Stitch Me Deadly (24 page)

“How long had you worked for Mr. Gray?” I asked Eleanor.

“I’m just finishing up paralegal training in a few weeks,” she said, “but he was letting me work with him as a favor to Grandma. It was a great way to gain experience.”

“What will you do now?”

“I’m applying for jobs in sunny California.” Eleanor gave me a half smile. “I’m so tired of Oregon. Besides, I have nothing to keep me here now. The house is gone, the furnishings are gone. . . . I’m going to sublet my apartment and use the proceeds from the auction to start over in northern California.”

“Good for you. I know all about starting over,” I said. “I left accounting in San Francisco to become an embroidery shop owner here in Tallulah Falls.”

Eleanor chuckled. “Like Cary told you on Saturday, I was a nurse for a little while. It was a shame to throw away the education and the expense of nursing school. But after being in that field for three years, I couldn’t do it anymore. It’s exhausting—physically, mentally, emotionally.” She sighed. “There was one patient in particular. Her name was Clarissa Simons. She was young. She appeared to be so full of life when I met her, but her body was riddled with cancer. I watched her deteriorate day after day until she died.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It was then I decided life is too short to waste. The day she died was the day I gave up nursing.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s quite a story.”

“It was quite an experience.” She turned to me, seeming to shake off the melancholy of reminiscing about Clarissa Simons. “So, Marcy, do you know any attorneys in northern California who might be looking for a good paralegal?”

“I’ll check with my mom’s attorney and see,” I said. “He has excellent connections.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She stood. “I’ll be in town for at least another month, so if you come up with anything, please let me know.”

I assured her I would, and she left. I returned to the office and booted up my computer. As soon as I had logged on to the Internet, I did a search for the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos. As suspected, the photograph of the back of the building wasn’t on the bed-and-breakfast’s Web site. I couldn’t find it on any of the other search sites, either. I copied down the B and B’s phone number.

The photograph encompassed the mansion’s large yard surrounded by the white picket fence—a perfect illustration for a brochure advertising a children’s home. And whoever had taken it had been there.

I took out the
Boulevard of Broken Dreams
piece I was working on for Mom’s birthday. Since she wouldn’t be in today, I hoped I could get quite a bit of work done on it.

I returned to the sit-and-stitch square with the project, the phone number, and my cell phone. I punched in the number for the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos, and then I put the phone on speaker and waited for someone to answer. Since the project was stamped on the fabric, I was able to stitch without worrying about counting, which made multitasking much easier.

“Good morning, the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos,” a cheerful voice answered.

“Good morning. My name is Marcy Singer, and I’m calling from Tallulah Falls, Oregon. My mother and I stayed in your Egyptian Room several years ago.”

“And you’re calling to reserve the room again?” she asked.

“No, I’m afraid not. I believe someone used a photograph of the Victorian Mansion in a brochure for a nonexistent children’s home called Sunshine Manor.”

“Are you certain it’s our bed-and-breakfast?” she asked.

“I’ll be happy to fax you the brochure, and you can see for yourself,” I said.

“Would you?”

“Of course. I know this is a long shot, but the reason I’m calling is to ask you to go back through your records of the past couple years to see if any of the people suspected in defrauding this lady stayed at your bed-and-breakfast.”

“I guess I could do that,” she said. “Are you a police officer or federal agent or—”

“Um . . . actually, I’m. . . .”

At that moment, Ted Nash walked through the door. I held up the phone to let him know I was on speaker.

“Actually,” I said, “I’m with Chief Detective Ted Nash of the Tallulah Falls Police Department.”

“All right,” the woman said. “If you’ll fax me the brochure and the list of names, I’ll look into this matter right away.”

“Thank you so much for your help,” I said.

I ended the call and smiled at Ted. “Hello.”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m being punked or something?” he asked. “I come in, and you’re on the phone and you suddenly tell the person on the other end,
I’m with Ted Nash
.”

I bit my lip. “Well, I needed her help and I . . . kinda thought it would sound better coming from you.”

“You thought what would sound better coming from me?”

I explained about Sunshine Manor, the brochure, and the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos. Then I backtracked and told Ted about Mom and me going to the historical society and learning about Louisa’s baby by Edward Larkin. “Mom, Riley, and I were able to find out that Louisa had a baby named Ivy while she was at Tipton-Haney House. The baby was adopted by a couple with the surname Sutherland.”

“Having a child in a women’s home like that would make Louisa open to supporting a similar charity,” Ted said.

“Right. And whoever set her up knew that. I believe that if the woman at the Victorian Mansion at Los Alamos can look back through her guest records and find a person connected to Louisa Ralston, then we have our fraud agent
and
we just might have Mrs. Ralston’s killer.”

“Excellent work, Inch-High Private Eye.” He grinned.

“Thanks,” I said, ignoring the jibe. “But get this—according to Marsha, Adam Gray’s secretary, Ms. Ellis is the one who told Louisa Ralston about Sunshine Manor.”

“Then you believe Ms. Ellis is involved?” Ted asked.

“Not directly, but I think someone connected to her might be.”

“You mean Cary.”

I closed my eyes. “I don’t want it to be, but . . . yeah, I think it might be.”

“Have you spoken with Ms. Ellis?” he asked.

“No. What would I do? Call her up and asked how she found out about Sunshine Manor?”

“I’ll feed this lead to Detectives Ray and Bailey,” he said. “They’ll follow up with Ms. Ellis.”

“You don’t think they’ll be too hard on her, do you?”

He shook his head. “They’re tough, but they’re not abusive. Even if she is the person who did her sister in, they’ll handle her with kid gloves.”

“Wait. You don’t think that’s possible, do you?” I asked.

“In this business, I’ve learned
anything
is possible.” He began ticking off items on his fingers. “She suggested Sunshine Manor. She takes Halumet. She may have been resentful of Louisa.”

“But, Ted, Ms. Ellis has all that money! She has that gigantic house and—”

“It’s not always about money,” he said. “Sometimes there are factors far more volatile. I have a cousin who is a marshal in Savannah. He says the saying there is,
In the South, you only kill those you really, really love
.”

“I’ve seen my share of detective shows.” I set the stitchery project aside. “Nine times out of ten, it
is
about the money.”

He wrinkled his brow. “I’d say seven times out of ten. But the other three times, it has something to do with love.”

“So who all do you think I should put on the list of people who had it in for Mrs. Ralston?” I asked.

“Millicent Ellis, Cary Ellis, Frank Ralston—”

“Frank? Why? Hasn’t he been dead too long to be involved?”

“He has,” Ted agreed, “but someone might’ve used his name at the B and B. In fact, go ahead and put Louisa Ralston’s name on that list, too.”

“All right. Who else?”

He sighed. “Adam Gray, Marsha . . . whatever her last name is, Eleanor Ralston, Edward Larkin, Ivy Larkin, Ivy Sutherland. And you.”

“Me?”

He nodded. “Don’t forget, there might be a reason Louisa Ralston collapsed here in your shop rather than someplace else.”

I
was sitting on one of the red chairs in the sit-and-stitch square working on Mom’s birthday present when Sadie came in after the lunch rush.

“I looked around this morning, and you’d gone,” she said, coming over to sit on the sofa facing away from the window.

I nodded. “It was obvious you were upset with me, and I didn’t want to deal with that. So I got my cappuccinos and muffins at the coffeehouse near Adam Gray’s office.”

“Sorry about that.” She leaned back into the sofa cushions. “I was just feeling weird. This weekend I began second-guessing things all over again. Whether I could really trust Blake . . . whether or not he truly loves me . . . whether anyone’s relationship actually winds up ‘happily ever after.’”

“Sadie, you’ve got to quit doing that. You told me yourself that you were following the steps to regaining trust, and one of those steps was to make the conscious effort to trust.”

“I know. I love Blake with all my heart, and I’m terrified of getting hurt.” She sighed. “I know his breach of trust wasn’t life-shattering—it’s not like he had an affair or anything—but it still scares me.”

“He adores you. Trust him.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right. So what about you and Todd . . . and you and Ted?” she asked.

“Whatever is meant to be will be,” I said, stitching the diner’s counter in the
Boulevard of Broken Dreams
. “I’m not rushing into anything with either one. But I’ve been hurt so badly in the past . . . and I think both Todd and Ted have, too. We all need to know where we’re going and what we want before any of us try to pursue a relationship. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do. I got lucky. Blake was my first real love . . . and he still is.”

I smiled. “You
did
get lucky.”

“Did I tell you we’re trying for a baby again?” she asked. “I think that’s why I’m feeling panicky and afraid to trust again. That’s such a huge step.”

“I know. But I also know you two will make terrific parents.” I tilted my head. “Plus, Riley has given me lots of practice making bibs and other baby things, so I’ll be ready when you do get pregnant.”

She stood. “I’d better get back over to the café before Blake gets swamped.”

As she was leaving, my phone rang.

“Hi, Ms. Singer,” the perky female voice said. “This is Debbie with the Victorian Mansion in Los Alamos. I’ve had a chance to look over your fax.”

“And?”
Sorry, but I was impatient.

“You’re right about the house on the brochure. It isn’t Sunshine Manor. It’s the back entrance to the Victorian Mansion. But none of the people on your list has ever stayed here . . . unless they did so under another name.”

“You’re sure?” I asked.

“Double-checked. Is there anyone else you’d like me to look for?”

“No, but thank you so much.”

“Call me back if you need anything else,” she said. “I’m not particularly crazy about a photo of our bed-and-breakfast being used to scam people, either.”

That evening I took Mom to the seafood restaurant overlooking the ocean that Cary had taken us to. She ordered salmon steak this time, and I ordered tilapia.

“The bed-and-breakfast lead was a bust,” I said, as I tore open a garlic cheese biscuit.

“Really?”

I nodded. “The woman said none of the names on my list came up. On Ted’s advice, I even added my name to the list.”

She frowned. “And, of course, your name would’ve never come up because when we stayed there it was under my name.”

“Right. So if our Sunshine Manor person stayed with someone else, then we’ll never know.”

Mom reached across the table and patted my hand. “It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”

“I know.” Actually, I didn’t know. I didn’t have a clue. But I didn’t want her to worry more than she was already.

“What a surprise!”

I looked up to see Devon Reed and Ella Redmond standing by our table. It was Devon who’d spoken.

“Hello,” I said wearily.

“Did you enjoy yourselves at the auction?” Mom asked archly.

“Supremely,” Devon said.

“I did, too,” Ella said. “I bought the portrait of Louisa Ralston.”

My eyes widened. “You bought the portrait? I can’t believe Eleanor included that in the auction.”

“Yes, well, it’s a lovely portrait, and I have a vacant wall in my living room.” She smiled. “It looks beautiful. You’ll have to come by and see it.”

“Yes, I will,” I said.

“Why did you buy a portrait of someone you didn’t know?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know,” Ella said. “I felt sad for her, I suppose.”

“Besides, it’ll look great in the documentary,” said Devon, “if we’re able to find out what happened to Mrs. Ralston.”

“Yes,” I said, “I guess it will.”