Thread End: An Embroidery Mystery (7 page)

Ted looked a bit irritated at having his lunch disrupted, but I felt sorry for Josh Ingle. The young man was terribly agitated.

Ted continued eating his sandwich.

“Why do you think you did something unintentionally?” I asked Josh when he at last lowered the water bottle.

A smile tugged at the corners of Ted’s lips, and I could imagine him calling me
Inch-High Private Eye
in his mind.

“You see, Vandehey
did
come in on Tuesday,” said Josh. “The exhibit didn’t arrive until Wednesday, so I didn’t have any reason to think he was there to steal it. I mean, all right, people
knew
the exhibit was coming—it had been in all the papers and stuff—but I didn’t dream that old man was
casing
the museum! The only thing I thought he was interested in stealing was my job!”

Angus woofed slightly, alarmed by Josh’s agitated outburst.

“Is he okay? Is he gonna bite me?” Josh asked.

“No,” I said. “But please calm down. He hates it when people get upset. So why did you think the professor wanted your job?”

“The guy knew
everything
, okay? It was like from the minute he walked into the museum, I was on a quiz show,” he said. “He’d say things like ‘Of course, you’re aware that in the twelfth century the Western Sudanese were creating some amazing terra-cotta figurines.’ And then he’d look at me, and I’d get the quiz. He’d say, ‘Do you recall where those were produced?’ When I couldn’t answer, he’d fill in the blank—‘Ah, I remember—Jenne-jeno, that’s it.’ Who the hell has ever heard of Jenne-jeno? I haven’t!”

Angus emitted a low growl this time, and I called him over to soothe him. “It’s all right, Angus. Mr. Ingle is just upset.” To Josh, I said, “Maybe he simply wanted to talk with someone who had similar interests.”

Josh shook his head. “He had me take him on a tour of the entire museum. The whole time, he kept testing me—seeing if I had as much knowledge as he had. And, of course, I didn’t! He had a doctorate! I’m struggling to get through my master’s degree!”

“I’m with Marcy,” said Ted as he finished up his sandwich. “I think you were being paranoid about Vandehey. Furthermore, I think you’re being paranoid about Brown.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Josh said. “You’re not the one with your back to the wall here. And it turns out, I
wasn’t
being paranoid. Maybe Vandehey wasn’t after my job, but he could very well have been casing the museum for a band of thieves.” He turned to me. “Did you find anything on or near the body that you might’ve forgotten to tell the police about?”

Ted and I shared a look that said
puhleeze
.

“Actually, yes,” I said. “I found a note saying that after you led him on a guided tour of the museum and allowed him to figure out how to foil all security measures, he and his band of merry men—listed and described individually—were going to steal the textiles, sell them, and give the proceeds to the indigent of Jenne-jeno.”

“You’re being sarcastic,” said Josh, “but that’s exactly the type of thing he would do! That guy—Chad Cummings, the art collector whose Cézanne Vandehey stole—told me yesterday that Vandehey had offered to
buy
the painting so he could donate it to a museum and share it with the world. He thought Cummings had no appreciation for it.”

“I’ve spoken with Cummings,” Ted said. “I don’t think he has much appreciation for anything, with the possible exception of money.”

Josh sighed. “Well, I have to agree with you there.” He looked at Ted. “Please tell me what to do.”

“Don’t let Brown get under your skin,” Ted said. “Staying calm is the best—but probably the most difficult—thing you can do.”

“I swear to you, I didn’t help that man . . . or anyone . . . rob the museum,” Josh said. “I didn’t even know who Vandehey was when he came in on Tuesday.”

“Do you drink, Josh?” Ted asked. “If you do, and if you’re on foot, maybe you could go over to the Brew Crew and have Todd Calloway give you a shot of whiskey. It might calm your nerves some.”

Josh nodded, stood, and wiped his hands down the sides of his pants. “I might do that.” He turned to me. “By the way, how do you know Kelly?”

“I don’t really,” I said. “She came into my shop for the first time on Friday morning, and we talked about the exhibit. How do
you
know her?”

“I went out with her sister until I met Kelly,” he said. “I liked Kelly better and asked her out, and she wouldn’t go.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t like her sister and I were close or anything. I mean, we’d been to dinner and a movie once and then to a concert. It was no big deal.”

“Maybe it was a big deal to Kelly’s sister,” I said.

“Huh . . . I never thought of that.”

It appeared to me that Josh Ingle did a lot of things without thinking.

A
fter Ted and Josh Ingle left, I took Angus for a walk. When I returned, I gathered the fourteen skeins of embroidery floss Sissy Cummings had requested and placed them in a small periwinkle Seven-Year Stitch
bag. Then I retrieved my laptop and performed a search for Geoffrey Vandehey. I wanted to know more about this man I’d found in the alley wrapped in a stolen antique rug.

Naturally, the top search engine results for Professor Geoffrey Vandehey were accounts of the Cézanne he admitted to stealing from Chad Cummings in Seattle. Very little was given about his background other than what I already knew—he was a college professor and an art history expert who had been solicited by Cummings to authenticate and appraise the Cézanne.

I went further into the search pages. At about the middle of page five, there was a link to an article on Dr. Vandehey when he was elected as an associate into the Royal Canadian Academy of Arts. I clicked the link and saw a photo of a younger Dr. Vandehey shaking hands with an older gentleman who was listed as the academy’s president. The article stated that Vandehey enjoyed a distinguished career as an art professor, historian, and appraiser. He had two children, George and Elizabeth. The children’s ages were not given, and no mention was made of their mother. I supposed that had Geoffrey Vandehey been a widower, the article would have said so; so I was guessing he was divorced.

I wondered what George and Elizabeth had thought when their dad had stolen a painting and gone on the lam. Had they been estranged before that? Had Dr. Vandehey written them to let them know what he was doing or had done?

I studied the younger Dr. Vandehey in the grainy photograph. He had been . . . well . . . not unattractive. His face wore a friendly, open expression. I wasn’t a body language or facial expression expert by any stretch of the imagination, but I would never have guessed from this photo that Dr. Vandehey would someday steal a Cézanne and go on the run from federal authorities. Had he been desperate for money and had nowhere else to turn?

“What’s your story, Professor?” I mused aloud.

Following the money angle, I wondered what an early Cézanne might be worth. It was entirely possible that Vandehey had appraised the Cézanne owned by Chad Cummings and found it to be worth much less than Cummings had expected. After all, Vandehey had mentioned in his letter to the feds that he wanted the painting to be appreciated. Every account I had of Cummings was that he wouldn’t appreciate anything that didn’t have an exorbitant monetary value.

I went back to the home page of the search engine and typed in
Cézanne minor work
. I hit
ENTER
and then began to scroll through the links. Within the next half hour, I learned about Cézanne’s dark, Impressionist, mature, and final periods. I also found that the artist was prone to depression. That fact wasn’t too hard to figure out, given his penchant for skull still-life art. One article indicated that the skulls illustrated Cézanne’s resignation to death in his final period. But Cummings’s painting had featured a skull and was said to have been believed to be one of Cézanne’s earliest works.

I ran across an article about Cézanne’s
The Boy in the Red Vest
, which had been stolen from the Foundation E. G. Buhrle in Zurich, Switzerland, on February 10, 2008. That painting had been valued at between ninety-one and a hundred and nine million dollars and was recovered in Serbia in April of 2010. The article pointed out that Cézanne seldom bothered to date or sign his work, but the date he created
The Boy in the Red Vest
was believed to have been between 1894 and 1895 because the young man had been in earlier works and the work had been done in Cézanne’s Paris studio in Rue d’Anjou.

I returned to the search engine’s main page and found another link to Cézanne’s earliest works. According to an Impressionist Web site, Cézanne showed dramatic violence, romanticism, and the desire to revolt against academic standards in his paintings.

I was dwelling on how difficult it must have been for Dr. Vandehey to evaluate the painting, given the fact that Cézanne was reluctant to sign his work, when the bells over the door alerted me to the fact that someone had come in. I closed my laptop and stood to greet Sissy Cummings.

“Welcome back,” I said.

Angus trotted over to greet her, too.

“Thank you,” Sissy said. “Did you have time to get my order together?”

“I sure did.” I went to the counter and retrieved the small bag that held her skeins of floss. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Not that I know of, but I’ll look around as long as I’m here.” She smiled. “I’m sure to find something I’ll fall in love with.”

“That happens to me every time I get a new shipment in,” I said. “By the way, I offer needlework classes every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evening. If you’re in town and looking for something to do, please drop in either to observe or to participate—on the house.”

“What classes are you currently offering?” she asked.

“I have crewel classes on Tuesday. My friend Reggie Singh is teaching
chikankari
—Indian embroidery—on Wednesday. And I’m giving beaded embroidery classes on Thursday.”

“They all sound wonderful,” said Sissy. “I’ll have to see if I can slip away one evening. I’d especially like to watch your friend demonstrate the Indian technique.” She started when the bells over the shop door rang.

A paunchy man wearing jeans, a polo, loafers, and a Gucci cap came into the shop.

“Just finishing up,” she told him.

“Take your time.” The man held a hand out to me. “Chad Cummings.”

I shook his hand. “Hello, Mr. Cummings. I’m Marcy Singer. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and it has been delightful chatting with your wife.”

I noticed that Angus stayed with Sissy rather than coming over to greet Mr. Cummings.

“She’s a thoroughbred, all right.” Mr. Cummings gazed around the shop. “Nice place. You franchised?”

“No, sir.”

He took his wallet from his back pocket, removed a business card, and handed the card to me. “If you ever decide to expand, call me. I might be interested in investing. The name’s catchy, you’d make a cute spokesperson, and the needlecraft business is booming.”

“Um . . . all right,” I said.

“Chad, look,” Sissy said, holding up a counted cross-stitch project of a train. “Wouldn’t this be perfect for Chad Junior’s room?”

He gave the piece a cursory glance. “Whatever you think, Portia.”

“I think it would be lovely,” she said. “I’m getting it. Maybe I can get it made for him before Christmas.”

“You the one who found Vandehey in the alley?” Mr. Cummings asked me.

“Yes, sir.”

“I should pay you a finder’s fee.” He barked out a humorless laugh. “He didn’t happen to have my Cézanne on him, did he?”

“Not that I know of,” I said. “I heard about him stealing your painting, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It was insured.”

“How did you acquire the painting?” I asked. “Had it been passed down through the family?”

“Nah, I picked it up at an auction for a fraction of what it was worth,” said Mr. Cummings. “The guy I was with was what you might call an art connoisseur. He didn’t know who’d done the painting, but he figured it was worth a lot more than that Podunk auction house realized. So I had it insured for ten times what I paid for it.” He laughed again. “Vandehey practically did me a favor when he stole it—I made over twenty million dollars on it.”

“Wow. It’s good you weren’t attached to the painting, then,” I said.

“I don’t get very attached to anything,” he said. “A man can buy a whole lot of paintings for twenty million, most of them prettier than the one that was stolen. Still, I didn’t appreciate the thought that I’d entertained a thief in my own home. So I had a private investigator on the lookout for him. He showed up here a few days ago.”

“Marcy, I’m ready to check out,” Sissy said.

I went over to the counter and rang up her purchases.

“By the way, I went into that aromatherapy shop—Scentsibilities—and bought you some more of that neroli oil,” Chad told his wife.

Sissy’s lips tightened, but she didn’t say anything.

“I know you think it’s too expensive and a waste of money, but it really helps when you get in one of your moods,” he continued. “I told Ms. Davis she should franchise, too. There’s money to be made here if you want it. Give me a call, Ms. Singer. Portia, I’ll be in the Bugatti.”

I handed Sissy her bag. “I hope you and Chad Junior enjoy the train.”

Her face softened. “Oh, he loves trains.” She took her phone from her purse, pressed a couple of buttons, and showed me a photo of a smiling boy wearing a conductor’s cap.

“He’s precious,” I said. “How old is he?”

“He’s seven now. He was five when this photo was taken.” She turned the photo back toward herself and looked at it lovingly. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Is he with you here in Tallulah Falls?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Chad said this was a business trip and that he would be a distraction. We talk at least twice a day through the computer, though.”

“That’s good. I’m sure he misses you.”

“I certainly miss him. I’ll be glad to get back home.”

“Don’t forget to stop back in if you have the chance,” I said. “It’s always great to have a fellow stitcher to talk with.”

She smiled. “It is. Thank you, Marcy.”

After Sissy left, Angus and I returned to the sit-and-stitch square. I picked the laptop back up off the coffee table, opened it, and unlocked the screen. I went to the top of the search engine page and typed in
Chad Cummings
.

As I suspected after he wanted to franchise both my and Nellie Davis’s shops, Chad Cummings was a venture capitalist. His father had been a real estate developer and made a ton of money, and Chad had followed in his footsteps. I wondered if Chad Junior with his conductor’s cap would be some sort of tycoon, too. I figured he probably would.

Angus came over and dropped his tennis ball at my feet. I tossed it, and he scampered across the floor to get it.

He was on his way back to me when Todd Calloway came into the shop. Angus decided to give Todd a turn with the tennis ball.

“Thanks, Angus,” Todd said as he threw the ball and then joined me on the sofa. He turned toward me and raised his eyebrows, looking comical and boyish in his jeans and faded blue T-shirt. His wavy brown hair was going in every direction, and there was a bemused expression in his chocolate eyes.

“What?” I asked.

“Why did you and Ted send Josh Ingle over to the Brew Crew to get wasted?”

“We didn’t!” I searched my brain to recall the details of the conversation we’d had with Josh. “Ted was trying to get him to calm down and suggested he walk over to the Brew Crew for a shot of whiskey. At no time did either of us suggest Josh go get wasted.” I frowned and bit my lip. “Is he wasted?”

“No. He was working on it, but I cut him off.”

Angus returned the tennis ball to Todd, and Todd tossed it back toward the merchandise part of the shop.

“That little dude is a wreck, though,” Todd said. “He was still nursing that last beer when I walked over here. Maybe I can send him up to Nellie Davis’s shop to sniff some . . . whatever calms people’s nerves.”

“Apparently, neroli oil does that,” I said. “Chad Cummings bought some for his wife for
when she gets in those moods
.”

“He actually said that? In front of you and everything?”

“Yep.”

Todd nodded. “What did he say when he came to?”

I laughed. “Nothing. She looked as if she didn’t appreciate the comment, but I get the impression that Chad Cummings says whatever he wants whenever he wants to whomever he wants. He wants me to franchise the Seven-Year Stitch, by the way.”

“Really? Baby Stitches all over the West Coast?” He turned his mouth down at the corners. “How do you feel about that?”

“No, thank you. I believe I was meant to enjoy a quieter life than the Cummingses,” I said. “He mentioned that he told Nellie she should franchise Scentsibilities
too. Hasn’t he come over and tried to win you over to the dark side yet?”

“Not yet, but if he does, I might go.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“I’d seriously like to have a Bugatti like the one he was driving.” Todd winked. “Wouldn’t you? I can see you and Angus buzzing down the highway with the wind in your hair . . . both of you sporting a pair of matching sunglasses.”

I hit him with one of the candlewick pillows.

He laughed. “It’s something to think about.”

“Maybe so, but I have enough to deal with without worrying about my mansion being broken into and my priceless art stolen while I’m out cruising around in my Bugatti.”

“Speaking of priceless art, I heard you found an antique rug . . . and a person . . . in your alley on Saturday,” Todd said.

“Yes, I did. And before you ask, I did not knock over the museum, nor did I wrap said person in the rug and dump him in the alley.”

“I’m glad. I’d hate for you to execute a caper like that without me.”

“This from the man who’s dating a deputy,” I said.

He spread his hands. “Hey, I’d just like to think that no matter who either of us is dating, if you decide to commit a federal offense, you’d at least let me audition as the getaway driver.”

“Of course I would,” I said. “But after seeing Chad Cummings’s Bugatti, I think I’d ask him first. Those things are fast.”

“That’s true. I couldn’t blame you there,” he said. “If you decide to
steal
the Bugatti, though, call me.”

“Oh, first thing,” I said.

He grinned. “Seriously, are you all right? I started to call you Saturday night, but I figured Wyatt Earp was taking care of you.”

“I’m fine. I feel sad for Professor Vandehey, though. I looked him up on the Internet earlier, and he had two children.”

Todd’s grin faded. “Don’t do that to yourself, Marce. You had nothing to do with that man’s death. You merely stumbled across him lying behind your shop. Stop obsessing and move on.”

“I’m trying, but . . .” I sighed.