Thread Reckoning Page 6

  “Hi,” I said to him. “Did you talk with Frederic and Cassandra?”

  “We did,” he said.

  “They were here right after you guys left. Frederic didn’t know about his mother.”

  Ted nodded. “He does now.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Did you have those gems out where people shopping here could see them?” Detective Sloan asked.

  “Of course not. I kept them in my office where I was working on the dress,” I said. “When I’d hear someone come into the shop, I’d stop working and go out to see how I could help them.”

  “The jewels are real,” Ted said. “And they have an estimated value of seventy-five thousand to a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Chapter Six

  No sooner had Ted told me the estimated worth of the gems than Cassandra and Frederic came into the shop. Cassandra stormed in, but Frederic followed slowly behind her. Given his bleak eyes and drawn mouth, I guessed the pair had just come from identifying his mother.

  “We went back to the station after going to the morgue, but they told us you were here,” Cassandra said to Ted and Detective Sloan. “Have you caught the guy who did this yet?”

  “Not yet,” Ted said.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Frederic,” I said, “would you like to have a seat? Can I get you some water?”

  He nodded. “Water would be nice. Thank you.”

  “What about me?” Cassandra demanded as Frederic slumped onto the sofa. “I’d like some water. He’s not the only one suffering here.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll bring you one, too.” I retrieved two bottles of water from the minifridge in my office and gave them to Frederic and Cassandra.

  “Thank you,” Frederic repeated. “I needed this.” He twisted the cap off the bottle and drank deeply.

  Cassandra dropped her bottle into her purse. “So, they said at the station that the gems Francesca gave us were real. When are we getting those back?”

  “We’ve taken them into evidence, and you won’t be able to get them back until the case is concluded,” Ted said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me! Those are ours! They’re going on my wedding gown, and my wedding is taking place in less than two weeks. If I don’t have my gown finished by then, I’ll be suing someone.” She whirled around, prepared to prance back out of the shop.

  “Wait,” Ted said. “We’ll need to question the two of you further.”

  “Right now?” Cassandra asked over her shoulder. “If you hadn’t noticed, we were leaving.”

  Frederic still sat on the sofa. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

  A muscle worked in Ted’s jaw, and I could tell he was agitated.

  Detective Sloan stared at Frederic with unmasked sympathy. I was surprised. So far, she hadn’t struck me as the sympathetic type.

  “Will you question them together or separately?” I asked.

  “Separately.” Ted frowned, obviously wondering what I was up to.

  “Then maybe you could take Cassandra to the station, and Frederic could go over to MacKenzies’ Mochas and unwind for a few minutes before meeting you there,” I said.

  Cassandra’s head whipped in my direction. “What? Now you’re wanting Frederic to yourself? All of a sudden, you find out the jewels are real, and you think you’ll cozy up to my fiancé? I don’t think so!”

  “She’s not trying to cozy up to me, Cass,” Frederic said. “The woman is simply trying to give me a break, okay? God knows I need one!”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Ted said. “Ms. Wainwright, let’s take you down to the station. Mr. Ortega, can you come on down in about an hour?”

  Frederic nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “I can’t believe this! And I’m taking my car. You can come back and get him. Or maybe she’ll bring him.” Cassandra glared at me. “You’re fired!” She sputtered and blustered all the way out onto the street.

  “A word in private, please, Ms. Singer?” Ted asked.

  “I’ll go outside and try to calm Ms. Wainwright,” Detective Sloan said.

  Ted and I stepped into the office. I gave him my best look of innocence.

  He placed his hands lightly on my shoulders as his lips curved into a grin. “I know you, Inch-High Private Eye. What are you up to?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing. Don’t you think he needs a break from that shrew for a few minutes?”

  “You sure you’re not cozying up to the guy because those jewels are real?” he teased.

  I playfully slapped his arm. “Stop it.”

  “Be careful, all right? I don’t think Frederic Ortega killed his mother, but—”

  “I know,” I interrupted. “Everyone’s a suspect. Go.”

  “I’ll call you tonight,” Ted said.

  We stepped out of the office. Frederic was still sitting on the sofa, and he looked as if he were dozing.

  “Mr. Ortega?” Ted asked.

  Frederic started at the sound. “Yes, sir?”

  “We’ll see you at the station in an hour,” Ted said. “You have transportation?”

  “I’ll call a cab,” Frederic said.

  “We can send a car for you if you’ll give us a call and let us know where you are.” Ted gave me a very official-looking nod before he left.

  “Frederic,” I said, “let me call Sadie at MacKenzies’ Mochas and order you some lunch. Either she can bring it over or I’ll go get it. You can just rest here for a little while if you’d like.”

  “Actually, I would like that,” he said. “Cass doesn’t seem to understand that I lost my mother this morning.” His voice broke and he dropped his head into his hands.

  “I’m sure she does,” I lied. Actually, I wasn’t convinced Cassandra Wainwright understood anything. I moved a box of tissues from the counter to the coffee table in front of Frederic. As he quietly wept, I moved over and patted his shoulder. I felt awkward, since I didn’t know this man at all. But his mother had been killed outside my shop mere hours ago, and all his fiancée seemed to care about was her wedding gown.

  The bells over the door jingled and two of the high school girls from my candlewicking class—Carlie and Jennica—came in. Both were short—though taller than me—with blond hair. Carlie had a shy, dimpling smile, and Jennica’s eyes always sparkled with curiosity and speculation.

  “Hi, guys,” I said, hopping up from the sofa and hurrying over to see what I could help them with. “Are you looking for some embroidery floss?”

  “We mainly just came to check on you,” Carlie said. “We heard what happened this morning. Everybody’s talking about it.”

  I started shaking my head, but they didn’t catch my drift.

  “Yeah,” Jennica said. “We heard at school that somebody stabbed—”

  “Speaking of school,” I said quickly, “why aren’t you there?”

  Carlie laughed. “We got out early today. They’re having teacher conferences or something.”

  “Yeah. I think it’s really that the teachers just wanted a break from us,” Jennica said.

  “Imagine that,” I said.

  Jennica nodded at Frederic. “What’s with that guy?”

  I ushered them out the door. “We’ll talk in class, okay?”

  “Sure. Okay.” Carlie looked at Jennica and shrugged.

  Once I had the two of them out on the street with the door closed behind us, I whispered, “It was that guy’s mother who got stabbed.”

  Jennica and Carlie looked at each other and then at me. Carlie’s mouth formed an O.

  “Wow,” Jennica said flatly.

  “Like I said, we’ll talk in class.”

  The girls walked off down the street, talking excitedly. I went back into the Seven-Year Stitch.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” I said to Frederic.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m aware people are talking . . . curious . . . and, of course, they’re concerned about you.” He was holding a
tissue he’d used to wipe his eyes. “Do you have a trash can I could drop this in?”

  I held out my hand, and he gave me the tissue. I walked around the counter and put the tissue in the trash. “Have you thought about what you might like for lunch? MacKenzies′ makes some great sandwiches. My favorite is the chicken salad croissant.”

  “I’ll have one of those. Will you join me?”

  “Sure.” I took out my cell phone, called Sadie, and ordered two chicken salad croissants.

  “Two?” Sadie asked. “You must be starving.”

  “Something like that,” I said. “I’ll be over to get them in about fifteen minutes.”

  Sadie and I said our good-byes, but I could tell she was still wondering why I was ordering two croissants. I’d explain it to her when I picked up the sandwiches.

  “I’ve got sodas in the minifridge,” I said. “Would you like one?”

  “No. I’m still good with the water,” Frederic said.

  “Be right back.” I hurried into the office and grabbed a diet cola before returning to sit on the sofa across from Frederic.

  “I saw her,” he said quietly. “Her face, anyway. The coroner had me confirm her identity.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “She—the coroner—said it happened very quickly. She doesn’t think Mom suffered at all,” he said. “She said Mom died almost instantly. A moment of shock and then nothing.”

  I had no idea what to say to Frederic, so I just sat there quietly. Maybe my being there would be some consolation in itself.

  “I still can’t believe those jewels were real.” He ran his hands down his face. “It has to be a mistake. When I talk with the police later, I’m going to ask them to get the gems appraised again. Mom didn’t have that kind of money.” He reached for another tissue. “She’d recently been fired from a job she’d worked at for more than twenty years.” He shook his head in disgust. “She’d worked so hard for this jerk in California. And he ended up firing her for practically no reason whatsoever. She was going to have to live with Cass and me. I mean, she’d already moved here to Tallulah Falls, but she couldn’t afford to keep her apartment anymore.” He dabbed at his damp eyes. “You know what reason he gave for firing her? She’d cleaned off his desk and put some papers she’d found into his desk drawer. He accused her of snooping . . . invading his privacy.”

  “After twenty years?” I asked.

  “Yeah . . . well, she’d worked for his dad for the first eighteen,” Frederic said. “I think he just wanted some new blood. He probably had some girlfriend who needed a job or something.”

  “Probably. What type of work did your mother do?”

  “She was an administrative assistant.” He smiled slightly. “She was good at it. She was a total perfectionist.”

  “Was perfectionism a common bond between her and Cassandra?”

  Frederic barked out a laugh. “Hardly. Mom insists—insisted—on doing everything herself. Cass wants everyone else to do everything for her.”

  “How did the two of you meet?”

  “Up until a few months ago, I worked for the same company as my mom—the Santiago Corporation. The dad—Caleb Santiago Sr.—sort of took me under his wing as a favor to my mom,” he said. “I started in the mail room and worked my way up. The company was an office supply sales retailer, and I moved up to regional manager. I met Cass when I was recruiting business from her dad’s law firm.”

  “You said you were with the Santiago Corporation until recently,” I said. “Why did you leave?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t like the way Caleb Jr. was running things. I got sick of it, acquired a job with another company, and left. Mom stayed. She wasn’t happy working there, either, but she had a vested interest and all that. As it turned out, though, the Santiagos pulled that rug out from under her, too.”

  “Let me run next door and get the sandwiches. I’ll be right back.” I hated to cut Frederic off at this point in his conversation, but I didn’t want Sadie running in with the sandwiches and asking awkward questions, either.

  I hurried to MacKenzies′ Mochas to pick up and pay for the sandwiches.

  “I guess David is keeping you company?” Blake asked. He tried to keep the negative tone out of his voice, but he failed.

  “No. It’s Frederic Ortega,” I said. “The police are questioning Cassandra, and he’s going to join her at the station in a little while. He’s really having a rough time.”

  Blake nodded, his relief that the other sandwich wasn’t for David evident on his expressive face. “I can imagine.”

  “And Cassandra isn’t being very sympathetic.”

  “I can imagine that, too,” he said. “Did he say anything about . . . you know, about his mom?”

  “He said the coroner told him his mother didn’t suffer,” I said.

  “That’s good . . . I mean, all things considered.”

  I nodded and handed Blake some money for the sandwiches. He tried not to take it, but I insisted. Then I rushed back to the shop.

  Frederic was on his cell phone finishing up a call. “He must have been watching for her . . . following her or something. They said he struck one definitive blow with the knife, and she went down.”

  I set the bag on the coffee table as quietly as I could.

  “Probably not until Monday or Tuesday,” Frederic said. “I still have to make all the arrangements. When will you be here? . . . Good. See you then.” He looked at me as he ended the call. “My brother.”

  “Where does he live?” I asked.

  “New Mexico. He’ll be here Saturday.” He nodded toward the bag. “Those croissants smell good. May I?”

  “Of course.”

  He dug into the bag, setting one croissant and bag of sea salted potato chips on the table for me and putting the other in front of himself. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled these.” He unwrapped the croissant. “Have you ever lost someone close to you, Marcy?”

  “My dad,” I said. “I was too young when he died to remember much about him, but I can recall his smile . . . and his laugh. He laughed a lot.”

  “Mom laughed a lot, too,” Frederic said, “though not so much in the past year as she used to.”

  “She seemed to approve of your marriage to Cassandra,” I said. “So that’s good.”

  “She’d come to terms with it. Let’s put it that way.” He bit into the croissant. “You were right. This is good.”

  She’d come to terms with it. I took that to mean that Francesca hadn’t approved of the union at first. I wondered why, but then I remembered he was marrying Cassandra. What mother would want her son shackled to that piece of work? Or herself, for that matter, if she was going to live with the couple?

  “Are you planning on calling Mr. Santiago?” I asked. “The one your mother worked with for eighteen years, I mean.”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it,” Frederic said. “I suppose I should, but I barely had the presence of mind to call Dom. I haven’t even called the funeral home yet.”

  I unwrapped my croissant and started eating. Like Frederic, I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until then. I’d only picked at the muffin Sadie had brought me earlier that morning.

  Frederic opened his chips. “About Mom and Cass . . . they got along well in the beginning. But when Cass started planning this wedding, she changed.”

  “I’ve heard of women turning into the dreaded beast—Bridezilla,” I said with a grin.

  “You can say that again. I realize her family will be paying for the wedding, but I was taught to be more frugal. Mom raised my brother and me by herself.” He ate a chip. “I understand Cass wanting to have a lavish wedding, but I can’t help thinking how far some of that money would go on a home.”

  “I can understand your point. My own mom put quite a bit of money into my wedding, and then it didn’t happen.” I shook my head. “There we were with the gorgeous dress, the flowers, the cake, the catered meal, the band . . . a
nd no groom. It was such a waste.” My anger at David sparked all over again.

  “Whoa,” Frederic said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well . . . it happens.”

  “Cass thinks we can still get married on Valentine’s Day, but I don’t see that happening now,” he said. “Dom and I will have to bury Mom next week. It’s just too soon. I . . . I can’t get married while I’m still grieving the loss of my mother.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Maybe you do. But will Cass?”

  I didn’t say so, but I highly doubted it.

  Chapter Seven

  Frederic called for a cab rather than have the police station send a car for him. I can’t say that I blamed him. I’d much rather leave my shop in a cab than in a squad car. Nellie Davis, who owned the aromatherapy shop down the street, would simply adore seeing me escorted from the premises by an officer. She’d repeatedly voiced her opinion that all my “bad luck” was detrimental for the business of the shopping center in general. Frankly, my shop was doing well, thank you very much.

  I remembered seeing David in Nellie’s shop prior to his coming to the Seven-Year Stitch—when I still thought maybe I was imagining things. It made me wonder if Nellie had somehow found out about David and persuaded him to come here and take me back to California. I realized that was a stretch; but when a murder takes place just outside your shop—especially after two others have been linked to your shop in some way—you begin to get a little paranoid.

  I decided to call Mom and tell her the latest.

  “Hi,” I said when she answered the phone. “What are you doing?”

  “Finishing up my packing for New York,” she said. “What are you doing?”

  “I just had lunch with the man whose mother was stabbed to death outside my shop this morning.” As soon as I said that, I held the phone away from my ear because I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t.

  “You what!” she shrieked. “Is this some kind of a joke? Because if it is, Marcella Singer, I swear I’ll—”

  “No joke, Mom.” I explained to her about Francesca Ortega. “Remember those fake gems I told you she’d wanted me to use to embellish Cassandra’s wedding gown? The police had them appraised, and they weren’t fake.”