Cross-Stitch Before Dying Page 9

  We moved back into the living room and sat on the sofa. Ted pulled me to him, and I rested my head against his chest, soothed by his rhythmic heartbeat. I loved being in his arms.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if there are several back here on your street tomorrow morning . . . although most of them are camped out near Mita Trublonski’s hotel now,” Ted said.

  “A lot of the media attention focused on Mom depends on what the police learn—and reveal—within the next day or so, doesn’t it?” I asked.

  “That and whatever is leaked by anonymous sources. There’s widespread speculation and quite a bit of money being offered, I imagine. That can be a dangerous combination in the hands of tabloids.”

  “Yes, it can. Mom told me about Mita Trublonski’s fear that Babs had committed suicide,” I said. “Will the police take that possibility into consideration as they continue their investigation?”

  “They will, but I doubt Ms. Trublonski’s fear would be enough to get them to change their minds about Babs’ death being a homicide. From what I’ve gathered, preliminary findings at the crime scene indicated that Babs was struck on the back of the head with a blunt object prior to her fall.”

  “So it’s only a matter of whodunit,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Not knowing what else to say, Ted simply held me tighter.

  That was exactly what I needed. We sat like that—quiet, comfortable, and contemplative—until my phone rang. It was Henry Beaumont.

  “Marcy, I’m trying to reach Bev, but my calls just go to voice mail. Is she with you?”

  “I’m afraid she’s already gone to bed,” I told him. “I can wake her if it’s important.”

  “No,” he said. “Don’t bother her. I just need to talk with her about what she saw this morning. I’ve left her a couple messages, but please ask her to call me first thing tomorrow.”

  “I will, Henry.”

  “Thanks, dear. I—” He blew out a breath. “Never mind. Just have her call me.”

  When I ended the call, I placed my phone on the end table and cuddled back up to Ted. “That was the producer-director. Do you think I should wake Mom and have her call him back?”

  “No. In the first place, she needs her rest,” he said. “In the second place, she needs to speak with her attorneys before she talks with anyone else . . . especially another suspect.”

  I groaned. “I want this nightmare to be over. One of the Tallulah County Police Department deputies even came to the shop before class this evening and suggested I hire extra security. Extra. Like the team of heavily armed bodyguards I already employ isn’t enough.”

  “Ha, ha. I’ll try to have the regular patrol officers do an extra check both here and at the Stitch. But don’t hesitate to call nine-one-one if anyone harasses you.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I kissed him.

  “You’re welcome. I might patrol myself if that’s how you show your appreciation.”

  “Come by anytime.”

  Our next kiss was interrupted by my phone ringing again. I glanced at it and saw that it was Vera. I let the call go to voice mail.

  “What am I going to tell her tomorrow?” I wondered aloud. “I know she’ll want all the gory details of what Ms. Trublonski had to say to Mom.”

  “Tell her the truth. As soon as you got here, Ms. Trublonski left. You didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Oh, you’re good.”

  He chuckled. “Isn’t that what happened?”

  “Yeah . . . but you spin it so well,” I said. “Not to change the subject, but the thought of spinning made me think of the dirt biker who nearly ran down Reggie, Sonny, Ron and me yesterday. Did the Tallulah County Police Department catch that guy?”

  “No. They’re looking for the bike and a person matching the description of the driver, but the bike has probably been hidden, and there’s not much to go on with regard to the driver.”

  “That’s true. He . . . or she . . . popped up over that hill so quickly, we only had time to react.”

  “The TCPD is fairly certain the biker was working with the gunman we’d been chasing,” said Ted. “While they haven’t found evidence to substantiate it yet, they think it’s a pretty safe bet that the biker shot our gunman to death.”

  “Has the gunman been identified yet?”

  “Yeah. His wallet with photo identification was in the back pocket of his jeans. He was a student at Tallulah County Junior College. He was studying computer science.”

  “Was he a hacker?” I asked. “Is that why he was stealing smartphones and computers?”

  Ted nodded. “It’s sad. The kid had his whole life ahead of him, and that’s what he chose to do with it?”

  “We’re getting way too depressed here,” I said. “We need to lighten the mood . . . try not to think about murder and mayhem for a few minutes. Where were we before Vera called and interrupted us?” I caressed his face as I drew his mouth to mine. “Did I mention that Angus went to bed with Mom?”

  • • •

  Alfred Benton, Mom’s attorney for as long as I could remember, and Campbell Whitting arrived before nine o’clock the next morning. I greeted Alfred with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said to him quietly. “Mom’s beginning to withdraw more and more.”

  Alfred was a tall, thin man with a full head of white hair that he kept neatly trimmed in a military-style cut. His very presence was one of imposing elegance. Should you have found him on the opposite side of the table from you in a legal battle, you should have been concerned . . . on the same side—relieved.

  “We’ll take care of this,” Alfred said. “Marcy, have you met Campbell Whitting?”

  “Not personally, but I know he did a fantastic job representing my friend Todd Calloway earlier this year,” I said.

  Mr. Whitting stepped around Alfred to take my outstretched hand and give it a firm shake. He was a masterful man with bushy gray hair and a beard to match.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Todd is a good man. I’m glad I was able to help him out.” There was a twinkle in his hazel eyes that belied the steel I’d seen Mr. Whitting display in the courtroom.

  “Cam is the best criminal defense attorney on the West Coast,” Alfred said. “He’ll get your mother out of this mess.”

  “I know,” I said. “Come on into the kitchen.”

  As I led the way, Alfred asked about Angus.

  “He’s playing in the backyard at the moment,” I said. “It’s always good to let him get some exercise before we head to the Seven-Year Stitch.” I explained to Mr. Whitting that the Seven-Year Stitch was my embroidery specialty shop.

  “I’ve seen it,” he said. “It’s right across the street from Todd’s pub.”

  “That’s right.” I smiled. “Would either of you care for a cup of coffee?”

  Mr. Whitting declined, but Alfred accepted a cup with two sugars. I was just about to call Mom to come downstairs when she entered the kitchen.

  She was elegantly dressed in a peach silk pantsuit with a white lace camisole, but her pallor and the dark under-eye circles that showed through despite the carefully applied makeup indicated she’d rested very little if at all last night.

  “Good morning.” She greeted Alfred with a restrained hug and Campbell Whitting with a handshake. “I hope the two of you haven’t been waiting long.” She shot an admonishing glare in my direction.

  “They just got here.”

  “We only arrived seconds ago.”

  The fact that Alfred and I had spoken simultaneously made us share a conspiratorial grin. I set his coffee on the table and then squeezed his arm affectionately.

  “Mom, would you like some coffee?” I asked.

  “No, thank you.” She sat down at the table and motioned for the men to join her. They sat, and I started to do so as well. �
�Marcella, would you give us some privacy please?”

  I drew in my breath. She was asking me—the one person in this room who’d been in a similar situation—to leave? My eyes darted from Mom’s to Alfred’s.

  He gave me an almost imperceptible nod. “Would it be all right for me to stop by the Seven-Year Stitch later? I’d love to see the place.”

  “That would be great,” I said. “Since Angus and I aren’t needed here, I suppose we’ll see you later in town then.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Alfred said.

  When we got to the shop, I put Angus inside, relocked the door, and then stomped on down the street to MacKenzies’ Mochas. I’d planned on having coffee at home with the grown-ups, but noooo. I’d been sent to my room—or, in this case, to the Seven-Year Stitch. Run along like a good little girl, Marcella. The adults have business to discuss.

  I flung open the door, walked to the bar—the coffeehouse had been a bar before Blake and Sadie converted it—and flopped onto a stool.

  Although Blake was usually the one who manned the bar, this morning it was Sadie. “Ooh.” She grimaced. “What’s wrong?”

  “Who knows? Mom’s attorneys came to talk with her and she asked me to give them some privacy. Can you believe that?”

  “That is tough,” she said. “The usual?”

  I nodded. “Thanks.” I stared down at the gleaming wood grain, tracing a dark line with my fingertip. “It’s just so darn insulting, you know? I’m an adult. I want to know what’s going on. I deserve to know what’s going on.”

  Sadie put my low-fat vanilla latte with cinnamon on the bar and pushed it gently toward me. “You know all those times in the past when I asked you if you’d called your mom yet to ask about this or that, and you told me no because you didn’t want to worry her? Like the time someone knocked you out in the alley and—”

  “This is entirely different,” I interrupted. “She wasn’t here when that happened. There was nothing she could do.”

  “Maybe there’s nothing you can do now.” She glanced around to make sure we weren’t being overheard. “Maybe her attorneys are the only ones who can help her, and she doesn’t want you getting all upset or something.”

  My eyes widened. “Wait a second. You don’t think. . . .” I, too, made sure no one was listening and then lowered my voice to a hiss. “You don’t think she did it, do you? What kind of crap have those tabloid jerks been spreading?”

  “I didn’t say I believe she did anything wrong,” Sadie said. “I said maybe the attorneys are the only ones she wants to tell everything she knows . . . everything that happened on that hill yesterday morning.” She looked around again before taking a cloth from the pocket of her apron and wiping the bar. “Only she knows what she saw, Marce. Maybe she’s trying to protect you.”

  “I don’t know what she’s doing,” I said. “I only know that I don’t like being left out.” I got up, put my money on the bar, and swiped up my latte. “Thanks again. I’ll talk with you later.”

  I stepped back out onto the street and nearly ran headlong into the police officer who’d visited my shop yesterday before class.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Deputy Preston. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  “It’s my fault,” he said, with a laugh. “I’m paid to serve and protect, remember?”

  “Yeah, but it’s hard to protect against clumsiness.”

  “You seem to have a lot on your mind this morning. Is everything all right?” Deputy Preston asked.

  I started to speak but waited until a couple walking past had gone on into the coffee shop.

  “Yes,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Okay. See you later then.” He grinned and nodded before going into MacKenzies’ Mochas.

  I went on up the street to the Seven-Year Stitch and reopened the shop. Angus, as receptive as ever to my moods, greeted me calmly. When I sank onto the red club chair, he sat beside me and placed his head on my lap. I stroked his fur and wondered about what Sadie had said. Had Mom seen something yesterday that she didn’t want me to know about? Had she seen who’d really killed Babushka Tru? Maybe I wasn’t the only person she was protecting.

  I started when the bells over the shop door jingled. Angus spun around, and began barking as he charged our visitor.

  “Whoa, there, big fella!” Deputy Preston, a coffee in one hand, raised his free hand and laughed. “I guess you do have some protection after all, Ms. Singer.”

  “Angus, it’s all right. Come back here.”

  Angus did as I asked and returned to my side, only slightly “woofing” one last time.

  “I’m sorry,” I told Deputy Preston. “You startled me, and he reacted to that. He usually loves having company.”

  “Seems like you’re in a bit of a fog this morning,” he said. “That’s why I came back to check on you after seeing you on the street. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  I smiled. “I’m fine, thanks. I do appreciate your concern. And you weren’t kidding about those media hounds, were you? We had plenty of those last night. They reminded me of vultures sitting on a fence post in the desert . . . just waiting.”

  “Oh, they’re vultures, all right.” He shook his head. “Some are nice enough, I guess, just doing their jobs, you know. But others are not only intrusive, but mean-spirited.”

  “Do you have a minute?” I asked, gesturing toward the sofa.

  “Sure.” He glanced at his watch. “I have about ten of them actually.”

  “I know you aren’t at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation,” I said. “But my Mom isn’t saying much about what happened yesterday. Is there anything you can tell me?”

  He rubbed the lower part of his face with his free hand. “I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t say a word.” He looked at me; then his eyes darted around the shop, and then back at me. “You promise you won’t say anything?”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “Not a word? I’d get fired if my captain knew I was telling you this,” he said.

  “Not one word,” I said.

  He sipped his coffee. “I really shouldn’t.”

  I waited, knowing he was obviously dying to tell me whatever it was he shouldn’t tell me.

  He took a deep breath and then spit his words out quickly. “I heard them fighting—your mom and Babs. Babs was telling her that Henry would ruin her if she didn’t do things her—Babs’—way. Your mom said she’d never kowtow to some still-wet-behind-the-ears diva, and that she didn’t know why Henry put up with her. Babs told her to ask Henry which one of them he preferred, and then somebody slapped somebody.”

  “You mean, the fight actually got physical?”

  “Yeah. I was starting to intervene when I saw Babs run past the window. Your mom went after her.” Deputy Preston took another sip of his coffee. “A few minutes later, Ms. Singer left. I know your mom didn’t mean to do anything, but it really doesn’t look good for her at this point.”

  “You think my mother actually killed Babushka Tru?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I desperately wanted to talk with Ted but didn’t want to disturb him at work, so I texted him as soon as Deputy Preston left. I’d told the deputy I wouldn’t say anything to anyone. I didn’t say I wouldn’t text it. Besides, I could trust Ted not to betray Deputy Preston to his superiors. I told Ted about the argument the deputy said escalated into a physical altercation between Mom and Babs.

  “He seems to think Mom might’ve accidentally killed Babs,” I texted.

  To my relief, Ted called me back within minutes.

  “Babe, everyone at the Tallulah County Police Department has a theory about what happened to Babs, and everyone in the media does too. Try not to be too concerned . . . at least, not yet. It’s all just conjecture
.”

  “But she ran me off this morning,” I said. “She asked me to give her, Alfred, and Cam Whitting some privacy.”

  “I think she’s trying to keep you from worrying.”

  “And not knowing helps in what way?”

  He laughed softly. “Talk with her about it then. Ask her why she didn’t want you at their meeting.”

  “Did she say anything to you and Mita Trublonski last night that would indicate she knows more than she’s telling?” I asked.

  “Everyone always knows more than they’re telling. That’s human nature,” he said. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll be there at lunch, and I’ll bring comfort food. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Thanks.” I felt better after talking with Ted. If anyone could help me sort this mess out, it was him.

  An attractive woman in a coral business suit came into the shop. Her hair was in a French twist, and she wore pearl earrings. She smiled at me and said, “Good morning,” before I even had a chance to welcome her to the Seven-Year Stitch.

  “How may I help you?” I asked.

  “I’m looking for a few . . . embroidery . . . things,” she said. “I’ll need some thread, and needles, and probably a piece of fabric.”

  Uh-huh. “How about a frame or a hoop? Do you need either of those?”

  Angus bounded over to greet her.

  “What a pretty dog! I don’t think I need either of those things you mentioned. I’m making this into a pillow rather than framing it or . . . hooping it.”

  “Which do you generally prefer—hoops or frames?” I asked.

  Her eyes darted left, then right. “I don’t know. Which do you prefer?”

  “You don’t really embroider, do you?”

  “This is going to be my first project,” she said.

  “Why are you really here?” I asked. “I mean, I’ll sell you all the embroidery supplies you need, but if you’re here for some other reason, I’d rather have you be up front with me.”

  “Fair enough. I’m Kendra Morgan, a reporter for the Tinseltown Tattler. Like the rest of the journalists in this town, I’m here to find out about the death of Babushka Tru.”