Thread End: An Embroidery Mystery (10 page)

“I think so. The Bro Code is more about not dating someone your friend was in a relationship with.” He shrugged and speared a chunk of turkey with his fork. “I’m not up on the Bro Code or any of that stuff these days. I’m off the market.”

T
ed had been gone only about five minutes when an attractive woman in her late fifties to early sixties walked into the Seven-Year Stitch. She had light gray hair cut in an angular bob, and she wore a turquoise sheath dress and nude pumps. Even though it was cloudy, she wore tortoiseshell sunglasses. When she took them off, I could see that she had gorgeous blue eyes. She placed the sunglasses in the straw purse dangling from her left wrist.

Angus ambled over to say hello, and the woman immediately held up her right hand, sending half a dozen gold bangles of varying widths sliding to her elbow.

“Sit,” she said.

He immediately obeyed the command.

“Hi, there,” I said. “Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch. I’m Marcy Singer. Is there anything I can help you find?”

“No, thank you.” She strolled over to the pattern books. “I’m merely browsing for now.” She plucked one of the books off the rack and began thumbing through it. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Marcy.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Mostly.” She didn’t look up from the book.

I was dying to ask her from whom she’d heard these
mostly
good things, but before I could ask she began talking again.

“Beautiful roses,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“From someone special?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Where did you come up with the name of your shop?”

“Well, it took me seven years to finally realize my dream of opening my own embroidery specialty shop,” I said. “And I’m a movie buff, so when I started trying to think of clever names, the Seven-Year Stitch just sort of clicked.”

She nodded. “And that’s why you have a life-size Marilyn Monroe doll standing by the counter? Because of the tie-in to
The
Seven-Year Itch
?”

I suddenly felt silly. Did the woman
intend
to be condescending? Or was I taking offense where none was meant?

I was getting ready to explain that Jill—the
mannequin
—was sort of a shop mascot and that I display some of my embroidered clothing on her, but Special Agent Floyd Brown sauntered into the shop. There was sweat beading on his forehead just below his spiky hairline. He’d forgone his dark sunglasses today, and his brown eyes looked puffy and tired.

“I’m sure you remember me, Ms. Singer. I’ll allow you to conclude your business here, and then I have some questions for you.”

The woman glanced up from the pattern book she was holding. “Then you should probably have a seat. I might be a while.”

Special Agent Brown drew himself up to his full height but was still half a head shorter than the woman I was now calling the Ice Queen in my mind.

“I respectfully request that you conclude your business here as quickly as possible and leave so that I can speak privately with Ms. Singer, Ms.—“

“You may call me Veronica,” said the Ice Queen. “And what may I call you?”

“Special Agent Floyd Brown of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He puffed out his barrel chest.

“Thank you.” The Ice Queen gave him a tight smile. “And to whom should I report you for barging into this young woman’s place of business and harassing her in front of her patrons?”

Special Agent Brown gaped. My jaw dropped, too, but I quickly closed my mouth. Angus still sat where the Ice Queen had issued her command, but now he wagged his tail.

“I’m not . . . I didn’t . . . !” Special Agent Brown sputtered at the Ice Queen for a moment, and then he turned to me. “Am I harassing you?”

I looked from him to the Ice Queen—who arched a brow—and then back to Special Agent Brown. “I
am
with a customer at the moment. And unless this is an emergency, you could wait patiently for us to conclude our business. Furthermore, there was no need to embarrass me in front of a patron.”

The Ice Queen gave me a small nod of approval.

“I-I’m sorry,” said Special Agent Brown. “I’ll wait.” He went to the sit-and-stitch square and sat on the sofa that faced the window.

I was still looking at the Ice Queen with a mixture of amazement and admiration. Nobody intimidated
this
woman!

“I definitely want this one.” She handed me the pattern book she held. “And I might want at least one other.” She resumed her leisurely perusal.

Ted returned to the shop then. I guessed he was returning to tell me what, if anything, he had learned from Nellie Davis. As soon as he walked through the door, he stopped in his tracks.

“Mother? What are you doing here?”

The Ice Queen turned and smiled warmly. “Hello, love. I thought I might try a new hobby.”

“Those eyes! I should’ve recognized those eyes!” I cried.

“Why should you?” asked the Ice Queen, whom I supposed I should really refer to as Veronica, seeing as she was Ted’s mother. “Lots of people have blue eyes.”

“Not as striking as Ted’s,” I said.

“That’s true,” said Veronica.

“Mother, you didn’t introduce yourself?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d want me to,” she said.

“Then, by all means, allow me. Marcy, this is my mother, Veronica Nash. Mother, this is Marcy.”

Wait a minute.
Ted
was the person who’d told her
mostly
good things about me? What had he said that
wasn’t
good?

Veronica shook my hand. Her grip was firmer than that of some of the men I’d known. Somehow I was not surprised.

She looked back at her son. “Oh, by the way, the gentleman on the sofa is Special Agent Floyd Brown of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He is waiting for Marcy and me to conclude our business so he can ask her some questions.”

Ted took a step toward his mother. “What did you do to him?” he whispered.

Veronica splayed her hand on her chest and looked indignant. “Who says I did anything?”

“Experience.”

“I simply reminded him to be mannerly,” she said. Then she raised her voice back to a normal speaking level. “Would you like to go say hello to your fellow law enforcement professional while Marcy and I finish up?”

“I might as well.” Ted wandered over to the sit-and-stitch square with Angus close on his heels. “Brown.”

“Nash.”

It wasn’t
hello
and
how are you doing?
but it sufficed, I supposed.

“It’s so good to meet you, Ms. Nash,” I said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please call me Veronica.” She put the pattern book she’d had in her hand back in the rack and chose another. “This counted cross-stitch . . . is it hard to do?”

“As with all embroidery, there are varying levels of expertise,” I said. “But I believe you could master anything you set out to accomplish.”

“Why, thank you.” She smiled.

“You’ll probably want to start off with something simple and advance as you grow more comfortable with the technique.”

“All right. And you can help me get started?”

“I’d be happy to.” I gestured toward the seating area. “That’s the main reason I have a sit-and-stitch square. People can come by to get help or to simply have a friendly conversation while they work. I also offer classes three evenings a week.”

“That sounds fantastic,” Veronica said. “I’m in. I’ll take that pattern book you’re holding, this one here, and one of those kits that has the needles and hoop and thread.”

I convinced Veronica to take a complete beginning cross-stitch kit that included a stamped pattern to get started. “That way you can see if you like it before you’ve invested too much time and money into the craft. And I’ll be happy to hold your pattern books behind the counter until you’ve decided if cross-stitch is right for you.”

“No, I like them. I’ll take them with me. I believe I’m going to enjoy this new hobby.” She glanced toward her son and Special Agent Brown. “They don’t seem very friendly toward each other.”

“I don’t think they are,” I said softly. “But then, when Ted is investigating a case, he’s like a hungry lion with a steak. Don’t get in his way. He was rather frightening the first time we met. I thought he was hard-nosed and strictly business.”

“I don’t know where that aspect of his personality comes from,” she said.

Even though she appeared honestly perplexed, I couldn’t help myself—I laughed.

She laughed, too. “I never was a shrinking violet . . . but I don’t imagine I’ve ever frightened anyone.”

My eyes immediately went to Special Agent Brown. Oh, no—this woman had never scared anyone in her life . . . except a federal agent!

I led Veronica to the counter. “Will that be all?”

“For now,” she said. “I plan to begin on this kit this evening. If I get stuck or need more supplies, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

I rang up her purchases and she paid with a gold credit card. Then she waved in the direction of the sit-and-stitch square.

“A bientôt, mon coeur!”
she called.

“
A bientôt
, Mother,” Ted said.

As Veronica breezed through the door and down the street, I joined Ted, Angus, and Special Agent Brown in the sit-and-stitch square.

“I had no idea your mother had an interest in needlework . . . or that she was coming by the shop today,” I told Ted.

“Neither did I.” He turned to the agent. “Brown, do you mind if I stick around while you talk with Marcy? I have some information that should interest you.”

“No,” said Special Agent Brown. “Whatever.”

I sat on the sofa beside Ted and petted Angus as I waited to see what Special Agent Brown wanted to talk with me about.

He took a notebook from the left pocket of his blazer. “Ms. Singer, I have reason to believe that Geoffrey Vandehey was involved in the theft of the Padgett Collection from the Tallulah Falls Museum and Historical Society.”

I thought it was weird that he was being so formal, and I wondered if he was always this way or if he was getting ready to accuse me of something—like of being in cahoots with the thieves or something.

“When you—as you
allege
—stumbled upon the body in the alley, did you see anyone else in the immediate vicinity?” he asked.

I remembered and felt empowered by Veronica Nash’s refusal to kowtow to Brown. I lifted my chin. “As I told you on Saturday, Special Agent Brown, I took out my garbage. When I turned to come back inside the shop, I saw what appeared to be a kilim from the Padgett Collection. I stepped closer and saw that there was someone wrapped up in the rug. I instantly called the police. And no, I do not remember seeing anyone else in the alley until Blake MacKenzie came to my assistance.” I leaned forward. “Do you have any evidence to refute my statement in any way?”

“No, but—”

“Then please do not refer to it as an allegation,” I said.

Ted lowered his head and covered his mouth with his hand.

“Very well,” said Special Agent Brown. “Did you investigate the body?”

“No. I thought it best to leave that to the professionals.”

“Yes, but you
did
see Geoffrey Vandehey’s face, did you not?” he asked.

“I did, though at that time I didn’t know who he was,” I answered.

“Right. Did you notice and perhaps pick up any paper or other debris lying near the body?”

“Of course not!” I grimaced. “Why would I do that?”

Special Agent Brown flipped his hands palms up. “I don’t know. I was merely hoping that you’d seen something . . . maybe a slip of paper . . . and that you’d carried it inside and laid it down somewhere when you came in and then forgot about it. I’m looking for anything that would give me a clue as to who Vandehey was working with.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, taking a kinder tone. “I’ve told you all I know.”

“Our crime scene techs were on the scene within twenty minutes of Marcy’s discovery of the body,” Ted said. “You’ve seen everything they found on or near the corpse.”

“I know.” He rubbed his eyes.

“But, hopefully, Nellie Davis might be of help,” Ted said. “Ms. Davis owns the aromatherapy shop two doors down.”

The shop between mine and Nellie’s was currently for lease.

“Ms. Davis came by and told Marcy this morning that she was working in her office late Friday night,” Ted continued. “She said she didn’t know what time it was, but I got her to admit that she was here until the wee hours of Saturday morning. That fits with the coroner’s timeline for Vandehey’s death.”

“So this Davis woman was here at the time Vandehey’s body was dumped in the alley?” Special Agent Brown asked.

“I think so,” said Ted. “When we began talking, she said at first that she didn’t see or hear anything. But when I promised her protection, said I’d try my best to retain her anonymity, and impressed upon her the fact that the slightest detail could help, she told me that she’d peeped out the window when she heard a vehicle engine start up. A black van was speeding away.”

“But you already knew that from the surveillance video,” I pointed out.

“True, but I’m hoping she’ll remember something else. Even a couple numbers from the license plate would help,” he said.

“A black van . . . That’s not much, but at least, it’s something,” Special Agent Brown said. “Thanks, Nash. I appreciate your sharing that information with me. I think I’ll pay Ms. Davis a visit myself.” He stood, thanked us both for our time, and left.

Ted cocked his head toward me and gave me a bemused grin.

“What?” I asked.

“How long were you with my mother to learn that lesson in boldness?”

I giggled. “Not long. I don’t know, Ted. . . . Special Agent Brown came in here ready to throw his weight around, and she politely let him know that he could throw his weight right down on the sofa and wait his turn.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Politely?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “She wasn’t about to let him browbeat her into leaving, and she let him know that. I was impressed.”

“I was impressed with you,” he said. “You handled yourself exceptionally well. Brown will bully you if he can, but he’ll back down quickly if he knows he can’t.”

“You and your mother favor each other,” I said. “Now that I know she’s your mom, I can see the resemblance so clearly. I don’t know how I missed it at first.”

“Like you and I both said earlier, we didn’t know she was dropping in today . . . or any day.”