Cross-Stitch Before Dying (4 page)

I smiled. “There’s never a dull moment with Mom around—that’s for sure.”

I
t was wonderful to see Mom waiting for Reggie and me at the gate. I’d barely had time to put my carryall on the floor before she’d gathered me into a bear hug. It was incredible that a woman who looked as sophisticated and refined as Mom could squeeze a person that hard.

I laughed. “You look terrific.” She’d had summery highlights added to her medium blond hair and had it cut to delicately frame her face. Other than that, she looked as she had when Ted and I had visited a few weeks ago. “I love your hair.”

“Thanks.” She brushed a strand of it off her shoulder. “This was Stefan’s idea. He’s the head hairstylist on set. This is my first time working with him, but I adore him. He’s a genius.” Mom turned to Reggie and gave her a more conservative hug. “How are you, dear?”

“I’m great,” Reggie said. “Thank you for having me as a guest in your home and for including me in this cool project.”

“You’re welcome at my house anytime,” Mom said. “As for the project, don’t thank me until you’ve met Ms. Shrew . . . I mean,
Tru
.” She glanced at her watch. “Come on. We have to get your luggage and get to the restaurant. We’re meeting Henry at Le P’tit Laurent.”

I hated that we didn’t have time to run by Mom’s house and freshen up before going to dinner. I supposed retouching my makeup in the car would have to do.

As we drove to the restaurant, I reiterated to Mom how scared I’d been yesterday morning. “You can’t imagine the panic I felt when Ted chased that guy around the corner, and then I heard gunshots.”

Mom took one hand off the steering wheel to pat my arm. “I’m so sorry, darling. I’m surprised you even came to San Fran after that. But it’s all right now, isn’t it? They caught the man.”

I flipped down the visor and lifted the cover of the vanity mirror so I could apply my lipstick. Reggie was sitting in the backseat directly behind me, and I noticed her eyes dart from left to right. “Actually, the man escaped.”

“Escaped? How?” Mom asked.

“The deputy was handcuffing the suspect,” Reggie said. “He’d clasped on one of the cuffs, but the suspect elbowed him in the stomach and then whirled around to head butt him before he could get the other one fastened. Officer Childress was knocked unconscious. By the time his partner and Manu reached him, the suspect was gone.”

“So this crazy person is on the loose, and he knows Ted can identify him,” Mom said.

I hadn’t thought about that.

“I don’t think he’ll hang around Tallulah Falls,” Reggie said. “He’s facing multiple felony charges. He wants to be as far away from Ted as he can get.”

“But what if Mom is right?” I asked. “What if he stays and tries to hurt Ted because Ted can identify him?”

“He won’t,” Reggie said firmly.

“It was my fault that the man escaped, wasn’t it?” I sighed. “If I hadn’t gone running over to make sure Ted was all right, the suspect would still be in custody.”

“You don’t know that,” Reggie said.

“Yeah . . . I think I
do
know that.”

•   •   •

Le P’tit Laurent was located in Glen Park. Glen Park was close enough to Miraloma Park, where Mom lived, that I was still a little put out that we couldn’t swing by the house to freshen up before meeting Henry at the restaurant. Of course, Le P’tit Laurent was extremely popular and required advance reservations, and Mom knew me well enough to realize that my “freshening up” would turn into an hour of changing clothes, washing my face and redoing my makeup, and fussing with my hair. So she was smart to drive us straight to the restaurant where Henry was already waiting at an intimate corner table.

I’d dined at Le P’tit Laurent before, but I was struck anew at the elegance of the French eatery. The gleaming dark hardwood floors provided a stark contrast to the pristine white tablecloths, napkins, and dinnerware bearing the restaurant’s name in red. The table was set with crystal stemware, and Henry looked as if he was more than ready to use his wineglass.

He was as distinguished looking as you might imagine a Hollywood producer-director to be. His dark hair had grayed at the temples, and he had clear blue eyes . . . tonight. Sometimes his eyes were brown, sometimes green, sometimes violet. . . . He was a big fan of colored contact lenses.

He rose from his cane-backed chair when we approached the table. “Bev, you look lovely,” he said, as he pulled out her chair. “You too, Marcy.”

“Good to see you again, Mr. Beaumont,” I said. “This is Reggie Singh. She’s an expert at Indian embroidery.”

Reggie and Henry exchanged pleasantries as we sat down.

“Have you seen Laurent this evening?” Mom asked Henry.

Laurent Legendre was the owner of the restaurant, and he took a very hands-on approach to running the place. He often greeted and conversed with diners.

“He came by about ten minutes ago—just after I got here,” Henry said.

“I’m sorry I missed him,” Mom said. “But if I know Laurent, he’ll be back.”

I grinned. “If he realizes you’re here, he will be. If nothing else, he’ll come over so you can tell him for the umpteenth time that he looks like that French football player. . . . What’s his name?”

“Didier Deschamps,” Mom answered. “And Laurent
does
resemble the man.” She chuckled. “But let’s get down to business. I’ve already told Henry that you, Reggie, and a few of your friends will be helping the costuming department out with the extensive embroidery that needs to be done.”

“Yes, and I’m especially glad to have you on board, Reggie,” Henry said. “Not only will you be able to contribute your own embroidery skills, you can serve as a quality adviser on the rest of the work—making sure it looks authentic and up to par.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Reggie said. “I’m not here to critique anyone.”

“But if not you, then who?” asked Henry. “You’re an expert on the craft, and you can ensure the veracity of the workmanship. You’ve seen it all your life, correct?”

“Well, yes,” she said.

“All right then.” Henry gave a nod of satisfaction and dismissal.

Reggie was saved from further commenting when the waiter arrived to take our order. I could tell by the way she was fidgeting that she felt nervous and out of her element, but I also knew she’d be fine when she got used to the movie people. There was no way she’d let any shoddy work go out on her watch.

We each ordered our food, and Henry asked for a bottle of Château de Seguin to be served while we were waiting on our food. I felt tired from working all day and then traveling, and I certainly didn’t need a glass of wine to exacerbate that feeling. But I didn’t want to appear rude, so when the waiter returned, I accepted a glass, sipped it, and commented on its robust flavor.

“So how is everything coming along with the film?” I asked.

“Almost everything is going swimmingly.” He took a deep drink of his wine.

“Is there a problem with the cast?” I could hear the hopeful note in Mom’s voice as she posed the question. I knew she’d love for Henry to say that Babushka Tru wasn’t working out.

“No. The cast is fabulous,” Henry said. “I’m just not a hundred percent satisfied with the set for Somwarpet. That’s the town where Sonam Zakaria was from.”

“I’m familiar with Somwarpet,” Reggie said. “It’s a quaint little town.”

“So you’ve actually been there?” Henry asked.

Reggie nodded. “Often. In fact, there’s a heavily wooded area on the outskirts of Tallulah Falls that reminds me of Somwarpet.”

“Really?” A slow smile spread across Henry’s face, and he took his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “Excuse me, ladies.”

I had a feeling Reggie and I would have some company on the flight home.

•   •   •

After dinner, Reggie, Mom, and I went to Mom’s house. Too tired to unpack, I simply washed my face, put on my pjs and slippers, and went in search of Mom.

The house I grew up in was gorgeous. Other than furniture (rarely) and accents (often), Mom didn’t change much about the home. She never felt the need to redo the color scheme or tear out the kitchen for a full remodel. That’s why, no matter how long I was away for at a stretch, the house was constant, familiar, and comforting. The house was a Victorian, built in 1920 and completely upgraded before Mom and Dad bought it in 1975.

I found Mom in her office. The room was the perfect blend of sophistication and glamour that Mom had not only infused into our home but into her personal style as well. The heavy burgundy velvet drapes framing the window behind her glass-topped desk were pulled back and held with a tasseled gold cord. Ebony cabinets and shelves lined the wall to the right of the desk and gleamed in the light emanating from the crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room.

I sank onto the wine-colored sofa with the gold fleurs-de-lis, and I sighed.

Mom looked up from the notebook in which she’d been writing. “In order to be more dramatic, dear, you should throw your wrist across your forehead when you sigh like that. What’s up?”

“I’m just tired.”

She scoffed. “I know there’s more to it than that.”

“I’m concerned about this project,” I said. “On the one hand, I’m thrilled with the prospect of being able to help you out. On the other hand, I’m afraid my work won’t meet the demanding expectations of Babushka Tru . . . or the awards committee, for that matter.”

“Oh, I don’t give a fig about the diva
or
the awards committee.” She angled her head slightly. “I care less about Babs than I do the committee, but I have no doubt you’ll do a fantastic job. So you have nothing to worry about.” She frowned. “It’s not like you to get so nervous over a new adventure. After all, you left everything you’d been familiar with here and moved to Oregon without any qualms whatsoever. What’s got you so worked up about helping with costumes on this movie?”

“I’m really not sure.” I shrugged. “I just have this feeling of foreboding.”

She scooted back her chair and came to give me a hug. Sitting beside me with one arm still around my shoulders, she said, “I think what you’re really worried about is Ted . . . because that gunman escaped.”

“That could be part of it. I’ll call him in a few minutes and make sure he and Angus are doing all right. Still, there’s something about this movie—something about Babs—that concerns me. I’m afraid this project won’t end well.”

Mom gave me a one-armed squeeze. “You let me worry about Babs. I can handle whatever she throws at me.”

I hoped that was true. But my sense of unease didn’t go away.

•   •   •

By the time Reggie and I had awakened and got ready to go on Saturday morning, Mom had already been down to Creighton’s and bought us some delicious ham and cheese croissants for breakfast. We didn’t have time to linger over them, though. The studio beckoned.

When we pulled up to the guard shack, Mom passed along an extra croissant to Bertram, a stocky, older gentleman who’d been the gatekeeper there for the past twenty-five years. He gratefully accepted the treat and, with a wink, pushed the button that raised the white metal bar and allowed us into the studio.

“Henry is working at soundstage two today,” Mom said. “It’s where most of the indoor shots for the movie are being filmed.”

She parked the car, and we strode to the cavernous building that housed the interior sets for the movie, currently titled
Sonam Zakaria: A Glamorous Life
.

The red light indicating filming was taking place inside was off when we arrived, and Mom took Reggie and me onto the set. We picked our way over cables, around cameras, and through scurrying groups of people to stand quietly and watch the cast going through their lines.

Although this was merely a rehearsal and the actors weren’t in costume, it didn’t appear to me that Sonam Zakaria’s life had been all that glamorous. Since Babushka Tru wasn’t in her movie makeup, I couldn’t tell if the scene being rehearsed had taken place at the beginning or the end of her career. The set was a seedy-looking hotel room. The furniture was cheap and unattractive, and the wallpaper was peeling. Had this been the actual room rather than a re-creation, I’d have expected it to smell musty and stale . . . maybe smoky too.

Before we could observe very much of the scene, Henry called for the cast and crew to take a thirty-minute break. He turned with an exasperated sigh, but smiled when he saw us.

“Beverly, Marcy, Reggie!” His voice boomed across the room, and I was embarrassed when just about everybody turned to look at us. “Come over and meet Babs!”

Babs, who’d been stalking away, turned only when Henry caught her by the arm. She rolled her large dark eyes and flipped her long black hair over her shoulder. “I met the seamstress yesterday, Henry. Remember?”

“She’s the costume designer, darling, and I want you to meet a couple of the women who’ll be embroidering your fabulous saris and tunics,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, her voice flat and bored.

“Because it would be a nice thing for you to do.” Henry spoke softly, but the acoustics were terrific, and we heard him as if he’d been standing directly in front of us rather than halfway across the room.

“I don’t feel like being nice right now,” Babs hissed. “Tell the sewing machines I’ll catch up with them later.”

Mom said nothing, but I could tell she was seething when she gave me a pointed look that clearly said,
See what I mean?

Swishing her hair over her shoulder again, Babs left Henry standing alone. He looked embarrassed when he came to join us.

“Babs isn’t feeling very well right now,” he told us.

“No problem,” I said. “Mainly we’re just here to get Mom’s sketches and some of the clothing we’ll be working on for the shoot. We didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

Henry smiled at me warmly. “You’re a welcome distraction.”

“I imagine so,” Mom said.

“What do you mean?” Henry asked, his smile fading.

“Only that the scene we were watching looked pretty intense,” I said, meaning the one
after
the scene that was supposed to be in the movie.

“Exactly.” Mom gave Henry a tight smile. “I get the feeling this is going to be a labor-intensive project for all of us.”