Thread Reckoning

by Amanda Lee

  “No, they didn’t. I get the impression Cassandra is very headstrong and that what she wants she somehow gets.” I smiled. “I have to admit to feeling sorry for Frederic when I think about him spending the rest of his life with that woman.”

  Mr. Santiago chuckled. “Strong-willed women aren’t necessarily bad, Ms. Singer. I get the impression you’re pretty high-spirited yourself.”

  “Maybe just a little. What about Francesca? Was she strong-willed?”

  “I would say no,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Frannie wasn’t the type to make waves.”

  “Which makes it even more curious that her mugger killed her,” I said. “Wouldn’t she have given him her purse without a fight?”

  “The Frannie I knew would have. The only thing she’d have ever fought for would have been her son.”

  “Was she a good administrative assistant?” I asked.

  “She was,” he said, nodding. “She was thorough and accurate.”

  “I don’t think your son was as impressed. He said she didn’t keep up with the times.”

  He spread his hands. “Frannie had been trained on a typewriter. Word processing software was difficult for her to learn. She managed all right, but not well enough to suit Caleb.”

  “Frederic said Caleb let Francesca go because he caught her snooping in his desk.”

  He smiled. “Caleb was right—you don’t mince words. I like that.”

  So the two of them had discussed my meeting with Caleb Jr.

  “Caleb values his privacy,” Mr. Santiago continued. “I don’t know that I’d call whatever Frannie was doing snooping, but Caleb saw it as such.”

  “But you liked Francesca,” I said. “Why did you agree to let her go? Couldn’t you have simply transferred her to another department?”

  He shook his head. “It was Caleb’s call. I couldn’t undermine his business decisions, could I? I’d turned the company over to him . . . unconditionally.”

  “Of course.” I took a sip of my wine. “What about the jewels?”

  “What about them?”

  “The police think they’re stolen,” I said. “As a matter of fact, they think the gems might have been taken from jewelry that your wife reported missing.”

  He arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “Do you think Francesca Ortega stole some of your wife’s jewelry?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t say. My wife and I haven’t lived together in over five years,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that.”

  The waitress arrived with our food, asked if we needed anything, and refilled our wineglasses before leaving.

  “This looks delicious,” I said.

  “It does indeed.” He placed his napkin in his lap. “Tell me something, Marcy. Why are you so interested in the jewels Frannie had?”

  “I’m afraid that whoever killed her may think I still have some of the gems in my shop.” I saw an opportunity to find out what Mr. Santiago might reveal to me about David and his role—or former role—with the Santiago Corporation. “In fact, on the night I met with your son, I was followed to the lodge. It scared the daylights out of me, but it turned out to be only a former boyfriend—David Frist.”

  Mr. Santiago looked up at that but said nothing.

  “I believe David once worked for your company,” I said.

  “Ah yes.” Mr. Santiago nodded as he dug his fork into his rice. “I thought that name sounded vaguely familiar.”

  “Did you know David well?”

  Mr. Santiago put a forkful of rice into his mouth and held up a finger for me to give him a second. It reminded me of the candy bar commercial where people put the food into their mouths because they need a minute to think. Mr. Santiago might want to deny knowing David, but he’d have to realize I saw them together at the funeral earlier today.

  He swallowed and took a sip of his wine. “I’d met Mr. Frist on a couple of occasions, but I don’t really know him personally.” He smiled. “However, I can’t say that I blame him for pursuing you. I’d be tempted to do so myself if I were a couple decades younger.”

  I laughed. “How very flattering.” It was obvious I wasn’t going to get any more information out of Mr. Santiago.

  Chapter Seventeen

  You know that old saying, speak of the devil and he appears? Well, guess who was waiting for me when I got home? David.

  I pulled into the driveway and saw a black sedan on the street in front of my house. I recognized it as the rental car David had used to follow me to the lodge. I slid out of the Jeep and walked to the driver’s side of David’s car. Over Angus’ barking in the backyard, I asked David what he was doing.

  “Waiting for you,” he said simply.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “A little longer than he has.” He nodded toward a patrol car parked down the street facing in our direction.

  I turned and walked toward the policeman. He got out of his car, and I recognized him as the young officer who was guarding the crime scene outside my shop the day Francesca Ortega was stabbed.

  “Good evening, Ms. Singer,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

  “I think so, Officer Moore. Thank you for being here.”

  “You’re welcome. Mr. Frist isn’t parked in your driveway, so he isn’t technically trespassing since he isn’t on your land,” Officer Moore explained. “However, now that you’re here, and especially because he’s already been cited for stalking you, I can write him up for trespassing against you personally or for stalking if he doesn’t leave.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “But I think everything will be okay and that he’ll go on his way after talking with me.”

  Officer Moore nodded and went back to his car.

  I returned to the sedan. David had gotten out of the car and was leaning against it with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Did you tell him to get out of here?” he demanded.

  “No,” I said. “But I did assure him that you’d leave after talking with me. So, what’s up?”

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked.

  “Dinner.” I knew it wasn’t any of his business, but this might be a good way to get him to talk about Mr. Santiago and his company. “Actually, I had dinner with a friend of yours . . . Caleb Santiago Sr.”

  “Friend of mine?” David asked. “Says who?”

  “I saw you talking with him at Francesca Ortega’s funeral today.”

  “Oh yeah . . . yeah.” He nodded rapidly. “I wouldn’t say we’re friends, though. I was just paying my respects.”

  “Since you used to work for him,” I said.

  “For his son, actually.”

  “Did you know Francesca?” I asked. “Did the two of you ever work together?”

  “No. I worked with Caleb—Junior, that is—but I didn’t work directly with Francesca. She was only a secretary,” David said.

  “Only.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean it that way.” He shrugged. “I just meant she was his secretary, not mine, and I didn’t work with her. I knew who she was, but I didn’t pay much attention to her.”

  “Did Caleb talk about why he fired her?” I asked.

  “He said she was a snoop and that she wasn’t good at her job.”

  “What did she find while she was snooping?”

  “You’d have to ask her or Caleb Jr. But she can’t tell you, and I don’t think he would because it isn’t any of your—or anyone else’s—concern.” He looked around impatiently. “Are we going inside, or what? It’s cold out here.”

  “No,” I said. “We’re not going inside. I’ll talk with you out here.”

  “What? Are you afraid I’ll murder you or something?”

  “I don’t know what you might do, David. You haven’t been behaving reasonably—or, at least, like the man I thought I knew—the entire time you’ve been here.”

  He blew out a disgusted breath. “Oh, get real. You really enjoy
playing the damsel in distress, don’t you? Having everybody rush to protect you. Poor little Marcy. We have to save her!”

  “I won’t allow you to manipulate me,” I said, walking toward the front door. “Good night.”

  I knew he’d gotten back in his car because I heard the door slam. Then I heard him speed off down the road. Before placing my key in the lock, I turned and waved to Officer Moore. He blinked his lights for me, but he didn’t leave yet. I was kind of glad.

  I’d barely had time to get settled in at work the next morning before Ted called. I answered with my typical “Thank you for calling the Seven-Year Stitch.”

  He interrupted with “Andrew told me David Frist was waiting for you when you got home last night.”

  “He was,” I said, “but it was no big deal. In fact, I was glad to have the opportunity to ask him a couple questions under Officer Moore’s watchful eye.”

  “Good. Andrew said you wouldn’t allow Frist into the house. He didn’t come back later, did he?”

  “No, Ted, everything was fine. I did ask him about working for the Santiago Corporation and whether or not he knew Francesca Ortega.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he hadn’t worked directly with Francesca and hadn’t paid much attention to her. Since she wasn’t some young hottie, I believe that,” I said. “He confirmed—almost verbatim—the reasons Caleb Santiago gave for firing her.”

  I went on to tell Ted about my dinner with Caleb Sr. “Really, the only thing of interest that he disclosed to me was that he hadn’t lived with his wife in over five years. That could possibly absolve him of the suspicion of stealing Mrs. Santiago’s jewels himself.”

  “I’ll check into it to see what I can determine about their living arrangements,” Ted said. “He could still theoretically have taken the jewels, though, out of spite or to provide some sort of severance pay to Ms. Ortega or—”

  “Or as a bribe,” I said.

  “Or that,” he agreed. “Maybe these jewels had been kept in a joint safe-deposit box or something. I’ll talk with Agent Daltrey and see what he knows.”

  “How did your meeting with Frederic go yesterday?” I asked.

  “He claimed he knew nothing about the jewels. Like you, he conceded the gems that his mother had in her possession could have been the ones from Mrs. Santiago’s jewelry.”

  “Did Agent Daltrey seem to believe him?”

  “Hard to say,” Ted said. “I think he’s telling the truth. I mean, he could know more than he’s letting on, but I don’t think he aided in stealing the jewels, and I’m almost convinced he had nothing to do with his mother′s death.”

  “Almost?”

  “Hey, everyone’s—”

  “A suspect,” I finished with a laugh.

  As we completed our call, Sadie came into the shop. She zeroed in on the flowers immediately and went over to sniff them.

  “Gorgeous!” she cried. “Did Todd finally get off his butt and invite you to the ball?”

  “No,” I said. “Ted did.”

  “Oh.”

  “Todd already knows. He came by yesterday and saw the flowers.” I shrugged. “He said he should’ve asked sooner, but he wanted me to save him a dance. I guess everything is cool.”

  “Good.” She sat on the sofa. “So, what are you wearing?”

  I told her about my trip to Lincoln City with Vera and that I had chosen a white beaded gown over the one Vera had in mind for me. “Vera says my dress looks too much like a wedding gown, but I don’t care. I love it. And the mask is awesome!”

  Sadie smiled. “That’s terrific. I can hardly wait to see it.”

  I took Vera’s purse materials out of my tote bag and continued carefully crafting spiderweb roses. “This will ultimately be the purse Vera will be using to accessorize her dress. It’s gold with a black lace inset.”

  “Sounds pretty,” she said. “Sounds like Vera.”

  “Yeah. I told her I’d try to have the purse done for her this evening.”

  “It looks like it’s going well.”

  “It is. So, barring any interruptions . . .”

  She frowned. “Is that a hint?”

  “Never,” I said. “I don’t consider you an interruption. I’m just guessing David might be by today after the scene outside my house last night.”

  “What has he done now?” she asked, with a growl creeping into her voice.

  I explained how he was waiting on me when I got home from having dinner with Mr. Santiago. “He’s being really creepy, Sadie. He wasn’t like that when I dated him before—was he?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, “but then, I didn’t know him all that well. Maybe you didn’t, either. Be careful where he’s concerned.”

  “I will.”

  After Sadie left, I pondered the strangeness of the entire situation with Francesca Ortega as I worked. The facts, as I knew them, were: Francesca had worked for the Santiago Corporation for more than twenty years. She’d originally worked with Caleb Sr., who had given her a glowing report, but had been fired by Caleb Jr., who accused her of snooping. Had Francesca found something that Caleb—Junior or Senior—would kill to keep her from revealing? Riley had said the business appeared to be involved in some shadier practices since Junior took the helm.

  And what did any of that have to do with the gems that might or might not have come from June Santiago’s jewelry box? Had one of the Santiago CEOs given the jewels to Francesca? Had he done so to buy her silence or to enhance her severance package without anyone seeing a large monetary disbursement on the books? Was it to collect the insurance money? Or had someone given her the jewels with the intention of making her look like a thief and prosecuting her once Mrs. Santiago reported the jewelry stolen? If that person wanted the insurance money and wanted to frame Francesca, that would be an excellent way to achieve his or her goals.

  Or had Francesca, in fact, stolen the jewels? She couldn’t have been looking forward to living with Cassandra Wainwright. I could see Cassandra making her mother-in-law miserable. Of course, I didn’t know Francesca. Maybe she’d have made Cassandra miserable. But even if Francesca had stolen the gems from Mrs. Santiago, she’d have had to have had help from someone . . . someone on the inside.

  The bells over the shop jingled, and I was glad to put Vera’s purse and my ruminations aside to provide assistance. The woman was looking for some cross-stitch pattern books, and I cheerfully fixed her up with two excellent options for the holiday theme she was looking for.

  She hadn’t been gone long, and I’d barely had time to make any substantial progress on Vera’s purse before Frederic came in. He was carrying a drink tray, which he nearly dropped when Angus loped over to greet him. I put the purse aside and scrambled to help Frederic.

  “Angus, down,” I said. The dog still kept bouncing in front of Frederic. I took the drink tray from him and set it on the counter. “Angus, down.” I gave the command in a firmer tone this time, and Angus finally did as he was told. “Sorry about that,” I said to Frederic.

  “It’s all right. At least he was glad to see me. That’s more than I can say for Cass yesterday when I got home from the meeting at the police station.”

  “She was probably worried about you,” I said.

  Frederic scoffed. “Hardly. She flew into telling me about all the plans she needed to finalize for the wedding and that I wasn’t there when she needed me . . . that I needed to pull my share of the weight.” He shrugged. “I told her the wedding was off.”

  “Oh my gosh! What did she say?”

  “I’m not sure. As she began yelling, she threw a vase at me. Fortunately, it missed my head and broke against the wall behind me. Then I simply left. She obviously had nothing rational to say, and I wasn’t in the mood to either listen or to try to placate her.”

  Angus lost interest in our conversation and went to lie by the window in the sun.

  “How did the interview at the station go?” I asked.

>   “As well as could be expected, I guess.” He stepped to the counter and handed me one of the drinks. “It’s from MacKenzies′ Mochas. The guy there said this was your usual.”

  “Low-fat vanilla latte with a hint of cinnamon,” I said.

  He nodded. “That’s it. Mine’s a cappuccino.” He took his drink, and we sat in the sit-and-stitch square. “The FBI guy thinks I’m guilty.”

  “Of what?” I asked, taking the lid off my latte and inhaling its sweet aroma.

  “Of everything,” he said. “He made me out to be like some supervillain. He believes I stole the jewels, that I . . .” He shook his head.

  I realized he couldn’t bring himself to say the words killed my mother. I filled the awkward pause. “But Ted and Harriet were on your side, weren’t they?”

  “To the extent they could be, I guess. But that guy threw so many questions at me. Where was I the night of October twenty-fourth? Who knows?”

  I frowned. “He actually asked you where you were on October twenty-fourth? Was that relevant?”

  “The date wasn’t actually October twenty-fourth,” Frederic said. “I’m being a bit facetious . . . but not much. What I’m getting at is that the guy threw so many questions at me I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. By the way, where were you on October twenty-fourth?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Was that a weekday or a weekend?”

  “I have no idea . . . which is precisely my point.”

  “What sort of questions did he ask regarding the jewels?”

  “He asked if I’d ever met June Santiago,” he said. “I told him I had met her once at an office party. He then wondered if I’d admired the jewelry she was wearing that evening. I mean, how ridiculous is that? I don’t pay attention to jewelry!”

  “I wouldn’t think many men would unless the piece was particularly ostentatious or the man was in a business that dealt with jewelry,” I said.

  “I don’t pay attention to details, period,” Frederic said. “For example, if I left here right now and someone on the street asked me what you were wearing today, I’d say jeans and a sweater. I don’t even know what color to call that sweater, and I have no idea whether or not you’re wearing jewelry. Are you?”