She nodded. “Sure. Then I need to put it away.”
I paced around the gown, taking photos from all angles. I didn’t have any use at present for pictures of an authentic eighteenth-century wedding gown, but the opportunity was too good to pass up.
I finished up with my eye on the clock as well. I was meeting Morris Hart on the Commons at noon. I needed to get out to the bus stop.
“Julie, thanks for letting me come here and for showing me all this cool stuff.”
She smiled, her gloved hands stroking the crinkled pages of Margaret Oliphant’s diary. “Come back any time. There’s always something new to see.”
I let myself out, well pleased with the historical mysteries we had explored together. Maybe I should have pursued a career in history instead of becoming a seamstress. I guess a historical seamstress was as close as I was going to get.
I had to wait a good ten minutes for the bus. When it finally arrived, it was packed, so I had to stand. I often do my best thinking on buses, but today wasn’t one of those days.
I got off the bus a couple of minutes after noon and hustled to the Printed Page to meet Hart. He was waiting for me.
“Catherine! I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show up, or if you were nothing but a dream.”
“Here I am, in the flesh. Sorry I’m a little late. My real name is Daria, you know.”
He chuckled and put an arm around my shoulders. “Thanks for keeping me honest. I do like to think of you as Catherine.” He touched my hair lightly. “You look so much like her.”
I slipped out from under his arm. “I finished reading your book last night. It kept me up until three a.m.”
He beamed at me. “I always love to hear that kind of feedback. That’s my goal, of course: to keep you on the edge of your seat until you devour the last page.” He seized my hand. “Where should we go for lunch? Do you favor tacos and Mexican rice, like Catherine?”
I tried to disengage my hand, but he held on tight. “Um, sure, tacos are good. There’s a nice Mexican restaurant along here.” I led the way to Over the Wall, a tiny storefront on the main stretch of the Commons that was a favorite with college students and tourists alike. The rough stone walls were painted in bright blues and oranges and hung with mini sombreros and garlands of flowers. Tiny bulbs of white lights crisscrossed the ceiling, giving the space a whimsical feel. Hart continued to hold my hand as we stood in line to order at the counter. I could feel his eyes on me, and I wondered if he was waiting to see if I would order Catherine’s favorite dish. I couldn’t remember what he’d written about in the novel. I felt so self-conscious, not wanting to try to be like Catherine, and not knowing whether I was heading in that direction. I should have said I wanted pizza instead.
Finally, I decided to just get what I liked and stop worrying about Catherine. I ordered two carne asada tacos. Beside me, Hart said, “I’ll have the same as the lady.”
He paid for our meals and then we found a tiny table in the corner. He leaned both elbows on the table and looked into my eyes. “So, Daria, is it? Tell me honestly, did you like Over the Sea to Skye?”
I leaned back in my chair. “I liked it very much. I don’t read a whole lot of thrillers. I have to confess, I haven’t read any of your other books. But I really enjoyed this one. I especially liked how you wove history into the story.”
Hart never took his eyes off my face. “What did you think of Catherine?”
“I wasn’t sure about her at first. I thought she might be one of the bad guys.” I chuckled. “You told me not to take it personally when things happened to Catherine, but it did creep me out when she got tortured.”
“Could you almost feel the hot iron on your skin?” He reached over and took my wrist, turning my arm to expose the underside. “But look, there are no burn marks here.”
I pulled away from him. “Right. I’m not Catherine.”
He must have heard the exasperation in my voice because he leaned back and dug into his food. “So, Daria. That’s not a Celtic name. What’s your connection to the Scottish community here?”
I took a deep breath, thankful for the change of subject. “Daria is a Greek name. It’s kind of funny, because my last name is Dembrowski, which is Polish all the way. My parents just liked the way it sounded. I don’t have any Scottish roots. I was at the Highland Games to sell my handiwork. I’m a historical seamstress.”
I was in the middle of explaining what a historical seamstress was all about when I remembered that Morris Hart was on my short list of murder suspects in the death of Ladd Foster. Now was as good a time as any to find out about his relationship to Ladd.
“It was a sad ending to the Games, with Ladd Foster’s death,” I said. “He seemed to know so many people there. Did you know him?”
Hart took a big bite of his taco, leaving me to wait a few moments before getting an answer. “I met him at the Games. He came up to talk to me about my book. Said he was a fan. That’s about it.” He took another bite and mumbled, “Terrible what happened to him, and in front of children, too.”
I remembered seeing Hart frowning while talking with Ladd, and later avoiding him when they passed each other at the VIP tent. Those two interactions hadn’t seemed like those of a fan approaching one of his favorite authors. Strange…
“I talked with Ladd a few times at the Games,” I offered. “He came to check out my booth and flirt with the woman sharing it with me. He seemed like a real character who was into just about everything.”
He shrugged and took another bite of his taco. “I couldn’t really say. I saw him heckling his competitors in the heavy events, but that was all.”
I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You’re a mystery writer. You must come up with all kinds of ways for people to meet their deaths, and motives for murder. Do you have any theories about who might have killed Ladd or what their motive could be?”
He chewed thoughtfully. “I hadn’t really thought about it. It’s kind of a pitfall of the field, if you know what I mean. Crimes happen every day, and as a mystery writer, I do pay more attention to them than the average person. There’s nothing I can think up about murder that hasn’t happened in real life. If I study the ways and means people use to kill one another, I can come up with some fantastic plots for my work. But I can also get overwhelmed by the sheer evil that exists in the world. Sometimes I need to protect myself from the real-life crimes that are so much more horrible than anything I can dream up. I suppose this is one of those instances when I’m distancing myself from a crime. I haven’t given it any systematic thought since Saturday.”
“Okay. That makes sense. I guess you don’t really want to talk about it, then?”
Hart smiled at me. “I’m in a delightful little Mexican restaurant having some excellent tacos with a beautiful young woman who embodies my heroine. Why would I want to talk about a real-life murder?”
Why indeed?
Chapter 14
We lingered over our lunch for the next hour or so, talking about Hart’s novel, Scottish politics—of which I knew next to nothing—and my progress on Corgi’s kilt. Finally, I put down my napkin with a sigh. “I need to get back to work. Corgi is counting on me to finish his kilt on time.”
Hart stood up and stretched. “I’d like to see this kilt in the making, if I may.”
I had anticipated this request, but I still didn’t know what to say. I didn’t really want him coming to my house. His fascination with my likeness to Catherine and his insistent physical contact were both red flags to me. I had very much enjoyed our lunch together in this public place, but bringing him home with me was something else altogether. To make matters worse, I didn’t have my own transportation. My plan was to take the bus home, but what would I do if he offered me a ride? “No, thanks, I’ll take the bus” was a pointed brush-off, but accepting a ride came with all kinds of expectati
ons I wasn’t interested in fulfilling. Time to lie.
I got up and led the way out of the restaurant. “Oh, no, I just realized I’m meeting Gillian this afternoon for a sewing lesson,” I said. That much was true. “We’re meeting at the library. I won’t be able to get to Corgi’s kilt until later today.”
Hart nodded, a disappointed look on his face. “Too bad. I’ll walk you to your car.”
I thought about having him accompany me to some random car, but he might get suspicious when I didn’t get in. “Oh, I didn’t drive today. I’m on the bus.” I waved in the direction of the bus stop. “It’s been lovely having lunch with you.”
He grasped my hand, as if to keep me from flying away from him. “The least I can do is offer you a ride to the library.” He tucked my hand under his arm and walked me down the sidewalk. “My car’s around the corner.”
I bowed to the inevitable and accompanied him to his car, a sleek Lexus, as befitted a successful author. He opened the door with a flourish and handed me in as if I were a film star. I certainly wasn’t used to such gentlemanly attentions.
I took a deep breath, and by the time he got in the car, I had a smile on my face. “Do you know where the library is?”
He nodded and started up the car. The engine was incredibly quiet, and the absence of road noise screamed luxury more than anything else about the vehicle. I leaned back in the comfortable seat and resolved to enjoy the short ride.
“I was at the Tremington Museum this morning,” I said, hoping to keep the conversation away from my home. “I learned some things about Margaret Oliphant Tremington, the wife of Judge Tremington, who was one of the founders of our town. Margaret came to Pennsylvania from Scotland after the Forty-Five.” I glanced at him, making sure I was using this term correctly. “Her father fought with Bonnie Prince Charlie in the uprising, so they had to flee the country. It’s amazing how her story intersects with your novel.”
Hart regarded me with interest. “Margaret Oliphant Tremington? The local university bears her name, I understand. What did you learn about her story today?”
“I got to see her wedding dress. It was recently discovered in an attic at the university, so it’s under reconstruction right now.” I told him about the water-stained dress and the portrait that showed it on her special day.
“I understand Judge Tremington and his wife had only one child, a son named Finnley,” Hart said, maneuvering the car past a couple of kids skateboarding in the middle of the road. “Did you learn anything about him at the museum today?”
“No, I didn’t learn anything new about Finnley. But I know from what I learned in third grade that he continued his father’s work, becoming a lawyer who practiced in Philadelphia. The Tremington descendants mostly live in Philly now. They still support the museum financially, and I think the board of trustees has a seat reserved for a member of the Tremington family.” Of course, the child I was interested in was the potential baby born before Finnley. But I didn’t know how much I wanted to share my speculations about Margaret’s pregnancy with Morris Hart. It almost seemed like spreading gossip, especially since I hadn’t actually read her diary entries yet. But it couldn’t hurt to mention the discovery of her diary, could it?
“I did get to see another artifact that was found along with Margaret’s wedding dress—her diary. A staff member is going to email me some pages from it. It’ll be fun to see what she says about the dress and the wedding ceremony, now that I’ve actually seen the dress in real life.”
He turned around to look at me. “The museum has Margaret Oliphant’s diary? You got access to excerpts from it? That’s fantastic!”
I couldn’t help grinning. “Yeah, it was pretty cool.”
He pulled up to the loading zone in front of the library. The Laurel Springs Public Library was one of the oldest buildings in town. Originally a modest circular building with a domed ceiling to match, it had been added on to until it encompassed half a city block. It housed the best collection of local newspapers in the region. Today, I only needed it for cover.
Hart leaned both elbows on the steering wheel and contemplated me. “I would love to see pages from Margaret Oliphant’s diary.” He touched me gently on the leg. “And of course, I’d love to see you again. Could we get together another time and you could show me what you get from the staff member at the museum?” He pulled a card out of his wallet and pressed it into my hand. “Call me anytime. I’ll be in town at least through the weekend.” He pulled out another card and a pen. “How can I reach you?”
I gave him my cell phone number and hopped out of the car before he could do anything silly like try to kiss me or something. “Thanks for the lift and for a lovely lunch. I’ll be in touch.” I hurried into the library with a cheerful wave.
When I got inside, I headed straight for the ladies’ room. I felt like a fool for hiding from him, but I really didn’t want Morris Hart to know where I lived. His fascination with my resemblance to Catherine was just weird enough that I could imagine him standing under my window with a guitar to serenade me in the twilight. Sure, it would be romantic to be serenaded in the twilight, but Morris Hart wasn’t the man I would choose for that honor. I smiled to myself, trying to picture McCarthy serenading me with a guitar. I couldn’t. He’d be more likely to pop out of the bushes with his camera clicking away and yell, “Surprise,” and then tease me about how my eyes go bug-eyed when I’m surprised.
I chuckled at my reflection in the mirror. After brushing my hair about a hundred strokes, I figured it was safe to come out. Plus, it was time for me to get home to meet Gillian, assuming she was really going to come by for a sewing lesson. I nipped out of the restroom and took a peek out the window. I didn’t see any luxurious Lexus in the vicinity. I walked boldly out the door.
The library was only a few blocks from my house. I walked fast the whole way, hoping to avoid being seen by Hart and to get home in time for Gillian. Lucky for me, I achieved both goals.
I heard a knock on the door less than two minutes after I came in. I’d barely had time to fill up Mohair’s empty water bowl. I went to the door to let Gillian in.
She stood on my front step, scantily dressed in a flowered halter top and denim short shorts. A canvas backpack was slung over her shoulder. Her pretty strawberry-blond hair was braided into a thick plait that hung over her shoulder, tied at the bottom with one of my tartan bow ties. She looked like what she was, a sexy child. I breathed a prayer of strength for her father as I watched him pull away from the curb and drive off.
“Hi, Gillian. I’m glad you came.” I held the door wide so she could come inside.
She came in and stood awkwardly in the front hall. “Yeah, well, my dad dropped me off. I don’t know if I’d be here otherwise.”
I forced a smile at the ungracious response. “Well, you’re here now. Let’s do some sewing.”
She dropped her backpack on the window bench in the hall and I led her upstairs to my workroom. I indicated a wooden chair for her to sit on. “You had your first lesson yesterday, when you sewed your button back on. Today, we can start a project that’s not too hard. You said you were interested in a peasant blouse. Want to start with that?”
“Wait, you remembered that?” She fidgeted in her chair. “Yeah, that’s what I want to make.”
I pulled an oversize shopping bag out of the closet and dropped it on the floor. Lengths of fabric spilled out the top.
“I’ve got a bunch of remnants here, left over from any number of sewing projects. Let’s see if there’s something here you could use.”
“Great, so I get the leftovers.” Despite her grumbling, she did come over and start rooting through the bag. She was soon immersed in the fascinating task of finding the perfect bit of fabric for her project.
After several false starts, we settled on a lightweight white muslin, which would look great with embroidery, if that was what G
illian wanted to pursue. I threw the fabric over my ironing board and turned on my iron. “Normally, the first thing you do when you sew anything is wash the fabric, assuming it’s washable. That way you take care of any shrinkage before you cut and sew your garment. But this fabric is a remnant, what’s left over from another project, so it’s already been washed.” I indicated the iron. “Have you done much ironing?”
She shook her head, so I showed her how to handle the iron safely and still accomplish a wrinkle-free effect. I expected more grumbling, but she passed the iron across the fabric without complaint.
While she ironed, I rooted through my store-bought patterns to see if I had anything resembling a peasant blouse. I figured it would be easier to start with a pattern because she was a beginner. By the time she was done ironing, I had half a dozen options for her to choose from.
“Let’s try this one,” she said, pointing to a simple pullover blouse that had elastic at the neck and three-quarter-length, set-in sleeves. With no buttons, it was a good first project.
I showed her how to press the pattern pieces on low heat, and how to find the straight grain of the fabric and lay the pattern pieces and pin them on before cutting. I’ve always suspected I take at least twice as long as other seamstresses when it comes to cutting out my projects. I try to be meticulous at the cutting stage to prevent a host of issues later on. But my friends always accused me of being obsessive about getting everything just right.
While we worked on pinning and cutting, bent over my cutting board laid out on the floor, I tried to come up with a natural opening to segue into the topic of Gillian’s late mother. It was a tall order. I didn’t want to be too blunt and scare her off, but I wanted to talk to her about the jewelry Ryan had consigned to Letty’s shop. In the end, Gillian herself gave me the opening I was looking for.
“You make a living with your sewing, right?” When I nodded, she followed up with another question: “Who taught you how to sew in the first place?”
Royally Dead Page 17