by Amanda Lee
I shook off the image and directed everyone to choose a pattern. “If you haven’t done cross-stitch before, let me know and I’ll be happy to help you find a pattern that won’t be too challenging your first time out.”
Everyone got up and went to look at patterns. Everyone, that is, except Mrs. Trelawney.
“Would you like me to help you pick out a pattern, Mrs. Trelawney?”
“Oh, no, thank you, dear. I’ll just watch and talk . . . and have punch and cookies.”
I slowly bobbed my head and made a mental inventory of what I had in my desk that could conceivably constitute punch and cookies. Where had Mrs. Trelawney gotten the idea there would be refreshments served at this class? With a stiff smile, I excused myself and went to rifle through my desk. I found a box of oatmeal-raisin granola bars. It was a full box, and I could cut the bars into tiny squares. In my mini fridge, there was some mango juice. Since I had plates, napkins, and cups left over from the open house, I could improvise. By the time everyone—everyone but Mrs. Trelawney—had chosen a cross-stitch pattern, I had refreshments spread out on the counter.
As soon as Mrs. Trelawney had sampled the “cookies and punch,” she informed me that “the cookies are a little tough, but the punch tastes just like mango juice. I like it.”
I thanked her and returned to teaching the class. An hour full of happy chatter and flying fingers later, I’d helped four of my students make cross-stitch grids on their tote bags. And Mrs. Trelawney had drunk all the “punch.” All in all, I suppose it was a successful class.
My first customer the next morning was Vera Langhorne.
“I couldn’t wait to show you what I got done after I went home last night. John had a council meeting, so he didn’t get home until late. That gave me plenty of time to cross-stitch.” She spread her fuchsia tote bag out on the counter. “What do you think?”
Vera’s design was a teapot, cup, and saucer. So far, she had the middle row and the two rows above it completed.
“That’s coming together really nicely, Vera.”
Vera beamed like a child who’d received a giant smiley face on her homework. “Can I stay here and work for a while? That way, if I hit any snags, you’ll be here to help me.”
“Of course,” I said with a smile. “In fact, I’ll join you.” I took my tote bag, pattern, and thread and joined Vera in the sitting area. My pattern was a likeness of Angus’ scruffy head. I’d made the pattern using a photograph of Angus that had been cropped and copied onto graph paper.
“Does it give you the willies to be here alone now?” Vera asked.
“Not really. Besides, I always have Angus here with me.”
“That’s true.”
“The whole ordeal does boggle the mind, though. It was obvious Mr. Enright was drunk at the open house, although everyone who knew him said he never drank a drop. Then his wife shows up at my house, threatening to sue me.” I shook my head. “It’s been a stressful week.”
“That’s an understatement,” Vera said. “But don’t mind Lorraine Enright—she’s just a bag of hot air. She’d been after Timothy for years to move his store to either somewhere in California or at least Portland, but Timothy wouldn’t budge. I’d have thought she’d see his business closing as an opportunity to finally get what she’d been wanting.”
“She didn’t?”
“No. She up and left Timothy high and dry after twenty-five years of marriage.”
“There had to be something else going on there.”
“You never know with Lorraine. As a matter of fact, she might’ve left in order to force Timothy’s hand on whatever it was she wanted this time.”
“You mean she’d left him before?” I asked.
Vera nodded. “That woman probably has a PhD in manipulation.”
She was quiet for a moment, and I could tell she was counting her stitches. Then Vera looked up and grinned. “Like I said, don’t let Lorraine get to you.”
“I’ll try. By the way, do you know what four square fifth w could mean?”
“Possibly.” She frowned. “Four Square is—or, rather, was—a development company. The owners went to jail last year.”
“For what?”
“Fraud. They were in cahoots with a real estate appraiser who was giving them inflated property appraisals.”
I sat back in my chair. “Do you think Timothy Enright could’ve known something about that?”
“I’m sure he did. It was the talk of Tallulah Falls for months. It upset John terribly. He’s a banker, you know.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Do you think Mr. Enright might’ve known something that could have implicated someone else?”
Vera raised her brows. “I don’t know. I suppose he could have.”
Vera and I worked in companionable silence until the bell above the shop door signaled the arrival of another customer. I turned and was somewhat surprised to see Ted Nash walk in.
“Hello, Detective. How may I help you?”
“Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
Vera began stuffing her work into a sewing bag. “That’s okay, Ted. I need to get home and start dinner. You can have my spot here on the sofa.”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Mrs. Langhorne.”
“No trouble at all. Marcy, see you later.” Vera gave Angus a pat on the head before she left.
Detective Nash nodded toward the dog. “Can you do something with him? He makes me uncomfortable.”
I bit back a smart-alecky retort and put Angus in the bathroom. When I returned, the detective had indeed taken Vera’s place on the sofa. I remained standing. “I hope this won’t take long. Angus hates being shut in the bathroom.”
“It shouldn’t take but a few minutes. I would like you to sit down, though.”
I took a seat on the edge of the sofa across from Detective Nash. Somehow it made me feel better to have the coffee table between us.
“I understand from Mrs. Trelawney that her husband intended to stop by here yesterday,” the detective said. “Did you see him?”
“Actually, no. I’d taken Angus for a walk and left Sadie MacKenzie in charge. She mentioned that he dropped in but didn’t stay long.”
Detective Nash jotted down some information in his notebook. “I’ll speak with her about his visit. Mrs. Trelawney indicated you’d called Mr. Trelawney the day before yesterday. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Would you care to disclose the nature of your call?”
“I don’t see why not. I called Mr. Trelawney to see if he knew why Mr. Enright closed his business. Mrs. Enright indicated that Mr. Trelawney was seeking more artistic shops in the plaza.”
“And what was Mr. Trelawney’s response?”
I shrugged. “He said that was ridiculous.”
“Is that all?”
“No. I mentioned what Mr. Enright had scratched onto the wall. It seemed to upset him, and that’s when he said he’d be in to take a look at it. It just so happened he came while Sadie was here.”
“And did Mrs. MacKenzie say anything about Mr. Trelawney’s visit?”
“Only that he was freaked-out about the writing on the wall and wanted it painted over as soon as possible.”
“Okay. Thank you for your time, Ms. Singer. I’ll step next door and speak with Mrs. MacKenzie now. If you think of anything else, you have my card. Right?”
“Right. Um . . . why all the questions about Mr. Trelawney?”
Detective Nash hesitated, then sighed. “You’ll hear about it soon enough, anyway. Mr. Trelawney is dead. He was found shot to death in his car about an hour ago.”
I gasped. “Are you serious?”
“No, Ms. Singer, I enjoy joking about such things. Of course I’m serious. Where were you earlier this morning?”
“I’ve been here since ten a.m. Vera has been here the past hour or so.”
He nodded. “You have no plans to leave town, do you?”
“Of cou
rse not!”
“Good. See that you don’t.”
Chapter Four
I hurried to the bathroom as soon as Detective Nash left. My intention was to let Angus out. But when I opened the door, I sank to my knees on the floor and pulled the dog to me. I was trembling, and he began licking my neck and chin.
I heard the bell above the door jingle, but I wanted to regain my composure before facing any customers.
“Marcy?”
That voice was unmistakable. It was Todd’s.
“Just a sec.” I stood and smoothed my khakis. When I went back out front, I found Todd casually leaning against the counter in faded jeans and a red V-neck sweater.
I grinned. “Was Jill keeping you company?”
He tilted his head. “She’s not much of a conversationalist.”
“She’s just a little shy until you get to know her.”
“Hey, buddy.” Todd patted Angus’ head. “Saw Ted Nash making the rounds. Has he got anything new?”
I took a deep breath. “I’ll say he does. Let’s have a seat.” I stepped around the counter, and Todd joined me in the sitting area. We both took a seat on the navy sofa that faced the windows.
“Bill Trelawney was found shot to death in his car earlier today,” I said.
“What? You’ve got to be kidding.” Todd paled visibly.
“I wish I were.”
“So, Nash is going door-to-door questioning each of Bill’s tenants?”
“I don’t know.” But the thought occurred to me that he might be doing just that. “Maybe.” I rested my head against the back of the sofa. “If so, he started with me because Mr. Trelawney came by here yesterday morning.” I closed my eyes. “I called to see if Mr. Trelawney might know anything about why Lorraine Enright thinks I put her husband . . . ex-husband . . .” I opened my eyes and looked at Todd. “Estranged husband?”
“Tim.”
“Right. Anyway, I called him to ask why Mrs. Enright thinks I put Tim out of business. After I told him what Tim had scratched onto the storeroom wall, he became a little upset and said he’d come by to look at it.”
“What did Tim scratch onto the wall?”
“Four square fifth w. Mean anything to you?”
Todd shook his head. “No. But it must’ve meant something to Bill Trelawney.”
“Vera Langhorne told me Four Square was the name of a development company at one time and that some of its members went to jail. Maybe Mr. Trelawney made a connection between Four Square Development and Mr. Enright’s scribbles.”
“I suppose anything’s possible. Did Bill Trelawney say anything about it before he left?”
“Not to me. I’d taken Angus for a quick walk, and Sadie was minding the shop.”
“Which explains why Nash hurried next door.”
“Exactly. Now two people connected with my shop are dead. I’m afraid to ask what’s next.”
From our vantage point, we could see Detective Nash getting into his car. He hadn’t had time to get out of sight before Sadie burst into the shop.
“Can you believe it?” she asked breathlessly. “Who’d want to kill poor old Mr. Trelawney?”
“Maybe the same person who killed Timothy Enright,” I said.
Sadie flopped onto the sofa across from Todd and me. “From the way Ted talked, Chief Myers isn’t ruling out either of us as suspects.”
“He thinks one of us killed Mr. Trelawney?” I asked.
“And Tim Enright.” She sighed. “This can’t be happening.”
I was scared. One man—the man who for thirty years had leased the very same shop I now leased—had died in my storeroom from what police believed was poisoning. Another man—my landlord—had died hours after visiting my storeroom. Now, I could make myself believe there was something toxic in the storeroom—something even the hazmat crew had failed to contain and that had poisoned Timothy Enright and maybe even Bill Trelawney. Although the fact that Bill Trelawney had been shot completely annihilated that theory. A contagious pocket of really bad luck was starting to seem on the money, though.
I closed up the store at five and then headed home. I dropped Angus off and he was playing in the backyard, but I found myself merely pacing around the living room. I had to at least try to find some answers. I called the library and learned they were open until six thirty p.m. Maybe I could find some answers there.
The library was a large brick Victorian structure just about a mile outside town. When I walked in, I noticed the cozy seating area in a room to my right. Two weathered leather sofas and some oversize chairs scattered throughout the room made the perfect reading nook. To my left was a larger room with a circulation desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Reggie Singh was shelving books in this room when I arrived. She wore another tunic ensemble today. This one was turquoise and had multicolored beadwork on the collar and down the sides of the pants. I wondered if she’d done the beadwork herself, but I had more pressing questions to ask.
“Hi there, Marcy.” She smiled. “Are you looking for anything in particular today?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” I glanced at the man reading a newspaper at a table to my right. A few other people were browsing the shelves. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
“Sure. Follow me.” She took the cart back to the circulation desk and told a young woman sitting there that we would be in her office.
Reggie led me down a narrow hallway and into an office. The office was eclectically decorated with Indian art mixed with framed photographs of the coast. Somehow it seemed to work.
Reggie closed the door and sat down behind her mahogany desk. “What’s on your mind?”
I sank into the armless Victorian silk-covered chair to the side of the desk. “I’m scared.”
Reggie nodded thoughtfully. “Manu told me about Bill Trelawney.”
“Two people with connections to my shop, dead within a matter of days? Who’s to say I won’t be next?”
“Let’s not rush to conclusions. Two men with connections to Timothy Enright’s shop are dead, and the police aren’t even sure the deaths are related.”
“What do you think?” I asked. “I mean, you’ve lived in this town for years; you knew Timothy Enright well. What would you do if you were me?”
She spread her hands. “If I were you, I’d keep that enormous dog by my side at all times.” She pushed her glasses up. “As for what I think . . . I think we need to find out what’s going on.”
“So you do think the deaths are related.”
Reggie shrugged. “Pray for the best. Prepare for the worst. Manu said Bill Trelawney came to see you yesterday morning.”
“He did. He wanted to see what Mr. Enright had scratched onto the wall with a tapestry needle.”
“Four something, right?” Reggie took a legal pad from her middle desk drawer.
“Four square fifth w.”
With a lavender pen, Reggie wrote this information on the rose-colored pad. I had to give her points for style.
“Vera Langhorne told me Four Square was the name of a development company,” I continued. “She said some of the people involved went to jail for fraud.”
“I remember that. Do you think Timothy Enright was trying to tell you something about Four Square Development?”
It was my turn to shrug. “I guess anything’s possible. He did keep trying to talk to me at the party that night. He said there was something I needed to know.”
“But you never found out what?”
“I’m afraid not.” I clamped my lips together. “I . . . I avoided him. I really did think he was drunk, and—”
“It’s okay,” Reggie interrupted. “Your actions were perfectly understandable.” She tapped her pad with the barrel of her pen. “It just makes our job a little harder. Let’s start with Four Square and see where that takes us.” Reggie took me to the computer room, did a search, and set me up with all the local newspaper articles for the months surrounding th
e indictments and trial of Four Square Development, since the local newspaper’s Web site required a subscription fee and password to access content more than three months old. She had to get back to work, but said she’d check on me in a bit. She also left me the rose-colored paper and the pen with the lavender ink. Sweet.
The blue fabric chair I sat in was fairly comfy, but I had a feeling my butt was going to get awfully tired before my work here was done. I began scanning through the screens.
Twenty minutes into my search, I found a newspaper article with a Four Square mention. Since the newspapers were in reverse chronological order, I got the one with the sentencing information first. None of the names—Douglas Alexander, Norman Patrick, Paul Kerr, and Matthew Grant—meant anything to me . . . except that three of the four had two first names rather than a first and last name. Of course, Kerr could be a German first name, so I suppose they all could have two first names.
Anyway, the sentences were relatively light. Each man had been given thirty-six months of prison time and had been ordered to pay one-fourth of the $925,000 restitution.
I scrolled through the newspaper articles until I found Four Square on the front page. It was the day after the trial. According to this report, evidence presented at trial showed the four partners were guilty of mortgage fraud.
Prosecutors allege the men, operating under the name Four Square Development, sold real estate using inflated appraisals. The properties were then sold to “straw buyers,” who, it is believed, received kickbacks from the excess loan proceeds.
Reggie peeped around the door. “How are you coming along?”
“Do any of these names mean anything to you?” I turned the pink pad toward her.
“A couple of them do. Kerr and Patrick were from here in town. The other two were from Seattle.”
“Did Kerr or Patrick have any dealings with Timothy Enright?”
“I don’t know. Patrick is—was—an attorney. He handled Four Square’s closings.” Reggie cocked her head. “I suppose he could have done Tim’s will. He did mine and Manu’s. He was a good attorney. Too bad he got involved with Four Square.”