by Amanda Lee
“I don’t trust him,” said Ted. “I don’t think he’s particularly competent, either. But I guess he’s one of those enemies I should keep close during this investigation.”
“Just be careful.” I kissed him, and then went back to my chair so Ted could finish his lunch and I could start on mine.
“You be careful,” he said. “And if Chad Cummings ever comes back into this shop again, you call me.”
“I will.”
* * *
I was sitting in the sit-and-stitch square working on the beaded embroidery project I was making as part of tonight’s class. It was an adorable cupcake with a cherry on top, and I planned to give it to Sadie when I finished.
My cell phone rang. It was Mom, and the ringtone of the woman’s scream pierced the air. Too bad I was the only one there to appreciate it.
“Hi.” I giggled.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“You know how I told you I was going to change your ringtone to a bloodcurdling scream? Well, I did. It’s hilarious!”
“Marcella Singer, what if your shop had been filled with customers? Would it have been so amusing then?”
“Maybe not, but it would’ve been great if Ted or Sadie had been here,” I said. “Anyway, I’m really glad you called.”
“I just had that feeling, you know? No, actually, you probably don’t know . . . but you will someday when you have children of your own. What’s going on?”
“Ted’s mother has invited us out to dinner on Friday,” I said. “She came by the Stitch again yesterday, and she was really nice. . . .”
“But?”
“I don’t know, Mom. There shouldn’t be a but.”
“But there is. You’re not sure you can trust her. And that’s all right, darling. Trust isn’t something you give lightly. It’s something that must be earned.”
“True. She told me yesterday that it’s great seeing Ted happy, but she also told me she detested his first wife.”
“From what I’ve heard about her, she was pretty detestable,” Mom said.
“Yes, she was. But I have to wonder if Veronica finds fault with any woman Ted gets involved with.”
“Mothers are protective. We can’t help ourselves.”
“I’m nervous about Friday night,” I said. “What should I wear?”
“Something that makes you feel confident.”
“I just don’t want to get hurt . . . by Ted’s mom . . . and especially not by Ted.”
“I don’t think you will be,” she said.
After we hung up, I continued working on my beaded cupcake, and I thought about David—the man who’d literally left me standing at the altar over a year ago. He’d paid me a visit here in Tallulah Falls a couple months ago and wanted to get back together. I’d seen how terribly wrong we were for each other then. In fact, I wondered what I’d ever seen in him in the first place. Ted, on the other hand . . . I found something new to love about him every day.
That thought was interrupted by Vera, hurrying into the shop wearing Bermuda shorts, a bright pink camp shirt, a floppy white hat, oversize sunglasses, and flip-flops.
“I have a development!” She spotted Angus. “Hi, sweetie.” She patted his head and then came and sat next to me, taking off the sunglass and hat and placing them on the coffee table.
“What is it?” Her excitement was infectious. Could she and Paul possibly have discovered something that would verify George’s claim that Chad Cummings had paid Geoffrey Vandehey to steal the Cézanne?
She took a piece of paper from her purse, unfolded it, and spread it out on the table. “This is a replica of the stolen painting.”
It was a still life with apples on a white plate, a knife lying by the plate, a wine goblet, and a skull to the left of the apples.
“Okay,” I said, waiting for her to get to the point.
“Now when we find it, we’ll know what it looks like.”
I smiled. “That’s fantastic.”
“Isn’t it? I just went to the Web site of the auction house where Chad Cummings had bought the painting, got the director’s phone number, called him, and had him send a copy of their photograph right over.”
“Thank you, Vera. That was a wonderful idea.” It wasn’t the earth-shattering revelation I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t bad. “It’s kind of an odd painting, isn’t it? The more you look at it, the more you see.”
“I agree. Look at the handle of the knife. See the—”
A scream pierced the air.
Vera and I jumped up. She ran to the window, and I rushed to the door.
When I stepped out onto the sidewalk, I saw Nellie Davis standing just outside her shop. “It’s Nellie!” I called to Vera.
I hurried forward and put an arm around Nellie’s bony shoulders. “Are you all right? What’s happened?”
“That!” She pointed to a dead rat lying on her sidewalk. “It was there when I came back from lunch. There’s a note with it.”
Vera had joined us by that time, and she gingerly picked up the folded piece of white card stock. “‘Don’t be a rat, or you’ll wind up like one,’” she read.
I took my cell phone out of my pocket and called Ted. When he answered, I quickly explained the situation.
“Tell Vera to put the note down, and don’t let anyone else handle it,” he said. “I’ve got a crime scene unit on the way.”
“He said he’d protect me,” Nellie wailed.
“He will,” I said. “He and some deputies are on their way over here now.”
“But somebody knows.” Tears wound through the crevices of Nellie’s wrinkled face. “Somebody knows, and he’s going to hurt me!”
My eyes met Vera’s over the top of Nellie’s bowed head. I widened my eyes, and Vera widened hers.
What should we do? I mouthed at Vera.
She shrugged her shoulders up to her ears.
“Nellie, would you like to come over to my shop until Ted arrives?” I asked.
“No. I can’t leave my shop unattended. Someone will come in and steal me blind.”
“Then I’ll stay with you,” Vera said. “Marcy, go on back to the Stitch before someone comes in and robs you and Angus blind.”
I pursed my lips to let Vera know I didn’t think she was being very funny. “I’ll be happy to stay. I can see the sidewalk from Nellie’s shop, and I should be able to tell if someone goes into my shop.”
“Nonsense,” Vera said. “We’ll be fine.”
“Yes, Marcy, go on back to the Seven-Year Stitch,” said Nellie. “Everything will be all right.”
Vera took Nellie and led her inside Scentsibilities. “I’ll call if I need you.”
“Okay,” I said.
I turned and went back to the shop. It was a good thing I did. Angus was pacing and was awfully disturbed because he hadn’t known what was going on. I knew the feeling. I hated being kept out of the loop.
I thought about who might’ve sent the rat to Nellie. It had to have been one of the people who’d dumped Geoffrey Vandehey’s body in the alley. Was it possible that someone had seen her here on Friday night?
Chapter Eighteen
I saw Ted’s red unmarked car and a police cruiser pull up and park. Ted and Manu got out of his car, and two deputies emerged from the cruiser. Ted gave me a wave before heading toward Nellie’s shop.
I waited for what seemed like forever until the bells over the door jingled. Then it wasn’t Ted but a customer. I had mixed emotions about that. I was always thrilled to have a customer come into the shop, but I was anxious to know what was going on up the street.
The customer needed regular-weight embroidery precut stabilizer sheets. I didn’t have any on the shelf, but I had some in my storeroom. I got them for her and asked if she needed any other supplies. She thanked me but said she was good on everything else at the moment. She paid for her stabilizer sheets, I put them in a periwinkle Seven-Year Stitch bag, and she went on her way.
The next person who cam
e through the door was Ted.
“Is Nellie all right?” I asked.
“She’s still very shaken up. Manu is worried that she’ll have a heart attack or something, and he’s trying to convince her to go to the hospital and get checked out.”
“Do you think she will?”
He shook his head. “She insists that she’s fine and that she isn’t going anywhere. Frankly, I think she’s too afraid to go anywhere.”
“Did the crime scene techs find any prints?” I asked.
“Only Vera’s.”
“Do you think someone saw Nellie looking out the window of her back door, or do you think word got out somehow that Nellie reported seeing a black van?”
His face hardened. “I don’t know, but there’d better not be a leak in our department. I won’t just have somebody’s job—I’ll have his head.”
“How’s George? Did he find anything at the hotel?”
“As a matter of fact, he did,” Ted said, his face becoming more animated as he pictured the scene. “We go in, right? And, as expected, there’s nothing. The drawers are all empty. The closet is empty. . . . But then George pulls out a miniature tool set and starts taking the screws out of this air vent!”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah! I ask him if he doesn’t think he’s going a little overboard, but he says, ‘I know my dad.’ Sure enough, he takes the vent cover off, reaches inside, and takes out a USB flash drive.”
I gasped. “What was on it?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t know yet. But we are optimistic,” he said. “See, we took it back to the department and tried to read the flash drive using my computer. But the drive was encrypted. So we took it to one of the tech guys. He said it was really good encryption, but he knew what company made the encryption software. He’s getting in contact with the company to have the message decoded.”
“That’s so exciting,” I said. “Do you think the flash drive will have a recording or photos or something that will incriminate Chad Cummings?”
“I hope it will,” he said. “Not only to bring Cummings to justice but to help redeem Geoffrey Vandehey—if he was, in fact, Cummings’s pawn—in George’s eyes.”
“Either way—I mean, even if Dr. Vandehey did actually steal the Cézanne—he did it for his daughter. I think both children know that. I only hope Chad and the delicate Portia don’t leave Tallulah Falls before you find out what’s on that flash drive.”
“I don’t think they will, especially not with Anderson Padgett in town. Padgett is the kind of guy Cummings likes to rub elbows with . . . and he’d love to get his hands on some of the old guy’s art.” He nodded toward the coffee table. “What’s that?”
“It’s a photo Vera brought in of the Cézanne stolen from Chad Cummings,” I said.
“Would you make me a copy of that, please?”
“I’d be happy to.” I scooped up the photo and took it back to my office to make a copy. “Are we having dinner together this evening?” I called over the roar of the copier. “Or would you rather wait until after class?”
“Those pancakes were amazing! Could we have some more of those?”
I laughed as I headed back to the shop with the photo. “Before class or after?”
He bent and kissed me. “Both.”
* * *
I was still smiling when Vera came back into the shop to retrieve her things.
“Don’t you look like the cat who swallowed the canary who has Detective Ted Nash wrapped around her little finger?” Vera asked.
“That’s a twisted simile if I’ve ever heard one,” I said. “Is Nellie feeling better?”
“Yes. I didn’t leave her until her sister arrived. The sister is going to stay with her for a few days.” She put her floppy hat back on, covering her now-tousled hair. “I saw that card you’d made Nellie thanking her for the candle. You and she might become friends, thanks to this latest drama.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Vera chuckled and grabbed her purse. “You can keep the photo. I have a copy of it at home. I’m hoping Paul can get it put on the AP wire.”
“That would be wonderful,” I said. “Maybe it could help us locate it.”
“Not that I’d want to do anything to help that nasty Chad Cummings,” she said. “I just get a bad feeling from him.”
“I do, too. And you should’ve been here this morning when he plowed through the door blessing me out for upsetting his delicate wife,” I said.
Vera’s jaw dropped. “What?”
I nodded. “He said she came home crying over Geoffrey Vandehey’s predicament. He said he knew about Vandehey’s daughter and that’s why he allowed Vandehey to do the second appraisal on the painting.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know. I think that if anything, he knew about the accident and used Dr. Vandehey’s financial predicament to get him to steal the painting,” I said. “But, of course, to hear him tell it, he threw Vandehey a bone and was repaid for his kindness with the theft of his priceless painting.”
“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.”
