Thread Reckoning (19 page)

“Will it be ready in time to take to the ball?” Vera asked.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I might even have it finished by tomorrow evening’s class.”

She grinned. “That would be terrific. Everyone will want one . . . Of course, you won’t have time to make them, though . . . will you?”

“I’m hoping to make myself one,” I said, with a smile. “But I can assure you, you won’t be upstaged at the ball.”

“Oh, I—I know. I’ll go so you can get to work.”

“All right.” I was surprised she didn’t want to stay and watch, but I was relieved that she didn’t. I felt I could do a better job without Vera’s scrutiny over every move I made.

As soon as she left, I cut out the pattern for the purse. I then took the front piece and marked my design with a fabric marker. As I’d explained to Vera, most of the design consisted of spiderweb roses, so I made a series of what looked like asterisks across what would ultimately be the front of the purse. I then got some sturdy gold thread and outlined the asterisks. I was preparing to weave the satin ribbon through the threads when Frederic came into the shop.

He had changed from the suit he’d worn to the funeral to faded jeans and a red sweatshirt. He flopped onto the sofa and sighed. “I found gemological certificates at Mom’s house. She knew the gems were real.”

“So she’d had them appraised,” I said.

He nodded.

“Did you find any tools—anything to indicate that she’d taken pieces of existing jewelry for the gems?”

“No.” He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“Maybe they were hers.” I shrugged. “Isn’t it possible she had some jewelry you didn’t know about, and she took it apart to provide this surprise for your wedding? She could’ve been planning to tell you about it afterward. You know, some grand gesture you hadn’t thought she could afford.”

“I’d like to think that, Marcy, but I don’t. I don’t know what to believe.”

“You knew your mother better than anyone,” I said. “Is it possible she could’ve taken them?”

“You mean stolen. You’re asking if I believe she stole them.” He ran his hands through his thick hair. “No. My mother was a good woman. She wasn’t a thief.” He looked at me. “And your next question, naturally, is then where did the jewels come from? Trust me, I’ve been over and over this in my mind, and I don’t have a clue.”

“Could they have been a gift?” I asked.

He shook his head. “She’d have told me about it.”

“Maybe not. Like I said, maybe it was a surprise.”

“Well, it certainly was that.” He blew out a breath. “Here’s the thing. My mother winds up with a pouch of jewels and someone kills her to get them back. How did she get entangled in . . . whatever it was?”

“That’s what we need to find out. Have you spoken with anyone else about this? Harriet, maybe?”

“No. Not yet. I—I don’t want Harriet to think my mother was a crook. Because she wasn’t. She was a good woman, and she raised me to be an honorable man.” His eyes welled with tears.

“I know, Frederic. But we need help figuring all this out. Let me give detectives Nash and Sloan a call.”

He nodded his consent. It dawned on me that I had things to say that I couldn’t say in front of Frederic, so I said I needed to walk Angus and that I’d make the call while I was walking. I hooked Angus up on his leash, told Frederic I’d be back within five minutes, and walked down the street.

Ted answered on the first ring.

“Hi,” I said quietly, even though there was little activity on the sidewalk this afternoon. “Frederic is in my shop. He found appraisal certificates. His mother knew the jewels were real.”

“Where did she get them?”

“He doesn’t know, and I’m calling because my time is up. If we don’t do something, Agent Daltrey will haul Frederic in today.”

“I’ll give Daltrey a call and see if we can work together on this,” Ted said. “After all, the murder occurred in our jurisdiction, and I’d think at this point that crime would trump the jewelry theft, especially . . .” He trailed off.

“Especially since other people could be in danger from the killer?” I asked.

“
Um
. . . yeah.”

“It’s not like we haven’t already had this discussion, you know.”

“I know,” he said. “I just don’t like to think about it.”

“That makes two of us. Anyway, Frederic is wanting to talk with you and Harriet. Can you come by, or should I send him there?”

“Why don’t you send him to us?” Ted said.

“I’ll do that.”

“Be careful . . . okay?”

“You, too,” I said. Relieved that I didn’t have to clean up after Angus after all, I returned to the shop.

“Hi,” I said to Frederic as I unleashed Angus. “Thanks for holding down the fort.”

He nodded toward a customer who had come in and was browsing.

I went over to the customer, a young woman dressed in a business suit. “Welcome to the Seven-Year Stitch. Please let me know if I can help you find anything.”

“Thank you. I will.”

As she continued to look around, I returned to Frederic. “Ted and Harriet asked that you drop by their place.”

“You mean, now?” he asked.

“As soon as you can. They’re eager to talk with you.”

“Thanks,” he said, rising from the sofa.

“Keep me posted?”

“Sure.” He left, and I noticed my customer was ready to check out.

Todd dropped in around three. The store was quiet and serene. Angus was in his bed under the counter, and I was working on Vera’s purse in the sit-and-stitch square.

“Hi, there,” Todd said.

At the sound of Todd’s voice, Angus rose and bounded to him. Todd chuckled and petted the dog’s head.

I laughed. “You might as well have announced ‘playtime’ when you came through the door.”

“I guess so,” Todd said as Angus raced off and got his tennis ball. Todd rolled the tennis ball for Angus before sitting on the sofa. “Has David been at it again?”

“Huh?”
I followed his gaze to the flowers on the countertop. “Oh . . .
um
. . . no. I did see him at the funeral this morning, but he didn’t even speak. Of course, Ted and Harriet were there, so maybe that’s why he didn’t say anything.”

“He was at the funeral?”

I nodded. “He spoke to Mr. Santiago . . . Senior. Junior wasn’t there. And get this—I’m having dinner with Mr. Santiago this evening.”

“How did you manage that?” Todd asked.

I shrugged. “He asked me and said he hates to dine alone. I do kind of wonder what this is really about . . . but I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

“Did he send the flowers?”

“No.” I decided to simply take a deep breath and take the dreaded plunge. “The flowers are from Ted. He sent them with an invitation to the masquerade ball.”

“And you accepted?”

I nodded.

He smiled ruefully. “I should’ve asked sooner.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No, it’s my fault for dragging my feet. I should’ve asked you weeks ago, not four days before the ball,” Todd said. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Save me a dance?”

I smiled. “Of course.”

“By the way, I got a call from Jason a little while ago. He said Ted called him and wanted to join forces investigating the Ortega murder and Santiago jewel theft.”

“Is Jason going to work with them?” I asked.

“I believe so. Why?”

I crossed my fingers. “Hopefully, I’ll find out something useful tonight while dining with Mr. Santiago. Did Jason tell you Frederic found appraisals on the gems?”

“Yeah. He thinks that means she stole the jewels.”

“I disagree,” I said. “How could one little old lady get past Santiago security and steal the matriarch’s jewels?”

“She must have had help,” Todd said.

“Exactly. But from whom?”

At five o’clock, I raced home with Angus, fed him, and put him in the backyard. I then ran upstairs and changed into a royal blue dress with trumpet sleeves and silver strappy heels. I touched up my makeup, put my wallet and a lipstick into an evening bag, grabbed my black wool trench coat, and made it back to the shop just as Mr. Santiago’s chauffer was arriving.

I parked the Jeep and slid out onto the pavement. I used my key fob to lock the door as I hurried toward the limo.

The chauffer got out of the car and went around to open the door for me. “Perfect timing, Ms. Singer.”

“Thank you.” I got in, and the driver shut the door. I waited until he got behind the wheel and merged into traffic before striking up a conversation. “Have you worked for Mr. Santiago long?”

“Quite a few years,” he said.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Santiago seems really nice,” I continued, despite his noncommittal attitude.

“Yes, he is.”

What could I say that would get this man talking? “What about Caleb Jr. and Nicholas? Do you ever drive them, or are you assigned exclusively to Mr. Santiago Sr.?”

“You’re a very curious young lady,” he said. “I work solely for the senior Santiago.”

“I see. What about Francesca Ortega?” I asked. “Did you ever meet her?”

“On occasion.”

“What was she like? I mean, I realize Mr. Santiago Sr. thought well of her, but I’m not sure the rest of the corporation shared his view.”

“You’d have to ask them, I suppose,” he said.

“How did you feel about her?”

“I had no problem with Ms. Ortega.”

I realized he was going to report every word of our conversation—such as it was—to his employer, so I tried to come up with something to explain all the questions. “She died right outside my shop, you know. It was terrible.”

No comment from the driver.

“Your job must be exciting,” I said, hoping to come across as more of a chatterbox than an inquisitor. “Have you ever met anybody famous?”

“No.”

“Not that the Santiago Corporation is a talent agency or anything. It’s just that I figured rich, upper-crust people rubbed elbows with some famous folks.”

“Be that as it may, my elbows are paid to drive the car.”

“Right.” There was no way I was going to get any information out of this guy. I wondered if Mr. Santiago would be as difficult as his driver.

When we arrived at the restaurant—an upscale seafood place—the chauffeur pulled up to the door, put the car in park, and came around to help me out of the backseat.

“Enjoy your meal,” he said politely.

“Thank you,” I said. “It was nice chatting with you on the drive over.”

“Likewise.” He opened the restaurant door for me before getting back in the limo and driving away.

A hostess greeted me and took my coat. “Are you Ms. Singer?”

“I am.”

“Mr. Santiago is right this way.” She led me through the dimly lit restaurant to a corner table where Mr. Santiago was waiting with a glass of white wine.

“Thank you for coming, my dear,” Mr. Santiago said, raising his glass. “Please bring Marcy a glass of Pinot Grigio.”

“Of course,” said the hostess. “Right away.”

I sat down across from Mr. Santiago. “Thank you for inviting me.”

He waved away my remark with a flick of his hand. “You’re doing an old man a kindness.”

“I imagine it’s been a trying day for you.”

He nodded. “It has. Poor Frederic. All he has now is that woman he’s about to marry. She seemed very cold to me.” He glanced at me. “Sorry if you’re her friend.”

“Cassandra isn’t my friend. As a matter of fact, I only met her, Frederic, and his mother a few days ago. Is Frederic’s father dead?”

“I don’t know. He and Frannie had divorced before she ever came to work for me, I believe.” His mouth turned down at the corners. “Wasn’t in the picture very much when Frederic was growing up . . . at least, not that I can recall.”

“That’s sad. What about Francesca? Was she a good mother?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “She put Frederic first in everything. He was the most important part of her life.”

The hostess arrived with my wine and said the waitress would be right over to take our order.

“Do you like shrimp?” Mr. Santiago asked me.

“I love it,” I said.

He smiled. “The hostess has assured me that the coconut shrimp served on a bed of steamed rice can’t be beat.”

“Sounds great.”

When the waitress came over to our table, Mr. Santiago ordered the shrimp dish for each of us. I understood the old-school order-for-the-lady deal, but at least Mr. Santiago was more considerate about it than his son had been.

After the waitress had scurried away, Mr. Santiago rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

“You said you’d only known Frederic and his mother a few days,” he said. “How did you meet?”

I explained about Cassandra wanting me to embellish her wedding dress and that she and Frederic were supposed to get married on Valentine’s Day.

“They didn’t give you much notice, then, did they?” he asked.

“No, they didn’t. I get the impression Cassandra is very headstrong and that what she wants she somehow gets.” I smiled. “I have to admit to feeling sorry for Frederic when I think about him spending the rest of his life with that woman.”

Mr. Santiago chuckled. “Strong-willed women aren’t necessarily bad, Ms. Singer. I get the impression you’re pretty high-spirited yourself.”

“Maybe just a little. What about Francesca? Was she strong-willed?”

“I would say no,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Frannie wasn’t the type to make waves.”

“Which makes it even more curious that her mugger killed her,” I said. “Wouldn’t she have given him her purse without a fight?”

“The Frannie I knew would have. The only thing she’d have ever fought for would have been her son.”

“Was she a good administrative assistant?” I asked.

“She was,” he said, nodding. “She was thorough and accurate.”

“I don’t think your son was as impressed. He said she didn’t keep up with the times.”

He spread his hands. “Frannie had been trained on a typewriter. Word processing software was difficult for her to learn. She managed all right, but not well enough to suit Caleb.”

“Frederic said Caleb let Francesca go because he caught her snooping in his desk.”