by Amanda Lee
“Why do you say that?”
She shrugged. “I’m just telling you what we saw . . . what we felt. We didn’t intend to scare you, but I do believe that you should be warned. Leave the sleuthing to the detectives. Try to stay off this person’s radar.”
“Do you know something?” I asked.
“I don’t know anything, sweetie. It’s what I feel.” She patted my shoulder. “Stay safe. I must get to the tent before the rest of the crew thinks I’ve gotten lost.” She started walking away but turned back toward me. “Seriously . . . stay safe.”
I let out a deep breath and got back onto the path to the gate. Now I didn’t even have to pay to be frightened by Hecate and the three witches. Could there be something to what faux Kathy had said? Of course, I suppose it could just be common sense. Anyone who finds a dead body might want to lie low so the killer wouldn’t think she saw something . . . but this felt like more than that. Whenever I came into contact with the fortune-tellers, they were warning me to be careful. They were starting to make me paranoid.
I strode into the merchants’ building and over to my booth. I stopped. A wail rose in my throat, but I didn’t make a sound. I covered my mouth with both hands. I felt rooted to the floor and couldn’t move.
This can’t be real. This can’t be real.
“Good—” Sister Mary Alice’s greeting died when she noticed the expression on my face. “Child, what’s the matter?” She turned to look at my booth and gasped.
It had been trashed. The poet’s shirts that I’d painstakingly embellished with blackwork had been cut into strips and crumpled onto the floor. Likewise, the collars and ruffs had been ruined. The bins of thread had been tossed, the shelves thrown on the floor, and the clothing rack overturned near the pile of demolished shirts.
Sister Mary Alice put her arm around me. “Oh, dear . . . I’m so terribly sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“Is mine the only one?” My voice came out broken and higher-pitched than usual.
“I don’t know. I’ll go see.” Sister Mary Alice took off. She seemed to be happy to make her escape from the awkward situation.
I turned and surveyed the expansive room. No one else was looking at his or her booth in horror. I must be the only one.
I went into the booth, pulled out a folding chair, and called Ted.
“Hey, babe! What’s up?”
“Somebody destroyed my booth,” I said.
“Sit tight and don’t touch anything,” he said. “I’ll grab a crime scene tech and be right there.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Physically, yes.”
“I’m on my way,” he said.
Within minutes, Ted, Manu, two crime scene technicians, and a uniformed officer were standing in front of my booth.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ted asked.
“Yeah. While the crime scene guys do their thing, I’m going over to the shop and get a few things to replenish what I lost here,” I said.
“We’ll take photos,” Manu said. “You can turn all this in on your insurance.”
“Thanks,” I told him.
“Do you need me to drive you?” Ted asked.
“No,” I said. “I’d rather you stay here and find out who did this to me.”
* * *
I didn’t cry when I’d first discovered my destroyed booth. Nor did I cry as I drove the Jeep to the Seven-Year Stitch. Maybe I was in shock.
I parked in the alley and went in through the back door. I didn’t want anyone to see my vehicle here and think the shop was open for business. Of course, it wasn’t likely I’d be selling anything at the Ren Faire today.
I went to the counter and got a large Seven-Year Stitch bag.
“Hi, Jill. Yes, I know it’s unusual for me to be here on a Sunday, but I had to come by and get some things to restock my booth.” Sometimes the mannequin and I had imaginary conversations. It was probably therapeutic . . . or something.
Business is going that well? Woot!
“No, I’m afraid business is not going that well. Someone wrecked my booth, Jill! And I don’t mean they just knocked my shelves down and turned my table over. They shredded those shirts I’d embellished with blackwork—cut them to bits! They destroyed the cuffs and collars, too!”
I sank onto the stool in front of the cash register and dropped my head into my hands. “I worked so hard! How could anyone be so cruel?”
At the gentle touch of a hand on my shoulder, I screamed and hopped off the stool. Personifying one’s mannequin did have its drawbacks.
“I’m sorry!” cried Sadie. “It’s only me!”
There were tears coursing down her cheeks, and that made my own tears flow even faster. We hugged and sobbed until we were all cried out.
I got some tissues, and we both wiped our eyes.
“I’ll have to redo my makeup before I go back to the festival,” I said.
“I’ll have to touch mine up, too,” said Sadie. “I’d hate to go back to MacKenzies’ Mochas looking like a punk rocker.”
“How did you know I was here? Did you see me drive up?”
She shook her head. “Blake called me. He heard about your booth getting ruined, left the manager who’s there with him today in charge, and went to see about you. Ted told him you’d come here to get some things to restock your booth.”
“I held it together until I got here and started thinking about all the hours I spent in the sit-and-stitch square making those shirts, collars, and cuffs. Those are things that can’t be replaced . . . possible income from the festival that I’ve just lost.”
“Your ability to hold it together explains Ted letting you drive here on your own.” She gave me a rueful smile. “I remember back in college you could always keep your emotions in check until you were alone. I admired your strength.”
“Ha! I admired your strength. It seemed like nothing ever got to you, and everything upset me. I might not have let it show all the time, but it did.”
“Do Ted and Manu have any idea who did this?” Sadie asked.
“I don’t know. My first thought, naturally, was Nellie. But could she really be that mean and vindictive?”
“I hope not.” Sadie looked around the shop. “So, what do we need to put in that bag you’ve been holding on to since before I got here?”
* * *
Once Sadie and I gathered floss, pattern kits, canvas, hoops, frames, and pattern books into two bags, I returned to the Ren Faire and she returned to the coffeehouse. At one point, I’d almost thrown up my hands and said, “What’s the use?” But Sadie reminded me that I was not going to be defeated by the slug who thought he or she could run me off from the Faire.
As I carried my bags up the hill, Ted rushed to meet me. He must’ve been keeping watch on the hilltop.
“How are you?” he asked, taking the bags from my hands. “I should’ve gone with you to the shop. I’m sorry I was so insensitive, but I was just so focused on finding out who did this.”
I was glad I’d repaired my makeup and didn’t look too much the worse for wear. “I’m fine. My guess is that you’ve been talking with Blake.”
He nodded. “You seemed fine. I should’ve realized you were just holding it together until you got by yourself.”
“Well, he sent Sadie to check on me, and we had a good cry,” I said. “Yes, I’m terribly hurt about all the things I’d made to sell. Those can’t be replaced. But I’ll survive.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Stop. You’ll make me feel sorry for myself again, and I’m not going to do that.” I smiled. “I won’t be driven away from this festival. I’ll still promote the Stitch, my classes, and my services, and this will all work out fine.”
“I love you,” he said.
“The ultimate balm to my soul,” I said.
“Well, there might be other balms waiting for you at your booth.”
I didn’t understand what h
e meant until I arrived. Blake, Todd, Sister Mary Alice, and other merchants I hadn’t even met were there. They’d thrown away everything that had been destroyed and tidied up the rest. The booth looked pretty bare, but it was neat. Somehow, the periwinkle tablecloth had managed to survive the destroyer’s rage, and it was draping the table. I saw that some of the other merchants had even brought presents and lined them up neatly on the table.
Tears pricked my eyes. “Oh, my goodness! Thank you! I don’t know what to say.”
“You just did, dear,” said Sister Mary Alice. “We were happy to help. This could’ve happened to any of our booths.”
I gestured to the boxes and bags adorning the table. “What’s all this?”
“Just something to let you know we care,” said a soft-spoken woman with chestnut-colored hair and kind eyes. “I’m Cathy from the Noble Pig Vineyard and Winery in McMinnville. I brought you some streusel-topped pumpkin chocolate chip muffins and a bottle of our Pinot Gris.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Cathy and her husband, Henry, and I go way back,” said Todd. “I carry Noble Pig wines at the Brew Crew.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I told Cathy. “And I certainly appreciate your generosity.”
“You’re welcome,” said Cathy. “I wish there was more I could do.”
“Again, thank you, everybody,” I said. “You’ve been great.”
I felt rather embarrassed by the gifts. But I really did value the other merchants’ kindness.
The small crowd quickly disbursed, leaving me alone with Ted, Todd, and Blake—my three musketeers.
“Thanks, guys, for cleaning up the booth,” I told them. “It would have broken my heart to have had to scoop up those scraps of shirts and cuffs and throw them away.”
“We had plenty of help,” said Todd.
“We couldn’t salvage much,” said Blake, “but there was one shirt the scumbag missed.”
My eyes widened, and I gasped. “Really?”
“Really,” he said. “I folded it as best as I could and put it on the table. It needs to be washed, but it’s fine.”
“That’s wonderful!” I cried. I went over to the table, found the shirt, and hugged it to my chest.
“We’re sorry there wasn’t more to save,” Ted said.
“I just want you to catch whoever did this,” I said.
“Before we cleaned up, we took several pictures for your insurance reports,” he said. “I know it won’t compensate you for all the hard work you’ve put in, but at least it’s something.”
“I need to get back to my tent,” Blake said. “My manager probably thinks I’ve deserted him.”
“Me, too,” said Todd.
“I really do appreciate you guys,” I said.
“We know.” Todd winked.
“Were any of the hangers usable?” I asked Ted as Blake and Todd walked away.
“A few were,” he said.
“Good. I’m going to hang this one shirt up for display, and if anyone wants a blackwork-embellished shirt, they can order it.” I lifted my chin and smiled. “I will not be defeated.”
“That’s my girl,” he said. “Manu has instructed the force that one additional on-duty officer will be assigned to this building at all times during the remainder of the Faire. I mean, we’ve had people here all along and so has the festival, but this incident on top of Clara’s murder emphasizes the importance for more security.”
I knew what Ted wasn’t saying. They were afraid that whoever had killed Clara hadn’t moved on from the Faire. They were worried that her murder wasn’t an isolated incident.
“I’ll say. What do you and Manu think? Was I targeted because I’m the one who found Clara’s body?” I asked. “Or do you think it’s something else?” I hesitated. “Do you think it was Nellie?”
“Frankly, no,” Ted said. “She may have the spitefulness to do this, but I think she lacks the courage. She’d be too afraid of getting caught.”
“That’s true. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Still, Manu has gone to her house to talk with her about it. We’re not ruling anyone out.” He gazed warily around the merchants’ building. “Somebody had to have seen something.”
“And, yet, like with Clara’s murder, nobody’s talking?” I asked.
“Nobody’s talking.”
Chapter Eighteen
On Monday morning, even though I was wearing my green noblewoman gown, I went to the Seven-Year Stitch rather than the Ren Faire so that Julie could go to her interview with Riley. Julie had felt terribly worried that she was leaving me in the lurch, but I’d told her I’d be happy to open the shop and that she could come in after her interview and tell me all about it.
I was happy to help Julie, but the truth of the matter was I wasn’t looking forward to returning to the Ren Faire. After what I’d found yesterday, I couldn’t imagine that whatever awaited me today could be worse. And yet dread gnawed at my stomach.
One of the deputies processing the crime scene had found scratches on the lock at the rear entrance of the merchants’ building, indicating that the lock had been picked. From that, the police consensus was the vandal had entered the building between the time the festival closed Saturday and the time it reopened on Sunday. That, of course, explained how no one had seen anything or anyone suspicious. It also confirmed that the vandal’s attack had been leveled directly at me. No one else’s booth had been disturbed, and no one had reported any missing merchandise.
Manu had assigned me a “security detail.” My security detail was currently sitting in his patrol car across the street.
Naturally, Ted felt that I should have a team of mixed-martial-arts fighters protecting me, but since the Tallulah Falls Police Department didn’t even have a SWAT team on the payroll, the MMAs were out of the question. Ted had been joking when he mentioned the highly trained group—I think—but he was checking in with me often enough to make sure I was safe but not so much that I completely freaked out because he and the department thought my life was in danger.
I was tidying up the shop—dusting shelves and restocking bins—when Vera and Paul came in. Vera hurried over and crushed me to her in a nearly suffocating hug.
“Oh, my poor darling, we just heard! Who is the flea on a rat’s butt responsible for demolishing your booth? I want first crack at ’im!”
I gently extricated myself from her embrace before the deputy across the street barged into the Stitch thinking Vera was trying to smother me.
“Let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it,” I said. “Would either of you like some coffee?”
They both declined the offer, and we sat down in the sit-and-stitch square.
“There isn’t much to tell about what happened to my booth,” I said. “Almost all my handmade items were destroyed, and everything else was broken or trampled on.”
“Do the police know who did it?” Paul asked.
“Was it Nellie Davis?” Vera demanded.
“I don’t believe it was Nellie,” I said. “While she doesn’t have a verifiable alibi—she said she was home alone—I can’t imagine her going out in the middle of the night or the wee hours of the morning, climbing the fence at the fairgrounds, and picking the lock to the back door of the merchants’ building.”
“No, I can’t see her doing that, either,” said Vera. “But who else has it in for you?”
“The police seem to think that the person who killed Clara is trying to get me to leave the Faire,” I said. “Maybe this person believes that I know or saw something. I certainly wish I had. I wouldn’t be in this predicament right now if that were the case.”
“They think your life is in danger?” Vera asked.
I nodded toward the window. She and Paul both turned to look out at the patrol car on the other side of the street.
“It’s just a precaution,” I said.
“I, for one, am glad they aren’t taking any chances,” Paul said. “You never
know who could be out there. Take Marcus West, for example.”
“He’s the one whose building burned last week, isn’t he?” Vera asked.
“Right. His building burned, along with all his files, and he hasn’t been seen since,” said Paul.
I didn’t want to mention that Ted was investigating the cold case involving the murder of this man’s partner, but I did want to know whatever information Paul could give me. “I heard something about Mr. West’s business partner dying a few years ago.”
“That’s right. His name was Joe Palmer.” Paul leaned forward, putting his forearms on his knees. “Joe was murdered, and it was never determined whether his killer was his wife, his business partner, or someone else. The wife, Lacey, got a heck of an insurance payout, but the partner inherited a very lucrative business. As for why someone else would’ve murdered him, the police were unable to find a motive.”
“So now that Marcus West has gone missing, you think he’s the one who killed his partner?” I asked.
“It looks that way. You see, officers had started asking questions again,” said Paul. “I have to wonder if West didn’t just get scared, burn any evidence that tied him to Palmer’s murder, and skedaddle.”
“On the other hand, West could’ve been killed,” said Vera. “You said he’d gone missing. You didn’t say it appeared he’d gone on the lam.”
Paul straightened and patted Vera’s knee. “Listen to my gal here. Does she have a knack for investigative journalism or what?” He chuckled. “West could be dead. His bank accounts haven’t been touched in the days leading up to or after the fire, and his credit cards haven’t been used.”
“If Mr. West is dead, then suspicion falls back onto the wife or the unknown suspect,” I said.
“Or the unknown subject—the unsub—as they say on Criminal Minds,” Vera pointed out.
“Right. So what’s your opinion?” I asked Paul. “Who do you think killed Joe Palmer?”
“At this point, I’m leaning toward Marcus West,” he said. “If West is innocent—of the murder as well as of setting his business on fire—then where is he?”
