Cross-Stitch Before Dying

by Amanda Lee

  “I’m glad you didn’t have to call in the cavalry,” Ms. Trublonski said, as Angus eventually calmed. “I feel I’ve brought too much attention and aggravation to you and your mother already.”

  “No, that’s fine,” I said. “I’m sorry you’re being followed and hounded while you’re still trying to come to terms with your grief.”

  “Yes, well. . . .” She stole a glance at the media stationed outside Todd’s pub and craft brewery. “It goes with the territory . . . even when you’re not the famous one.” She gestured toward the sit-and-stitch square. “May we sit?”

  “Let’s go into my office where we can better avoid the prying eyes,” I said.

  “Sure,” she said, and yet she looked over her shoulder at the reporters again.

  I led her into my office. “Would you care for some water, mango juice, or soda?”

  “No, thanks. I won’t stay but a minute. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for all the sorrow this tragedy has brought on your mom . . . and you too, of course.”

  “We’re sorry for your grief, Ms. Trublonski.”

  “Thank you. You’re kind.” She raised an index finger. “I’ll have to mention that in the book.”

  “The book?” I asked.

  “Yes. Carl—Carl Paxton, Babs’ manager—came by with breakfast this morning, and we had an in-depth discussion about my writing a book. And we’re going to do it,” she said. “We’re going to produce a book—I’ll be doing most of the writing—and we’re going to call it BTru to Your Dreams. Get it? BTru—like the media dubbed Babs?”

  I nodded. “I get it.”

  “Carl said it would be an excellent way to deal with my sorrow while also making sure Babs’ story is properly told.”

  I struggled for the proper words. “Are you sure you want to write a book? I mean, maybe you should give yourself time to get over the shock of your daughter’s death before you rush into anything.”

  “Oh, no, it’s a done deal. Carl is probably shopping the literary and film rights even as we speak. He said we need to get the jump on those media hounds who’ll be eager to write their own books and tell their own twisted version of Babs’ story.” She gave one resolute nod. “I’m going to do this for her. I owe her that.”

  • • •

  After Mita Trublonski left, I returned to the sit-and-stitch square and embroidered the pillowcase. I made good progress on it. I also waited on a few customers and took a couple of phone calls. One caller wanted to make sure class was still on for this evening, and I verified that it was. Upon ending the call, I reflected that it might have been a reporter rather than a student. I hoped that wasn’t the case, but I’d deal with class after work.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly be surprised by anything else life threw at me that day, Henry Beaumont called.

  “Hi . . . Henry,” I stammered after he introduced himself. “How may I help you?”

  “I’d like for you to meet with me,” he said. “I’m in my car now and can be there within a couple of minutes.”

  “Okay, but come to the back of the shop. There’s an alley there, and I’ll let you in the back entrance. Maybe that way, you won’t be mobbed by reporters.”

  “Is the media staking out your place?” he asked.

  “They’re not as obtrusive now as they were earlier,” I said. “But I don’t doubt they’re still around here somewhere.”

  “All right. Thanks. I’ll be right there.”

  “I’ll be watching for you.”

  I put aside my embroidery and went to the back entrance of the shop. Almost immediately, a silver Mercedes sedan pulled into the alley. The windows were slightly tinted, but when the car got closer, I could see that Henry was driving it.

  He parked, got out, and looked around. I assumed he was checking for media.

  “I appreciate your meeting with me, Marcy,” he said, as he walked through the door.

  “Anytime.” I locked the door back after we were inside. “So, what can I do for you?”

  He sighed. “I’d appreciate it if you’d try to talk your mother into speaking with me. I’ve left message after message, but she won’t return my calls.”

  I remembered what Alfred said about Mom knowing something about Babs’ murder. Could she have seen Henry with Babs after the fitting?

  “I’ll talk with her,” I said. I led him through the hall and into my office. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you, though.” He sank into the chair in front of my desk. He looked gaunt and exhausted, and his eyes bore no hint of exotic color from tinted contact lenses.

  “You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” I asked.

  “Not very much.”

  “What happened that morning? Did you see either Mom or Babs after you sent Mom to do the refitting?”

  “I saw your mother.” He raised his eyes to mine. “What has she told you about that morning?”

  “Not much,” I said. “In fact, this is typical Mom. When she’s in crisis mode, she practically shuts down and doesn’t talk much to anyone.” That sounded like a reasonable version of the truth that could explain why she hadn’t returned Henry’s calls. “All I know is that Mom did the refitting and that she and Babs argued about it.”

  Henry rubbed his hand over his face. “I don’t think she meant to do it, but I believe that altercation led to Babs’ fall.”

  “You believe my mother had something to do with Babs’ death?” Was he simply trying to point the finger at Mom in order to exonerate himself?

  “Not purposely, no,” he said. “I just think that they got into an argument, that there was some pushing involved, and that Babs lost her footing and fell.”

  I stared at him openmouthed.

  Henry stood and placed his hands on my shoulders. “I need to talk with her. I must know what happened if I’m going to be of any help whatsoever.”

  He pulled me into a hug, but my arms hung limply at my sides. I was still processing what he was saying.

  “I’m doing a press conference at five thirty this afternoon outside the hotel where I’m staying,” he said, stepping back to look into my face. “I’m unable to wait any longer. The press is calling for answers.”

  “A-and you’re going to tell them your theory . . . about Mom?”

  “No, no, no. I’m going to answer any questions about Babs’ death as elusively as I possibly can,” Henry said. “But I need to know for my own personal reasons what happened.”

  “Because of your relationship with Babs?” I asked.

  “Because of my relationship with your mother. The show must go on, you know.”

  “The show must go on?” I echoed. “But how can it?”

  “I’m too heavily invested in this project not to get another actress and move on, Marcy, and I need to be assured I can count on Bev as my costume designer. If I can’t, I’m going to have to find a replacement for her too, and as soon as possible.” He looked at his watch. “I need to go and get ready for the press conference. Have her call me, okay?”

  I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Tell her that if I don’t hear from her by noon tomorrow, I’ll have to hire another costumer.” That said, he left.

  After Henry left the office, I sat down on my desk chair and placed my head between my knees. I felt light-headed and was afraid I might faint. Could this nightmare get any weirder?

  The bells over the shop door jingled, and I groaned.

  “Be there in a minute!” I shouted.

  “How about I come to you?” The deep, rich voice belonged to Todd Calloway. I was so relieved, I thought I might cry.

  “Thank goodness, it’s you,” I said.

  “What’s wrong?” He sidestepped Angus, who’d trotted in beside him, and dropped to one knee in front of me. “Are you si
ck?”

  “I don’t know if sick is the proper word for what I’m feeling,” I said. “Although, come to think of it, I do feel like I’m against the ropes and being beaten by a professional boxer . . . just one blow after another.”

  “Wanna talk about it?” he asked.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard most of it. Babushka Tru died on set. Mom was overheard arguing with her before her death. Her mother visited both yesterday and today and is getting ready to write a tell-all book. And now the producer-director—Henry Beaumont—just left after telling me that he believes Mom is responsible for Babs’ death but that he needs to know by noon tomorrow whether or not he needs to hire a new costume designer. And if that’s not enough, Mom is shutting me out and won’t tell me what’s going on with her.”

  “Wow. You don’t need me. You need a bottle of vodka.”

  I laughed. “No, I don’t. I couldn’t handle a hangover on top of all my other problems.”

  “I made you smile, though.” He grinned. “You got to give me credit for that.”

  “Yes, you did,” I said. “Thank you. Now, what are you doing here? Are you looking for a new embroidery project already?”

  “Nope, I believe I’ve got all the embroidery supplies I’ll need . . . ever,” Todd said. “I just came to check on you after seeing all the vultures swarming outside the pub earlier today.”

  “I’m sorry about that. They were standing outside the window driving Angus and me up the wall until I threatened to call the police. If they bother you again, threaten them. That seems to work.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t threaten. I’ll simply tell them to either buy a drink or leave.”

  “I know some of the reporters have been asking Blake and Sadie questions,” I said. “Have they been pestering you?”

  “Nah. I hear them talking among themselves, but they haven’t talked to me much.”

  I studied his face. “Are you downplaying it to make me feel better?”

  “Of course I am.” He took my hands and pulled me to my feet. “But I can handle whatever they throw at me, and so can you. Stop your moping.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I always am. We’ll get through this. We’ve gotten through worse, haven’t we?” he asked.

  “Yeah. We’ve gotten through worse.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Angus and I arrived home after work that evening, we found Mom sitting on the sofa in the living room. She wasn’t watching television, wasn’t reading, wasn’t thumbing through a magazine—she was just sitting there staring into space.

  “Hello, darling,” she said, as I followed Angus into the living room. He’d already placed his big, furry head on her lap, and she was hugging him.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Did you have a nice day?”

  I sat on the armchair, slipped off my shoes, and propped my feet on the ottoman. “I’m not sure I’d call it nice. It has been one surprise after another, though.”

  “I should get dinner started,” she said.

  “No need, unless you’re hungry,” I said. “I’ll just grab a protein bar on the way back to the shop.”

  “Ted isn’t joining us?”

  “No. He has to work this evening.” I glanced at the clock over the mantel and saw that it was twenty minutes past five. Henry’s press conference was due to start in ten minutes. “Mom, why won’t you return Henry’s calls?”

  “I’ve been distracted. Besides, Ted said I shouldn’t speak with another suspect, right?”

  “He did say that, but what advice did Alfred and Cam give you? If you’re still going to work with the man, you’ll have to speak with him sooner or later. That doesn’t mean you have to discuss Babushka Tru’s death.”

  “Why the sudden concern over Henry?” she asked.

  “He came by the shop today and practically begged me to have you call him.” When she didn’t respond, I felt I had to bring out the big guns in order to see how she was really feeling. “He thinks you might’ve accidentally caused Babs to fall.”

  Mom’s jaw dropped. “He’s pointing the finger at me? He was the last person to see Babs alive. I’ll bet he didn’t tell you that now, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t. So you think Henry killed Babs?”

  “I’m not saying that,” she said, sighing and resting her head against the back of the sofa. “I don’t know what I think. All I know is that I was on my way back to report to Henry when I passed him heading toward the loft’s fitting room.”

  “Are you sure he was going to see Babs?”

  “I’m not certain, but where else could he have been going? The fitting area was the only thing in that direction.”

  “Maybe the two of you should talk,” I said. “You could have Alfred with you, if you think it’s necessary. I mean, isn’t it possible that both of you are mistaken and that neither of you caused Babs to fall? Maybe there’s something else that, if you put your heads together, you’ll remember.” Again, I glanced at the clock.

  “Why do you keep watching the clock? I didn’t think you had to be back at the shop until six o’clock.”

  “I don’t, but Henry is giving a press conference outside his hotel at five thirty.” I retrieved the television remote. “I think we should watch and see what he has to say.”

  Mom was silent, but she didn’t protest. She merely sat with her arms crossed over her chest. Angus came over to lie by my chair.

  I turned on the television and switched back and forth between the three local channels until I found the one that was stationed outside Henry Beaumont’s hotel. The stiff-haired anchorwoman was already talking.

  “...where Henry Beaumont, the award-winning Hollywood producer and director of such movies as Fatal Lies, will be discussing the tragic death of starlet Babushka Tru, who died while on location for Beaumont’s latest movie, Sonam Zakaria: A Glamorous Life. Here comes Mr. Beaumont now. Let’s listen.”

  The camera panned to a podium with a microphone that had been set up on the lawn of the hotel. Reporters were gathered four deep in a semicircle around the podium.

  Henry had changed clothes since he’d been at the Seven-Year Stitch. He was dressed in a tailored suit, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he’d had one of the makeup artists touch up his haggard complexion. His eyes appeared to be an emerald green, which meant he was back in contact lens mode.

  He stepped up to the podium and adjusted both his tie and the microphone. “Good evening. Thank you all for being here. First and foremost, I want to express my deepest sympathies—as well as those of the entire cast and crew—to Babushka Tru’s family and friends. She was a beautiful person, and she’ll be terribly missed. Since her death is still under investigation by the Tallulah County Police Department, however, I’m not permitted to speak about that and will take no questions on the subject.”

  From the corner of my eye, I sneaked a peek at Mom. She was glaring at the TV screen, and her mouth was a thin, tight line.

  “Further, I must say that although we are all appalled and shocked by Babushka Tru’s untimely death, the production will go forward as planned. As soon as the investigation into this affair has been completed to the point that we may return to San Francisco, the cast and crew will go back and regroup, recast the role of Sonam Zakaria, and continue making the film. We know Babs would have wanted it that way, and we’ll, of course, dedicate the movie to her memory.” He lowered his head briefly. Then he said, “That’s all I have to say for now. Thank you for your time.” With that, he turned and hurried back into the hotel.

  The camera went back to the anchorwoman. “There you have it. The show must go on, I suppose. Doug?”

  The screen split into the shot of the anchorwoman at the scene and “Doug” who was sitting at the news desk.

  “Lynette, what did you ma
ke of Henry Beaumont’s demeanor?”

  “I think the man looked exhausted, Doug. He has obviously been through an ordeal. He lost his star, but it sounds as if he has too much invested in this movie to back out.”

  “I understand that Mita Trublonski, Babushka Tru’s mother, is in town,” Doug said. “Any word from her on how she feels about Beaumont’s decision to continue making the movie?”

  “Not yet. I do plan on following up with her and will be sure and keep our viewers informed,” Lynette said.

  “Lynette, what do you make of the fact that Ms. Trublonski has been to a local embroidery shop—the Seven-Year Stitch—twice since coming to Tallulah Falls?” Doug asked.

  “One could surmise that the woman enjoys embroidery, Doug, but I’m not so sure that’s the case. The shop owner is Marcella Singer, daughter of the movie’s costume designer, Beverly Singer.”

  Before Lynette could continue, I switched the television off.

  “What did they mean that Mita Trublonski has been to your shop twice?” Mom asked. “I thought yesterday was the first time she’d been there.”

  “It was. She came back today. I’ve got to say those people are quick.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She said she came to apologize for any grief last night’s visit might’ve caused,” I said. “But she also mentioned that she and Carl Paxton are writing a book about Babs’ life. Mom, have you met this Paxton character?”

  Mom nodded. “I don’t particularly like him, though. He hasn’t done anything to make me dislike him, it’s just that I get a bad vibe when I’m around him.”

  “First thing this morning, Kendra Morgan—a reporter with the Tinseltown Tattler—came into the Seven-Year Stitch. At first, she tried to play herself off as a customer, but when she couldn’t pull it off, she came clean and told me why she was really there.”