Cross-Stitch Before Dying (11 page)

“I think it’s because she’s either protecting you or she’s protecting someone else,” he said. “Did she ever call Henry back?”

“I don’t know.” I slowly put the cap back on my water bottle. “Do you think that’s it? Do you think Henry killed Babs and that Mom is protecting him?”

Ted placed his strong hand over mine. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Give her a little space, and maybe she’ll come around and tell you what she knows.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

He grinned. “Somehow, you’ll find a way to drag it out of her. But go easy on her. Maybe you could just tell her what Kendra Morgan told you, and see what she says about that.”

A
fter lunch, I did an Internet search for Babushka Tru’s manager. I learned his name was Carl Paxton and that he’d been a corporate attorney before dipping his toe into the entertainment pond. Babs had been his first client. At thirty-five, Paxton was going through a rather messy divorce when he’d renegotiated Babs’ contract with the
Surf Dad
producers, garnering the child star a sizable salary increase for what would be the show’s final season.

Paxton had a few high-profile celebrity romances, but none of them lasted very long. I could find no other mentions of big-name clients, so I guessed that Babs was the biggest name on his client roster . . . maybe the
only
name.

When Babs turned twenty-one, Carl Paxton took her to the Gallery, a Hollywood club frequented by movie stars and pop music moguls. Together, they toasted to her adulthood. According to gossip sites—including the
Tinseltown Tattler
—that occasion marked the beginning of Babs’ romantic relationship with the manager who was twenty-four years her senior. I, for one, thought it was more than a little creepy. Had this guy been biding his time since the girl was eleven years old to become her boyfriend?

Ignoring the canoodling,
we’re-so-in-love
pics and articles, I moved on to the more recent
trouble-in-paradise
exposés. Headlines blared, “Paxton Warns BTru Not to Make Bollywood Film” and wondered, “Is BTru Risking Her Career for Henry Beaumont?” These articles contained photos of a seemingly infatuated Babushka Tru and a besotted, albeit married Henry Beaumont spending more and more time together. Spokespersons for both Babs and Henry contended that they were simply hammering out details and contract negotiations for the upcoming movie role. Still, there were fewer and fewer incidences of Babs and Carl Paxton being seen together, and rumors of a rift were widespread.

Finally, I shut down my computer and returned to the sit-and-stitch square to ruminate on everything while I worked on my pillowcase. Both Angus and Jill agreed with me wholeheartedly that Paxton had been right in trying to dissuade Babs to make her comeback in a biopic that would likely have little commercial appeal. (What? Sometimes it helps you to sort things out by talking them over with pets and/or mannequins. Don’t judge.)

Mom hoped the film would appeal to those who determined artistic merit; and while it very well might, small independent productions like this movie can often abound in awards and yet fall flat at the box office. So, from the standpoint of someone managing Babushka Tru’s career, I could see why Paxton would have wanted her to find a role that would’ve had a better chance at becoming a blockbuster—like a romantic comedy or an action flick. Had Babs’ affection for Henry Beaumont colored her decision making? Had Henry promised her great things? Had Babs fallen so far from grace in the eyes of Hollywood that she’d had practically no choice but to take this role in order to prove herself?

I was deciding that if anyone could answer those questions for me, Mom could, when a customer walked through the door. She was a woman in her mid- to late thirties, and she was searching for a book with projects combining cross-stitch with beading.

I took her over to the issues of Jill Oxton’s
Cross Stitch & Beading
magazines I had on hand. “I also have some kits that combine cross-stitching and beading.”

“That would be great,” she said.

I led her to the kits. “If you need any help, just let me know.”

“I think I’ll get one of these kits to get the hang of things, but I want one of the magazines too. I’m enamored of the tiger in that one.” She pointed to the cover of one of the issues of
Cross Stitch & Beading
.

“Do you need any floss or needles while you’re here?” I asked.

“Not yet. Everything I’ll need for this one is included, isn’t it?” She held up the kit she’d chosen of an angel.

“Yes. The kit is complete.”

“Then I’ll start with that and then come back for supplies for other projects if I do all right with this one,” she said, with a laugh.

We walked over to the counter.

“If you need any help at all, please come back and I’ll give you a hand,” I said.

“I will. Thank you.”

I checked out her purchases and placed them in a periwinkle Seven-Year Stitch bag. “Thank
you
. I hope to see you again soon.”

As she was walking out, Mita Trublonski walked in. She was wearing the halfhearted “disguise” of mirrored sunglasses. In fact, I only realized the glasses were supposed to be a disguise when she took them off and apologized for the crazy getup. The rest of the disguise consisted of a pastel polka dot umbrella—after all, it
was
cloudy and looked like it might rain—a pair of black leather pants, and a boxy, white Chanel jacket.

Had anyone
not
seen through Ms. Trublonski’s disguise, the pack of reporters who’d trailed her to the Seven-Year Stitch would’ve been a dead giveaway. Fortunately, the reporters stayed outside on the street. Unfortunately, they and their flashing cameras caused Angus to go on a barking, jumping-at-the-window rampage and prevented patrons from getting anywhere near my shop.

“I’m calling the police!” I yelled, taking my phone from my jeans pocket and showing the group standing at the window that I had punched the numbers nine-one-one into the phone. “If you don’t disperse from in front of this shop in the next ten seconds, I
will
call the police and I
will
press charges!”

I really would have called the police, but I was bluffing about pressing charges. I had no idea what charges I could possibly press, but my threat worked. The reporters moved away from the shop. Some moved along the street on either side—toward MacKenzies’ Mochas to the left and the aromatherapy shop to the right—while the rest went across the street to watch the Seven-Year Stitch from in front of the Brew Crew.

“I’m glad you didn’t have to call in the cavalry,” Ms. Trublonski said, as Angus eventually calmed. “I feel I’ve brought too much attention and aggravation to you and your mother already.”

“No, that’s fine,” I said. “I’m sorry you’re being followed and hounded while you’re still trying to come to terms with your grief.”

“Yes, well. . . .” She stole a glance at the media stationed outside Todd’s pub and craft brewery. “It goes with the territory . . . even when you’re not the famous one.” She gestured toward the sit-and-stitch square. “May we sit?”

“Let’s go into my office where we can better avoid the prying eyes,” I said.

“Sure,” she said, and yet she looked over her shoulder at the reporters again.

I led her into my office. “Would you care for some water, mango juice, or soda?”

“No, thanks. I won’t stay but a minute. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for all the sorrow this tragedy has brought on your mom . . . and you too, of course.”

“We’re sorry for
your
grief, Ms. Trublonski.”

“Thank you. You’re kind.” She raised an index finger. “I’ll have to mention that in the book.”

“The book?” I asked.

“Yes. Carl—Carl Paxton, Babs’ manager—came by with breakfast this morning, and we had an in-depth discussion about my writing a book. And we’re going to do it,” she said. “We’re going to produce a book—I’ll be doing most of the writing—and we’re going to call it
BTru to Your Dreams
. Get it?
BTru
—like the media dubbed Babs?”

I nodded. “I get it.”

“Carl said it would be an excellent way to deal with my sorrow while also making sure Babs’ story is properly told.”

I struggled for the proper words. “Are you sure you want to write a book? I mean, maybe you should give yourself time to get over the shock of your daughter’s death before you rush into anything.”

“Oh, no, it’s a done deal. Carl is probably shopping the literary and film rights even as we speak. He said we need to get the jump on those media hounds who’ll be eager to write their own books and tell their own twisted version of Babs’ story.” She gave one resolute nod. “I’m going to do this for her. I owe her that.”

•   •   •

After Mita Trublonski left, I returned to the sit-and-stitch square and embroidered the pillowcase. I made good progress on it. I also waited on a few customers and took a couple of phone calls. One caller wanted to make sure class was still on for this evening, and I verified that it was. Upon ending the call, I reflected that it might have been a reporter rather than a student. I hoped that wasn’t the case, but I’d deal with class after work.

Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly be surprised by anything else life threw at me that day, Henry Beaumont called.

“Hi . . . Henry,” I stammered after he introduced himself. “How may I help you?”

“I’d like for you to meet with me,” he said. “I’m in my car now and can be there within a couple of minutes.”

“Okay, but come to the back of the shop. There’s an alley there, and I’ll let you in the back entrance. Maybe that way, you won’t be mobbed by reporters.”

“Is the media staking out your place?” he asked.

“They’re not as obtrusive now as they were earlier,” I said. “But I don’t doubt they’re still around here somewhere.”

“All right. Thanks. I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll be watching for you.”

I put aside my embroidery and went to the back entrance of the shop. Almost immediately, a silver Mercedes sedan pulled into the alley. The windows were slightly tinted, but when the car got closer, I could see that Henry was driving it.

He parked, got out, and looked around. I assumed he was checking for media.

“I appreciate your meeting with me, Marcy,” he said, as he walked through the door.

“Anytime.” I locked the door back after we were inside. “So, what can I do for you?”

He sighed. “I’d appreciate it if you’d try to talk your mother into speaking with me. I’ve left message after message, but she won’t return my calls.”

I remembered what Alfred said about Mom knowing something about Babs’ murder. Could she have seen Henry with Babs after the fitting?

“I’ll talk with her,” I said. I led him through the hall and into my office. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you, though.” He sank into the chair in front of my desk. He looked gaunt and exhausted, and his eyes bore no hint of exotic color from tinted contact lenses.

“You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” I asked.

“Not very much.”

“What happened that morning? Did you see either Mom or Babs after you sent Mom to do the refitting?”

“I saw your mother.” He raised his eyes to mine. “What has she told you about that morning?”

“Not much,” I said. “In fact, this is typical Mom. When she’s in crisis mode, she practically shuts down and doesn’t talk much to anyone.” That sounded like a reasonable version of the truth that could explain why she hadn’t returned Henry’s calls. “All I know is that Mom did the refitting and that she and Babs argued about it.”

Henry rubbed his hand over his face. “I don’t think she meant to do it, but I believe that altercation led to Babs’ fall.”

“You believe my mother had something to do with Babs’ death?” Was he simply trying to point the finger at Mom in order to exonerate himself?

“Not purposely, no,” he said. “I just think that they got into an argument, that there was some pushing involved, and that Babs lost her footing and fell.”

I stared at him openmouthed.

Henry stood and placed his hands on my shoulders. “I need to talk with her. I must know what happened if I’m going to be of any help whatsoever.”

He pulled me into a hug, but my arms hung limply at my sides. I was still processing what he was saying.

“I’m doing a press conference at five thirty this afternoon outside the hotel where I’m staying,” he said, stepping back to look into my face. “I’m unable to wait any longer. The press is calling for answers.”

“A-and you’re going to tell them your theory . . . about Mom?”

“No, no, no. I’m going to answer any questions about Babs’ death as elusively as I possibly can,” Henry said. “But I need to know for my own personal reasons what happened.”

“Because of your relationship with Babs?” I asked.

“Because of my relationship with your mother. The show must go on, you know.”

“The show must go on?” I echoed. “But how can it?”

“I’m too heavily invested in this project not to get another actress and move on, Marcy, and I need to be assured I can count on Bev as my costume designer. If I can’t, I’m going to have to find a replacement for her too, and as soon as possible.” He looked at his watch. “I need to go and get ready for the press conference. Have her call me, okay?”

I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“Tell her that if I don’t hear from her by noon tomorrow, I’ll have to hire another costumer.” That said, he left.

After Henry left the office, I sat down on my desk chair and placed my head between my knees. I felt light-headed and was afraid I might faint. Could this nightmare get any weirder?

The bells over the shop door jingled, and I groaned.

“Be there in a minute!” I shouted.

“How about I come to you?” The deep, rich voice belonged to Todd Calloway. I was so relieved, I thought I might cry.

“Thank goodness, it’s you,” I said.

“What’s wrong?” He sidestepped Angus, who’d trotted in beside him, and dropped to one knee in front of me. “Are you sick?”

“I don’t know if sick is the proper word for what I’m feeling,” I said. “Although, come to think of it, I do feel like I’m against the ropes and being beaten by a professional boxer . . . just one blow after another.”

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked.

“I’m sure you’ve heard most of it. Babushka Tru died on set. Mom was overheard arguing with her before her death. Her mother visited both yesterday and today and is getting ready to write a tell-all book. And now the producer-director—Henry Beaumont—just left after telling me that he believes Mom is responsible for Babs’ death but that he needs to know by noon tomorrow whether or not he needs to hire a new costume designer. And if that’s not enough, Mom is shutting me out and won’t tell me what’s going on with her.”