The Long Stitch Good Night

by Amanda Lee

  “Were they talking about her last night?”

  “Maybe. Her name usually came up whenever any of them got together,” he said. “But I was running the bar while Todd was entertaining his friends.” He shrugged. “I didn’t get in on their conversations.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “Thanks so much for your help. Do call me tomorrow. Maybe I can buy you brunch.”

  He finally raised his eyes to mine again and smiled. “Thanks, Marcy. I’ll call you.”

  Leaving the Brew Crew, I looked across the street at MacKenzies’ Mochas and saw Bill and Dorothy Van Huss going inside.

  Sadie’s gonna kill me. Sadie’s gonna kill me. The internal mantra taunted me as I hurried to the Jeep.

  By the time I arrived home, I realized how hungry and tired I was. I ordered a pizza and then sat down in the living room with my list of names and phone numbers. I thought I could probably speak with most of the people on the list in the half hour to forty-five minutes before my pizza arrived, but I had no idea what to say to them.

  Hi, I’m Marcy Singer. You met me at the Saint Patrick’s Day party. You know, the one where your friend Graham was killed? I’m trying to convince the world that neither Todd nor Blake is responsible for Graham’s murder. Can you help me out with that?

  I then waffled back and forth as to whether to start with the men—who were at the party—or Tawny Milligan—who, to my knowledge, was not. Maybe it would be easier to talk with her first. I could say I knew she was a friend of Graham’s and I was calling to ask whether or not she knew he’d…he’d what? Been in an accident? I couldn’t come right out and say Graham had died the night before. That would be gauche. Hopefully, she’d have seen a news report about Graham’s death and—should she decide to speak with me—could tell me if she thought Blake or Todd had anything to do with Graham’s murder.

  She could also tell me more about Graham. If he’d been her boyfriend at some point, then she’d likely know more about him than his fraternity brothers and could provide some solid leads Sadie and I could follow.

  I punched her number into the phone. I was immediately blasted with the earsplitting beeps that preceded the message: “The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this message in error—”

  I ended the call, rechecked the number, and dialed again. Same message. I was still hoping to speak with her before calling the fraternity brothers, so I switched to my phone’s Web browser and did a search for the name Tawny Milligan.

  I could hardly believe it when a nationwide search of white pages turned up zero matches. Of course, Tawny Milligan did sound like a stage name or something. But where had she gone? She couldn’t have simply disappeared.

  Chapter Six

  Not being able to reach Tawny Milligan, I looked down at the list of names. I’d decided to be subtle in my approach with most of the men. I was afraid that coming right out and asking them about Graham Stott or the events of the previous night would likely scare them and cause them to clam up. They certainly wouldn’t want to say anything that would deflect suspicion from Todd and Blake onto themselves. And since they were all still at the Brew Crew when the shooting occurred, they were viable suspects. It was possible that some of them had even retained attorneys who had told them not to speak with anyone about Graham’s death.

  I perused the list again. I recalled that Andy was an economics professor at Tallulah County Community College. I ran a small business. That one should be simple. I punched in the number.

  “Hello.” Andy said only that single word, but it was packed with trepidation and a hint of dread.

  “Hi, Andy. This is Marcy Singer. We met at the Brew Crew last night.”

  “Sure, I remember. You’re Sadie’s friend.” Still cautious.

  “Yeah. Anyway, I understand you’re an expert on economics,” I said.

  “I guess you could say that,” said Andy.

  “Could I make an appointment to see you…or could I maybe buy you dinner tomorrow night? I only opened the Seven-Year Stitch a few months ago, and I’d like to pick your brain about what I should be doing to get the most tax breaks this year.”

  He hesitated before answering. “Don’t you have a CPA to advise you on financial matters?”

  “Sure, but…” I suffered a pang of guilt as I thought of all the years I’d spent in accounting myself and scrambled for a valid-sounding excuse. “Well, as you can imagine, a CPA would charge me a small fortune for this kind of information. I thought maybe you could give me a few pointers to make sure I’m on the right track in exchange for dinner. If you aren’t interested, could you recommend someone? One of your students, maybe?” I hoped the addition of asking for a recommendation would assure him I was legitimately seeking information. Which I was…just not about tax breaks.

  “Uh, no. I mean, yeah. I could meet you for dinner tomorrow night,” he said. “Just tell me when and where.”

  “Great. Thank you,” I said. I suggested we meet at a seafood place in Lincoln City, and he agreed to be there at six o’clock.

  So far, Sunday was shaping up to be a food-filled day—brunch with Robbie and dinner with Andy. While I was contemplating all the food I’d likely be eating the next day, my pizza arrived. I realized I should’ve probably made a healthier choice tonight, but it was too late to think about that now. Besides, I was starving.

  I took my pizza into the kitchen, grabbed a diet soda from the fridge, and placed two slices of the cheese pizza on a plate. As I bit into the first slice, I saw that the next name on my list was Mark, the personal trainer. Perfect.

  When I called Mark, I got his voice mail. I left a message telling him my name and saying that I needed to develop some upper body strength. I said I’d like to make an appointment with him for advice on how to do that.

  He called back almost immediately, and I got the impression he thought my request was just a ploy to get to see him again. I tried to explain that since opening the shop and receiving regular shipments of embroidery supplies, I needed to learn to lift the heavy boxes without hurting myself. That was totally true, but he still acted like he was patronizing me when he made me an appointment for Monday after work. If I hadn’t wanted to talk with him so badly, I’d have told him to shove his appointment. But I did want whatever information he could give me about Graham, the other guys from the fraternity, and what had happened at the Brew Crew last night.

  The next name on my list was Charles. Being a journalist for the Portland Patriot, Charles would want the truth too. Surely he’d want to cover the story for his newspaper, especially given his personal interest in the case.

  When I called Charles, a child answered the phone. “Hi,” I said in my sunniest voice. “May I please speak with your dad?”

  “Are you trying to sell us something?” the boy asked suspiciously.

  I suppressed a giggle. “No. I’d just like to talk with him for a second about his work.”

  “You’re not trying to date him, are you?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I promise, it’s strictly business.”

  “Okay.” I heard the phone being set aside. Then, “Dad! Phone!”

  In a minute Charles came on the line. “Hello, this is Charlie.”

  I introduced myself and offered to help him gather information on the case. “I know you’ll need a local to do some of the legwork for you, and I’m willing to keep you posted on everything that’s going on.”

  “What’s in it for you?” he asked.

  The kid obviously came by his skepticism genetically.

  “I believe Todd and Blake are innocent. I don’t know what happened in that back room of the Brew Crew, but I don’t think either of my friends killed Graham Stott. And I intend to prove that.”

  “That’s awfully noble,” said Charles. “So what do you need me for?”

  “Leverage—so the authorities will listen to me once I learn the truth,” I said. “They’re far more likely
to pay attention to a respected journalist than to an embroidery shop owner. And I’d also like information on Graham Stott.”

  Charles asked me to meet him Monday evening at a bar in McMinnville, halfway between Tallulah Falls and Portland. I’d have to hurry through my personal training lesson, but I told him I’d be there.

  Last on my list was Roberto. When I called him, a woman answered.

  “Hi, I’m Marcy Singer. May I please speak with Roberto?”

  “May I tell him what you want to talk with him about?” she asked. Judging by her territorial tone, she had to be either Roberto’s wife or girlfriend. And it appeared she had some trust issues.

  “I run an embroidery shop in Tallulah Falls, and Roberto is a friend of Todd Calloway’s. In fact, Todd introduced us last night. I wondered if you guys could use some costuming help.” Although I didn’t personally do costuming, it was the only even semivalid reason I could come up with to speak with Roberto. The woman didn’t answer right away, so—even though I hated myself for doing it—I said, “My mom is Beverly Singer, the Hollywood costume designer.” Her sharp intake of breath told me she was familiar with Mom. “While I’m not in the same league as Mom, I’m—”

  “Wait,” she interrupted excitedly. “Hold on. I’ll get Roberto.”

  In an instant, Roberto had come on the line and said that he and his wife were still in Tallulah Falls—I had called his cell number—and that they’d like to come by the shop and talk with me on Monday. I asked them to come in around lunchtime, since business was usually slower then, and he said he and Carla would be there.

  I finished my calls, let Angus inside, and gave him a slice of pizza. I then put the rest of the pizza into the refrigerator. I was getting ready to go upstairs and soak in a nice, hot, scented bath when Ted called.

  “How’s everything going?” he asked.

  “It’s going.” I took the phone into the living room and stretched out on the sofa.

  “It might be going, but it doesn’t sound like it’s going well.”

  “Sadie won’t talk to me. She’s just completely shutting me out.” I explained about the coffeehouse incident where she’d made it obvious she wanted me to leave. “I’d help her if she’d let me. When it became apparent she wouldn’t allow me to help, I called her mom.”

  He chuckled. “You ratted her out to her mom?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” I protested. “Somebody needed to be there for Sadie. I thought that, since she was pushing me away, she might let her parents in. But—get this—they didn’t even know Blake had been arrested.”

  “This might surprise you,” he said, “but not everybody confides in their parents the way you do to your mom.”

  “But Blake was arrested, Ted. For murder.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  I huffed. “What I mean is, this is serious. Todd…I mean, Blake…I mean, Todd and Blake could go to prison if we can’t prove they didn’t kill Graham Stott. Sadie had to know her parents would find out eventually. Besides, I didn’t tell them about Blake. I made some lame comment about Sadie and Blake needing to take a vacation.”

  “Oh, well, that’s different. Sadie’s mom would never see through that to determine that something was really wrong.”

  “Ha, ha. And, you’re right—she must’ve seen through my call or else found out about Blake some other way because I saw her and Sadie’s dad going into MacKenzies’ Mochas this afternoon.”

  “Maybe they saw it on the news,” Ted said. “The simple fact that nobody knows anything hasn’t stopped the media from reporting on it…especially since Graham Stott had so much money and influence around here.”

  “I was only trying to help,” I said. “But I probably made matters worse. I owe Sadie an apology. In fact, I should probably hang up now and call her.”

  “Yeah, I think you probably should. Have a good night and call me if you need anything.”

  “Thanks. Good night.” I ended the call, but I didn’t call Sadie. Instead, I cried. Finally, the emotional toll of the past two days had caught up with me. Todd, Blake, or both men could be facing a lifetime in jail, whether they were innocent or not; sometimes innocence couldn’t be proven. Sadie wasn’t speaking to me. And I had no idea how I could help my friends. I still couldn’t fathom why neither Blake nor Todd had spoken up in defense of themselves and their reason for being in that room with a dead man and a gun.

  Angus lumbered over and placed his big scruffy head on my knee. As I stroked his fur, I realized Ted had been noncommittal when I mentioned that we needed to prove that Todd and Blake were innocent. Did he truly believe one or both of them were guilty? I had to admit, the guys certainly appeared guilty. But they weren’t. I knew in my heart that they weren’t murderers.

  The doorbell rang. Angus rushed to the door barking, while I followed somewhat slowly and reluctantly. I dried my eyes before looking through the peephole. It was Sadie. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “I’m here for the stuff I left behind this morning,” Sadie said, brushing past me into the living room.

  “I don’t know what I did to make you so mad at me,” I said as I closed the door. “But I realize I didn’t help matters by calling your mom and telling her you needed a vacation.”

  “No, you sure didn’t,” she said. “She called me after talking with you and grilled me until I broke down and told her about Blake. Now, on top of everything else I have to deal with, I’ve got houseguests.”

  “Were you mad earlier today because you saw Ted come by the shop?”

  She put her fists on her hips. “I wasn’t mad at you, Marcy. Contrary to what you might think, not everyone’s actions revolve around you. I hadn’t even had time to think about you today. I was doing well to put one foot in front of the other and keep going without breaking down.” She sank onto the ottoman that was directly behind her and began sobbing.

  My tears were still close enough to the surface that they spilled out all over the place as soon as Sadie’s started. Not knowing whether I’d be slapped or embraced but willing to take a chance, I went to Sadie and knelt beside her. She hugged me, and we wept together until Angus came and began licking our faces. Laughing, we pulled away from each other and lavished affection on the lanky dog with the bemused expression.

  “I’m sorry,” I said at last. “You’re right. I do tend to think everything is about me.”

  “No, you were right. I was pushing everyone away today. I didn’t want help, and I didn’t want to tell Mom and Dad because that made everything more real to me.” She wiped her eyes. “I keep waiting for this mess to resolve itself.”

  “Well, you know me,” I said. “Wait isn’t in my dictionary. I’ve already scheduled meetings with the four other fraternity brothers who were at the Brew Crew last night.” I gave her an abbreviated version of my conversations with the men.

  “That’s great,” Sadie said. “But why did you tell Charles the truth when you were so cagey with the rest of them? He could have something to hide, too, you know.”

  “I know, but the only way I felt I could get him to cooperate was to make him feel like he had something to gain as well—the story. Actually, I did that with all of them. I’m buying Andy dinner, paying Mark for a personal training session, and—in a roundabout way—offering Roberto the possibility of networking with my mom or some other Hollywood insiders.” I shrugged. “An article was all I had to offer Charles.”

  “It seems to have worked.” She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find out,” I said. “By the way, do you know a woman named Tawny Milligan?”

  “The name sounds vaguely familiar. Why?”

  “Robbie told me some of the fraternity brothers had spoken about her, and I’d hoped to contact her to see what she could tell me about Graham. The number I got for her from Todd’s Rolodex had been disconnected, though.”

  “We could look her up in the Beaver,” Sadie said. She laughed when my eyebrows
shot up. “It’s the name of Oregon State’s yearbook. Blake only has the yearbook for the last year he was at school, but if this Tawny chick was friends with some of the fraternity guys, then she had to have gone to the school and should be in the yearbook. Maybe it would at least tell us where she was from, and we would have something to go on.”

  “I’ll mention her to the guys, too,” I said. “That is, if I can find a way to work her into the conversation.” I smiled. “Maybe I could tell Mark I want biceps like Tawny Milligan’s.”

  “And, with your luck, she’d have the scrawniest little arms imaginable.”

  I walked toward the Brew Crew. There was a thick fog everywhere, and I could barely see. It was crowded—people were scrambling inside for the free green beer because it was Saint Patrick’s Day. I could’ve sworn I saw a leprechaun. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them, he was gone. Rats. No gold for me.

  I heard gunshots. Oh, no! I had to stop it.…I had to keep Graham Stott from being murdered. I had to get to Todd and Blake and tell them…something…tell them not to get involved…tell them to run…tell Todd not to invite his fraternity brothers to this party…tell him…tell them…

  I stepped inside and saw all these people: Sadie, Todd, Blake, Ted, Mr. and Mrs. Van Huss, Andy, Mark, Roberto, Charles, Graham…Oh, thank goodness! He hadn’t been murdered after all. Everything would be all right now. I smiled and said, “Am I glad to see you!”

  Suddenly, Mark clanged Graham over the head with a dumbbell. Graham crumpled to the floor as Mark handed the dumbbell to Blake.

  No!

  The scene shifted, and Graham was once again standing among the crowd. He smiled at me, and I returned his smile, relieved again that he was still living.

  “You need to get out of here,” I told him, my smile fading. “Somebody wants to kill you.”

  “I know,” he said.

  As he uttered those words, Charles took a large number two pencil from his shirt pocket and used it to shoot Graham.