by Amanda Lee
As I walked the rest of the way to the Seven-Year Stitch, I noticed that Mr. Benton was pushing Mr. Padgett in a wheelchair, and Mr. Padgett had a light blanket lying on his lap. The poor man must have been more infirm than I’d realized. Riley might have been right—Mr. Padgett might be liquidating his assets and preparing for the worst.
I quickly got Angus inside and placed him in the bathroom.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I told him. “It’s just until Mr. Benton gets Mr. Padgett inside. He might not want to come face-to-face with a puppy dog the instant he gets into the store.”
I ran back to the front door and held it open for the two men.
“Hello, I’m Marcy,” I said to Mr. Padgett over the din of Angus’s barking.
He extended his hand. “Anderson Padgett. It’s a pleasure to meet you, young lady. Simon has been highly complimentary of you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And, of course, I appreciate your speaking well of me, Mr. Benton.”
He smiled. “Simon, please.” He gazed around the shop. “Is Detective Nash here?”
Before I could say no, I spotted Ted on the sidewalk.
“He’s just now arriving,” I said.
“It sounds as if you have a rather large protector somewhere in the back,” Mr. Padgett said with a wheezing chuckle. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d need a guard dog in this quaint town.”
“He’s more of a companion really,” I said with a smile.
Ted came through the door and greeted Mr. Benton and Mr. Padgett. Mr. Benton made the introductions and Ted shook hands with Mr. Padgett.
“If the three of you would like to start on down to MacKenzies’ Mochas, I’ll reset the clock on the door and let Angus into the shop,” I said. “I’ll join you momentarily.”
Ted held the door for Mr. Benton to push Mr. Padgett’s wheelchair through, and then he turned and winked at me before going out the door.
I smiled. My heart skipped two and a half beats every time I looked at that man.
I let Angus out of the bathroom, kissed him on the head, and then rushed out the door to catch up to Ted and our dining companions. I wondered for the umpteenth time why Simon Benton had arranged this meeting. I could understand his wanting Mr. Padgett to talk with Ted—he was investigating the museum heist—but why would he want to talk with me?
Whatever the reason, I was glad I’d forgone the jeans and T-shirt this morning in favor of a sleeveless red sheath, kitten-heel strappy black sandals, and a bold silver cuff. All three of the men were wearing suits, a fact that I’d anticipated when I got dressed. There was nothing more uncomfortable than feeling like the “poor relation” in a Victorian novel.
Ted held the door, this time at MacKenzies’ Mochas, for the rest of us. Mr. Padgett insisted I go in ahead of him. I appreciated his chivalry, but it did make me feel rather oafish to walk ahead of a man in a wheelchair.
“Hi! Welcome to MacKenzies’ Mochas,” Sadie said when we walked in. She gave me a quizzical look, and I nodded slightly to let her know I’d fill her in on all the details later. “Will there just be the four of you?”
“Yes,” said Simon Benton.
“Right this way.” Sadie led us to a table and took away one of the chairs to accommodate Mr. Padgett’s wheelchair. She handed each of us a menu and told us our server would be with us momentarily.
Our server was a new waitress named Cheyenne. She was working for MacKenzies’ Mochas while furthering her education at the Tallulah County Community College. She was a bubbly redhead with green eyes and a ready smile. Cheyenne took our orders and left us to talk.
“Ms. Singer, did you get to see my collection before it disappeared from the museum?” Mr. Padgett asked.
“I did. My favorite piece was the David and Goliath tapestry,” I said. “It’s magnificent.”
“It is, isn’t it?” He drew his eyebrows together. “I hope it hasn’t come to any harm.”
“I hope so, too.” I glanced at Ted, but of course, he could offer no reassurances.
Cheyenne arrived with our drinks, passed them around, said our food would be out in just a few minutes, and asked if we needed anything else. When we all denied needing anything at the moment, she scurried off to refill another diner’s water glass.
“I’ve always enjoyed your Japanese textiles myself,” said Mr. Benton to Mr. Padgett. “I absolutely adored that lotus from the Meiji period. It was breathtaking.” He shook a finger playfully at Mr. Padgett. “I told you to sell me that one.”
“I wish I had,” Mr. Padgett said. “The chances of either of us ever seeing it again are slim to none.”
“Don’t give up hope yet, Mr. Padgett,” said Ted. “We’re following up on a number of leads.”
“And there’s a chap here from the Federal Bureau of Investigation as well,” said Mr. Benton. “I’m not terribly impressed with him, however. I’d appreciate none of you passing this information along, but I don’t feel that Special Agent Brown is as competent as I would have liked him to be.”
“I think he’s a decent guy.” Ted took a drink of his water. “But he has his mind on two major cases at once right now, so he might seem a bit scattered.”
“Two major cases? Here in Tallulah Falls?” Mr. Padgett sounded incredulous.
“Yes, Special Agent Brown had been searching for the man who was found murdered on Saturday morning,” Ted said.
“The man wrapped in my kilim,” Mr. Padgett said. “Do you believe he was connected to the museum theft?”
“It’s a possibility,” Ted answered. “Again, we’re pursuing every lead.”
“What was his name again?” asked Mr. Padgett. “The police told me, but it slips my mind right now.”
“It was Geoffrey Vandehey.” Ted took another drink of his water.
“Geoffrey Vandehey.” Mr. Padgett squinted. “I’ve heard that name before . . . and not in connection with my kilim or the art theft.”
“Vandehey is the chap who stole that early Cézanne from that art collector in Seattle two years back,” said Mr. Benton.
“No, that’s not it,” said Mr. Padgett. “I’d heard about that theft, naturally, but I’ve heard the name Vandehey in connection with something more recent.”
“Whatever it was, it’s nothing to trouble yourself about, Andy,” said Mr. Benton. “If this Vandehey fellow is—or was—connected to the theft of your textile collection, Detective Nash here will get to the bottom of it. I’m as impressed with Detective Nash and his team as I am unimpressed with Special Agent Brown.”
Cheyenne and another waitress came with trays bearing our food. Ted seemed relieved.
* * *
After lunch, I went back to the Seven-Year Stitch and began making Nellie Davis a thank-you note for the stress candle she’d given me this morning. I thought that Ted and I might light the candle over dinner or after class this evening. He didn’t usually seem uncomfortable being on the other side of the interrogation table, but he had appeared to be today. I wondered why.
I wanted to make Nellie’s card as quickly as possible—the thought of feeling indebted to that woman made me uncomfortable—so I went to my office and got my ribbon-embroidery supplies. I put a piece of linen fabric in a small hoop and threaded a length of thin yellow ribbon through the large eye of the needle. I made a circle of ribbon loops and left the inside to be filled in later with black embroidery thread. I was making Nellie a bouquet of black-eyed Susans.
I used the yellow ribbon to create three flowers, and then I took some dark green ribbon to make some leaves around them. Finally, I threaded the needle with six-strand black embroidery floss and filled the inner circles of the yellow flowers with French knots.
I was finishing up the last flower when someone came into the shop. He was about five feet five inches tall, had black hair and dark brown eyes. He wore khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt. And he looked tired. There were circles beneath his eyes, his clothes were slightly rumpled, and his mouth was slack. I
knew before he even told me that he was George Vandehey, Geoffrey Vandehey’s son.
I put aside the embroidery hoop and stood. “Hello. I’m Marcy.”
“I’m George Vandehey. I understand you found my father.”
“I did.” I stepped toward him. “I’m so terribly sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Please sit down,” I said. “May I get you some coffee or a soda or a bottle of water?”
“Water would be nice. It’s hot out there.”
“It is.” I went to the office and got Mr. Vandehey a bottle of water.
Angus wandered over, sighed, and placed his head on Mr. Vandehey’s knee.
“Angus, no,” I said.
“It’s all right,” said Mr. Vandehey. “I like him.” He stroked the dog’s head.
“He knows you’re sad.” I handed him the water.
“Thank you. And thank you, Angus. You’re a good boy.”
“He is . . . a good therapist, too,” I said. I didn’t have to wait long for the question I’d immediately known was coming and dreaded.
“Did he appear to have suffered?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Of course he suffered! He was shot, rolled up in a rug, and dumped in an alley!
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“He wasn’t a bad man,” said Mr. Vandehey, “no matter what you’ve heard about him.”
“Oh, I know he wasn’t. I sensed that immediately, Mr. Vandehey.”
“Please call me George.”
“George,” I said. “I did hear about the Cézanne, of course, but I also know about your sister’s accident. I believe your father’s actions were those of a desperate man.”
“That’s true. We were all devastated by Libby’s accident. She’d been such a vibrant person . . . always on the go . . . riding that bike of hers everywhere.” He closed his eyes. “And then she was blindsided by that truck . . . and it never stopped. Witnesses described it as a four-door white pickup truck, but no one got a license plate number.”
“The driver of the truck was never found?”
He shook his head and tears escaped from beneath his closed lids and rolled down his cheeks.
Angus licked his hand.
George opened his eyes and patted the dog. “Libby was paralyzed from the neck down. She and her husband had some insurance, but their deductibles and outstanding medical costs were far more than they could pay. Libby’s husband, Miles, was planning to file for bankruptcy, but Dad implored him not to. He didn’t want their credit to be ruined. Besides, Libby’s health care costs would be ongoing for quite some time.”
“Is there any hope that Libby will regain function in her limbs?” I asked.
“There’s an operation that can be done,” George said. “I think that’s why Dad was here—to secure the money for that operation.”
“Do you think he was involved in the Padgett Collection theft?”
“I don’t know. After the Cézanne disappeared, we didn’t hear from Dad for a couple of weeks,” he said. “Of course, we didn’t know anything about the painting. We love art—our entire family always has—but we were in Canada. We didn’t hear anything about the art theft in Seattle until after Dad’s confession letter was found.”
“And then your dad sent money for Libby?” I asked.
“Not exactly. Money just appeared in our accounts. Libby and Miles received a hundred and fifty thousand and I got fifty thousand.” He smiled sadly. “He didn’t want me to feel left out, I guess. And then he called me at work one day and told me he wouldn’t get to see us for a while. I asked what he’d done . . . where the money had come from. He said he’d entered into a transaction with someone, and that the police now believed he stole a valuable painting.”
“Wait.” I placed my hand on George’s forearm. “Your dad didn’t steal the Cézanne?”
“I don’t know what to think,” he said. “He said he’d entered into a transaction. But where did the money come from?”
“Could someone have paid him to take the painting?”
“That’s possible. But it’s also conceivable that my father took the painting but didn’t want to admit it to us.”
I stood and began to pace. “Chad Cummings made twenty million dollars from the insurance company after the Cézanne was stolen. He bragged to me right here in this shop that he made more than ten times what he’d paid for it.”
“And you think he might’ve paid Dad to steal the painting.”
“Think about it,” I said. “Your dad goes to Seattle at Chad Cummings’s bidding to appraise his painting—which had already been appraised for the insurance company. What if Cummings only contacted your father because he’d heard about Libby’s accident and thought Dr. Vandehey might be in need of money to help pay for her health care costs?”
George nodded.
“This thought isn’t new to you.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said. “In fact, it’s the main reason I’m in Tallulah Falls and plan to stay here until Dad’s murderer has been caught.”
I sat back down and lowered my voice. “You believe Chad Cummings paid your dad to help him commit insurance fraud.”
“Yes, I do,” George said. “And when we found out about the operation that could help Libby, I think Dad contacted Chad for more money.”
“But Cummings blew him off,” I said. “He had a letter confessing that Dr. Vandehey had stolen the painting. Any retraction of that confession would be—in Cummings’s eyes—the word of a thief versus the word of a respected art collector.”
“Not just in Chad Cummings’s eyes. Every law enforcement official on the case would have seen it that way, too.”
“Like Special Agent Floyd Brown.”
“You sound like you’ve had the pleasure of making Special Agent Brown’s acquaintance,” said George.
“I certainly wouldn’t call it a pleasure.” I looked into George’s solemn brown eyes. “Do you think Chad Cummings killed your father?”
“I’m almost sure of it.”
“We need to call Ted,” I told him. “Detective Ted Nash . . . he’s my boyfriend. . . . He’s the lead investigator on the case. We should let him know about this right away.”
“Not right now . . . please. I’m tired, and I’d like to go back to my hotel room and rest.”
“Of course. Would you like to come to my house this evening? The two of you can talk privately there.”
“Possibly,” he said. “I’m afraid any law enforcement officials would ruin my case against Chad until I can gather adequate evidence against him.”
“Not Ted,” I said, scribbling my address on the back of my business card and handing it to George. “He’ll know exactly what to do.”
Chapter Fifteen
I called Ted immediately upon George’s departure. Poor little Angus, still empathizing with George’s depressed demeanor, went to sigh by the window. Thankfully, he’d never seen a silent movie, or else he’d have been lying on the sofa with one paw up over his head à la Theda Bara or Clara Bow.
“You’re missing me already?” Ted asked when he answered my call.
“Yes, but that’s not why I’m calling,” I said. “I have a new lead on the murder of Geoffrey Vandehey.”
“Let’s have it, Inch-High.”
“George Vandehey came by to see me just now and told me he thinks Chad Cummings killed his dad.”
“Because Dr. Vandehey stole his painting?” Ted asked.
“No, because he thinks Cummings paid his dad to take the painting and write the confession so that Cummings could commit insurance fraud.”
“I don’t know, babe. That could be wishful thinking on George’s part.”
“But it could also be true,” I said. “It’s like he said, at this point, no one would have believed Dr. Vandehey had he gone to the police.”
“Right. So what was the point in Chad Cummings killing him? Had Dr.
Vandehey come forward, he would have immediately been arrested,” Ted said. “Now, if you were explaining the motive Vandehey had to kill Cummings, that would make more sense.”
“Would you talk to George anyway?” I asked. “I invited him to meet with us at my house after class this evening.”
“Sure, I’ll see what he has to say.”
“Thanks. I’m not sure he’ll come, but he might. I told him you were wonderful.”
He chuckled. “Are you trying to use your feminine wiles on me, Ms. Singer?”
“Mmm-hmm. Is it working?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I laughed. “See you after class.”
“Looking forward to that . . . seeing you . . . meeting George Vandehey, not so much.”
“By the way, why did you appear to be so uncomfortable at lunch today?” I asked.
“Because Anderson Padgett was right—the chances of him recovering his art collection are slim to none. He’s obviously not in good health, and I didn’t want to admit that to him.”
“He knows, of course.”
“He does,” Ted admitted. “But I’m going to do everything I can to help him get it back. I’m just not optimistic about my efforts paying off.”
“I have confidence in you.”
“Even after yesterday?” he asked.
“Even after yesterday.”
* * *
Sadie came over after the lunch rush. I was writing Nellie Davis’s name on the envelope of the ribbon-embroidery card I’d made for her.
“What’s up with that?” Sadie asked. “Is there a little spring-loaded fist in there that’s going to come up and pop Nellie in the nose when she opens the card?”
I giggled. “No. This morning when Angus and I were passing by her shop, she stepped out and gave me a stress candle.”
“A stress-relief candle or a stress-inducing candle?”
“A stress-relief candle . . . I think. Now that you mention it, I’d better look at the label to be sure.” I looked at the label and then turned it toward Sadie. “Yep. See? It says so right there.”
