The Quick and the Thread (7 page)

I grinned. “Was Jill keeping you company?”

He tilted his head. “She’s not much of a conversationalist.”

“She’s just a little shy until you get to know her.”

“Hey, buddy.” Todd patted Angus’ head. “Saw Ted Nash making the rounds. Has he got anything new?”

I took a deep breath. “I’ll say he does. Let’s have a seat.” I stepped around the counter, and Todd joined me in the sitting area. We both took a seat on the navy sofa that faced the windows.

“Bill Trelawney was found shot to death in his car earlier today,” I said.

“What? You’ve got to be kidding.” Todd paled visibly.

“I wish I were.”

“So, Nash is going door-to-door questioning each of Bill’s tenants?”

“I don’t know.” But the thought occurred to me that he might be doing just that. “Maybe.” I rested my head against the back of the sofa. “If so, he started with me because Mr. Trelawney came by here yesterday morning.” I closed my eyes. “I called to see if Mr. Trelawney might know anything about why Lorraine Enright thinks I put her husband . . . ex-husband . . .” I opened my eyes and looked at Todd. “Estranged husband?”

“Tim.”

“Right. Anyway, I called him to ask why Mrs. Enright thinks I put Tim out of business. After I told him what Tim had scratched onto the storeroom wall, he became a little upset and said he’d come by to look at it.”

“What did Tim scratch onto the wall?”

“
Four square fifth w.
Mean anything to you?”

Todd shook his head. “No. But it must’ve meant something to Bill Trelawney.”

“Vera Langhorne told me Four Square was the name of a development company at one time and that some of its members went to jail. Maybe Mr. Trelawney made a connection between Four Square Development and Mr. Enright’s scribbles.”

“I suppose anything’s possible. Did Bill Trelawney say anything about it before he left?”

“Not to me. I’d taken Angus for a quick walk, and Sadie was minding the shop.”

“Which explains why Nash hurried next door.”

“Exactly. Now two people connected with my shop are dead. I’m afraid to ask what’s next.”

From our vantage point, we could see Detective Nash getting into his car. He hadn’t had time to get out of sight before Sadie burst into the shop.

“Can you believe it?” she asked breathlessly. “Who’d want to kill poor old Mr. Trelawney?”

“Maybe the same person who killed Timothy Enright,” I said.

Sadie flopped onto the sofa across from Todd and me. “From the way Ted talked, Chief Myers isn’t ruling out either of us as suspects.”

“He thinks one of us killed Mr. Trelawney?” I asked.

“And Tim Enright.” She sighed. “This can’t be happening.”

 

 

I was scared. One man—the man who for thirty years had leased the very same shop I now leased—had died in my storeroom from what police believed was poisoning. Another man—my landlord—had died hours after visiting my storeroom. Now, I could make myself believe there was something toxic in the storeroom—something even the hazmat crew had failed to contain and that had poisoned Timothy Enright and maybe even Bill Trelawney. Although the fact that Bill Trelawney had been shot completely annihilated that theory. A contagious pocket of really bad luck was starting to seem on the money, though.

I closed up the store at five and then headed home. I dropped Angus off and he was playing in the backyard, but I found myself merely pacing around the living room. I had to at least try to find some answers. I called the library and learned they were open until six thirty p.m. Maybe I could find some answers there.

The library was a large brick Victorian structure just about a mile outside town. When I walked in, I noticed the cozy seating area in a room to my right. Two weathered leather sofas and some oversize chairs scattered throughout the room made the perfect reading nook. To my left was a larger room with a circulation desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Reggie Singh was shelving books in this room when I arrived. She wore another tunic ensemble today. This one was turquoise and had multicolored beadwork on the collar and down the sides of the pants. I wondered if she’d done the beadwork herself, but I had more pressing questions to ask.

“Hi there, Marcy.” She smiled. “Are you looking for anything in particular today?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” I glanced at the man reading a newspaper at a table to my right. A few other people were browsing the shelves. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

“Sure. Follow me.” She took the cart back to the circulation desk and told a young woman sitting there that we would be in her office.

Reggie led me down a narrow hallway and into an office. The office was eclectically decorated with Indian art mixed with framed photographs of the coast. Somehow it seemed to work.

Reggie closed the door and sat down behind her mahogany desk. “What’s on your mind?”

I sank into the armless Victorian silk-covered chair to the side of the desk. “I’m scared.”

Reggie nodded thoughtfully. “Manu told me about Bill Trelawney.”

“Two people with connections to my shop, dead within a matter of days? Who’s to say I won’t be next?”

“Let’s not rush to conclusions. Two men with connections to
Timothy Enright’s
shop are dead, and the police aren’t even sure the deaths are related.”

“What do you think?” I asked. “I mean, you’ve lived in this town for years; you knew Timothy Enright well. What would you do if you were me?”

She spread her hands. “If I were you, I’d keep that enormous dog by my side at all times.” She pushed her glasses up. “As for what I think . . . I think we need to find out what’s going on.”

“So you do think the deaths are related.”

Reggie shrugged. “Pray for the best. Prepare for the worst. Manu said Bill Trelawney came to see you yesterday morning.”

“He did. He wanted to see what Mr. Enright had scratched onto the wall with a tapestry needle.”

“Four something, right?” Reggie took a legal pad from her middle desk drawer.

With a lavender pen, Reggie wrote this information on the rose-colored pad. I had to give her points for style.

“Vera Langhorne told me Four Square was the name of a development company,” I continued. “She said some of the people involved went to jail for fraud.”

“I remember that. Do you think Timothy Enright was trying to tell you something about Four Square Development?”

It was my turn to shrug. “I guess anything’s possible. He did keep trying to talk to me at the party that night. He said there was something I needed to know.”

“But you never found out what?”

“I’m afraid not.” I clamped my lips together. “I . . . I avoided him. I really did think he was drunk, and—”

“It’s okay,” Reggie interrupted. “Your actions were perfectly understandable.” She tapped her pad with the barrel of her pen. “It just makes our job a little harder. Let’s start with Four Square and see where that takes us.” Reggie took me to the computer room, did a search, and set me up with all the local newspaper articles for the months surrounding the indictments and trial of Four Square Development, since the local newspaper’s Web site required a subscription fee and password to access content more than three months old. She had to get back to work, but said she’d check on me in a bit. She also left me the rose-colored paper and the pen with the lavender ink. Sweet.

The blue fabric chair I sat in was fairly comfy, but I had a feeling my butt was going to get awfully tired before my work here was done. I began scanning through the screens.

Twenty minutes into my search, I found a newspaper article with a Four Square mention. Since the newspapers were in reverse chronological order, I got the one with the sentencing information first. None of the names—Douglas Alexander, Norman Patrick, Paul Kerr, and Matthew Grant—meant anything to me . . . except that three of the four had two first names rather than a first and last name. Of course, Kerr could be a German first name, so I suppose they all could have two first names.

Anyway, the sentences were relatively light. Each man had been given thirty-six months of prison time and had been ordered to pay one-fourth of the $925,000 restitution.

I scrolled through the newspaper articles until I found Four Square on the front page. It was the day after the trial. According to this report, evidence presented at trial showed the four partners were guilty of mortgage fraud.

Reggie peeped around the door. “How are you coming along?”

“Do any of these names mean anything to you?” I turned the pink pad toward her.

“A couple of them do. Kerr and Patrick were from here in town. The other two were from Seattle.”

“Did Kerr or Patrick have any dealings with Timothy Enright?”

“I don’t know. Patrick is—was—an attorney. He handled Four Square’s closings.” Reggie cocked her head. “I suppose he could have done Tim’s will. He did mine and Manu’s. He was a good attorney. Too bad he got involved with Four Square.”

“Who took over his business?”

“His partner, Riley Kendall.”

I turned the pad back around and wrote down the new information.

“Don’t expect Riley to confide much,” Reggie said. “She’s Norm Patrick’s daughter.”

 

 

I left the library at just past six p.m. and decided to take a chance that Riley Kendall might still be in her office.

The office door still bore the words PATRICK AND KENDALL, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. Either Riley hadn’t gotten around to changing it during the past several months, or her dad was hoping to get his law license reinstated after he’d served his time. I opened the door, and a chime sounded. It wasn’t a friendly little jingle like the bells over my shop door. This was more like a doorbell or a muted gong.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?” The cultured voice came from my left and belonged to a woman with gray-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun. For some reason, her appearance made me feel like a child . . . a child who should be seen and not heard. Accordingly, I spoke as softly as I could without actually whispering.

“May I please see Riley Kendall?”

“Ms. Kendall is with a client at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?”

“I’d like to wait, if you don’t think she’ll be very much longer.”

“You may have a seat in the reception area.”

I thought I was already in the reception area, but I mumbled a “thank you” and carefully stepped across the Oriental rug to the floral brocade sofa. Riley may not have changed the firm’s name, but I had to wonder if she’d redecorated the offices in her father’s absence. This room, at least, had a strong feminine presence. Wingback chairs brought out the rose color in the sofa, and a designer floral arrangement in the center of the highly polished cherry table beautifully highlighted the rest of the sofa’s muted tones. The room made me think of my aunt June. She was an interior designer—the love of fabrics runs in our family. Aunt June used to always say, “Buy your couch, and I’ll build your room around it.”

I turned my head at the sound of voices. One of them seemed familiar. The two women had their backs to me, but I could see that one was a brunette in a pale blue suit and the other had red hair like . . .

She suddenly faced me. Yep. Lorraine Enright.

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here? Are you following me?”

“No, Mrs. Enright. I’m here to see Ms. Kendall.”

Lorraine whirled back to Riley. “Don’t you dare tell her a thing we talked about—do you hear me? Not a thing!”

“That goes without saying, Lorraine,” the woman I assumed must be Riley said calmly. “Attorney-client privilege, remember?”

“I remember. Just see that you do.” With that, she stormed out of the office.

I rose from the sofa, and Riley met me halfway. She held out her hand. “Riley Kendall. What can I do for you?”

I shook her hand. “Hi. I’m Marcy Singer.” Glancing at the receptionist, I asked if we could speak privately. The receptionist glared at me.

“Sure. Mom, hold my calls for a few minutes, please.”

Inwardly, I groaned. Somehow, I’d managed to infuriate one of this woman’s clients and insult her mother within a mere five minutes of meeting her. Even for me, that had to be some sort of record.

“Don’t forget,” said Riley’s mom, “we need to pay Margaret Trelawney a visit later this evening.”

Before she’d left the shop, Sadie had suggested that she and I visit Mrs. Trelawney tonight, as well. I glanced at my watch and realized I needed to hurry if I was going to be on time to meet Sadie.

“It won’t take long,” I said as Riley ushered me into her office.

The office was similar to the reception area. The same color scheme was used, and I could see touches provided by the same floral designer. A flower arrangement sat on a tall cherry table beneath the window, and one of the blooms had been carried over to a bud vase at the corner of Riley’s desk. There were framed photographs on the bookshelves and walls. Some featured a handsome man in his early thirties, but many depicted a balding middle-aged man.

I nodded toward one of the more prominent photos. “Your dad?”

Riley nodded, and a wistful expression flitted across her face. She immediately got to business. “How can I help you, Marcy?”

“You might know that I just opened the embroidery shop on Emerson Street. The one where Timothy Enright had his hardware store, and where he, well, died.”

She nodded.

“On the night Timothy Enright died, he scratched the words
four square fifth
onto my wall with a tapestry needle.”