Thread End

by Amanda Lee

  “Apparently, neroli oil does that,” I said. “Chad Cummings bought some for his wife for when she gets in those moods.”

  “He actually said that? In front of you and everything?”

  “Yep.”

  Todd nodded. “What did he say when he came to?”

  I laughed. “Nothing. She looked as if she didn’t appreciate the comment, but I get the impression that Chad Cummings says whatever he wants whenever he wants to whomever he wants. He wants me to franchise the Seven-Year Stitch, by the way.”

  “Really? Baby Stitches all over the West Coast?” He turned his mouth down at the corners. “How do you feel about that?”

  “No, thank you. I believe I was meant to enjoy a quieter life than the Cummingses,” I said. “He mentioned that he told Nellie she should franchise Scentsibilities too. Hasn’t he come over and tried to win you over to the dark side yet?”

  “Not yet, but if he does, I might go.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “I’d seriously like to have a Bugatti like the one he was driving.” Todd winked. “Wouldn’t you? I can see you and Angus buzzing down the highway with the wind in your hair . . . both of you sporting a pair of matching sunglasses.”

  I hit him with one of the candlewick pillows.

  He laughed. “It’s something to think about.”

  “Maybe so, but I have enough to deal with without worrying about my mansion being broken into and my priceless art stolen while I’m out cruising around in my Bugatti.”

  “Speaking of priceless art, I heard you found an antique rug . . . and a person . . . in your alley on Saturday,” Todd said.

  “Yes, I did. And before you ask, I did not knock over the museum, nor did I wrap said person in the rug and dump him in the alley.”

  “I’m glad. I’d hate for you to execute a caper like that without me.”

  “This from the man who’s dating a deputy,” I said.

  He spread his hands. “Hey, I’d just like to think that no matter who either of us is dating, if you decide to commit a federal offense, you’d at least let me audition as the getaway driver.”

  “Of course I would,” I said. “But after seeing Chad Cummings’s Bugatti, I think I’d ask him first. Those things are fast.”

  “That’s true. I couldn’t blame you there,” he said. “If you decide to steal the Bugatti, though, call me.”

  “Oh, first thing,” I said.

  He grinned. “Seriously, are you all right? I started to call you Saturday night, but I figured Wyatt Earp was taking care of you.”

  “I’m fine. I feel sad for Professor Vandehey, though. I looked him up on the Internet earlier, and he had two children.”

  Todd’s grin faded. “Don’t do that to yourself, Marce. You had nothing to do with that man’s death. You merely stumbled across him lying behind your shop. Stop obsessing and move on.”

  “I’m trying, but . . .” I sighed.

  He leaned over and kissed my temple. “Try harder.”

  I smiled. “I will.”

  “Want to come to the Brew Crew and get wasted?”

  “Not particularly,” I said. “I’ve never understood how getting so drunk I feel like death the next day will help me resolve anything today.”

  “You might have mentioned that to Josh Ingle instead of suggesting he have a shot to calm his nerves,” Todd pointed out.

  “In my defense, it was Ted who suggested the drink. But at the time, it did seem like a good idea. The guy was a wreck.”

  “Still is. Only now he’s sloppy drunk and telling anyone who will listen that the board pulled off this heist to oust him from his job.”

  “Do you think there could be any truth to that?” I asked. “It appears that the robbery was an inside job.”

  “It might’ve been, but I seriously doubt the board had anything to do with it,” Todd said. “This is a real black mark on the museum’s reputation. I’d think if they wanted to get rid of Ingle, they’d simply fire him.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. There are much easier ways to get rid of a curator.”

  Todd said he’d better get back and check on his pitiful little patron.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “It’s all right,” Todd said. “And Ingle will be fine.”

  Todd left, and I thought about poor Josh. I wondered why he was so paranoid about his job. Did he really think the museum’s board of directors would stage a heist just to get rid of him? I decided to take him some sort of care package tomorrow to apologize for suggesting he get a drink . . . and to find out his true thoughts on the museum heist.

  I also wanted to ask Ted what he’d found out from the board. Not that he’d tell me confidential details of an investigation, of course, but I’d like to know if the board had truly detested Josh Ingle or if that was merely a figment of Josh’s paranoid imagination.

  My mind drifted back to Josh talking about Dr. Vandehey’s visit to the museum. Had the professor not been scoping out the security equipment for the robbers, then why was he at the museum asking for the grand tour?

  So many questions . . . And yet today, all I wanted to do was enjoy my time with Ted and Angus on the beach. I texted Ted and let him know that I was leaving fifteen minutes early so I could go by the market and get the stuff I needed to pack us a picnic. Then I held my breath that he wouldn’t call and tell me he wouldn’t be able to come.

  Chapter Ten

  It was half past eight on Tuesday morning, and I would normally have still been at home puttering around in my pajamas instead of running errands. But rather than feeling bothered, I couldn’t keep from smiling. My mind kept drifting back to last night and the wonderful time I’d had with Ted.

  I’d gone home after work and packed a picnic basket with tuna salad sandwiches, baked chips, apple slices, sodas, and macadamia cookies. As we’d done with Blake and Sadie, we had eaten near the lighthouse. But then we’d taken the long way home. We’d stopped at a dog park beside a playground, and while Angus had romped with a golden retriever, Ted and I had hit the swings. Then the golden retriever and her owner had left, and Ted, Angus, and I had played with Angus’s flying disk. After that, we’d indulged in frozen yogurt.

  I was still smiling when I reached my first destination—MacKenzies’ Mochas—and got out of the Jeep. I’d called ahead and was glad to see that the muffin basket I’d ordered was ready.

  Blake appraised me with mock severity. “You’re looking mighty chipper this morning . . . too chipper. Where are you headed with that basket of muffins? To engage in some sort of mischief perhaps?”

  I giggled. Blake could not do “gruff” to save his life. “I’m actually trying to make up for some mischief I might have been a party to yesterday.”

  “Ah, yes. Todd mentioned something about a certain museum curator drowning his sorrows.”

  I groaned. “Has Josh been in for coffee this morning?”

  Blake nodded. “He did look a little green around the gills, but I’ve seen worse. Heck, I’ve been worse. He’ll be fine.”

  “I still feel the need to apologize . . . and to see what else he might be able to tell me about Geoffrey Vandehey’s visit to the museum.”

  “Take the man his muffins, but leave the investigation to the police,” Blake said. “As much as I enjoy our chats in the alley over a dead body, I’d prefer to keep them to a minimum. And I definitely don’t want one of us to be the one wrapped in the rug.”

  Before I could respond, a couple of customers came into the coffee shop. I recognized one of them as Kelly Conrad.

  “Hi, Kelly,” I said.

  “Hey, Marcy. Those muffins sure look good,” she said.

  “Thanks. I’m taking them to the museum.” I paid Blake for the muffins and turned to go.

  “Yeah, I feel really bad for Josh,” Kelly said.


  “So do I,” I said. “I think he could really use all the friends he can get right now.” I had no idea what had happened between Josh and Kelly, but I hoped they could at least be friends.

  “I guess so,” she said. “I might go by and talk with him after I get off work today.”

  “I’m sure he’d appreciate that,” I said.

  * * *

  Although the Tallulah Falls Museum and Historical Society had officially reopened, there were no patrons there when I arrived with my muffins. The museum felt ominous in the quiet semidarkness. I was wearing rubber-soled flats, and they squeaked on the tile floor as I made my way to the curator’s office.

  Before I reached the door, Josh Ingle stepped out, barking, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Marcy Singer.” I held up the muffin basket. “I have a peace offering.”

  “Yes, I see you now,” he said. “I just . . . heard the squeaking . . . and I thought . . .” He trailed off, but I knew what he meant. He thought someone had been slipping up on him . . . which technically I had been, but not for any nefarious purpose.

  “I should have called first and told you I was coming,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  He smiled. “That’s quite all right. I guess I’m just a little jumpy.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  He invited me into his office, which could be described as overcrowded if one were being charitable or a mess if one were not. There was one large white desk near the window. There was a large black leather executive chair behind it. A flat-screen computer monitor and a mouse resting on a desk calendar took up the center of the desk. A double-stacked in-box was to the right of the monitor, and its twin out-box was on the left. Both were overflowing. The rest of the desk was covered in business cards, sticky notes, pencil cups, and paper clips. A phone, stapler, tape dispenser, coffee cup from MacKenzies’ Mochas, and pack of gum rounded out the clutter. Josh even had a Rolodex. I thought everyone kept their contact information and addresses on their computers or phones these days.

  There was a cubicle within the office that housed another desk, phone, computer, and single in-/out-box, but it was neater than Josh’s space. There were file cabinets and a large copier to the right of Josh’s desk, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls. In addition to books, the shelves contained many three-ring binders, what appeared to be scrapbooks, and file folders.

  “What is all this?” I asked.

  “Maps, historical documents, newspaper clippings, providences . . . you name it, I probably have it here somewhere,” he said.

  “Wow. You have a lot to keep up with.”

  “I do.” He nodded toward the cubicle. “Of course, I have help. My assistant, Diane, is here three days a week.”

  “That’s good.” I handed Josh the muffin basket. “These are for you. I’m sorry Ted and I suggested you should drink yesterday. I know it didn’t help matters, and it probably made them worse.”

  He smiled and set the muffin basket on the copier. “Ah, it wasn’t that bad. Thank you for the muffins, though. I won’t turn those down.” He pulled out his assistant’s chair. “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” I took the chair as Josh moved around his desk to his own chair. “I looked up Geoffrey Vandehey online yesterday. All I’d known about him before then was what I’d heard about the Cézanne theft.”

  “I hadn’t even known that until after he died,” Josh said. “I mean, I knew someone named Geoffrey Vandehey had stolen a Cézanne in Seattle three or four years ago, but I didn’t know that the man who walked into this museum was Geoffrey Vandehey. What kind of museum curator does that make me?”

  “It makes you an excellent curator but a lousy detective,” I said. “Why on earth would you expect Geoffrey Vandehey to ever resurface, much less here in your museum?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, but that Agent Brown sure thinks I should have.”

  “What name did Vandehey use?”

  “George Elsbeth.”

  “His children’s names are George and Elizabeth,” I said.

  “He just walked in and wandered around looking at the exhibits. As I would do with anyone, I greeted him and offered him a guided tour,” he said. “The man could’ve refused, but he seemed to welcome the company. Then, as I elaborated on some of the exhibits, it became apparent to me that he was more knowledgeable in some areas than I was.”

  “In some areas, maybe, but not all. You’re too hard on yourself.”

  He blew out a breath. “I guess. But still . . . Here’s an example. Have you ever heard of A. C. Gilbert?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was born in Salem, Oregon, and was a toy inventor,” said Josh. “Actually, he created toys that were designed to entertain as well as educate. One of his most popular toys was the Erector Set.”

  “Cool,” I said.

  “Right. Anyway, while we’re looking at the antique toy exhibit, Elsbeth—I mean, Vandehey—starts to chuckle. Then he tells me that when he was a little boy, he had one of Gilbert’s Atomic Energy Laboratories. The toy came with a working Geiger counter, an electroscope, and low-level-radiation sources.”

  My eyes widened. “Please tell me he was joking!”

  “No, he wasn’t!” Josh laughed. “I looked it up. The thing came with alpha, beta, and gamma particles as well as four uranium-bearing ore samples!”

  I joined in his laughter. “How in the world did that toy go through all the government regulations?”

  “Apparently very well,” he said. “There was a book included with the Atomic Energy Lab teaching kids how to prospect for uranium, and the U.S. government offered a ten-thousand-dollar prize to any successful prospector.”

  “That’s hilarious. These days just about everything poses a choking hazard. It sounds like the Atomic Energy Laboratory could’ve turned kids into the Incredible Hulk.” I shook my head. “I’m not surprised I haven’t heard of it. It couldn’t have been on the market long. . . . Was it?”

  “No. It was only produced between 1950 and 1951.”

  “So Professor Vandehey was more knowledgeable than you about the Atomic Energy Lab,” I said. “In my opinion, that’s a good thing!”

  “Yeah, I guess it is,” said Josh. “But it was more than that. He knew about the antique-embroidery exhibit . . . that one piece in particular likely originated from the Amish settlement in McMinnville. The sampler was done by someone named Mary Miller and was dated 1899.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if he knew for certain, though.”

  “No, but he knew lots of things. To be honest, I didn’t really care where the sampler came from,” he said. “From the time I took the job as curator here, I set out to improve upon the museum’s collections. I didn’t do a lot of research or give a lot of thought to what we had but to what we could have.”

  “I think that’s admirable, Josh. You’ve made many improvements and got in a lot of new exhibits since I’ve been here . . . and I’ve not even lived in Tallulah Falls for an entire year yet. Getting the Padgett Collection was quite a coup.”

  “Yeah, and look how that turned out for me.”

  “It started out great. Everyone I talked with was so excited about the new exhibit,” I said. “It isn’t your fault that the collection was stolen.”

  “Isn’t it? While I was giving Geoffrey Vandehey, alias George Elsbeth, the grand tour, wasn’t I letting him get the information he needed to rob the museum?” he asked.

  “You know, for some reason, I don’t think so. Maybe it’s because I’m the one who found his body in the alley and I felt sorry for him, but I honestly don’t think he was in on the scheme to steal the Padgett Collection.”

  Josh looked skeptical.

  “I could be completely wrong,” I admitted. “But I have a hunch that Geoffrey Vandehey wasn’t a bad person.”
/>   “He stole a Cézanne right off Chad Cummings’s wall,” Josh said.

  “True . . . or, at least, he allegedly stole the painting.”

  “Now, you don’t think he even did that?” Josh asked. “Should we recommend Dr. Vandehey for sainthood?”

  “Don’t go getting snarky with me when I’m only trying to help you feel better,” I said.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. Dr. Vandehey allegedly stole the painting.”

  “The confession could have been forged.” I huffed. “Or maybe he did steal the painting and the confession wasn’t forged. I met Chad Cummings this morning, and I get the feeling that anything Dr. Vandehey did could very well have been because he was provoked.”

  “I have to agree with you there. Chad Cummings is a piece of . . . work,” Josh said. “And I highly doubt he had any appreciation whatsoever for the Cézanne.”

  “Oh, he appreciated it, all right. He absolutely cherished the twenty million dollars he made on it.”

  Josh raised his eyebrows. “Twenty million?”

  “That’s what he told me he made off the painting,” I said. “Cummings had apparently insured the painting for that much.”

  “Wait. . . .” He rubbed his forehead. “Cummings should have had the painting appraised before he had it insured.”

  “He should have, yes.”

  “But wasn’t Dr. Vandehey there to appraise the painting?” he asked.

  “Yes, he was. So if the painting was already insured, then maybe the professor was there to offer a second opinion or something.”

  “I guess that’s possible.”

  “You don’t sound so sure,” I said.

  “I’m not.”

  * * *

  As I returned home to pick up Angus before going to the Seven-Year Stitch, it began to lightly rain. I turned the windshield wipers on the delay mode and thought about my conversation with Josh Ingle. I was coming back from my trip with more questions than answers.

  First of all, even though the museum was once again open to the public, I didn’t see another single person when I walked inside. Where were the security guards? I’d thought the board of directors—or, at least, the chairman—had offices at the museum. Was I mistaken?