Thread Reckoning (9 page)

I tried to see something sinister in Caleb’s countenance, but I couldn’t. Maybe he had caught Francesca snooping. After all, I didn’t know the Ortegas well enough to make a judgment call. Francesca—and her son, too, for that matter—seemed nice, but that didn’t mean they really were. Or maybe Francesca was merely loyal to the senior Santiago and was snooping in Caleb’s office for his father. What if the dad had asked Francesca to make sure his son was running the company appropriately?

I read the paragraph giving the history of the company. Caleb Santiago Sr.’s father had started the company in 1962. Caleb had taken over the reins when his father retired, and Caleb Jr.—the elder Santiago son—had likewise taken over when Caleb Sr. retired. The paragraph related the story of how the first Santiago had begun selling high-quality pens door to door. Today the business was conducted primarily online, but customer representatives were always on hand to take your calls. Sometimes, they still even visited their customers in person. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Gee, what a happy place. It was like Disneyland with staplers and toner cartridges. I half expected to see where Caleb Santiago Sr.’s head had been cryogenically frozen, but then it didn’t appear he was dead yet. I wondered what he’d have to say about Francesca Ortega.

I called the toll-free number, and tried to get an office number for Mr. Santiago. No dice. The heavily accented telephone operator told me she was not allowed to give out information for the home office but that she would be happy to help me place my order. I thanked her and hung up.

I then did a search for Caleb Santiago’s attorney. With that search, I hit gold and came up with the name Gilbert Carroll. I called Mr. Carroll’s office and indicated I’d like to speak with him about a former employee of Mr. Santiago. I told the receptionist that Ms. Ortega had died this morning and that I believed she’d been a longtime employee of Mr. Santiago’s company. The receptionist took my name and number and said she’d pass my message along to Mr. Carroll.

Given the receptionist’s dismissive attitude, I doubted I’d get a call back from Mr. Carroll. Imagine my surprise when I got a return phone call—not from Mr. Carroll, but from Caleb Santiago Sr. himself.

“Is this Marcy Singer?” Mr. Santiago asked when I answered the phone.

“Yes, it is,” I said.

“This is Caleb Santiago Sr. I understand you called my attorney’s office and told them that Francesca Ortega had passed away this morning.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“I wasn’t aware she’d been ill,” he said.

“She was stabbed,” I said.

He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “That can’t be. Who’d want to hurt Frannie?”

“It appears she was killed during a robbery. Her purse was missing.”

“Stabbed to death? During a robbery, you say? That’s horrible. Where are you located?”

“Tallulah Falls, Oregon,” I said. “It’s on the coast.”

“And it’s known for being a rough area?” he asked.

“No. Generally, this is a peaceful, low-crime area.”

“Thank you for your call, Ms. Singer,” he said. “I’ll give Frederic a call later this evening to express my condolences to him personally and to find out about the arrangements. Again, I appreciate that you let me know.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Santiago. I’m sorry about Ms. Ortega.”

“So am I,” he said. “Terribly sorry.”

“I understand that she worked for you for a long time,” I said.

“Eighteen years.” He sighed. “Good day, Ms. Singer.”

So now he was going to call Frederic. I wondered if I should’ve butted in where I had no business. But I wanted so badly to speak with the Santiagos about Francesca. It was apparent Mr. Santiago had thought highly of her, but what about his sons? Did Caleb Jr. catch Francesca snooping through his desk? Or was Frederic right and the young man simply had someone else in mind for Francesca’s job? And where did Francesca get those gemstones?

The rest of the day passed without much excitement. Of course, I hadn’t expected it to get any more exciting than it had been this morning, but it was slower than I’d anticipated it being. There were a few customers in and out of the shop that afternoon, and class went well that evening. After we dispensed with the news about the morning robbery outside the shop, we were able to get down to stitching. Surprisingly, I hadn’t heard anything more from Sadie, Todd, Ted, or David throughout the day.

After class, I took Angus outside for a walk before the short drive home. Back inside, I was straightening up the sit-and-stitch square when Todd came in. Angus ran to greet him as I fluffed a pillow and returned it to one of the sofas.

“Hi, there,” I said with a smile.

“Hi, yourself.” Todd grinned. “Suddenly, I’m seeing you in a little French maid uniform.”

“Don’t go there,” I warned.

He laughed. “All right, all right. It’s just odd to see you being so . . . domesticated.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I run an embroidery store, for Pete’s sake!”

“I know. I mean, it’s odd to see you cleaning,” he said.

I put my hands on my hips. “So now I’m a slob?”

“Should I go out, come back in again, and start all over?”

I cocked my head. “You don’t have to go back out, because it’s cold out there. But starting all over is a good idea.”

“Okay.” Todd cleared his throat. “Why, good evening, Ms. Singer. I’m here to escort you home.”

“That’s better,” I said. “Although you are kinda going overboard with the formality and the offer to escort me home.”

“Actually, I’m serious about that. I’m going to see you to your car and follow you home.”

“Follow me home?” I asked. “And I guess you’ll expect me to keep you?”

His smiled broadened. “That’s the plan.”

I laughed. “Thank you. It isn’t necessary, you know. But I appreciate your concern.”

“It is necessary. I’d like to get some sleep tonight, and I couldn’t without knowing I saw you safely home.” He patted the side of his leg. “Angus, you wanna ride with me?”

Angus jumped around Todd, obviously excited at the thought of going with him.

“Be that way,” I told them.

“Aw, now, you know we’re just going to talk about you,” Todd said. “How sweet you are . . . what a lousy driver . . .”

He laughed as I picked up the pillow I’d just fluffed and hit him on the head with it.

“Don’t tear that up,” he said. “I can’t make you another one.”

“No,” I said, hitting him again. “But I can.”

“In that case . . .” He picked up another pillow and began hitting me back.

Angus barked, wanting to join in our play. He ran and got his tug toy and dropped it at Todd’s feet.

“You are a total traitor, Mr. Angus O′Ruff,” I said. “First you want to ride home with Todd, and now you’re letting him wail on me with a pillow?”

“He knows you started it.” Todd patted Angus’ head and picked up the tug toy. “Come on. You wanna play? I’ll play tug-of-war with you.”

As they engaged in their match, I finished tidying up the shop. Then I got on my coat and grabbed my purse.

“Ready?” I asked.

“Ready,” Todd said, dropping the tug toy and taking Angus’ leash from off the counter. “Let’s go, boy.”

I turned off the lights, and we stepped out onto the sidewalk. As I locked the door, I glanced over to where Francesca’s body had lain, and shivered.

Todd placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t look at it. I’ll get that cleaned up as soon as I can.”

“Oh no,” I said, “I’ll do it.” I turned to him and frowned. “Come to think of it, I thought the police would do it when they were finished examining the crime scene.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But I’ll see what I can do. I’ll talk with Ted first and make sure they’re done.”

“Thank you.”

As Todd walked me to my Jeep, a patrol car slowly drove past. There was another one driving down my street when we arrived home.

Todd gave a dubious snort when he noticed the car. “He might have the patrol officers looking out for you, but he didn’t provide you with an escort home.”

“Duly noted,” I said. Indeed, it seemed everyone was concerned about my safety this evening except for David. His presence, phone calls, text messages, even e-mails were conspicuously absent.

As promised, Ted called to check on me later Thursday night.

“I just got off the phone with Todd Calloway,” he said. “He asked if he could clean up the sidewalk in front of the Seven-Year Stitch. I told him he could, so hopefully he’ll get that done before you go in to work tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll have to thank Todd, too.”

“I guess so. He told me he escorted you home.”

“We saw the extra patrol cars around the shop and house,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

“You’re welcome. As much as I dislike Todd sometimes, I’m glad to know he’s helping look out for you,” Ted said.

“About all this ‘looking out for Marcy’—what’s up with that?”

“Just a precaution.”

“Ted?” My voice warned him to be straight with me.

“We’re concerned the thief might come back for the jewels.”

“But I gave those to you.”

“He might not be aware of that,” he said. “I doubt he’d ever come back, but . . . better safe . . . you know.” He cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I ask about this Frist guy who claimed to be your fiancé this morning?”

“No, I don’t mind. He was my fiancé over a year ago—way before I came to Tallulah Falls—and he stood me up.”

“That’s the jerk who broke your heart?”

“Yep.”

Ted was silent for so long I had to ask if he was still there.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m just trying to figure out something to arrest him for.”

I laughed. He didn’t.

“I think I might’ve gotten myself into hot water with Frederic Ortega,” I said.

“How so?”

I explained to Ted that Frederic had told me his mother worked for the Santiago Corporation— and more specifically for Mr. Santiago—for twenty years. “Anyway, I called Mr. Santiago’s attorney to let him know about Francesca. Mr. Santiago returned my call, and I told him she’d had been stabbed to death outside my shop.”

“Why do you think calling Santiago will get you in trouble with Mr. Ortega?”

“There’s bad blood between him and the Santiago son who took over running the company for his dad a couple years ago. The son fired Francesca after accusing her of snooping through his desk. Frederic didn’t think the accusation held water, but I’m kind of wondering if it did.”

“Because you think maybe she stole the gemstones?” Ted asked.

“Don’t you think that’s possible? I mean, she either had to somehow obtain real stones when she thought she was getting fake ones, or else she knew what she was getting. I don’t know how a woman who’d been fired from her job and was going to have to move in with her son and daughter-in-law in order to make ends meet could afford to buy nearly a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewels. Do you?”

“No. So Frederic told you his mother was going to move in with him and Cassandra?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Maybe Ms. Ortega ordered the hit on herself, then,” Ted said.

“The hit?”

Ted sighed. “That slipped out. I did not just say that, okay?”

“Of course you didn’t. Now explain.”

“Whoever killed Francesca knew exactly what he was doing. He inserted the knife just below the sternum and into the heart. The coroner said the puncture caused an embolism and killed Francesca almost immediately.”

“So the murderer knew how to stab Francesca to cause an embolism?” I asked. “Do you think he was a medical professional?”

“No,” Ted said. “He couldn’t have known the knife wound would cause an embolism. But he—or she—did know exactly where and how to stab Ms. Ortega to make the jab a fatal one. That’s what makes me think it was a professional hit.”

“Who would order a hit on Francesca Ortega?” I asked.

“My guess would be the person she got the jewels from.”

Chapter Eight

Friday morning, Angus and I arrived at the shop an hour earlier than usual. The shop didn’t open until ten o’clock, but I wanted to get there in time to work on the sidewalk. I didn’t feel right about letting Todd do it alone. When we got there, however, he was just finishing up. When he saw us drive up, he dropped the scrub brush he’d been using into a white bucket and pushed the bucket behind him with his foot.

“Todd, why didn’t you call me?” I asked. “I’d have been here sooner.”

“We already had the French maid discussion,” he said, “and I didn’t want to be beaten with a pillow this early in the morning.”

“Thank you.” I handed him the keys to the shop. “Why don’t you unlock the door and take Angus on in, and I’ll go to MacKenzies′ and get us some coffee and muffins.”

He raised his brows. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

“And, in the meantime, I can imagine you in a French maid costume,” I said.

“Hey!”

I laughed and darted out of the way as he made a grab for me. “Be right back.”

I hurried to MacKenzies′ Mochas. Blake was behind the counter.

“You’re flushed and breathless,” he said. “You didn’t jog to work this morning, did you?”

“No,” I said, “but I have been standing out in the cold talking with Todd. He cleaned up the sidewalk for me.”

“Todd’s a good man,” he said.

“Yes, he is. Can you make me up a box filled with his favorite muffins and pastries, give me my usual vanilla cinnamon latte, and make whatever Todd usually orders in the mornings?”

Blake nodded. “FYI, he orders an espresso in the mornings—I’m making it a double shot today—and then he switches to dark roast by midmorning.”

“Good to know.”

Sadie popped around the corner and put an empty serving tray on the counter. “What’s good to know?”

“That Todd likes espresso early in the morning,” Blake said with a wink at his wife.

“Is there something you guys aren’t telling me?” she asked.

“Nope,” I said.

She looked out the window. “Your morning is about to get a tad more interesting.”