Cross-Stitch Before Dying (14 page)

I
got to MacKenzies’ Mochas about ten minutes early to make sure Sadie had secured Carl Paxton and me a table with a modicum of privacy. She had.

“Thank you so much,” I told her. “When he gets here, point him in my direction.”

“What does he look like?” she asked.

I frowned slightly. “I’m not entirely sure. The pictures I saw of him online were mainly of him cuddling Babushka Tru, so there wasn’t a straight-on shot. But I think he has blond hair . . . unless he’s changed it.”

“Marcy!”

“Well, hopefully, he’ll ask for me,” I said. “And if he doesn’t, and you see someone looking as if they’re waiting on somebody, point him in my direction.”

Sadie shook her head and went to get me a diet soda.

It was good I’d arrived ten minutes early, because Carl Paxton arrived five minutes later. He strode up to the bar in a camel sport jacket and told Blake he was looking for Marcy Singer. Blake pointed him in the right direction.

Carl was an attractive man . . . in a way. I mean, he had the attributes of a hot guy—athletic build, nice hair (yes, it was still blond), brown eyes, broad smile—but there was something about his demeanor that made me cringe. It was almost as if he had a pair of those novelty X-ray glasses that promised boys they could use them to see girls’ underwear . . . except it felt to me like Carl Paxton might be wearing invisible X-ray glasses that could see into your soul. I nearly squirmed in my seat.

He held out his hand, and I hesitated slightly.

“I’m Carl Paxton,” he said.

“Of course.” I finally took his outstretched hand. “And I’m Marcy Singer.”

“Yes, the gentleman at the bar pointed you out to me.” He turned and gave Blake a little wave.

Blake was looking at me to make sure everything was all right, so I gave him a smile and a nod.

As soon as Carl was seated, Sadie came over and took his drink order.

“So tell me more about this book you’re writing,” he said, once Sadie had gone to get his ice water.

“Well, I haven’t started writing it yet,” I said. “I actually hadn’t even considered it until Mita Trublonski was in my shop yesterday telling me about the book
she’s
writing. Do you think it would sell well?”

“Mita’s book?” he asked. “Oh, definitely . . . everyone is curious about Babs right now.”

“Um . . . I meant
my
book . . . the book about my mom.”

“Oh!” He chuckled. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I need to hear more about it.”

Sadie returned with Carl’s water and took our food orders. I got my usual—homemade chicken salad croissant, because they’re out-of-this-world good—and Carl got a Caesar salad.

Since I hadn’t fully fleshed out my so-called book idea and wasn’t really interested in doing so, I turned the conversation back to Mita Trublonski and Babs. “Don’t you find it odd that Ms. Trublonski is already considering a book when Babs hasn’t even been buried yet?”

Carl’s smile faded and his eyes hardened. “She needs to beat every other jerk out there to the punch. There are ruthless people out there who’d publish a pack of lies about Babs, and because they had no other alternative, Babs’ fans would gobble it up. Mita is giving the people the truth—a grieving mother’s truth. Which would you rather read?”

“Naturally, I’d rather read her mother’s account of her life,” I said, thinking that I wouldn’t spend my money on a book about Babushka Tru because the only reason I was interested in her at all was due to my mother being a suspect in her death.

“Yes, you would.” He gave a succinct nod and then took a drink of his water as if to say
case closed
.

“Were they close, Babs and her mother?”

“What’s this about?” Carl asked. “Are you here to discuss Babushka Tru, or are you here to discuss a book deal? I don’t have time to waste.”

“I was simply making conversation, Mr. Paxton. However, I don’t want to waste your time. I’ll pay for our lunch, take mine to go, and apologize for your inconvenience.” I pushed my chair back.

“Aw, come on. Don’t go off in a huff. Let’s have our meal and talk about your book proposal. I didn’t mean to be offensive. I’m just in the frame of mind that time is money.”

I took a breath. “Well. . . . I suppose you
have
been under quite a bit of stress this week.”

“You think? Babs wasn’t just my client, she was . . . a friend.”

“Right. Well, the book I’m proposing would be about my mother getting her start as a seamstress with Warner Brothers back in the seventies,” I said. “She quickly moved up the ladder to the position of costuming assistant and then head costume designer before she started her own freelance career.”

“Has she stepped on a lot of toes?” he asked.

“A few, I guess. Is that a problem?”

“The problem would be if she
hadn’t
. Controversy sells. Without it, all you have is another boring book about an aging has-been.”

My jaw dropped. “My mother is
not
an aging has-been!” This time I did walk out. I stopped by the counter and gave Blake enough money to cover the tab without waiting for a receipt.

“I didn’t say she was!” Carl Paxton called after me.

I didn’t look back. All I knew was that Carl Paxton and Babushka Tru had deserved each other. And from what I could see, he and Ms. Trublonski did too.

•   •   •

When I got back to the Seven-Year Stitch, I was mad enough to spit. Angus could tell right away, and he slunk off to his bed under the counter.

“It’s not you, baby,” I said in a soothing voice, but he wasn’t buying it. He wouldn’t be okay with me until my anger had abated. He wasn’t taking any chances. It made me wonder if people had mistreated him before I rescued him from that puppy mill, or if it was merely a case of his being able to tell that something wasn’t right and deciding to give me a wide berth until I was happy again.

Not ten minutes after I’d got back and took my little cardboard clock off the door, Sadie came in with my chicken salad croissant in a box.

“Here, sweetie,” she said. “I didn’t want you to starve.”

“Thanks.” My eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“Don’t let him get to you. I don’t know what he did or said, but—” She shook her head. “The guy seems slimy. He’s certainly not worth crying over.”

“I know. And it’s not what he said so much, as how it ties in to what I’ve been concerned about,” I said.

“Which is?”

“He said that without controversy, Mom’s book—that I’m not even writing, you know—would be just another book from an aging has-been. And although I
know
Mom isn’t a has-been, I’m afraid this mess will be the end of her career.”

“But you know she’s innocent,” Sadie said. “Everything will be all right.”

“I
do
know she’s innocent, but this still might be enough to ruin her reputation.”

“I see your point.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Is there anyone else involved with the movie that you trust to give you more insight?”

“Maybe.” I sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

“I gotta get back. It’s the lunch rush. If you need me, though, call me.”

“Thanks, Sadie!”

I took the croissant into my office. Angus decided he’d venture out for a bite of that. I tore off a piece and gave it to him as I checked my phone to see if I had the phone number for Ron Fitzpatrick, the director of photography. Luckily, I did.

“Hi, Ron,” I said when he answered. “It’s Marcy Singer.”

“Marcy, hi. How’ve you been? I’ve been thinking about you and your mom. How’s she doing?”

“We’re both fine. We’ll be glad when this whole mess is resolved, but we’re doing okay,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” he said. “I don’t even think poor Babs was murdered. I think she hit her head when she fell and that the local law enforcement is just trying to make a big deal out of nothing in order to get some publicity.”

“Really? You don’t think anyone did her in?”

He chuckled. “I think most of the people on the set wanted to kill her at least once—at least, the women did; she flirted with all us guys—but I don’t think anyone really did it. In my opinion, she was wandering around where she shouldn’t have been, and she stumbled. Case closed.”

“Have the police questioned you?” I asked.

“Of course. They’ve talked to everybody who was on the set that day, as far as I know.”

“That’s a relief. I think Detectives Bailey and Ray tried to make Mom feel like she was public enemy number one.”

Ron chuckled again. “Tell her welcome to the club, baby doll.”

“So, playing devil’s advocate and saying someone
did
push Babs, did you see anyone messing around where they shouldn’t have been that morning?” I asked. “Was she arguing with anyone besides my mom?”

“Marcy, Babs was constantly arguing with somebody. Don’t take this stuff to heart, okay?”

“I’m trying. I really am, but it’s hard. I’m afraid these people are going to try to pin a murder on my mother,” I said.

“Like I said, don’t let them get to you. They’re just trying to get her to say something to incriminate herself,” he said.

“At least Babs’ mother doesn’t think Mom is guilty,” I said, still fishing. “She came by the house night before last to ask Mom if she thought Babs might’ve committed suicide.”

Ron scoffed. “As if. Babs loved herself too much for that.”

“How about she and her mother?” I asked. “Did they have a good relationship? I’m asking because Ms. Trublonski isn’t wasting any time writing a tell-all book about Babs’ life.”

“I’ve never met Babs’ mother, so I couldn’t tell you anything about their relationship,” he said. “But that’s typical. Most of these people know they’re in the capitalization business. If they don’t move quickly on what they have to offer, someone else will step into their place.”

“That’s basically what Carl Paxton said.”

“That loser?” Ron asked. “He’s a snake. Don’t trust that guy.”

“Now that you mention it, he did have a certain reptilian quality about him,” I said. “I only met him today, but it didn’t take long to form an unfavorable opinion of him. What about Henry? Do you agree with his decision to continue making the movie?”

“It’s not his decision,” Ron said. “It’s the decision of the backers. They have too much invested in it for everything to be flushed down the drain at this point. Besides, we were pretty early into filming, so we don’t have that much that has to be redone. And the scenes that didn’t feature Babs won’t have to be refilmed at all.”

“That’s good. Still, it’s a shame about the lost time and the lost footage,” I said.

“Yeah, well. . . . The studio has already sold clips of the movie—mainly behind-the-scenes stuff—to the networks. So we’ll probably break even there.”

Wow. Talk about your capitalization. . . .

•   •   •

For about an hour following lunch, I was half afraid Carl Paxton would stop by the Seven-Year Stitch to try to talk with me more about the fictitious book. That’s why I was sitting on the sofa facing away from the window as I worked on my mauve pillowcase. I needn’t have worried, though, because his time was valuable and couldn’t be wasted, you know. Grrr. That man had made my skin crawl. I was glad I wasn’t the only one who thought he was a creep.

I hadn’t had a customer in over forty minutes, so I nearly jumped out of my skin when the bells over the door jingled. I was relieved to see that it was Mom and Alfred. Angus, who’d been lying at my feet, was delighted. I didn’t know how he managed to run and wiggle at the same time.

Mom laughed as she cupped his big face in her hands. “Who’s Grandma’s pretty boy? Who is? Angus is! Yes, he is!”

Alfred rolled his eyes. “I never thought I’d live to see the day that Beverly Singer would call herself ‘Grandma’ to a dog.”

“That makes two of us,” I said. “But he’s a special guy.”

“He must be.” Alfred sat beside me on the sofa and looked at my embroidery. “Nice.”

“Thank you. So what have you two been up to?”

“We met with Henry.” Mom sat on one of the red club chairs.

“And? Are you in or out?” I asked.

“I’m out.”

“Oooh. Vera will hate that,” I said.

Mom smiled. “Maybe she can work with Henry’s new costume designer.”

“What gives? Why aren’t you going to do it?” I glanced around to make sure no one was about to come in. “Are you afraid Henry killed Babs?”

“It’s not so much that,” Alfred said. “Bev has decided that the pall Babushka’s death has cast over the production has made it impossible to continue working on the film. She feels it’s best to try to put this ordeal behind her with a new project.”

“That’s the press release version,” Mom said. “Unofficially, I feel that until this mess is cleared up, I don’t trust Henry and he doesn’t trust me. We can’t collaborate on a project if we don’t trust each other. I might work with him again in the future, but not unless we feel at ease together again.” She shrugged. “I might never be able to work with Henry Beaumont again . . . and vice versa.”

“You see, your mother was designing the costumes seeing Babushka Tru as Sonam Zakaria,” Alfred said. “Right now, she’s unable to substitute another actress into the role.”

“That’s taking it too far, even for the press release,” Mom told Alfred. “I’m a professional. I could design costumes for a donkey if that’s who they put in the role. Stick with that first thing you said.”

“I only want you to appear to be sympathetic in this,” he said. “I want to make it seem as if you liked Ms. Tru.”

“But I didn’t,” she said. “If you try to make people think I did, I’m going to look like a hypocrite. And I’m not. Besides, witnesses heard us arguing on the morning she died. The tabloids have already been going on about that.”

“Still, Bev, people argue all the time, whether they like one another or not,” Alfred said. “Didn’t you like the girl at all?”

“No. Nobody did. I’m sorry she’s dead, but it would be dishonest to say otherwise.”

“What about Carl Paxton?” I asked Mom. “What do you know about him?”

“He’s a cradle-robbing opportunist,” she said.

“Do you think he might’ve killed Babs?” I asked.