Thread End: An Embroidery Mystery

by Amanda Lee

  “Well, I’ll be. What brought that on?”

  I explained Nellie’s visit to me yesterday. “She acted like she was scared half to death. Ted went over and talked with her, and then Special Agent Brown did, too. She told me this morning that she appreciated Ted’s visit, but she hadn’t cared for Brown’s attitude. I basically told her welcome to the club.”

  “Yeah, that guy’s a jerk. He came to talk with Blake and me Saturday afternoon. He also detained our staff and let business back up while he questioned them, even though the on-duty staff was not the staff that had been working Friday night.” She rolled her eyes. “Manu sent his deputies to talk with the people who’d worked the night before.”

  “I have no idea why Brown won’t listen to reason. He seems to have no common sense whatsoever. It’s like he wants to rearrange the facts to make them what he wants them to be. Yesterday he said that I alleged stumbling over the body.” I spread my hands. “Like I . . . what? Killed Professor Vandehey, wrapped him in either a rug that I stole or a stolen rug that happened to be lying around in my alley, and then left him until the next morning when I pretended to stumble over his body? How ridiculous is that?”

  “That’s pretty out there, Marce. Maybe Blake killed the guy, wrapped him in said rug, left him outside your shop so it wouldn’t be too close to MacKenzies’ Mochas, and waited for you to stumble over the body so you could call Ted, Ted could call Blake, and Blake could come and be surprised.”

  I laughed. “That is perfect Special Agent Brown logic!”

  “So, what was with the old guys you and Ted were lunching with today?” she asked. “They aren’t wedding directors or anything, are they?”

  “No, they aren’t wedding directors. One was Anderson Padgett.”

  “The guy whose art collection was stolen?”

  “The very same,” I said. “He was the older one in the wheelchair. The other man was his friend Simon Benton.”

  “Not that it’s any of my business . . .”

  “Not that that will stop you from asking . . .” I giggled. “Simon Benton invited us to have lunch with him and Mr. Padgett because he said Mr. Padgett and I could discuss textiles, and they could talk with Ted privately about the case.”

  “Privately? In a crowded dining room?” She turned down the corners of her mouth. “Makes sense to me.”

  “Maybe it’s Special Agent Brown logic,” I said.

  She nodded. “That could be it. SAB logic—we now have a new code word for stupidity.”

  “Guess what.” I didn’t give her a chance to guess. When Sadie guessed something, it was usually as outlandish a speculation as anyone could imagine. Before she could provide an answer, I said, “I met Ted’s mother yesterday.”

  “Ooh, did you have dinner? Did he take you over to her house? Did he just spring this meeting on you, or did you know about it ahead of time? And if you knew about it, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I knew nothing about it,” I said. “She came into the shop. And she didn’t introduce herself to me, either! I didn’t even know who she was until Ted came in and called her ‘Mother.’”

  “The woman went ninja on you?” Sadie sat on the sofa facing the window and patted the cushion next to her. “Get over here and spill. Blake can handle things for a few more minutes.”

  I sat down beside Sadie and told her all about my first encounter with Veronica Nash.

  “Well, at least, she stood up for you,” she said. “That’s something . . . right?”

  “I don’t know if she was standing up for me or if she was simply showing me that she’s adept at putting people in their place.” I blew out a breath. “I don’t know what to think of her. I mean, she bought a cross-stitch kit and some pattern books and said she might be back today, but I don’t know if she’s for Ted and me or against us.”

  “Did Ted know his mother was planning on dropping in on you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Did he say why he hadn’t introduced the two of you before?”

  “He said it was because he was afraid his mother would jeopardize our relationship,” I said.

  “What did Bev say?” she asked.

  “I told Mom I was afraid it meant that Ted wasn’t serious about me. She told me he’s over the moon for me and that she believed him—that he didn’t want his domineering mother to intimidate me until we were further along in our relationship,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “I think your mom is a wise woman. Ted does love you. Besides, it could’ve been worse. The first time I met Blake’s parents, I was wearing a Xena Warrior Princess costume.”

  “Oh, I remember that! There had been that costume party on campus! And his parents had dropped by to bring him some groceries.” I laughed. “You did look beautiful, though! Didn’t Blake’s dad say, ‘Wowza,’ and give him a thumbs-up?”

  Sadie threw back her head and laughed, too. “Yes! He did! That didn’t help me win points right away with Blake’s mom, either!” She wiped tears from her eyes. “Oh, my goodness, I hadn’t thought about that in forever. I’ll have to remind Blake about it when I get back.”

  “You know he’ll want you to dig out that costume again.”

  “That’s all right. I still have it.”

  “Do you really?” I asked.

  “I sure do. And he’s got his Hercules outfit, too.” She stood. “Don’t sweat the mom thing, Marce. When she gets to know you, she’ll love you.” She gave Angus a quick hug before she left. I could see that she was still grinning as she walked past the window.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, as I worked on my crewel project, I got to thinking about George Vandehey again. Was Ted right? Was George’s belief that Chad Cummings had asked his father to take the Cézanne nothing more than the hope of a bereaved son? Who could help uncover the truth?

  I picked my cell phone up off the coffee table and called Vera. When she answered, I asked if she and Paul were up to some sleuthing.

  “Are we ever!” She paused. “At least, I am. I’m not sure about Paul, but I imagine he’ll agree. What’s going on?”

  I told her how George Vandehey had been to see me and that he believed Chad Cummings had committed insurance fraud. “He thinks Cummings contacted Dr. Vandehey after hearing about his daughter’s bike accident and asked him to come appraise the painting.”

  “And when Vandehey got there, Cummings offered him money to take the painting so that he could collect the insurance money,” said Vera. “That’s brilliant.”

  “Ted thinks George is doing some wishful thinking,” I said. “After all, Cummings did present a signed confession to police.”

  “But that could have been part of the bargain,” Vera said.

  “Do you think you and Paul could discreetly poke around and see what you can find out?”

  “You bet,” she said. “I’ll call you tonight with a progress report.”

  “Great. I—”

  I saw Veronica Nash crossing the street and heading in the direction of my shop.

  “—appreciate that, Vera. Thanks.”

  “No problem. I’ll call Paul this instant.”

  I was ending the call when Veronica stepped into the shop. Angus raised his head but didn’t get up to welcome her this time.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Don’t you look beautiful today?”

  Did she have to sound so surprised?

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I started to mention that Ted and I’d had a lunch appointment, but then I decided not to. I’d prefer her to think yesterday was the fluke and that—like her—I always dressed stylishly. Today she was wearing a navy skirt and a paisley tank. She obviously worked out, because her arms were as toned as her legs.

  “How did your project go?” I asked.

  She joined me on the sofa and took the kit out of her large white purse. “I think I’m doing well. In fact, I stopped by just to show you the progress I’m making.” She handed me the hoo
p.

  I looked down at her cloth and saw that she had indeed got quite a bit done on the open pink rose and rosebud. “You must’ve worked half the night.”

  “I worked while listening to some Bach,” she said. “I found the stitching to be tedious at first. But when I saw the image start coming together, I didn’t want to stop.”

  “It sounds as if you had a relaxing evening.” I handed the project back to her.

  “I did. Did you?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “I don’t want to make you feel awkward,” said Veronica. “I know Ted was reluctant to bring you around because I tend to be critical of the women he dates.”

  For not wanting to make me feel awkward, she was doing a fine job of it.

  “I despised Jennifer,” she said. “You know about Jennifer, don’t you?”

  “Yes. She was Ted’s first wife.”

  “Not in my book. In my book, she was simply a mistake.” Veronica compressed her lips in anger before going on. “I never liked her, and I didn’t try to hide that fact. She was immature and selfish.”

  “Talk about immature,” I said. “You come here, and I have a giant doll in my store.”

  Veronica laughed. It was a light, tinkling chortle, and I couldn’t help laughing right along with her.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said. “I was rather snide about that mannequin. I always have met Ted’s girlfriends prepared not to like them.”

  “Even before Jennifer?”

  “Yes. Before she came along, I hadn’t wanted to cut the apron strings. He was too young. He wasn’t ready for a relationship. He had his education to think about. Then he met Jennifer and despite—or maybe because of—my protests, he married her. Two years later, he expected me to say, I told you so.”

  “But you didn’t?” I asked.

  “No, but I sure thought it. Mother knows best, and all that jazz.”

  “I thought it was father knows best.”

  Veronica scoffed. “Every woman knows that’s a crock.”

  We laughed again.

  “After Jennifer, he didn’t date very much,” she continued. “And when he did, he kept the women far away from me.”

  “I guess he hasn’t met anyone special enough to bring home to Mother,” I said nonchalantly.

  “He hadn’t. Not until you. I’d ask him periodically if he was dating anyone and he’d say no. And then all of a sudden, in every conversation I have with my son, I’m hearing ‘Marcy, Marcy, Marcy, Marcy.’”

  I felt the color rise in my cheeks, and I lowered my eyes.

  “And so I asked, ‘When am I going to get to meet this Marcy?’ And he would be evasive. He’d tell me we would have dinner together soon, but we never made any definite plans. I came in yesterday because I was tired of waiting. I wanted to meet you.”

  I raised my eyes back to hers. “I’m glad we got to meet.”

  “I am, too,” she said. “Ted has been so happy these past few months. If he’s that smitten with you, I’m not going to do anything to risk his happiness.”

  “He called you.”

  She smiled. “He did. He said it worried you that I’d barged in—”

  “I never said barged!”

  “I know,” she said. “But it worried you that Ted didn’t set up the meeting himself.”

  “It did concern me. I’m happy, too, Veronica. And, like Ted, I’ve been hurt badly in the past. I was afraid to trust my heart to him, but I finally reached the point where I was afraid not to.”

  She reached over and briefly squeezed my hand. “So, how long do you think it’ll take me to finish these roses?”

  “I’d say one more night of Bach will do it.”

  * * *

  I’d decided to have breakfast for dinner and was in the kitchen making pancakes when Ted got to my house. Angus was happily romping in the yard. Ted came on into the kitchen. I took the pan off the stove eye and went to stand before him.

  “I love you, Ted.”

  “And I love you,” he said huskily as he swept me up into his arms.

  The pancakes were cold by the time we got around to eating them, but neither of us minded.

  “Did you hear back from George Vandehey?” Ted asked as he poured maple syrup over his stack of flapjacks.

  “No. He might not meet with you. He doubts you would believe him.”

  “I’ll admit to being skeptical, but I’m not close-minded. If he can provide me with some proof, I’ll take the proper steps to ensure that Chad Cummings is brought to justice.”

  “I know,” I said. “I called Vera this afternoon and asked her and Paul to quietly look into George’s contention that Chad Cummings hired Dr. Vandehey to steal the painting.”

  Ted grinned. “With Ethel and Fred Mertz on the case, what could possibly go wrong?”

  I slapped his arm with my napkin. “They might find something. . . . Well . . . Paul might.”

  “They might,” he agreed. “Either way, Cummings is a suspect in Vandehey’s murder. He always has been.”

  “But in your book, everyone’s a suspect,” I said.

  “There is that. But if Cummings is guilty, I’ll find the proof to convict him.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Angus and I arrived back at the store, Reggie was already there waiting for us. She was leaning against the wall and reading a book.

  “Oh, no! Are we late?” I asked.

  Reggie smiled. “No. I’m early.” She dropped the book into her purse. “The library closes at four thirty on Tuesdays. Manu was still at work, so I grabbed a quick dinner at MacKenzies’ Mochas, and here I am.”

  I unlocked the door. “Come on in.”

  She wore a white cotton sari with white embroidery—or chikankari—on the sleeves and hem. She also had on long blue-and-silver drop earrings and matching bangles that made a tinkling noise when she moved. She said hello to Angus and then sat down on one of the red club chairs and began to unpack her tote.

  I got Reggie a bottle of water and set it on the coffee table.

  “Thank you,” she said. “How are you? Are you having any nightmares or anything like that?”

  “No. I did get a little nervous last night second-guessing myself about whether or not I’d locked the door.”

  “You should always lock the door as soon as you get inside.”

  “I normally do,” I said. “And I did. . . . I just got scared.”

  “That’s normal. I’ve been concerned about you. You know I’m here anytime you need to talk, right?”

  “Thanks . . . and ditto.”

  Vera rushed through the door in denim capris and a flowing short-sleeved leopard-print top. After looking around to make sure only Reggie and I were in the shop, she pulled me to one side and asked if she could speak freely in front of Reggie about what we’d discussed earlier. I told her she could.

  “All right, Paul and I haven’t made much progress in the Chad Cummings fraud investigation,” said Vera.

  “Fraud investigation?” Reggie asked.

  I brought her up to speed on George Vandehey and his belief that Chad Cummings had paid his father to steal the Cézanne.

  “That’s possible,” Reggie said. “About fourteen years ago, an ophthalmologist in Los Angeles was convicted of insurance fraud for arranging to have a Picasso and a Monet stolen from his home. He was trying to collect seventeen and a half million dollars.”

  “Chad Cummings told me he got twenty million for the one Cézanne,” I said. “But George has no proof to back up his allegation that Cummings paid his father to steal the painting. The money that showed up in his and his sister’s bank accounts could have been the money he was paid for the painting.”

  “Yes, George would have a hard time proving any of that,” said Reggie. “Now that his father is dead, he should try to put his theories behind him . . . unless . . . ?”

  “Unless he believes Chad Cummings killed his father,” I finished for her.

  She frowned. �
��That’s a stretch.”

  “That’s what Ted says,” I said.

  “You didn’t tell me George thinks Chad killed the professor,” Vera said. “But Paul and I discussed it, and Paul thinks it’s possible. Chad Cummings is a powerful man, and he wouldn’t want anyone making any accusations against him.”

  We had no time to debate the matter further, because the other students began filing in. One of them was Sissy Cummings.

  “Sissy, I’m so glad you could make it,” I said. “Please come over and have a seat.”

  “Thank you. I hope the instructor doesn’t mind my sitting in and observing,” she said.

  “She’ll be delighted.” I introduced Sissy to Reggie, and they hit it off immediately.

  Sissy marveled over the delicate work on Reggie’s sari as well as the sample work she was teaching the class.

  “It isn’t as hard as it looks,” Reggie said. “Here. Give it a try.”

  She led Sissy step by step through one of the stitches.

  I mingled among the students asking if they’d like a water, juice, or soda. Angus also mingled, getting petted by everyone. There weren’t many classes where Angus wasn’t the star attraction, but he was always aware of who welcomed his attention and who did not. He’d given Veronica Nash a wide berth today.

  Vera sidled up to me and whispered, “I’ll see what I can get out of Sissy Cummings.”

  My eyes widened. “No!”

  I doubted she’d even heard me. She’d already gone over and taken a seat beside Sissy on the sofa.

  Reggie noticed my stricken expression and saw that Vera had snagged prime real estate. She gave me an almost imperceptible shrug and then reengaged Sissy in another stitch demonstration.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until after class that Vera got a chance to interrogate Sissy. Everyone had gone except Vera, Sissy, Reggie, and me. I kept wishing Vera would leave before she could say something inflammatory to Sissy. In fact, I was regretting bringing Vera and Paul in on my quest to find information about Chad Cummings. Why hadn’t I left the sleuthing to Ted and Manu?

  “It’s getting late,” Reggie said.

  “It is,” I agreed. “This class has been a pleasure, as always, though. I’m so glad you were here, Sissy.”