The Quick and the Thread (9 page)

“I’m afraid not. I believe he’s a little farther upstate.”

 

 

When I got home, I locked the front door behind me, let Angus in, and both locked and dead-bolted the back door. Maybe I was being overly cautious. But better overly cautious than dead.

There were two messages on my answering machine. One was from Mom, and the other was from Detective Nash. I decided to call Mom. If anything else bad had happened, I didn’t want to know it yet.

“Hello, Beverly Singer,” Mom answered, her voice trilling
Singer
as if perhaps that was her profession.

She always answers the phone professionally because “you never know who might be calling.” I’ve tried to tell her that’s what caller ID is for, but she argues that it would ruin the surprise.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Darling, how are you? Has that business about the fellow in your storeroom been cleared up yet?”

“They’re working on it.”

“Good. And the classes . . . Are they being well received?”

“Yup. I’m delighted by the number of people who signed up and have actually been coming. How are things with you?”

“Fairly well. There’s a nasty little diva on the set whose costumes never measure up to her inflated expectations—she doesn’t even have a starring role, for goodness’ sake—but everyone else is a love. The men especially.”

“Naturally. You could charm them into wearing paper sacks.”

“That’s not true. They simply respect me because they realize I’m excellent at my job.”

At fifty-eight, Mom is still a looker. She has silvery blond hair, dancing blue eyes, and a ready smile. She’s kept her figure, too. Granted, it’s more of a Jane Russell-eighteen-hour-bra figure than a Kate Moss figure, but I think that appeals to a lot of men. At least, it does in Mom’s case.

“I suppose your expertise could be part of it,” I said.

“Tell me about Tallulah Falls. Is it pretty there?”

“It’s gorgeous, Mom. You’ll have to come and see for yourself. There are these huge rocks out in the ocean that somehow make me think of
Wuthering Heights
.”

Mom laughed. “Ah, they bring to mind the crags out upon the moors, eh, Catherine?”

“Aye, and I suppose they do, Heathcliff. I suppose they do.” I dropped the accent. “Wait a minute.
Wuthering Heights
took place in Yorkshire, England, not Ireland.”

“Weel, faith, and begorra,” she said, rolling those
R
s in
begorra
for all she was worth. “Why do ye want to be goin’ and spoilin’ our fun now, lassie?”

“Truth be tellin’ ye, I’m not certain, Mother.” I could roll
R
s with the best of them. “Only I know ’tis later here than there, and I must be gettin’ up frightfully early tomorrow morn.”

“I’ll take my leave from ye then, me love. Hugs and kisses to me darlin’ Angus now, ye hear?”

“Will do.” I spoke normally. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Um . . .”

“Um, what?” she asked. “That was a loaded
um
if I ever heard one.”

“It’s nothing. Really. I just . . . I love you, Mom.”

“And everything is okay?”

“Yeah . . . sure. I just wanted to make sure you know.”

“Of course I know. And you know I love you, too. When you’re ready to talk about that
um
, give me a call back, okay?”

“All right.”

When we hung up, I was feelin’ a wee bit home-sick for the Old Country . . . which for me was Mom’s house in San Francisco. I didn’t want to worry Mom any more than I already had, especially since she was on the other side of the country. But I felt guilty about keeping her in the dark about Mr. Trelawney. What if something
did
happen to me?

As much as I dreaded doing so, I called Detective Nash back. I was surprised to find that the number he’d left on my machine was his personal number rather than the police station’s.

“Hi, Detective Nash,” I said when he answered. “This is Marcy Singer returning your call.”

“Hi, Marcy. I’m sorry I interrupted your visit with Margaret Trelawney this evening. It was police business. Couldn’t be helped.”

“That’s fine. She’s terribly distraught, as anyone would be.”

“Of course. May I stop by the shop tomorrow?”

“Sure. Is there a particular reason?” I asked.

“I’d just like to look around a bit more.”

I took a breath before taking the plunge. “Do you think the Enright and Trelawney murders are connected?”

“At this point, I’m not sure. I would like for you to remain hypervigilant until we know more about both these cases.”

“Am I still a suspect in these murders?”

“I can’t rule anyone out yet,” he said, “but I personally think you’re innocent. The chief will take some more convincing, though.” He sighed. “You have no motive. I’m thinking whoever is responsible for these murders has lived here in Tallulah Falls for a very long time and has a history with these men.”

“Do you think I’m in danger, Detective?”

“I don’t know. But you do need to take extra precautionary measures for the time being. I’ll have on-duty officers patrol your house and store periodically to provide further security.”

“Thanks.” I wondered if he knew how insecure all his talk about security was making me feel.

“Just doing our jobs. Call us anytime.”

I thanked him again and hung up. It was weird that he’d asked if he could stop by the shop tomorrow. Every other time he’d wanted to come by the shop, he’d barged right on in. Something was up.

I climbed into bed, and Angus curled up at my feet. He does that sometimes. It’s positively catlike, except that Angus is more puma-size.

The wind was blowing hard that night. It occasionally rattled the windows. A light flashed past one window and momentarily illuminated the bedroom. I tried to tell myself it was only a passing car and not a psycho with a gun.

I snuggled down into the bed and pulled the covers up around my ears. “I’m glad you’re here, Angus. Otherwise, I might feel a little bit scared.”

 

 

It was going to be hard for me to get used to working every Saturday. At the accounting firm, I had to work Saturdays only during tax season, which is from January 2 through April 15. Some of the accountants absolutely loved tax season; they called it money season. But I absolutely hated it. What a drag. Work became our entire life during those three and a half months.

Anyway, this was my first Saturday as a small-business owner-slash-retail merchant, and I was looking forward to getting to work. Angus and I had a leisurely breakfast followed by a not-so-leisurely walk—he saw a ginger cat and wanted to chase it. Where’s Cesar Millan when you need him?

I did leave early, as there was a stop I wanted to make before going to work. I opened my purse and removed the piece of notepad paper I’d taken from the library. I then took out my GPS and entered the second address I’d written on Reggie’s legal pad.

1414 Cedar Avenue. Janelle Kerr
.

When I got there, it appeared that Mrs. Kerr was leaving home for work. She was a slight woman dressed in a business suit, and she had dark blond hair and ever-watchful brown eyes.

“Mrs. Kerr,” I called as I got out of the Jeep, leaving Angus inside with the windows cracked. “Do you have a moment?”

“For what?” she asked.

By this time, I’d reached the walk and could lower my voice. “I’d like to talk with you about your husband and Four Square Development.”

She shook her head. “I told you reporters the last time you were here that I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“I’m not a reporter,” I said. “My name is Marcy Singer. I’m here because Timothy Enright died in my storeroom.”

Still unwilling to allow me into her home, Mrs. Kerr invited me to sit with her on the patio. She had a white, wrought-iron bistro set sitting near a gas grill.

“Please sit down,” she said.

I sat on one of the pretty but uncomfortable chairs, and she sat on the other.

“You’ll excuse me for not inviting you inside,” she said. “I don’t trust people very much these days.”

“I can’t say that I blame you. Did you know Timothy Enright?”

“Only in passing. I didn’t patronize the hardware shop that often.” She took a cigarette and lighter from her purse. “Why would you think his death would have anything to do with my husband or Four Square Development? Paul has been incarcerated for nearly a year; and as far as I know, Four Square Development is defunct.”

“I don’t know much about Four Square Development or Mr. Enright, but I do believe his death might have been because of something he was involved in or knew concerning Four Square.”

She lit the cigarette and blew a puff of smoke over her shoulder. “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“Mr. Enright scratched
four square fifth w
on my storeroom wall with a tapestry needle before he died. After Bill Trelawney saw the wall, he was upset over it. Later that day he, too, was found dead.”

“Yes, I’m aware of Mr. Trelawney’s death. I was sorry to hear about that.”

“Did your husband know Bill Trelawney?”

She nodded, taking a long draw from her cigarette. “Paul was Mr. Trelawney’s accountant. He prepared Mr. Trelawney’s tax returns and that sort of thing.”

“But your husband never mentioned Timothy Enright in connection with Four Square Development?”

“No, but then, we didn’t talk about Four Square Development. He kept most of his business dealings to himself.” She flipped her hand. “You know the old adage: Leave work at work.”

“But Four Square wasn’t a typical venture,” I said.

“Even so, Paul kept his involvement to himself.”

“What about the other men?” I asked. “Do you think any of them might know or be willing to discuss whether Timothy Enright or Bill Trelawney had any connection with Four Square Development?”

“I doubt it.” She took one last puff off her cigarette before crushing it out under her boot. “Look. These men—Paul included—want to serve their time and put Four Square Development as far away from themselves as they can. Four Square Development has ruined them. They’ll never have the careers they had before . . . never hold the community’s trust and respect. This mistake will hang over their heads forever.” She picked up the cigarette butt and tossed it into the bushes. “Frankly, I doubt any of them care much about either Timothy Enright or Bill Trelawney, or whether either of them—or both of them, for that matter—was involved with Four Square Development. It’s irrelevant to them.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “But it’s not irrelevant to me. I need to know why two men are dead and if their deaths are in any way connected with my shop.” She inclined her head away from me. Clearly, she wasn’t willing to say any more. I stood. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Kerr.”

As I was walking to the Jeep, she called to me. “I’ll talk with Paul and see if he knows anything.”

I turned. “Thank you.” I hurried back to give her my business card. “Thank you so much.”

When Angus and I got to the store, a delivery man had just arrived with a huge box. What timing! I unlocked the door while holding an excited, box-sniffing Angus at bay.

“He loves packages,” I explained to the bemused delivery man. “Sometimes my mom sends us care packages.” I opened the door. “Would you mind bringing that inside please?”

“Not at all.”

He took my “inside” direction quite literally, dropping the package inches within the door. I guess we’d taken up enough of his time. I gave him a tip, and he hurried on his way.

I unleashed Angus, and he sniffed the box again before wandering off into the store. Remembering the lift-with-your-legs drill, I bent and tried to pick up the box. Yikes, that sucker was heavy. I didn’t recall ordering any anvils. I looked at the label. JACKSON EMBROIDERY SUPPLY COMPANY
.
That would be my Halloween stuff. This box could not possibly be as heavy as it wanted me to believe it was. I wiped my palms down the sides of my jeans and prepared for Attempt Number Two. I bent and wrapped my arms around the box.

The door jingled, and Ted Nash walked in. He was almost smiling. And if that wasn’t strange enough, he was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and sneakers. Yes, actual running shoes—or maybe cross-trainers—but definitely not police or detective shoes.

“Wow,” I said. “You look human . . . I mean, normal.” Yeah, not my best conversational moment. But he caught me off guard. I was still thinking about how to move the box.

He did seem to take my comment in stride, though. “Wow,” he said. “You look weak . . . I mean, pathetic. I’d be glad to carry that to the storeroom for you.”

Normally, my pride would’ve caused me to say something stupid like, “That’s okay. I can handle it.” Fortunately, I didn’t have much pride left after the “you look normal” comment. So I merely stepped aside and thanked the man for his help.

When Angus saw us heading toward the storeroom, he bounded right over.

I looked up at Detective Nash. “Ever since Timothy Enright’s accident, Angus loves to snoop around the storeroom.” I gave an involuntary shiver. “It kinda creeps me out.”

“Why did you name him Angus?” Detective Nash asked. “Are you a fan of AC/DC?”

“A little, but it’s mainly because of his Irish heritage.”

I opened the storeroom door, and Detective Nash set the box inside. He then went over to reexamine the message scratched on the wall.

“I wish I’d listened to Mr. Enright that night,” I said. “He wanted to tell me something, and I wouldn’t take the time to listen. If I had, both he and Bill Trelawney might still be alive.”

“You don’t know that. Timothy was separated. Maybe he wanted to tell you he thinks you’re cute.”

I scoffed as I tilted my head up at him. “You don’t seriously believe that, do you?”