The Quick and the Thread

by Amanda Lee

  “Who took over his business?”

  “His partner, Riley Kendall.”

  I turned the pad back around and wrote down the new information.

  “Don’t expect Riley to confide much,” Reggie said. “She’s Norm Patrick’s daughter.”

  I left the library at just past six p.m. and decided to take a chance that Riley Kendall might still be in her office.

  The office door still bore the words PATRICK AND KENDALL, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. Either Riley hadn’t gotten around to changing it during the past several months, or her dad was hoping to get his law license reinstated after he’d served his time. I opened the door, and a chime sounded. It wasn’t a friendly little jingle like the bells over my shop door. This was more like a doorbell or a muted gong.

  “Good afternoon. May I help you?” The cultured voice came from my left and belonged to a woman with gray-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun. For some reason, her appearance made me feel like a child . . . a child who should be seen and not heard. Accordingly, I spoke as softly as I could without actually whispering.

  “May I please see Riley Kendall?”

  “Ms. Kendall is with a client at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?”

  “I’d like to wait, if you don’t think she’ll be very much longer.”

  “You may have a seat in the reception area.”

  I thought I was already in the reception area, but I mumbled a “thank you” and carefully stepped across the Oriental rug to the floral brocade sofa. Riley may not have changed the firm’s name, but I had to wonder if she’d redecorated the offices in her father’s absence. This room, at least, had a strong feminine presence. Wingback chairs brought out the rose color in the sofa, and a designer floral arrangement in the center of the highly polished cherry table beautifully highlighted the rest of the sofa’s muted tones. The room made me think of my aunt June. She was an interior designer—the love of fabrics runs in our family. Aunt June used to always say, “Buy your couch, and I’ll build your room around it.”

  I turned my head at the sound of voices. One of them seemed familiar. The two women had their backs to me, but I could see that one was a brunette in a pale blue suit and the other had red hair like . . .

  She suddenly faced me. Yep. Lorraine Enright.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here? Are you following me?”

  “No, Mrs. Enright. I’m here to see Ms. Kendall.”

  Lorraine whirled back to Riley. “Don’t you dare tell her a thing we talked about—do you hear me? Not a thing!”

  “That goes without saying, Lorraine,” the woman I assumed must be Riley said calmly. “Attorney-client privilege, remember?”

  “I remember. Just see that you do.” With that, she stormed out of the office.

  I rose from the sofa, and Riley met me halfway. She held out her hand. “Riley Kendall. What can I do for you?”

  I shook her hand. “Hi. I’m Marcy Singer.” Glancing at the receptionist, I asked if we could speak privately. The receptionist glared at me.

  “Sure. Mom, hold my calls for a few minutes, please.”

  Inwardly, I groaned. Somehow, I’d managed to infuriate one of this woman’s clients and insult her mother within a mere five minutes of meeting her. Even for me, that had to be some sort of record.

  “Don’t forget,” said Riley’s mom, “we need to pay Margaret Trelawney a visit later this evening.”

  Before she’d left the shop, Sadie had suggested that she and I visit Mrs. Trelawney tonight, as well. I glanced at my watch and realized I needed to hurry if I was going to be on time to meet Sadie.

  “It won’t take long,” I said as Riley ushered me into her office.

  The office was similar to the reception area. The same color scheme was used, and I could see touches provided by the same floral designer. A flower arrangement sat on a tall cherry table beneath the window, and one of the blooms had been carried over to a bud vase at the corner of Riley’s desk. There were framed photographs on the bookshelves and walls. Some featured a handsome man in his early thirties, but many depicted a balding middle-aged man.

  I nodded toward one of the more prominent photos. “Your dad?”

  Riley nodded, and a wistful expression flitted across her face. She immediately got to business. “How can I help you, Marcy?”

  “You might know that I just opened the embroidery shop on Emerson Street. The one where Timothy Enright had his hardware store, and where he, well, died.”

  She nodded.

  “On the night Timothy Enright died, he scratched the words four square fifth onto my wall with a tapestry needle.”

  Riley frowned, but said nothing.

  “I’m wondering if by four square, he meant Four Square Development.”

  Riley sat back in her chair and folded her hands. “It’s my understanding that Mr. Enright appeared disoriented and confused that evening.”

  “He was slurring his words and staggering, but we now believe that was because he’d been poisoned.”

  “We being you and your team of medical experts?”

  I leaned forward. “Look, two people within a week visited my storeroom and later died. I think their deaths are connected.”

  “I don’t—”

  “As a legal expert whose father was a part of Four Square Development, I thought you, of all people, might be interested in helping me sort this out.”

  “This has nothing to do with my father.”

  “Are you sure?” I stood and moved toward the door. “Because whoever killed Timothy Enright and Bill Trelawney might not be finished. If you decide to lend a hand, let me know.”

  I returned to the Jeep on shaky legs. I hadn’t expected too much help from Riley Kendall given the circumstances, but knowing she was an associate of Lorraine Enright made her antagonism even worse. Riley was in the perfect position to know—or to find out—if Timothy Enright had anything to do with Four Square Development.

  I arrived home with more time to spare than I’d expected. I was tired, but I wanted to relax for a few minutes before heading out again.

  I left Angus outside in the fenced-in yard and went upstairs to the bedroom. I took out the replica of the MacKenzies’ Mochas logo I was stitching, kicked off my shoes, and leaned back against the pillows. The light streaming through the bedroom was fantastic, so I didn’t need to turn on my nightstand lamp just yet. I was planning to give the logo to Sadie and Blake as a Christmas present, so I couldn’t work on it at the shop.

  The MacKenzies’ Mochas logo is a huge, tan coffee cup with a pale melon stripe. Smoke from the hot coffee is swirling up from the cup. MACKENZIES’ is written over top of it and MOCHAS below it in ivory. The background is a dark wood grain, reminiscent of an old tavern sign.

  I was copying the logo from a photograph I took of the MacKenzies’ sign. I’d been working on the design for a month now. So far, I had the top third of the sign completed, but it was slow going. I had needles in three different colors threaded to help me keep up with the frequent color changes. It was nice to see it starting to come together, though.

  Three full lines into the design, I glanced at the clock. I’d been working for half an hour. I folded the fabric around the embroidery hoop and placed it back into the nightstand drawer.

  I quickly showered and changed. After feeding Angus and taking him for another quick jaunt outside, I went to MacKenzies’ Mochas to meet Sadie. Blake had fixed up a basket of muffins and scones for us to take to Mrs. Trelawney.

  “I dread this,” Sadie confided as she got into the Jeep. “I might’ve been the last person to see Mr. Trelawney alive.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh . . . I know. Geesh.”

  “I didn’t mean just the murderer.” I started the engine. “There were probably lots of people Mr. Trelawney visited before . . . Before.”

  “That’s true. His death might not even be connected to you or to Timothy Enright. I mean, it could’ve been a
robbery gone wrong. That’s what Chief Myers believes.”

  “A robbery gone wrong in the middle of the day?”

  “It’s possible. I overheard some people talking at the shop, and apparently Mr. Trelawney was pretty far out of town, near some deserted old buildings.”

  “Then that makes it even less likely it was a robbery gone wrong, Sadie. I mean, what possible reason would Mr. Trelawney have for going to some deserted old buildings?”

  “He was a landlord. Maybe he was thinking about buying them and renovating them.” She looked over at me. “But I’m guessing you have another theory.”

  I checked my rearview mirror and then backed out of the parking spot. “I do have another theory. I think he was meeting someone who was involved with Four Square Development. You said yourself he was acting completely out of character, and I could tell when I spoke with him that he was really upset about the four square message being scratched onto the wall.”

  “I mean, Marcy, the guy was a landlord. Maybe he didn’t like that someone defaced his property.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Is that really what you think?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Neither do I,” I said.

  Chapter Five

  The Trelawney house was already crowded by the time Sadie and I arrived. When we got inside, I looked around for both Mrs. Trelawney and Riley Kendall. I didn’t see either one. I was rather relieved not to see Riley and rather concerned not to see Mrs. Trelawney.

  A woman who appeared to be in her mid to late sixties, with what the women of Steel Magnolias would’ve called a football-helmet hairdo, greeted us and thanked us for coming.

  “Where’s Mrs. Trelawney?” I asked.

  The woman thinned her already thin lips. “She’s sitting in the den. She was blubbering and babbling so much, I sent her in there.”

  “And who are you?” Sadie asked with her customary tact.

  “I’m Sylvia Shaw, Bill’s sister. I’m here to see to his affairs. Maggie certainly isn’t capable of doing so.”

  “Where’s the den?” I asked.

  “Down the hall, second door on your right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What nerve,” Sadie whispered as we started down the hall.

  “Poor Mrs. Trelawney. First her husband dies, and then she has to deal with this shrew.” I knocked quietly on the den door.

  “Come in,” came the muffled answer from inside the room.

  I opened the door, and Sadie and I stepped into the room. There were no lights on, so we had to adjust our eyes to the dim light filtering in from the hallway. The den had two walls covered with bookshelves. The books were all hardcovers, and most of them appeared to be old, as far as I could tell. A large desk sat in the middle of the room, and there were two brown leather couches facing each other from either side of the desk. Mrs. Trelawney lay on the couch that was facing away from the door.

  I closed the door halfway, hoping we wouldn’t be disturbed but needing the glimmer of light. “Mrs. Trelawney, it’s Marcy Singer and Sadie MacKenzie. Are you all right?”

  “No, my dears. How could I be all right?”

  Sadie and I shared a glance and then approached Mrs. Trelawney.

  “We’re so sorry,” I said.

  “Blake and I made some of your favorite muffins and scones today,” Sadie said. “Before we go, I’ll put this basket in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you, Mrs. Trelawney?” I asked. “Anything you need us to get for you?”

  “Anyone we can call for you?” Sadie added.

  Mrs. Trelawney smiled wanly. “Somebody besides Sylvia, you mean?”

  “Yeah,” Sadie said. “She’s a real piece of work.”

  “She has a brusque way about her, but she means well.”

  Sadie frowned. “But she sent you—”

  “To my room—or, rather, Bill’s room—like a misbehaving little child?” Mrs. Trelawney asked. “She thought it was best. I was terribly distressed.”

  “No one would expect you to be otherwise,” I said.

  Mrs. Trelawney raised a white lace handkerchief to her cheek. “Why would anyone want to hurt Bill? He’s a good man.”

  “We know.” I patted her hand. “I can’t help but wonder if his death and Timothy Enright’s death are somehow connected.”

  She started when I said that, and looked straight at me, her eyes brighter. It was as if she’d suddenly come out of a dream. “Do you think so? I told Chief Myers that, but he didn’t seem to agree. It’s so terrible, so awful to think . . . but I’ve been wondering, too. I don’t want to . . .”

  Suddenly, the den door was flung open and the light flipped on. Mrs. Trelawney, Sadie, and I blinked and squinted against the glare.

  “Maggie,” Sylvia said, “Detective Nash is here to see you, so please straighten up and answer his questions.”

  Detective Nash shot Sylvia a look of disbelief before she turned as stiffly as a toy soldier and exited the den.

  “Good evening,” Detective Nash said to Mrs. Trelawney. “I’m sorry to disturb you at this terrible time, Mrs. Trelawney, but I need to ask you a few questions.” He looked at Sadie and me. “Would you please excuse us, ladies?”

  “Of course,” Sadie said. “I need to put this basket in the kitchen.”

  “And I’d like to see if Mrs. Danvers has a reflection in the mirror over the mantel in the living room,” I said.

  I was surprised to see Detective Nash’s lips twitch at that. Was it possible he knew who Mrs. Danvers was? He might have a tiny bit of a sense of humor after all.

  Sadie and I took the muffin and scone basket through the small groups of people gathered throughout the living room into the adjoining dining room. A man and woman stood near the head of a large walnut dining table, discussing the stock market as if they were at a cocktail party. We excused ourselves and walked by them into the kitchen. There were several food baskets sitting on the island. Three were fruit baskets, two contained cookies, and one held meats and cheeses. Sadie placed her basket among the others.

  “Maggie will never be able to eat all that fruit before it spoils,” Sylvia said.

  She’d been standing quietly in the corner, and I hadn’t noticed her. I don’t think Sadie had, either.

  “Would one of you girls please remove the cards from two of those fruit baskets and then take the fruit to the food bank tomorrow?” Sylvia asked.

  Sadie and I exchanged glances. It seemed terribly inappropriate to visit a grieving widow and make off with her fruit baskets . . . even if we were giving the baskets to the poor. I mean, not even Robin Hood would be that audacious. Would he?

  “The cards will convey the well-wishers’ sentiments,” Sylvia continued, “and the fruit will go to a good cause rather than sit here and rot.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Sadie said.

  “Of course, I do. I’m not an ogre. I’m trying to take care of things.” Sylvia’s eyes filled with tears. “Billy was my big brother, and he always took care of me. Now I have to—” Her voice broke, and she began to sob.

  “We’re truly sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Yes, we are.” Sadie began taking the cards off two of the fruit baskets. “We have no idea what you and Mrs. Trelawney must be going through.”

  “If there’s anything you need . . . anything we can do,” I began lamely, “please let us know.” Why is it that even the most heartfelt sentiments expressed at times like this seem so trite?

  Sylvia sniffled. “Just drop off the fruit baskets, please.”

  “We will.” I looked pointedly toward the dining room. “Do you mind if we go out this back door, in case the people who brought these baskets are still here?”

  “Not at all.” Sylvia took a tissue from the pocket of her tailored black jacket and wiped away the mascara smudged under her eyes. “Thank you.”

  With Sadie and I each carrying a fruit basket, we furtivel
y slipped out the kitchen door. As we started around the side of the house, we heard voices. I put my free hand on Sadie’s arm to cue her to stop.

  “She told me Tim wrote something about Four Square on her wall.”

  That was Riley Kendall.

  “What was he doing there, Lorraine?” Riley continued. “Why would he want to tell Marcy Singer anything? Did he even know her?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Lorraine Enright. “I don’t think he was cheating on me with her, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s not what I mean at all,” Riley said. “I’m really not trying to pry into your love life. What I want—what I need—to know is what and how Tim knew about Four Square.”

  “I’ll look through his papers again,” Lorraine said. “That’s all I can do.”

  I jerked my head toward the other side of the house. Sadie nodded, and we went in the opposite direction from Riley and Lorraine.

  “Wonder what that was about,” Sadie said as soon as we got into the Jeep.

  I told her about my visit to Riley’s office earlier that afternoon.

  “What now?” Sadie asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe Reggie can help me figure out why Tim Enright wanted to talk with me about Four Square.”

  “Or maybe Norman Patrick can.”

  I shot her a quick look. “Riley’s dad?”

  “Uh-huh. The prison isn’t that far from here. We could pay him a visit on Sunday.”

  “We as in you and I?”

  “We could take Blake and Todd along and make a day of it.”

  “Oh, sure, Sadie, that would be cool. Road trip to the penitentiary. That sounds like such a fun time, I’m surprised no one has made a movie about it. I’ll see if Mom can talk it up around some of her friends.”

  Sadie was silent. “Wait,” I said. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I’m serious.”

  “But what makes you think Norman Patrick would even talk with us?”

  “Because old Norm was rumored to be quite the womanizer. And I’ve heard it said the gentleman prefers blondes.” She softly tugged a strand of my hair.