Cross-Stitch Before Dying (12 page)

“Wow. You don’t need me. You need a bottle of vodka.”

I laughed. “No, I don’t. I couldn’t handle a hangover on top of all my other problems.”

“I made you smile, though.” He grinned. “You got to give me credit for that.”

“Yes, you did,” I said. “Thank you. Now, what are you doing here? Are you looking for a new embroidery project already?”

“Nope, I believe I’ve got all the embroidery supplies I’ll need . . . ever,” Todd said. “I just came to check on you after seeing all the vultures swarming outside the pub earlier today.”

“I’m sorry about that. They were standing outside the window driving Angus and me up the wall until I threatened to call the police. If they bother you again, threaten them. That seems to work.”

He shook his head. “I won’t threaten. I’ll simply tell them to either buy a drink or leave.”

“I know some of the reporters have been asking Blake and Sadie questions,” I said. “Have they been pestering you?”

“Nah. I hear them talking among themselves, but they haven’t talked to me much.”

I studied his face. “Are you downplaying it to make me feel better?”

“Of course I am.” He took my hands and pulled me to my feet. “But I can handle whatever they throw at me, and so can you. Stop your moping.”

“You’re right.”

“I always am. We’ll get through this. We’ve gotten through worse, haven’t we?” he asked.

“Yeah. We’ve gotten through worse.”

W
hen Angus and I arrived home after work that evening, we found Mom sitting on the sofa in the living room. She wasn’t watching television, wasn’t reading, wasn’t thumbing through a magazine—she was just sitting there staring into space.

“Hello, darling,” she said, as I followed Angus into the living room. He’d already placed his big, furry head on her lap, and she was hugging him.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Nothing. Did you have a nice day?”

I sat on the armchair, slipped off my shoes, and propped my feet on the ottoman. “I’m not sure I’d call it
nice
. It has been one surprise after another, though.”

“I should get dinner started,” she said.

“No need, unless you’re hungry,” I said. “I’ll just grab a protein bar on the way back to the shop.”

“Ted isn’t joining us?”

“No. He has to work this evening.” I glanced at the clock over the mantel and saw that it was twenty minutes past five. Henry’s press conference was due to start in ten minutes. “Mom, why won’t you return Henry’s calls?”

“I’ve been distracted. Besides, Ted said I shouldn’t speak with another suspect, right?”

“He did say that, but what advice did Alfred and Cam give you? If you’re still going to work with the man, you’ll have to speak with him sooner or later. That doesn’t mean you have to discuss Babushka Tru’s death.”

“Why the sudden concern over Henry?” she asked.

“He came by the shop today and practically begged me to have you call him.” When she didn’t respond, I felt I had to bring out the big guns in order to see how she was really feeling. “He thinks you might’ve accidentally caused Babs to fall.”

Mom’s jaw dropped. “He’s pointing the finger at
me
? He was the last person to see Babs alive. I’ll bet he didn’t tell you
that
now, did he?”

“No, he didn’t. So you think Henry killed Babs?”

“I’m not saying that,” she said, sighing and resting her head against the back of the sofa. “I don’t know what I think. All I know is that I was on my way back to report to Henry when I passed him heading toward the loft’s fitting room.”

“Are you sure he was going to see Babs?”

“I’m not certain, but where else could he have been going? The fitting area was the only thing in that direction.”

“Maybe the two of you should talk,” I said. “You could have Alfred with you, if you think it’s necessary. I mean, isn’t it possible that both of you are mistaken and that neither of you caused Babs to fall? Maybe there’s something else that, if you put your heads together, you’ll remember.” Again, I glanced at the clock.

“Why do you keep watching the clock? I didn’t think you had to be back at the shop until six o’clock.”

“I don’t, but Henry is giving a press conference outside his hotel at five thirty.” I retrieved the television remote. “I think we should watch and see what he has to say.”

Mom was silent, but she didn’t protest. She merely sat with her arms crossed over her chest. Angus came over to lie by my chair.

I turned on the television and switched back and forth between the three local channels until I found the one that was stationed outside Henry Beaumont’s hotel. The stiff-haired anchorwoman was already talking.

“...where Henry Beaumont, the award-winning Hollywood producer and director of such movies as
Fatal Lies
, will be discussing the tragic death of starlet Babushka Tru, who died while on location for Beaumont’s latest movie,
Sonam Zakaria: A Glamorous Life
. Here comes Mr. Beaumont now. Let’s listen.”

The camera panned to a podium with a microphone that had been set up on the lawn of the hotel. Reporters were gathered four deep in a semicircle around the podium.

Henry had changed clothes since he’d been at the Seven-Year Stitch. He was dressed in a tailored suit, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he’d had one of the makeup artists touch up his haggard complexion. His eyes appeared to be an emerald green, which meant he was back in contact lens mode.

He stepped up to the podium and adjusted both his tie and the microphone. “Good evening. Thank you all for being here. First and foremost, I want to express my deepest sympathies—as well as those of the entire cast and crew—to Babushka Tru’s family and friends. She was a beautiful person, and she’ll be terribly missed. Since her death is still under investigation by the Tallulah County Police Department, however, I’m not permitted to speak about that and will take no questions on the subject.”

From the corner of my eye, I sneaked a peek at Mom. She was glaring at the TV screen, and her mouth was a thin, tight line.

“Further, I must say that although we are all appalled and shocked by Babushka Tru’s untimely death, the production will go forward as planned. As soon as the investigation into this affair has been completed to the point that we may return to San Francisco, the cast and crew will go back and regroup, recast the role of Sonam Zakaria, and continue making the film. We know Babs would have wanted it that way, and we’ll, of course, dedicate the movie to her memory.” He lowered his head briefly. Then he said, “That’s all I have to say for now. Thank you for your time.” With that, he turned and hurried back into the hotel.

The camera went back to the anchorwoman. “There you have it. The show must go on, I suppose. Doug?”

The screen split into the shot of the anchorwoman at the scene and “Doug” who was sitting at the news desk.

“Lynette, what did you make of Henry Beaumont’s demeanor?”

“I think the man looked exhausted, Doug. He has obviously been through an ordeal. He lost his star, but it sounds as if he has too much invested in this movie to back out.”

“I understand that Mita Trublonski, Babushka Tru’s mother, is in town,” Doug said. “Any word from her on how she feels about Beaumont’s decision to continue making the movie?”

“Not yet. I do plan on following up with her and will be sure and keep our viewers informed,” Lynette said.

“Lynette, what do you make of the fact that Ms. Trublonski has been to a local embroidery shop—the Seven-Year Stitch—twice since coming to Tallulah Falls?” Doug asked.

“One could surmise that the woman enjoys embroidery, Doug, but I’m not so sure that’s the case. The shop owner is Marcella Singer, daughter of the movie’s costume designer, Beverly Singer.”

Before Lynette could continue, I switched the television off.

“What did they mean that Mita Trublonski has been to your shop twice?” Mom asked. “I thought yesterday was the first time she’d been there.”

“It was. She came back today. I’ve got to say those people are quick.”

“What did she want?”

“She said she came to apologize for any grief last night’s visit might’ve caused,” I said. “But she also mentioned that she and Carl Paxton are writing a book about Babs’ life. Mom, have you met this Paxton character?”

Mom nodded. “I don’t particularly like him, though. He hasn’t done anything to make me dislike him, it’s just that I get a bad vibe when I’m around him.”

“First thing this morning, Kendra Morgan—a reporter with the
Tinseltown Tattler
—came into the Seven-Year Stitch. At first, she tried to play herself off as a customer, but when she couldn’t pull it off, she came clean and told me why she was really there.”

“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.