by Amanda Lee
I unlocked the door. “Come on in.”
She wore a white cotton sari with white embroidery—or chikankari—on the sleeves and hem. She also had on long blue-and-silver drop earrings and matching bangles that made a tinkling noise when she moved. She said hello to Angus and then sat down on one of the red club chairs and began to unpack her tote.
I got Reggie a bottle of water and set it on the coffee table.
“Thank you,” she said. “How are you? Are you having any nightmares or anything like that?”
“No. I did get a little nervous last night second-guessing myself about whether or not I’d locked the door.”
“You should always lock the door as soon as you get inside.”
“I normally do,” I said. “And I did. . . . I just got scared.”
“That’s normal. I’ve been concerned about you. You know I’m here anytime you need to talk, right?”
“Thanks . . . and ditto.”
Vera rushed through the door in denim capris and a flowing short-sleeved leopard-print top. After looking around to make sure only Reggie and I were in the shop, she pulled me to one side and asked if she could speak freely in front of Reggie about what we’d discussed earlier. I told her she could.
“All right, Paul and I haven’t made much progress in the Chad Cummings fraud investigation,” said Vera.
“Fraud investigation?” Reggie asked.
I brought her up to speed on George Vandehey and his belief that Chad Cummings had paid his father to steal the Cézanne.
“That’s possible,” Reggie said. “About fourteen years ago, an ophthalmologist in Los Angeles was convicted of insurance fraud for arranging to have a Picasso and a Monet stolen from his home. He was trying to collect seventeen and a half million dollars.”
“Chad Cummings told me he got twenty million for the one Cézanne,” I said. “But George has no proof to back up his allegation that Cummings paid his father to steal the painting. The money that showed up in his and his sister’s bank accounts could have been the money he was paid for the painting.”
“Yes, George would have a hard time proving any of that,” said Reggie. “Now that his father is dead, he should try to put his theories behind him . . . unless . . . ?”
“Unless he believes Chad Cummings killed his father,” I finished for her.
She frowned. “That’s a stretch.”
“That’s what Ted says,” I said.
“You didn’t tell me George thinks Chad killed the professor,” Vera said. “But Paul and I discussed it, and Paul thinks it’s possible. Chad Cummings is a powerful man, and he wouldn’t want anyone making any accusations against him.”
We had no time to debate the matter further, because the other students began filing in. One of them was Sissy Cummings.
“Sissy, I’m so glad you could make it,” I said. “Please come over and have a seat.”
“Thank you. I hope the instructor doesn’t mind my sitting in and observing,” she said.
“She’ll be delighted.” I introduced Sissy to Reggie, and they hit it off immediately.
Sissy marveled over the delicate work on Reggie’s sari as well as the sample work she was teaching the class.
“It isn’t as hard as it looks,” Reggie said. “Here. Give it a try.”
She led Sissy step by step through one of the stitches.
I mingled among the students asking if they’d like a water, juice, or soda. Angus also mingled, getting petted by everyone. There weren’t many classes where Angus wasn’t the star attraction, but he was always aware of who welcomed his attention and who did not. He’d given Veronica Nash a wide berth today.
Vera sidled up to me and whispered, “I’ll see what I can get out of Sissy Cummings.”
My eyes widened. “No!”
I doubted she’d even heard me. She’d already gone over and taken a seat beside Sissy on the sofa.
Reggie noticed my stricken expression and saw that Vera had snagged prime real estate. She gave me an almost imperceptible shrug and then reengaged Sissy in another stitch demonstration.
* * *
It wasn’t until after class that Vera got a chance to interrogate Sissy. Everyone had gone except Vera, Sissy, Reggie, and me. I kept wishing Vera would leave before she could say something inflammatory to Sissy. In fact, I was regretting bringing Vera and Paul in on my quest to find information about Chad Cummings. Why hadn’t I left the sleuthing to Ted and Manu?
“It’s getting late,” Reggie said.
“It is,” I agreed. “This class has been a pleasure, as always, though. I’m so glad you were here, Sissy.”
“Thank you. I enjoyed it very much.”
My cell phone, which I had on the vibrate setting for class, rang. I didn’t recognize the number, and I excused myself to step into the hall and take the call.
“Marcy, it’s George Vandehey. I’d like to meet with you and the detective.”
“Great,” I said. “Can you be at my house in half an hour?”
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
I ended the call and texted Ted to let him know the plan.
When I returned to the shop, Reggie was wide-eyed and Vera was asking Sissy if Chad had been intending to buy anything from the Padgett Collection before it was stolen.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he wanted to make an offer on the David and Goliath tapestry,” said Sissy. “He says he brought me here to see the exhibit, but he was really here because he wanted that tapestry.”
“I was interested in one of the Japanese pieces myself,” Vera said. “I’d think your husband would be gun-shy after having the Cézanne stolen.”
“He says that’s what insurance is for.” Sissy shrugged. “I thought the tapestry was beautiful, but I can’t think of a single place in our home large enough to display it. It’s huge.”
“You know, even with the insurance reimbursing you for the Cézanne, that had to be quite a blow to wake up and realize it had been stolen,” Vera hammered on. “If I had a Cézanne and someone stole it from me, I believe I’d want to throttle him.”
“Yes, it was quite a shock,” Sissy said.
“How did you guys feel when you found out the man who stole your painting had been murdered?” Vera asked.
“We felt horrible!” Sissy placed a hand at her throat. “The professor might not have been a good person, but his life had value. All lives have value.”
“He was possibly not as bad as you might think,” I said. “His son came to see me because I was the one who found Dr. Vandehey. He explained to me that his sister had been in a horrible accident just prior to the theft of the Cézanne. He believes his father stole the Cézanne in order to help pay the medical expenses.”
“Oh, my goodness. I had no idea.” Sissy’s eyes filled with tears. “I wish he’d talked with us about it. I’d have gladly given him some money.”
“You have a tender heart,” Reggie said.
Sissy wiped away her tears. “Chad says it’s too tender. He says that if he’d let me, I’d fall for every hard-luck story in the book.” She smiled. “I guess it’s true. But it sounds as if the professor could have really used our help. I’m sorry he didn’t trust us enough to ask for it.”
* * *
When George arrived, I introduced him to Ted and then left them alone in the living room while I prepared a tray with decaffeinated coffee, creamer, sugar, and the peanut butter cookies I kept in the freezer for unexpected guest emergencies. All I had to do was put them in the microwave for thirty seconds, and they were warm. You’d have thought I just got them out of the oven . . . which—technically, since the microwave is an oven—I did.
I walked into the living room, and Ted stood and took the tray from me. It was as if I were too dainty to carry a heavy tray. Swoon! Of course, he could’ve come into the kitchen and b
rought it all the way into the living room, but I wasn’t complaining. He was still sweet to take the tray, place it on the ottoman, and pour each of us a cup of coffee.
“George was explaining his theory to me about how Chad Cummings set his father up by having his father steal the painting and then write out a confession,” Ted said, passing around the cups and saucers. “The only problem is that without any tangible evidence, law enforcement won’t believe you. Chad Cummings is holding all the high cards.”
“That’s true, but my father was smart,” said George. “He wouldn’t have written that confession without having an ace up his sleeve. I believe he had something—either on his person, in his hotel room, or in a safe-deposit box somewhere—that proves Chad Cummings had Dad steal that painting so he could collect the insurance money.”
“I don’t believe anything was found on the body,” Ted said. “Your father’s personal effects are still in evidence. I can go with you to look at them tomorrow.”
“Thank you. What about his hotel room? May I see it, too?”
“The crime scene techs have already gone over it and cleared the hotel to rent out the room,” he said. “Anything belonging to your father was put into evidence with the rest of his belongings.”
“Still, if it’s possible, I’d like to see his room,” said George.
“You think he hid something in there,” I said.
George nodded. “I do. Do you think it would be possible?”
“If you don’t find anything when we look through your dad’s effects tomorrow, I’ll call the hotel,” Ted said. “If they haven’t rented out the room, we’ll go over and take a look.”
“Thank you,” George said. “My father wasn’t a saint by any means, but I know he wasn’t the villain Chad Cummings made him out to be.”
* * *
After George left, I took the tray back to the kitchen and tried to get Angus to come back in. He was enjoying the cool night air, however, and wouldn’t budge from his spot on the porch swing.
Ted came up behind me and nuzzled my neck. “Let him stay a while longer.”
I leaned back against him. “All right.”
He took my hand and led me back to the living room. We kicked off our shoes and cuddled up on the couch.
“It feels so good to be lying in your arms,” I said, snuggling against his chest.
He kissed the top of my head. “Let’s play hooky tomorrow and go hide out in the mountains.”
I laughed softly. “You always want to play hooky when a case isn’t going well—of course, you never do—and you’ve promised George he can look through his father’s things tomorrow.”
“I did do that, didn’t I?”
“Which case isn’t going well?” I asked. “The murder of Geoffrey Vandehey or the museum theft?”
“Neither is going well. There’s a lot of finger-pointing going on at the museum. The board of directors thinks Josh Ingle is at fault. Josh thinks the board has been trying to undermine him for months. One security guard hints that another was lazy, while another says one might have been moonlighting.” He groaned. “If we could find one person who would tell us the unadulterated truth, we might be able to solve that one.”
“My sweet Diogenes,” I murmured.
“What did you call me?”
I giggled. “Diogenes . . . the guy who wandered all over ancient Greece with a lantern searching for an honest man.”
“I believe there are honest men in the world . . . just not at the Tallulah Falls Museum.” He laughed.
“You don’t think Anderson Padgett hired someone to steal his collection, do you?” I asked.
“No. Why? Do you?”
“No. In fact, it had never crossed my mind until George Vandehey voiced his belief that Chad Cummings hired the professor to steal his Cézanne,” I said. “Mr. Cummings didn’t seem terribly distraught about the loss of the painting, but he was bragging about how much profit he made off it once the insurance company paid up.”
“You never can tell, but I’d be very surprised if Anderson Padgett had anything to do with the theft of his collection.”
“I would, too,” I said. “Sissy Cummings came to Reggie’s class tonight. Vera asked her if her husband had been interested in any of the pieces from the Padgett Collection. She said the reason he’d come to Tallulah Falls was to try to get Mr. Padgett to sell him the David and Goliath tapestry.”
“Had they talked about it before Cummings came to Tallulah Falls?” Ted asked.
“I don’t think so. Remember, during lunch today, Simon Benton mentioned that he’d tried to get Mr. Padgett to sell that tapestry to him. If he wouldn’t sell it to a friend, why would he sell it to a stranger?”
“True. And from what you told me Vera said about it, Padgett was only willing to sell selected pieces of his collection, not all of it.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Vera got to talking to Sissy about the stolen Cézanne and asking her how she and Mr. Cummings had felt when they found out that Geoffrey Vandehey had been murdered.”
“Good old Vera . . . always subtle. What did Sissy say?”
“She said all life was valuable no matter how bad a person Geoffrey Vandehey might have been. And then I couldn’t help myself.”
Ted stiffened.
“I told her that Dr. Vandehey’s son believes that his father stole the painting to help pay for his daughter’s medical care,” I said.
Ted relaxed.
“What did you think I was going to say?” I asked.
“I can never tell with you, Inch-High.”
“Well, after I told Sissy Cummings about Libby’s accident, she got teary and said she wished Dr. Vandehey had simply asked them for help. She said she wished he’d trusted them enough to turn to them.”
“So, had they known Vandehey before having him appraise the painting?” Ted asked.
“I don’t know. She did say her husband believed her to be too tenderhearted. So maybe Mr. Cummings did know about the accident and exploited it to get Dr. Vandehey to steal the painting for him.”
“Maybe. But, again, if George has no proof, we can’t go accusing Cummings of anything,” he said.
“Let’s think about all of that tomorrow.” I turned and ran my hand gently down the side of his face. “I believe we’ve had enough shop talk for tonight.”
He smiled. “Indubitably.”
I giggled at the pretentious word until he kissed me. Then I completely forgot what had been so funny.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, I was unpacking a shipment of Christmas ornament kits. It wasn’t that I was rushing the season, but in order to get Christmas ornaments completed in time, people needed to start in the summer or early fall. Angus was lying by the window with his Kodiak bear. They were watching the world go by. All in all, it was very peaceful. There had been a few customers come in, and we had made some friendly transactions.
And then Chad Cummings barged into the Stitch. There was nothing friendly or peaceful about him. In fact, Angus jumped up and ran to stand between me and the irate man.
“What did you say to my wife last night?” he demanded.
“Mr. Cummings, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Mrs. Cummings was here to observe the chikankari class, and as far as I know, she had a nice time.”
“Well, you or someone in your class upset Portia,” he said. “She came home in tears over that no-good Geoffrey Vandehey.”
“That was probably my fault, Mr. Cummings. I mentioned to your wife that Geoffrey Vandehey’s son was here and that he told me his sister had been in an accident around the time the professor stole your painting. I didn’t mean to upset her.”
“Portia isn’t like most people.”
“She told me you believe her to be too kindhearted,” I said.
“It’s not just that. Portia has some . . . issues . . . mentally. She’s . . . delicate.”
“She said she wished Dr. Vandehey had trusted the two of you to ask for financial help if he needed it rather than steal the painting.”
“Yeah. She liked that painting,” he said.
“Mr. Cummings, did you know about Elizabeth Vandehey’s accident?”
“Sure. That’s why I called and asked him to do the second appraisal. I was trying to throw the guy a bone. How does he repay me? By stealing my Cézanne.”
“I’m sorry. You must’ve felt terribly betrayed.”
“Damn right I did,” he said.
Angus uttered a low growl.
“Look, I’ll get out of your hair before your dog goes for my jugular,” said Mr. Cummings. “I’m sorry I overreacted, but just please . . . if Portia comes in again, try not to upset her in any way.”
“I’ll certainly do my best,” I said.
Angus didn’t move until after he saw Chad Cummings walk past the window in the direction of MacKenzies’ Mochas.
I bent and gave him a hug. “Thank you, baby. I don’t think he would’ve done anything rash, but I’m glad you were here just in case.”
Christine Willoughby, one of my regular patrons, walked into the shop. “Hey, share some of that puppy love with me, would ya?”
I laughed as Angus bounded over to Christine. The woman was thin, and I was always afraid Angus would knock her over. But she must’ve been stronger than she looked.
“How are you this morning, Christine?”
“I’m fantastic! Just dropped in for some yarn. How are you?”
“Good . . . well, better, now that a friendly person is here. The last guy who came in here wasn’t Mr. Congeniality.”
Christine put her fists on her waist. “Do I need to have Jared bring you a crowbar?”
Jared, Christine’s son, was an auto mechanic.
I laughed. “No. I think Angus let him know we didn’t appreciate his attitude.”
“Good.” She went back to petting Angus and directed her comments to him. “We don’t understand why people have to be so mean, do we? No, we don’t! No!”
