by Amanda Lee
“I’m amazed at how quickly the media has begun storming our little town,” Sadie said. “I mean, she died only this morning.”
“It’s already being reported on TMZ and E!,” Amber said.
“You watch too much of that junk,” her mother admonished.
“Are they calling the death an accident or a homicide?” Vera asked Amber.
Amber shrugged. “They said she fell to her death on the set of her new movie. Why? Did you hear she was pushed or something?”
“At this point, anything and everything said by the media and the public is mere speculation,” Reggie said. “No one knows for sure what happened.”
“How’s everyone doing on their project?” I asked. I leaned closer to an elderly lady who’d been working steadily and hadn’t even looked up during the Babushka Tru discussion. “Muriel, are you doing okay?”
Muriel raised her cottony head and smiled. “I’m fine, thanks. How are you, dear?”
I was getting ready to reply to Muriel that I too was fine when the bells over the shop door jingled. A woman in a black coat with a leopard-print collar was standing just inside the door. She staggered slightly as she tottered in black stiletto boots toward the sit-and-stitch square, and I quickly put down my embroidery to meet her halfway.
“Hi, I’m Marcy Singer. May I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m Mita Trublonski—Babs’ mother.”
Chapter Nine
I could feel the eyes of the students burning into my back. I didn’t dare turn and face their curiosity outright. Instead, I asked Mita Trublonski—Babushka Tru’s mother, yikes!—to step into my office. I called over my shoulder to the students that I’d be back in just a moment.
I settled Ms. Trublonski into my desk chair and gave her a bottle of water. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
Ms. Trublonski uncapped the bottle and drank deeply. “Thank you.”
“I’m not sure how I can help you,” I said.
“I understand that your mother is Beverly Singer and that she was one of the last people to see my Babs alive.” With trembling hands, she replaced the cap on the water bottle. “I’d like to talk with your mother . . . and anyone else who might’ve been with Babs that morning.”
“Of course,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me for a second, I’ll make sure this is a good time for her.” I slipped out of the office and down the hall to the bathroom to call Mom.
“You’ll never guess who’s in my office right now,” I said when Mom answered the phone.
“Oliver Stone? Tim Burton? Peter Jackson? Peter Pumpkin-Eater?” she asked.
“Mom, this is serious. Have you been drinking?”
“Of course not. I’m just trying to lighten the mood and pretend my life isn’t hanging in the balance here.”
“Oh . . . yeah . . . well. . . .” I felt bad for asking if she’d been drinking. But it was obvious that Babs’ mom had been. And under the circumstances, I’d probably at least consider it.
“So, who’s in your office?” Mom asked.
“Um, Babs’ mother—Mita Trublonski. Do you know her?”
“I’ve seen her on set a time or two, but I’ve never actually met her. What does she want?”
“To talk with you,” I said.
“Why? Does she think I killed her daughter? Is she crazy?”
“I don’t think so. She seems drunk—or, at least, a little tipsy—but she isn’t raging around slinging accusations against anyone.” I peeped out the door and spotted Ms. Trublonski in the hall. Oh, no! She was headed back into the shop! I didn’t want her talking with the students without me there.
“If you want to talk with her, I’ll see if Ted can bring her,” I continued. “That’ll keep her off the road and give you some protection in case she is nutty or something.” I took another look out the door and saw that Ms. Trublonski was nearly to the sit-and-stitch square. “Mom, I need to go. What do you want to do?”
“I’ll talk with the woman,” Mom said. “I feel I owe her that.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
As I hurried down the hall, I texted Ted and asked him if he could come by the shop, pick up Babushka Tru’s mother, and drive her to my house. I told him that if so, I’d explain everything better when he got to the Seven-Year Stitch.
I got to the sit-and-stitch square and explained to Mita that Ted would be by to take her to see my mother. She nodded and tottered into one of the red club chairs.
“You have a lovely shop,” she told me.
“Thank you,” I said.
She waved her well-manicured hand toward my slack-jawed students. “Please don’t let me interrupt you. Go back to your sewing.”
As I reclaimed my seat on the sofa beside Muriel, my phone buzzed. I casually took it from my pocket, glanced at the screen, and read Ted’s text: On my way. I stifled my sigh of relief as I slid the phone back into my jeans pocket.
Most of the candlewicking students were looking anywhere other than at Mita Trublonski. Reggie and Sadie were staring at but not working on their projects. Vera was looking at me and raising her eyebrows as if she and I could somehow communicate using some sort of facial Morse code. And Julie was not-so-subtly nudging her daughter, who was gazing openmouthed at our guest.
I was trying to come up with a way to break the uncomfortable silence when Amber beat me to the punch.
“Ms. Trublonski, your daughter was so awesome,” she said. “She was like my favorite actress of all time.”
“Thank you.” Ms. Trublonski smiled sadly. “On the one hand, it’s hard to believe she’s gone. But on the other hand, the poor darling had been a train wreck for years. I suppose you keep up with the tabloids and know she’d been arrested for DUI and drug possession more than once. She’d gone to court-mandated rehab twice.”
“But this time it took,” Amber said, seemingly oblivious to Julie’s death grip on her forearm. “I know it did. She’d just been under so much pressure since Surf Dad was canceled, that’s all. This movie was going to be her comeback. She was gonna be on top again. She was gonna be great.”
“You’re very sweet,” Ms. Trublonski said. “I appreciate your kind words. And you’re absolutely right about the pressure Babs had been under. The tabloids speak as if they know everything, but they don’t. They didn’t know the half of what Babs had been through.”
By that point, everyone except Muriel, who was still plugging away at her embroidery, was hanging on Ms. Trublonski’s words.
“Surf Dad was Babushka’s life for five years,” Ms. Trublonski continued. “The other people who’d worked on the show were like extended family to her. She believed they’d all keep in touch after the show was canceled.” She sighed. “The child was eleven when it ended. What was she supposed to think?”
“I read that it broke her heart when Andrew Mains asked Sabrina Willis to play his daughter in that race car movie,” Amber said.
“Amber, you need to be quiet and work on your pillow,” Julie said.
“No, that’s all right,” Ms. Trublonski said. “I don’t mind talking about Babs.” She looked at Amber. “That did break her heart. After playing Andrew’s daughter on Surf Dad for five seasons, Babs thought she was a shoo-in for the role. But he—and the studio—chose Sabrina. They said that if they’d gone with Babs, it would have made the movie seem like too much of an extension of Surf Dad.”
I agreed that it would have, but I wisely held my tongue on the subject.
“Well, after getting that slap in the face, didn’t Babs’ boyfriend take up with that snotty little Sabrina too?” Vera leaned forward, her demeanor more that of a teenager than Amber’s.
“Lane Peck dated Sabrina for a short time, but I wouldn’t say he’d ever been Babs’ boyfriend,” Ms. Trublonski said. “That so-called romance was primarily the invention of Lane’s manager an
d tabloid speculators when they were costars. Babs preferred guys older than her . . . sometimes much older. I think she was always searching for someone to replace her father.”
My mind instantly flew to Henry Beaumont. Had he been Babs’ latest father-figure boyfriend? Or was that, too, merely speculation?
“Is Babs’ father dead?” Vera asked.
Mita Trublonski shook her head. “No, but he might as well be, as far as Babushka was concerned. During her third season of Surf Dad, he embezzled a sizable chunk of her income and then took off with his secretary.” She uncapped the water bottle, took a drink, and then slumped against the back of the chair. She suddenly appeared tired and sad.
I was relieved when Ted arrived. I met him at the door and gave him a quick, whispered rundown of the situation.
“I’m pretty sure she’s been drinking,” I said. “That’s one reason I don’t want her driving over to see Mom by herself.”
“And the other reason is obvious,” he said. “From the look of things, your class has come to a standstill. Why don’t you close up shop and come with us?”
“Mainly because I don’t want half the class showing up at my house.”
He nodded. “Vera looks as if she might come anyway.”
“She might. She eats celebrity gossip up like a bear eats a salmon.” I raised my voice as Ted and I approached the sit-and-stitch square. “Ms. Trublonski, this is Ted Nash. As I said, he’s going to drive you over to my house so you can talk with Mom.”
Ms. Trublonski started to get up but lost her balance and fell back onto the chair. On her second attempt, she stood. “I’ll follow you in my car.”
“No, please, allow me to be your Tallulah Falls tour guide.” Ted gave her his most charming smile and offered her his arm.
She took his arm and looked grateful for the support. “Well, I am a little unsteady this evening. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“I’m positive.” He nodded at me. “Marcy, we’ll see you as soon as class is over.”
“I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
The shop was unusually quiet as Ted and Mita Trublonski left. Abandoning all pretense of being able to concentrate on my candlewicking project, I sat on the club chair Ms. Trublonski had vacated. Everyone was staring at me as if waiting for me to speak. Everyone except Muriel, that is, who continued to make Colonial knots, content in her own little world. At that moment, I envied Muriel that serenity.
When I didn’t say anything, Vera jumped in. “What does she want to talk with your mom about? Does she think Beverly had anything to do with Babs’ death?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She didn’t appear antagonistic. I think maybe she’s simply reaching out to the people who saw her daughter before she died. Babs is gone. I believe the poor woman is scrambling for any last crumb of the girl’s existence . . . anything she can cling to.”
• • •
When I arrived at my house, the porch light was on, and Ted’s car was in the driveway. I noticed extra vehicles lining both sides of the street, but that fact and its importance didn’t really register until later.
As I got out of the Jeep, Angus jumped up and placed his front paws on the fence. He barked a friendly greeting, and I told him I’d bring him inside soon. Mom had apparently put him into the backyard for Mita Trublonski’s comfort.
Other than Angus barking and a few frogs chirping, the neighborhood was deceptively quiet. I walked into the house and put my purse and keys on the table in the entryway. I heard voices coming from the kitchen.
“Hi,” I said upon entering the kitchen and taking the only vacant chair. Mom was to my left, Mita Trublonski was directly across from me, and Ted was to my right. I briefly examined each of their faces, but their expressions weren’t giving anything away.
They returned my greeting, and then Mom offered me some coffee.
“No, thanks, I’m good.”
Ms. Trublonski pushed her chair back from the table. “Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me, Beverly, but I really must be going.”
What? I’d only just got here, and the woman was leaving?
“Please don’t hurry off on my account,” I said with a smile.
“Oh, not at all, dear,” Ms. Trublonski said. “It’s been a long, hard day, and I’d like to go to my hotel and lie down now.”
“Of course,” I said. I was disappointed, but I knew Mom would give me the play-by-play as soon as Ms. Trublonski left.
Ted stood. “I’ll take you back to your car. Or, if you’re too tired to drive, I can take you directly to your hotel. It’s whatever you prefer.”
“Drop me at my car please,” she said. “I can make it the rest of the way.”
Ted told me he’d be back soon, and Ms. Trublonski thanked us all again for our hospitality as we walked her to the door. As soon as Ted opened the door, though, our congenial scene turned chaotic. Flashbulbs went off, Angus barked furiously, and reporters yelled questions.
“Ms. Trublonski, do you believe your daughter was murdered?”
“Do you think Beverly Singer had anything to do with your daughter’s death?”
“Beverly, did Babs’ mother come here to confront you with killing her daughter?”
“Is it true that Babs was pregnant when she died?”
Ted pulled Ms. Trublonski back inside and closed the door. “I’ll take care of this.” He turned to me. “Have you got a blanket or cape or something Ms. Trublonski can borrow to shield her from the cameramen?”
“Sure.” I hurried to the living room, went to the closet, and took out a green flannel throw.
I returned to the entryway as Ted stepped out onto the porch with his badge raised and pulled the door up behind him.
“I’m Detective Ted Nash of the Tallulah Falls Sheriff’s Department,” he called. “You’re on private property and will be arrested for trespassing if you don’t get off this lawn immediately. Neither Ms. Trublonski nor Ms. Singer has any desire to speak with any of you. Should you attempt to approach either of them, you will be arrested for harassment.”
Ted came back inside. “Are you ready to go, Ms. Trublonski?”
“Yes.” She took the blanket I offered her and draped it over her head. “Thank you.”
When Ted opened the door again, the yard had been cleared of reporters. The flashbulbs still clicked, though, and Angus continued his fervent protests. I closed the door and locked it, but Mom and I watched from behind the curtains at the picture window in the living room to make sure Ted and Ms. Trublonski were able to make an undisturbed exit.
As soon as they’d backed out of the driveway, I ran to the kitchen door to let Angus in. I was relocking the door when Mom joined me in the kitchen.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded and sat down at the table. Angus went to lie by her feet. She sighed, and so did he.
I decided I needed a cup of coffee after all. “Is this decaf?”
Again, Mom nodded.
I poured myself a cup and added cream and artificial sweetener. “Want me to top off your cup?”
“No, thanks.”
I was relieved that she’d found her voice again. I sat down beside her and took her hand. “It’ll be all right. We’ll get through this.”
I was nearly bursting to ask her what Ms. Trublonski had said to her, but I could tell this wasn’t the time to ask. If she wanted to talk about it, she would. If not, I wouldn’t press her. I’d simply wait and ask Ted.
I held her hand, sipped my coffee, and finally she spoke.
“She came to ask me if I thought Babs had committed suicide.”
“What? What did you say?”
“I told her what I believe is the truth. Although I didn’t know Babs that well, I feel her death was a tragic accident.”
“Had Ms. Trublonski been told that it . . . you know . . . that her death seemed . . . suspicious?” I asked.
“She knows it’s rumored that Babs was murdered, but she thinks the rumor is simply a tool to continue to exploit Babs in death,” Mom said.
“You know there’s more to it than that.”
She shrugged. “Maybe she’s right. Think of how many magazine articles and televised stories could be sold about the unsolved murder of a young Hollywood starlet.”
“Is that what you truly believe?”
“I’m not sure what I believe at this point,” she said.
Chapter Ten
By the time Ted returned from seeing Mita Trublonski safely to her car, Mom had already gone upstairs to bed. I knew she was exhausted, but I also thought she wanted to be alone more than anything. During the crises of others, Mom was terrific. She could remain positive, upbeat, and strong—a rock for those around her to lean on. But her personal crises—like when Dad died—drove her into a shell. She wanted to close herself off from everyone physically and emotionally until the crisis had either passed or enough time had elapsed to allow her to come to grips with the new normal left in the wake of the crisis.
I understood the behavior, but it was hard to accept. I wanted to help her. I wanted to fix things for her. But I realized that in some ways this latest crisis was even harder for Mom to navigate than when Dad died. Then she had a child she had to care for, so she threw herself into looking after me and doing her work. Babushka Tru’s death could destroy the career Mom had worked so hard to build . . . and that was even if Mom wasn’t arrested and charged with murder. The stigma alone could ruin her.
I was sitting in the living room and heard Ted’s car pull into the driveway. I hurried to the front door to greet him and was relieved to see that most of the media had gone.
“I only hope this isn’t the quiet before the storm,” I told Ted. “I’ve never had to deal with reporters much, and I don’t like it. Even though Mom has worked on some high-profile movies, the press junkets occur post-production and then typically involve only the stars and other major players like the producers and directors.”
