Cross-Stitch Before Dying Read online

  PRAISE FOR AMANDA LEE’S

  EMBROIDERY MYSTERIES

  Thread on Arrival

  “This is a great series with enough suspense and smart sleuthing to hook readers every time.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A fun, fast-paced mystery that will be hard to put down.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  The Long Stitch Good Night

  “Lee’s fourth Embroidery Mystery is well planned and executed. . . . Marcy’s keen sleuthing and tenacious personality allow her to solve this solid mystery with smart thinking and style.”

  —Romantic Times

  “This series is smart and interesting, well patterned and deftly sewn together.”

  —Once Upon a Romance

  Thread Reckoning

  “Lee’s latest Embroidery Mystery will hook readers with its charming setting and appealing characters. Plenty of spunk and attitude follow Marcy as she solves this well-crafted mystery in a close-knit town full of colorful characters.”

  —Romantic Times

  Stitch Me Deadly

  “The writing is lively, and the pop culture references abundant. . . . This book should appeal not only to embroidery enthusiasts, antique hunters, and dog lovers, but to anyone who likes a smartly written cozy that neatly ties up all the loose ends surrounding the murder but leaves the reader wanting to know more about the amateur detective, her friends, her life, and her future.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “A well thought-out, free-flowing story that captures your attention and keeps you interested from beginning to end. The comfort of being in a craft store seeps through the pages as Marcy shows her sleuthing side to figure out the town’s newest murders.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “There are plenty of threads for readers to pick up, and those who pick up the right thread will have the mystery sewn up in short order.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  The Quick and the Thread

  “Lee kicks off a cozy, promising mystery series . . . a fast, pleasant read with prose full of pop culture references and, of course, sharp needlework puns.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “In her debut novel, The Quick and the Thread, author Amanda Lee gives her Embroidery Mystery series a rousing start with a fast-paced, intriguing who-done-it that will delight fans of the cozy mystery genre.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Stands out with its likable characters and polished plot.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “If her debut here is any indication, Lee’s new series is going to be fun, spunky, and educational. She smoothly interweaves plot with her [main] character’s personality and charm, while dropping tantalizing hints of stitching projects and their history. Marcy Singer is young, fun, sharp, and likable. Readers will be looking forward to her future adventures.”

  —Romantic Times

  Also by Amanda Lee

  Thread on Arrival

  The Long Stitch Good Night

  Thread Reckoning

  Stitch Me Deadly

  The Quick and the Thread

  Cross-Stitch

  Before Dying

  AN EMBROIDERY MYSTERY

  AMANDA LEE

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN 978-1-101-62644-3

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Amanda Lee

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To Tim, Lianna, and Nicholas

  Chapter One

  I was maneuvering my red Jeep down Main Street when I saw some sort of commotion up ahead. Angus, my Irish wolfhound, was in the backseat. We were on our way to the Seven-Year Stitch, my embroidery specialty shop, located in the Tallulah Falls town square.

  I braked, squinted, and craned my neck; but all I could really see were the cars in front of me and the flashing lights of two police cars and an ambulance.

  “Must be a car accident,” I murmured to Angus.

  As I debated trying to get out of the traffic so I could turn around and go another route to my shop, a woman on the street to my left screamed. I looked in the screamer’s direction just in time to see a man dressed all in black shove past her. He was brandishing a handgun. The gunman hesitated, looked behind him, and then sprinted off again.

  I, too, was anxious to see who was chasing him so I trained my gaze at the sidewalk and didn’t watch to see where the man with the gun went. My heart dropped when I saw that the criminal was being pursued by Detective Ted Nash . . . my Ted. I closed my eyes briefly and said a silent prayer.

  What could I do? How could I help? I couldn’t just sit there.

  I whipped my head around in time to see the gunman and Ted disappear around the corner. I desperately wanted to do something . . . anything. But if I distracted Ted and he was harmed because of my actions, I’d never forgive myself. As hard as it was, it was better for me to wait. Wait and pray. . . .

  Suddenly, I heard the shots. They sounded no louder than firecrackers being discharged. Bam! Bam! Bam! Then silence.

  Angus whimpered, aware that I was falling to pieces. He leaned over and licked tears from my right cheek.

  I needed to get out of this traffic. . . . I had to park somewhere and see about Ted. The crowd had grown on the street, and, in addition to a couple of uniformed police officers, I thought
I caught a glimpse of Manu Singh, chief of police. I knew he’d help Ted, but that reassurance did nothing to dispel my need to get to Ted and make sure he was all right.

  I ignored the blaring of the car horns behind me as I edged out of the traffic and pulled onto a side street. There I parked, cracked the windows for Angus, promised him I’d be right back, locked the Jeep, and ran across the street.

  “Let me through!” I shouted as I fought my way through the crowd. “Let me through!”

  Someone had the audacity to stop me in my tracks. He was tall and strong, and I glared up at him. When I saw that it was Ted, I melted into his arms and sobbed.

  “It’s all right, babe.” He ran his hands over my back tenderly. “It’s all right.”

  • • •

  I’d assured Ted I was fine once I’d seen that he was okay, and I came on to work. He’d wanted to drive me, but he had more pressing matters to attend to. He needed to go back to the station with Manu and question their robbery suspect. Fortunately, no one had been hurt when the man had fired off his weapon when leaving the bank with his bag of jewelry and cash—he was, thankfully, a lousy shot.

  Now I tossed the bright yellow tennis ball from my spot on the sofa in the sit-and-stitch square into the merchandise area of the shop. It was a chilly, windy, cloudy day on the Oregon coast, and I hoped our morning of playing fetch would calm my jagged nerves and sufficiently tire Angus out. I wanted him to nap for a while so I could get some work done. I’d received a delivery late yesterday afternoon, and I hadn’t even had time to open the box yet.

  At a little over a year old, Angus was still a puppy. He loved to romp and play. He returned and dropped the soggy ball at my feet, and I tossed it again. This time it landed near Jill, and Angus nearly knocked her down as he retrieved it.

  “Look out, Jill!” I called. Of course, she couldn’t have moved out of his way anyhow. Jill was a mannequin.

  The name of my embroidery shop was the Seven-Year Stitch, and the mannequin resembled Marilyn Monroe, who had starred in the movie The Seven Year Itch. So all day, day in and day out, Jill stood near the cash register silently greeting patrons to the store. She sometimes modeled some of my embroidery projects. For instance, today she wore a white, button-down oxford shirt with a cluster of crewel embroidery flowers on the left shoulder. Combining the shirt with her jean shorts, she looked fetching as she embraced springtime.

  Many of my other embroidery projects adorned the walls—either framed or in embroidery hoops—and I had candlewick-embroidered pillows on the sofa. Dolls dressed in clothing I’d embroidered stood on shelves throughout the store. I was not above putting embroidered bandannas around Angus’s neck, but I didn’t do it often since he didn’t particularly go in for fancy accessories.

  My cell phone rang. It was Mom. Mom, by the way, was the acclaimed Hollywood costume designer Beverly Singer. She lived in San Francisco . . . which was also where I’d lived until about nine months ago when I gave up a career in accounting to come to Tallulah Falls and open an embroidery shop. Mom probably thought I’d lost my mind at the time. But if she did, she never said so. She was awfully supportive.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “I just got exciting news,” she said. “Henry Beaumont has asked me to design and oversee costuming for a huge, lavish production about the life of early Bollywood star Sonam Zakaria.”

  “Congratulations! That’s terrific. Tell me all about this guy Sonam and why Mr. Beaumont is making a movie about his life.”

  “Sonam was a she, darling, and she was larger than life. The only American star I can think of to even remotely compare her to off the top of my head would be Elizabeth Taylor,” Mom said. “Anyway, this job is going to be quite an undertaking. And since the studio has given me an extremely generous budget, I’d like to hire you and a few of your most trusted stitchers to help me out.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. I’m afraid I won’t be able to do it without you.” She paused. “Wait. That’s not fair. I’m sorry. I’d love for you to help with the costumes, but I understand if you’re too busy. I can—”

  “Mom, I want to help,” I interrupted. “And I’m sure Vera will.” Vera Langhorne was a widow in her late fifties to early sixties who was always game for a little adventure.

  “What about Reggie?” Mom asked. “She’s so skilled in chikankari that she’d be ideal for this project. Do you think she’d be willing to pitch in? If nothing else, maybe she could give the rest of us a crash course in Indian embroidery.”

  “I’ll call her and ask,” I said. “I’ll let you know as soon as I talk with her.”

  “Thank you, dear. Give my love to Angus and Ted.”

  “About Ted. . . . He had quite the adventure this morning.” I told her about our earlier excitement.

  “Oh, darling, I’m so glad he’s okay! What a terrible ordeal. Are you all right?”

  “I’m still a little shaky, but I’m getting over it,” I said.

  “With all this going on, are you sure you want to take on a stitching project of this magnitude?” she asked.

  “Of course. They caught the guy. Everything is fine now.”

  “If you’re sure. . . .”

  “I’m sure. I’ll talk with you later. Love you, Mom.”

  “Love you more than chocolate,” she said.

  We ended the call, and I smiled at Angus. “That was Grandma,” I told him. “She loves us more than chocolate. Yes, she does!”

  He woofed, scooped up the tennis ball, and took a run around the shop with it.

  Before I could call Rajani Singh, better known as Reggie, my friend Sadie MacKenzie came in and was nearly bowled over by Angus. Sadie had been my best friend since our college days. She and her husband Blake owned MacKenzies’ Mochas, a hip little coffeehouse down the street from the Seven-Year Stitch. In fact, it was Sadie who’d convinced me to move here and open my shop.

  “What’s got him so excited?” Sadie asked, as she walked over to join me on the sofa facing away from the window in the sit-and-stitch square.

  The square was so named because two navy sofas faced each other with an oval maple coffee table between them. On either end of the coffee table were two red club chairs with matching ottomans. A red-and-blue braided rug beneath the coffee table pulled everything together and created a cozy square where customers could come sit and stitch.

  “We’ve had an exciting morning,” I answered Sadie. “First we saw Ted chasing an armed man on the street, shots were fired, and I nearly had a breakdown. Then Mom called.”

  “I heard about the robbery and the chase afterward. Was anyone hurt?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a relief. So what’s your mom up to?”

  “She’s signed on for a huge, lavish production—her words, not mine—about some Bollywood starlet. Mom has asked me and some of Tallulah Falls’ finest needle crafters to help with embroidering the costumes.”

  “Have fun with that.” Sadie was so not a stitcher.

  “I should take you to San Fran to the movie set one day to be an extra,” I said. “Mom could get you in.”

  “I don’t think I could be an extra on a Bollywood movie.”

  “With a scarf and veil, you could.”

  “With a scarf and veil, you could,” she said.

  “Not me. I’m way too pale. I read something cute the other day on some blog forum.” I grinned as I quoted, “We Oregonians don’t tan; we rust.”

  She smiled. “That is cute. Oh, hey, Todd took Audrey Dayton out to dinner last night.” She carefully watched to gauge my reaction. “I haven’t heard from him this morning—he didn’t even come in for his usual espresso—so I don’t know how it went.”

  “I’m sure it went great,” I said. “I’m the one who suggested they’d make a good couple in
the first place, remember?”

  “I remember. I only wanted to make sure you hadn’t had a change of heart now that . . . you know. . . .” She shrugged. “He seems to be getting over you and moving on.”

  “Sadie, nothing could make me happier. Ted and I are so right for each other. I see it more and more every day, and I believe he does too. I wish you could see it.”

  Since I’d first arrived in Tallulah Falls, Sadie had been trying to fix me up with Todd Calloway. Todd owned the Brew Crew, a pub and craft brewery directly across the street from the Seven-Year Stitch. Todd and I went on a few dates, but it never amounted to more than friendship. Sure, Todd was sweet and good-looking, but I never felt the spark of excitement with him that I felt with Ted Nash, head detective for the Tallulah Falls Sheriff’s Department.

  I felt Todd had been hurt when I chose Ted over him, but it was probably more from pride than anything else. Like me, Todd realized that though we cared about each other, it was as friends. And while the idea of Todd getting seriously involved with MacKenzies’ Mochas’ mean-spirited waitress Keira made my stomach churn, I was delighted that he and the kind, auburn-haired deputy Audrey Dayton might be compatible.

  “You know, I suspect Todd didn’t come by for his usual espresso this morning because he was avoiding Keira,” I said.

  “That’s a pretty safe bet. She was livid when she found out he and Audrey had a date. She thought that with you out of the picture, she was all set.” Sadie smiled. “Maybe Blake and I can have you and Ted over for dinner sometime soon.”

  “That would mean a lot to both of us,” I said. Especially since you’ve made it apparent that you thought our relationship was a mistake. I didn’t say that last part out loud, of course . . . only in my head.

  As soon as Sadie left, I called Reggie. Reggie was the librarian for Tallulah Falls’ only public library. I could tell by the clipped efficiency of her voice when she answered the phone that I’d called her at a busy time.

  “Hi, it’s Marcy,” I said. “I won’t keep you, but I’m calling to ask if you’d be willing to help out my mom with some Bollywood costumes.”