by Amanda Lee
“Was this a dead someone?” Vera asked.
I nodded.
“Again?”
“Again?” I huffed. “What do you mean, again? I’ve never found a body in the alley before!”
“I know, I know, darling.” She sat on the sofa facing away from the window and put her purse on the coffee table. “I guess I’m thinking of the time you found that man in your storeroom. That was dreadful.” She petted Angus and cooed, “Hello, my sweet boy,” before looking back up at me. “Was finding this person as bad as that?”
“Of course it was,” I said, sitting on the sofa across the square from Vera. “Who gets used to stumbling over dead bodies?”
“Police, I imagine,” she said. “Maybe journalists, too—I’ll have to ask Paul—although neither of those groups find many dead bodies on their own, do they? They’re notified of the occurrence beforehand so they have a few minutes to steel their nerves or what have you. But not you, darling. Time and again, you get surprised by . . . well, you know.”
I merely listened to Vera’s rambling and stroked Angus’s wiry fur.
“So, this person you found,” she continued. “Was it anyone we know? Or knew, rather?”
“Um . . . no. No positive identification of the body has been made yet, but I don’t think we knew the man. At least, I didn’t know him.”
“And you say he was wrapped in a rug?” she asked. “What kind of rug?”
I was carefully weighing my answer to that question when Vera’s journalist boyfriend, Paul Samms, came rushing into the shop.
“What’s the story with the body in the alley?” Paul asked in lieu of a greeting. “I was halfway between here and Lincoln City—on my way to do a piece on a clambake—but turned around when I heard over the police scanner that there was a body found in the alley behind the Seven-Year Stitch. This story is clearly much better than a clambake.”
Not for the guy in the alley, I thought. I blinked twice. The similarities between Paul and Vera were becoming more apparent by the second.
He seemed to notice his beloved at last. “Hello, Vera, love. So, what’s the scoop?”
“We were just getting to that,” she said. “Marcy?”
Once again, I told my tale of the garbage drop discovery.
Paul sat on the sofa beside Vera and took out his pen and notebook. “Which sounds better? Mysterious Body Found Dead in Alley Behind Embroidery Shop or Man Reaches His Dead End Behind the Seven-Year Stitch?”
“The second one is catchier,” Vera said. “You need to be sure the reader understands that the man is the dead end, though.”
“Do you have to mention my shop? I mean, at least in the headline could you say something like . . .” I scrambled to come up with a clever headline that didn’t implicate my embroidery shop as the scene of the crime. “How about Dead Man Found Near Museum?”
“I thought you found him in your alley,” Vera said.
“Right . . . but the alley is only one street over from the museum,” I said.
Paul tapped his pen against the notebook. “You think this murder has something to do with the museum? With the textile exhibit?”
“What aren’t you telling us?” Vera leaned over so far that she could’ve placed her elbows on the coffee table.
I bit my lip. “I’m not at liberty to say. Nothing—not even the identity of the victim—has been verified yet.”
“But who do you think it is?” Paul asked.
When I hesitated to answer, he added, “You know I won’t print anything without confirming it with Manu first. Whatever you tell me right now is completely off the record.”
“The police believe it could be someone named Vandehey,” I said. “See? I don’t even have a first name.”
“Do you know whether or not this Vandehey is—or was—an art history professor?” Paul asked.
“Ted did call him Professor Vandehey.”
He nodded. “Geoffrey—with a G—Vandehey.”
“You said it was off the record!” I protested as he wrote the name down.
“It is.” He grinned. “Right now I’m not article-writing. I’m doodle-thinking. It helps me get my thoughts in order.”
“Who is this Geoffrey Vandehey?” Vera asked.
“He is—or was, prior to his fall from grace—an expert in all forms of antique art,” Paul said. “I’m talking jewelry, textiles, sculptures, pottery, and, of course, paintings. His doctorate was in art history, and he taught at some university in Canada.” He frowned up at the ceiling. “I can’t for the life of me remember the name of that school.”
“You can look it up later,” Vera said. “Get on with the story.” She softened her tone and smiled. “Please.”
“Of course.” He smiled at me. “My gal loves a good yarn. So, our Professor Vandehey attended an art show in Seattle. While there, he met a buyer who invited Vandehey to lunch at his home. He wanted the renowned professor’s opinion on a recent purchase.”
“The Cézanne,” I whispered.
Paul’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not the only one knowledgeable about Professor Vandehey.”
“You’ve been holding out on us,” Vera said.
“No . . . truly . . . I don’t know much about the man at all,” I said, inwardly cursing myself for the slip. “I merely heard something about a professor stealing a previously undiscovered Cézanne in Seattle some years back.”
Vera narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t contradict me.
This time, I was the one who urged Paul to continue his story.
“Well, you’re absolutely right, Marcy. The painting the buyer had acquired was undisputedly a Cézanne. Vandehey couldn’t bear for the painting to be hidden away by this man that he’d come to realize was terribly crass. He tried to talk the man into donating the painting to a museum, but, of course, the art buyer refused. Vandehey returned later and stole the Cézanne.”
“Doesn’t that make him every bit as selfish as the art buyer?” Vera asked.
“I don’t think so. Poor Vandehey gave up everything he had in order to share the painting with the world—or a small part of it,” said Paul. “The art buyer reported the theft to the police and said he strongly suspected Vandehey because the professor had tried to get him to either donate the painting to a museum or sell it to him.”
“I wouldn’t think a professor would earn enough money to go around buying Cézannes,” Vera said. “Did he have a side job?”
“The professor didn’t have a lot of money, which is why the buyer scoffed at his offer,” Paul said. “Anyway, Vandehey went into hiding. But before doing so, he wrote a letter to the police from his hotel saying that he was donating the painting to a facility where it could be enjoyed by more than one person.”
“Was the painting ever recovered?” I asked.
Paul shook his head. “And if the victim you found this morning was, in fact, Geoffrey Vandehey, then it might never be.”
Ted came in through the back door, greeted Paul, and then told me that he and Manu were going over to the museum. “Deputies Dayton and Moore are fairly new to the department, and although we’re confident they can handle themselves, Special Agent Brown is a bit much to ask of them—or anyone, for that matter—to deal with on their own.” He turned to Paul. “Manu will be giving a press conference this afternoon at the station.”
“I’ll be there,” Paul said.
“Paul was just regaling us with a story about Professor Geoffrey Vandehey,” Vera said.
Ted’s eyes flew to mine.
“It wasn’t Marcy’s fault,” Paul said quickly. “She told me that nothing had been verified.”
“I did say—off the record—that the victim might be Professor Vandehey,” I said.
“If it is Vandehey, then I might be able to point you in the direction of a viable suspect,” Paul said.
“Who’s that?” Ted asked.
“Chad Cummings, the buyer from whom Vandehey stole the Cézanne. He was at the exhibit last night
.”
Ted’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me? How did I not know that?”
“Why would you?” Paul asked. “There’s no reason Cummings would be on your radar. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Well, maybe he hadn’t before last night,” Vera said. “Wait. Did I meet this Cummings fellow?”
“No, dear. I believe you were talking with that aromatherapy lady.” Paul frowned. “I find her terribly off-putting.”
I could understand that. Ever since I’d opened my shop, Nellie Davis—proprietress of the aromatherapy shop two doors down from the Seven-Year Stitch—had all but tried to have me run out of town. She’d even hinted to a reporter once that my shop was cursed. I’d been half expecting her to show up with a flaming torch and a pitchfork for months now. In fact, this latest discovery might lead her to round up a gaggle of angry villagers this very night.
“I don’t care for Nellie all that much myself,” Vera said. “But she does carry some good products in her store.”
“Back to Cummings,” Paul told Ted. “I’d done an article on him several months before his acquisition of the Cézanne and the matter with Vandehey, so when I spotted him, I went over to say hello. His wife is an embroidery enthusiast, so he brought her to Tallulah Falls for the weekend to enjoy the exhibit.”
“Thank you, Paul,” said Ted. “I think you just earned yourself an exclusive.”
Chapter Five
After everyone left, Angus napped and I was bored. Ted and Manu were gone. Vera and Paul had left almost immediately after Ted and Manu. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that Barbara Walters and Sam Donaldson had trailed after the police in order to get “the scoop.”
There weren’t even any customers dropping in. On a Saturday! I wondered if they’d heard about the body in the alley and had stayed away because either they assumed the shop would be closed or they were creeped out about the murder.
I sighed. And even though he was half-asleep, Angus heaved a sigh of his own. What loyalty.
Still, if my life were a musical, this is the point where I’d begin to dejectedly sweep the floor. As I swept, I’d sing, of course—a slow and sultry tune—the Gal Who Found the Murdered Guy Blues.
After the first verse, Jill would come to life and harmonize with me. Suddenly, we’d be in evening gowns dancing around with a gorgeous cast of characters. And then the song would fade. The lights would go down, leaving me alone in a spotlight. I’d be dressed in my jeans again. I’d toss aside the broom, hug my dog, and belt out the ending of the song.
Did I mention that my mom was a costume designer? Having a parent entrenched in Hollywood was pretty much a guarantee that I’d have a rich imagination. I felt I’d outdone myself with my musical number, though. In fact, I was just getting ready to call Mom and fill her in—together, we probably could even have come up with words to the song!—when a man walked into the shop.
He was above-average height, a little too thin, and had shoulder-length, wavy brown hair streaked with gray. He had a prominent nose, and he strode with his chin lifted as if he were sniffing the air.
Angus slowly stood but did not approach the man.
“Oh, my,” the man said in a British accent. “Is he aggressive?”
“No.” I smiled at the man as I stroked Angus’s back. “He was sleeping, and you must’ve startled him.” The dog sat at my side and watched the newcomer.
“So sorry about that.” He reached into the pocket of his linen blazer and handed me a business card. SIMON BENTON, ART COLLECTOR.
“Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch, Mr. Benton. I’m Marcy Singer. How may I help you?”
“I understand you made an unpleasant discovery here this morning.” Before I could respond, he raised his hands. “Please don’t be alarmed. I’m not an investigator or a tabloid reporter or any of that nonsense. I’m merely concerned about the rug. It was an antique kilim, was it not?”
“It appeared to be.”
“Was it from the exhibit that premiered at the museum last night?” he asked. “You are familiar with the textile exhibit, I presume.”
“Yes,” I said. “I attended the opening.”
“I imagined you would, with your interest in”—he waved one arm airily—“this sort of thing. So . . . what of the rug?”
“What about it?” I was hedging. I wasn’t prepared to answer this stranger’s questions.
“Was it one of the kilims displayed at the museum?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Benton.”
“Well, then, more important, do you believe the rug can be restored?”
“Again, I have no way of knowing that,” I said. “When I saw the rug, it was rolled up. It appeared to be badly stained, but I couldn’t see the extent of the damage.”
“Ah . . . well . . . that’s too bad, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” I shook my head. “And as much as it pains me to say it, that lovely kilim is most likely a lost cause. It’s now evidence in a police investigation. Even if it could be cleaned, it won’t be.”
“Yes, I see your point. I wasn’t thinking past saving that antique rug.”
“We don’t know that the rug was an antique,” I said.
“Of course we don’t. . . . Not yet, anyway. The museum hasn’t gone public with any news of a theft.”
I drew my eyebrows together. “Gone public? Do you know something I don’t?”
“I went to the museum this morning. It was closed, and there were a couple Tallulah Falls deputy police cars there,” he said. “There were a few journalists there as well. That’s where I first heard of your grim discovery, whispers about the museum having been burgled, and the likelihood that the kilim you saw had been taken from the exhibit.”
“All of that is mere speculation right now—except for the fact that I did indeed find a body in the alley outside my shop this morning. I hope the museum exhibit is safe and sound.” I was pretty certain that it wasn’t, but I desperately hoped I was wrong. It would be a shame for the museum’s first major event in recent history to end in disaster. Who knew if Tallulah Falls Museum would ever get another exhibit to display?
“That is my hope also,” said Mr. Benton. “However, I’m not optimistic about that. Back to the rug—do you think you could re-create it?”
“Re-create it?” I echoed. “You mean, draw you a picture of the rug I saw?”
“No, silly girl. I’m asking if you could make a rug like the one you saw.”
“For one thing, I didn’t see the rug lying flat.” Unless it was the kilim from the museum exhibit, but I wasn’t going to tell Mr. Benton that. “And, for another thing, even if I had seen and could reproduce the pattern, I don’t weave rugs.”
“Hmmm . . . too bad.” He wandered around the shop then, looking at the projects I had placed on the walls and shelves. “You did all these?”
“I did.”
“You appear to be quite the accomplished needle crafter.” Mr. Benton turned back around to face me. “You do no weaving at all?”
“Well, I might’ve woven a potholder or two at summer camp at some point, but I’ve never woven a rug.”
“And you don’t know of anyone who does?” he asked.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.” I wondered about his fascination with the kilim. Even if I—or anyone else—could whip up a rug exactly like the one in which Professor Vandehey had been wrapped, it still wouldn’t be that rug. It would be nowhere near as valuable, especially if it were the rug from the museum exhibit.
As if reading my mind, Mr. Benton said, “Not only am I a collector. I’m a bit of an entrepreneur. I help others create prints and replicas based on original works of art . . . for a percentage of the profits, of course.”
“What a wonderful idea.”
“I agree.” He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “It makes beautiful art available to the masses and helps perpetuate appreciation for the original. Unfortunately, Mr. Ingle, the museum curator, doesn’t seem to be open to suc
h a venture.”
“Maybe he simply doesn’t know how to go about creating a collection based on the current exhibit,” I said. “You have to admit, textiles are more difficult to duplicate than paintings.”
“That’s true.” He smiled slightly. “And yet, for one so young, Mr. Ingle seems to be very much—how do I say this?—of an old mind.”
I laughed. “I guess he prefers traditional curating methods.”
“Do you know him well?”
“No. I met him for the first time last night.”
With his hands shoved in the pockets of his khaki pants, he strolled over to the counter. “You have a charming boutique here, Ms. Singer.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you have dinner with me?”
My eyes widened. Had I heard him correctly? One instant we were talking about Josh Ingle, and the next Mr. Benton was inviting me to dinner? “Excuse me?”
“Would you . . . and your husband or whoever . . . like to dine with me this evening?” he asked. “I’m only in town for a few days. At this point, I’m primarily awaiting word on the status of the museum exhibit. I know hardly anyone here, you seem pleasant enough, and I detest sitting alone in a restaurant.”
I had no idea when Ted and Manu would finish up for the day; plus, I didn’t know how Ted would feel about my accepting an invitation for both of us to have dinner with a stranger. “I’m sorry, Mr. Benton, but we already have plans this evening.”
“Very well. Perhaps another time.” He nodded and left.
The entire encounter was odd, and I felt mildly unsettled as I sat back down on the sofa. Picking up on my mood, Angus sat close to me and placed his head on my lap. I caressed his ears and then leaned over to give him a hug.
“Could today get any weirder, Angus? Wait. Don’t answer that.” I was half-afraid he might.
* * *
I glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly four o’clock. A few customers had filtered in but not nearly as many as on a typical Saturday. I walked around the store with a feather duster, flicking it over the shelves. Angus lay by the window watching the few people on the sidewalk pass by. It dawned on me that it wasn’t just the Seven-Year Stitch that was experiencing a lull. The entire town seemed dead today. Maybe everyone was at the beach. That seemed like a wonderful place to be, in my opinion. If Ted finished up with work in time, it would be great to take Angus to the beach. The frisky pup could romp in the sand and play at the edge of the water while Ted and I enjoyed a leisurely stroll.
