Thread End: An Embroidery Mystery

by Amanda Lee

  “Oh, my gosh!”

  “What the—?”

  We saw it at the same time—a police cruiser with its lights flashing parked in front of Scentsibilities. Ted pulled in behind the car.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll leave the engine running.”

  “No!” I protested. “One, I want to know what’s going on; and two, I want her to know that whatever it is, I didn’t do it!”

  “All right.”

  We got out of Ted’s car and hurried into Nellie’s shop. Officer Audrey Dayton, her auburn hair in a ponytail, was taking notes and trying to console a weeping Nellie.

  As soon as she spotted me, Nellie’s sister, Clara, pointed a long, crooked finger and hissed, “You!”

  “I have done absolutely nothing,” I began. “I—”

  Ted held up a hand. “Please, babe, let me handle this. Officer Dayton, what’s going on here?”

  “Ms. Davis received a threatening phone call,” she said. “The caller used a voice-distorting device but made it appear to Ms. Davis that he or she was somewhere inside the shop. I’ve gone over the premises, and the only people here are Ms. Davis and her sister.”

  “What was said during the call?” Ted asked.

  “According to Ms. Davis, the caller threatened to kill her if she doesn’t get out of town immediately,” said Officer Dayton.

  “Did you call her?” Clara’s venom-voiced question was directed at me.

  “No, she did not,” Ted answered on my behalf. “Ms. Singer has been with me all day. She has neither made nor received any phone calls.” He turned back to Officer Dayton. “Number blocked?”

  She nodded. “May I talk with you outside for a moment, Detective Nash?”

  They stepped outside, and I hurried after them. No way was I staying inside with the Wicked Witch of the East and the Wicked Witch of the West. I felt it was no coincidence that I was wearing my ruby red sandals today.

  “I’ll get back in the car and let you two talk privately,” I said.

  “Don’t,” said Officer Dayton. “It’s not that private, and I don’t want you to have a heatstroke sitting in the car. I just wanted to ask Detective Nash if he feels the threat against Nellie Davis is legitimate.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “First, someone tried to scare her with the dead rat, and now they’re calling and giving her an ultimatum. She saw something more than a black van in the alley that night. She needs to tell us what.”

  “All right. I was going to advise Ms. Davis to take the threat seriously either way,” she said. “I believe it’s always better to err on the side of caution. But if there’s something she’s holding back—something that could help us to help her—then she needs to come clean.”

  “Agreed.”

  Ted went back into the shop, and Officer Dayton and I followed. Well, she followed. . . . I more or less straggled along behind.

  “Ms. Davis, you previously stated that on the Friday night or the early-dawn hours of Saturday morning when Geoffrey Vandehey’s body was discarded in the alley that you saw a black van driving away from the scene,” said Ted. “Isn’t that correct?”

  “I did say that, but now I’m not sure,” Nellie said.

  “You made that statement on two separate occasions to two separate law enforcement officers,” he said. “Are you now recanting that statement?”

  “No . . . maybe . . . I don’t know,” Nellie said.

  “Can’t you see she’s scared half to death?” Clara asked. “Stop badgering her!”

  “I’m trying to get to the truth,” Ted said. “Until we know exactly what Ms. Davis saw happening in the alley, we can’t protect her. Now, Ms. Davis, tell me what you saw.”

  “I saw—I saw the black van,” said Nellie. “I really did, but now I wish I hadn’t said anything. I told her about it first, and look at where that’s got me! I’m gonna be next!”

  “You aren’t going to be next, Ms. Davis.” Ted kept his voice calm and even. “We’re here to protect you.”

  “You can’t protect me!” She covered her eyes with her hands. “You can’t be here all the time! I never should’ve said anything, and then no one would have ever known I saw . . . the van.”

  “You saw something more than a black van, didn’t you?” Ted asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Please level with me, Ms. Davis. You saw someone or another vehicle or you saw the tag number . . . something. You know it, I know it, and the person who called you knows it.”

  This sent Nellie into a sobbing fit, and Officer Dayton and I shared a look of alarm. It was apparent to me that she and I agreed that Ted’s telling Nellie Davis the equivalent to I Know What You Did Last Summer might not have been the best idea. Although it wasn’t Nellie who’d done something last summer—or, rather, last Saturday at dawn—but had witnessed it . . . Still, reminding a hysterical woman that a crazed killer was gunning for her might not have been Ted’s finest moment. I understood why he did it—to scare her into telling him the truth. But it hadn’t worked and very well might’ve had the opposite effect.

  “I’ve been ordered to get out of town or suffer the consequences,” Nellie said when she was finally able to take a ragged breath. “And I’m leaving.”

  “She’ll stay with me for a few days,” said Clara. “You people do your jobs and get this murderer off the streets.”

  “I can’t do that when I don’t know who I’m looking for.” Ted turned his icy blue stare on Nellie until she was forced to avert her eyes.

  She remained stubborn, though, and didn’t tell him what she knew. I had to grudgingly, but silently, give her props for that.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Before I went to work Monday morning, I was thinking about what Josh Ingle had said about Mr. Padgett coming to the museum every day and how I’d thought he must be lonely. I called Mr. Padgett at his hotel and asked if he’d like to have coffee with me this morning.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you bring the coffee, and I’ll grab a cab and meet you at the museum?”

  I said that would work for me. He gave me his coffee order, and we hung up.

  I didn’t want to wear jeans for my meeting with Mr. Padgett, but I didn’t want to dress up, either. I compromised and wore a pink sundress with a braided white-and-pink belt and white sandals. Then I put on a tinted moisturizer with sunscreen, some blush, mascara, and lip gloss as I tried to explain to Angus why he couldn’t go with me just yet.

  “For some silly reason, dogs aren’t allowed in the museum,” I told him. “But I’ll come back and get you in time to go to work with me.”

  He sighed and flopped down on the floor in a dramatic display of despair. That, or else he was just hot. Anyway, I took it as despair.

  “Trust me, you wouldn’t even like the museum, anyway. There is no food there. . . . Well, maybe in the gift shop they have candy bars or something, but nothing you’d be particularly interested in,” I said. “No granola bones, no peanut butter dog biscuits . . . They don’t even have squeaky toys in that place!”

  Angus rolled his eyes up at me and then looked back down at the floor.

  “If you don’t believe me, ask Ted. I wouldn’t even be going if I didn’t feel sorry for Mr. Padgett.”

  He sighed.

  There was no consoling him whatsoever. I’d be sure and give him a treat after we got to work. Realistically, I knew he’d sleep the whole time I was gone, but I could easily imagine that he would feel alone and left out. Did I mention my mother was a Hollywood costume designer? And that I’d seen too many talking-animal movies?

  I hurried off. I didn’t have time to stop at MacKenzies’ Mochas, so I ran through a fast-food drive-through to get coffees for Mr. Padgett and me. Add to my Angus guilt Blake and Sadie guilt.

  I got to the museum at just before nine. That gave me about forty-five minutes to spend with Mr. Padgett before I had to get back home, get Angus, and return to th
e Stitch.

  Mr. Padgett was waiting for me just inside the door. I walked in and handed him his coffee.

  “Don’t you look lovely and refreshing?” he asked.

  “Thank you.” I hesitated, wondering if I should push his wheelchair. But then he put his coffee in the cup holder and began pushing himself.

  “I love a museum in the morning. Don’t you?”

  “I have to admit I’ve never been here in the morning before,” I said. “It is a lot different from the weekend and during events. It’s so quiet.”

  “It’s reverent, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “It is.”

  He rolled over to the wildlife exhibit. As Josh had said he’d done in the past, Mr. Padgett reached out and gently stroked the bear’s paw.

  “Feel that,” he said.

  I tentatively touched the animal.

  “That was a powerful, majestic animal once,” said Mr. Padgett. “Now here it is on display.”

  “Do you think that’s sad?” I asked.

  “To a degree. But I also feel that it can live on somehow in this venue . . . being admired by schoolchildren.” He smiled up at me. “And doddering old men.”

  “You are not one of those,” I said.

  “You’re not fooling either of us by saying that,” he said. “Denying the truth doesn’t make it less so.” He rolled on into an area of the museum dedicated to the Pacific Northwest Native American tribes. He gestured toward a basket. “Look at that. It’s a coiled basket.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “These types of baskets were unique to the Pacific Northwest and were made by stitching flexible material around a core. Each row is joined to the previous one, and it forms a continuous spiral.”

  I stepped closer so I could see the intricate work. The top of the basket had an open-worked rim. “What workmanship.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate it,” said Mr. Padgett. “Not everyone does. Many people look at a piece of art and wonder what it’s worth—monetarily speaking. They don’t even care what it’s worth in terms of time spent on creation, the thought that went into it, the craftsmanship, the beauty, the fact that there’s not another piece exactly like the one you’re seeing.”

  “I saw a quote once where the author said she trembles when she thinks of everything her quilts must know about her. I believe each artist feels that way about his or her creation.”

  He reached out and squeezed my left hand. “I wish my children and grandchildren could understand art the way you do.”

  “They don’t get it?”

  “Not at all,” he said.

  “Is that why you were planning to sell some of your textiles to the museum?” I asked. “Because you didn’t feel your children would keep them?”

  “That’s part of it,” he said. “They don’t fully appreciate art for art’s sake. I know few people who do. Not even Simon appreciates art irrespective of its monetary value.” He sighed. “I don’t feel that I’ll be around much longer, Marcy. Now, don’t look that way. We’re speaking frankly, and my doctor says my ticker isn’t keeping time as well as it used to. Before it was stolen, I was considering gifting the collection to the Tallulah Falls Museum and Historical Society.”

  “Gifting it? Really?”

  “Cross my heart and hope . . . Well, not quite yet.” He winked.

  “Mr. Padgett, you’re going to have to stop joking like that.”

  “Ah, my dear, as author Elbert Hubbard once said, ‘Don’t take life too seriously. You’ll never get out of it alive.’”

  I laughed. “You’re incorrigible!”

  He turned serious again. “I do hate that the collection was stolen. Now no one will get to appreciate it.”

  “I remember Geoffrey Vandehey saying something similar in the confession letter he signed after taking Chad Cummings’s Cézanne,” I said.

  “I saw something about that when it happened,” said Mr. Padgett. “I never met Dr. Vandehey, but from what I’ve read about him—combined with what I’ve come to know of Mr. and Mrs. Cummings this week—I do feel that Dr. Vandehey took the Cézanne from the Cummingses’ home because it wasn’t valued there.”

  “I never met him, either,” I said. “I found his body, and sadly, that was the only encounter I ever had with the man. But I feel that he was unjustly vilified in the matter of the Cézanne. I believe he was a good man at heart.”

  “I imagine you’re right, Marcy.”

  * * *

  I didn’t have time to go back and get Angus before I went to the shop. I felt bad about it, but by the time Mr. Padgett and I had looked at everything in the museum, I barely made it to the shop by ten o’clock.

  I rushed inside and was making sure the Stitch was tidy and that the shelves and bins were properly stocked and in order when someone came in. I turned to see that it was Simon Benton.

  “You look a bit flushed,” he said. “Are you all right this morning?”

  “I’m fine. Just running late. I had coffee with Mr. Padgett before coming to work, and I lost track of time.”

  “That’s easy to do with Andy. He’s quite the talker,” said Mr. Benton. “I was on my way to MacKenzies’ Mochas and thought I’d drop in and see if you’d like anything.”

  “I appreciate your offer, Mr. Benton, but I’m fine.”

  “Where’s your companion this morning?”

  “He’s at home,” I said. “I’m hoping to run back and get him later. It can be lonely here without him.”

  “I imagine so. I see your neighbor began taking her threats seriously and flew the coop. I don’t want your dog to desert you as well.”

  “My neighbor?” I asked.

  “Ms. Davis.”

  “Oh! She’s always closed on Mondays,” I said. “But I do believe she took some time off to spend with her sister.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you. I’ll go on down to the coffeehouse and get my usual. See you later!”

  “Take care, Mr. Benton!”

  Before I could get back to business, Ted called.

  “Hey, babe. I was thinking about you and wanted to tell you this weekend was wonderful,” he said.

  “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  “What’s up? You sound a little down.”

  “I started thinking about Mr. Padgett this morning and how he’s probably lonely, so I called and asked if he’d like to have coffee,” I said. “He asked if I’d bring the coffee and meet him at the museum. I did, and we walked around looking at everything, and I stayed too long to go back home and get Angus . . . and I’d already told Angus I’d be back to get him, so now I feel like a liar.”

  Ted gave a low chuckle. “I’ll go get him and bring him to the Stitch at lunchtime. Will that work?”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not in the least,” he said.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’ll get us something from MacKenzies’ for lunch so we can eat when you get here,” I said. “What are you in the mood for?”

  “Can’t say . . . This might not be a secure line.”

  I laughed. “How about pasta salad?”

  “Not exactly what I had in mind, but it’ll do,” he said. “And hey, I’m really glad you finally met my mom. I’d been dreading that and had put it off for far too long. I was afraid you’d hate her and tell me to get lost.”

  “I liked her,” I said. “But even if I had hated her, I wouldn’t have told you to get lost . . . unless you’d take me with you.”

  “I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

  As we were talking, I saw Special Agent Brown walking up the street.

  “Huh,” I said.

  “Huh, what?”

  “Special Agent Brown is still here. You must’ve been mistaken about his plan to take off to Seattle after Chad and Sissy Cummings.”

  “That’s one of those curiouser and curiouser conundrums,” he said. “They’re still in town, too.”

  “I really did think they�
��d leave in a huff after they were both hauled in for questioning,” I said.

  “Yeah, so did I. Gotta run. See you at lunch.”

  We said our good-byes.

  A delivery truck stopped outside, and the guy dropped off a box of stamped tote bags a local church had ordered for their youth group to make for a fall festival sale. I called the youth director and left a message on her voice mail, and then I slid the box into my arms and set it on the floor.

  The bells over the door jingled. I straightened and saw that Special Agent Brown had come up to the counter.

  “Good morning, Ms. Singer,” he said. “Are you doing all right today?”

  “Yes. I’m fine, thanks. How are you?” I doubted Special Agent Brown had come by merely to engage me in small talk, so I immediately followed up with “What can I do for you?”

  “I wondered if you might have a key to the Scentsibilities shop.”

  I did a double blink. “You think I might have a key to Nellie Davis’s shop?”

  “Well, oftentimes neighbors do that, don’t they, give neighbors spare keys in case they lock themselves out, or forget something, or the place catches fire?”

  “Is Nellie’s shop on fire?” I automatically sniffed to see if I smelled smoke. I did not. I wondered if a fire in an aromatherapy shop might smell different from, say, a fire in the Seven-Year Stitch, where there weren’t all those distinct odors.

  “No, Ms. Davis’s shop is not on fire.” He huffed. “Do you or do you not have a key?”

  “Of course I don’t have a key,” I said. “Neighbor or not, Nellie Davis would absolutely not trust me with a key to her shop. Why do you need one?”

  “Because it’s locked, and she isn’t there,” he said.

  “Which raises the question, why do you need to go into her shop when she isn’t there?”

  “I need to look around. I want to—” He broke off, then came back with, “It’s none of your business.”

  “Your best bet is to call Nellie at her home or at her sister’s home,” I said. “I believe she intended to stay with her sister for a few days, but you never can tell how quickly Nellie is going to change her mind on something.” Like giving you a candle and then taking it back.