Cross-Stitch Before Dying (9 page)

“She knows it’s rumored that Babs was murdered, but she thinks the rumor is simply a tool to continue to exploit Babs in death,” Mom said.

“You know there’s more to it than that.”

She shrugged. “Maybe she’s right. Think of how many magazine articles and televised stories could be sold about the unsolved murder of a young Hollywood starlet.”

“Is that what you truly believe?”

“I’m not sure what I believe at this point,” she said.

B
y the time Ted returned from seeing Mita Trublonski safely to her car, Mom had already gone upstairs to bed. I knew she was exhausted, but I also thought she wanted to be alone more than anything. During the crises of others, Mom was terrific. She could remain positive, upbeat, and strong—a rock for those around her to lean on. But her personal crises—like when Dad died—drove her into a shell. She wanted to close herself off from everyone physically and emotionally until the crisis had either passed or enough time had elapsed to allow her to come to grips with the new normal left in the wake of the crisis.

I understood the behavior, but it was hard to accept. I wanted to help her. I wanted to fix things for her. But I realized that in some ways this latest crisis was even harder for Mom to navigate than when Dad died. Then she had a child she had to care for, so she threw herself into looking after me and doing her work. Babushka Tru’s death could destroy the career Mom had worked so hard to build . . . and that was even if Mom
wasn’t
arrested and charged with murder. The stigma alone could ruin her.

I was sitting in the living room and heard Ted’s car pull into the driveway. I hurried to the front door to greet him and was relieved to see that most of the media had gone.

“I only hope this isn’t the quiet before the storm,” I told Ted. “I’ve never had to deal with reporters much, and I don’t like it. Even though Mom has worked on some high-profile movies, the press junkets occur post-production and then typically involve only the stars and other major players like the producers and directors.”

We moved back into the living room and sat on the sofa. Ted pulled me to him, and I rested my head against his chest, soothed by his rhythmic heartbeat. I loved being in his arms.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there are several back here on your street tomorrow morning . . . although most of them are camped out near Mita Trublonski’s hotel now,” Ted said.

“A lot of the media attention focused on Mom depends on what the police learn—and reveal—within the next day or so, doesn’t it?” I asked.

“That and whatever is leaked by anonymous sources. There’s widespread speculation and quite a bit of money being offered, I imagine. That can be a dangerous combination in the hands of tabloids.”

“Yes, it can. Mom told me about Mita Trublonski’s fear that Babs had committed suicide,” I said. “Will the police take that possibility into consideration as they continue their investigation?”

“They will, but I doubt Ms. Trublonski’s fear would be enough to get them to change their minds about Babs’ death being a homicide. From what I’ve gathered, preliminary findings at the crime scene indicated that Babs was struck on the back of the head with a blunt object prior to her fall.”

“So it’s only a matter of whodunit,” I said.

“Yeah.” Not knowing what else to say, Ted simply held me tighter.

That was exactly what I needed. We sat like that—quiet, comfortable, and contemplative—until my phone rang. It was Henry Beaumont.

“Marcy, I’m trying to reach Bev, but my calls just go to voice mail. Is she with you?”

“I’m afraid she’s already gone to bed,” I told him. “I can wake her if it’s important.”

“No,” he said. “Don’t bother her. I just need to talk with her about what she saw this morning. I’ve left her a couple messages, but please ask her to call me first thing tomorrow.”

“I will, Henry.”

“Thanks, dear. I—” He blew out a breath. “Never mind. Just have her call me.”

When I ended the call, I placed my phone on the end table and cuddled back up to Ted. “That was the producer-director. Do you think I should wake Mom and have her call him back?”

“No. In the first place, she needs her rest,” he said. “In the second place, she needs to speak with her attorneys before she talks with anyone else . . . especially another suspect.”

I groaned. “I want this nightmare to be over. One of the Tallulah County Police Department deputies even came to the shop before class this evening and suggested I hire extra security.
Extra
. Like the team of heavily armed bodyguards I already employ isn’t enough.”

“Ha, ha. I’ll try to have the regular patrol officers do an extra check both here and at the Stitch. But don’t hesitate to call nine-one-one if anyone harasses you.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I kissed him.

“You’re welcome. I might patrol myself if that’s how you show your appreciation.”

“Come by anytime.”

Our next kiss was interrupted by my phone ringing again. I glanced at it and saw that it was Vera. I let the call go to voice mail.

“What am I going to tell her tomorrow?” I wondered aloud. “I know she’ll want all the gory details of what Ms. Trublonski had to say to Mom.”

“Tell her the truth. As soon as you got here, Ms. Trublonski left. You didn’t hear a thing.”

“Oh, you’re good.”

He chuckled. “Isn’t that what happened?”

“Yeah . . . but you spin it so well,” I said. “Not to change the subject, but the thought of spinning made me think of the dirt biker who nearly ran down Reggie, Sonny, Ron and me yesterday. Did the Tallulah County Police Department catch that guy?”

“No. They’re looking for the bike and a person matching the description of the driver, but the bike has probably been hidden, and there’s not much to go on with regard to the driver.”

“That’s true. He . . . or she . . . popped up over that hill so quickly, we only had time to react.”

“The TCPD is fairly certain the biker was working with the gunman we’d been chasing,” said Ted. “While they haven’t found evidence to substantiate it yet, they think it’s a pretty safe bet that the biker shot our gunman to death.”

“Has the gunman been identified yet?”

“Yeah. His wallet with photo identification was in the back pocket of his jeans. He was a student at Tallulah County Junior College. He was studying computer science.”

“Was he a hacker?” I asked. “Is that why he was stealing smartphones and computers?”

Ted nodded. “It’s sad. The kid had his whole life ahead of him, and that’s what he chose to do with it?”

“We’re getting way too depressed here,” I said. “We need to lighten the mood . . . try not to think about murder and mayhem for a few minutes. Where were we before Vera called and interrupted us?” I caressed his face as I drew his mouth to mine. “Did I mention that Angus went to bed with Mom?”

•   •   •

Alfred Benton, Mom’s attorney for as long as I could remember, and Campbell Whitting arrived before nine o’clock the next morning. I greeted Alfred with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I said to him quietly. “Mom’s beginning to withdraw more and more.”

Alfred was a tall, thin man with a full head of white hair that he kept neatly trimmed in a military-style cut. His very presence was one of imposing elegance. Should you have found him on the opposite side of the table from you in a legal battle, you should have been concerned . . . on the same side—relieved.

“We’ll take care of this,” Alfred said. “Marcy, have you met Campbell Whitting?”

“Not personally, but I know he did a fantastic job representing my friend Todd Calloway earlier this year,” I said.

Mr. Whitting stepped around Alfred to take my outstretched hand and give it a firm shake. He was a masterful man with bushy gray hair and a beard to match.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Todd is a good man. I’m glad I was able to help him out.” There was a twinkle in his hazel eyes that belied the steel I’d seen Mr. Whitting display in the courtroom.

“Cam is the best criminal defense attorney on the West Coast,” Alfred said. “He’ll get your mother out of this mess.”

“I know,” I said. “Come on into the kitchen.”

As I led the way, Alfred asked about Angus.

“He’s playing in the backyard at the moment,” I said. “It’s always good to let him get some exercise before we head to the Seven-Year Stitch.” I explained to Mr. Whitting that the Seven-Year Stitch was my embroidery specialty shop.

“I’ve seen it,” he said. “It’s right across the street from Todd’s pub.”

“That’s right.” I smiled. “Would either of you care for a cup of coffee?”

Mr. Whitting declined, but Alfred accepted a cup with two sugars. I was just about to call Mom to come downstairs when she entered the kitchen.

She was elegantly dressed in a peach silk pantsuit with a white lace camisole, but her pallor and the dark under-eye circles that showed through despite the carefully applied makeup indicated she’d rested very little if at all last night.

“Good morning.” She greeted Alfred with a restrained hug and Campbell Whitting with a handshake. “I hope the two of you haven’t been waiting long.” She shot an admonishing glare in my direction.

“They just got here.”

“We only arrived seconds ago.”

The fact that Alfred and I had spoken simultaneously made us share a conspiratorial grin. I set his coffee on the table and then squeezed his arm affectionately.

“Mom, would you like some coffee?” I asked.

“No, thank you.” She sat down at the table and motioned for the men to join her. They sat, and I started to do so as well. “Marcella, would you give us some privacy please?”

I drew in my breath. She was asking
me
—the one person in this room who’d been in a similar situation—to leave? My eyes darted from Mom’s to Alfred’s.

He gave me an almost imperceptible nod. “Would it be all right for me to stop by the Seven-Year Stitch later? I’d love to see the place.”

“That would be great,” I said. “Since Angus and I aren’t needed here, I suppose we’ll see you later in town then.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Alfred said.

When we got to the shop, I put Angus inside, relocked the door, and then stomped on down the street to MacKenzies’ Mochas. I’d planned on having coffee at home with the grown-ups, but noooo. I’d been sent to my room—or, in this case, to the Seven-Year Stitch.
Run along like a good little girl, Marcella. The adults have business to discuss.

I flung open the door, walked to the bar—the coffeehouse had been a bar before Blake and Sadie converted it—and flopped onto a stool.

Although Blake was usually the one who manned the bar, this morning it was Sadie. “Ooh.” She grimaced. “What’s wrong?”

“Who knows? Mom’s attorneys came to talk with her and she asked me to give them some privacy. Can you believe that?”

“That is tough,” she said. “The usual?”

I nodded. “Thanks.” I stared down at the gleaming wood grain, tracing a dark line with my fingertip. “It’s just so darn insulting, you know? I’m an adult. I want to know what’s going on. I
deserve
to know what’s going on.”

Sadie put my low-fat vanilla latte with cinnamon on the bar and pushed it gently toward me. “You know all those times in the past when I asked you if you’d called your mom yet to ask about this or that, and you told me no because you didn’t want to worry her? Like the time someone knocked you out in the alley and—”

“This is entirely different,” I interrupted. “She wasn’t here when that happened. There was nothing she could do.”

“Maybe there’s nothing you can do now.” She glanced around to make sure we weren’t being overheard. “Maybe her attorneys are the only ones who can help her, and she doesn’t want you getting all upset or something.”

My eyes widened. “Wait a second. You don’t think. . . .” I, too, made sure no one was listening and then lowered my voice to a hiss. “You don’t think she did it, do you? What kind of crap have those tabloid jerks been spreading?”

“I didn’t say I believe she did anything wrong,” Sadie said. “I said maybe the attorneys are the only ones she wants to tell everything she knows . . . everything that happened on that hill yesterday morning.” She looked around again before taking a cloth from the pocket of her apron and wiping the bar. “Only she knows what she saw, Marce. Maybe she’s trying to protect you.”

“I don’t know what she’s doing,” I said. “I only know that I don’t like being left out.” I got up, put my money on the bar, and swiped up my latte. “Thanks again. I’ll talk with you later.”

I stepped back out onto the street and nearly ran headlong into the police officer who’d visited my shop yesterday before class.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Deputy Preston. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“It’s my fault,” he said, with a laugh. “I’m paid to serve and protect, remember?”

“Yeah, but it’s hard to protect against clumsiness.”

“You seem to have a lot on your mind this morning. Is everything all right?” Deputy Preston asked.

I started to speak but waited until a couple walking past had gone on into the coffee shop.

“Yes,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

“Okay. See you later then.” He grinned and nodded before going into MacKenzies’ Mochas.

I went on up the street to the Seven-Year Stitch and reopened the shop. Angus, as receptive as ever to my moods, greeted me calmly. When I sank onto the red club chair, he sat beside me and placed his head on my lap. I stroked his fur and wondered about what Sadie had said. Had Mom seen something yesterday that she didn’t want me to know about? Had she seen who’d really killed Babushka Tru? Maybe I wasn’t the only person she was protecting.

I started when the bells over the shop door jingled. Angus spun around, and began barking as he charged our visitor.

“Whoa, there, big fella!” Deputy Preston, a coffee in one hand, raised his free hand and laughed. “I guess you do have some protection after all, Ms. Singer.”

“Angus, it’s all right. Come back here.”

Angus did as I asked and returned to my side, only slightly “woofing” one last time.

“I’m sorry,” I told Deputy Preston. “You startled me, and he reacted to that. He usually loves having company.”

“Seems like you’re in a bit of a fog this morning,” he said. “That’s why I came back to check on you after seeing you on the street. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

I smiled. “I’m fine, thanks. I do appreciate your concern. And you weren’t kidding about those media hounds, were you? We had plenty of those last night. They reminded me of vultures sitting on a fence post in the desert . . . just waiting.”