Stitch Me Deadly (3 page)

“I’ll do that, Marcy, if anyone asks about them. Thank you.”

“Thank
you
, Mr. Gray.” I left the Ralston home with the sampler and the sewing kit. In one way, I felt I’d hit the jackpot, but in another way, I felt terribly sorry for the family if none of them could see the value in either of these items.

 

 

Before going to the shop, I stopped by the pharmacy. I bought throat lozenges, honey, chamomile and echinacea tea bags, nondrowsy cold medicine, and tissues. Hopefully, my purchases would get me through the day.

I’d awakened feeling worse this morning than I had yesterday. The tickle in my throat had become a full-blown ache, and my head was stuffy. I almost—mind you,
almost
—wished Mom was still visiting. It would have been nice to have some maternal pampering. But I didn’t need the temptation that she’d offered over and over again to “come back home to San Francisco and open your little shop there.”

This was my first winter on the Oregon coast, and frankly, I was finding all this rain a little dismal. While winters in San Francisco had had their fair share of rain, there had been also plenty of mild, sunny days. Plus, winters in San Francisco had Mom’s cook, Frances, spoiling me with chowders, pasta salads, and cookies. Winters here, so far, consisted of umbrellas, raincoats, and sniffles.

Not that I wouldn’t get used to it. And it wasn’t that there weren’t things to love about Tallulah Falls in the winter. There was the whale watching, of course. And the agate hunters gathering in the early mornings to check out the bedrock. I went myself once and even found a stone large enough to have made into a pendant. Plus, Sadie and Blake had assured me there would be some warm, clear days when Angus and I could play on the beach to our hearts’ content.

I opened the shop and went to the back to stash my cold remedies. Almost immediately, the bell above the door signaled that I had a visitor . . . a customer, I hoped. I popped a throat lozenge into my mouth and went out to the counter.

Rajani “Reggie” Singh—the local librarian and an embroiderer extraordinaire—and a woman I’d never met were standing just inside the shop.

“There you are,” Reggie said, approaching the counter. She wore a long, light blue tunic with white trim, matching trousers, and a matching scarf. Her short gray hair was covered by a white rain hat and her small round glasses were spattered with rain. She took the glasses off and cleaned them with the tail of her scarf, then returned them to her face. “Marcy, I’d like you to meet Ella Redmond. Ella is the library’s new genealogist.”

I smiled at Ella, a tall, angular woman dressed completely in black. The color wasn’t very complementary to her auburn hair and wan complexion, but overall, she was an attractive woman who appeared to be in her mid- to late forties. “It’s nice to meet you, Ella.”

I wasn’t aware libraries employed genealogists, especially a library as small as the one here in Tallulah Falls. But Reggie was an excellent librarian, and if she felt she needed a genealogist, I’m sure she did.

“Rajani”—Ella glanced at her companion—“or, rather, Reggie, has told me about your embroidery classes, and I’d love to attend one. I’m new in town, and I think it would be a great way to meet people. Plus, I’m really interested in learning some needlework techniques.”

“We’ll be delighted to have you. Reggie’s class meets tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” Ella said. “I’ll be there.”

I looked at Reggie. “Did you know Louisa Ralston?”

Reggie frowned. “The name sounds familiar. I’d probably recognize her if I saw her. Why?”

I explained the events of yesterday morning.

“That’s odd,” Reggie said. “Had she been sick, or did this just strike her suddenly?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I totally forgot to ask Mr. Gray if Mrs. Ralston had been sick. He seemed to have been really close to her.”

Reggie tapped a forefinger against the counter. “I wonder what was so pressing that she came out in that driving rain yesterday to find—What did you say it was? Ivy?”

“That’s what she said.” I retrieved the sampler and unwrapped it for them.

“Oh, this is gorgeous,” Reggie said.

“It is.” Ella frowned slightly. “The verse does mention ivy.”

“Right,” I said. “I thought she might be looking for that particular shade of green, but the green used in the verse is more of a jade. Don’t you think?”

“I do.” Reggie studied the sampler intently.

“Here’s the other weird thing,” I said. “The original verse was torn out and replaced with this one not all that long ago. Why would someone do that?”

“You know,” Ella said, “people sometimes incorporate their family trees into embroidery projects. You don’t think Ivy could be a person, do you?”

“I hadn’t considered that,” I said, “but I kind of feel I should look into it. I mean, she wanted to find ‘ivy’ so badly.”

We chatted for a while about some new embroidery projects, a new recipe Reggie was trying on her husband, Manu, tonight, and Ella’s move and her new apartment in Tallulah Falls. Then another customer stopped by to pick up a needlepoint pattern book, and Reggie and Ella took that as their cue and went on their way.

After the customer had left, I called Mr. Gray to ask if Mrs. Ralston had a relative named Ivy.

“Not that I’m aware of, dear, but you might check with some of the Ralston family. Were you planning to attend the visitation tomorrow?”

Actually, I hadn’t given it any thought. But now I found myself saying, “Yes, Mr. Gray. I’ll be there.”

Despite the fact that only a few more brave customers battled the rain to visit the shop, the morning passed surprisingly fast. I was sitting at the counter having some tomato soup when Detective Ted Nash came in. Ted and I had become acquainted during the Timothy Enright case. We somehow had progressed from detective-suspect status to friends, and I felt there was some chemistry between us. We could probably be more than friends if I gave Ted any encouragement. But on the one hand, I’d been casually dating Todd Calloway, who owns the craft brewery across the street. And on the other hand, after being left practically at the altar by my fiancé, David, a year ago, I was rather gun-shy on romance.

Like everyone else who had come into the shop the past two days, Ted parked his umbrella in the corner beside the door. For some reason, this finally drove home to me the necessity of putting an umbrella stand in that corner. I made a mental note to get one as soon as possible.

“Would you like some soup?” I asked.

Ted shook his head. “I’m here off the record.”

“And your being here off the record prevents you from having soup?”

“No, it’s not. . . . I’ve already eaten lunch. I’m here because I’m concerned about you.”

Wow. I’d heard about the small-town grapevine, but this was ridiculous
. “It’s only a cold. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“I wasn’t talking about your cold. I’m talking about Louisa Ralston.”

“Oh, I know. Wasn’t that terrible? She seemed like a wonderful person. Did you know her?”

Ted closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He gave a big sigh before dropping his hand and opening his eyes. “Later today you are going to be questioned about Mrs. Ralston’s death.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? That’s it? Okay?”

I shrugged. “Um . . . yeah. I mean, after the whole Timothy Enright debacle, answering a few questions about a woman who had a heart attack in my store will be easy. Right?”

Ted stared at me as if he’d never seen me before. Then he said, “Come sit down with me.”

Leaving my mug on the counter, I slowly joined Ted on the navy sofa facing the window. “Why are you looking at me that way?” I asked. “She did die of a heart attack, didn’t she?”

He ran his hand through his dark hair, which was prematurely streaked with gray. “Technically, yes, Mrs. Ralston suffered a myocardial infarction. But it was caused by a drug used to treat manic depression.”

“Mrs. Ralston was manic-depressive?”

“No, Marcy, she wasn’t. And that’s why the drug—a central nervous system depressant—caused her to suffer a heart attack.”

“That’s terrible! That means . . . Mrs. Ralston was murdered.”

“Precisely.”

“And the police want to question me because . . .” I let the question hang there.

“Because Mrs. Ralston ingested the medication shortly before her death. You were the last person to speak with her and . . .”

“And what?”
Although the weight in the pit of my stomach told me even before Ted did.

He sighed again. “And you gave her a cup of tea.”

“So? It hadn’t even been opened. The worst thing I could’ve done to Mrs. Ralston would have been to give her a cold. There’s no way the tea did her in. Besides, I had a cup of tea that came from the same pot just after the paramedics left with Mrs. Ralston.”

“What did you do with the cup Mrs. Ralston drank from?”

“I threw it away, of course.”

“Of course.” He rubbed his chin. “All right, here’s what you need to do. Since you have nothing to hide, allow the police to search your shop and house.”

“Search my house? That’s a total invasion of my privacy.” I could not believe yet another murder was being linked to me and my shop. Instead of the Seven-Year Stitch, people were going to start calling it Embroidery Shop of the Dead or Little Embroidery Shop of Horrors. Or worse: Closed.

“Still,” Ted said, “it keeps them from being suspicious and getting a search warrant.”

“Don’t they need to have grounds for a search warrant?” I asked. “I only met Mrs. Ralston yesterday. What reason would I possibly have to want to harm her?”

“I don’t know, Marcy. I only came here to give you a heads-up and to try to help. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“I’m sorry.” I got up and started toward the office.

“Where are you going?”

“To get my house key. If anyone is going to search my house, I’d prefer it to be you rather than some stranger.”

“I can’t,” Ted said. “This is not my case.”

“Well, Manu, then.” Manu Singh, Reggie’s husband, was also Tallulah Falls’ newly appointed chief of police. “Can’t he do it?”

Ted shook his head. “It’s in the county, not the town. If it would make you feel better, I can have the chief see if the investigators will allow him to accompany them.”

“I’d appreciate that.” I went back to the sofa, sat down, and placed my hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

The bell over the shop door jingled, signaling the arrival of Todd Calloway.

“Well, howdy, Wyatt Earp,” Todd said to Ted. He tipped an imaginary cowboy hat at me. “Ma’am.”

Ted nodded as he stood. “Calloway.” He looked down at me. “If you need me for anything, I’m just a phone call away.”

“Is that offer open to anybody, Detective?” Todd asked.

Ted merely shook his head in disgust and left.

Todd sat down beside me on the sofa. “What’s with Earp? Here I am, coming to offer you sympathy and maybe a promise of some chicken soup, and now I’m wondering if I might have to help you make bail.”

“Well, not yet. But if you have any funds you’d like to donate to that cause, please hang on to them.”

Todd laughed, but I didn’t.

“What?” he asked, taking my hand. “Are you serious?”

I explained what Ted had told me about Louisa Ralston’s heart attack and the tea I’d given her. “Ted advised me to allow the investigators to search the shop and house to prove I have nothing to hide. I’d rather not do that, but I do want this whole mess to be over as soon as possible. Plus, Ted said he’d see if Manu would request to join the investigators.” I leaned my head back against the sofa. “What do you think I should do?”

“It’s like you said. You don’t have anything to hide. And with Manu observing the whole process, I don’t think you’d have anything to worry about.”

“So you’d allow them to do the search without having them obtain a warrant?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I believe I would.”

F
ortunately—or maybe unfortunately; I wasn’t sure which yet—those county investigators didn’t drag their feet. They arrived at the Seven-Year Stitch less than an hour after Todd had left. I was glad to see Manu with them.

Manu approached the counter while the two Tallulah County investigators surveyed the shop with their hands on their hips and their thumbs tucked in their belt loops. I felt they were trying to be intimidating and wondered if they resented Manu’s presence.

Manu, on the other hand, looked like an affable uncle. He wore jeans and cowboy boots with his uniform shirt. And his brown eyes were warm and friendly. “Hey, Marcy,” he said with a smile. “How are you, kiddo?”

I returned his smile, appreciating his reassuring presence. “I’m all right, all things considered.”

“These men are with the county sheriff’s department, and they’d like to speak with you about Louisa Ralston.”

As if on cue, the investigators removed their thumbs from their belt loops and sauntered to the counter. The lead investigator took a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket.

“Ms. Singer,” he said, “I understand you haven’t lived in Tallulah Falls very long. Is that correct?”

“I moved here and opened my shop in September, so I’ve been here about four months.”

“And why did you do that?” he asked.

I frowned. “Move here or open a shop?”

“Relocate,” Manu said.

“Oh.” I grinned. “The accounting world simply became too exciting for me to handle, I guess.”

The investigators did not grin back, but Manu nodded slightly.

“Did you have any prior association with Louisa Ralston?” the lead investigator asked.

“No, sir.”

“Had she been in your shop prior to the day in question?” the other investigator asked.