Cross-Stitch Before Dying Page 12

  “I’ve met Kendra,” Mom said. “She hangs around movie sets all the time. She isn’t a bad sort, considering the work she does. She could be a decent reporter if she’d apply herself.”

  “Well, Kendra seems to think that Carl might’ve killed Babs. She says they’d been having arguments and that she’d heard that Babs was going to fire Carl after this movie,” I said. “She also seemed to think Carl might be the father of Babs’ baby.”

  “So it’s been confirmed that Babs was pregnant?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Ted told me this morning.”

  She frowned. “I’m sorry about that. I really had thought she was just enjoying the buffet a little too much.”

  “But what about Carl?” I asked. “Do you think he might’ve been capable of knocking Babs in the head and then pushing her off that ledge? Was he hanging around the set that morning?”

  “Yes, he was there.” She shrugged. “I guess anything’s possible.”

  “You still think it was Henry, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” she said softly.

  I sighed. “You need to talk with him, Mom. Or, at least, have Alfred let him know whether or not you’re still interested in designing the costumes for the movie. He told me that if he hasn’t heard from you by noon tomorrow, he’ll have to hire another costumer.”

  “Okay. Thanks for passing that information along.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  She shrugged, stood, and went upstairs. She was withdrawing again. Part of me wanted to go after her and tell her that she couldn’t retreat from this situation, that she had to meet it head-on. But I let her go.

  I sighed again, kissed Angus on the head, and then went into the kitchen to fill his bowl with kibble.

  • • •

  As I unlocked the door to the Seven-Year Stitch, I heard Sadie call my name.

  “Hey,” she said breathlessly. “I’m glad I could catch you before the students got here. How are you and your mom holding up?”

  “Not so hot.” I held the door open for Sadie, and she stepped through and flipped on the lights.

  “Anything I can do?” she asked.

  “Not unless you’re psychic. Mom seems to think Henry Beaumont might’ve pushed Babs to her death. Henry thinks Mom accidentally contributed to Babs’ fall. And a tabloid reporter is absolutely certain Babs’ manager, Carl Paxton, is the murderer.” I flopped the tote bag containing my crewel project onto the counter. “I tried to encourage Mom to talk with Henry—with Alfred present, if she preferred—so the two of them could put their heads together and see what one might’ve noticed that the other missed, and vice versa.”

  “That makes sense,” Sadie said. “Maybe together they could come up with something important that they’d both thought was inconsequential before.”

  “See? I knew you’d understand.” I turned my palms up. “She won’t do it, though. And she might lose her spot as costume designer on this movie.”

  “I’d hate for her to do that if it turns out Henry is innocent.”

  “So would I,” I said. “She had such high hopes for the movie. She’s won some minor awards before, but this movie had some serious big-award buzz. It could be huge for her. On the other hand, Henry might be a killer.”

  “There is that. But I get the feeling you think Henry is innocent.”

  “I do, Sadie. I don’t know why, but I don’t think he’s our guy. I need to talk with Carl Paxton and see what kind of feeling I get from him.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Sadie said. “What possible excuse could you come up with for talking with him?”

  I thought about it a second, and then I grinned. “He talked Mita Trublonski into doing a book about Babs’ life. I’ll ask him about doing a book about Mom.”

  “Knowing you, you might be able to pull it off. Oops, I see some of your students headed this way. I’ll talk with you later.” She gave me a quick hug. “Just be careful. Okay?”

  “Always.”

  • • •

  The crewel class went well, despite the fact that a small portion of my brain was still trying to unravel the tangled skein of yarn that led to Babushka Tru’s killer. As soon as my last student was out the door, I took Deputy Preston’s card from my desk drawer and called him.

  “Robert Preston,” he answered.

  “Hi, Deputy Preston. It’s Marcy Singer.”

  “Oh, hey, Marcy! How are you? I hope the media isn’t giving you fits.”

  “Not too bad,” I said. “I did have one slip in under the radar this morning. She pretended to be an embroidery enthusiast, but I could tell right away that she wasn’t.”

  “And then you sent her packing?” he asked.

  “Not right away. She had something interesting to tell me.” I went on to explain how Kendra thought Carl Paxton might’ve been involved in Babs’ death. “She said she’d taken her theories to Detectives Bailey and Ray, but they blew her off. They think she’s either making it up or trying to get some sort of exclusive.”

  “It’s not like Bailey or Ray to ignore a lead,” Deputy Preston said. “I’m sure they followed up on it but didn’t feel inclined to share their information with Ms. Morgan.”

  “You’re probably right. Did you happen to see Carl Paxton on the movie set that morning?”

  “I’m not that familiar with many of the movie people—only the major players,” he said. “I’ll look him up on the Internet, though, and I’ll ask the other guys who were on guard Monday if they happened to see anything.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said. “I truly appreciate your help.”

  “Hey, that’s what I’m here for. Thanks for the tip. Um, do me a favor, though. If I find anything out, please don’t share it with any reporters.”

  “I sure won’t.”

  As I ended the call, I saw Ted nearing the shop. I opened the door and greeted him with a hug and kiss.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I needed that.”

  “I needed it more.”

  He was immediately on high alert. “Did something happen?” He looked around the shop.

  “Everything is fine,” I said. “It’s just been a long hard day.” I gave him the CliffsNotes version of my day.

  “Why don’t you lock up, and let’s go for a walk on the beach?” Ted asked.

  “I really need to get home to Mom. . . .”

  “She’ll be fine for a few minutes. We won’t stay long.” He took my hand. “We can take off our shoes and wade in the surf. It’ll do us both good.”

  I smiled. “You always know just what to say.”

  I locked up the Seven-Year Stitch, leaving Jill in charge until morning, and handed Ted the keys to my Jeep.

  “You drive,” I said. “I want to relax and be chauffeured.”

  He drove us to a small public beach where a group of college students had built a campfire. They were roasting marshmallows and invited us to join them for a beer as we passed.

  “Maybe later,” Ted said.

  He’d left his jacket and tie in the Jeep, and he’d undone the first four buttons of his now untucked shirt.

  “It feels kinda strange to be at the beach without Angus,” I said.

  “I believe he’d forgive us just this once . . . but don’t tell him.”

  “I won’t unless he asks.” I smiled and slipped off my shoes.

  Ted took off his shoes and socks and put the socks inside the shoes. We rolled our pants up to our calves, and then walked hand in hand to the water’s edge. The huge crags loomed out of the water like some sort of benevolent sea monsters as the foam lapped at our ankles. I looked over at Ted and laughed, and for an instant, the moon peeped out from behind a cloud.

  For a moment, I could forget about Babushka Tru, and Carl Paxton, and Mita
Trublonski, and Henry Beaumont. For that brief interlude, I was just a girl falling in love. Too bad the moment couldn’t last.

  Chapter Fourteen

  That night when Ted and I got to my house, Vera’s silver BMW was parked in the driveway. I’d found it odd that she hadn’t stopped by the shop today, especially given her interest in Babushka Tru and the girl’s mysterious death. I thought she’d come by today if for no other reason than to learn what Mita Trublonski had said to Mom.

  I parked the Jeep, and Ted pulled in behind me.

  “I hope Vera isn’t badgering Mom to tell her about her visit with Ms. Trublonski,” I said to Ted when he got out of his car.

  “I imagine Vera would be a little more subtle than that,” he said. “Although, you never know.”

  When we went inside, I was shocked and angry to find that Vera had brought along her boyfriend, reporter Paul Samms. Upon hearing my sharp intake of breath, Ted squeezed my hand.

  “Get a handle on the situation before you react,” he said under his breath.

  I nodded.

  “Hey, guys,” Ted said with a smile. “Vera, I didn’t know you and Paul were waiting here on Marcy, or I wouldn’t have kept her out past class time.”

  “Oh, we haven’t been here long,” Vera said. “I just wanted to check on Marcy and Beverly. Paul allowed me to canvass the crime scene with him this morning—it was so exciting—and then I bought a notebook and jotted down my observations.”

  “Uh-oh. Do I need to be concerned about my job security?” Ted asked.

  “You don’t,” said Paul. “But I might. She has the makings of an excellent reporter . . . or novelist.”

  Paul was a nice-looking older man who would look even better if he weren’t so concerned about his age. Rather than letting his hair go John Forsythe gray, he kept it dyed a dark brown. And the skin was so taut around his eyes, that I was sure he’d had some type of surgery—either nip and tuck or a dermal filler. Not that there was anything wrong with the man trying to look his best—he kept in excellent shape and dressed as if Tim Gunn were in charge of his wardrobe—but somehow it seemed strange for the man to be that concerned about aging. We, as a society, expect women to try to stay forever young. But men are allowed to age. They become “more rugged” or “interesting.” Women become “wrinkled” or they “let themselves go.” Great, now I felt guilty for passing judgment on Paul for trying to look his best.

  “What crime scene were you investigating?” I asked.

  “Ford’s Mill,” Paul said. “The movie set . . . the area surrounding where the body was found. . . .”

  As if I didn’t know.

  “Now that the movie has stopped production, at least temporarily, there weren’t that many officers around,” he continued. “And the ones that were there didn’t have a problem with us poking around as long as we stayed away from the areas that were cordoned off. I primarily wanted to investigate the area around where the body of the gunman who shot at you was found, Ted.”

  Now I had guilt for rushing to judgment about Paul on two counts.

  “Manu and I were all over that area on Monday,” Ted said. “We didn’t find much of any consequence.”

  “I’d have thought you’d be investigating Babs’ death,” I said.

  “Well, I am interested in Babs’ death,” Paul said. “But while that’s important, I feel that the people of Tallulah Falls and Tallulah County will be more impacted by what we learn about this gunman. We need to find his partner, or else that threat is still out there.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly,” Ted said, sitting on the sofa beside Paul. “Did you find anything?”

  “I did,” Vera said, getting out of her chair to come over and present her prize to Ted. “It’s some sort of medallion or button or something.”

  I was sitting on the arm of the sofa beside Ted, so I looked over his shoulder to examine the small, round brass disk. There was no design on it whatsoever other than the letters TCMSA.

  “What does TCMSA stand for?” I asked.

  “I’d imagine the A is for an association of some sort,” Mom said. I wondered if Vera had noticed how uncharacteristically quiet she was being.

  “I’ll check into it when I get to work tomorrow,” Ted said.

  “Are you going to admit it into evidence?” Vera asked. “Have it dusted for prints, maybe? I picked it up with a tissue, so my prints aren’t on it.”

  And yet she’d handed the button to Ted, and he was now examining it; so both their prints were on it now.

  “I’m sure the crime scene techs will give it a thorough exam.” Ted hid a grin. “What else did you notice, Paul? Um . . . and you too, Vera?”

  “Well, it was a good time to look around because the place is all but deserted now,” Paul said. “Most of the reporters are staking out Henry Beaumont, Mita Trublonski, and other cast and crew members who are staying in town.”

  “Yes, there were only a couple deputies there when we were on the scene,” Vera said.

  Paul smiled at her. “I can hardly wait to read the rest of your report.”

  Vera actually blushed.

  “If you’ll all excuse me, I think I’ll let Angus inside and then go on up to bed,” Mom said.

  “Good night,” Vera said.

  “We should go,” Paul said.

  “Yes, I suppose we should.” Vera stood. “Ted, you’ll let me know what you find out about the button, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Thank you for coming to check on Mom,” I said to Vera.

  “She’s not herself at all,” Vera said. “I realize she’s been through a terrible ordeal, but maybe you should have her talk with someone. If you need the name of a good therapist, I know one who’s located in Lincoln City.”

  “Thanks.”

  By the time Angus came bounding into the living room, Vera and Paul had left. Mom trailed listlessly behind the dog.

  I gave Angus a hug and then let him go over to greet Ted.

  “Mom, are you all right?” I asked.

  “I’m just tired. I wasn’t expecting company this evening.”

  “I wasn’t either, or else Ted and I wouldn’t have stopped by the beach on the way home.”

  “I’ve set up a meeting with Henry,” she said. “Alfred and I are having breakfast with him tomorrow.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “If the two of you put your heads together, maybe you can determine who killed Babs.”

  “Yeah. Let’s hope.” She didn’t sound convincing.

  “Are you that certain Henry killed her?” I asked. “Because if you are, you don’t need to be meeting with him. You need to quit the picture, talk with the police about your suspicions, and move on.”

  “The only thing I’m certain of right now, Marcella, is that I’m tired, and I need to go to bed.” She left the living room and headed for the stairs as I stood speechless watching her go.

  I turned to Ted. “Did you hear that? Can you believe her?”

  “Stress does different things to different people,” he said. “Give her a day or two, and she’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so.”

  • • •

  As soon as I got to the shop Thursday morning, I called Mita Trublonski at her hotel.

  “Good morning,” I said when Ms. Trublonski came on the line. “It’s Marcy Singer. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “No, of course not.” Her voice was guarded, as if I might, in fact actually be disturbing her.

  “I won’t keep you but a second. I was hoping you’d give me Carl Paxton’s phone number.”

  “You want to speak with Carl?” she asked. “Whatever for?”

  “After listening to you talk about the book you’re writing about your daughter, I thought it might be fun to write something about Mom . .
. you know, some of her anecdotes . . . a tribute, in a way, though nothing compared to what you’re doing for Babs.”

  Mita Trublonski was quiet for so long, I was afraid we’d been disconnected.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  “Yes, dear, I’m here. It’s just . . . well, I’m simply surprised by your sudden ambition, that’s all. Do you really think a book about a costume designer would sell?”

  “That’s what I plan to ask Mr. Paxton,” I said. “I mean, it wouldn’t be entirely about Mom. The anecdotes would include her experiences with some of Hollywood’s most elite.”

  “Right.”

  “Again, it won’t be near the blockbuster your book will be.” I found myself trying to reassure her once again. She seemed either dubious or threatened by my book idea. Maybe I should’ve told her I hoped to break into show business and that I was hoping Paxton would represent me. “Mr. Paxton will likely tell me I’m wasting my time, but I’d just like to hear it from a professional, you know?”

  “Of course. Hold on.”

  I paced in front of the counter while I waited for Ms. Trublonski to return to the phone and supply me with the cell phone number of Carl Paxton. After she gave it to me, I read it back to her to make sure I had it right.

  “That’s it,” she said. “Tell him I sent you his way. Maybe he’ll be kinder then. He can be a bit like a bulldog in a silk scarf, but he’s a good ally if he believes in you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. As I ended the call, I was still puzzling over her comparison—a bulldog in a silk scarf? I supposed it was Ms. Trublonski’s way of saying Paxton was rough around the edges.

  I called Mr. Paxton’s number. The call went to voice mail. I introduced myself and left my cell phone number. I indicated I’d like to buy him lunch and talk over a proposed project that I’d discussed with Mita Trublonski.

  I figured that either he would call Ms. Trublonski or she would call him prior to our talking anyway, so my tipping him off to having discussed the book with Ms. Trublonski would speed up that aspect of the game. Whether Ms. Trublonski thought a book about my mother would sell or not, I knew that Paxton would be looking for new clients. Even if the rumor was untrue that Babs had been going to fire the manager after completing her current project, her death had left him without his most profitable client. Sentiment aside, he had to have been looking for more revenue streams.