Thread End: An Embroidery Mystery

by Amanda Lee

  “Okay. If you don’t think that Dr. Vandehey would have changed his mind about stealing the collection, do you believe his partners killed him in order to get the professor’s share of the profits?” I asked.

  He set his coffee cup on the coffee table, leaned his elbows on his knees, and steepled his fingers. “The more I dwell on it, the more I begin to reconsider Dr. Vandehey as a participant in the theft. As I said before, why would the other thieves take time from their escape to kill him, wrap up his body, and dump it in an alley? The group would be on the lam. Even if they’d decided to murder Dr. Vandehey, they wouldn’t have done it here in Tallulah Falls. They’d have killed him on the outskirts of town . . . or waited until they got to their planned destination.”

  “That’s a solid theory. Do you watch a lot of detective shows?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said with a laugh.

  “If Dr. Vandehey wasn’t part of the museum robbery plot, why do you believe he was murdered?” I asked.

  He tapped his fingertips together. “I’ve met several people here in Tallulah Falls alone who bore a grudge against Dr. Vandehey. Mr. Ingle, the museum curator, resented Dr. Vandehey because the older gentleman was a fount of knowledge, and Mr. Ingle was afraid that Dr. Vandehey was here to take his job and ruin his career.”

  “But that’s not enough to kill someone over,” I said.

  “Is it not? People have killed for less, Ms. Singer,” he said. “Perhaps Mr. Ingle learned of Dr. Vandehey’s true identity and wanted to be the person responsible for recovering the stolen Cézanne. That would’ve made him a hero. He’d get a lot of press over it and, once he’d earned his master’s degree, he could’ve left Tallulah Falls and found a more prestigious position.”

  “I have to admit, that motive beats the first one.”

  “Then there’s that blowhard Special Agent Brown,” Mr. Benton continued. “Dr. Vandehey made a fool of him, got him demoted, and was clever enough to ensure that Agent Brown wouldn’t find the Cézanne after searching for it for years. He had a lead and came here to the opening-night gala to search for Geoffrey Vandehey, did he not?”

  “He did,” I said.

  “Did this lead come out of nowhere? Perhaps Agent Brown had been following Dr. Vandehey. Again, this is a small town. What if Agent Brown thought he could get his revenge on Dr. Vandehey and none of these lower-level law enforcement officers would dare question him if he said he had been forced to kill the man in self-defense?”

  “These law enforcement officers are some of the best in the country,” I said.

  “I know that, but I daresay Agent Brown did not . . . at least, until he arrived. And he still carries himself with a certain amount of arrogance that is unearned,” he said. “I’m not saying Agent Brown is the killer, of course. I’m merely throwing around notions.”

  “You said you knew of several people in Tallulah Falls who had a grudge against Dr. Vandehey,” I said. “So far, you’ve mentioned only two. What else have you got?”

  He smiled. “You’re enjoying my stories.”

  “I am. Have you ever thought of becoming a screenwriter?”

  “No . . . but now I might,” he said.

  “What do you think of Chad Cummings as the murderer?” I asked. “He has a forceful personality, and he definitely held a grudge against Dr. Vandehey.”

  Mr. Benton took a drink of his coffee, set the cup back down on the table, and leaned back in his chair. “Chad Cummings . . . let me think on that one for a moment. . . . Ah! I’ve got it. You mentioned the fact that thieves will often ransom stolen art back to its owner. Perhaps Dr. Vandehey approached Mr. Cummings and asked for money to return the Cézanne. Mr. Cummings lost his temper and accidentally killed Dr. Vandehey.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing in all your theories,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The rug. If anyone other than one of the thieves murdered Dr. Vandehey, where would he have gotten the kilim in which he was wrapped?”

  Mr. Benton laughed and slapped his open palms on his thighs. “You are the clever one! I’ll have to think more on my theories, Ms. Singer . . . unless, of course, one of the villains I mentioned was involved in the theft.”

  “I suppose that’s a possibility,” I said.

  “Everything is a possibility . . . isn’t it?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ted and I didn’t have pancakes again after all. He came over and we cooked dinner together. We had spaghetti and meatballs, with turtle cheesecake for dessert. It was a quickly put together meal. Nothing was homemade—the pasta sauce came from a jar, the meatballs came from the freezer, and the cheesecake had been thawing in the fridge since last night—but it was fun being in the kitchen, working together, and chatting while we prepared our meal.

  Once we sat down to eat, I told Ted all about Simon Benton’s theories on who murdered Geoffrey Vandehey.

  “He presented fairly convincing arguments for the murderer being Josh Ingle, Chad Cummings, and even Special Agent Brown . . . until I pointed out that the killer had to have been in on the museum heist to have wrapped Dr. Vandehey up in the kilim.”

  “An excellent deduction, Inch-High.”

  “You knew all along that the murder of Geoffrey Vandehey and the museum heist were connected, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “Well, it was rather obvious . . . but we don’t know how the two are connected yet.”

  “How do you think it’s connected?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “It basically comes down to whether or not George is right about his father. I believe that if George is correct in his assertion that his father was paid to steal the painting from Chad Cummings, then Dr. Vandehey likely came to Tallulah Falls to confront Chad and to possibly even blackmail him for more money.”

  “I know Cummings had a private investigator looking for Vandehey, but how did Vandehey know Cummings would be in Tallulah Falls?” I asked.

  “Good question,” said Ted. “Maybe Vandehey was keeping tabs on Cummings, too.”

  “I guess that’s possible. If you’d stolen something that valuable from someone, you’d want to make sure they weren’t closing in on you,” I said. “And if George is wrong about his father being paid by Cummings to steal the Cézanne?”

  “Then Dr. Vandehey was in on the Padgett Collection heist from the beginning, and Simon Benton’s theory is probably pretty close to the truth. Vandehey’s partners murdered him in order to keep his share.”

  “I hope George isn’t wrong,” I said. “I feel that, criminal or not, Dr. Vandehey did what he did because he felt he had to in order to get money for his daughter’s health care. Plus, I’d hate for George to go the rest of his life being disappointed in his father.”

  “George will continue believing he’s right whether the evidence is there to support his contention or not.”

  “Then I guess that’s a good thing.”

  “In a way,” said Ted. “But I’m not George. I want to know the truth.”

  His cell phone buzzed. He looked determined to ignore it.

  “Answer it,” I urged. “It might be important.”

  He took the phone from his pocket, looked at the screen, and frowned slightly. “Hello, Mr. Padgett. How may I help you?”

  He listened for a moment and then said, “All right. I’ll see you at your hotel in half an hour.”

  When Ted ended the call and put the phone back in his pocket, his face was unreadable.

  “Good news?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. Mr. Padgett said he remembered where he’d heard the name George Vandehey within the past few days and would like to talk with me about it.”

  “Then, by all means, go,” I said. “I’ll straighten up the kitchen and see you back here after my class.”

  “Leave the kitchen. I’ll come back and clean up after I’ve talked with Anderson Padgett.”

  I smiled. “You’re wonderful, but you’re wasting time. Go.”
<
br />   * * *

  Vera was the first to arrive at class. She’d changed from her Bermuda shorts into a gauzy sundress, and she’d been able to style her hair back into submission.

  “Paul put the photo of the Cézanne out on the wire service,” she said. “Hopefully, many of the news outlets will run it. I’d love for someone to see it and have it be recovered.”

  “I would, too,” I said. “Although forgive me for saying this, but I’d prefer it go to a museum than to Chad Cummings. He’s already made—what did he tell me?—ten times what he paid for it, so I think he’s been rewarded enough.”

  “What are your thoughts on him and Sissy?” she asked. “Do you get the feeling he’s abusive?”

  “I thought that at first, but now I’m wondering if he isn’t overprotective. He gets angry when she’s upset. . . . He buys essential oils to help calm her nerves. . . . I don’t know.”

  “It could be that he does those things to control her, you know.”

  Vera wasn’t able to expound on the subject, because a few other students—Julie, her daughter, Amber, and Muriel—arrived.

  Muriel was hard of hearing. She typically sat down on one of the club chairs and worked quietly for the duration of the class unless there was something she had difficulty with.

  Not today. Today she immediately announced, “I was just in Nellie Davis’s shop, and she says you almost got her killed.”

  “What?” I cried.

  Muriel nodded her cottony little head. “She says you told everybody that she saw who killed that professor man that you found lying on a rug out behind the shop.”

  “I did no such thing!”

  Muriel, unfazed by her own declaration, sat down in her usual spot and took her project out of her tote.

  “Are you gonna take that from her?” Vera asked. “After you made her a card and everything?”

  I crossed my arms and began to pace. “Why would she think I would tell anyone anything about her?”

  Angus, sensing my outrage from across the room and not sure at whom it was directed, decided now would be a good time to get in his bed beneath the counter.

  “To get her killed, apparently,” said Amber, the precocious teen, with a grin.

  I laughed. Leave it to a kid to ease the tension in a room.

  Julie shrugged. “If you want to go tell her off, class can wait for a few minutes.”

  Vera jumped in. “We can all go . . . for moral support.”

  “You just don’t want to miss anything,” I said.

  “Well, there is that,” she admitted.

  “Thank you all for your having my back, but I have no need to go rant at Nellie Davis,” I said. “She had a rough day, and I suppose she’s still reeling from it. If blaming me for her predicament makes her feel better, so be it.”

  “You’re really taking the high road on this,” said Vera. “I’d be as mad as a wet chicken.”

  I was, but I didn’t want to show it.

  “We aren’t going to let Nellie’s ravings ruin our class,” I said. “Let’s see how you’ve progressed on your projects. Muriel?”

  Muriel already had her head down and was working contentedly on her beaded tulip. It was as if she’d never created the furor over Nellie’s comments when she walked in the door. I wondered if she even remembered mentioning it.

  Since Muriel appeared to be engrossed in her work, I moved on to Amber. Amber was embroidering a kitten with a beaded collar and a metallic ball of yarn.

  “This is fantastic, Amber!” I said. “You’re almost finished. We’ll have to get you another project soon.”

  Amber beamed at the praise. She was really good at needle crafts. I knew her mother used this as a way for the two of them to bond, but Amber had a knack for it. I hoped she’d keep it up.

  Julie, who worked a full-time job in addition to caring for her family, hadn’t got very far along on her stargazer lily. Still, she was doing great work, and I told her so.

  Before I could look at anyone else’s project, Nellie and a heavyset woman with a square jaw and . . . well, pretty much a square everything . . . burst into the shop. She and Nellie appeared to be complete opposites—one tall, one short, one thin, one heavy, one with short hair, one with long hair up in a severe bun—in every way except one. They were both unpleasant. Well, there might be one other way in which they were alike—they hated me.

  “You!” The one who wasn’t Nellie extended her arm and pointed her index finger at me. “You’re the one whose loose lips have put my sister’s life in danger!”

  I walked over to the women so they wouldn’t encroach upon my class in the sit-and-stitch square. “I did nothing of the sort. For one thing, I’d have known nothing about Nellie even being here that night had she not told me so herself. And for another, I didn’t go spreading that information all around town.”

  “Is that so?” the woman I now knew as Nellie’s sister asked.

  “Clara, I’ll handle this myself,” said Nellie. Looking at me, she said, “I’d hoped our dual scare would help us to put our past behind us and move forward as friends. I see now that is not to be the case, and I would like you to return the candle I gave you.”

  I heard someone get to her feet and come scurrying over to stand behind me. I guessed it was Vera. I was right.

  “Well, Marcy would like the card back that she painstakingly made for you,” said Vera. “Unlike your candle, which was merely sitting on a shelf, Marcy’s card was a true attempt at friendship.”

  Hadn’t I told her not to hold her breath on Nellie and me ever being friends?

  “Fine,” said Clara. “She can have her nasty little card back, but we’re here for Nellie’s candle and to tell Ms. Motormouth not to spread any more gossip about my sister.”

  Vera brushed me aside so she could stand toe-to-toe with Clara. “You can have your nasty little candle, and Nellie can keep her card to remind her that she could’ve made a good friend instead of an enemy here today.”

  “Nellie hasn’t made any enemies,” I said quickly. I didn’t want her to think I was the one who’d left a dead rat outside her door.

  “Well, she sure hasn’t made a friend,” Vera said. She looked around and spotted the stress-relief candle on the counter. She stepped over, got the candle, and shoved it at Nellie. “Here. Take your candle and get back up the street where you belong. Both of you!”

  As soon as Nellie and Clara had left, I looked around at the wide-eyed group . . . except, of course, for Muriel. She was sitting with her head bowed over her tulip, working diligently.

  “Well, now that the drama is over, let’s get back to work,” I said.

  * * *

  When I got home, Ted was already there. He was stretched out on the sofa watching a baseball game. He clicked the television off when Angus and I came into the living room.

  “Shame on you,” he said.

  I groaned. “Did you hear about the Nellie fiasco already?”

  “No. I said shame on you because you went ahead and cleaned up the kitchen. I knew I shouldn’t have left before helping you straighten up. What’s the Nellie fiasco?”

  “Let me put Angus out, and I’ll tell you.”

  I followed Angus through the kitchen to the back door and opened the door for him. He bolted out into the backyard, thrilled to be completely carefree for a few minutes.

  I went back into the living room and sat on the sofa in front of Ted. I first told him of Muriel’s announcement when she arrived at class.

  “It made me angry,” I said. “But I put it behind me and moved on with class. Well, lo and behold, Nellie and her sister, Clara, came to take back the candle Nellie gave me. So much for my stress relief!”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” He began massaging my neck and shoulders. “I can help with your stress relief.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “So, did you give Nellie back her candle?” he asked.

  “Vera did. And then she told Nellie and Clara to go back
up the street where they belonged.”

  He laughed.

  “I told you and Sadie that Nellie had been working late that night, but that was it,” I said. “You didn’t even need her confirmation that a black van had been in the alley. So why would she think I told anyone that she saw something more than that?”

  “Who in their right mind can figure out Nellie Davis’s thought process?” He continued rubbing my shoulders. “Don’t let her bother you.”

  “If anybody let something slip, it was probably her, right?”

  “Right.” He kissed my neck, and I leaned back against him.

  “Did you see Mr. Padgett?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  He was still kissing my neck, and I was beginning to forget all about Nellie Davis and Anderson Padgett and Geoffrey Vandehey.

  Then he said, “Mr. Padgett said the name Geoffrey Vandehey was familiar to him because his secretary told him last week that one of the receptionists had taken a call from him in which he said the Padgett Collection was about to be stolen.”

  I turned to look at Ted’s face. “What happened then? Did Mr. Padgett not take the warning seriously?”

  “He said he did. He told me he had the secretary relay the information to someone here in Tallulah Falls. He tried to call her but couldn’t reach her this afternoon. He said he’d call her tomorrow and see who she talked with.”

  “Do you imagine she spoke with Josh Ingle and that the extra security he hired was due to her call?”

  “Possibly,” Ted said. “I talked with Josh after speaking with Mr. Padgett. Josh said he spoke with Padgett’s people several times in the weeks and days leading up to the exhibit opening. He said that, naturally, they discussed concerns about the exhibit being damaged or stolen. But he doesn’t remember a call in which a specific threat was mentioned.”

  “Maybe it was intercepted by someone on the board of directors.”

  “Could be,” he said. “I’m going to speak with the museum’s receptionist tomorrow to see if she remembers taking the call.”

  “Mr. Benton said that Mr. Padgett and the board of directors are going to announce a combined reward for information leading to the recovery of the remainder of Mr. Padgett’s collection,” I said.