by Amanda Lee
“But he admitted to knowing about the accident,” Vera said. “Why didn’t he share that information with his wife?”
“Apparently, she’s too delicate and sensitive. He hinted that she’s not mentally stable.”
“Ah, well, I have to run. I never intended to stay this long, but I hadn’t anticipated Nellie’s episode.” She waved at Angus, who was lying in front of the counter. “Toodles!”
Before getting back to work on my beaded embroidery cupcake—well, Sadie’s beaded embroidery cupcake—I decided I should take Angus for a walk. I went to the counter, got his leash, and clipped it onto his collar.
I was afraid that the deputies might still be with Nellie, and I didn’t want her to think I was being nosy, so I headed in the direction of MacKenzies’ Mochas.
Angus and I were on our way back to the Stitch when we met Simon Benton heading toward the coffee shop.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “You’re a regal couple strolling along today.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I’m popping into MacKenzies’ to get an iced coffee. Would you like one?”
“No, thanks, but I certainly appreciate the offer.”
“I know you have to get back to your shop,” he said. “May I stop in when I’m finished here?”
“Please do.”
Angus and I went back to the shop. I unclipped the leash from his collar and put it in a small rectangular basket by the register.
Within fifteen minutes, Simon Benton had joined us in the sit-and-stitch square. Despite my answer to the contrary, he’d brought me an iced coffee. I was glad. It was delicious.
“Thank you, Mr. Benton. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“Ah, well, I thought it would be just the thing to rejuvenate you on this middle of the week, middle of the afternoon.”
“It really is . . . as is your company,” I said.
“Well, I value the compliment, young lady. Mr. Padgett and I were delighted to lunch with you and your beau yesterday,” he said. “We’d like to do it again before Mr. Padgett leaves Tallulah Falls.”
“We would enjoy that, too. Has Mr. Padgett said how long he’ll be in town?”
“No, he hasn’t,” said Mr. Benton. “I believe he’s hoping against hope that some evidence will be found and his collection will miraculously be recovered . . . with the exception of that one Turkish kilim, of course.”
“I understand that at one point the museum wanted to offer a reward for information on the return of the collection with no questions asked,” I said. “However, the police chief asked them to wait to see if a ransom demand was forthcoming.”
“Yes, the board of directors discussed that very fact with Mr. Padgett earlier today. They’re going to get Chief Singh’s approval, of course, but they are planning to offer a combined reward within the next day or so.”
“I hope they get some good solid leads.” I sipped the iced coffee. It really did hit the spot.
“I pray they do as well,” Mr. Benton said. “Between the two of us, however, I think it’s unlikely. I would imagine the thieves are long gone by now, wouldn’t you?”
“Probably. Although with the theft being so recent, the robbers couldn’t possibly hope to sell it . . . right?”
He shrugged. “Tallulah Falls is a very small town. The word wouldn’t have spread so quickly from here as it would from a larger city like Seattle or Denver.”
“True, but this is the age of the Internet,” I said. “People with camera phones have opened the doors to an entirely new brand of journalism.”
He laughed. “But it isn’t always reliable journalism, eh?”
“Fair enough. Still, I think word spreads a lot faster today than some folks realize.” He was the folks I didn’t think realized the power of the Internet. “Do you think the murder of Geoffrey Vandehey and the museum theft are connected somehow?”
“It’s hard to say.” He crossed his legs and sipped his coffee as if he was giving the matter much consideration. “I believe that having stolen art before, Dr. Vandehey might have been involved in the theft of the Padgett Collection, yes. That said, why would his partners take the time to kill him and dump his body before making their getaway?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they wanted his share of the profits. Or maybe he changed his mind and felt bad about stealing from Mr. Padgett.”
“Why would he feel bad about stealing from Mr. Padgett if he had no qualms about stealing from Mr. Cummings?” he asked.
“Have you met Mr. Cummings?”
Mr. Benton threw back his head and laughed. “Indeed I have, Ms. Singer, and he is not as nice a person as Andy.”
“No, he sure isn’t.”
“But Dr. Vandehey wouldn’t know that, having not made Mr. Padgett’s acquaintance, would he?”
“I guess not,” I said. “So you’re basically saying once a thief, always a thief?”
He inclined his head. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m merely trying to play devil’s advocate and come up with a reason his partners would have killed Dr. Vandehey were he part of the plot to steal the Padgett Collection.”
“Okay. If you don’t think that Dr. Vandehey would have changed his mind about stealing the collection, do you believe his partners killed him in order to get the professor’s share of the profits?” I asked.
He set his coffee cup on the coffee table, leaned his elbows on his knees, and steepled his fingers. “The more I dwell on it, the more I begin to reconsider Dr. Vandehey as a participant in the theft. As I said before, why would the other thieves take time from their escape to kill him, wrap up his body, and dump it in an alley? The group would be on the lam. Even if they’d decided to murder Dr. Vandehey, they wouldn’t have done it here in Tallulah Falls. They’d have killed him on the outskirts of town . . . or waited until they got to their planned destination.”
“That’s a solid theory. Do you watch a lot of detective shows?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said with a laugh.
“If Dr. Vandehey wasn’t part of the museum robbery plot, why do you believe he was murdered?” I asked.
He tapped his fingertips together. “I’ve met several people here in Tallulah Falls alone who bore a grudge against Dr. Vandehey. Mr. Ingle, the museum curator, resented Dr. Vandehey because the older gentleman was a fount of knowledge, and Mr. Ingle was afraid that Dr. Vandehey was here to take his job and ruin his career.”
“But that’s not enough to kill someone over,” I said.
“Is it not? People have killed for less, Ms. Singer,” he said. “Perhaps Mr. Ingle learned of Dr. Vandehey’s true identity and wanted to be the person responsible for recovering the stolen Cézanne. That would’ve made him a hero. He’d get a lot of press over it and, once he’d earned his master’s degree, he could’ve left Tallulah Falls and found a more prestigious position.”
“I have to admit, that motive beats the first one.”
“Then there’s that blowhard Special Agent Brown,” Mr. Benton continued. “Dr. Vandehey made a fool of him, got him demoted, and was clever enough to ensure that Agent Brown wouldn’t find the Cézanne after searching for it for years. He had a lead and came here to the opening-night gala to search for Geoffrey Vandehey, did he not?”
“He did,” I said.
“Did this lead come out of nowhere? Perhaps Agent Brown had been following Dr. Vandehey. Again, this is a small town. What if Agent Brown thought he could get his revenge on Dr. Vandehey and none of these lower-level law enforcement officers would dare question him if he said he had been forced to kill the man in self-defense?”
“These law enforcement officers are some of the best in the country,” I said.
“I know that, but I daresay Agent Brown did not . . . at least, until he arrived. And he still carries himself with a certain a
mount of arrogance that is unearned,” he said. “I’m not saying Agent Brown is the killer, of course. I’m merely throwing around notions.”
“You said you knew of several people in Tallulah Falls who had a grudge against Dr. Vandehey,” I said. “So far, you’ve mentioned only two. What else have you got?”
He smiled. “You’re enjoying my stories.”
“I am. Have you ever thought of becoming a screenwriter?”
“No . . . but now I might,” he said.
“What do you think of Chad Cummings as the murderer?” I asked. “He has a forceful personality, and he definitely held a grudge against Dr. Vandehey.”
Mr. Benton took a drink of his coffee, set the cup back down on the table, and leaned back in his chair. “Chad Cummings . . . let me think on that one for a moment. . . . Ah! I’ve got it. You mentioned the fact that thieves will often ransom stolen art back to its owner. Perhaps Dr. Vandehey approached Mr. Cummings and asked for money to return the Cézanne. Mr. Cummings lost his temper and accidentally killed Dr. Vandehey.”
“You’re forgetting one thing in all your theories,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“The rug. If anyone other than one of the thieves murdered Dr. Vandehey, where would he have gotten the kilim in which he was wrapped?”
Mr. Benton laughed and slapped his open palms on his thighs. “You are the clever one! I’ll have to think more on my theories, Ms. Singer . . . unless, of course, one of the villains I mentioned was involved in the theft.”
“I suppose that’s a possibility,” I said.
“Everything is a possibility . . . isn’t it?”
Chapter Nineteen
Ted and I didn’t have pancakes again after all. He came over and we cooked dinner together. We had spaghetti and meatballs, with turtle cheesecake for dessert. It was a quickly put together meal. Nothing was homemade—the pasta sauce came from a jar, the meatballs came from the freezer, and the cheesecake had been thawing in the fridge since last night—but it was fun being in the kitchen, working together, and chatting while we prepared our meal.
Once we sat down to eat, I told Ted all about Simon Benton’s theories on who murdered Geoffrey Vandehey.
“He presented fairly convincing arguments for the murderer being Josh Ingle, Chad Cummings, and even Special Agent Brown . . . until I pointed out that the killer had to have been in on the museum heist to have wrapped Dr. Vandehey up in the kilim.”
“An excellent deduction, Inch-High.”
“You knew all along that the murder of Geoffrey Vandehey and the museum heist were connected, didn’t you?” I asked.
“Well, it was rather obvious . . . but we don’t know how the two are connected yet.”
“How do you think it’s connected?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “It basically comes down to whether or not George is right about his father. I believe that if George is correct in his assertion that his father was paid to steal the painting from Chad Cummings, then Dr. Vandehey likely came to Tallulah Falls to confront Chad and to possibly even blackmail him for more money.”
“I know Cummings had a private investigator looking for Vandehey, but how did Vandehey know Cummings would be in Tallulah Falls?” I asked.
“Good question,” said Ted. “Maybe Vandehey was keeping tabs on Cummings, too.”
“I guess that’s possible. If you’d stolen something that valuable from someone, you’d want to make sure they weren’t closing in on you,” I said. “And if George is wrong about his father being paid by Cummings to steal the Cézanne?”
“Then Dr. Vandehey was in on the Padgett Collection heist from the beginning, and Simon Benton’s theory is probably pretty close to the truth. Vandehey’s partners murdered him in order to keep his share.”
“I hope George isn’t wrong,” I said. “I feel that, criminal or not, Dr. Vandehey did what he did because he felt he had to in order to get money for his daughter’s health care. Plus, I’d hate for George to go the rest of his life being disappointed in his father.”
“George will continue believing he’s right whether the evidence is there to support his contention or not.”
“Then I guess that’s a good thing.”
“In a way,” said Ted. “But I’m not George. I want to know the truth.”
His cell phone buzzed. He looked determined to ignore it.
“Answer it,” I urged. “It might be important.”
He took the phone from his pocket, looked at the screen, and frowned slightly. “Hello, Mr. Padgett. How may I help you?”
He listened for a moment and then said, “All right. I’ll see you at your hotel in half an hour.”
When Ted ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket, his face was unreadable.
“Good news?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Mr. Padgett said he remembered where he’d heard the name George Vandehey within the past few days and would like to talk with me about it.”
“Then, by all means, go,” I said. “I’ll straighten up the kitchen and see you back here after my class.”
“Leave the kitchen. I’ll come back and clean up after I’ve talked with Anderson Padgett.”
I smiled. “You’re wonderful, but you’re wasting time. Go.”
* * *
Vera was the first to arrive at class. She’d changed from her Bermuda shorts into a gauzy sundress, and she’d been able to style her hair back into submission.
“Paul put the photo of the Cézanne out on the wire service,” she said. “Hopefully, many of the news outlets will run it. I’d love for someone to see it and have it be recovered.”
“I would, too,” I said. “Although forgive me for saying this, but I’d prefer it go to a museum than to Chad Cummings. He’s already made—what did he tell me?—ten times what he paid for it, so I think he’s been rewarded enough.”
“What are your thoughts on him and Sissy?” she asked. “Do you get the feeling he’s abusive?”
“I thought that at first, but now I’m wondering if he isn’t overprotective. He gets angry when she’s upset. . . . He buys essential oils to help calm her nerves. . . . I don’t know.”
“It could be that he does those things to control her, you know.”
Vera wasn’t able to expound on the subject, because a few other students—Julie, her daughter, Amber, and Muriel—arrived.
Muriel was hard of hearing. She typically sat down on one of the club chairs and worked quietly for the duration of the class unless there was something she had difficulty with.
Not today. Today she immediately announced, “I was just in Nellie Davis’s shop, and she says you almost got her killed.”
“What?” I cried.
Muriel nodded her cottony little head. “She says you told everybody that she saw who killed that professor man that you found lying on a rug out behind the shop.”
“I did no such thing!”
Muriel, unfazed by her own declaration, sat down in her usual spot and took her project out of her tote.
“Are you gonna take that from her?” Vera asked. “After you made her a card and everything?”
I crossed my arms and began to pace. “Why would she think I would tell anyone anything about her?”
Angus, sensing my outrage from across the room and not sure at whom it was directed, decided now would be a good time to get in his bed beneath the counter.
“To get her killed, apparently,” said Amber, the precocious teen, with a grin.
I laughed. Leave it to a kid to ease the tension in a room.
Julie shrugged. “If you want to go tell her off, class can wait for a few minutes.”
Vera jumped in. “We can all go . . . for moral support.”
“You just don’t want to miss anything,” I said.
“Well,
there is that,” she admitted.
“Thank you all for your having my back, but I have no need to go rant at Nellie Davis,” I said. “She had a rough day, and I suppose she’s still reeling from it. If blaming me for her predicament makes her feel better, so be it.”
“You’re really taking the high road on this,” said Vera. “I’d be as mad as a wet chicken.”
I was, but I didn’t want to show it.
“We aren’t going to let Nellie’s ravings ruin our class,” I said. “Let’s see how you’ve progressed on your projects. Muriel?”
Muriel already had her head down and was working contentedly on her beaded tulip. It was as if she’d never created the furor over Nellie’s comments when she walked in the door. I wondered if she even remembered mentioning it.
Since Muriel appeared to be engrossed in her work, I moved on to Amber. Amber was embroidering a kitten with a beaded collar and a metallic ball of yarn.
“This is fantastic, Amber!” I said. “You’re almost finished. We’ll have to get you another project soon.”
Amber beamed at the praise. She was really good at needle crafts. I knew her mother used this as a way for the two of them to bond, but Amber had a knack for it. I hoped she’d keep it up.
Julie, who worked a full-time job in addition to caring for her family, hadn’t got very far along on her stargazer lily. Still, she was doing great work, and I told her so.
Before I could look at anyone else’s project, Nellie and a heavyset woman with a square jaw and . . . well, pretty much a square everything . . . burst into the shop. She and Nellie appeared to be complete opposites—one tall, one short, one thin, one heavy, one with short hair, one with long hair up in a severe bun—in every way except one. They were both unpleasant. Well, there might be one other way in which they were alike—they hated me.
“You!” The one who wasn’t Nellie extended her arm and pointed her index finger at me. “You’re the one whose loose lips have put my sister’s life in danger!”
