by Amanda Lee
“She could have, but I really enjoyed meeting him,” I said.
Sensing the downward turn of my mood, Ted asked, “So, how did the women in the group take to embroidery?”
“I think most of them are enjoying the class,” I said. “In fact, one of them—Mary’s friend Susan—stopped by the Seven-Year Stitch for the second time today.”
“Susan Willoughby?” Reggie asked. She sipped her wine. “She’s an odd one.”
“I suppose her last name is Willoughby,” I answered. “I thought I was doing well to remember her first name since there are so many women in the group. She is the only Susan in the class, isn’t she?”
Reggie nodded. “Medium height, sandy blond hair, brown eyes?”
“That’s the one,” I said. “Why did you say she’s an odd one?”
“She seems to be more of an observer than a participant,” Reggie said. “They all are at first, but eventually most of the women begin to trust one another, commiserate, and open up about their experiences. Not Susan.”
“Wait.” Manu held out his hand. “Susan Willoughby is in the domestic abuse victims’ support group?”
When Reggie confirmed that she was, Manu asked why.
As Reggie shrugged, I looked from her to Manu to Ted.
“I thought the group was comprised of women from the safe house and those living in at-risk situations,” I said. “Not that I mind having her in the class or anything, but why would Susan be in the group if she wasn’t a victim of domestic abuse?”
“Maybe she comes to lend her support to Mary,” Ted said.
“Or it could be that she is a survivor and feels she can help others get through it,” Reggie said. “She certainly hasn’t put herself in that role yet, though.”
Manu shook his head. “I know Jared Willoughby. No way is he a wife beater.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” Reggie said. “Some people are adept at hiding their true selves from the public.”
“Not Jared,” said Manu. “He’s a stand-up guy.”
“I’m not saying he isn’t.” Reggie took another sip of her wine. “I’m only pointing out that you never truly know someone until you’re living with them.”
“And maybe not then,” I said lightly. “Anyone remember the story “Button, Button” by Richard Matheson? It’s the one where the couple was to receive fifty thousand dollars if they pressed a button. The catch was that someone the button-presser did not know would die.”
“I remember,” said Ted. “The wife pressed the button, and her husband died in an accident. He had a twenty-five-thousand-dollar life insurance policy. . . .”
“With a double indemnity clause,” we finished in unison, laughing. The insurance company had paid the wife fifty thousand dollars because it paid double the amount of the policy if the death was accidental.
“But you said the person who died would be someone they didn’t know,” Reggie said.
“The catch was that the wife only thought she knew her husband,” I said.
“That’s a scary thought,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” Manu said. “You know me better than I know myself.”
* * *
When Ted and I got back to my house, I made us a pot of decaf while Ted let Angus in and fed him treats.
“Dinner was fun,” I said, as I took two mugs out of the cabinet and placed them on the counter.
“Yes, it was.” Ted came up behind me, slid his arms around my waist, and kissed my neck. “The meal wasn’t what I expected, though.”
“It wasn’t?” I giggled. “It was almost exactly what I expected. I mean, I didn’t know what foods Reggie would serve, but I knew she’d have a mix of Indian and American dishes.”
Reggie had treated us to oven-baked barbecue chicken with vegetable curry, rolls, and a yummy pudding called kheer.
“I guess we could call Reggie’s cooking style American-Indian cuisine, but then that would mean something else entirely,” he murmured against the back of my neck. “Wouldn’t it?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I closed my eyes and sank back against him.
“I feel your resistance to my charms beginning to weaken,” he said, turning me to face him.
“Silly man.” I wrapped my arms around him. “I never had any resistance to your charms.”
He lowered his lips to mine, and we were enjoying a deliciously hot kiss until Angus wedged himself between us.
“Dude, gimme a break,” Ted said to Angus. “You get to be with her all day.”
“True, but he doesn’t get to be with you.” I poured our coffee, and we took it into the living room.
Angus happily padded after us. When we slipped off our shoes and snuggled up on the sofa, the dog was content to lie nearby and chew on a toy.
Curled against Ted with my head resting on his chest, I felt happier than I could remember feeling in years. I told him so.
He kissed me lightly. “Me, too, sweetheart. In fact, I think the only other thing I need right now is to find Chester Cantor’s murderer and get him off the street so I won’t have to worry about Adam harassing you.”
“Adam Cantor doesn’t scare me,” I lied. “I’ve got my own personal bodyguard twenty-four-seven, remember?”
We both looked over at Angus, and he wagged his tail in acknowledgment before resuming the all-important business of toy chewing.
“You’ve seen Chester’s tapestry treasure map,” I said. “Which do you think it is—a tapestry or a treasure map?”
He shrugged and nestled me closer. “I think it’s a tapestry designed to look like a treasure map.” He ran his finger along my collarbone. “What do you think?”
“I have no idea, but I know that a lot of people around Tallulah Falls have a burning desire to find treasure.”
“It’s like our answer to the lottery. Everybody wants to win big.” He kissed the trail his fingertip had forged along my collarbone. “Now, burning desire . . . that’s a feeling I’m familiar with.”
“Come on,” I said. “Be serious for just a second.”
“I am serious.” He lifted his head. “Okay—one second . . . not a minute more. I say anything’s possible.”
“Really? You think the tapestry could actually lead to the discovery of the wreckage of the Delia?”
“Why not? Like I said, anything’s possible,” he said. “Now, time’s up and your so-called bodyguard is snoring. Come here.”
Since I was about to lose my train of thought in a pair of the bluest eyes I’d ever seen anyway, I put aside the plan that was forming somewhere in the recesses of my mind. And then I kissed Ted and showed him that he wasn’t the only one who knew a thing or two about burning desire.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, I looked at the photos I’d taken of Chester’s tapestry and had uploaded from my phone to my computer. I printed them out, pieced them together, and pinned them to the bulletin board in my office so I could look at the tapestry as a whole. To be on the safe side, I got a piece of green felt from the storage room to tack over the photos in case anyone happened to walk in. It would be just my luck for someone to see the board and deduce that I’d killed Chester Cantor to get at his treasure.
I stood back and surveyed the photos. Was it possible that this lovely old piece of embroidery held the key to finding a sunken treasure? There were longitude and latitude indicators . . . an X where the Delia had apparently sunk . . . towns—including Tallulah Falls—along the shoreline. . . .
I was so caught up in my reverie that when Angus suddenly began barking, I gasped and nearly jumped a foot off the ground. I threw the felt over the bulletin board and then hurried to see what all the commotion was about.
It was a bird. That’s it . . . just a tiny sparrow that was pecking on the window. Angus was dying to play with it. He was in front of the window with his head down at bird level and his wagging tail up in the air while he barked a blue streak.
When I could no longer take Angus’s and the
bird’s shenanigans—in particular, Angus’s loud barks and playful rumbles—I went to the counter and retrieved his leash and the cardboard clock with the plastic hands that told the world that I was out but that I would be back at the indicated time. I placed the hands five minutes in the future, placed the clock on the door, snapped the leash to Angus’s collar, and we went for a quick jaunt down the street. As we walked, the scheme that had started forming in my brain last night fully awoke and began turning into a full-fledged plan.
When Angus and I got back to the Seven-Year Stitch, I waited on a customer who was making a needlepoint rug and needed strong yarn and tapestry needles. And then I called the treasure hunter, Jack Powell. He answered on the first ring. I introduced myself and then got right down to business.
“Jack, do you honestly believe Chester Cantor’s map could lead us to the Delia?”
“I thought I made that clear to you the other day,” he told me. “There’s a better-than-passing average that the map could’ve led us to the wreckage, but with no map and no money, it doesn’t do us any good to dwell on it.”
“What if I said I might be able to get my hands on the map and the money?” I asked. “Would you be interested in spearheading the hunt?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he asked in almost a whisper, “Are you serious?”
“I am. I can’t promise anything yet,” I said. “But if I’m able to get the funding, would you head up the search team?”
“You bet I would,” he said. “But wait. What’s in it for you?”
“Chester’s share—I want it to go to his family.”
“If there’s anything to divvy up, I’ll be glad to pass along a share to the Cantors,” Jack said. “How sure are you that you can make this happen?” There was a note of excitement creeping into his voice.
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say, four point seven five,” I answered. I realized those weren’t great odds, but I didn’t want to get his hopes up too high in case my plan failed. “Let me make some calls, and I’ll get back in touch with you as soon as I have something more concrete.”
Since reality television had become such a major part of almost every network, I thought the hunt for the Delia’s treasure might be of interest to someone. Even if no treasure was found, a documentary film crew might finance the search and would pay the Cantors for their role in the film—the story behind Chester’s tapestry, the use of the tapestry/map to try to locate the treasure. . . . Even Chester’s assertion that his ancestors were the Ramsays of Oregon treasure lore could provide interesting fodder for viewers. It might not be the windfall Chester had hoped for, but at least it would be something . . . maybe enough to put in a trust for Melanie’s college education.
The rain from yesterday had abated to a light mist today, and a lot more customers were out and about. That was wonderful for business, but it was terrible for sneaking off to my office to make phone calls. After speaking with Jack Powell, it was over an hour before I was able to get a few minutes to call Mary Cantor.
Unlike Jack, Mary did not answer on the first ring. In fact, I was afraid I was going to have to give up when at last she answered.
“Mary, hi. It’s Marcy Singer. Can you talk?”
“Yes, Marcy. Adam is out at the moment. If my tone changes, you’ll know he’s come in and that I have to go,” Mary said.
“Of course. I . . . I don’t mean to be insensitive here, but Chester indicated that you and Adam have . . . had . . . money issues?” This call went better in my head before I’d actually dialed the number.
“I don’t see that our financial situation is any of your business.” Mary’s voice was cool.
“It isn’t in the least,” I agreed. “It’s just that I’ve been studying photographs I took of the tapestry, and there’s a slight possibility that it really could be a treasure map. Certainly, the tapestry is old.”
“Marcy, I don’t really think this is the proper time to get everybody’s hopes up for something that will never be. Do you?”
“No.” I forged ahead. “But it could be the perfect time to get out from under your financial burden. You know how reality shows are all the rage? Well, what if we could get a producer interested in finding the treasure of the Delia?”
Mary sighed. “You said there was a slight possibility that the tapestry is a treasure map. If that isn’t the case, then what?”
“Then the production company might still be interested in making a documentary or a reality show about searching for the treasure,” I said. “Wouldn’t it at least be worth a shot?”
“I don’t know. What are the odds that anyone would listen to this idea for a show?” she asked.
“Oh, trust me. I believe I can get the right people to listen. And if I can, would you be interested in talking with them?”
“Sure.” Her voice changed, indicating Adam had returned. “Adam and I do so appreciate your concern. Thank you for calling.”
After getting Mary’s green light, I called Mom. “Mom, I need a favor.”
“Marcella, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Remember that treasure map tapestry I told you about?”
“The one that possibly got Chester Cantor killed? Yes, I remember your mentioning that,” Mom said. “I’m sitting. Should I lie down?”
“If you think it would help,” I said. “I’m calling to ask if you know a documentary filmmaker who might be willing to finance the treasure hunt?”
“Ah, that wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” she said, relief evident in her voice. “I’m not sure what I imagined you might be doing with regard to this treasure that may or may not be at the bottom of the ocean, but you’re actually making a reasonable request.”
“I doubt everyone around here will share your opinion, but we’ll see.”
“I’m drawing a blank on filmmakers, darling, but there’s a new network called Explore Nation that’s launching next year,” Mom said. “Your proposal should be perfect for them.”
“Do you have an in?”
“As a matter of fact, I do have an in—a rather powerful in. He’s a major investor in the network. Let me give him a call and see what he thinks.”
“Thanks, Mom. You rock!”
“I do, don’t I?” She chuckled. “I’ll keep you posted.”
* * *
After talking with Mom, I’d wanted to call Ted and tell him my plan. But, as had been par for the course today, a steady stream of customers and phone calls had made it impossible to do so. That’s why I was especially delighted to see him strolling in with lunch at a little past noon. He sat on the sofa while I checked out a customer who was buying knitting needles in a variety of sizes but no yarn, an oddity I might’ve commented on, had I been less busy. And then I waited on a customer who was buying a beaded embroidery kit for his wife.
As the last customer was heading out the door, I sprinted over to Ted and threw my arms around his neck. “I’m so glad to see you! I’ve been wanting to talk with you all morning.”
“Ditto. Has the Stitch been a madhouse all day?”
“It has been,” I said.
He nodded toward the bag. “I brought subs and chips. I’ll mind the store while you go eat. You need a break.”
I gave him a quick kiss. “Thanks for the offer, but I want to eat with you. My customers can spare me for twenty minutes.” I put the clock on the door, and then Ted, Angus, and I went into the office.
“I brought tuna salad for you, turkey for me, and roast beef for Angus,” Ted said.
“You brought Angus his own sub?” I asked. “How sweet.”
“Those compelling eyes kill me. And I’m pretty hungry, so I figured if I had to share anyway, I might as well get him his own.”
I laughed and hoped my compelling eyes would work on him as well when I confessed what I hoped to accomplish with regard to the search for the treasure of the Delia.
Ted stopped right in the middle of taking our food from
the bag. “What?” he asked.
“What do you mean what?”
“You know exactly what I mean. What have you done?”
“You didn’t make head detective just because of your good looks, did you?” I smiled.
Ted did not smile. He looked apprehensive.
“Hear me out,” I continued.
He groaned and slapped a hand to his forehead.
“Please,” I said.
“Okay.” He lowered his hand, but he still looked like he dreaded what was coming.
“It’s not that bad. Seriously,” I said. “It’s just that I got to thinking that Chester’s tapestry might be worth something—a lot even—whether it’s a map leading to the discovery of a sunken treasure or not.”
“You mean the tapestry itself . . . because it’s an antique?” Ted asked. He looked relieved.
“Not exactly.”
Ted’s look of relief disappeared.
“I mean, I did look into that,” I said. “But it isn’t worth as much as you might think. Anyway, you know how hot reality shows are, right?”
He nodded and started unwrapping his sandwich. Angus licked his lips and inched closer.
I explained about the television network set to launch next year and how Mom said she’d ask one of the network executives about doing a documentary on the search for the treasure. “Even if it’s a bust like that time Geraldo Rivera opened Al Capone’s vault, it could still make for some interesting television. Don’t you think?”
Ted’s eyes widened. “You’re having your mom pitch the treasure hunt to a TV network?”
I nodded. “And Jack Powell has agreed to head up the expedition. So, provided the network goes for it, and they need a treasure hunter, we’re good to go.”
His jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah! Isn’t it great? I figure this plan—if the network goes for it—will accomplish two things. First, it will bring in some money for Chester’s family . . . maybe not as much as he’d hoped, but some. And, if the tapestry was the reason Chester was killed, this will draw out the murderer.”
