by Amanda Lee
The male assistant looked annoyed and started to blow me off.
“Two minutes, Charlie,” Mr. Santiago said, stepping over to me. “What can I do for you? Are you a reporter?”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “Actually, I own the Seven-Year Stitch embroidery specialty shop, and I’d like to talk with you for just a few minutes—after your meeting, if possible—about Francesca Ortega.”
Mr. Santiago started shaking his head.
“It’s about the jewels she had in her possession,” I blurted. “I’m afraid the man who killed her might come after me next.”
He furrowed his brow. “We’ll have dinner in the dining room after my meeting and discuss it then.”
“Great,” I said. “Thank you. I’ll wait for you at the bar.”
He grinned. “Don’t get too tipsy.”
“I’ll stick with soda,” I promised. “Thanks again.”
He nodded at me, then at his two assistants, and then he walked into the conference room.
I had to wonder if he was giving me the brushoff in a nice way and would “forget” to meet me after his conference, or if what I’d said about the jewels had struck a nerve.
I turned and had started to walk back down the hallway when I nearly bumped into another man heading for the meeting.
“Hi,” he said, grinning and breathless. “Are you late for this thing, too?”
“No,” I said. “I. . . I’m not invited.”
“I wish I wasn’t.” He held out his hand. “Nicholas Santiago.”
Of course. I should’ve recognized him from his photo on the Web site. I shook his hand. “Marcy Singer. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You, too. Hope to see you around.” He winked and went into the conference room.
The younger brother seemed much more friendly and carefree than Caleb.
I headed for the bar and caught a glimpse of someone moving behind a large column.
Was I imagining things? Or was the person I’d suspected of following me earlier here at the lodge now? I thought about going around the column to confront the person, but I was afraid to. If this was the same man—or woman—who’d stabbed Francesca Ortega on the street outside my shop, he or she wouldn’t hesitate to stab me here.
I went on into the bar. It wasn’t terribly crowded yet, and I found a stool where I could be alone, see the door, and not be overheard. I ordered a Diet Coke from the bartender and took my phone from my purse.
“Ted Nash,” he answered on the first ring.
“Ted, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “You sound scared.”
I told him I suspected I had been followed to the lodge and how I thought someone was watching me here. “I’m probably being neurotic, but I just wanted to hear a friendly voice. And I wanted you to tell me what to do.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m in the bar drinking a Diet Coke. Caleb Santiago said he’d find me here after his meeting and that we could discuss Francesca Ortega over dinner.” The bartender set my drink in front of me, and I mouthed a thank-you.
“So you aren’t alone right now,” Ted said.
“No. The bartender isn’t two feet away.”
“Stay there, then. I’m on my way.”
“No, please. You don’t have to come,” I said. “I’m probably being ridiculous, and I’ll wind up dragging you away for nothing.”
“Being assured of your safety isn’t ‘nothing.’ I’ll be there.”
“But what about Santiago?” I asked.
“If you and he have dinner, I’ll wait. I’m already in my car and on my way there, Marce.”
I started to protest again, but I really wanted him to come. I was scared. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Sit tight and I’ll be there in less than half an hour.”
“But it took me forty minutes to get here,” I said.
“You weren’t in a police car.”
After we hung up, I sipped my soda, watched the door, and felt glad the cavalry was on its way. The bartender placed a bowl of pretzels in front of me, and I munched on those while I watched and waited . . . waited and watched.
Ted was correct in his assessment of how long it would take him to get to me. I spotted him coming through the door of the bar twenty-eight minutes after we’d hung up the phone. He hurried over to me.
“I didn’t see anyone or anything suspiciouslooking when I came through the lobby,” he said. “But, to be honest, I was concentrating more on getting to you than on seeing who was out there. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Thanks for coming.”
“You’re welcome.” He dug into my pretzels as the bartender came over. “Coke, please.” He turned back to me. “I’ll go back out into the lobby and walk around in a minute. Anything else weird happen?”
“No,” I said. “Everyone who’s come into the bar since I’ve been here was either with someone or joined someone.” I bit my lower lip. “Do you think I overreacted?”
“Of course not. Always listen to your gut reaction.”
The bartender brought Ted’s drink. Ted thanked the man and then took a long drink.
“I’ll be right back,” he told me.
In a few minutes he was back to report that he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary in the lobby and that he’d checked the bathrooms on the lower level. “Men’s and women’s.”
My brows shot up. “I didn’t hear any screams.”
“I was discreet.” He smiled.
I spotted Caleb Santiago coming into the bar. “That’s him,” I whispered. “That’s Santiago.”
“Have your meeting. I’ll stay right here and keep an eye on both you and the door. When you leave, I’ll follow you out,” he said. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I got up off the bar stool and went to greet Mr. Santiago. “How was your meeting?”
“Productive. Thanks for asking,” Mr. Santiago said. “So, are you ready for dinner?”
“I am.”
Mr. Santiago nodded to the hostess, who rushed over and seated us at an intimate table in the corner. She introduced herself, gave us menus, and said our server would be right over.
“Won’t your assistants or your brother be joining us?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said with a grin. “It’s just you and me. I spoke with my dad earlier. He said you’re the one who told him about Francesca Ortega’s murder.”
“I am. I understood from Frederic, her son, that she’d worked with your father—and later, with you—for more than twenty years,” I said. “I thought your dad would want to know about her death.”
“That was nice of you.”
The server arrived, introduced herself, and took our drink orders.
“What did you want to ask me about Ms. Ortega?” Mr. Santiago asked. “It must have been important to you for you to drive all the way here to talk with me.”
“I don’t mean to sound indelicate,” I said. “I mean, I realize Ms. Ortega hasn’t been dead a week even. But . . .”
“But?” he prompted.
“Was she a crook?”
Mr. Santiago looked stunned by my question, but before he could comment, the server arrived with our drinks—red wine for Mr. Santiago and water for me—and asked if we’d decided what we’d be having for dinner.
“Filet mignon medium well and baked potato for the both of us,” Mr. Santiago said, “if that’s all right with you, Ms. Singer.”
“Sounds great,” I said.
“All right,” said the server. “I’ll bring out your house salads with—”
“Bring them out when our food is ready,” Mr. Santiago said. “We’d like a few minutes to talk undisturbed.”
“Oh . . . okay, then.” The server turned and scurried away from the table.
“Why do you ask if Ms. Ortega was a crook?” he asked me.
“After her death outside my shop, Frederic told me you’d fired her for snoopin
g through your desk,” I said.
“Go on.”
“Let me back up a bit. Cassandra, Frederic’s fiancée, wanted me to embellish a vintage wedding gown that had belonged to her mother. Ms. Ortega provided gems to go on this dress. I thought the gems were fake, and I think Cassandra and Frederic did, too.”
“But they weren’t?” Mr. Santiago asked.
“No. While investigating the murder, the police confiscated the gown and the gems in my possession and had them appraised. They were definitely not fake. In fact, the police believe the jewels given to me to adorn the dress were worth between seventy-five thousand and a hundred thousand dollars.”
He whistled under his breath. “Ms. Ortega wasn’t a wealthy woman. It embarrasses me to say so, but we didn’t pay her well enough for her to afford gems like that.”
“I knew she wasn’t wealthy because Frederic said his mother would have to move in with him and Cassandra after the wedding,” I said. “That’s why my two main concerns are where Ms. Ortega got the jewels and whether or not her killer believes I still have some of them in my shop.”
“Why do you think Ms. Ortega’s murder and the gems are related? Couldn’t it simply be a coincidence that she was killed while she had the stones with her?”
“I guess it’s possible that it could’ve been a random mugging.” I caught myself just before I said that whoever had killed Ms. Ortega had been a professional. I wasn’t supposed to know that, and I didn’t want to get Ted in trouble. I would have glanced in his direction, but I was facing away from the bar. “But that still doesn’t answer the question of where Ms. Ortega got the stones in the first place.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Mr. Santiago took a sip of his wine. “And you think she might have stolen them?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” I said. “If you did catch her snooping through your desk, then that proves she wasn’t trustworthy, right?”
“I suppose that’s true enough.”
“It made you angry enough to fire her,” I said. “Was that an isolated incident, or was it normal behavior that you simply refused to put up with anymore?”
He frowned. “I always got a bad vibe about Ms. Ortega. It wasn’t something I could put my finger on, but it was definitely there. You know what I mean?”
“Of course. Were any of your clients jewelers?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m sure we have clients who own jewelry stores,” he said. “We have so many it’s hard to keep track, but there are bound to be a few. Wouldn’t you think?”
“I’d think so, yes. And couldn’t Ms. Ortega—for the sake of argument—have used information provided to your Web site to figure out how to rob the store?”
“She wasn’t very adept at the computer. That’s another reason for her dismissal. She failed to keep up with the times. But—as you said, for the sake of argument—I suppose she could have found what she needed to rob a store.” He tilted his head. “Sure, it sounds pretty far-fetched, but I suppose it could’ve been done.”
The server arrived with our food, asked if we needed drink refills, and then hurried off when we declined. Mr. Santiago had already intimidated her so badly she didn’t want to linger.
“Maybe her son helped her,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I asked. Sorry, but I was already interested in my steak at that point.
“Her son,” he repeated. “Maybe he helped her steal the jewels.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” I said. “If that’s so, then the mugger—if the jewels were what he was looking for—might seek out Frederic instead of me.” I smiled slightly. “Or maybe I should hang a sign in my shop window: ‘No jewels here! Confiscated by police.′”
He chuckled. “That might work.” He looked thoughtful as he cut into his steak. “Talk with Frederic. He could possibly have the answers you need.”
We made small talk as we finished our dinner. When the server brought our tab, Mr. Santiago insisted on paying.
“But I’m the one who asked you to talk with me,” I said.
“Ah, but I can write this off as a business expense. And I can use all the tax write-offs I can get.” He smiled cordially. “I enjoyed dinner, Marcy. I hope we meet again sometime, and I wish you luck in finding out where Francesca Ortega came up with those jewels.”
“Thank you.”
“May I walk you out?” he asked.
“That isn’t necessary. Thanks again for your time.”
I left the bar and went into the ladies’ room off the lobby. I hoped Ted was nearby. He was. I didn’t know how nearby until he stuck his head into the bathroom.
“Ted! What’re you doing?”
“Making sure this area is secure.” He bent down and looked to make sure there were no feet in any of the stalls. “It appears to be all right. I’ll be outside the door if you need me.”
When I stepped back out into the lobby, Ted was there to take me by the arm. His gaze encompassed the entire room as he guided me toward the door.
“Give me your claim ticket, and I’ll have the valets bring our cars around,” he said softly. “I’ll check the backseats to make sure they’re clear, and then I’ll follow you home.”
“Okay.” I shivered slightly in the night air. I watched Ted hand our claim tickets to the valets. He was so commanding, it was hard for me to take my eyes off him. And he’d come here and wasted his night off for me. How sweet was that?
There was a sudden movement to my left. I whipped my head around to see David storming up the steps toward me. Before I could react further, Ted sprang into action. He leapt between David and me, rammed David in the solar plexus with his forearm, and knocked him down.
As David was getting up, Ted pulled his gun. “Stay down, and show me your hands.”
The valets, doorman, and several onlookers were standing there slack-jawed.
“It’s all right,” Ted said. “I’m a detective with the Tallulah Falls Police Department.” With his left hand, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced his badge.
“Um, Ted,” I said. “That’s David Frist.”
“I don’t care who he is,” Ted said. “He’s under arrest for stalking.”
“Wait,” David began, sitting on the walk with his hands in the air. “I’m not stalking. I know this woman.”
“That’s true,” I began. “He—”
“Did you or did you not follow Ms. Singer here this evening?” Ted asked.
“Isn’t this out of your jurisdiction?” David asked.
“Yes, it is. But I’m still a duly licensed officer with the authority to enforce the law, and I’m willing to detain you until an officer of the Toledo police force arrives.” He nodded at the doorman. “Will you please make the call, sir?”
“I already have. They’re on their way,” said the doorman.
“Good job.” Ted nodded again in approval.
“Ted, it’s okay,” I said softly.
“What type of car were you driving this evening?” Ted asked David. “Was it a black sedan? And you might as well tell me the truth because I will find out.”
“Yeah,” David said. “I exchanged my rental car so Marcy wouldn’t know it was me.”
“Then you admit to following her,” Ted said.
David heaved a breath. “Yeah. So what? I wasn’t going to hurt her. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that in the state of Oregon what you did—following Ms. Singer and causing her alarm—is stalking, a Class-A misdemeanor that holds a maximum of one year potential jail time.”
“I didn’t mean to cause her alarm. I meant to see who she was with and . . . and why.” David glared at me. “I thought you were supposed to be here with beer boy, but I guess it was the sheriff’s turn this evening. How’d beer boy take the news?”
“Shall I add harassment to your charges? Because I will if you don’t shut up.” Ted stepped in front of me, effectively blocking me from David’s sight. “You will not speak to the victim.”
“In fact, you have the right to remain silent,” Ted said.
Before Ted could finish reciting David’s rights, a Toledo police car arrived. Two uniformed officers got out of the patrol car. Ted holstered his gun and explained the situation. David quickly got to his feet. One officer spoke with David while the other took my statement. After talking with me, the officer conferred with his partner and then wrote David a citation. To say David was livid was an understatement. He started yelling obscenities at Ted and me, and the Toledo officers had to threaten to arrest him in order to make him calm down and leave the lodge.
“What happens now?” I asked Ted.
“He’ll have to appear in court and explain to a judge just what he was doing.”
“You don’t think he’ll get jail time, do you?”
“Nah,” Ted said. “If he’s a first-time offender, he’ll get a slap on the wrist. He might get out of it altogether if he hires an attorney.”
I nodded.
“Don’t feel sorry for him. When you called me, you were terrified.”
“That’s true,” I admitted.
Ted asked the valets to get our cars. Even though David had left the lodge, Ted still checked the backseats of both cars.
“Are you okay to drive?” he asked me.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“All right. See you at your place.”
Chapter Eleven
When we arrived back at my house, Ted pulled into the parking lot right behind me. Before I could get out of the Jeep, though, he hurried to my side.
“Stay put and let me check things out,” he said. “I’ll help you out of there in just a sec.”
“I don’t think David would be stupid enough to come here tonight. Not after what happened at the lodge.”
“I’m not taking any chances where you’re concerned.”
Ted peered over the fence and spoke to Angus, who was barking furiously in the backyard. He shone a flashlight all around the back and the front of the house. Then he returned to the driver′s side of the Jeep and held out his arms.
I gratefully slid into his arms, and he set me on the ground.
“Unlock the door, and then I’ll go in ahead of you and check everything out inside,” he said. “Stay close to me, okay?”
