by Amanda Lee
“And you think that’s a good thing?”
“Of course,” I said. “Don’t you?” I unwrapped my sub and took a bite. “Mmm . . . this is terrific. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He shook his head. “What does any of this have to do with Geraldo Rivera and Al Capone’s vault?”
“Nothing really. I only brought up that show to illustrate that people will tune in to something even if it turns out to be a disappointment.” I grabbed two sodas from the mini-fridge and placed them on the desk. “See, back in 1986, Geraldo Rivera opened Al Capone’s secret vault beneath the Lexington Hotel in Chicago. Rivera was so certain there was going to be some super-creepy stuff in there that he even had a medical examiner on hand in case there were human remains. Turned out, the vault’s contents were far less exciting than anticipated.”
“What was in there?” Ted asked.
“Trash, mostly.”
He laughed. “And you know all this because . . . ?”
“Because it’s legendary in the movie and TV business,” I said. “And even though the program itself was an epic failure, it proved that people will tune in to shows like that . . . out of curiosity if nothing else. Look at some of the garbage that passes for TV shows these days. Don’t you think a documented hunt for sunken treasure would be more entertaining than some of those?”
“I do.” He tore a hunk off the roast beef sub and handed it to Angus. “I just don’t know how you’re going to pull this off.”
“Well, I might not. I mean, if the network isn’t interested, then I guess that’s that.” I shrugged. “But if they are interested, then I’ll talk with Mary again—and include Adam this time—and—”
“We’ll talk with Mary and Adam,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you talking to that man without me. I don’t believe he killed Chester, but I don’t doubt that he’s dangerous.”
“Okay.” I sipped my soda. “This could turn out to be a good thing. Wait and see.”
Ted merely grinned tightly before taking a bite out of his sub. He didn’t seem to have much confidence in my plan, but I really thought it could work.
* * *
At around three o’clock that afternoon, I got a call from “John Trammel, but everybody calls me J.T.”
That was the extent of his introduction so I said, “Hi, J.T. What can I do for you?”
“Well, it appears your mother put a bug in my boss’s ear, and now he’s all fired up about us going on a treasure hunt.”
“You’re with Explore Nation,” I said excitedly. “So we’re really doing it?”
He chuckled—a rich, robust laugh that, along with his Texas twang, made me think J. T. Trammel was a hearty man.
“I don’t know how much literal involvement you’ll have,” he said. “But I’ll be down your way first thing tomorrow morning to get all the particulars from you and to, hopefully, start the ball rolling if this proves to be a project we’re interested in pursuing further.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Just tell me when and where you’d like to meet and what you’d like for me to bring to the meeting.”
“Ed—my boss—said Bev told him that you have some sort of shop there in Tallulah Falls,” J.T. said.
“I do. It’s an embroidery specialty shop called the Seven-Year Stitch.”
“All right. What do you say we meet there at nine? I’ll bring my assistant, Stacey, to mind the store while we chat.”
“Nine it is,” I said. “And I don’t think the assistant will be necessary. The shop doesn’t open until ten, so we’ll have an hour undisturbed.”
“I’ll bring her anyway. We might run long.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Your mom told Ed you have photos of the map. Is that right?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I have them pinned to the bulletin board in my office.”
“Good,” he said. “Also, dig up as much information on the ship and the shipwreck that you can for me.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Nice talking with you, Marcy. I’m looking forward to our face-to-face in the morning.”
“So am I.”
As soon as I hung up, I called Mom. “You work fast,” I told her.
“It’s easy when you know what strings to pull. Fill me in.”
I explained about the call from J. T. Trammel. “He’s not wasting any time, Mom. He’s meeting with me tomorrow morning at nine.”
“That’s terrific,” she said. “I hope this works out for you.”
“I hope it works out for the Cantors . . . in more ways than one. More than anything, I believe Chester wanted his son to stop mistreating his family.” I sighed. “I wish I had the courage to tell that to Adam Cantor.”
I heard Mom’s sharp intake of breath. “Tread cautiously there, darling. Men like Adam Cantor don’t like to be told they’re wrong. And they detest the very hint of being accused of wrongdoing.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not about to do anything that stupid. He’d just deny it anyway. But maybe somehow all this will make him take a long, hard look at his life.”
Chapter Twelve
After work, I closed up the shop and left the cardboard clock on the door assuring my students I’d be back for class at six o’clock. I took Angus home and had just fed him when Ted arrived.
“Hi,” I said, giving Ted a kiss and a hug. “Come on into the kitchen.”
“I thought I’d drop in on my way home from work and see if you’d heard anything from the network people,” he said.
“As a matter of fact, I did.” I told him about my call from J. T. Trammel. “We’re meeting at nine at the shop tomorrow morning.” I opened the refrigerator door. “Would you like a soda?”
“Please.”
I handed Ted a regular soda and took a diet soda for myself. “Mr. Trammel wants me to dig up everything I can find on the Delia,” I said, uncapping my bottle and sitting down at the kitchen table.
Ted pulled out the chair across from me and sat down. “Since you have class tonight, I can go ahead and start your research, if you’d like for me to.”
“I’d love that,” I said. “I already have a lot of stuff about the Delia that I gathered while I was checking into the possible legitimacy of Chester’s tapestry. It’s mainly Web links and notes. The information is on a travel drive I take back and forth between my office at work and the one here.”
Angus scratched at the door, and I got up and let him out into the fenced backyard. While I was up, I got the travel drive from my purse and handed it to Ted.
“Would you like for me to work here?” he asked. “That way, we can compile our notes for Mr. Trammel when you get home.”
“That would be fantastic, and I know Angus will love the company. I’ll bring home Chinese food.” I had another thought. “Would you like to join me at the meeting with Trammel?”
He grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“I started to call Mary to see if she’d like to come, but I felt I should get Trammel’s thoughts on the project first,” I said. “He might look at it and decide not to do it. I wouldn’t want to get Mary’s hopes up just to have to watch them crash.”
* * *
I got back to the Seven-Year Stitch at about twenty minutes before six. I unlocked the door, put the cardboard clock by the cash register, and began gathering the materials students would need for their first introductory candlewick embroidery class. I had an index card with some fun facts about candlewick embroidery, or “candlewicking”—such as, how the technique got its name (from the fact that the Colonial women who developed it used the same thread for the embroidery projects as they used to make wicks for their candles). I also had handouts for the students giving them step-by-step instructions on making a Colonial knot. While I’d be helping them there in class, they might need a refresher when they got home. And once they mastered the Colonial knot, they were pretty much home free in candlewick embroidery.
&n
bsp; I went into the office to brew a pot of decaffeinated coffee and to make sure the mini-fridge was amply stocked with bottled water. As I got the coffee under way and was opening the cabinet to get a bag of hard candy, I heard the bells over the shop door ring.
I stepped out of the office with the bag of candy and was surprised to see Mary Cantor and Susan Willoughby standing near the counter. They hadn’t signed up for this class, and at first, I thought they’d confused this class with their group class.
“Hi, guys,” I said, carrying the bag of hard candy over to the round bowl in the center of the coffee table. I filled the dish with candy.
“Are we too early?” Mary asked.
“Not if you’re here for beginning candlewick embroidery,” I said lightly. “But if you’re here for our other class—the cross-stitch and needlepoint class—you’re two days early and in the wrong place.”
“Oh, we know,” Mary said. “We wanted to talk with you . . . and since you were so nice to come by with the muffin basket and all, Adam gave me permission to take your class.” She looked behind her as if he might suddenly burst through the door. “He doesn’t know about the other class, of course.”
Of course, he didn’t. And how sweet of him to give her permission to take this class.
“I realize we didn’t register for the class ahead of time,” Susan said. “If that’s a problem—”
“Not at all,” I interrupted. “The more, the merrier, right?” I smiled. “Please, excuse me and make yourselves comfortable while I put this candy bag back in the office. Would you guys care for some decaf coffee or a bottle of cold water?”
Susan said water would be nice, and Mary followed me into the office.
“Um . . . if you have a second, could I talk with you after class?” she asked. “I know the other people will be coming soon. . . .”
As if on cue, the bells were set to jangling.
“Sure,” I said.
She thanked me and started to leave the office when she noticed the bulletin board. Fortunately, the green felt was in place and completely covered the photos of Chester’s tapestry.
“What’s that?” Mary asked.
“It’s a bulletin board,” I said, keeping my voice as casual as I could.
“Why is it covered up like that?”
“Sometimes when I’m working on something . . . you know, like a surprise . . . I’ll cover up my notes or sketches or whatever in case someone should come by . . . and spoil the surprise,” I said.
It sounded lame even to me, even though it was a valid concept. I should’ve said something less vague . . . something to the effect that I was working on a special gift for someone and was afraid she might come in and see my preliminary work. That was much closer to the truth, after all, but I was afraid that if I’d said that, Mary would ask more questions. As it was, I didn’t have time to explain to her—nor did I want to risk Susan overhearing—that the felt hid photos of Mary’s late father-in-law’s tapestry and that they were going to be evaluated by a production crew tomorrow morning. I was still afraid that Mr. Trammel might decide the Delia wasn’t worth his time after all and nix the project before it had even begun.
Gee, I wished I’d put more thought into this plan while it was in its infancy. I’m not certain I’d have done anything differently. I only wish I’d have given it a little more thought prior to rushing into a meeting with a producer.
“Is anything wrong?” Mary asked.
It was a reasonable question. I was standing there with a dazed expression on my face and a bag of hard candy clutched in both hands. I probably looked a little deranged.
I shook myself out of it and smiled. “I’m fine.” I put the candy into the cabinet and got two bottles of water out of the fridge—one for Susan and the other for me. I asked Mary again if she’d care for anything, but she said no.
We went out into the shop to see who else had arrived.
Vera was there. She was always game for trying something new. Reggie was there too. Like Vera, Reggie enjoys new ventures. But since Reggie is skilled in the art of chikankari, an Indian form of white-on-white embroidery, I wondered if she hadn’t signed up for this class as either a thank-you for my doing the domestic abuse victims’ group class or to make sure Adam Cantor didn’t come in during the session to do me bodily harm.
Once everyone who’d signed up for the class arrived, I gave an introductory speech on candlewick embroidery. I explained to the class that although more modern candlewick pieces often incorporated colored threads, we would be sticking with the traditional white-on-white motif for our class. I also passed around the Colonial knot instruction guide and the patterns we’d be using. Then I had everyone introduce herself to the class.
Besides Mary, Susan, Vera, and Reggie, there were Martha, a ski instructor; Belinda, a retired teacher; Amy, a court reporter who’d learned about the Seven-Year Stitch from Riley Kendall—I made a mental note to thank Riley; and Ellen, a full-time caregiver to her aging mother. Ellen’s children had signed her up for this class as a way of getting her to do something for herself, and they’d agreed to take turns sitting with their grandmother so Ellen could enjoy her leisure time.
We were all telling Ellen what a sweet gift her children had given her and how glad we were that she was with us when Sadie hurried in.
“Hi,” she said breathlessly. “Am I too late to join the class?”
Sadie was not a stitcher. A few weeks ago, she’d signed up for beginning needlepoint and gotten frustrated halfway through the class, and I’d had to complete her project for her. I knew that her joining this class was a way of reaching out to me and letting me know we were okay.
“You’re right on time,” I said, giving her the handouts and a hug.
The class went well. Everyone seemed to enjoy it, and it appeared they’d all got the hang of the Colonial knot by the end of the session. Before I knew it, our class time was up. Once again, I found myself alone with Mary and Susan. I’d started cleaning up as the students began to leave, but after everyone else had left, I sat on the sofa across from Mary and Susan and asked what they wanted to talk with me about.
Mary’s eyes darted toward the door before she answered. “It’s about Adam.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper, and I had to lean forward and fully concentrate on hearing her. “What about him?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer to that question.
“Do the police think he killed Chester?” Her eyes glistened with fear and unshed tears.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think they can clear anyone as a suspect at this point, but I believe Adam is genuinely grieving the loss of his father. That doesn’t sound much like a murderer to me.”
“I hope you’re right,” Mary said.
“Still, I heard his alibi didn’t hold up,” Susan said.
I started to ask Susan where she’d gotten her information, but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “I’m positive the police are following every lead.” I wondered if Susan was convinced that Adam had indeed killed Chester or if she merely wanted Mary to be cautious of him. I didn’t think Mary needed anyone to make her wary of Adam. I could tell she was terrified of the man.
I wanted to be reassuring, but I couldn’t be certain Adam was not the murderer. And if I were Mary and had any inkling that the man I was living with could kill someone—especially his own father—I wouldn’t want to stay with him, and I certainly wouldn’t want my daughter living under the same roof with him. But I didn’t want to sway Mary into leaving her husband either. There could still be a chance for the Cantors to mend their family. I wanted to help foster that chance if I could, not take it away.
My mind was so muddled I barely remembered to stop and get the Chinese food on the way home. I was more than ready to simply fall into Ted’s arms and hide when I got there.
He took the take-out boxes from me, put them on the table, and held me tight.
“Don’t let go,” I whispered. “Not ye
t.”
“I won’t. Is anything wrong? Did something happen?”
I buried my face in his chest. “Give me a second. We’ll talk while we eat, but for the moment, I only want to escape here in your arms. You make me feel safe.”
“You are safe, sweetheart.” He rested his cheek against the top of my head. “I promise.”
“You’re probably starving,” I said.
“Dinner can wait.”
I smiled up at him. “You’re wonderful. Thank you for being here.”
He kissed me tenderly. “That must’ve been some rough class.”
I laughed softly. “It’s not that particular class I’m concerned about.” I reluctantly stepped out of the warmth of his arms and got us some plates.
While we ate and fed bites of the sweet and sour pork to Angus, I told Ted about Mary and Susan coming to the class and staying to talk with me afterward.
“Everyone seems to think I know exactly what’s going on with the investigation,” I said. “And, in fact, I’m as clueless as they are . . . if not more so.”
“That’s a side effect of being involved with me,” Ted said. “Sorry about that.”
“I’m not sorry about that in the least.” I took his hand. “I was so torn, Ted. I didn’t know what to say. She was essentially asking me if I thought she and her daughter were living with a murderer . . . if I believe their lives are in danger. And I had no idea what to say to her. What do you tell people when they ask you those kinds of questions?”
“I think you handled the situation the only way you could,” he said. “Like you, I see both sides of the coin. I want to protect Mary and Melanie, but I don’t want to condemn Adam if he’s innocent. Besides, domestic abuse statistics show that women who leave their abusive spouses are at a greater risk of severe injury or death than those who stay.”
I groaned. “I want a rewind button. I want to go back to when I agreed to do the class and tell Reggie I’m too busy. I want to have never gotten involved with any of this.” I pressed my lips together tightly, hoping that might somehow keep me from crying. It didn’t work. “If I’d stayed out of it . . . hadn’t gone meddling in the Cantors’ business . . . Chester might still be alive. . . . He might be fine right now . . . searching for his treasure.”
