Thread Reckoning

by Amanda Lee

  We went back into the apartment, and I returned to the living room. By that time, Frederic was back. He was sitting in the middle of the couch wringing his hands. I sat down beside him.

  “This is my fault,” he said. “If we hadn’t argued, she wouldn’t have been here alone.”

  “You can’t possibly know that,” I said. “Is this where you and Cassandra were living?”

  “No. Our apartment is . . . was—it was Cass’s place—it’s closer to Tallulah Falls.”

  “Then what was she doing here?” I noticed that the deputy was listening intently while trying to appear as if he weren’t paying attention to us.

  “I don’t know.” Frederic ran his hands through his hair. “Maybe she’d intended to do the same thing we had . . . find something that would lead us to Mom’s killer.”

  Ted returned to the living room. “The coroner has given us a rough estimate of three to six hours on the time of death.”

  The deputy looked at me and Frederic. “Then after the two of you are fingerprinted, you’re free to go.”

  “Thank you.” I followed the officer to the kitchen, where he placed an ink pad and fingerprint papers on the counter.

  “If you’ll permit me to roll your fingers, it’ll give us a better print,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  I allowed the deputy to place each one of my fingers on the ink pad and then roll them into blocks provided on the form.

  “That should do it,” he said. “You can wash your hands there at the sink.”

  I washed my hands and returned to the living room, where Frederic still sat on the sofa.

  “I’m going to wait here,” he said, “for a while, anyway.”

  “Call me if you need me,” I said. I gave Ted a look that I hoped would convey “call me as soon as you leave here.” And then I left. I was eager to get home and away from yet another crime scene.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When I got home, there was a patrol car parked near my house. The driver flashed his lights at me as I got out of the Jeep. I was glad Ted still had his officers looking out for me, especially since I now knew without a doubt that Francesca’s killer was still hanging around racking up victims. I unlocked the door, went inside, and immediately refastened the locks. I then brought Angus in from the backyard. I sank onto the floor beside him, and he placed his head in my lap.

  Poor Cassandra . . . I wondered why she’d been in the apartment. Had she been looking for something? Or had she come in and surprised the killer? Maybe he’d been looking for more jewels . . . or something else.

  I shuddered and snuggled closer to Angus. Tears pricked my eyes as I thought of Cassandra—snotty, yes, but lively—flouncing into the shop making demands about her dress and grouching about Angus. I contemplated Frederic sitting on the sofa at the shop so devastated about his mother now having to face another loss. I wondered about the killer who was still out there willing to destroy anyone who got in his way. I even considered that young mother and her baby. They’d had no idea how close they’d been to a murderer.

  I felt guilty that I’d once imagined Cassandra might’ve had wanted Francesca dead. How could I have been so quick to rush to judgment? What was it the crime writer had said on that television show I’d seen a while back? People kill for three reasons: for love, for money, or to cover up a crime. So, which was this?

  My doorbell rang. I stiffened, and Angus jumped up to run barking into the foyer. I went to the door and peeped out. It was Ted. I let him in, and we went into the living room. Sensing our somber mood, Angus instantly became subdued and simply lay on the floor near the sofa where Ted and I sat.

  “How’s Frederic?” I asked.

  “As well as can be expected, I suppose.” Ted clasped his hands behind his head. “He was still at the apartment when I left, although the county deputies were trying to get him to leave.”

  “You don’t . . . you don’t think . . .” The thought seemed so far-fetched—so awful—I could barely bring myself to vocalize it. “He didn’t do it. Did he?”

  Ted sighed. “He doesn’t have the background that would lead me to think he could kill a person with a single, precise knife thrust. And to have killed Cassandra would mean he also murdered Francesca.” He unclasped his hands and ran them down his face. “While I can imagine a scenario wherein Frederic stabbed his lover during an argument, I can’t see him hurting his mother.”

  “Neither can I. In fact, I have trouble imagining him being capable of flying into a rage and killing Cassandra,” I said. “The poor man must’ve had the patience of Job to put up with her as long as he did.” My hand flew to my mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  “It’s okay. You’re just trying to reason this out. We all are.”

  “So, did the county coroner compare the wounds or do whatever needed to be done to confirm that Cassandra and Francesca were murdered by the same person?”

  “He and our coroner were able to agree that both women suffered the exact same type of fatal injury,” Ted said. “Of course, neither can point us toward a suspect. That’s my job.”

  “And other than your standard ‘everyone’s a suspect’ spiel, do you have anyone in mind?”

  He slowly shook his head. “Basic criminology points to Frederic. He knew both victims intimately, he was the only one who stood to gain anything from his mother’s death, and he’d just broken off his engagement to Cassandra. Still, he doesn’t have experience in medicine or the military, as far as I know. And besides that, my gut is telling me he didn’t kill them.”

  “While I agree with your gut, I sure wish it would give you a clue,” I said. “I want this guy off the streets.”

  “No worse than I do, Marce.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  I left Angus at home the next morning, and before going in to work, I stopped by Riley’s house. Her husband, Keith, was on his way out the door when I arrived.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “Stubborn,” he said with a grin. “Go on in. She’s in the bedroom at the top of the stairs and to your right.”

  “Thanks.” I went inside. The house was immaculate. Either Keith, Riley’s mom, or a cleaning crew was doing a fantastic job keeping everything neat. “Riley, it’s me, Marcy!” I called from the bottom of the steps.

  “Hey, Marce. Come on up!”

  She was propped up in bed against a mountain of pillows. Her black hair was gleaming, and she was wearing mascara and lipstick. Her laptop and cell phone were sitting on a small table by the bed. A deposition lay on a pillow beside her, and law journals and books were also on the bed.

  I smiled. “You look terrific. How are you?”

  “Laura keeps kicking my spleen.”

  “Laura? That’s pretty.”

  She laughed softly. “Thanks. Keith and I finally found a girl’s name we could agree on—no one I’d hated in school, no one I’d prosecuted, no one he’d dated. Anyway, I’d ground her from gymnastics or dance or whatever it is she’s currently engaged in, but what would I do? Send her to her womb?” At my silence, she continued. “Man! Everybody’s a critic. I know it was cheesy, but I thought it was kinda cute.”

  “I’m sorry. It was cute. I just have a lot on my mind this morning.”

  “The police aren’t any closer to nabbing Francesca Ortega’s assailant?”

  “That’s not the worst of it. He’s struck again.” I went on to explain about Cassandra.

  Riley began expressing her condolences for Frederic and for me because I’d found the body, but I interrupted.

  “I need your help, Riley. I was looking through a photo album at the apartment and came across a stock certificate for the Santiago Corporation.”

  “Do you think that’s what the killer—or Cassandra—had been looking for?”

  “I’m not sure. The certificate I found has no name on it, so unless it’s like a bearer bond, it wouldn’t be worth much . . . would it?”

  “I don’t know,” Ril
ey said. “So you want me to investigate the Santiago Corporation’s stocks.”

  “Yeah, but I’d also like you to dig as deeply into their financials as you can. When I worked at the accounting firm, we looked closely at acquisitions, mergers, research, and development expenditures when we audited—you know, to see if the company had been padding its profits.”

  She frowned. “Because you found a stock certificate at Francesca Ortega’s apartment, you think the Santiago Corporation cooks their books?”

  “I realize it’s a stretch,” I admitted. “But Francesca was fired for snooping. What if she took this document and hid it in her photo album in order to prove the Santiago Corporation was guilty of something involving their stock or their shareholders?”

  “But from what you’ve told me previously, she was megaloyal to the dad, right?” Riley asked.

  “Yeah.” I frowned, not following her.

  “Then why would she have brought the certificate home? Why wouldn’t she have presented her case to Caleb Sr.?”

  “Maybe she did,” I said. “Maybe that’s why she was fired. Do you mind seeing what you can find?”

  “Not at all. But without seeing the Santiago Corporation’s actual records, it’s going to be hard to prove anything.”

  “At this point, I don’t need to prove it. I only need to see if I’m on the right track.”

  When I got to the shop, I started working on the ribbon embroidery purse I planned to carry to the masquerade ball. I thought it would be easy enough to finish by Saturday, and on Monday I could set up the window display.

  The bells above the door jingled, and I looked up to see Todd striding in.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “It has to be better than the night you had,” he said.

  I gave him a wry smile. “You heard.”

  He nodded. “It was the talk of MacKenzies′ Mochas this morning.”

  “I’m surprised Sadie isn’t here yet.”

  “She’ll probably be here after the rush.” He sat down on the sofa opposite me. “So, are you okay?”

  I slowly nodded. “Yeah. On the one hand, I wish I hadn’t been the one to find Cassandra, but on the other, I’m glad Frederic didn’t. It was such a shock to him, anyway. . . .”

  “You don’t sound so certain.”

  “I am,” I said, trying to force more conviction into my voice. “Her wounds were consistent with those suffered by Francesca, and I know Frederic didn’t kill his mother.”

  “You don’t really know. I mean, you feel sorry for him, and you don’t want to think him capable of the crimes,” Todd said. “Just be careful around him. Don’t trust him too much.”

  “I won’t.” I bit my lip. “So that’s the talk at the coffeehouse this morning—that Frederic is suspected of killing Cassandra?”

  “Not so much that, just that Cassandra had been found murdered.” He spread his hands. “The logical suspect is Frederic.”

  “I know . . . I just don’t think it was him.” I looked at Todd. “You’ve met him. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think he’s a killer, but then I’m not a psychologist.”

  “You tend bar,” I pointed out. “Doesn’t that count?”

  He grinned. “I could maybe qualify as an amateur judge of character, but that’s certainly not infallible. I’ve been wrong about plenty of people in the past.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “Speaking of tending bar, I need to get across the street,” he said. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

  “I will. I might stop by to get some apricot ale to take home after class tonight. That or a bottle of chardonnay.”

  “Been that kind of day already?” he asked.

  “It’s been that kind of week.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I know. I’ll see you later.”

  After Todd left, I decided it was time to do something I didn’t really want to. I called David. He answered on the first ring.

  “Hi, there,” I said with a cheerfulness I definitely did not feel. “I wanted to see if you could stop by the shop sometime today.”

  “Why?” he asked, his tone laced with suspicion.

  “Because we ended things on a bad note the other evening, and I don’t want that. We meant too much to each other once to wind up enemies, don’t you agree?”

  “I guess.” He was silent for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be better for me to come by your house? That way, we wouldn’t be constantly interrupted by your customers.”

  “I have a late class tonight.” To myself, I added, Besides, I’m afraid to be alone with you. “How about dropping by during lunchtime? The shop is usually slower then.”

  “Does that mean you want me to bring lunch?” he asked, as if I were calling him to wheedle a meal out of him rather than merely asking him to stop by and chat.

  “No, not unless you’re hungry. I’m fine. I’ll eat an energy bar sometime during the afternoon.”

  “Whatever.”

  I gritted my teeth and tried not to sound angry. I wanted to talk to David to find out what he knew about the Santiago Corporation and what—if any—shady dealings Francesca Ortega might’ve caught someone involved in. He might not know much, but I didn’t want to talk with Frederic about it if I could get the information from David. “I’ll look forward to seeing you soon, David.”

  “Yeah. See ya.”

  As soon as I ended the call, I growled. Thanks to David’s snippy attitude, I didn’t know if he’d show up or not.

  I was relieved that a customer came in right after our conversation and that she needed help locating several skeins of embroidery floss for a project she was doing.

  “This woman takes oil paintings and converts them to cross-stitch works,” the woman said, showing me the photo of the completed design from the pattern book.

  “Oh, wow,” I breathed. “This is incredible. May I copy the Web address down from the back of your book? I’d love to carry some of her stuff here in my shop.”

  “Of course! I just hope I can get mine to look like hers did when it’s finished.” She made a face to underscore her self-doubt.

  “You’ll do fine. And if I can be of any assistance whatsoever, come on back and see me,” I said.

  I helped her find all the thread she needed, rang her up, and put my card in her bag.

  Those really were lovely patterns, and the finished products looked more like oil paintings than needlecraft. As soon as the customer had left, I went into the office to log on to the Web site. I filled out the contact information, telling the company a bit about the Seven-Year Stitch and asking to become a vendor for the designs.

  Afterward, I decided to do some more digging into the Santiago Corporation on my own. I trusted Riley to find out what she could, but two sets of eyes are always better than one. I did a search for the Santiago Corporation corporate information and found various FAQ. One site indicated that the company had both a retail and contract segment. The contract segment sold to government agencies, businesses, and foreign entities. I also found the most recent quarter′s financial statement, but, as Riley had indicated, this wasn’t the official record.

  To get a broader picture of the office supply industry’s current economic situation, I researched the Santiago Corporation’s competition. I learned that Santiago was in third place behind OfficePro and Stockers. There used to be an old ad slogan that went “We’re number two. We try harder.” What would number three do to get ahead?

  A couple years ago, Stockers had attempted a takeover of the Santiago Corporation. That must have been about the time Caleb Sr. had stepped down and turned the company over to his son. The son had turned down the offer, and the company had shown tremendous growth since then. I read that Santiago had also shown a lot of initiative in economic growth since Caleb Jr. had been in charge, even hiring consultants to make their operations greener.

  Could that be it? Could the Santiago Corporation have been padding their Research and
Development Department expenditures in order to gain capital, making the company appear to be more solvent than it actually was? I had to wonder what inroads the business had made since hiring their environmental consultants.

  Chapter Twenty

  David came by the shop at twelve thirty. It wasn’t hard to see that he’d tried to make me believe he wasn’t coming . . . as if I’d be worried about him or hurt because he’d rebuffed my invitation. In fact, the smirk on his face irritated me to the point that I’d have asked him to leave if I didn’t need whatever information he might be able to provide. So, on that thought, I smiled and said I was glad he could make it.

  “I stopped for lunch at a restaurant on the other side of town,” he said as he sauntered over to the sit-and-stitch square. “The waitress was cute. She wrote her phone number on a napkin and slipped it to me with my bill.”

  “That’s good. You should give her a call.” I shrugged. “That is, if you’re planning to stay in the area.”

  David took his coat off and laid it across the arm of the sofa before sitting down. “What? I can’t call her if I’m not sticking around?”

  “Well, of course you could.”

  “Yeah, I could,” he said. “Serious relationships seem to have left a bad taste in my mouth lately. Maybe I could use a little more casual fun.”

  “And maybe we should talk about something a little less volatile,” I said, “especially since we’re trying to get along. Would you like something to drink? I have sodas, water, and fruit juice in my fridge.”

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  “So, tell me what all you’ve been up to—jobwise. What did you do for the Santiago Corporation—human resources?”

  “Is that what this is about?” David asked. “You asked me here to find out more about the Santiago Corporation?”

  I sighed. “There’s no way we can be friends and get a fresh start if you’re going to take offense to everything I say.”

  “I’m sorry.” He rubbed his chin. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be suspicious of everything you say. It’s just that you made it clear you weren’t interested in me in the least—that you were downright scared of me—and then out of the blue you call. What am I supposed to think?”