“Well, let’s put it this way. Years ago, before I decided to get into the law, I was in medical school. But the costs then were a drop in the bucket compared to what it takes to run for Congress these days!” Hempton’s chest swelled out a good inch.
Everyone else laughed, but out of her peripheral vision, Carla thought she picked up a tiny scowl crawling across Steve Bingham’s forehead.
Stop it, Carla, stop it! This is why you’re in the shape you’re in! Just relax and c-h-i-l-l out.
Mary Ellen’s voice cut through her thoughts. “So who’s gonna come to my quilt workshop, huh? It’s really fun, and it’ll be different for most of you. What about it?” She ended her question by turning to Carla.
Carla thought a couple of seconds. This could backfire on her big time, but what the hell. “OK, Stafford, you’re on; I’ll take your class!”
Clapping her hands in delight, Mary Ellen spent the rest of the meal humming while she picked at her food.
The class was actually better than Carla could have imagined. Mary Ellen was an excellent teacher—funny, full of side comments and careful instructions on how to follow a basic pattern, sew only quarter inch seams, never backstitch like you would in tailoring and always, always “when in doubt rip it out,” she declared as she held up a seam ripper. When it came time for her to demonstrate how to use a rotary cutter for the first time in order to cut strips from an old favorite dress of hers, she pretended to cut pizza, Italian accent and all. By the end of the session, she had the entire room in stitches, and in spite of herself, Carla could feel her body relaxing. Maybe her roommate wasn’t half-bad at that.
That sentiment didn’t last. By the time they returned to their cabin to dress for dinner, Mary Ellen had started up again. “What do you think about that software detective stuff, umm?”
“Personally, I don’t like it, and frankly, wouldn’t trust it. As I said, we use it at the precinct and P.I.’s also use it, but once the public gets a hold of it, it becomes a violation of people’s personal freedoms.”
“I just thought it was pretty cool.” Mary Ellen looked crushed.
At dinner, it was even worse. Carla felt as if it were a free-for-all, who could fling the most questions at New York’s Finest.
“What kind of person commits murder?” Bingham wanted to know.
“Well, all kinds, really. There’s no monopoly on killers, y’know. That’s why we have detectives and investigators to scope ‘em out.”
“Or great software programs,” Porter chimed in. Carla shot him a dirty look.
“So, for example, anyone on this boat could commit murder?” Bingham inquired, peering over at the detective.
A familiar sensation in the pit of her stomach was kicking in. Cocking her head at a forty-five degree angle, she shot back, “Sure, even you.”
Everyone laughed, finished their meal, and waited for dessert to come, but as they all gobbled down their Tiramisu, Mary Ellen noticed Carla glancing at Bingham several times. The quilter couldn’t wait until they got back to the privacy of their own cabin.
“So what do you think of our tablemates? Quite a collection, with Porter and his software and that Bingham and his murder questions.” Mary Ellen plopped down on her bunk bed, waiting for Carla to elaborate.
Oh no you don’t, Carla thought. I’m not trusting anyone ever again. She shrugged. “Oh, they’re all right. Just idle curiosity, I guess.” Turning out her light, she rolled over to sleep. Totally frustrated, Mary Ellen wriggled around on her bunk bed in the dark, trying to think of something else, but all that popped up in her mind was Porter’s WebPrivateye2009 and the soft glow of moonlight filtering in through their two portholes.
Each night, the would-be detective was relentless—a Mixmaster of whirling, non-stop questions. “Did your partner get canned, or did he just get an Internal Affairs probe?” Or, “How long is your Leave of Absence?” and “Will this be a permanent black mark on your police record?”
Finally, one night, Carla had reached her limit. “Mary Ellen, I know this is thrilling for you, but for me, it’s been a bit of a nightmare, ya know? I’m sorry, but I just need a break.”
By morning, everyone seemed to be in a particularly good mood. The newlyweds were practically planted on each other’s lap, Porter was slapping Hempton’s back, bragging about his millions in oil and potential campaign contributions, and Mary Ellen seemed to have forgotten the previous evening, and was doing her most Midwestern Cheerful. But after five minutes, Carla realized that Steven Bingham was still absent.
“Does anyone know where Bingham is?” she inquired. They all shook their heads and went back to concentrating on their food. She signaled a waiter.
“Yes, ma’am? May I help you?”
“Yeah. Have you seen Mr. Bingham this morning?”
“No, no I haven’t. Perhaps he slept in, ma’am.” The waiter was impatient to get back to his other tables.
Mary Ellen, after last night’s reprimand, stayed mute. By dinner, however, when Stephen again didn’t appear, the police detective sensed something must be wrong.
“I gotta go to the ‘can.’ Be right back,” Carla announced, staring at her juice glass then standing up. Mary Ellen waited until the cop had left the room before getting up and following her at an inconspicuous distance.
Up a level, Carla hurried over to the Administration Desk on the second deck and asked for Steven’s cabin number.
“We simply can’t give out that kind of information,” the woman sniffed without looking up. Sorting through papers one-by-one had suddenly become the most important job in the world.
Carla slammed her NYPD badge down on the counter. Instantly, there was a flurry of movement behind the desk. Papers shuffled for real now, her computer keyboard, a sudden vehicle for frenzied typing, and within seconds, the clerk had come up with the correct room number: 253.
Hanging back at least twenty yards, the quilter could see her cabin mate arriving at the Steward’s quarters and knocking on his door. After a quick exchange, they continued up to the deck above. Still attempting to stay incognito, Mary Ellen’s breathing had become so labored, she feared she might start belching huge gasps of air if she didn’t make a pit stop soon.
Got to start an exercise regimen, she noted as she watched Carla and the steward pounding on number 253. Withdrawing a key, the steward opened the door, and the two disappeared into the room, leaving Mary Ellen to slowly inch up the corridor towards the cabin. Steadying herself, she was about to move again when the steward rushed out of the room and proceeded to dry heave.
That did it. She had to see what was going on. Running up to the cabin, she could hear a few movements inside, just before she stepped into the compartment.
She had never seen so much blood before. Steven Bingham, stretched out across his bed, lay covered in the stuff, as if the sheets had been painted with some kind of bright, acrylic fabric paint, smeared in some areas, pooling in others. His glazed eyes were still open and to her horror, a half-smirk was still pasted on his face.
Bending over the victim, Carla glanced back up at her roommate. “The next time you follow someone you’d better be in greater shape. I could hear your breathing a mile away. Well, now that you’re here, are ya satisfied? Not too pretty, huh?”
Mary Ellen put a hand to her throat, swallowed, and shook her head. “What…what do you think happened?”
“I don’t know, but I’m gonna find out, that’s for sure.” Carla went outside the cabin and noticed a very green steward hovering in the corridor. “I need some forensic backup on this,” she ordered. “Call Ship-to-Shore, and meantime, get me the Captain. Pronto!”
The Steward ran off as Carla faced Mary Ellen. “You’re in the thick of it, now. Ya might as well help me.” Mary Ellen nodded, her heart beating so hard she had trouble catching all of Carla’s words.
“Without touching anything, look for some kind of murder weapon. He was probably killed with a knife, but judging from the jagged qua
lity of the wounds, it might not be.” The two searched the room, carefully stepping over puddles of blood. Nothing seemed out of place.
“He sure was neat for a guy,” Carla muttered to herself as she walked over to the side table next to his bed. On top of the table were two books. One, obviously a Bible, the other a Merck’s Manual and she was going for a closer look when the Captain hurried in.
“Oh my God,” he said, falling back against the doorjamb, sheet white and staring at the body. He took two short inhales-exhales before looking at Carla.
She had already charged into full police mode. “Captain, as soon as the forensic people come, I can leave the crime scene. In the meantime, it would help me enormously if you wouldn’t let people know what has happened yet. One, the murderer is obviously still on the ship and that would give him or her the chance to hide the murder weapon, and two, we don’t want any panic going on, now do we?”
“But we have to tell people at some point, don’t we?” The captain’s face was slowly gaining color.
“Yes, but for now,” Carla said, turning to her roommate. “I want everything to go on as if nothing has occurred. Mary Ellen, you’ve got to teach your class today, OK?”
Impressed by Carla’s sense of command, she made a slight dip of the head.
Mary Ellen’s usual jocularity left a bad taste in her mouth that afternoon, but outwardly she continued doing her schtick, demonstrating how to make embellishments out of dress laces, buttons, or bows.
“OK. Now, remember whenever you use your rotary cutter—remember, this pizza thing here—you have to always push the safety latch up on it after cutting. I’m talking every time, by the way. Do not leave it out without the safety on. The blade is very sharp and dangerous. I’ve even cut myself on it a couple of times. Everyone show me how to push that safety-latch on and off.” The class dutifully complied.
“Now, take your scissors out, and once again, I will demonstrate how to cut around all those hard to rotary-cut places; you know, your seams, your bows, your buttons, etc.” She looked around for a couple of seconds, puzzled.
“Has anyone seen my good Gingher scissors? They were here yesterday evening, I’m sure of it.” A dozen heads shook no. She muttered, “Oh, well, it’ll turn up. I must have misplaced it.” She was starting to feel a little better about the world. Quilting was definitely good therapy, and by the end of the class, she had almost forgotten about Steven Bingham.
After the students had filed out, she began tidying things up. Waste not, want not, her mother had always claimed. Organization and cleanliness were next to Godliness, she thought, as material scraps were tossed into large empty coffee cans. A seam ripper, her rotary cutter, and rulers were neatly placed in a row on her front desk, ready for the next day’s lesson. She noticed that most of the people had been fairly neat, but off to the left, on one of the side desks, one student hadn’t even bothered to clean up at all. Annoyed, she walked over to the messy area to straighten up. Putting things in some sort of order, she glanced over at a box of dresses, wedged up against a nearby wall. Intrigued, she went over to take a closer look at one of the dresses that from a distance, looked quite beautiful—pale mauves, lavenders and blue-grays swirled together in a modernistic, almost painterly style. She picked it up, admiring its texture and colors and thinking what a great addition to a quilt this piece of clothing would make.
Suddenly, she noticed a lump in the pocket, and a dark stain off to one side. Curious, she reached into the cloth-like envelope and started pulling the object out. Moisture from its bottom edge made her hand wet and sticky as the object slipped away from her. Instinctively, her hand recoiled and her stomach wrenched.
The blood covering her fingers had already turned a burgundy color, as opposed to a fresh, bright turkey red. Out of nowhere, she suddenly flashed back to the time she had played with her mother’s nail polish bottle, and how it had tipped over, leaving a crimson gooey coating all over her fingers. Quickly shoving her hand back down into the pocket and giving two light tugs, she extracted a sharp, metal object.
Horrified, her first thought was about how her Gingher scissors had never looked so dirty. Snapping back to reality, she tossed them quickly back into the pocket, shoved the dress down into the box, and flew out the door, knocking over a couple of chairs in her wake.
“Carla, you’ve got to come with me! I found the murder weapon in my sewing room. It’s my scissors! They used my scissors!”
“Show me,” came the blunt reply as the two sped off to the sewing room, along with an official paper bag one of the newly arrived forensics team had brought.
This time, when the detective told the Captain about the scissors, he simply shook his head. “Detective, it’s time to tell the rest of the ship,” he commanded.
“Yeah, I’ve got to start interrogating people. I’ve also got several items of evidence to examine and catalogue.”
Mary Ellen jumped in. “I could help you both, you know.” The captain and Carla looked at each other and laughed.
“I found the murder weapon after all! She persisted. “I can certainly help with cataloging, for God’s sake!”
“This is not “Murder She Wrote.” This is real life, Mary Ellen. I’m a real police officer, and this is a real Captain. It’s our job to proceed with this, not you, a quilter for God’s sake!”
Back in their cabin, Mary Ellen fumed. Boy! I treat her to a free class, I am always nice to her, and what do I get in return? Boy, I…Suddenly, a box marked ‘Evidence,’ placed on top of Carla’s side table snagged her attention. Getting up from her bunk, she carefully leaned over it and peered in. On top of various pants, shirts, underwear, belts, and ties lay a Merck’s Manual, frayed at the edges and coated with dust.
What in the world would Steven be doing with a medical manual she wondered. She reached down into her purse and extracted four rubber postal fingertips she always carried with her for traction on the cloth when she machine-quilted big pieces. Forensic procedures, phooey! Might as well use an old quilter’s trick so I won’t leave fingerprints, she chuckled as she put a tip on each finger. Who says quilters know nothing about crime! She started going through the thick text, first putting her rubber-sealed thumb down on the page then gently curling the right hand corner up with her rubber-tipped forefinger. But the pages were so thin and old, they stuck together like paper-thin Filo dough layers and leafing through it seemed to take forever.
She was about to give up entirely when halfway in, an envelope floated out of the manual and onto the floor. Excited, she reached down, pincer-grabbed it, and deposited it on top of her bunk bed. The envelope flap was open and on closer inspection, she could see a small stack of one hundred dollar bills and a piece of paper, all clipped together with a hastily handwritten note:
“Here it is, you bastard—
you’ll never stop, will you?
Now LEAVE ME ALONE!!”
Blackmail. The hairs on the back of Mary Ellen’s neck were not only beginning to rise, they were ramrod straight, at full attention. There was something else. A shredded piece of paper, worn with age and use had also fallen to the floor. She bent down, and scooping it up, opened it carefully, knowing full well it might serve as evidence later on. It was dated May 20, 1959:
Dear Stevie—
I don’t know how to tell you this. I know you never wanted to be a dad, so I feel there is no way out for me. I had to have this abortion, don’t you see?
Please forgive me, and even though you may never see me again, remember that I will always love you, no matter what happens. And promise me you won’t ever tell my mother and father. They would never understand.
It’s all for the best. All my love forever, Maggie.”
Hmmm. Steven had been obviously blackmailing someone, and from the looks of it, this abortion happened to an old girlfriend of his long ago. Somehow it was all tied up with someone else on the ship. But with whom? How could she find that out, embedded here in a small cabin in the middle o
f an ocean, with no resources in sight, and without Carla’s knowledge?
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and imaged her favorite scene—the Pacific Ocean, with the sound of seagulls squawking lazily as they circled each other, playing tag in a baby blue sky. Instantly, her brain cleared—WebPrivateye2009.
“Well, little lady, fancy seeing you,” John T. Porter chuckled, straddling his doorway. Behind him sat Mrs. Porter on one of the beds, curlers wound tight on her head.
“Sorry to bother you,” Mary Ellen began, “but I was wondering if I could possibly look someone up on your great detective software?”
Porter’s smile broadened. “Why sure, it’d be my pleasure to show you.” He ushered her into their room and sat her down on one of the desk chairs. A minute later they were booted up, ready to go.
On the WebPrivateye2009 website, Porter typed in his name and password, then switched places with her so she was in front of the computer. On the screen there were two columns labeled ‘Regular Search’ and ‘Professional Search’.
“What do these two headings mean?”
“Well, ‘Regular’ is for people like you and me and if you want to pay more, you can go into ‘Professional Search’ and get even more information.”
“You mean like what Carla was talking about in her department or what the private detectives use?”
Porter nodded. “OK. Now, who shall we begin with?”
“How about my cabin mate, Carla Del Riggio?” They both looked at each other and grinned. He pointed; she punched keys. Click-click-click-click-click-click. Instantly, Carla’s address, phone number, and police identification number cropped up.
“What’s next, little lady?”
“Let’s find out some of her history…where she went to school.” This was so cool!
“OK. Go over here on the sidebar to the words Educational History. Now click.”
Click-click-click-click-click. Suddenly Carla’s entire educational history popped up.
Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads Page 17
