by Amanda Lee
After I’d paid for the pizza and placed it in the passenger seat, I was really glad there was a doggy barrier between the front seats and backseats. It still allowed Angus to put his big furry head over the seat, but it didn’t give him enough room to snuffle the pizza box as he so desperately wanted to do.
When we arrived at Ted’s apartment, he answered the door in jeans and a T-shirt. He was barefoot and his hair was still wet from his shower. He smelled yummy in a very masculine way.
He greeted me with a kiss before taking the pizza so I could unclip Angus’s leash. Both the dog and I followed Ted into the kitchen. Unlike my country kitchen, Ted’s was ultramodern. The appliances were stainless steel, the cabinets were glossy black with thin, tubular silver handles, and the countertops were dark gray granite. There were skylights and recessed lighting over the island and a chandelier over the table in the breakfast nook.
Ted placed the pizza on the table as I put my purse on the counter. We turned, and he took me in his arms for a more passionate embrace.
“I’ve missed you today,” he said.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
“Thank you for sending Reggie over with the muffins. They were delicious.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “I happened to think that she was probably a little lonely, too, so I called and invited her to brunch. We went over our own theories on the robbery.”
“Did you come to any conclusions, Inch-High? We could use all the help we can get on this one.” After kissing me again, he went to the cabinet and took out some plates.
“We’re fairly certain it was an inside job. I mean, it would have had to be, wouldn’t it? The thieves knew where the cameras were, blacked out the lenses, disabled the security alarm. . . .”
“We feel pretty sure there was someone within the museum helping the thieves,” he said. “But we can’t rush to judgment. Locating the security cameras and discovering what type of alarm the museum used could have been done by someone on the outside.” He opened the box and put slices of the pizza on the plates.
This pie was nothing like the veggie pizza I’d had this morning. This one was ham and pineapple.
“Would you like to eat while watching the movie, or would you prefer to eat here at the table?” he asked.
“Let’s eat here at the table. I’d hate to get pizza sauce on your sofa.”
“Says she of the white living room furniture.” He winked as he pulled out a chair for me.
I sat down. “Reggie told me you and Manu were questioning all the museum staff today, including the guards you spoke with yesterday.”
“Yeah, we needed to make sure they were telling the same stories they told last night,” he said.
“Did you go through their employment records? Had any of them been disciplined or anything?”
He chuckled. “Yes. Believe it or not, this isn’t my first investigation.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just keep searching my brain for a solution of some sort.”
Angus moved closer to me, so I tore off a piece of my crust and gave it to him.
“I know what you meant,” Ted said. “Believe me, there’s not a painted canvas or a chiseled piece of marble we’ve left unturned at that museum, and we still don’t have anything other than guesses. The thieves apparently left no evidence whatsoever. I feel sorry for our crime scene techs. They’re working around the clock to go over every inch of the museum so it can open again by Tuesday.”
“Reggie said that art thieves often ransom the art back to the museum or collector,” I said. “I take it that hasn’t happened?”
“Not yet. Did she mention that less than fifteen percent of stolen art is ever recovered?”
“No. That’s depressing.”
“It is,” he said. “In Boston in 1990, thieves stole thirteen pieces of art from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The pieces were valued at more than three hundred million dollars and were never recovered. There’s still an outstanding reward of five million to anyone who can provide information leading to the return of the works.”
“Speaking of rewards, did Manu change his mind about allowing the museum to offer one?” I asked.
“Not yet. If no leads pan out and no ransom demand is given by Tuesday, he’ll let the board of directors announce the reward.”
“What about Dr. Vandehey? How do you think he figured into this entire plot?”
He shrugged. “Too soon to tell.”
We finished eating and went into the living room to watch the movie. Fifteen minutes in, I heard Ted quietly snoring beside me. I extracted myself from his arms, covered him with the afghan from the back of his couch, and turned off the movie. I kissed him tenderly, and then Angus and I left.
Chapter Eight
Ted was adorably sheepish when he came by the shop the next morning. He even brought me a dozen red roses, which I accepted gratefully but told him was completely unnecessary.
“I felt like such a jerk when I woke up on my couch this morning and realized what had happened,” he said. “Was the movie good?”
“I only saw the first few minutes, but it didn’t seem to be as great as the commercials made it out to be.”
“I don’t remember any of it. I did go ahead and drop it back off at the kiosk, but we can rent it again if you’d like to.”
I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him. “We’ll see where the day takes us.”
“I really am sorry I fell asleep on you,” he said.
“I’m not. It was nice to see you all vulnerable and sweet.” I grinned at his eye roll. “Besides, I’ve fallen asleep on you before.”
“That’s different.”
I shook my head. “It only proves that the man of steel is human.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So now I’m Superman?”
“You always have been to me.”
He pulled me closer. “Oh, I like that.” He lowered his head and gave me a toe-curler of a kiss.
Then, naturally—and probably a good thing since we shouldn’t be providing a PDA for everyone on the sidewalk—duty called and Ted had to leave. He did say he’d try to be back for lunch.
Not long after Ted left, a cheery woman in a bright pink pantsuit came into the shop.
“Good morning and welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch,” I said.
“Hi,” she responded a bit breathlessly. “What a wonderful dog! Hello, my dear! How are you? Are you a good boy?”
Angus sat in front of her and even offered his paw when she held out her hand.
She laughed. “Yes, you are a good boy! You are!” She patted his head. “I could tell he was a good dog the instant I walked in. You just know sometimes, don’t you? And, of course, you wouldn’t have a mean dog running around your shop. That would be bad for business!”
“Wouldn’t it, though?”
“Of course, a young woman like you needs some sense of security being here by yourself,” she said. “I heard about that dreadful business of a body being found in your alley. What’s the world coming to?”
She barely gave me time to admit that I had no idea what the world was coming to before she plowed on, apparently no longer as concerned about the fate of the world as she was about the project she had in mind.
“Do you have some of that perforated cross-stitch paper I’ve been hearing about?”
“Yes, it—”
“I teach a Sunday school class, and each September some of my students move up to an older class, and I like to give them some sort of little graduation gift—nothing big, just a token really . . . something to remember me by more or less—and this year I’d like to make each of them a bookmark.” She looked at me expectantly.
I gave her a second to make sure she wasn’t just taking a breath.
“Perforated paper would be excellent t
o use for bookmarks,” I said. “Let me show you what I have.”
She and Angus followed me to the corkboard where the fourteen-count perforated paper was hanging. She chose an ecru that “would go with anything” and then bought several skeins of floss.
“Do you think they’ll like them?” she asked me as I placed her purchases in a small periwinkle bag.
She was so earnest that I wanted to step around the counter to hug her. “They’ll love them. And I’m sure they love you and that you’ve made an impression on their lives that they’ll never forget with or without the bookmarks. But they will love the bookmarks.”
She beamed. “Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing? Thank you!”
“Thank you,” I said. “Please stop back in and give me a progress report. And, by the way, I offer needlework classes Tuesday through Thursday. There’s a flier in your bag with more information.”
“All right. I’ll take a look at it.”
“Even if you aren’t interested in taking a class, the sit-and-stitch square is always open during operating hours,” I said.
“Thank you, my dear. I’ll be back.”
After the lady left, I smiled at Angus. “Today is getting off to a much better start than Saturday did!”
* * *
As soon as Vera walked in, she noticed the flowers on the counter. She hugged Angus and then went straight to smell the roses . . . something Vera always took time to do these days.
“Is it a special occasion, or is he in the doghouse?” she asked me.
I laughed. “Neither.”
Vera placed her hand over her heart. “I might swoon.”
“I think he actually thought he was in the doghouse because he fell asleep on Angus and me while watching a movie last night, but I really didn’t mind at all. I knew he was exhausted.”
“Poor dear,” Vera said. “Paul told me this investigation would be intense. There are so many variables: Was Vandehey’s death tied to the theft, or was it a timely coincidence? Had Vandehey been involved in the heist? Were the thieves associated with the museum? There’s simply so much to consider.”
“I know. I believe Manu, Ted, and their deputies have questioned nearly everyone in Tallulah Falls at least once.”
“And they’re no closer to having any answers . . . or, if they are, they’re keeping their information under wraps.”
Before we could discuss the situation further, a tall, thin woman with dark hair in a pixie cut walked into the shop. Her eyes were so unnaturally green that I wondered if they were colored contacts. The woman moved almost timidly in her lacy yellow sundress, and I thought she was afraid of Angus.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s very friendly.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid.” She smiled slightly but still wore that deer-in-the-headlights expression.
“Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch. I’m Marcy Singer.”
“Yes, well . . . are you open?” she asked. “I heard about your . . . misfortune . . . on Saturday. I thought maybe the shop was a crime scene or something.”
“Nope. Everything is business as usual,” I said. “The misfortune happened out back in the alley. I think the police still have an area out there blocked off.”
Vera sat on the navy sofa facing away from the window and patted the seat beside her. “Why don’t you come on over and introduce yourself?”
“Please,” I added. “And would either of you care for some coffee or bottled water?”
“I’d love a bottle of water, Marce,” Vera said. “Honey, you want something?”
The woman shook her head, but she did sit down beside Vera.
I got Vera a bottle of water from the mini fridge in my office. When I returned, Angus was sitting by the deer-slash-woman with his head on her knee. She was stroking his ears.
“As I was telling your friend Vera, my name is Sissy . . . Sissy Cummings,” she said. “My husband hates my name. My sister started calling me Sissy when I was born, and it just stuck. Everyone calls me that . . . except my husband. He calls me Portia—which is my real name, of course—but I prefer Sissy.”
“Nice to meet you, Sissy,” I said.
“I love needlepoint and embroidery,” she said. “I even did some latch-hooking when I was a little girl. When I heard about your shop, I knew I had to get myself here as soon as possible and get some stuff . . . especially since we’re staying the week.”
“I’m so glad you came in,” I said.
“Were you here for the exhibit?” Vera asked.
“Yes, my husband, Chad, is an art collector. He’d heard the collector might be willing to part with some of the pieces, so we came down from Seattle to spend a week or so. Chad was hoping the collector would be here, and he could negotiate with him.”
“I imagine the collector will be here soon,” Vera said. “I know I certainly would be if my collection had been stolen.”
“That’s why we’re still here,” said Sissy. “Chad thinks the art collector will come in from Denver or wherever it is he’s from and they can do some other wheeling and dealing.”
“Who was the collector?” I asked. “I can’t recall his name.”
“I believe it was Padgett,” Vera said. “Anderson Padgett.”
“That’s right. I remember seeing his name in the paper now.” I turned to Sissy. “Are your husband and Mr. Padgett friends?”
“No . . . and I highly doubt they will be after they talk art, either,” Sissy said. “Chad is really very sweet, but he can have an overbearing way about him sometimes, especially where art is concerned.”
“How about Simon Benton?” I asked. “Do you know him?”
“Vaguely,” she said. “Chad and I met him at the exhibit Friday evening. He knows the collector from Denver. Apparently, they’re good friends.”
“He came into the shop Saturday morning,” I told Sissy and Vera. “He wanted to know if I thought the rug—the one wrapped around the body of Geoffrey Vandehey—could be restored. I told him that even if it could, the rug was now evidence in an investigation.”
“Wow. I guess he was just concerned for his friend’s collection,” Sissy said. “He’d said that his friend—Mr. Padgett—was older and not in good enough health to come to Oregon, so Benton was here to make sure everything went okay with the exhibit.”
“I feel sorry for Mr. Padgett,” said Vera. “He’s unwell and now has to make a trip to what—file a claim?”
“I wouldn’t think he’d have to come to Oregon to file an insurance claim,” I said. “Maybe he just wants to come and check things out for himself.”
“Probably.” Sissy opened the small straw purse she carried and took out her phone. “Oh, no, it’s nearly twelve. I have to meet Chad at twelve for lunch. May I come back in later and get some things?”
“Of course,” I said.
“I have a list of floss numbers that correspond to my new pattern,” she said. “Could you maybe gather those up for me?”
“Certainly. It’ll be my pleasure.”
Sissy gave Angus a final pat and then hurried out the door.
Vera turned her speculative gaze on me. “There’s a woman who’s scared to death of her husband. I used to be one of those women, so I recognize the signs when I see them.”
“I believe you could be right. Did you notice how she referred to the art belonging to Chad instead of us?”
Vera nodded. “I wouldn’t say Chad Cummings is an abusive husband, but his wife definitely knows who’s boss. When she comes back for her embroidery floss, try to get her to come to tomorrow evening’s class. I’d like to talk with her some more.”
“All right.” I was a little wary about what Vera wanted to talk with Sissy about, but I’d still invite her.
* * *
Ted arrived with lunch—club sandwiches and kettle-cooked chips—at
a quarter past twelve. We went into my office to eat, and I grabbed us a couple sodas from the fridge.
“Vera was in earlier,” I told Ted as I sat down across the desk from him. I kept my desk very tidy, partly because it was also our lunch table. “She asked if it was a special occasion or if you were in the doghouse. When I said neither, she said she thought she might swoon.”
He laughed. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind being in Angus’s doghouse. I thought I might pop by there after work and take the two of you to the beach . . . this time just the two—I mean, three—of us.”
“That sounds like fun. Should I pack a picnic?”
“Definitely not.” He opened his chips. “Then all of Tallulah Falls would be tagging along.”
“Blake and Sadie are not all of Tallulah Falls,” I said. “Besides, they have to work this evening.”
“I’m only joking. But I would prefer to keep you to myself tonight.” He popped one of the chips into his mouth. “Mmm. These are good.”
I tried one. They were. “Yum. Taste this, Angus.” I tossed him a chip, and he gobbled it up.
We were unwrapping our sandwiches when the bells over the door jingled.
“Darn,” I hissed. “I forgot to put the Be Back Soon clock on the door. I’ll take care of this customer and then put up the clock.”
I hurried out into the shop with Angus on my heels despite the fact that there was ham, turkey, and bacon right there on the desk near him. To my surprise, Josh Ingle was standing at the counter.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ingle,” I said. “How may I help you?”
“I’m actually here to see Ted Nash,” he said. “Someone at the police station told me he was probably here.”
Ted emerged from my office wiping his mouth on a napkin. “Ingle, what’s up?”
“May we speak privately?” Josh asked. “The three of us?”
I looked at Ted, undecided whether I could or should talk with the museum curator about something private, which I took to mean the heist and/or the murder of Geoffrey Vandehey. But when Ted nodded, I put the clock on the door that told customers I’d be back in half an hour.
