by Amanda Lee
I nodded. “Pearl stud earrings. And the sweater is chartreuse, which means it’s a mixture of green and yellow.”
“I’d have said green. But, anyway, you see where I’m going with this.” He took a drink of his cappuccino. “I’m worried, Marcy. I think he’s going to charge me with . . . something.”
“But if you didn’t do anything, then how can he?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “Will you help me?”
“If I can.”
He leaned toward me. “I want you to come to Mom’s apartment with me. Help me find anything I might’ve missed.”
“Okay.” I stretched the word out. This was a huge opportunity to find out more about what Francesca did and didn’t know about the jewels or what other reason someone might have had for wanting her dead. On the other hand, I didn’t know Frederic well enough to trust him completely. “What if we take Harriet or Ted with us? That way, someone—other than two non-law-enforcement people—will be there to help collaborate what we discover.”
Frederic didn’t get a chance to respond, because Cassandra stormed into the shop.
“There you are!” she yelled.
Angus jumped up and began barking.
“Cassandra, please calm down,” I said. “At least until I can get Angus restrained.”
She fumed, but she didn’t say anything as I got Angus’ leash and led him to the bathroom. I shut him inside, but he scratched at the door and continued to bark and growl.
“How can you stand that beast?” she spat when I returned to the shop.
I felt like telling her that she was the beast, but I didn’t want to make matters worse.
She glared at Frederic. “Is she the reason you’re calling off our wedding?”
“No,” he answered calmly. “You are. You threw a vase at my head hours after I buried my mother, Cass.”
“You were late! I’m having to do everything by myself! Do you know how hard that is?” She flailed her arms.
“My mother is dead! Do you know how hard that is?” Frederic cried.
“Of course, but you’re using that as an excuse to get close to her!” She pointed to me. “And that . . . that . . . Harry person.”
“Her name is Harriet,” he said, “and she’s trying to help me.”
“What about me? Who’s trying to help me?” Cassandra demanded.
Over the ruckus of Cassandra and Frederic yelling at each other and Angus barking, I didn’t even hear the bells over the door jingle as Ted and Harriet came in.
“What’s going on here?” Ted asked. “We heard you guys all the way down the street.”
Cassandra and Frederic continued their vociferous debate.
“I said, what’s going on here?” Ted yelled.
The formerly engaged couple began talking at once. Again, I missed hearing the bells as a customer slipped in. She was an older lady, and she stood watching the scene before her in slack-jawed silence.
“Enough!” Ted shouted.
“Great job!” I clapped my hands. Looking at the customer, I explained, “Theater practice.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “But Tallulah Falls doesn’t have a theater troupe.”
“Not yet, but we’re hoping,” I said, with a smile. “What can I help you find?”
“I just need a few skeins of yarn to finish up an afghan,” she said.
“Right this way.” As I passed Ted, I mumbled, “Please restore order.”
I escorted the customer to the yarn displays and was glad everything was comparatively quieter while she shopped. Angus was still barking but not as much as he had been. And Frederic and Cassandra were continuing their argument in hissed whispers. The customer bought skeins of navy and red yarn, gave the sit-and-stitch square one last leery look, and then left. I sighed. She’d probably never be back—and I couldn’t blame her.
I put my hands on my hips and faced the group. “I’m letting Angus out of the bathroom. His barking is giving me a headache, and I can’t stand it any longer. It would be a really good idea to stop bickering now, because he doesn’t like it.”
As I walked toward the bathroom, I heard Cassandra say, “If she’s letting that thing out, I’m leaving. Frederic, we’ll resume our discussion later.”
I didn’t hear Frederic’s response and wasn’t even sure he gave one.
Chapter Eighteen
Vera arrived early for class. In fact, she got there before I did. I’d taken Angus home for dinner, and when I returned, Vera was waiting for me in her car. The streetlights were just flickering on, and I was glad she was being cautious.
“Did you get it finished?” she asked as she got out of her car and walked toward me.
“Get what finished?” I teased.
“My purse!” She playfully tapped me with the gloves she’d just removed. “Oh, you!”
I laughed and unlocked the door. “Yep. I think you’ll be pleased with it. At least, I am.”
Once inside, Vera and I took off our coats. I put them on the coatrack in my office and brought the purse out.
“I just finished it this afternoon,” I said.
Vera squealed with delight and hurried over to take the purse. It had four rows of large ribbon embroidery roses. At random intervals between the roses, green ribbon leaves were evident. I’d also put tiny gold and clear beads on the roses to give the purse more detail and a smidgeon of oomph. Vera loved oomph.
“It’s gorgeous! Thank you so much!” She enveloped me in a one-armed hug and then pulled back to look at the purse again. “Ooh, I don’t want anyone else to see it before the ball. Put it back in your office.”
“All right. I’ll put it in a Seven-Year Stitch bag and set it on the desk. You can grab it when you get your coat.” I took the purse from Vera and placed it in a large bag. “Don’t forget it,” I said when I returned from the office.
“Oh, I won’t.”
“How did you do on your project this week?” I asked.
“Not as well as you did on yours—I’m talking about the purse, of course.” She giggled. “Seriously, Marcy, you did a gorgeous job. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. You gave me an idea for a new window display and a new class with the rediscovery of ribbon embroidery. I hadn’t done any in a long time.”
We didn’t have a chance to discuss it further, because the rest of the class began filtering into the shop. Everyone had made significant progress on their needlepoint crafts this week, and we engaged in some lively discussions. But when the rain started coming down amid rumors that it was supposed to get worse as the evening wore on, my class members began to get antsy about getting home and cuddling under a warm blanket. Not that I blamed them. I’d have been happy to do the same thing, but I’d promised Frederic that I’d meet him and Harriet at Francesca’s apartment as soon as class was over. On that note, I was glad that the class had ended about half an hour earlier than usual.
As soon as I’d locked up the store, I got into the Jeep and called Frederic. The call went to voice mail, so I told him I was on my way to the apartment. I then plugged his mother′s address into my GPS and headed in that direction.
Francesca had lived in a nice neighborhood between Tallulah Falls and Depoe Bay. I wondered if Frederic and Cassandra had planned to move in with her after the wedding, or if Francesca was going to have to give up her apartment. I figured it was Francesca who would have had to make sacrifices either way.
I pulled into the well-lit complex. The buildings had gray vinyl siding, and it appeared each apartment had its own private deck. Although there was a space available right in front of Francesca’s door, I left that one for Frederic and Harriet and took a spot two spaces down.
I burrowed my chin into the front of my coat as I ducked my head, raised my umbrella, and sprinted to the door. I stepped into the entrance hall. A young woman had a baby on her hip and was struggling to juggle a bag of groceries while unlocking her door.
“Need some help?” I asked.
&
nbsp; She smiled. “I think I’ve almost got it. But thanks.”
The baby grinned at me, and I waved to her. She raised her little hand in return. Her mother got the door open, and they went inside.
I moved down the hall toward Francesca’s apartment. I didn’t want the woman with the baby to think I was some kind of nutcase who stood around in apartment hallways. I propped my umbrella against the wall and rubbed my hands together. I felt goofy for forgetting my gloves. I blew into my cupped hands and then rubbed them together again. It was then that I noticed Francesca’s door was ajar. Could it be that Frederic and Harriet were already here?
I opened the door and stepped inside the apartment. “Frederic, Harriet, it’s me! Where are you?”
The kitchen was to my immediate left. I looked into the room but didn’t see Frederic or Harriet, so I went on through to the dining room. The carpet was beige and so plush I sank into it when I stepped out of the kitchen. There was a mahogany table for four with a matching buffet. Over the buffet was an oil portrait of Frederic and Francesca. It was a lovely painting.
I wandered on into the living room. “Guys, where are you?” I was feeling uncomfortable looking around Francesca’s apartment by myself. If Harriet and Frederic were here, then why weren’t they answering me? I decided to check the rooms at the other end of the hallway. If they weren’t there, I’d go back outside the apartment and wait for them.
I went down the hall. The door to my right was open just a bit, much like the door to the apartment had been. I eased into the room. It was a wreck. This bedroom had been converted to a home office. Papers were strewn everywhere, the desk chair had been upended, and the drawers of the file cabinet were open and in complete disarray. It struck me that this was why the door to the apartment had been ajar. Someone had been ransacking Francesca’s office. And that someone might still be here.
I started to back out of the room, but I caught a glimpse of something on the floor near the love seat. It looked like . . . a hand . . . a woman’s thin, pale hand.
“Harriet?” My voice caught in my throat. I looked behind me to make sure no one was sneaking up behind me, and then I moved closer to the hand. What I saw made me light-headed, and I had to grasp the arm of the love seat to steady myself.
Cassandra Wainright was splayed on the floor, her lifeless eyes turned upward, her mouth slightly agape. She had a stab wound to the sternum, making me think she had been killed by the same person—possibly a professional—who’d killed Francesca. Thoughts began tumbling through my head faster than I could make sense of them. I needed to call 9-1-1. I wondered if I should check to see if Cassandra had a pulse, but would that be contaminating evidence? I should call Frederic and tell him not to come. I swayed and clutched the small sofa for support.
“Marcy!”
I turned to see Harriet standing in the doorway. “What have you done?”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t me. The door was open when I got here.”
Harriet elbowed past me and knelt beside Cassandra. She placed two fingers on Cassandra’s neck; then she moved her hand to Cassandra’s wrist. She looked up at me. “She’s dead.”
“Where’s Frederic?” I asked.
“He’s right behind me. He should be here—”
“What’s going on?”
It was Frederic. I looked at him and then turned back to Harriet.
She stood and walked over to him. “It’s Cassandra. She’s dead.”
“She’s what?” He scrambled over to Cassandra’s body. “Cass! Cass, wake up.” He dropped to his knees beside her.
“Please don’t touch her.” Harriet took him by the shoulders. “Come on. I need to call this in, and we need to preserve the crime scene.”
“But she might still be alive,” he said. “Maybe she’s just unconscious!”
He tried to turn back to Cassandra, but Harriet kept a firm hold on him. She shook her head. “Let’s go into the living room,” she said softly.
Harriet, Frederic, and I were in the living room when the county deputies arrived. Harriet flashed her ID and led the officers to the body. There were four deputies—three went with Harriet, and the other one stayed with Frederic and me. Poor Frederic was shaking really hard. I wasn’t doing much better, but this guy had lost both his mother and his fiancée within the course of a few days. I didn’t know how he was holding it together as well as he was.
The officer who’d stayed behind took out a notebook and pen. He began by asking our full names and why we were in the apartment.
“I’m Frederic Ortega. This is my mom’s apartment.”
“And where is she?” the officer asked.
I stepped closer to Frederic and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Deceased.” I spoke as quietly as I could and still be heard. “The funeral was yesterday.”
“And you are?” he prompted.
“I’m Marcy Singer.”
He quickly scribbled that in his notebook. “What’re you doing here, Ms. Singer?”
I was rather at a loss on what to say to that. My reason for being in the apartment this evening was complicated, and I didn’t want to give the deputy a convoluted answer.
This time Frederic answered for me. “I asked Marcy and Harriet—Officer Sloan—to meet me here . . . to help me go through some of Mom’s things.”
I nodded.
One of the deputies who’d gone into the office with Harriet stepped into the living room and motioned to me. “A word please, Ms. Singer?”
“Of course,” I said, walking toward him.
He led me into the hallway. “I understand that you discovered the body.”
“That’s right.”
“Would you please describe the events leading up to that?” he asked.
I told him how I’d arrived, spoken to the young mom, and then came on to Francesca’s apartment, where I’d noticed the door was slightly open. I explained how I’d called to Frederic and Harriet and had looked around the house before finding Cassandra.
“Wasn’t it apparent that your friends weren’t here when they didn’t respond to you?” the officer asked. “Why did you continue into the house?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Since the door was open, I thought Frederic was here.” I folded my arms. “In hindsight, I realize I was reckless in rushing in here without knowing what was going on.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“Because Frederic’s mom was stabbed to death on the street outside my shop. And from the look of things, I believe Cassandra was killed by the same person.”
“On what do you base your opinion?”
“The two victims knew each other, and they were both stabbed,” I said. “Doesn’t it stand to reason that their being killed within days of each other is more than a coincidence?”
He ignored my question and asked one of his own. “Prior to your arrival here, where were you?”
“At my shop teaching a needlepoint class. Seven women can attest to my whereabouts.”
He nodded. “You may return to the living room. But don’t leave.”
I went back to the living room and sat on the sofa. Since Frederic passed me in the hallway, I guessed he’d been summoned by Joe Friday. Wasn’t Friday the one on that old police drama with the monotone voice who always wanted “the facts”?
The deputy who’d been given witness-sitting duty was making me nervous. He had gorgeous baby blues, but at the moment, I felt like they were boring into my soul.
I nodded toward the photo album on the coffee table. “May I look at this? You know, to pass the time?”
“Yeah,” he conceded, “I guess that’s all right. You’ll be fingerprinted before you leave, anyway, in order to compare your prints to others found in the apartment.”
“Good.” Not that it was all that good, really, but I was thankful to have something to look at and to hold to help keep my hands from shaking.
I lifted the heavy book off the table and set it on my lap. I opened it an
d saw that the first photograph was of a baby boy—Frederic. Even though he was very young, I could see the resemblance. I grinned and glanced up at the deputy. He was smiling slightly, too.
“You have children?” I asked.
“One,” he said. “A two-year-old son. He’s a handful.”
I chuckled and turned the page. There were more photos of Frederic. Some were with Francesca and a man who must be—or must have been; I wasn’t sure if he was still living—Frederic’s father. He looked nice.
As I was flipping through the album, some sort of document fell out onto my lap. I retrieved it and saw that it was a stock certificate from the Santiago Corporation. Had Francesca owned stock in the company, or had she brought this certificate home for some other reason? I thought about the ransacked office and wondered what Cassandra—or her killer—had been looking for in that room.
The coroner arrived. Following closely behind him was Ted.
He hurried into the living room and showed his badge to the deputy. “Detective Ted Nash, Tallulah Falls Police Department.” His eyes searched mine before he continued. “My partner and I are investigating the murder of Francesca Ortega. Since we believe Ms. Wainright’s death may be connected to that homicide, we’d like to be kept up to speed on this investigation.”
“Of course, Detective Nash.”
“May I have a word with Ms. Singer out in the hallway?” Ted asked.
“Sure.”
I closed the photo album and returned the book to the coffee table before following Ted into the hallway. He opened the door, and we stepped out into the corridor.
He closed the door and took both my hands in his. “Are you okay?”
I smiled slightly. “I’m fine. I got here ahead of Harriet and Frederic, saw that the door was open, and came on in. I found Cassandra.” My smile faded. “Which makes me the county cops’ prime suspect.”
“Harriet said the stab wound matched the one found on Francesca.”
I nodded. “One stab to the sternum.”
He squeezed my hands. “You’ll be all right. I’d better get back in here and confer with Harriet. We’ll talk later.”
