by Amanda Lee
“He’s a beaut, he is!” the man exclaimed, scratching Angus on the head.
“Thank you,” I said. I’d already guessed who the man was, but I decided to play dumb. “How may I help you?”
“Well, I saw your message on the treasure hunters’ Web site, and I’d talked with Chester about helping him find the treasure from the Delia.”
He had the name of the ship correct. He must’ve really spoken with Mr. Cantor. “How’d you find me?”
“From your e-mail. I’d heard of the Seven-Year Stitch—the name always struck me as funny—so when I saw it was part of your address, I figured you worked here.”
“You figured right,” I said, with a small smile. “Would you like to have a seat?”
“Sure. You got any coffee?” he asked.
“I do, but I haven’t had a chance to get it started yet this morning. I’ll do that.”
“I’d appreciate it,” he said. “A fresh-brewed cup of joe sounds awfully nice.”
I went into the office and prepared the coffeepot. The man seemed friendly and harmless enough. He obviously hadn’t given Angus any reason not to like him, and dogs sense things like . . . murderous intent . . . right? And the treasure hunter appeared to be old enough to be one of Mr. Cantor’s contemporaries. Maybe he was legitimate and wouldn’t kill me for the tapestry . . . which I no longer even had.
“The coffee should be ready in about five minutes,” I said, returning to the sit-and-stitch square. “So had Mr. Cantor hired you to help him find a treasure?”
“Not yet. No money had exchanged hands. My son has a boat—gives some dolphin tours and stuff like that—and he’d love to get into the salvage business,” the man said. “I’m Jack Powell, by the way.” He stretched an arm across the coffee table so I could shake his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Powell. I’m Marcy Singer.”
“Good to know you, Marcy. Call me Jack.”
I smiled. “Jack.”
“Anyway, back to Chester. He and I and my boy were trying to come up with a way to get the money we’d need to start the search. None of the three of us had much savings or seed money or whatever to go on, and we knew we’d need depth recorders, diving equipment, and underwater metal detectors. I guess we can forget about it though now that Chester’s dead.”
“Did Mr. Cantor ever show you the map?” I asked.
Jack shook his head. “Nope. Chester was kinda paranoid about that map. I reckon he thought that if anyone else saw it, they’d cut him out of the loop.”
“I guess I can understand that. He showed me the tapestry that he believed contained the map,” I said. “But I think his belief that it was a treasure map was only wishful thinking.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Marcy. There are enough legends and reports of treasure found off the Pacific coast that if we could’ve scraped the money together, we’d have looked for it.”
I excused myself and went and got our coffee. I put the coffee and a handful of creamers and sweeteners on a tray and returned to the sit-and-stitch square. I placed the tray on the coffee table before handing Jack a cup of coffee.
Jack loaded up his cup with sugar, stirred the steaming beverage briefly, and then took a loud slurp. “A man could have riches to pass down through three generations—at least—if he could find just one of the treasures reputed to be somewhere on this coast.”
“But those are just legends, aren’t they?” I asked. “Has anyone ever found anything of real substance near Tallulah Falls?”
“You can go right over to the Columbia River Maritime Museum in Astoria and see a chunk of beeswax and a block of wood recovered from a seventeenth-century Manila galleon shipwreck,” he said. “Astoria isn’t all that far from here. The museum has got some fur trader tokens too.”
“But those items wouldn’t make a person rich, would they?” I asked. “Besides, wouldn’t you think everything that had been lost would have already been found by now?”
“Not necessarily. In June of 2011, divers off the Florida Keys found an antique emerald ring worth about half a million dollars—along with several other artifacts—thought to be from the Nuestra Señora de Atocha. It was one of the most famous Spanish ships of its day, and it sank in 1622.” Jack took another drink of his coffee. “Most of the wreckage was recovered in 1985, but there was still enough hanging around to give someone else a payday. I think the same might be true of the Delia . . . although no one that I know of has ever reported finding any of its treasure.”
I made a mental note to check out the Nuestra Señora de Atocha on the Internet to validate the veracity of Jack’s information. “So there really could be something out there—something that somebody might kill Chester Cantor to get their hands on.”
Jack raised his brows. “Now, don’t go thinking I did Chester in! My son and I needed Chester and his map to help us know where to begin.”
“Oh, I know. I didn’t mean that at all,” I said. “I was just thinking out loud. Did you know Chester very well?”
“I’d say I knew him fairly well. Why?”
“Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt him?”
“Only that boy of his. One time Chester had this bruise on his left cheek.” Jack shook his head. “Man, it was nasty looking. I asked him what happened, and he said Adam had hit him. My boy wanted to have it out with Adam over it, but Chester asked him not to. He said that Adam hadn’t meant to do it and that confronting him about it would only make things worse.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I just met him briefly, but Mr. Cantor seemed like a terrific person.”
“Yeah, Chester was a real stand-up guy.” He took one last drink of his coffee. “You don’t happen to remember what the map looked like, do you?”
“I’m afraid not.” I was telling the truth. I didn’t remember what the map looked like. He didn’t ask if I had photographs of the tapestry. I wasn’t ready to tip my hand to Jack Powell just yet. I wasn’t entirely sure I trusted him.
* * *
After Jack Powell left, I called Ted. My call went to voice mail, so I thanked him for last night’s dinner and asked him to give me a call about a treasure hunter I’d spoken with earlier this morning.
I then decided to start from scratch on the Fabergé egg project. When I’d first hatched this idea (pun intended!), I’d had no clue that it would be so difficult. I took the photograph I’d printed out and carefully traced the outline of the egg and its design. I uploaded my black-and-white image onto my computer and once again imported it into my cross-stitch software. Using the photo as a guide, I used the program’s library of thread colors to re-create the image. I was really pleased with the end result and printed out my new and improved pattern.
I was walking out of the office when Ted came into the shop.
I smiled. “Hi, there.”
“Hi.” He held up his phone. “I was in a meeting with Manu when you called. What’s this about your conversation with a treasure hunter?”
We went over to the navy sofa facing the window and sat down. Angus followed and placed his head on Ted’s knee. It was spring and Angus was shedding, so I was glad for Ted’s sake that he was wearing jeans and a dress shirt today rather than a suit. The jeans would be easier to brush off.
“Yesterday I got on a local treasure hunter discussion forum and asked if anyone had talked with Chester Cantor about helping him find a treasure off the coast of Tallulah Falls,” I said. “This morning, my sole respondent showed up to talk over his previous plans with Mr. Cantor.”
Ted rubbed his forehead. “You asked him to meet you here?”
“No, of course not. He found me through my e-mail address. Who knew some random old sailor would be familiar with the name of an embroidery shop?” I went on to recount my conversation with Jack Powell. “My gut says he’s not our guy, but I think you should talk with him and determine whether or not he has an alibi for the time of the murder.”
He shook his head and gave me a bemused grin. “I�
�ll do that. Do you mind if I take the case back over now, Inch-High?”
“Not at all, Detective. I have an egg to stitch.” I held up my pattern.
“We could simply color eggs the old-fashioned way,” he said. “It’d be quicker.”
“Oh, we’ll do that,” I promised. “But I’m sending this one to Mom.”
“Speaking of Mom . . .” He let the sentence hang.
“She approves wholeheartedly.”
He laughed. “I’m glad. Want to have dinner at Captain Moe’s tonight?”
“I’d love it.”
He stood. “I’d better go see if Jack Powell has an alibi for yesterday afternoon.”
“Wait a sec.” I hopped up from the sofa and retrieved the lint roller from beneath the counter. “Let me roll you before you go.”
He chuckled. “That is such a loaded statement . . . but I’m not saying a word.”
“Thank you.” I quickly ran the lint roller over his clothing and gave him a peck on the lips. “I’ll see you later.”
After Ted left, my thoughts drifted to the Cantor family. I decided to take them a muffin basket and express my sympathy for their loss. Plus, ordering the basket from MacKenzies’ Mochas would allow me to test the water with Blake and Sadie too.
Before I could call MacKenzies’ Mochas, I had a string of customers and a package delivery. I rang up the last of the customers and decided to hurriedly make the call before the next wave rolled through. Saturdays were usually busy—which was a good thing . . . make that an excellent thing—but they didn’t give me much time to take care of personal business.
Blake answered the phone.
“Hey,” I said. “It’s Marcy.” I ran my words together, nervous about what he might say to me about Todd or Ted or whatever else might be on his mind. “I’d like to order a muffin basket, please.”
“Sure. Will you be picking it up after you close the shop?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Is it for the Cantors? Sadie told me about Adam’s dad.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“That’s a real tragedy. I’m especially sorry for Melanie.” He expelled a breath. “She’s particularly fond of our chocolate, chocolate chip muffins, so I’ll be sure and include several of those.”
“Thanks, Blake.” And then I had to ask, “Are you mad at me?”
“Of course not, sweetie. You had to follow your heart, or else you’d end up making yourself and everyone else—including Todd—miserable in the long run.”
“Sadie’s mad at me,” I said.
He chuckled. “She’s disappointed, but she’ll get over it,” he said. “I’ll get your basket fixed up, and I’ll look forward to seeing you later.”
“Thank you.”
As we hung up, Vera Langhorne breezed into the shop. Vera was a widow in her early sixties who was one of my first customers and friends here in Tallulah Falls.
“Good morning, dear,” she said to me. She stooped down—despite the fact that she was wearing a pink sweater—and hugged Angus. “And how’s my sweet boy? Huh? He’s such a good boy. Yes, he is!”
Angus was delighted by Vera’s gushing over him. His tail, and very nearly his entire body, wagged furiously.
Vera straightened and brushed a lock of her professionally styled and highlighted hair back off her face. She noticed the box sitting on the corner of the counter. “Restocking stuff or new stuff?”
“Something new.” I smiled as I cut the tape and carefully opened the box. I took out a thin book and handed it to Vera. I got another out to thumb through myself. “Pincushion patterns. Aren’t they adorable?”
“They are! I love them!” She bit her lip as she flipped through the pages. “You know, you should make up some of these and sell them at the counter . . . you know, as impulse items.”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
“I’d buy one . . . or more,” she said.
“I could also use the small patterns to make greeting cards,” I told her, pleased with my sudden inspiration. I often made greeting cards to have on hand to send to my friends. Why not have them at my customers’ disposal as well?
Vera moved over to the sit-and-stitch square with Angus at her heels. “I’d buy several of those. I’d love for people to think that I’d made them hand-stitched cards. They’d think I was such a Martha Stewart.” She cocked her head. “There’s something different about you today.”
I could feel the color rising in my cheeks. I picked up the lint roller and took it over to Vera. “You’ll need this when Angus gets through with you,” I said as I sat on the red club chair nearest Vera.
“Thanks.” She placed the lint roller on the coffee table and continued to scrutinize me. “All right. Who’s the lucky fellow?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Don’t play coy with me, Marcy Singer. You’ve got the same look I had when I started dating Paul—happy, excited, eager to see what the future might hold. . . . So?”
Paul Samms was a reporter Vera had met when he interviewed her after our harrowing experience following a masquerade ball a few weeks earlier.
I grinned. “It’s Ted.”
She clapped her hands together. “I knew it! You two are perfect for each other.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“How’s Todd taking the news?” she asked. “Or have you told him?”
“He knows,” I said. “Of course, he wasn’t happy about it . . . and neither was Sadie.”
“They’ll come around.” She patted Angus’s head tenderly. “Won’t they, boy? Of course, they will.”
“Did you know Chester Cantor?” I asked, eager to step out of Vera’s glaring spotlight on my love life.
“Yes. I was sorry to hear about his death. The rumor is that Chester didn’t die of natural causes.”
“No. I . . . um . . . I heard the same rumor,” I said. I didn’t feel it was my place to tell Vera what I knew about Mr. Cantor’s death. “I only met Mr. Cantor once, but he seemed to be an awfully nice man.”
Vera tilted her head. “He’d mellowed in his old age. But, I suppose we all do, hmm?”
“So he wasn’t always so kind?”
“Well, he ran off and left his wife and infant son high and dry. There was nothing nice about that,” she said.
“I’d heard that he’d divorced Adam’s mother,” I said. “But I had no idea Adam was an infant when his father left. No wonder he was reluctant to reconcile with Mr. Cantor later on.”
“It was a terribly sad situation,” Vera said. “Adam’s mom, Blanche, worked at the textile mill that was on the outskirts of town back then. Her mother kept the baby while Blanche worked. But she could still barely make ends meet. I believe that’s why she wound up marrying that horrible Pete Jenkins.”
“Mr. Jenkins was the stepfather who was abusive to Adam?” I asked.
Vera nodded. “And to Blanche too.”
“Did Blanche finally leave Mr. Jenkins, or are they still together?”
“Pete died in a logging accident when Adam was fourteen or fifteen,” Vera said. “I think that’s when Chester started trying to reconnect with Adam.”
“Despite the abuse, do you think Adam considered Mr. Jenkins more of a father than Mr. Cantor?” I asked.
“Of course, he did. Pete was the only dad Adam had ever known.” She pursed her lips. “I have to hand it to Chester, though. He’d apparently had a true change of heart—at least, where his son was concerned—because he never gave up. It took him two years of letters, cards, and showing up at every sporting event Adam played in . . . and even the ones where Adam sat on the bench . . . before Adam would finally give Chester a chance to be a father to him again.”
Chapter Eight
I locked Angus inside the shop while I ran down the street to MacKenzies’ Mochas to get the muffin basket for the Cantors. He walked with me as far as the window would allow and then barked his disapproval as I continued on down the street wit
hout him. I’d already told him I’d only be a minute. That dog can be so impatient sometimes.
I half wished I could’ve taken him with me because I was a little nervous about going into the coffee shop. I hadn’t spoken with Sadie since yesterday afternoon, so I wasn’t sure whether or not she’d give me the cold shoulder . . . even if it would be unfair if she did. Still, I was glad to see that Blake was the only one manning the counter when I stepped into the shop. He greeted me with a warm smile, which I gratefully reciprocated.
“Hi,” I said. “Is the muffin basket ready?”
“It sure is. Let me grab it for you.” Blake turned and went to the shelf on the wall behind the counter to retrieve my basket. He’d done a beautiful job on it—purple and white ribbons cascaded from a dual bow—and I complimented his work.
Before he could reply or get back to the counter, Keira sauntered up. She anchored one hand to her hip and looked at me disdainfully. “What’re you doing here?”
I smiled. “Thanks awfully for your hospitality, Keira, but Blake is already waiting on me.”
She huffed and stalked over to the espresso machine.
As Blake put the basket on the counter in front of me and went back to quietly redress Keira for her rudeness, Todd came in. This visit just kept getting better and better. Was he going to glare at me like Keira had done?
“Hi, Marcy,” Todd said. He nodded toward the counter. “Blake. Good to see you.”
Keira whirled toward Todd, nearly spilling the espresso she’d been pouring. “Hey, babe. Be right with you.”
“Keira, I’m serious,” Blake said. “I’m not taking much more of your attitude. Now, step it up. Table four is getting impatient.”
“You look beautiful,” Todd told me as Keira stormed off with Table Four’s espresso. “More so than I’ve ever seen you.”
I looked down at my jeans and pale peach sweatshirt. “Wow. I should get this dressed up every day.”
“It’s not the clothes.” He took my elbow and gently propelled me into the alcove where the coat hooks were loaded with lightweight jackets and an umbrella or two. “You look happy.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry I wasn’t the one able to put that sparkle in your eyes. But I’m glad someone was.”
