledo later this afternoon,” I said. “I’m going to try to talk with him.”

“About what?” Ted asked. “There’s nothing to tie him to Ms. Ortega’s murder.”

“But, like I’ve heard a certain law officer say over and over again, everyone’s a suspect.”

“Marcy, you can’t just wander up to the man and ask him if he killed Francesca Ortega.”

“I know that,” I said. “I’ll be subtle. I—we—have to find out where the jewels came from. Once we know that, we’ll be able to find the killer. Don’t you agree?”

“I do agree, but I don’t like you veering off on your own and pretending to be Nancy Drew or Jessica Fletcher.”

“I prefer Nancy. She’s a little stuffy, but she’s a lot younger than Jess.”

“This isn’t a joke,” he said.

“I know. But don’t you agree that I’m in a better position to ask off-the-wall questions of Mr. Santiago than you are?” I asked. “I can come across as a ditzy but concerned citizen who’s afraid somebody out there thinks I still have some of the jewels Ms. Ortega brought me.”

“Let me go with you,” Ted said. “I’ll wear plainclothes. He’ll never peg me as a cop.”

“I’d peg you as a cop if you were wearing your pajamas,” I said. “Trust me. I can handle this.”

“All right, but if you need me, call me.”

“I will,” I promised.

“And as soon as you talk with Santiago, call me and let me know what he said.”

“Okay. Wish me luck.”

“Marcy?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful. Please.” He sighed. “You’re a magnet for mishap.”

Chapter Ten

I closed up the shop shortly after talking with Ted and took Angus home. I fed him and then put him outside before bathing and changing clothes. I’d worn jeans to work today, but I wanted to wear something nicer to the Grand Mountain Lodge. I was guessing that the businessmen—including Mr. Santiago—would be wearing suits to the meeting. I had an adorable navy tweed suit with white ribbon accents that would be perfect for a business meeting. Sure, I realized I wouldn’t be allowed into the meeting, but a girl has to look the part. Right?

Four-inch navy stilettos and a pencil skirt do not make for easy access into the Jeep. I thought for a moment I was going to have to get a block to step up on in order to get in. Finally, I was able to grab on to the steering wheel and pull myself up without ripping my skirt or getting a run in my hose. That was a major accomplishment.

I typed the Grand Mountain Lodge address into my GPS and headed for Toledo. I noticed a strange black sedan fall in behind me seconds after I left the driveway. I didn’t think much of it until it began to take every turn I took. It made me uneasy. Still, it wasn’t even four thirty in the afternoon yet. Who preys on a woman in broad—or, in this case, overcast, dusky, rather narrow—daylight? I shivered at the remembrance that Francesca Ortega had been stabbed outside my shop during the early-morning rush, and no one had admitted to seeing anything.

Hoping it was just a coincidence and that I was being paranoid, but keeping an eye on the car anyway, I drove on to the Grand Mountain Lodge. I pulled up to the front entrance where a valet rushed over to open the door for me.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “May I park your car for you?”

“Please,” I said.

He took my hand and helped me out of the Jeep. That was worth a whopping tip right there. I thanked him, gave him the tip, and walked up to the door.

The doorman opened the door, and I took a quick glance over my shoulder before stepping into the warm interior of the hotel. The car that had been following me was nowhere in sight.

I looked around the lobby. The room was decorated in rich browns and wines. Gleaming leather sofas and overstuffed armchairs were grouped around a fireplace in the left corner. To my right was the registration desk. A young, thin man wearing a tan suit was currently manning the desk.

I walked over and gave him what I hoped was my most charming smile. “Hi, there. I’m looking for the meeting room.”

“Which one?” he asked.

“For the Santiago Corporation.”

He instructed me to go down the hallway and to my right.

I easily found the meeting room. I peeped inside and saw a long, glass-topped table surrounded by gray executive armchairs. A man and a woman were already in the room, and they appeared to be getting everything set up. The man was placing portfolios in front of the chairs, and the woman was pouring water into tumblers and setting those on the table.

“May I help you?” the man asked.

“I take it Caleb isn’t here yet?” I asked.

“No, but he’ll be down in a few minutes,” he said. “Shall I tell him you’re here?”

“Oh no,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to rush him.”

“Would you like to come on in and sit down?” the woman asked.

“No, thank you. I’ve been driving and would like to stretch my legs for a few minutes.” With a smile, I turned and walked back up the hallway. If I hung around in this corridor, I was bound to meet up with Caleb Santiago.

I paced and watched for what seemed like an hour but was really more like fifteen minutes. Finally, my perseverance paid off. Caleb Santiago came rushing down the hall flanked by assistants. One assistant—a leggy blonde in a red suit—was on the phone. The other assistant was a man wearing gray pinstripes and talking with Santiago. It appeared he was trying to set out a game plan for the meeting.

“Excuse me, Mr. Santiago,” I said. “I’m Marcy Singer. May I have a brief word with you?”

The male assistant looked annoyed and started to blow me off.

“Two minutes, Charlie,” Mr. Santiago said, stepping over to me. “What can I do for you? Are you a reporter?”

“No, I’m not,” I said. “Actually, I own the Seven-Year Stitch embroidery specialty shop, and I’d like to talk with you for just a few minutes—after your meeting, if possible—about Francesca Ortega.”

Mr. Santiago started shaking his head.

“It’s about the jewels she had in her possession,” I blurted. “I’m afraid the man who killed her might come after me next.”

He furrowed his brow. “We’ll have dinner in the dining room after my meeting and discuss it then.”

“Great,” I said. “Thank you. I’ll wait for you at the bar.”

He grinned. “Don’t get too tipsy.”

“I’ll stick with soda,” I promised. “Thanks again.”

He nodded at me, then at his two assistants, and then he walked into the conference room.

I had to wonder if he was giving me the brushoff in a nice way and would “forget” to meet me after his conference, or if what I’d said about the jewels had struck a nerve.

I turned and had started to walk back down the hallway when I nearly bumped into another man heading for the meeting.

“Hi,” he said, grinning and breathless. “Are you late for this thing, too?”

“No,” I said. “I. . . I’m not invited.”

“I wish I wasn’t.” He held out his hand. “Nicholas Santiago.”

Of course. I should’ve recognized him from his photo on the Web site. I shook his hand. “Marcy Singer. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too. Hope to see you around.” He winked and went into the conference room.

The younger brother seemed much more friendly and carefree than Caleb.

I headed for the bar and caught a glimpse of someone moving behind a large column.

Was I imagining things? Or was the person I’d suspected of following me earlier here at the lodge now? I thought about going around the column to confront the person, but I was afraid to. If this was the same man—or woman—who’d stabbed Francesca Ortega on the street outside my shop, he or she wouldn’t hesitate to stab me here.

I went on into the bar. It wasn’t terribly crowded yet, and I found a stool where I could be alone, see the door, and not be overheard. I ordered a Diet Coke from the bartender and took my phone from my purse.

“Ted Nash,” he answered on the first ring.

“Ted, it’s me.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You sound scared.”

I told him I suspected I had been followed to the lodge and how I thought someone was watching me here. “I’m probably being neurotic, but I just wanted to hear a friendly voice. And I wanted you to tell me what to do.”

“Where are you now?”

“I’m in the bar drinking a Diet Coke. Caleb Santiago said he’d find me here after his meeting and that we could discuss Francesca Ortega over dinner.” The bartender set my drink in front of me, and I mouthed a thank-you.

“So you aren’t alone right now,” Ted said.

“No. The bartender isn’t two feet away.”

“Stay there, then. I’m on my way.”

“No, please. You don’t have to come,” I said. “I’m probably being ridiculous, and I’ll wind up dragging you away for nothing.”

“Being assured of your safety isn’t ‘nothing.’ I’ll be there.”

“But what about Santiago?” I asked.

“If you and he have dinner, I’ll wait. I’m already in my car and on my way there, Marce.”

I started to protest again, but I really wanted him to come. I was scared. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Sit tight and I’ll be there in less than half an hour.”

“But it took me forty minutes to get here,” I said.

“You weren’t in a police car.”

After we hung up, I sipped my soda, watched the door, and felt glad the cavalry was on its way. The bartender placed a bowl of pretzels in front of me, and I munched on those while I watched and waited . . . waited and watched.

Ted was correct in his assessment of how long it would take him to get to me. I spotted him coming through the door of the bar twenty-eight minutes after we’d hung up the phone. He hurried over to me.

“I didn’t see anyone or anything suspiciouslooking when I came through the lobby,” he said. “But, to be honest, I was concentrating more on getting to you than on seeing who was out there. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Thanks for coming.”

“You’re welcome.” He dug into my pretzels as the bartender came over. “Coke, please.” He turned back to me. “I’ll go back out into the lobby and walk around in a minute. Anything else weird happen?”

“No,” I said. “Everyone who’s come into the bar since I’ve been here was either with someone or joined someone.” I bit my lower lip. “Do you think I overreacted?”

“Of course not. Always listen to your gut reaction.”

The bartender brought Ted’s drink. Ted thanked the man and then took a long drink.

“I’ll be right back,” he told me.

In a few minutes he was back to report that he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary in the lobby and that he’d checked the bathrooms on the lower level. “Men’s and women’s.”

My brows shot up. “I didn’t hear any screams.”

“I was discreet.” He smiled.

I spotted Caleb Santiago coming into the bar. “That’s him,” I whispered. “That’s Santiago.”

“Have your meeting. I’ll stay right here and keep an eye on both you and the door. When you leave, I’ll follow you out,” he said. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I got up off the bar stool and went to greet Mr. Santiago. “How was your meeting?”

“Productive. Thanks for asking,” Mr. Santiago said. “So, are you ready for dinner?”

“I am.”

Mr. Santiago nodded to the hostess, who rushed over and seated us at an intimate table in the corner. She introduced herself, gave us menus, and said our server would be right over.

“Won’t your assistants or your brother be joining us?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said with a grin. “It’s just you and me. I spoke with my dad earlier. He said you’re the one who told him about Francesca Ortega’s murder.”

“I am. I understood from Frederic, her son, that she’d worked with your father—and later, with you—for more than twenty years,” I said. “I thought your dad would want to know about her death.”

“That was nice of you.”

The server arrived, introduced herself, and took our drink orders.

“What did you want to ask me about Ms. Ortega?” Mr. Santiago asked. “It must have been important to you for you to drive all the way here to talk with me.”

“I don’t mean to sound indelicate,” I said. “I mean, I realize Ms. Ortega hasn’t been dead a week even. But . . .”

“But?” he prompted.

“Was she a crook?”

Mr. Santiago looked stunned by my question, but before he could comment, the server arrived with our drinks—red wine for Mr. Santiago and water for me—and asked if we’d decided what we’d be having for dinner.

“Filet mignon medium well and baked potato for the both of us,” Mr. Santiago said, “if that’s all right with you, Ms. Singer.”

“Sounds great,” I said.

“All right,” said the server. “I’ll bring out your house salads with—”

“Bring them out when our food is ready,” Mr. Santiago said. “We’d like a few minutes to talk undisturbed.”

“Oh . . . okay, then.” The server turned and scurried away from the table.

“Why do you ask if Ms. Ortega was a crook?” he asked me.

“After her death outside my shop, Frederic told me you’d fired her for snooping through your desk,” I said.

“Go on.”

“Let me back up a bit. Cassandra, Frederic’s fiancée, wanted me to embellish a vintage wedding gown that had belonged to her mother. Ms. Ortega provided gems to go on this dress. I thought the gems were fake, and I think Cassandra and Frederic did, too.”

“But they weren’t?” Mr. Santiago asked.

“No. While investigating the murder, the police confiscated the gown and the gems in my possession and had them appraised. They were definitely not fake. In fact, the police believe the jewels given to me to adorn the dress were worth between seventy-five thousand and a hundred thousand dollars.”

He whistled under his breath. “Ms. Ortega wasn’t a wealthy woman. It embarrasses me to say so, but we didn’t pay her well enough for her to afford gems like that.”

“I knew she wasn’t wealthy because Frederic said his mother would have to move in with him and Cassandra after the wedding,” I said. “That’s why my two main concerns are where Ms. Ortega got the jewels and whether or not her killer believes I still have some of them in my shop.”