by Amanda Lee
“And your investigative skills led you to an embroidery shop five miles away from the scene of the crime?”
“I know your mom is Beverly Singer, the costume designer for Henry Beaumont’s new movie, Sonam Zakaria: A Glamorous Life,” Kendra said. “I also know that she and Babs didn’t get along and that they had an argument the morning Babs died.”
“I don’t know anything about Babs’ accident,” I said. “I was here when the accident occurred.”
“Don’t go getting defensive on me. I don’t think your mother pushed Babushka Tru out of that loft to her death. In fact, I’ve tried to tell Detectives Bailey and Ray as much, but they won’t listen to me. They think I have some sort of angle.”
After hearing that she didn’t think my mother was guilty, I offered Kendra a cup of coffee. I didn’t entirely trust her, but I wanted to hear what she had to say.
Kendra accepted the coffee, and we sat down in the sit-and-stitch square.
“This is a nice little boutique you have here,” she said. “Maybe I could do a piece on it for the Tattler . . . you know, if this all turns out well for your mom.”
“About that. Why are you so convinced she had nothing to do with Babs’ death?”
She leaned forward. “Here’s the deal. I’ve been following a story about Babs and her manager for over a year now. The manager is kind of a father-figure to Babs. But, much like her real dad, he’d started taking advantage of her . . . only in more ways than one, if you get my drift.”
“I get it,” I said.
“Okay, so Babs was starting to get tired of their whole arrangement, and they’d been fighting a lot,” Kendra said. “She was getting ready to fire him—I know she was. And when that happened, he was going to be ruined.”
“Why would he be ruined?”
“Because no one else would’ve hired him. He’s an alcoholic who is also addicted to gambling. Babs had been paying off his poker debts for years. You think anyone else would do that, given the amount of work he does?” She snorted. “Or, should I say, given the amount of work he doesn’t? Babushka Tru should have been working steadily since Surf Dad, but he sat around on his lazy butt and not only didn’t get her any substantial work, he got her into alcohol too.”
“Why do you think he’s the one who killed her?” I asked.
“He was always hanging around her. He was there on set yesterday—I saw him myself.” She sat her coffee on the table and spread her hands. “It’s like this. He had the most to gain from her death, and the most to lose from her living. It’s rumored that Babs was pregnant. If that’s the case, I’ll bet dollars to donuts that the baby was his. I’ve already told you that I believe Babs was getting ready to dump the guy. If she did, the money she got for this movie would be his last commission from her. She was poised to make a comeback with this film. She’d have hired a better manager, and he’d have been out.”
“You said that Detectives Ray and Bailey won’t listen to you,” I said. “I’d have thought they’d have to.”
“Well, they told me they were looking into everyone who was on the set as a suspect, but they thought I was just there to get some sort of exclusive.” She gave me a rueful grin. “People tend not to trust you when you tell them you work for the Tinseltown Tattler. Had I said I worked for CNN, I’d have been taken seriously.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.
“Because if my mother was at the top of a list of murder suspects, I’d be making sure the police took a long, hard look at a much likelier suspect.”
“Thank you.”
She reached into her small, beaded clutch and took out a card. “I’d like for you to call me if you find out anything.”
I glanced at the card before putting it in my pocket. “Okay. Thanks again for the input.”
“Anytime. I hope you’ll return the favor,” she said.
“I will if I can.”
As Kendra left, she said she might really consider trying embroidery one day and that if she did, she knew where to shop. I still didn’t trust her. Like the Tallulah County Police Department detectives, I knew Kendra was simply looking for an exclusive, but the tip about Babs’ manager could prove to be valuable information.
I needed to do something to keep my hands busy. I’d finished up my other projects in anticipation of working on the costumes for the movie—all except for the two projects I had ongoing in my two evening classes, and I preferred to work on those then. Now that the movie probably wasn’t going to be made, I didn’t have the costumes to keep me occupied. I went to the racks and found a beautiful stamped pillowcase kit. Rather than using the threads that came with the kit, however, I decided to do the entire floral design using a soft mauve floss. It would be like redwork or blackwork—a form of embroidery where one uses only black or red thread to create the design—only with mauve. The monochromatic color scheme would match the décor in my bedroom, and it would provide some stitching that I could do without having to think too much . . . about the stitching, anyway.
I found the perfect-colored floss, sat down on a red club chair in the sit-and-stitch square, and began to work. Angus lay down at my feet and chewed on one of his favorite toys—a Kodiak bear that Vera had given him.
I was a little surprised that Vera hadn’t been in today. The day was young, though.
The design on the pillowcase consisted mostly of lazy daisy stitches and French knots. I’d done a good-sized portion of the first pillowcase when my next customer came in. Or, at least, she appeared to be a customer. She looked more like a customer than Kendra had. This woman had shoulder-length chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a friendly, open smile.
“Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch,” I said. “How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for some tapestry needles,” she said, bending slightly to pet Angus who’d gone over to say hello.
I put my pillowcase on the ottoman and walked over to the counter. “What size?”
“I need a twenty-eight, and a twenty-six, if you have them,” she said. “I’m doing some petite cross- stitch on a linen tablecloth for my sister’s first wedding anniversary.”
I smiled. “I have both sizes.” This was more like it.
• • •
I was sitting in the sit-and-stitch square dutifully working on my pillowcase—lazy daisy, lazy daisy, French knot, lazy daisy, et cetera—when Alfred breezed into the shop. He looked dapper, carefree, and not like a man recently appointed the task of defending my mother against a murder charge.
“Good afternoon, young man,” he said to Angus.
Angus trotted over and dropped a soggy ball at Alfred’s polished loafers. Rather than picking it up, Alfred took a dog biscuit wrapped first in a napkin and then in a linen handkerchief and handed it to the dog.
“Your grandma sent you that, Angus.” He gave me a wink. “Would she die if she heard me call her that?”
“No,” I said, with a laugh. “She loves him to pieces.” I placed my pillowcase on the coffee table and offered Alfred a cup of coffee.
“No, thank you, darling. I’ve already had enough to sink a battleship.” He placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the shop. “Excellent! Beautiful place you have here. I’d seen the photos, of course, but they don’t do it justice. I’m very proud of you.”
“Thank you. Come sit down and tell me why you’re so chipper after the super-secret meeting at my kitchen table.”
Alfred moved over to the navy sofa facing away from the window and sat down. “I’m in a good mood because your mother isn’t guilty, of course.”
“You knew that—or, at least, I hope you did—when you first arrived this morning, and you didn’t seem so carefree then,” I said.
He gazed around the room. “I like how you’ve set this small, cozy area apart from the merchandise. It makes it very welcoming.”
; “Alfred.”
He brought his eyes back to mine. “Everything your mother said to Cam Whitting and me after you left was told to us in confidence. As her attorneys, we cannot break that confidence.”
“I realize that,” I said. “But can’t you tell me something that will ease my mind too? For instance, was my mother in any way responsible for Babushka Tru’s death?”
“No, she was not,” he said firmly. “However, she believes she might know the identity of the guilty party. That’s causing her quite a bit of grief and consternation.”
I leaned forward. “But this could clear her as a suspect.”
“If anyone else can corroborate her story, then it certainly can,” he said, with a smile.
“And you believe someone can?” I asked.
“I do. There were enough people on set that someone had to have seen enough to confirm your mother’s . . . alibi . . . I suppose you could say. Cam is checking on that even as we speak.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, that’s all I can say about that. Show me your office and that notorious storeroom where you found that body the morning after your grand opening soiree.”
• • •
Ted arrived between twelve thirty and one o’clock that afternoon with sub sandwiches and baked chips. I put the cardboard clock on the door saying I’d be back in thirty minutes, locked up, and then joined Ted and Angus in my office.
As Ted set out our food, I took two bottles of water from the mini-fridge. “I’ve had an interesting morning,” I told him. “First, a reporter from the Tinseltown Tattler—Kendra Morgan—came by. She pretended to be a customer, but she made it obvious in a hurry that she knew nothing about embroidery.”
“Did she give you any trouble?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not really. I didn’t appreciate her attempt to deceive me, but she did put a bug in my ear about another possible suspect. She said that Babs had been arguing a lot with her manager lately, and that it was rumored that Babs was getting ready to fire him.”
“Keep in mind that she’d already tried to deceive you once. She might’ve just been feeding you another line so that you’d tell her what you know,” Ted said.
“Maybe, but she even mentioned Detectives Bailey and Ray. She said she’d tried to get them to look into the manager as a suspect but that they’ve refused to speak with her.”
He unwrapped his sandwich. “It sounds as if they don’t trust her either. I’ll talk with them and see what I can find out.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Inch-High. They’re bound to know you and I are involved, so they might not tell me anything. I imagine they’re playing this one fairly close to the vest.”
“Still, you can tell them Kendra Morgan was here telling me that she suspects Babs’ manager,” I said. “Either they’d look at the manager a little closer, or else they’d have you warn me about Kendra. At least, we’d learn something from talking with them.”
“That’s true.”
I followed Ted’s lead and unwrapped my ham-and-cheese sub. “Kendra had also heard the rumor that Babs was pregnant. She believes that, if the rumor was true, that Babs was carrying her manager’s baby.”
“Babs was pregnant,” Ted said. “The medical examiner confirmed that this morning.”
“Can they do a DNA test to determine paternity?” I asked.
“I’m sure they can, but that’ll take a while. Still, it adds to motives for murdering Babs that your mother did not have.”
“Speaking of Mom, Alfred came in a little while ago. He said that she believes she knows who killed Babs. Apparently, she saw something.” I took a drink of my water. “Ted, why is she shutting me out on this? Why won’t she tell me anything?”
“I think it’s because she’s either protecting you or she’s protecting someone else,” he said. “Did she ever call Henry back?”
“I don’t know.” I slowly put the cap back on my water bottle. “Do you think that’s it? Do you think Henry killed Babs and that Mom is protecting him?”
Ted placed his strong hand over mine. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Give her a little space, and maybe she’ll come around and tell you what she knows.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
He grinned. “Somehow, you’ll find a way to drag it out of her. But go easy on her. Maybe you could just tell her what Kendra Morgan told you, and see what she says about that.”
Chapter Twelve
After lunch, I did an Internet search for Babushka Tru’s manager. I learned his name was Carl Paxton and that he’d been a corporate attorney before dipping his toe into the entertainment pond. Babs had been his first client. At thirty-five, Paxton was going through a rather messy divorce when he’d renegotiated Babs’ contract with the Surf Dad producers, garnering the child star a sizable salary increase for what would be the show’s final season.
Paxton had a few high-profile celebrity romances, but none of them lasted very long. I could find no other mentions of big-name clients, so I guessed that Babs was the biggest name on his client roster . . . maybe the only name.
When Babs turned twenty-one, Carl Paxton took her to the Gallery, a Hollywood club frequented by movie stars and pop music moguls. Together, they toasted to her adulthood. According to gossip sites—including the Tinseltown Tattler—that occasion marked the beginning of Babs’ romantic relationship with the manager who was twenty-four years her senior. I, for one, thought it was more than a little creepy. Had this guy been biding his time since the girl was eleven years old to become her boyfriend?
Ignoring the canoodling, we’re-so-in-love pics and articles, I moved on to the more recent trouble-in-paradise exposés. Headlines blared, “Paxton Warns BTru Not to Make Bollywood Film” and wondered, “Is BTru Risking Her Career for Henry Beaumont?” These articles contained photos of a seemingly infatuated Babushka Tru and a besotted, albeit married Henry Beaumont spending more and more time together. Spokespersons for both Babs and Henry contended that they were simply hammering out details and contract negotiations for the upcoming movie role. Still, there were fewer and fewer incidences of Babs and Carl Paxton being seen together, and rumors of a rift were widespread.
Finally, I shut down my computer and returned to the sit-and-stitch square to ruminate on everything while I worked on my pillowcase. Both Angus and Jill agreed with me wholeheartedly that Paxton had been right in trying to dissuade Babs to make her comeback in a biopic that would likely have little commercial appeal. (What? Sometimes it helps you to sort things out by talking them over with pets and/or mannequins. Don’t judge.)
Mom hoped the film would appeal to those who determined artistic merit; and while it very well might, small independent productions like this movie can often abound in awards and yet fall flat at the box office. So, from the standpoint of someone managing Babushka Tru’s career, I could see why Paxton would have wanted her to find a role that would’ve had a better chance at becoming a blockbuster—like a romantic comedy or an action flick. Had Babs’ affection for Henry Beaumont colored her decision making? Had Henry promised her great things? Had Babs fallen so far from grace in the eyes of Hollywood that she’d had practically no choice but to take this role in order to prove herself?
I was deciding that if anyone could answer those questions for me, Mom could, when a customer walked through the door. She was a woman in her mid- to late thirties, and she was searching for a book with projects combining cross-stitch with beading.
I took her over to the issues of Jill Oxton’s Cross Stitch & Beading magazines I had on hand. “I also have some kits that combine cross-stitching and beading.”
“That would be great,” she said.
I led her to the kits. “If you need any help, just let me know.”
“I think I’ll get one of these kits to get the hang of things, but I want one of the magazines
too. I’m enamored of the tiger in that one.” She pointed to the cover of one of the issues of Cross Stitch & Beading.
“Do you need any floss or needles while you’re here?” I asked.
“Not yet. Everything I’ll need for this one is included, isn’t it?” She held up the kit she’d chosen of an angel.
“Yes. The kit is complete.”
“Then I’ll start with that and then come back for supplies for other projects if I do all right with this one,” she said, with a laugh.
We walked over to the counter.
“If you need any help at all, please come back and I’ll give you a hand,” I said.
“I will. Thank you.”
I checked out her purchases and placed them in a periwinkle Seven-Year Stitch bag. “Thank you. I hope to see you again soon.”
As she was walking out, Mita Trublonski walked in. She was wearing the halfhearted “disguise” of mirrored sunglasses. In fact, I only realized the glasses were supposed to be a disguise when she took them off and apologized for the crazy getup. The rest of the disguise consisted of a pastel polka dot umbrella—after all, it was cloudy and looked like it might rain—a pair of black leather pants, and a boxy, white Chanel jacket.
Had anyone not seen through Ms. Trublonski’s disguise, the pack of reporters who’d trailed her to the Seven-Year Stitch would’ve been a dead giveaway. Fortunately, the reporters stayed outside on the street. Unfortunately, they and their flashing cameras caused Angus to go on a barking, jumping-at-the-window rampage and prevented patrons from getting anywhere near my shop.
“I’m calling the police!” I yelled, taking my phone from my jeans pocket and showing the group standing at the window that I had punched the numbers nine-one-one into the phone. “If you don’t disperse from in front of this shop in the next ten seconds, I will call the police and I will press charges!”
I really would have called the police, but I was bluffing about pressing charges. I had no idea what charges I could possibly press, but my threat worked. The reporters moved away from the shop. Some moved along the street on either side—toward MacKenzies’ Mochas to the left and the aromatherapy shop to the right—while the rest went across the street to watch the Seven-Year Stitch from in front of the Brew Crew.