Thread End: An Embroidery Mystery (12 page)

“Then don’t let her.” She thought a moment. “But the same thing I told you about Ted applies to his mother—don’t expect to be offended. It’s possible she was simply curious about you and wanted to come and check you out for herself. Was she abrasive?”

“She was kind of critical.” I told her what Veronica had said about the Marilyn Monroe doll.

Mom laughed. “It sounds like she needs a little more fun in her life. You could be the breath of fresh air she needs.”

“It didn’t make me feel like a breath of fresh air when she said it. It made me feel like I was silly.”

“Marcella Singer, are you silly?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is there anything wrong with being silly?”

“I guess not.”

“I
know
not,” she said. “For goodness’ sake, I dress people up—sometimes in the most ridiculous costumes you could imagine—for a living. How silly is that?”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t let anyone make me doubt myself.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“She was just so self-assured,” I said. “The minute she walked into the Stitch, Angus went up to her, and she lifted her right hand and told him to sit. He did, and he didn’t get up until Ted came in!”

“She wasn’t harsh with my grand-dog, was she?”

“Harsh, no. Authoritative, yes.” I chuckled. “And she practically told Special Agent Brown to go sit in the corner!” I told Mom how Veronica had chastised Special Agent Brown for barging into my shop and confronting me in front of a customer.

“Good for her. It appears Ms. Nash wouldn’t stand for seeing you be disrespected.”

“Yeah . . . and after she left and I did answer Special Agent Brown’s questions, I stood up to him and didn’t let him intimidate me. Ted teased me about his mom having given me a lesson in boldness.” I sighed. “She bought an embroidery kit and two pattern books. I have a strong feeling she’ll be back. I just don’t know whether it’s to befriend me or try to come between her son and me.”

“Well, my darling, my advice is this: Keep both eyes open, but expect the best from her. All mothers want their children to be cherished. When she sees how much you care about Ted, she’ll love you.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“I
know
so. Why do you think I’m so crazy about Ted?”

When we were finished talking, I immediately looked up
bloodcurdling scream
in my ringtones and gave it to Mom’s number. Of course, I’d have to keep my phone turned down at work to avoid scaring my customers—and myself—silly. But Mom didn’t call that often . . . and it would be fun to freak out Sadie or Ted.

I
’d been busy unpacking a shipment of ribbon-embroidery kits and let time get away from me. Now it was almost time for Simon Benton and Anderson Padgett to be here, and I hadn’t taken Angus for his midmorning walk yet.

I went to the counter and got his leash. At the sight of the leash, he hurried over to me. I snapped the leash onto his collar, put the cardboard clock on the door saying I’d be back in ten minutes, and took Angus right toward the square. The square was a large open grassy area with a tall wrought-iron clock in the center and benches around all four sides. It was a nice place to sit and catch your breath after shopping up and down both sides of the street, or to read, or to people-watch . . . especially on a sunny, warm day like today. I kind of wished Angus and I had time to linger, but we didn’t.

We walked back down the street toward the Seven-Year Stitch. As we passed Nellie Davis’s shop, Scentsibilities, she was standing at her door.

“Hello,” she said.

“Good morning, Nellie.”

She held out a candle. “This is for you. It’s for stress relief. I thought you might need it because of Saturday. I’ve been using one this week.”

“Thank you.” I took the candle and sniffed it. “I hope you’re feeling better after talking with Ted.”

“Ted, yes. That other man, not so much. What was his name?”

“Special Agent Brown?”

“Yes, that’s him,” she said. “He made me nervous. I burned my stress candle the rest of the day after he left.”

“He makes me nervous, too. I don’t like his attitude. He’s so accusatory . . . like I’ve done something wrong.”

“That’s how he made me feel, too! Like I was hiding something after I admitted to seeing that van.”

“Well, don’t pay him any mind,” I said. “Everything will be fine.”

I heard a car door slam shut. Simon Benton was getting out of a car parked across the street from the Stitch.

“I’d better run. That’s my—” I stopped short when I turned to look back at Nellie and realized she’d gone back into her shop and closed the door. Oh, well. So much for our friendly conversation.

I did appreciate the cinnamon and frankincense candle, though. I made a mental note to prepare Nellie a thank-you card. Maybe this incident would be a turning point for Nellie and me. We could become friends. Okay, probably not, but we might at least be more civil toward each other. I’d like to be able to think of Nellie without clenching my teeth.

As I walked the rest of the way to the Seven-Year Stitch, I noticed that Mr. Benton was pushing Mr. Padgett in a wheelchair, and Mr. Padgett had a light blanket lying on his lap. The poor man must have been more infirm than I’d realized. Riley might have been right—Mr. Padgett might be liquidating his assets and preparing for the worst.

I quickly got Angus inside and placed him in the bathroom.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I told him. “It’s just until Mr. Benton gets Mr. Padgett inside. He might not want to come face-to-face with a puppy dog the instant he gets into the store.”

I ran back to the front door and held it open for the two men.

“Hello, I’m Marcy,” I said to Mr. Padgett over the din of Angus’s barking.

He extended his hand. “Anderson Padgett. It’s a pleasure to meet you, young lady. Simon has been highly complimentary of you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And, of course, I appreciate your speaking well of me, Mr. Benton.”

He smiled. “Simon, please.” He gazed around the shop. “Is Detective Nash here?”

Before I could say no, I spotted Ted on the sidewalk.

“He’s just now arriving,” I said.

“It sounds as if you have a rather large protector somewhere in the back,” Mr. Padgett said with a wheezing chuckle. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d need a guard dog in this quaint town.”

“He’s more of a companion really,” I said with a smile.

Ted came through the door and greeted Mr. Benton and Mr. Padgett. Mr. Benton made the introductions and Ted shook hands with Mr. Padgett.

“If the three of you would like to start on down to MacKenzies’ Mochas, I’ll reset the clock on the door and let Angus into the shop,” I said. “I’ll join you momentarily.”

Ted held the door for Mr. Benton to push Mr. Padgett’s wheelchair through, and then he turned and winked at me before going out the door.

I smiled. My heart skipped two and a half beats every time I looked at that man.

I let Angus out of the bathroom, kissed him on the head, and then rushed out the door to catch up to Ted and our dining companions. I wondered for the umpteenth time why Simon Benton had arranged this meeting. I could understand his wanting Mr. Padgett to talk with Ted—he was investigating the museum heist—but why would he want to talk with me?

Whatever the reason, I was glad I’d forgone the jeans and T-shirt this morning in favor of a sleeveless red sheath, kitten-heel strappy black sandals, and a bold silver cuff. All three of the men were wearing suits, a fact that I’d anticipated when I got dressed. There was nothing more uncomfortable than feeling like the “poor relation” in a Victorian novel.

Ted held the door, this time at MacKenzies’ Mochas, for the rest of us. Mr. Padgett insisted I go in ahead of him. I appreciated his chivalry, but it did make me feel rather oafish to walk ahead of a man in a wheelchair.

“Hi! Welcome to MacKenzies’ Mochas,” Sadie said when we walked in. She gave me a quizzical look, and I nodded slightly to let her know I’d fill her in on all the details later. “Will there just be the four of you?”

“Yes,” said Simon Benton.

“Right this way.” Sadie led us to a table and took away one of the chairs to accommodate Mr. Padgett’s wheelchair. She handed each of us a menu and told us our server would be with us momentarily.

Our server was a new waitress named Cheyenne. She was working for MacKenzies’ Mochas while furthering her education at the Tallulah County Community College. She was a bubbly redhead with green eyes and a ready smile. Cheyenne took our orders and left us to talk.

“Ms. Singer, did you get to see my collection before it disappeared from the museum?” Mr. Padgett asked.

“I did. My favorite piece was the David and Goliath tapestry,” I said. “It’s magnificent.”

“It is, isn’t it?” He drew his eyebrows together. “I hope it hasn’t come to any harm.”

“I hope so, too.” I glanced at Ted, but of course, he could offer no reassurances.

Cheyenne arrived with our drinks, passed them around, said our food would be out in just a few minutes, and asked if we needed anything else. When we all denied needing anything at the moment, she scurried off to refill another diner’s water glass.

“I’ve always enjoyed your Japanese textiles myself,” said Mr. Benton to Mr. Padgett. “I absolutely adored that lotus from the Meiji period. It was breathtaking.” He shook a finger playfully at Mr. Padgett. “I told you to sell me that one.”

“I wish I had,” Mr. Padgett said. “The chances of either of us ever seeing it again are slim to none.”

“Don’t give up hope yet, Mr. Padgett,” said Ted. “We’re following up on a number of leads.”

“And there’s a chap here from the Federal Bureau of Investigation as well,” said Mr. Benton. “I’m not terribly impressed with him, however. I’d appreciate none of you passing this information along, but I don’t feel that Special Agent Brown is as competent as I would have liked him to be.”

“I think he’s a decent guy.” Ted took a drink of his water. “But he has his mind on two major cases at once right now, so he might seem a bit scattered.”

“Two major cases? Here in Tallulah Falls?” Mr. Padgett sounded incredulous.

“Yes, Special Agent Brown had been searching for the man who was found murdered on Saturday morning,” Ted said.

“The man wrapped in my kilim,” Mr. Padgett said. “Do you believe he was connected to the museum theft?”

“It’s a possibility,” Ted answered. “Again, we’re pursuing every lead.”

“What was his name again?” asked Mr. Padgett. “The police told me, but it slips my mind right now.”

“It was Geoffrey Vandehey.” Ted took another drink of his water.

“Geoffrey Vandehey.” Mr. Padgett squinted. “I’ve heard that name before . . . and not in connection with my kilim or the art theft.”

“Vandehey is the chap who stole that early Cézanne from that art collector in Seattle two years back,” said Mr. Benton.

“No, that’s not it,” said Mr. Padgett. “I’d heard about that theft, naturally, but I’ve heard the name Vandehey in connection with something more recent.”

“Whatever it was, it’s nothing to trouble yourself about, Andy,” said Mr. Benton. “If this Vandehey fellow is—or was—connected to the theft of your textile collection, Detective Nash here will get to the bottom of it. I’m as impressed with Detective Nash and his team as I am
un
impressed with Special Agent Brown.”

Cheyenne and another waitress came with trays bearing our food. Ted seemed relieved.

*   *   *

After lunch, I went back to the Seven-Year Stitch and began making Nellie Davis a thank-you note for the stress candle she’d given me this morning. I thought that Ted and I might light the candle over dinner or after class this evening. He didn’t usually seem uncomfortable being on the other side of the interrogation table, but he had appeared to be today. I wondered why.

I wanted to make Nellie’s card as quickly as possible—the thought of feeling indebted to that woman made
me
uncomfortable—so I went to my office and got my ribbon-embroidery supplies. I put a piece of linen fabric in a small hoop and threaded a length of thin yellow ribbon through the large eye of the needle. I made a circle of ribbon loops and left the inside to be filled in later with black embroidery thread. I was making Nellie a bouquet of black-eyed Susans.

I used the yellow ribbon to create three flowers, and then I took some dark green ribbon to make some leaves around them. Finally, I threaded the needle with six-strand black embroidery floss and filled the inner circles of the yellow flowers with French knots.

I was finishing up the last flower when someone came into the shop. He was about five feet five inches tall, had black hair and dark brown eyes. He wore khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt. And he looked tired. There were circles beneath his eyes, his clothes were slightly rumpled, and his mouth was slack. I knew before he even told me that he was George Vandehey, Geoffrey Vandehey’s son.

I put aside the embroidery hoop and stood. “Hello. I’m Marcy.”

“I’m George Vandehey. I understand you found my father.”

“I did.” I stepped toward him. “I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Please sit down,” I said. “May I get you some coffee or a soda or a bottle of water?”

“Water would be nice. It’s hot out there.”

“It is.” I went to the office and got Mr. Vandehey a bottle of water.

Angus wandered over, sighed, and placed his head on Mr. Vandehey’s knee.

“Angus, no,” I said.

“It’s all right,” said Mr. Vandehey. “I like him.” He stroked the dog’s head.

“He knows you’re sad.” I handed him the water.

“Thank you. And thank
you
, Angus. You’re a good boy.”

“He is . . . a good therapist, too,” I said. I didn’t have to wait long for the question I’d immediately known was coming and dreaded.

“Did he appear to have suffered?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Of course he suffered! He was shot, rolled up in a rug, and dumped in an alley!

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“He wasn’t a bad man,” said Mr. Vandehey, “no matter what you’ve heard about him.”

“Oh, I know he wasn’t. I sensed that immediately, Mr. Vandehey.”

“Please call me George.”

“George,” I said. “I did hear about the Cézanne, of course, but I also know about your sister’s accident. I believe your father’s actions were those of a desperate man.”

“That’s true. We were all devastated by Libby’s accident. She’d been such a vibrant person . . . always on the go . . . riding that bike of hers everywhere.” He closed his eyes. “And then she was blindsided by that truck . . . and it never stopped. Witnesses described it as a four-door white pickup truck, but no one got a license plate number.”

“The driver of the truck was never found?”

He shook his head and tears escaped from beneath his closed lids and rolled down his cheeks.

Angus licked his hand.

George opened his eyes and patted the dog. “Libby was paralyzed from the neck down. She and her husband had some insurance, but their deductibles and outstanding medical costs were far more than they could pay. Libby’s husband, Miles, was planning to file for bankruptcy, but Dad implored him not to. He didn’t want their credit to be ruined. Besides, Libby’s health care costs would be ongoing for quite some time.”

“Is there any hope that Libby will regain function in her limbs?” I asked.

“There’s an operation that can be done,” George said. “I think that’s why Dad was here—to secure the money for that operation.”

“Do you think he was involved in the Padgett Collection theft?”

“I don’t know. After the Cézanne disappeared, we didn’t hear from Dad for a couple of weeks,” he said. “Of course, we didn’t know anything about the painting. We love art—our entire family always has—but we were in Canada. We didn’t hear anything about the art theft in Seattle until after Dad’s confession letter was found.”

“And then your dad sent money for Libby?” I asked.

“Not exactly. Money just appeared in our accounts. Libby and Miles received a hundred and fifty thousand and I got fifty thousand.” He smiled sadly. “He didn’t want me to feel left out, I guess. And then he called me at work one day and told me he wouldn’t get to see us for a while. I asked what he’d done . . . where the money had come from. He said he’d entered into a transaction with someone, and that the police now believed he stole a valuable painting.”

“Wait.” I placed my hand on George’s forearm. “Your dad
didn’t
steal the Cézanne?”

“I don’t know what to think,” he said. “He said he’d
entered into a transaction
. But where did the money come from?”