Wicked Stitch

by Amanda Lee

  “Do you like that rock?” I asked.

  He looked up at me, tilted his head, and then looked back down at the rock. He gave a playful bark.

  I picked up the rock and brushed the sand off of it.

  Satisfied that he’d done his job—whatever that might be in this instance—Angus happily trotted off to see what else he could discover.

  I zipped my jacket, leaned against the retaining wall, and looked out at the ocean. It was a beautiful evening. The waves crashed against the shore, leaving the sand slick and foamy in their wake. The sky was a brilliant blue except for the yellow, orange, and gray where the sun was lowering itself into the sea. A cluster of wispy clouds hung overhead as if they’d gathered to watch the sunset.

  Ted came over to me. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look standing there?”

  I smiled. “Not a clue.”

  He showed me the photo he’d just snapped with his phone.

  I laughed, and he pulled me into his arms for a kiss.

  “I found out a bit more about our friend Marcus West,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “He opened up to the deputies about what happened the day of the fire. He’d gone to run an errand of some sort, and when he came back, the office was in flames. He hurried home—well, one street over from his home because he was being careful—and gathered up some things.”

  “So he knew from the moment he saw the fire that it was arson?” I asked. “He didn’t even consider that it could’ve been an accident?”

  “Apparently not,” said Ted. “He said he gathered what cash he had on hand, got some clothes—including the Crow costume—and called a cab. He had the cab pick him up—”

  “Let me guess,” I interrupted. “One street over?”

  “You got it. The cab took him to a hotel, where he checked in as Mark Crow. He told the deputies that dressing up as the Crow and attending the Ren Faire allowed him to talk with people anonymously, find out what was being said about the fire, and learn what people thought had happened to Marcus West.”

  “And what about Clara?” I asked. “Does he know anything about her murder?”

  “He says he doesn’t know anything definitive, but he believes Lacey Palmer is somehow involved.”

  “But you said Lacey Palmer has an ironclad alibi for the evening of Clara’s murder,” I said.

  “She does,” said Ted. “But West thinks she’s highly manipulative . . . that she could get someone else to do her bidding so the murder can’t be pinned on her.”

  “Just like she did in the case of her late husband,” I said.

  “If West’s story pans out, then yes.”

  “How soon will it be before you’ll know whether West is telling the truth?”

  “It shouldn’t be long,” Ted said. “I’d say another day at most.”

  “Good. I’ll be glad when this whole mess is over with,” I said. “Who did he trust with his identity?”

  “No one. He says the only people who could’ve seen him when he was unmasked were the desk clerks at the hotel—but he insists he took precautions against that—and maybe someone at the Ren Faire when he’d taken his mask off to eat or drink,” he said. “He says he tried to hide during those instances, but it’s possible someone saw and recognized him.”

  “If I didn’t know the juggler is a police officer, I’d be suspicious of him,” I said. “That one day when I was trying to get the Crow to talk with you, the juggler came and got right between us to get me to light his torch. After the Crow got away, I thought maybe they were working together.”

  “That juggler wasn’t our guy,” said Ted. “The guy that I made douse the torches that day was not our undercover officer. A cop wouldn’t have been so reckless. Looking back, though, I guess they do look alike . . . same build . . . same hair color. . . .”

  “Well, the only time I saw your juggler was when I thought the Crow was pulling a gun on you and the juggler and the knight were there to back you up,” I said. “I didn’t look that closely at him. I merely assumed he was the same guy.”

  “We need to find that juggler and see what he knows,” said Ted. “I’ll call Manu and have him meet me at the Ren Faire.” He whistled, and Angus trotted back to us.

  “Want me to come, too?” I asked. “I can identify the guy.”

  “A second ago you thought he was our undercover officer.”

  “Good point. I’ll stay home and leave the investigating to you this time.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  While Angus and I were waiting for Ted to return from the Ren Faire, I turned the television on and began scrolling through the channels. Once a Queen, a movie Mom had done the costuming for, was playing. It was halfway through, but I knew the film by heart. It was a good one, plus I could reminisce about all the stories Mom had told me while she was working on the set.

  I put the television on the channel where Once a Queen was playing, and I covered up in a green fleece throw. Angus lay down beside the sofa, and before long I heard him snoring.

  Once a Queen told the story of a queen named Kathleen who wanted a better life for her younger sister, Esme. The queen’s marriage had been arranged and most of her life had been mapped out for her. She saw that her sister Esme could have opportunities that she herself could never have, and she used her position and power to give Esme everything she wanted . . . or everything she thought Esme wanted.

  In the end, Esme resented Kathleen’s interference. She’d wanted to live her own life, not the life Kathleen had envisioned for her. In a very real sense, Kathleen had dominated Esme’s life and created the same situation for Esme that Kathleen had despised. It was sort of a take on what the Bard had said of Othello: one who loved not wisely but too well. In trying to give Esme everything, Kathleen had taken away her sister’s freedom and her choices.

  I sat thinking about the movie long after the credits ran and the next movie began. Something about the sisters was nagging at the back of my mind.

  Everything about Clara’s murder and Ted’s cold case circled back to Lacey Palmer: Five years ago, her abusive, philandering husband dies and leaves his wife a rich woman. A win-win for Lacey. Marcus West’s building burns to the ground, and then he comes to the police claiming to have damning evidence against Lacey. While he’s in protective custody, someone dressed in a way to cast suspicion on West beats Nellie Davis and threatens her. Clara won’t turn over Lacey’s father’s money to Lacey’s children. Clara winds up dead.

  Since Ted claimed that Lacey had an airtight alibi for the Thursday evening when Clara was murdered, I was beginning to wonder if Lacey had an accomplice—maybe a sister, or a brother—who was more than willing to help her get the justice they both felt she and her family deserved.

  When Ted got back, he informed me that the juggler was nowhere to be found.

  “When Manu and I got there, it was nearly closing time,” he said. “We’d called ahead and had our guys searching for the juggler, but they had been unable to locate him. We did a quick search of the grounds, but we didn’t have any luck. We’re going to try again tomorrow. If you see the juggler in the morning when you get to the Ren Faire, don’t approach him or interact with him. Simply go to your booth and give me a call.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Crazy thought here—do you think he could be Lacey Palmer’s brother?”

  He frowned. “Lacey Palmer has a brother?”

  “I don’t know. Does she?”

  “Not that I know of,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t that be in the cold case file?”

  “No. Her siblings—or lack thereof—had no bearing on the case.”

  “That you know of,” I said. “Just check and see if she has any . . . please.”

  “Sure, Inch-High. You want to share your theory with me?”

  “Not yet. You’d think it was too”—I waved my hands—“out-there.”

  He held open his arms. “Well, tonight I’d rather you be in here.”

&n
bsp; I happily snuggled into his embrace.

  * * *

  On Thursday morning, I considered going to check on Nellie. But on the one hand, I thought they’d probably examined her and then let her go home by then. And on the other hand, whether she was still at the hospital or not, she probably wasn’t on powerful enough drugs to consider being nice to me. So I went on to the Ren Faire.

  I saw the juggler from a distance as soon as I walked through the gate. Today he was juggling plates. I wanted so badly to try to engage him in conversation, but Ted had advised against that. Besides, I didn’t want to wind up getting brained by a plate.

  I got out of the stream of pedestrian traffic entering the fairgrounds and called Ted.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” he said.

  “Hi. I see the juggler,” I said quietly. “He’s juggling white plates near the stables.”

  “Thanks, babe. I’ll alert our undercover officers. Stay safe, and I’ll see you soon.”

  After talking with Ted, I headed toward the merchants’ building. Along the way, I heard someone call to me. Turning, I saw that it was Amelia. I was surprised that Herodias wasn’t with her.

  “Hi, there,” I said. “How are you today?”

  “Great,” she said.

  “Where’s Herodias?” I asked.

  “I haven’t taken her out of her cage yet. I leave her here at night, locked inside one of the buildings.”

  “Don’t you worry about her?”

  “Nah. I’m one of the last to leave and one of the first to get here every morning,” she said. “Leaving her here gives us both a break from each other.”

  “Pets can be a huge responsibility,” I said.

  “True, but, hey, they’re nicer than a lot of family members, right?” She laughed. “At least, that’s the case with me and Herodias.”

  “I know the feeling,” I said, glad she had given me an opening to ask about her family. It suddenly struck me that in all of yesterday’s excitement, Ted never did say whether Erin Palmer had a sister named Amelia. “Do you have brothers or sisters, Amelia?”

  “One of each—an older sister and a younger brother,” she said. “I wouldn’t take anything for either one of them, but they can try my patience sometimes, you know?”

  I nodded. “Your sister’s name isn’t Erin, is it?”

  Amelia frowned. “No. Why?”

  “I met a young woman named Erin the other day, and she just reminded me of you.” Sure, Erin appeared to be younger than Amelia, but I wasn’t done fishing yet. After learning that Amelia was in a conservation group and that Erin’s sister was also, I’d convinced myself that they were siblings.

  She smirked. “Poor girl.”

  “Actually, she was very attractive . . . as are you,” I said. “I’d better run. I have a shirt I need to get finished by the end of the day.”

  “Good luck!”

  I walked into the merchants’ building and was glad to see that Sister Mary Alice was manning Nellie’s booth rather than Washerwoman Jan. Jan had been cool toward me ever since she’d missed seeing the juggler with the flaming torches.

  I put my purse and tote bag under my table, and then went over to talk with Mary Alice.

  “Hi,” I said as I stepped into the booth.

  “Hey, Marcy. How’re you doing this morning, hon?”

  “I’m fine. How about you?”

  “Doing well, all things considered,” she said.

  I noticed a prescription bottle on the table in front of her. “Are you sick?”

  “No, it’s just my blood pressure medicine. I have to take it every day with breakfast,” she said. “Wasn’t it Bette Davis who said, ‘Growing old is not for sissies’?”

  “I believe it was,” I said with a smile.

  “So what’s new with you? Things are bound to be better now that you have your booth fixed up and all,” she said. “I’ve not meant to eavesdrop, but I’ve heard you take a lot of shirt orders.”

  “Yeah, that’s going well. Also, I was lucky to have sold several on Friday and Saturday before the vandal got to them on Saturday night,” I said. “Some people have admired those shirts on the wearers and have come by my booth to place orders.”

  “That’s good.” She shook her head. “I still can’t get over Nellie doing such a thing.”

  “Neither can I. Did you hear what happened to her yesterday?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “She stopped by her store, and she was attacked,” I said.

  “Was she hurt badly?”

  “The attacker punched her in the face and broke her glasses.” I winced at the memory of Nellie’s bruised face. It most likely looked even worse today. “Anyway, she was taken to the hospital and someone mentioned she had a concussion. I haven’t heard whether they’ve released her or not.”

  “It wasn’t you, was it?” Sister Mary Alice asked.

  I gasped. “No!”

  She laughed. “Relax, hon. I’m joking!”

  “Oh . . . of course.”

  “Although I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had roughed her up,” she said. “If she’d torn up something of mine—something I’d worked as hard on as you had the things in your booth—I’d have wanted to punch her.”

  “I guess that thought did cross my mind,” I said. “But still . . . she’s so old . . . and frail. How could someone do something like that to her?”

  “Marcy, let me give you a piece of advice. From what I’ve seen of Nellie Davis, and knowing what she did to your booth, I imagine she did something to provoke that attack. Never let someone’s age—especially someone’s advanced age—make you underestimate what they’re capable of. And, if she had it coming, there are people who don’t care a whit about age, sex, or size. Justice is justice.”

  Sister Mary Alice went from looking dead serious to laughing. “How’s that for a nun with some street cred, kiddo?”

  I laughed. “Pretty good! You had me going. I’d better get next door and get to work. Talk with you later.”

  I went back to my booth, sat down at the table, and got out my tote bag. I took out the shirt I was embellishing and began to embroider.

  Justice is justice.

  It wasn’t just street cred. Mary Alice had meant what she said. That didn’t make her a bad person, though. So why did I have a bad feeling pricking at the back of my neck?

  I texted Ted: Did you ever find out whether Lacey Palmer had any siblings?

  I knew I was being ridiculous. Mary Alice was simply making small talk and probably trying to make me feel better by making me see that while Nellie had destroyed many of my things, someone had hurt her, so karma had come back around to bite her in the behind. Justice is justice.

  And yet that only made me feel that karma had taken a sledgehammer to a fly.

  Ted texted me back: Three—two sisters and a brother.

  I texted: Is Nellie still in the hospital?

  He answered: No. They let her go home last night, but Manu posted round-the-clock guards at her house.

  Before I had a chance to text him back, he texted: Whatever it is you’re thinking, don’t do it. The juggler is with a couple of the undercover officers, and I’ll be there in a few minutes.

  I had no answer for that. What did he mean? Whatever it is you’re thinking, don’t do it? How could he possibly know what I was thinking? Not even I knew what I was thinking. Whatever it was lingered in the back of my mind . . . still foggy . . . lost in the mist. I was trying to retrieve it, but I just couldn’t. The only thing I could be sure of was that it had something to do with Katherine and Esme, two fictional characters from a movie made a decade ago. Of course, it had relevance to everything that was going on right here and now! Either that or my stress level was finally sending me over the edge.

  By the time Ted got to my booth, he’d already talked with the juggler, and I’d completed the cuffs on the shirt I was embellishing. All that was left was the collar, and that wouldn’t take more t
han a couple hours, barring too many distractions.

  I put the shirt aside. “Can you come inside and talk for a few minutes?”

  “Sure,” he said. “In fact, I told Manu I’d likely take my lunch break while I was here.”

  When he stepped around the side of the table, I stood and took his hand. I pulled him to the back right side of the booth, where we were least likely to be overheard.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” I said. “What did you find out about the juggler?”

  “Nothing. He’s just a guy. He took off from work in order to come here from Portland and be a part of the Ren Faire,” said Ted. “Apparently, he’s a street performer up there when he’s not working at his day job.”

  “What’s his day job?”

  “Busboy.”

  “No kin to Lacey Palmer?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “So why did he interrupt me that day when I was talking with the Crow?” I asked.

  “I questioned him about that. He thought the guy was harassing you. He was trying to help you out.”

  “Oh.” I sighed.

  “Again . . . sorry to disappoint,” he said.

  “I still say find Lacey Palmer’s sibling and we find the person responsible for Joe Palmer’s death, burning down West’s building, and killing Clara . . . and maybe even killing Clara’s husband.”

  Ted grinned. “What about Jimmy Hoffa? Think this sibling can give us a lead on that?”

  “Ted, I’m being serious. Think about it,” I said. “Everything that was done turned out to be for the good of Lacey Palmer or her children. Joe Palmer dies. He can’t hurt his wife anymore, and she gets a sizable insurance payout. West has evidence that could incriminate Lacey in her husband’s death. His building is burned down. Clara won’t give her stepchildren—Lacey’s children—money, and Clara winds up dead.”

  “But you’re forgetting one detail about Clara’s husband. He was Lacey Palmer’s father,” Ted said. “Neither she nor her siblings would kill their own father.”

  “Erin told me they weren’t close,” I said.