Thread End: An Embroidery Mystery

by Amanda Lee

  “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 brought 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!”

  The dog wagged his entire body and reveled in Christine’s adoration.

  Christine glanced into the box. “What’ve you got there?”

  “Cross-stitch and ribbon-embroidery Christmas ornaments.”

  She picked up an angel. “This is gorgeous. Do you think I could do it?”

  “I know you could,” I said. “You can knit like crazy. I’m sure you can cross-stitch and do a few ribbon-embroidery stitches. If you want to try one, we’ll sit down over here on the sofa and get you started.”

  “Are you sure you have time? I know you’re busy.”

  “Never too busy for you.” I smiled. “You’re one of my favorite customers.”

  We sat down on the sofa. Angus saw that Christine’s attention was momentarily fixated on something other than him, so he lay down at her feet to wait for his turn to come back around again.

  “This is a counted cross-stitch project, so there’s no design stamped on the fabric,” I said. “The first thing we need to do is to find the center.” I folded the fabric in half and then folded it again. “See? Your center is now defined by the crease.”

  “This looks hard,” said Christine.

  “It’s not.” I placed the fabric in the small hoop that came with the kit. “Just be sure and count the squares between the holes and not the holes when you’re counting stitches. The center is already marked for you on the pattern, so . . . let’s see . . . the first color floss we’ll be using is white.”

  I separated two strands of the white embroidery floss sent with the kit and threaded the needle. “We’re going to start in the center and go right.”

  Christine and I spent the next hour getting her familiar with the art of cross-stitch and making a dent in her new project. In fact, she got so involved in her cross-stitch that she would’ve left without the yarn she’d initially come in to buy had I not reminded her.

  * * *

  Ted brought chicken salad croissants from MacKenzies’ Mochas for lunch.

  “My favorite!” I exclaimed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I mean, not really.”

  I stopped with my croissant halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean, not really?”

  “Mother invited us out to dinner on Friday night. We can choose the place.” His tone was casual, but he didn’t meet my eyes and started eating his croissant as if he were starving to death.

  I put my croissant back down on my plate. “Do you want to go?”

  “That’s entirely up to you.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I said. “You weren’t ready for your mother and me to meet when she came into the shop the other day.”

  “True. But I know she’s been in again since then, and I think it’s probably . .
. safe.”

  “Safe? You sound like we’re going to a war zone rather than out to dinner.”

  He shrugged. “It probably wouldn’t hurt to wear a flak jacket, if you have one.”

  I stared at him.

  “I’m kidding,” he said. “So, would you like to go, or not? I told her I’d call and let her know this afternoon.”

  “I’d like to go,” I said. Why was Ted so anxious about his mom and me getting to know each other? Wanting to change the subject, I said, “Chad Cummings charged in here this morning angry because I’d upset his wife. Maybe I could use a flak jacket.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Ted asked.

  “He didn’t stay that long. He upset Angus, though. He came and got between us.”

  A muscle worked in Ted’s jaw . . . a sure sign he was clenching his teeth.

  “Don’t do that,” I said. “It’ll give you a headache. Besides, it was no big deal.”

  “It is a big deal! A suspected murderer comes in here bullying the woman I love—” He put his fist up to his mouth.

  “I’m not afraid of Chad Cummings.” I got up and went over to embrace Ted. I’d just told a huge lie, by the way. I was terrified of Chad Cummings, especially after Ted classified him as a suspected murderer. “He was angry because I apparently did something to upset his wife, who is a delicate, instable creature. Do you really believe Chad killed Geoffrey Vandehey?”

  He scooted back his chair and pulled me onto his lap. “I don’t know. But I’m not ruling him out. George is absolutely convinced that Cummings killed his father.”

  “Did he find anything to support his belief among the evidence this morning?”

  “No. But he, Special Agent Brown, Manu, and I are heading over after lunch to check out the hotel room Dr. Vandehey had occupied.”

  “Why is Special Agent Brown tagging along?” I asked.

  “He was at the department this morning as George was leaving. George mentioned his theory to Brown, and so Brown insisted on accompanying us to the hotel.”

  “What are your feelings on Special Agent Brown?”