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by Amanda Lee

  “Hi, guys,” I said.

  “Hey,” said Josh. “What are you doing?”

  “We just finished up a game of mini golf,” Ted said. “We won a free game. Would you like our pass?”

  “Sure,” Josh said. Then he glanced at Kelly. “If you’d like to play, that is.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like fun,” she said.

  Ted handed the pass to Josh.

  “Thanks,” said Josh. “Would you guys like to get something to drink before Kelly and I go play golf?”

  Ted and I said we would, and we went into the small food court. Kelly and I found a table while Ted and Josh went to buy the drinks. I didn’t want to be nosy, so I waited for Kelly to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

  “This is our first date,” she said shyly.

  “Are you having fun?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I went to see Josh on Tuesday afternoon, and he was so discouraged and upset over the robbery. I gave him my number and told him to call me if he needed to talk with someone. And then I took your advice and spoke with my sister.”

  “Apparently, that went well.”

  “It did,” she said. “I told her I’d gone by the museum to see how Josh was doing. Of course, she’d heard all about the Padgett Collection being stolen and all that, and she said it was nice of me to be concerned about him. I told her I kinda liked him but that I didn’t want to pursue a relationship with him because they had dated.” She glanced down at her folded hands. “She told me not to be ridiculous—that she and Josh only went out a time or two and had nothing in common. So here we are.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “Whether things work out for you and Josh or not, I would imagine your conversation opened up a new line of communication between you and your sister.”

  “It did. She couldn’t believe I’d held a grudge against him all this time for asking me out after dating her first.” She smiled. “It’s funny how you can completely misunderstand things and blow them out of proportion in your mind when you don’t attempt to discover the truth . . . or when you think you know the truth but neglect to confirm it. . . . You know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I said.

  The guys returned with drinks: water for Ted and me, a diet soda for Kelly, and lemonade for Josh.

  “How are you holding up, Josh?” I asked. “I know you’re still concerned about the robbery, but hopefully, the reward will be the incentive someone needs to come forward with some valuable information.”

  “I’m praying that will happen,” he said. “And I’m doing all right. Kelly is helping me in that department. She has been wonderful to talk with me and encourage me.”

  Kelly blushed. “It isn’t that big a deal. I’m glad to help.”

  “I’ve run into more—how can I put this nicely?—eccentrics this week than I ever have at one time in my entire life,” said Josh. “First of all, that Special Agent Brown is like Inspector Clouseau . . . only not as competent! Sometimes I watched him interview people and could’ve sworn he was trying to botch things up! He’s unbelievable.”

  “I was afraid that his grudge against Geoffrey Vandehey would jeopardize his entire investigation,” Ted said. “That’s why I was so glad that some of our guys were there just about every step of the way with him.”

  “They certainly needed to be.” Josh shook his head. “It would’ve been comical to watch him work had it not been so important to me that the collection be found and the thieves brought to justice. If neither of those things ever happens, I’ll lay the blame squarely at the feet of Special Agent Floyd Brown.”

  “Tell them about Anderson Padgett,” Kelly prompted.

  “He’s another oddball,” said Josh. “Don’t get me wrong—the guy is as nice as he can be. . . . He’s simply . . . different. Ever since he’s been in town, he has come to the museum at least once a day and looked at every single exhibit. If there’s anything in the exhibit he can touch—like the stuffed bear in the wildlife exhibit—he does. I took him on the tour the first couple of times, and then he said he was fine going through on his own.”

  “There seems to be something very sad about that,” I said. “It’s like he’s lonely.”

  “I believe he is lonely.” Josh took a drink of his lemonade, grimaced, and added two packets of sugar. “You’d imagine that someone with as much money as Anderson Padgett has would have more friends than the Queen of England. And maybe he does in Colorado.”

  “I ran into him in the museum one day, and he seemed sweet,” said Kelly.

  “We had lunch with him, and he struck us as a charming man, too,” I said.

  “What about Chad Cummings?” Ted asked Josh. “What kind of vibe did you get from him and his wife?”

  “At first, I thought he was sort of bossy with her,” Josh said. “But then I started watching them more, and it seemed like he wasn’t bossy so much as he was—What’s the word I’m looking for?—accommodating. I came to the conclusion that she was the pants-wearer, not him.”

  “I don’t know,” Kelly said. “I only met her once, but I got a different feeling than that. She struck me as very down-to-earth. I felt like Mr. Cummings was one to throw his weight around and brag about how much money they had and stuff like that.”

  “I agree with Kelly,” I said. “Mr. Cummings gave me the impression he was a showoff. I won’t be sorry when he leaves Tallulah Falls in his Bugatti’s rearview mirror.”

  “I won’t be sad to see Simon Benton leave, either,” said Josh. “There’s something about that man and his highbrow language. He’s treated me like the prime suspect in the Padgett Collection heist from day one. I believe he’d hang that crime on me in a minute if he could.”

  “Your uncle won’t let that happen,” Kelly said softly.

  “If the board decides to get rid of me, there’s not anything he can do about it,” he said. “He helped me get the job. I can’t ask any more of him than that.”

  “But the theft wasn’t your fault,” she told him.

  “Are you about ready to play that game of mini golf?” he asked.

  I was rather glad he changed the subject. Being privy to what should have been a private conversation was starting to make me uncomfortable.

  * * *

  Ted and I took the long way home. It was a beautiful day, and we were enjoying the drive. We were listening to an oldies station and singing along—badly and with incorrect words—to some of the songs.

  We turned down the street on which MacKenzies’ Mochas, the Brew Crew, Scentsibilities, and, of course, the Seven-Year Stitch were located. MacKenzies’ Mochas was bustling, the Brew Crew was—like the Stitch—closed on Sundays, and . . .

  “Oh, my gosh!”

  “What the—?”

  We saw it at the same time—a police cruiser with its lights flashing parked in front of Scentsibilities. Ted pulled in behind the car.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll leave the engine running.”

  “No!” I protested. “One, I want to know what’s going on; and two, I want her to know that whatever it is, I didn’t do it!”

  “All right.”

  We got out of Ted’s car and hurried into Nellie’s shop. Officer Audrey Dayton, her auburn hair in a ponytail, was taking notes and trying to console a weeping Nellie.

  As soon as she spotted me, Nellie’s sister, Clara, pointed a long, crooked finger and hissed, “You!”

  “I have done absolutely nothing,” I began. “I—”

  Ted held up a hand. “Please, babe, let me handle this. Officer Dayton, what’s going on here?”

  “Ms. Davis received a threatening phone call,” she said. “The caller used a voice-distorting device but made it appear to Ms. Davis that he or she was somewhere inside the shop. I’ve gone over the premises, and the only people here are Ms. Davis and her sister.�
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  “What was said during the call?” Ted asked.

  “According to Ms. Davis, the caller threatened to kill her if she doesn’t get out of town immediately,” said Officer Dayton.

  “Did you call her?” Clara’s venom-voiced question was directed at me.

  “No, she did not,” Ted answered on my behalf. “Ms. Singer has been with me all day. She has neither made nor received any phone calls.” He turned back to Officer Dayton. “Number blocked?”

  She nodded. “May I talk with you outside for a moment, Detective Nash?”

  They stepped outside, and I hurried after them. No way was I staying inside with the Wicked Witch of the East and the Wicked Witch of the West. I felt it was no coincidence that I was wearing my ruby red sandals today.

  “I’ll get back in the car and let you two talk privately,” I said.

  “Don’t,” said Officer Dayton. “It’s not that private, and I don’t want you to have a heatstroke sitting in the car. I just wanted to ask Detective Nash if he feels the threat against Nellie Davis is legitimate.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “First, someone tried to scare her with the dead rat, and now they’re calling and giving her an ultimatum. She saw something more than a black van in the alley that night. She needs to tell us what.”

  “All right. I was going to advise Ms. Davis to take the threat seriously either way,” she said. “I believe it’s always better to err on the side of caution. But if there’s something she’s holding back—something that could help us to help her—then she needs to come clean.”

  “Agreed.”

  Ted went back into the shop, and Officer Dayton and I followed. Well, she followed. . . . I more or less straggled along behind.

  “Ms. Davis, you previously stated that on the Friday night or the early-dawn hours of Saturday morning when Geoffrey Vandehey’s body was discarded in the alley that you saw a black van driving away from the scene,” said Ted. “Isn’t that correct?”

  “I did say that, but now I’m not sure,” Nellie said.

  “You made that statement on two separate occasions to two separate law enforcement officers,” he said. “Are you now recanting that statement?”

  “No . . . maybe . . . I don’t know,” Nellie said.

  “Can’t you see she’s scared half to death?” Clara asked. “Stop badgering her!”

  “I’m trying to get to the truth,” Ted said. “Until we know exactly what Ms. Davis saw happening in the alley, we can’t protect her. Now, Ms. Davis, tell me what you saw.”

  “I saw—I saw the black van,” said Nellie. “I really did, but now I wish I hadn’t said anything. I told her about it first, and look at where that’s got me! I’m gonna be next!”

  “You aren’t going to be next, Ms. Davis.” Ted kept his voice calm and even. “We’re here to protect you.”

  “You can’t protect me!” She covered her eyes with her hands. “You can’t be here all the time! I never should’ve said anything, and then no one would have ever known I saw . . . the van.”

  “You saw something more than a black van, didn’t you?” Ted asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Please level with me, Ms. Davis. You saw someone or another vehicle or you saw the tag number . . . something. You know it, I know it, and the person who called you knows it.”

  This sent Nellie into a sobbing fit, and Officer Dayton and I shared a look of alarm. It was apparent to me that she and I agreed that Ted’s telling Nellie Davis the equivalent to I Know What You Did Last Summer might not have been the best idea. Although it wasn’t Nellie who’d done something last summer—or, rather, last Saturday at dawn—but had witnessed it . . . Still, reminding a hysterical woman that a crazed killer was gunning for her might not have been Ted’s finest moment. I understood why he did it—to scare her into telling him the truth. But it hadn’t worked and very well might’ve had the opposite effect.

  “I’ve been ordered to get out of town or suffer the consequences,” Nellie said when she was finally able to take a ragged breath. “And I’m leaving.”

  “She’ll stay with me for a few days,” said Clara. “You people do your jobs and get this murderer off the streets.”

  “I can’t do that when I don’t know who I’m looking for.” Ted turned his icy blue stare on Nellie until she was forced to avert her eyes.

  She remained stubborn, though, and didn’t tell him what she knew. I had to grudgingly, but silently, give her props for that.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Before I went to work Monday morning, I was thinking about what Josh Ingle had said about Mr. Padgett coming to the museum every day and how I’d thought he must be lonely. I called Mr. Padgett at his hotel and asked if he’d like to have coffee with me this morning.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you bring the coffee, and I’ll grab a cab and meet you at the museum?”

  I said that would work for me. He gave me his coffee order, and we hung up.

  I didn’t want to wear jeans for my meeting with Mr. Padgett, but I didn’t want to dress up, either. I compromised and wore a pink sundress with a braided white-and-pink belt and white sandals. Then I put on a tinted moisturizer with sunscreen, some blush, mascara, and lip gloss as I tried to explain to Angus why he couldn’t go with me just yet.

  “For some silly reason, dogs aren’t allowed in the museum,” I told him. “But I’ll come back and get you in time to go to work with me.”

  He sighed and flopped down on the floor in a dramatic display of despair. That, or else he was just hot. Anyway, I took it as despair.

  “Trust me, you wouldn’t even like the museum, anyway. There is no food there. . . . Well, maybe in the gift shop they have candy bars or something, but nothing you’d be particularly interested in,” I said. “No granola bones, no peanut butter dog biscuits . . . They don’t even have squeaky toys in that place!”

  Angus rolled his eyes up at me and then looked back down at the floor.

  “If you don’t believe me, ask Ted. I wouldn’t even be going if I didn’t feel sorry for Mr. Padgett.”

  He sighed.

  There was no consoling him whatsoever. I’d be sure and give him a treat after we got to work. Realistically, I knew he’d sleep the whole time I was gone, but I could easily imagine that he would feel alone and left out. Did I mention my mother was a Hollywood costume designer? And that I’d seen too many talking-animal movies?

  I hurried off. I didn’t have time to stop at MacKenzies’ Mochas, so I ran through a fast-food drive-through to get coffees for Mr. Padgett and me. Add to my Angus guilt Blake and Sadie guilt.

  I got to the museum at just before nine. That gave me about forty-five minutes to spend with Mr. Padgett before I had to get back home, get Angus, and return to the Stitch.

  Mr. Padgett was waiting for me just inside the door. I walked in and handed him his coffee.

  “Don’t you look lovely and refreshing?” he asked.

  “Thank you.” I hesitated, wondering if I should push his wheelchair. But then he put his coffee in the cup holder and began pushing himself.

  “I love a museum in the morning. Don’t you?”

  “I have to admit I’ve never been here in the morning before,” I said. “It is a lot different from the weekend and during events. It’s so quiet.”

  “It’s reverent, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “It is.”

  He rolled over to the wildlife exhibit. As Josh had said he’d done in the past, Mr. Padgett reached out and gently stroked the bear’s paw.

  “Feel that,” he said.

  I tentatively touched the animal.

  “That was a powerful, majestic animal once,” said Mr. Padgett. “Now here it is on display.”

  “Do you think that’s sad?” I asked.
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  “To a degree. But I also feel that it can live on somehow in this venue . . . being admired by schoolchildren.” He smiled up at me. “And doddering old men.”

  “You are not one of those,” I said.

  “You’re not fooling either of us by saying that,” he said. “Denying the truth doesn’t make it less so.” He rolled on into an area of the museum dedicated to the Pacific Northwest Native American tribes. He gestured toward a basket. “Look at that. It’s a coiled basket.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “These types of baskets were unique to the Pacific Northwest and were made by stitching flexible material around a core. Each row is joined to the previous one, and it forms a continuous spiral.”

  I stepped closer so I could see the intricate work. The top of the basket had an open-worked rim. “What workmanship.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate it,” said Mr. Padgett. “Not everyone does. Many people look at a piece of art and wonder what it’s worth—monetarily speaking. They don’t even care what it’s worth in terms of time spent on creation, the thought that went into it, the craftsmanship, the beauty, the fact that there’s not another piece exactly like the one you’re seeing.”

  “I saw a quote once where the author said she trembles when she thinks of everything her quilts must know about her. I believe each artist feels that way about his or her creation.”

  He reached out and squeezed my left hand. “I wish my children and grandchildren could understand art the way you do.”

  “They don’t get it?”

  “Not at all,” he said.

  “Is that why you were planning to sell some of your textiles to the museum?” I asked. “Because you didn’t feel your children would keep them?”

  “That’s part of it,” he said. “They don’t fully appreciate art for art’s sake. I know few people who do. Not even Simon appreciates art irrespective of its monetary value.” He sighed. “I don’t feel that I’ll be around much longer, Marcy. Now, don’t look that way. We’re speaking frankly, and my doctor says my ticker isn’t keeping time as well as it used to. Before it was stolen, I was considering gifting the collection to the Tallulah Falls Museum and Historical Society.”