Stitch Me Deadly (8 page)

“Good morning, ladies,” he said.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Don’t you look dapper?” Mom said. “You remind me of a young Cary Grant.” She released the toy, and Angus took it and trotted over to lie by the window in the sun.

“Thank you so much. He’s my namesake.” He grinned and inclined his head. “But rather than naming me Archibald Leach Ellis—thank heavens—Mother named me Carrington Grant Ellis.”

Mom laughed. “How delightful!”

“Thank you.” He took a seat on the sofa facing away from the window, removed his hat, and placed it on the coffee table. “You speak as if you’re a fan of Mr. Grant.”

I quickly finished the floss display and joined Cary and Mom in the sitting area.

“I am a fan,” Mom said. “Grant, Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn—I love all the icons of old Hollywood glamour.”

“So do I,” Cary said. “In fact, you looked as if you may have been channeling Grace Kelly yourself last night. You looked very elegant. And, Marcy, I’d say you reminded me of Audrey Hepburn in a Givenchy LBD.”

“Wow,” Mom said, “I’m impressed with your fashion knowledge. How many men would know
LBD
for
little black dress
, much less that Givenchy was a popular designer for Audrey Hepburn?”

I was wondering if Cary might be gay.

Cary laughed. “Thank you. Wait a second—Beverly Singer. Are you
the
Beverly Singer? The
Queen of Claremont
costume designer?”

“I am.”

“Oh, you’re absolutely brilliant. You made Gloria Padget look wonderful as Queen Victoria.”

Mom laughed. “No easy task, I assure you.”

Cary and I laughed, too. Gloria Padget had been one of Mom’s first “divas.”

“How do you know so much about fashion and costuming?” Mom asked.

“It’s what I do,” Cary said. “I own a boutique. I once aspired to be a fashion designer myself, but I simply didn’t have the talent. I can, however, recognize talent and appreciate beauty. I carry a lot of designers’ clothing, both known and new.”

“I’d love to check it out,” I said. “Where’s your shop?”

“It’s only about thirty minutes away from here. It’s called Carrington’s.” He reached into his breast pocket and handed me a business card. “I have something else for you, too.” He took out an envelope. “Here is some information I was able to pull together on Millicent Connor, Aunt Louisa’s great-grandmother, to go along with the sampler. As for Aunt Louisa herself, why don’t I give the two of you a tour of her home so you can learn all about her yourselves?”

“I’d love that,” I said. “And I know you would, Mom. Mrs. Ralston’s house is beautiful.”

“How’s this?” Cary went on. “What if I take the two of you to dinner this evening and on to the house after we’ve finished dining?”

“That would be far too great an imposition,” I said.

“It certainly would not,” Cary said. “It would give me the opportunity to pick one of the greatest brains in Hollywood costume design today.”

Mom beamed. “It’s settled, then. What time should we be ready?”

Vera Langhorne came into the shop minutes after Cary Ellis had driven away in his black Mercedes. She sniffed the air. “I smell men’s cologne. It smells great . . . a Ralph Lauren scent, maybe?” She smiled at me. “Which of your admirers has been visiting, Marcy?”

“I believe this one favors Mom,” I said, nodding toward my mother, still sitting in the red chair.

“Oh, hello, Beverly,” Vera said. “I didn’t see you here. Plus, I suppose, the scent of men’s cologne addled my brain for a sec.” She giggled. “I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.”

“Neither did I,” Mom said, “but things just worked out this way.”

“That’s a lucky break for us, then,” Vera said. “So who’s
your
admirer?”

“His name is Carrington Ellis. He’s a relative of the woman who collapsed in Marcy’s shop earlier this week.”

“Louisa Ralston,” Vera said. “I didn’t know her personally. It’s such a shame that had to happen, though, for her family and for Marcy. He wasn’t trying to make trouble, was he?”

“Not at all,” I said. “In fact, the heirs are allowing me to keep the sampler Mrs. Ralston brought by, and I’m planning to frame it. I want to make a complete display using the sampler, a brief history of embroidery samplers, and a tribute to the women who created this particular sampler—Mrs. Ralston and her great-grandmother.”

“What a wonderful idea. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.” She moved over to the navy sofa facing the window. “I thought I’d stitch and visit for a while if that’s all right.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” I said. “I’ll join you, and you can save Mom from being stuck talking only with me all day.”

I took my current project—Riley’s baby’s christening gown—from behind the counter and sat on the sofa beside Vera. I’d brought it from home to try to finish up today.

Vera drew in her breath. “That’s gorgeous!” She turned to Mom. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

“It is,” Mom said. “My daughter does terrific work.”

“She certainly does.” Vera took out her latest cross-stitch project—a pillowcase with a floral border across the hem. She was making herself a set.

“What are you working on?” Mom asked.

Vera proudly held up her pillowcase. “I’m saving my needlepoint project for class nights.” She was halfway finished with this pillowcase, and it looked really pretty. Fortunately for Vera, the pattern was stamped onto the fabric and she didn’t have to count her stitches. It really helped her out, especially since she loved to chat while she worked.

Mom made a fuss over Vera’s needlecraft, and Vera blushed with pride. After all, it wasn’t every day the favorite costume designer to A-list actress Clarissa LeBeau bragged on your work.

“You say you didn’t know Mrs. Ralston,” I said to Vera. “But do you happen to know her granddaughter, Eleanor?”

Vera paused in midstitch. “Eleanor Ralston. . . hmm . . . There was an Eleanor Ralston who used to work at John’s bank as a teller. It was several years ago, while she was putting herself through college. Not much sticks out in my mind about her, except for the fact that I felt sorry for her. She seemed broke all the time. Either that, or she was stingy.”

“What made you think that?” I asked.

“She never bought anything—no magazine subscriptions, no cookies, no whatever the kids were selling to support their causes.” Vera resumed stitching. “One day I saw her leave in a brand-new car . . . a sports car. That’s when I thought she might simply be stingy.”

“That,” Mom said, “or all her money went to pay for that sports car.”

“You’ve got a point,” Vera said. “I never had to worry much about money. Mom and Dad had plenty. I know that makes me very lucky. But I’ve seen how other young people have gotten themselves into bad situations by being unable to manage their money.” She shrugged. “From what I’ve read in the paper, that won’t be a concern for Eleanor Ralston any longer.”

“No, I don’t imagine it will.” I resumed work on the gown, but my thoughts were on Eleanor Ralston. I wondered if she’d rebuffed her family’s money to prove that she could stand on her own and now regretted it, or if she’d been denied the money because her family had thought she was irresponsible. Or, as Vera had said, the woman could’ve simply been a miser.

 

 

It was almost closing time, and Mom had taken Angus for a walk when Riley Kendall came in and threw herself onto one of the navy sofas with a dramatic sigh.

“Are you over that cold yet?” she asked.

“I’m feeling much better. Thanks.”

“That’s good.”

“You seem down,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” She took off her shoes. “Look at how my ankles are swelling. My legs are starting to look like stovepipes.”

“Nonsense. You look great. You’ve probably just been on your feet all day.” I sat down on the opposite sofa, keeping the coffee table between us in case any of my common cold germs lingered. “Did you have court today?”

“Yes, and my current client is an idiot,” Riley said. “Doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut and when to elaborate.” She sighed again. “And Dad is depressed.”

“Why?” I’d met Riley’s father, Norman Patrick, a few months ago when I’d been investigating the death of Timothy Enright. He hadn’t struck me as the type of person who’d be given to bouts of depression, despite the fact that he was only halfway into a three-year prison term.

“He’s upset that he’ll still be in prison when the baby is born,” she said. “He says she won’t even know him.”

“It isn’t like he’s going to be incarcerated forever,” I said. “He’ll be out by the time the baby is walking, right?”

“Yeah, I guess. But not even Mom can cheer him up.” She looked up at me. “Would you try? He likes you . . . says you remind him of Tinkerbell.”

Visiting the prison wasn’t high on my list of favorite things to do, but what could I say? “Well, my mom is visiting right now, and I hate to leave her.”

“Couldn’t you bring her along?” Riley asked. “Dad enjoys meeting new people.”

“Please?” Riley’s eyes bored into mine.

How could I disappoint Riley? Besides, her dad might be able to give me more information on Adam Gray.

“Of course. I’ll go up on Sunday. If Mom is still here, maybe she’ll go up with me.”

Riley smiled. “Thank you.” She held up her feet again. “I’m already down to two-inch heels, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to take the plunge and start wearing flats.”

Mom and Angus returned, and I asked Mom to put Angus in the bathroom. Riley liked Angus, but I was afraid that, given her condition, he might hurt her if he jumped up on her.

Mom dropped Angus off, then returned to the sitting area and joined Riley. “You look radiant.”

Riley barked out a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. Or you’re being kind.”

“No, I mean it,” Mom said. “You have a glow about you. I know it’s hard and that this pregnancy is taking its toll on your body, but I can take one look at your face and see that deep down you have a serenity nothing can displace.”

“She’s good,” Riley told me with a grin. “Thank you, Ms. Singer. I appreciate your kind words.” She slipped her feet back into her shoes. “And thank you, Marcy. I’ll tell Dad you’ll be up on Sunday so he can be looking forward to it.”

“Do you think he’d like to see some of the pieces I’ve done for the baby?” I asked.

“You know, I think he would,” Riley said. “It might make him feel a little closer to her.” She smiled. “You guys have a fun evening.”

“You, too,” Mom said. “Go home and let your husband pamper you for a while.”

As soon as Riley left, Mom’s smile faded and she looked at me sharply. “I thought her dad was in prison.”

“He is.”

“And you’re planning to visit him on Sunday?”

“Yeah. Riley said he’s really depressed because he’ll still be in prison when the baby is born. Maybe we can help cheer him up. And maybe he can tell us more about Adam Gray and give us more insight into Louisa Ralston and her relationships with her family members.”

“We?” Mom asked.

“Sure . . . I mean . . . if you’ll still be here Sunday and would like to go. It’s a pretty good drive, and on the way home we can stop in Lincoln City for dinner. We’ll make a day of it.”

Mom closed her eyes and began rubbing her forehead. I went to let Angus out of the bathroom.

“So,” I said when I returned, “would you like to go on Sunday?”

“No. But I’m not letting you traipse off to a prison on your own. I might never hear from you again.”

C
ary took Mom and me to a lovely restaurant overlooking the ocean. The interior was paneled in light oak and tastefully decorated with marine images and photography. The floor was a burgundy carpet, and the tables had white cloths, white napkins with burgundy napkin rings, and fresh pink carnations. Small hurricane lamps on the tables bathed each of them in a warm glow.

We had already ordered and were awaiting our food when I happened to remember Mrs. Ralston’s locket.

“Cary,” I said, “I feel awful about this, but at the visitation for your aunt yesterday evening I forgot to tell Eleanor I found a locket in Mrs. Ralston’s sewing kit.”

He nodded. “I recall your mentioning a locket.”

“I have it with me. Would you mind giving it to her?” I took it out of my purse and handed it to Cary.

“Not at all,” he said as he took the locket. He opened it and held it up to the light. “This is a fantastic photo of Aunt Louisa. She looks so young and innocent. Yet there’s something in her eyes, don’t you think?”

Mom was sitting to Cary’s left, so she leaned over to examine the picture. “There is something a little sad about her expression.”