Thread on Arrival (15 page)

I laughed. “I’m glad you’re excited about the show, Jack.” I looked at Reggie to include her in my question. “How do you guys think Mary and Adam took the news?”

“Mary will take the news however Adam tells her to take it,” Jack said. “As for Adam, I didn’t get a good read on him. What about you, Mrs. Singh?”

“I felt that he was either touched that his dad wanted to do something as special as finding a treasure for him, or that he was upset that Chester hadn’t included him in the plan,” Reggie said.

I sighed. “I only hope that he doesn’t get home and start thinking about the tapestry and change his mind.”

Chapter Sixteen

I
was more than
ready to slip out of my dress and heels when I got home. I took a quick shower and then threw on a navy tracksuit and thick multistriped socks. I was curled up on the sofa watching
Family Ties
on a retro TV station when Ted arrived.

“You look tired,” I told him, as he slumped onto the sofa.

“You look comfy.”

“I have another old sweat suit and plenty more socks upstairs,” I said. “You’re welcome to them.”

He grinned. “I’m sure they’d fit really well.” He removed his tie, jacket, and shoes before stretching out beside me. “I’m awfully glad that when you were furniture shopping, you bought this extra-large couch. How did the meeting go?”

I rested my head on his shoulder. “Andrew didn’t give you a full report?”

“He did . . . but I’d like to hear your version.”

I gave him a brief rundown of the meeting. “I’m not sure how Adam was feeling when he left the meeting. He seemed okay, but with that guy appearances can be particularly deceiving.”

“It’s not only Adam who Manu and I are worried about. If the person or persons who killed Chester Cantor did so to get the tapestry, then we—the police department—need to keep a watchful eye on you and the Cantors,” Ted said. “The Cantors, because if Adam didn’t kill Chester, the murderer might try to take the tapestry from them.”

“But I gave you the tapestry.”

“True, but we returned it to Mary Cantor,” he said. “The tapestry wasn’t at the crime scene, so there was no reason for us to keep it.”

“And why do you feel you need to keep a more watchful eye on me?” I asked.

“Because you’re my Inch-High Private Eye.” His laughter rumbled in his chest, and he hugged me tighter.

“Secondary reason?”

He sighed. “You brought Trammel in to recover—or, at least, to attempt to recover—the
Delia
’s cargo.”

“So if the killer was after the tapestry and ultimately any treasure to be found, we’ve foiled his nefarious schemes,” I said. “And that was part of my grand plan to draw out the killer all along.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said.

“Nonsense.”

The episode of
Family Ties
that had been playing ended and another started. I sang along with the theme song: “What would we do, baby, without us?”

* * *

It was a sunny Thursday morning, so I had no qualms about leaving Angus in the backyard to play while I went to visit Riley at her law office. The office had always been immaculately and elegantly decorated. It still was, but now everything had a softer appearance than before. Or maybe it was merely my imagination. The floral brocade sofa remained centered on the Oriental rug and flanked by rose-colored wingback chairs, but a white angora throw now rested over one arm of the sofa. The large cherry coffee table was still so highly polished that everything else in the room was reflected in its surface, but instead of the designer floral arrangement that used to adorn the table, an abstract family sculpture held the role of centerpiece.

Even Riley’s mom and administrative assistant, Camille Patrick, seemed softer somehow. She still wore her black-and-gray-streaked hair up, but it wasn’t as severe a style as it had been before. And she was happier and more relaxed than I’d ever seen her.

“Marcy, how are you dear?” she asked.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Patrick. How are you?”

“I’m great.” She chuckled. “I’m still getting used to the idea of being a grandmother, but it’s growing on me rather quickly.”

“Is Riley available?”

“She is, and it will do her good to see you. Her first appointment isn’t for about an hour, so you two should be able to have a nice, long chat,” Mrs. Patrick said. “Plus, Laura is awake, so you’ll get to enjoy her too.”

Mrs. Patrick came out from behind her desk and walked with me to Riley’s office. She tapped on the door. “Darling, Marcy is here.”

“Terrific! Come on in,” Riley called.

Riley’s office had changed quite a bit more than the lobby had since I’d seen it last. Though the office still carried over the rose and pastel blue color scheme of the lobby, extraneous furniture had been removed to accommodate a baby swing, a bouncy seat, a rocking chair, and a bassinette. Riley’s desk, chair, file cabinet, and one guest chair were all that remained of her “office” furniture.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” I told Riley as she came around the side of her desk to give me a hug.

“Don’t you, though? I take all my meetings in the conference room now.”

“I’ll leave you two alone so you can visit,” Mrs. Patrick said, backing out of Riley’s office. “If you need for me to come get Laura, just let me know.”

“In her dreams,” Riley said with a giggle as her mother closed the door. “She’s nearly worn a path between her desk and the bassinette.”

I peeped over into the bassinette where Laura was lying. She was cooing and kicking her legs. I was pleased to see that the blanket I’d embellished by embroidering her initials, a spray of flowers, and a butterfly in the corner was in the bassinette beside her.

“May I rock her?” I asked.

“Of course.”

I picked up the baby and moved to the rocking chair near the window. “Oh, Riley, she’s so gorgeous.”

“
Merci beaucoup.
She takes after her mother.” Riley winked.

“She does,” I said. The baby had both parents’ dark hair and eyes, but I could see that she would have the delicate facial features of her mother.

Riley sat back down. “It’s good to get back into some semblance of a routine again. Now, if I could just drag myself to the gym.”

She wore a plum pantsuit, and I could see that her figure was returning to normal even if Riley
hadn’t
been to the gym. “You look beautiful,” I said.

“You’re sweet. I knew it would be like a fresh spring breeze for you to come by. So tell me what you’ve been up to,” she said.

“There might be some excitement coming to Tallulah Falls.”

Riley made a
pfft
noise. “I already know about your and Ted’s romance, remember?”

The baby cooed, and it sounded almost like a giggle. Riley and I laughed.

“I’m not talking about Ted and me. I’m talking about reality television.”

Riley made such a fierce grimace that I laughed again. Then I explained about yesterday’s meeting with J. T. Trammel and the later meeting with Trammel, the Cantors, and Jack Powell.

Riley leaned forward when I told her about Jack’s declaration to Adam that Chester was hoping to find the treasure for him. “What did Adam say to that?”

“Nothing. He just sat there looking down at the floor.”

“What about Mary?” she asked. “Did she comment at all?”

“Other than saying it was nice to meet the people she was introduced to, Mary didn’t make a sound the entire time they were there,” I said. “It seemed weird to me. I mean, Mary acted kind of nervous when Reggie and I were at their house Friday morning before Adam left for work—and that was completely understandable, given the circumstances. But last night, she acted like she was some sort of robot or something.”

“Maybe she and Adam had argued before they arrived at the shop,” Riley said. “Or he might’ve told her ‘When we get there, you sit down and keep your mouth shut,’ and she was afraid to do otherwise. See if she acts more like herself at tonight’s class.”

“I will. You said you knew Adam from when your dad represented him on the assault charges, right?” I asked.

“That’s right. Why?”

“Have you had much contact with Mary?”

“Not much. I saw her when she was in here with Adam a time or two but that’s all.” Riley frowned. “What are you getting at?”

“I just can’t figure her out. I mean, would you let your daughter stay in a home with someone you thought might be guilty of murder . . . even if that someone was your husband?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “But for some women that decision isn’t as easily made as it would be for you or me.”

“I think Mary’s friend Susan Willoughby is trying to convince her to leave.”

“Susan Willoughby?” Riley scoffed. “Unless she’s changed a whole heckuva lot since high school, the only reason that woman would encourage anyone to do anything was because she thought there was something in it for her. That woman’s a snake.”

“Really? I never would’ve guessed that,” I said. “She’s in the domestic abuse victims’ embroidery class, so maybe she got out of whatever situation made her so bad.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. Did you say Susan Willoughby is in the domestic abuse vics’ class?”

“I did,” I said. “But, please, don’t repeat that to anyone. I’m not even supposed to reveal to most people that I’m helping with the class.”

“Oh, pooh. You know I won’t say anything,” Riley said. “But do me a favor. Ask Susan ever so casually who was abusive to her.”

“Okay.” I drew the word out, not sure where Riley was going with this favor.

“If she says it was her ex-husband, Jared, I hope lightning strikes her on the spot.”

“Riley!”

“I do,” she said. “Because when we were in high school, Jared Willoughby treated Susan like she was a princess, and she treated him like dirt. She even got suspended once when one of the teachers saw Susan hit Jared with her baton.”

“Then why did he stay with her?” I asked.

“Hello? Isn’t that the same question you just asked me about Mary and Adam? The answers run the gamut from love to shame to fear to reasons only the person involved in the relationship can comprehend.” She noticed that Laura had dozed off in my arms. “Here, let me get her.” She stood, gently took the baby, and laid her in the bassinette.

“I’d like to talk with Jared Willoughby sometime,” I mused softly. “I think it would be nice to meet him and form my own opinion of the man. Like you, Manu was amazed that Susan was in the class and adamant that Jared had never been abusive to her.”

“Can you talk with Jared without being too obvious?” Riley asked.

“Sure.”

“He’s an auto mechanic. His shop is over on Fourth Street.”

I smiled. “Come to think of it, the Jeep is due for an oil change.”

* * *

I still had a little over an hour before I had to open up the shop, so I drove on over to Fourth Street. I knew it was customary to have an appointment for an oil change; but even if Jared Willoughby was unable to work me in, I could still maybe talk with him for a minute or two.

I parked the Jeep in front of the garage and went inside. “Hello!” I called when I didn’t see anyone.

“Hello!”

The voice came from beneath a green sedan. As I stepped closer to the voice, a fresh-faced young man with a smear of grease on his cheek rolled from beneath the car on a wheeled, vinyl-covered board that I later learned was called a car creeper.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked.

“I hope so. Are you Jared Willoughby?”

“I might be.” His tone was teasing. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m Marcy Singer. I’m a friend of Riley Kendall’s, and she tells me you’re a very good mechanic.”

“Well, she might’ve spoken a tad too highly of me,” he said. “You know how those lawyers are. What are you driving, and what kind of problems are you having?”

“I drive a Jeep, and I’m not really having any problems with it,” I said. “All it needs is an oil change.”

“In that case, I can fix you up in about twenty to twenty-five minutes then.”

“You mean, you can go ahead and do it now?” I asked. “I don’t mind making an appointment and coming back when it’s more convenient.” I pointed toward the car he’d been working on. “I don’t want to jump in line ahead of that person.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “
That person
is my mom. She pays me by making me dinner and knitting me scarves, and she’s constantly having me tinker with her car. And when I work on it, I drive it. So it’s not going anywhere until I break for lunch. Besides, business is slow today.”

“Then I’d sure like for you to change the oil in my Jeep.”

“All right. Glad we got that settled. Pull her into this empty bay over here.” He walked over to open the door to the bay while I went out to drive the Jeep around.

I drove the Jeep into the garage, got out, and handed Jared my keys. “Did you say your mom knits?”

“Constantly,” he said. “In fact, I think she made an afghan or two for Riley’s baby.”

I took a business card from my wallet. “Would you mind giving this to your mom and asking her to stop by the shop and see me sometime?”

He read the card. “The Seven-Year Stitch—that sounds like her kind of place.” He tucked the card into his shirt pocket.

“I have a Susan Willoughby in a candlewick embroidery class,” I said.

His face hardened. “Susan’s my ex-wife.”

“I’m sorry to hear that . . . that she’s your
ex
. I mean . . . rather than your wife. . . . She seems nice.”

“Everybody seems nice until you get to know them. Remember that.” He unlatched the hood of the Jeep. “You can wait in there.” He nodded toward a small room that held a desk, a table, four metal chairs, a coffeepot, and a wall-mounted television.

“Okay,” I said. “Again, I’m sorry.”

He didn’t reply, and I headed toward the tiny waiting area. I was really bummed that I’d made Jared Willoughby angry before learning anything very helpful from him. Not that there was anything particularly helpful that I
could
learn from him, but I felt like now I’d never know if there had been or not. But, at least, I was getting the oil changed in the Jeep. That’s something I’d needed to do anyway.

I sat down on one of the cold metal chairs and watched a morning news show on the television mounted in the corner until my neck began to ache from the strain. Then I made do with listening to the program with an occasional glance at the TV whenever something caught my interest.

As promised, the Jeep was ready in just under half an hour. I still had time to run home and get Angus before opening the shop.

Jared Willoughby came in and made out a bill for me, and I paid him by check.

“Hey, I’m sorry I got touchy earlier,” he said.

“It was my fault,” I told him. “I hit on a sensitive subject.”