by Amanda Lee
“He didn’t want to wind up like the former Four Square Development partners, rotting away in prison while his wife moved on with her life,” Reggie said.
“But when he tried to close out the account,” Manu said, “John told him he’d transferred the money to another bank. I believe that’s when Tim knew he was going to have to leave Tallulah Falls without the money.”
“What he didn’t know was that John didn’t intend to allow him to leave Tallulah Falls at all,” Reggie said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Poor Mr. Enright could smell a rat but not the rubbing alcohol. So he tried to warn me. And then when he realized Mr. Langhorne must have put something in his Café Cubano, he tried to reveal Mr. Langhorne’s part in Four Square.” I sighed. “Too bad I didn’t have an ink pen in that storeroom.”
“I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did,” Reggie said.
“The only reason he did was because he’d eaten just prior to going to the bank,” Manu said. “Maybe he’d hoped John would have already left for the day and he could close out his account without a hassle. But John must’ve guessed what was coming after Lorraine left Tim, and he went ahead and prepared to transfer the money into one of his own accounts.”
“Poor Mr. Enright,” I said. “What a mess he got himself caught up in.”
Reggie flattened her lips. “I think he had some big, redheaded help getting into that mess. Lorraine talks a good game, but she’s a greedy woman.”
“She did tell me she felt she drove her husband into his dealings with Mr. Trelawney,” I said.
“Drove him, parked the car, and went around and opened the door for him,” Reggie said.
“By the way,” Manu said, “Chief Myers’ brother-in-law had some shady dealings with the Four Square Development crew, as well, which is why Chief Myers tried to pass off Tim’s death as accidental and Bill’s death as a robbery. He didn’t want the case reopened. He resigned today.”
I tried to hide my smile. “Then Tallulah Falls has a new police chief? What do you two think of the guy who’s taking over?”
Reggie patted her husband’s arm. “I’m crazy about him.”
Lorraine Enright, by the way, was able to get the bank to give her back the money John Langhorne had illegally transferred from their account. She’s also still spending time with the private investigator . . . or, as Vera calls him, the Colonel. I guess Lorraine wasn’t as broken up about Timothy as she’d professed. Either that, or spending time with the twin of a fried-chicken magnate is her way of coping.
I completed my Halloween haunted-house project and the Pacific Coast Collage. I’ve also made a little progress on the MacKenzies’ Mochas logo for Sadie and Blake. But I still have plenty of time to finish that one. I’m continuing to work on Riley’s bibs here at the shop. I haven’t started on the baby blanket yet. I have a feeling Riley’s commissions will continue up until and after her baby is born, because she comes in often to look at baby things and every time sees something else she absolutely has to have.
Speaking of Riley, I recently confessed to her that Sadie and I overheard her talking with Lorraine that night when we were leaving Mrs. Trelawney’s house. I asked her why she was so adamant about finding out what Timothy Enright knew.
She bent forward and placed her elbows on her knees. “How would you feel if your father was in prison for a small role he played in something while the person who masterminded the entire scheme escaped scot-free?”
“I’d be pretty disgusted,” I said.
“Yes, you would. I wanted to know what Tim knew. I wanted to know who Four Square Development’s fifth partner was, and I wanted to see him go to prison.” She sat back up. “Then when I told Dad I was having a girl, and the baby suddenly became real to him, he made me promise to back off. I guess in the end, John Langhorne got what he deserved after all.”
“I guess.”
Let me backtrack just a bit.
Vera had called Emma Langhorne, the other wife, which I thought went way above and beyond any normal social graces, and invited Emma and her sons to John’s funeral. At first, she simply told Emma that John had died in a car accident. Naturally, the news media picked up the story, so Vera was unable to spare the boys the knowledge of how horrible their father had truly been.
Anyway, Emma brought her sons to the funeral. Since John Langhorne had turned out to be such a weasel, I didn’t think anybody would show up.
I went, out of respect for Vera and out of gratitude, given that she’d possibly saved my life. Everyone else in Tallulah Falls must have had the same idea—the respect for Vera idea, not the saving-the-life thing—although I’m pretty sure everyone was relieved that Mr. Langhorne wouldn’t be stealing from them anymore.
Blake, Sadie, Todd, Detective Nash, Manu, and Reggie were there. Everyone introduced themselves to Emma and her sons. Nobody mentioned their father; they just told the boys what handsome, capable young men they were and said Emma should be proud.
One of Mr. Langhorne’s sons got teary-eyed and hugged me. I awkwardly patted his back until I felt him slip a piece of paper into the waistband of my skirt. I tried to back away, but he held me tight and, with beer-laced breath, whispered in my ear, “Call me.”
As soon as he let go, I stumbled backward.
Detective Nash caught me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I was learning that the rotten little apple there didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Should I arrest him?” he asked. “Or just let Vera shoot him?”
I gasped. “What a horrible thing to say.”
He laughed. “I’m only kidding. And Vera is well out of earshot. How’s she holding up, anyway?”
“I have no idea. I know she’s seeing a counselor Manu and Reggie know.”
“That’s good. She’ll need a lot of therapy to get through this. And how are you holding up?”
I sighed. “I’m still having nightmares about the whole thing, especially about Mr. Langhorne coming after us in the Jeep and Vera standing there like a Bruce Willis, Die Hard-wannabe firing the gun at the windshield.”
“I’m here if you need to talk.”
“Thanks,” I said with a smile.
“Me, too.” Todd joined us. “I’m here if anyone needs to talk with me. Is this dark corner reserved, or can anyone join you?”
“It’s reserved,” Detective Nash said.
“Then let me steal your girl for a second. I need to speak with her,” Todd said.
With a disgusted shake of his head, Detective Nash walked away.
“Was it something I said?” Todd asked.
“More than likely. What did you want to talk about?”
“Riley . . . and Sadie . . . and you and me,” he said. “Sadie said she told you that Riley and I used to date. That was years ago, Marcy, and I’m over it.”
“I know.”
“You know? Then why didn’t you return my call that night?”
“I didn’t return anyone’s calls that night,” I said, “except Mom’s and Sadie’s. I was tired.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“That and the Four Square Development thing. You never explained why you rushed out on me after I asked you about the ledger.”
He twisted his lips. “I had the same deal as Blake. I knew Trelawney was going to use my information. He paid me back by not charging me rent for a couple months.” He spread his hands. “I have a friend who lost some money in a casino. He has a family to provide for, so . . .” He flipped his palms.
“Did Blake sneak around outside the Trelawney house after the break-in, and did you cover for him?”
“Yes. He saw a light on and thought the burglar had come back,” Todd said. “And of course I covered for him. He hadn’t done anything wrong.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” I asked.
“Why didn’t you just trust me?”
“Because we were just getting to know each other,” I said.
&n
bsp; “Can we just get back to that?” he asked.
“Maybe. Just maybe.” I smiled.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Jessica Wade, who made this book possible; Jacqueline Sach, formerly of BookEnds, LLC; and legal experts Glenn J. Null, Esq., John A. Cochran, Esq., and Rebecca Eller.
As always, thank you Tim, Lianna, and Nicholas for your unwavering devotion and support.
Read on for a special preview of Amanda Lee’s next Embroidery Mystery,
STITCH ME DEADLY
Coming in February 2011 from Obsidian
I stepped out of MacKenzies’ Mochas, the charming brown-brick coffee shop and café owned by my best friends, Sadie and Blake MacKenzie. I clutched my jacket to me with one hand and my so-far unsipped chamomile tea with the other. My throat was getting scratchy, so I’d taken the opportunity to sprint over—their shop is right beside my embroidery specialty shop—at the first break in the rain.
I shivered. Even though it was only sprinkling now, it was a cold rain. But, then, who’d expect a tropical rain on the Oregon coast in January?
I spotted an elderly woman dressed in black and carrying a bright yellow umbrella, making her way slowly to my shop, the Seven-Year Stitch. I quickened my step.
“I’m coming!” I called. I reached the door just before she did. As I held it open, I felt relieved I’d put Angus, my Irish wolfhound, in the bathroom before stepping next door. Had he bounded toward me in his usual fashion, this poor, diminutive woman might have had a heart attack.
At five foot nothing, it’s rare I’m able to think of anyone else other than a child as diminutive. But this woman was so stooped and frail. And perhaps due to her black attire, her skin had a deathly pallor.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, lowering her umbrella and stepping into the shop. She placed the umbrella in the corner. “May I sit?”
I followed her gaze to the seating area. “Of course.”
I took her elbow, fearing she might fall, and guided her to the Seven-Year Stitch sit-’n’-stitch area. It has two overstuffed navy sofas that face each other. An oval maple coffee table sits between the sofas on a navy, red, and white braided rug. Red club chairs with matching ottomans complete the cozy square.
I helped the lady sit on one of the red club chairs. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m a bit light-headed is all.”
I handed her the unsipped cup of tea. “Would you like some chamomile tea? It might help.”
She nodded weakly. “Yes . . . please.”
I removed the top and handed her the tea.
Her hand shook as she brought the hot liquid to her lips. She took one sip and then another before lowering the cup and speaking. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Are you okay? Is there anyone I can call for you?”
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine momentarily.” She sipped the tea again. “I’m Louisa Ralston, and I’m here to implore you to help me find ivy.”
I didn’t want it to appear as if I were hovering, so I sat on the edge of the navy sofa to Ms. Ralston’s right. “What sort of ivy?”
She opened her purse—a quilted black Chanel—and removed something wrapped in layers of white tissue paper. She handed me back the tea, and I set it on a coaster on the coffee table. Then, with trembling hands, Ms. Ralston carefully unwrapped the tissue to reveal an embroidery sampler.
I drew in my breath. It was exquisite . . . and it was old. I’d say it was circa mid-to-late-1800s.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said.
“Thank you, dear. My great-grandmother . . . made it . . . passed it down through the family for . . .” Her breathing became more laborious. “Please . . . help . . . find . . . ivy.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant, or why she’d come to my shop, but now didn’t seem like the time to split hairs. The poor thing really seemed like she was in ill health. “Of course I will, Ms. Ralston. But, please, won’t you let me call someone to come get you until you’re feeling better?”
She bent forward as if to retrieve the tea, and collapsed onto the floor.
I dropped to my knees beside her. “Ms. Ralston?” I patted her hand. “Can you stand? Maybe I can help you move to this sofa until the paramedics arrive.”
No response. And her hand was limp. I hurried to the counter, called 911, and explained the situation. The dispatcher instructed me not to try to move Ms. Ralston, and promised emergency technicians would be there shortly.
I could hear Angus barking and whining in the bathroom, but I knew better than to let him out until after the paramedics had already been here and gone. I also knew that speaking to him to try to reassure him would only make things worse.
I returned to Ms. Ralston’s side and continued my efforts to revive her. She was unconscious but breathing, and her pulse revealed a weak, irregular heartbeat.
Please hurry, EMTs.
Although it seemed to take forever, the paramedics arrived within ten minutes. Within fifteen, they’d given Ms. Ralston oxygen, began monitoring her vital signs, and had loaded her into an ambulance en route to the emergency room. I have to hand it to Tallulah Falls’ emergency medical service professionals. They’re excellent at their jobs.
I opened the bathroom door, and Angus jumped up onto his hind legs to give me a hug. When he does that, he’s a foot taller than I am. I hugged him and told him what a good boy he was.
He dropped back onto all fours, retrieved his chew toy, and trotted into the shop. Before he could discover the open container of chamomile tea and spill it all over my braided rug, I hurried to the sitting area and got the cup and Ms. Ralston’s sampler. I placed the sampler on the counter and went to the bathroom to pour the remainder of the tea down the sink before tossing the cup in the garbage.
I returned to the counter and sat down on a stool. Standing near the cash register was Jill, who’s a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe.
I sighed. “Rough morning, eh, Jill?”
She simply smiled like she didn’t have a care in the world. That’s because she doesn’t. She’s a mannequin, and she’d smile even if the building were burning down around her.
Maybe I should paint a permanent smile on my face.
Batman’s archvillain the Joker sprang to mind.
Er, maybe not.
I picked up the phone and called Sadie. After explaining the situation, I asked if she’d mind watching the store and Angus for just a few minutes while I went to the hospital to check on Ms. Ralston and return her sampler. Sadie said she’d be over as soon as she helped Blake get some tables cleaned up.
As I waited, I studied the sampler. It had an alphabet in Victorian-style letters—both upper and lowercase—at the top, followed by the numbers one through ten. In the center of the sampler was a primitive house and trees, the kind of artwork you might find on a child’s stencil.
The sides were little squares made to look like quilt blocks, and at the bottom was a verse: His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object.
I realized I’d love to make a pattern for it, and make a copy to display in the shop.
I looked around at the pieces currently on display, all of which I’d made myself. The candlewick pillows on the sofa, dolls wearing dresses I’d sewn and embroidered, finished cross-stitch and needlework projects for every holiday and every season. . . . One more sampler couldn’t hurt.
Besides, a copy of this sampler would not only be beautiful; it would also have historical significance. I could put a plaque with the finished piece giving a brief history of embroidery samplers in general and an account of this particular sampler. Maybe Ms. Ralston would let me do that in memory of her great-grandmother. I planned on asking her when I visited her at the hospital.
I gently folded the sampler back into the tissue paper, taking care because the threads were faded and the cloth was delicate. I re
alized this beautiful piece of history should be framed and hanging in a museum somewhere. I made a mental note to suggest that to Ms. Ralston . . . after I asked permission to copy the pattern.
Sadie strode through the door with a tall cup in her hand. “Your tea,” she said, pushing back her hood to reveal her dark hair. “Since you gave yours to the sick customer.”
I accepted the steaming cup gratefully. “Thank you so much.”
“Besides, you’ll need it to knock off the chill. The rain is coming down fairly hard again.”
“Thank you,” I repeated. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
“Take your time. Things are slow at the shop this morning. I’ll have much more fun over here playing with Angus.”
At the sound of his name, Angus dropped his chew toy and loped over to Sadie. She vigorously scratched his head.
“By the way,” Sadie said as I started out the door, “your tea came from the same pot as your customer’ s. So if you start feeling queasy, call me, would you?”
“Yeah . . . and thanks for that shot of paranoia.” I hadn’t even thought that the tea could have had anything to do with Ms. Ralston’s collapse.
“Well, hey, I’m just trying to be on the safe side.”
“The safe side would’ve poured out the tea if there were any concerns about it,” I said, “not given it to the safe side’s best friend.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I tasted yours, and it seems fine. Besides, you did say the old gal was sickly, which is why you gave her your tea in the first place.”
“Good point. I’m sure everything is fine . . . with the tea and with Ms. Ralston.”
That statement would come back to bite me—and to remind me that one is seldom sure of anything. Upon my arrival at the Tallulah Falls Medical Center, I learned Ms. Ralston was dead.
