Thread Reckoning (22 page)

The officer who’d stayed behind took out a notebook and pen. He began by asking our full names and why we were in the apartment.

“I’m Frederic Ortega. This is my mom’s apartment.”

“And where is she?” the officer asked.

I stepped closer to Frederic and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Deceased.” I spoke as quietly as I could and still be heard. “The funeral was yesterday.”

“And you are?” he prompted.

“I’m Marcy Singer.”

He quickly scribbled that in his notebook. “What’re you doing here, Ms. Singer?”

I was rather at a loss on what to say to that. My reason for being in the apartment this evening was complicated, and I didn’t want to give the deputy a convoluted answer.

This time Frederic answered for me. “I asked Marcy and Harriet—Officer Sloan—to meet me here . . . to help me go through some of Mom’s things.”

I nodded.

One of the deputies who’d gone into the office with Harriet stepped into the living room and motioned to me. “A word please, Ms. Singer?”

“Of course,” I said, walking toward him.

He led me into the hallway. “I understand that you discovered the body.”

“That’s right.”

“Would you please describe the events leading up to that?” he asked.

I told him how I’d arrived, spoken to the young mom, and then came on to Francesca’s apartment, where I’d noticed the door was slightly open. I explained how I’d called to Frederic and Harriet and had looked around the house before finding Cassandra.

“Wasn’t it apparent that your friends weren’t here when they didn’t respond to you?” the officer asked. “Why did you continue into the house?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Since the door was open, I thought Frederic was here.” I folded my arms. “In hindsight, I realize I was reckless in rushing in here without knowing what was going on.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“Because Frederic’s mom was stabbed to death on the street outside my shop. And from the look of things, I believe Cassandra was killed by the same person.”

“On what do you base your opinion?”

“The two victims knew each other, and they were both stabbed,” I said. “Doesn’t it stand to reason that their being killed within days of each other is more than a coincidence?”

He ignored my question and asked one of his own. “Prior to your arrival here, where were you?”

“At my shop teaching a needlepoint class. Seven women can attest to my whereabouts.”

He nodded. “You may return to the living room. But don’t leave.”

I went back to the living room and sat on the sofa. Since Frederic passed me in the hallway, I guessed he’d been summoned by Joe Friday. Wasn’t Friday the one on that old police drama with the monotone voice who always wanted “the facts”?

The deputy who’d been given witness-sitting duty was making me nervous. He had gorgeous baby blues, but at the moment, I felt like they were boring into my soul.

I nodded toward the photo album on the coffee table. “May I look at this? You know, to pass the time?”

“Yeah,” he conceded, “I guess that’s all right. You’ll be fingerprinted before you leave, anyway, in order to compare your prints to others found in the apartment.”

“Good.” Not that it was all that good, really, but I was thankful to have something to look at and to hold to help keep my hands from shaking.

I lifted the heavy book off the table and set it on my lap. I opened it and saw that the first photograph was of a baby boy—Frederic. Even though he was very young, I could see the resemblance. I grinned and glanced up at the deputy. He was smiling slightly, too.

“You have children?” I asked.

“One,” he said. “A two-year-old son. He’s a handful.”

I chuckled and turned the page. There were more photos of Frederic. Some were with Francesca and a man who must be—or must have been; I wasn’t sure if he was still living—Frederic’s father. He looked nice.

As I was flipping through the album, some sort of document fell out onto my lap. I retrieved it and saw that it was a stock certificate from the Santiago Corporation. Had Francesca owned stock in the company, or had she brought this certificate home for some other reason? I thought about the ransacked office and wondered what Cassandra—or her killer—had been looking for in that room.

The coroner arrived. Following closely behind him was Ted.

He hurried into the living room and showed his badge to the deputy. “Detective Ted Nash, Tallulah Falls Police Department.” His eyes searched mine before he continued. “My partner and I are investigating the murder of Francesca Ortega. Since we believe Ms. Wainright’s death may be connected to that homicide, we’d like to be kept up to speed on this investigation.”

“Of course, Detective Nash.”

“May I have a word with Ms. Singer out in the hallway?” Ted asked.

“Sure.”

I closed the photo album and returned the book to the coffee table before following Ted into the hallway. He opened the door, and we stepped out into the corridor.

He closed the door and took both my hands in his. “Are you okay?”

I smiled slightly. “I’m fine. I got here ahead of Harriet and Frederic, saw that the door was open, and came on in. I found Cassandra.” My smile faded. “Which makes me the county cops’ prime suspect.”

“Harriet said the stab wound matched the one found on Francesca.”

I nodded. “One stab to the sternum.”

He squeezed my hands. “You’ll be all right. I’d better get back in here and confer with Harriet. We’ll talk later.”

We went back into the apartment, and I returned to the living room. By that time, Frederic was back. He was sitting in the middle of the couch wringing his hands. I sat down beside him.

“This is my fault,” he said. “If we hadn’t argued, she wouldn’t have been here alone.”

“You can’t possibly know that,” I said. “Is this where you and Cassandra were living?”

“No. Our apartment is . . . was—it was Cass’s place—it’s closer to Tallulah Falls.”

“Then what was she doing here?” I noticed that the deputy was listening intently while trying to appear as if he weren’t paying attention to us.

“I don’t know.” Frederic ran his hands through his hair. “Maybe she’d intended to do the same thing we had . . . find something that would lead us to Mom’s killer.”

Ted returned to the living room. “The coroner has given us a rough estimate of three to six hours on the time of death.”

The deputy looked at me and Frederic. “Then after the two of you are fingerprinted, you’re free to go.”

“Thank you.” I followed the officer to the kitchen, where he placed an ink pad and fingerprint papers on the counter.

“If you’ll permit me to roll your fingers, it’ll give us a better print,” he said.

“Sure.”

I allowed the deputy to place each one of my fingers on the ink pad and then roll them into blocks provided on the form.

“That should do it,” he said. “You can wash your hands there at the sink.”

I washed my hands and returned to the living room, where Frederic still sat on the sofa.

“I’m going to wait here,” he said, “for a while, anyway.”

“Call me if you need me,” I said. I gave Ted a look that I hoped would convey “call me as soon as you leave here.” And then I left. I was eager to get home and away from yet another crime scene.

Chapter Nineteen

When I got home, there was a patrol car parked near my house. The driver flashed his lights at me as I got out of the Jeep. I was glad Ted still had his officers looking out for me, especially since I now knew without a doubt that Francesca’s killer was still hanging around racking up victims. I unlocked the door, went inside, and immediately refastened the locks. I then brought Angus in from the backyard. I sank onto the floor beside him, and he placed his head in my lap.

Poor Cassandra . . . I wondered why she’d been in the apartment. Had she been looking for something? Or had she come in and surprised the killer? Maybe he’d been looking for more jewels . . . or something else.

I shuddered and snuggled closer to Angus. Tears pricked my eyes as I thought of Cassandra—snotty, yes, but lively—flouncing into the shop making demands about her dress and grouching about Angus. I contemplated Frederic sitting on the sofa at the shop so devastated about his mother now having to face another loss. I wondered about the killer who was still out there willing to destroy anyone who got in his way. I even considered that young mother and her baby. They’d had no idea how close they’d been to a murderer.

I felt guilty that I’d once imagined Cassandra might’ve had wanted Francesca dead. How could I have been so quick to rush to judgment? What was it the crime writer had said on that television show I’d seen a while back? People kill for three reasons: for love, for money, or to cover up a crime. So, which was this?

My doorbell rang. I stiffened, and Angus jumped up to run barking into the foyer. I went to the door and peeped out. It was Ted. I let him in, and we went into the living room. Sensing our somber mood, Angus instantly became subdued and simply lay on the floor near the sofa where Ted and I sat.

“How’s Frederic?” I asked.

“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” Ted clasped his hands behind his head. “He was still at the apartment when I left, although the county deputies were trying to get him to leave.”

“You don’t . . . you don’t think . . .” The thought seemed so far-fetched—so awful—I could barely bring myself to vocalize it. “He didn’t do it. Did he?”

Ted sighed. “He doesn’t have the background that would lead me to think he could kill a person with a single, precise knife thrust. And to have killed Cassandra would mean he also murdered Francesca.” He unclasped his hands and ran them down his face. “While I can imagine a scenario wherein Frederic stabbed his lover during an argument, I can’t see him hurting his mother.”

“Neither can I. In fact, I have trouble imagining him being capable of flying into a rage and killing Cassandra,” I said. “The poor man must’ve had the patience of Job to put up with her as long as he did.” My hand flew to my mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s okay. You’re just trying to reason this out. We all are.”

“So, did the county coroner compare the wounds or do whatever needed to be done to confirm that Cassandra and Francesca were murdered by the same person?”

“He and our coroner were able to agree that both women suffered the exact same type of fatal injury,” Ted said. “Of course, neither can point us toward a suspect. That’s my job.”

“And other than your standard ‘everyone’s a suspect’ spiel, do you have anyone in mind?”

He slowly shook his head. “Basic criminology points to Frederic. He knew both victims intimately, he was the only one who stood to gain anything from his mother’s death, and he’d just broken off his engagement to Cassandra. Still, he doesn’t have experience in medicine or the military, as far as I know. And besides that, my gut is telling me he didn’t kill them.”

“While I agree with your gut, I sure wish it would give you a clue,” I said. “I want this guy off the streets.”

“No worse than I do, Marce.”

“Wanna bet?”

I left Angus at home the next morning, and before going in to work, I stopped by Riley’s house. Her husband, Keith, was on his way out the door when I arrived.

“How is she?” I asked.

“Stubborn,” he said with a grin. “Go on in. She’s in the bedroom at the top of the stairs and to your right.”

“Thanks.” I went inside. The house was immaculate. Either Keith, Riley’s mom, or a cleaning crew was doing a fantastic job keeping everything neat. “Riley, it’s me, Marcy!” I called from the bottom of the steps.

“Hey, Marce. Come on up!”

She was propped up in bed against a mountain of pillows. Her black hair was gleaming, and she was wearing mascara and lipstick. Her laptop and cell phone were sitting on a small table by the bed. A deposition lay on a pillow beside her, and law journals and books were also on the bed.

I smiled. “You look terrific. How are you?”

“Laura keeps kicking my spleen.”

“Laura? That’s pretty.”

She laughed softly. “Thanks. Keith and I finally found a girl’s name we could agree on—no one I’d hated in school, no one I’d prosecuted, no one he’d dated. Anyway, I’d ground her from gymnastics or dance or whatever it is she’s currently engaged in, but what would I do? Send her to her womb?” At my silence, she continued. “Man! Everybody’s a critic. I know it was cheesy, but I thought it was kinda cute.”

“I’m sorry. It was cute. I just have a lot on my mind this morning.”

“The police aren’t any closer to nabbing Francesca Ortega’s assailant?”

“That’s not the worst of it. He’s struck again.” I went on to explain about Cassandra.

Riley began expressing her condolences for Frederic and for me because I’d found the body, but I interrupted.

“I need your help, Riley. I was looking through a photo album at the apartment and came across a stock certificate for the Santiago Corporation.”

“Do you think that’s what the killer—or Cassandra—had been looking for?”

“I’m not sure. The certificate I found has no name on it, so unless it’s like a bearer bond, it wouldn’t be worth much . . . would it?”

“I don’t know,” Riley said. “So you want me to investigate the Santiago Corporation’s stocks.”

“Yeah, but I’d also like you to dig as deeply into their financials as you can. When I worked at the accounting firm, we looked closely at acquisitions, mergers, research, and development expenditures when we audited—you know, to see if the company had been padding its profits.”

She frowned. “Because you found a stock certificate at Francesca Ortega’s apartment, you think the Santiago Corporation cooks their books?”

“I realize it’s a stretch,” I admitted. “But Francesca was fired for snooping. What if she took this document and hid it in her photo album in order to prove the Santiago Corporation was guilty of something involving their stock or their shareholders?”

“But from what you’ve told me previously, she was megaloyal to the dad, right?” Riley asked.

“Yeah.” I frowned, not following her.