Thread Reckoning (8 page)

Once I had the two of them out on the street with the door closed behind us, I whispered, “It was that guy’s mother who got stabbed.”

Jennica and Carlie looked at each other and then at me. Carlie’s mouth formed an O.

“Wow,” Jennica said flatly.

“Like I said, we’ll talk in class.”

The girls walked off down the street, talking excitedly. I went back into the Seven-Year Stitch.

“I’m so sorry about that,” I said to Frederic.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m aware people are talking . . . curious . . . and, of course, they’re concerned about you.” He was holding a tissue he’d used to wipe his eyes. “Do you have a trash can I could drop this in?”

I held out my hand, and he gave me the tissue. I walked around the counter and put the tissue in the trash. “Have you thought about what you might like for lunch? MacKenzies′ makes some great sandwiches. My favorite is the chicken salad croissant.”

“I’ll have one of those. Will you join me?”

“Sure.” I took out my cell phone, called Sadie, and ordered two chicken salad croissants.

“Two?” Sadie asked. “You must be starving.”

“Something like that,” I said. “I’ll be over to get them in about fifteen minutes.”

Sadie and I said our good-byes, but I could tell she was still wondering why I was ordering two croissants. I’d explain it to her when I picked up the sandwiches.

“I’ve got sodas in the minifridge,” I said. “Would you like one?”

“No. I’m still good with the water,” Frederic said.

“Be right back.” I hurried into the office and grabbed a diet cola before returning to sit on the sofa across from Frederic.

“I saw her,” he said quietly. “Her face, anyway. The coroner had me confirm her identity.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“She—the coroner—said it happened very quickly. She doesn’t think Mom suffered at all,” he said. “She said Mom died almost instantly. A moment of shock and then nothing.”

I had no idea what to say to Frederic, so I just sat there quietly. Maybe my being there would be some consolation in itself.

“I still can’t believe those jewels were real.” He ran his hands down his face. “It has to be a mistake. When I talk with the police later, I’m going to ask them to get the gems appraised again. Mom didn’t have that kind of money.” He reached for another tissue. “She’d recently been fired from a job she’d worked at for more than twenty years.” He shook his head in disgust. “She’d worked so hard for this jerk in California. And he ended up firing her for practically no reason whatsoever. She was going to have to live with Cass and me. I mean, she’d already moved here to Tallulah Falls, but she couldn’t afford to keep her apartment anymore.” He dabbed at his damp eyes. “You know what reason he gave for firing her? She’d cleaned off his desk and put some papers she’d found into his desk drawer. He accused her of snooping . . . invading his privacy.”

“After twenty years?” I asked.

“Yeah . . . well, she’d worked for his dad for the first eighteen,” Frederic said. “I think he just wanted some new blood. He probably had some girlfriend who needed a job or something.”

“Probably. What type of work did your mother do?”

“She was an administrative assistant.” He smiled slightly. “She was good at it. She was a total perfectionist.”

“Was perfectionism a common bond between her and Cassandra?”

Frederic barked out a laugh. “Hardly. Mom insists—insisted—on doing everything herself. Cass wants everyone else to do everything for her.”

“How did the two of you meet?”

“Up until a few months ago, I worked for the same company as my mom—the Santiago Corporation. The dad—Caleb Santiago Sr.—sort of took me under his wing as a favor to my mom,” he said. “I started in the mail room and worked my way up. The company was an office supply sales retailer, and I moved up to regional manager. I met Cass when I was recruiting business from her dad’s law firm.”

“You said you were with the Santiago Corporation until recently,” I said. “Why did you leave?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t like the way Caleb Jr. was running things. I got sick of it, acquired a job with another company, and left. Mom stayed. She wasn’t happy working there, either, but she had a vested interest and all that. As it turned out, though, the Santiagos pulled that rug out from under her, too.”

“Let me run next door and get the sandwiches. I’ll be right back.” I hated to cut Frederic off at this point in his conversation, but I didn’t want Sadie running in with the sandwiches and asking awkward questions, either.

I hurried to MacKenzies′ Mochas to pick up and pay for the sandwiches.

“I guess David is keeping you company?” Blake asked. He tried to keep the negative tone out of his voice, but he failed.

“No. It’s Frederic Ortega,” I said. “The police are questioning Cassandra, and he’s going to join her at the station in a little while. He’s really having a rough time.”

Blake nodded, his relief that the other sandwich wasn’t for David evident on his expressive face. “I can imagine.”

“And Cassandra isn’t being very sympathetic.”

“I can imagine that, too,” he said. “Did he say anything about . . . you know, about his mom?”

“He said the coroner told him his mother didn’t suffer,” I said.

“That’s good . . . I mean, all things considered.”

I nodded and handed Blake some money for the sandwiches. He tried not to take it, but I insisted. Then I rushed back to the shop.

Frederic was on his cell phone finishing up a call. “He must have been watching for her . . . following her or something. They said he struck one definitive blow with the knife, and she went down.”

I set the bag on the coffee table as quietly as I could.

“Probably not until Monday or Tuesday,” Frederic said. “I still have to make all the arrangements. When will you be here? . . . Good. See you then.” He looked at me as he ended the call. “My brother.”

“Where does he live?” I asked.

“New Mexico. He’ll be here Saturday.” He nodded toward the bag. “Those croissants smell good. May I?”

“Of course.”

He dug into the bag, setting one croissant and bag of sea salted potato chips on the table for me and putting the other in front of himself. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled these.” He unwrapped the croissant. “Have you ever lost someone close to you, Marcy?”

“My dad,” I said. “I was too young when he died to remember much about him, but I can recall his smile . . . and his laugh. He laughed a lot.”

“Mom laughed a lot, too,” Frederic said, “though not so much in the past year as she used to.”

“She seemed to approve of your marriage to Cassandra,” I said. “So that’s good.”

“She’d come to terms with it. Let’s put it that way.” He bit into the croissant. “You were right. This is good.”

She’d come to terms with it. I took that to mean that Francesca hadn’t approved of the union at first. I wondered why, but then I remembered he was marrying Cassandra. What mother would want her son shackled to that piece of work? Or herself, for that matter, if she was going to live with the couple?

“Are you planning on calling Mr. Santiago?” I asked. “The one your mother worked with for eighteen years, I mean.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Frederic said. “I suppose I should, but I barely had the presence of mind to call Dom. I haven’t even called the funeral home yet.”

I unwrapped my croissant and started eating. Like Frederic, I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until then. I’d only picked at the muffin Sadie had brought me earlier that morning.

Frederic opened his chips. “About Mom and Cass . . . they got along well in the beginning. But when Cass started planning this wedding, she changed.”

“I’ve heard of women turning into the dreaded beast—Bridezilla,” I said with a grin.

“You can say that again. I realize her family will be paying for the wedding, but I was taught to be more frugal. Mom raised my brother and me by herself.” He ate a chip. “I understand Cass wanting to have a lavish wedding, but I can’t help thinking how far some of that money would go on a home.”

“I can understand your point. My own mom put quite a bit of money into my wedding, and then it didn’t happen.” I shook my head. “There we were with the gorgeous dress, the flowers, the cake, the catered meal, the band . . . and no groom. It was such a waste.” My anger at David sparked all over again.

“Whoa,” Frederic said. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well . . . it happens.”

“Cass thinks we can still get married on Valentine’s Day, but I don’t see that happening now,” he said. “Dom and I will have to bury Mom next week. It’s just too soon. I . . . I can’t get married while I’m still grieving the loss of my mother.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Maybe you do. But will Cass?”

I didn’t say so, but I highly doubted it.

Chapter Seven

Frederic called for a cab rather than have the police station send a car for him. I can’t say that I blamed him. I’d much rather leave my shop in a cab than in a squad car. Nellie Davis, who owned the aromatherapy shop down the street, would simply adore seeing me escorted from the premises by an officer. She’d repeatedly voiced her opinion that all my “bad luck” was detrimental for the business of the shopping center in general. Frankly, my shop was doing well, thank you very much.

I remembered seeing David in Nellie’s shop prior to his coming to the Seven-Year Stitch—when I still thought maybe I was imagining things. It made me wonder if Nellie had somehow found out about David and persuaded him to come here and take me back to California. I realized that was a stretch; but when a murder takes place just outside your shop—especially after two others have been linked to your shop in some way—you begin to get a little paranoid.

I decided to call Mom and tell her the latest.

“Hi,” I said when she answered the phone. “What are you doing?”

“Finishing up my packing for New York,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“I just had lunch with the man whose mother was stabbed to death outside my shop this morning.” As soon as I said that, I held the phone away from my ear because I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t.

“You what!” she shrieked. “Is this some kind of a joke? Because if it is, Marcella Singer, I swear I’ll—”

“No joke, Mom.” I explained to her about Francesca Ortega. “Remember those fake gems I told you she’d wanted me to use to embellish Cassandra’s wedding gown? The police had them appraised, and they weren’t fake.”

“And the killer knew that?”

“Maybe. I know he killed her with one blow, and no one seems to have heard or seen anything,” I said.

“Was she stabbed in the front or in the back?” she asked.

“Front. Why?”

“Then she didn’t know her attacker,” Mom said. “Had she known the person, she’d have been afraid and reacted—turned to run or something. She thought the person was simply passing her on the street, and then he stabbed her.”

“Unless it was someone she wasn’t afraid of. Frederic told me his mother had lost her job and was going to be living with him and Cassandra. I don’t think Cassandra would have been very pleased about that,” I said.

“Still, that’s no reason to kill her. Just because Cassandra is a drama queen with a venomous attitude doesn’t mean she’s a killer. Of course, it doesn’t mean that she’s not, either.” Mom sighed. “Let me hang up and cancel my flight to New York and schedule one to—”

“No way,” I interrupted. “You missed enough work because of me the last time you came for an unscheduled visit. I’m fine.”

“But—”

“No buts. Sadie, Todd, and Ted are looking out for me. And, of course, right now David is, too.” I paused. “Mom, do you think he deserves a second chance?”

“I’ve already told you, love, you’re the only one who can answer that question.”

“But I don’t want to get it wrong. Like today when Ms. Ortega was found stabbed to death outside my shop, I began to think maybe I should get back together with David and come home to San Francisco.”

“One,” said Mom, “you don’t have to get back with David in order to come back to San Francisco. You know I’d love to have you back home, but don’t make that decision when you’re stressed out. Two, don’t run scared. From or to anything. You’ll regret it if you do. If you’re thinking of giving David a second chance, don’t commit to anything until after this business is resolved and you’re thinking clearly again.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m always right. It’s because I’m old.”

I laughed. “You are not old.”

“Okay. I’m experienced,” she said. “I will tell you this much. I don’t know about David, but I know that you have grown and changed since you and he dated last. Don’t let the past completely influence your decision. Try to see him with fresh eyes.”

“I will. Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re sure you don’t need me to come to Tallulah Falls?” she asked. “I can be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Okay, probably more like a few thousand shakes of a lamb’s tail, but you get my meaning.”

“I’m fine. I’ll keep you posted.”

“You’d better.”

As I was hanging up the phone, a customer came in for some cross-stitch canvas. I led her over to the canvases and pointed out some new flosses I’d just gotten in. She bought two canvas sheets and a few skeins of floss before leaving.

Afterward, I sat in the sit-and-stitch square and thought about Frederic and his mother. I wondered if the senior Santiago—the one Francesca had worked for all those years—had known his son was giving her such a bad deal. Maybe if he knew about Francesca’s death, he and Frederic could talk. With David sauntering back into my life, I understood all too well about the need for closure and having unanswered questions put to rest.

I went into the office, pulled up a search engine on the computer, and typed in
Santiago Corporation
. The company was one of the first listed for discount office supplies. I clicked on the company’s Web site and saw tabs for ink, furniture, technology, paper, and general supplies.

I scrolled to the bottom of the page and saw
About Us
. I clicked that link. There was a photo of Caleb Santiago Jr. and his brother, Nicholas. They were in a warehouse. One held a clipboard, and both were smiling at the camera. They were wearing dress shirts, ties, jeans, and hard hats. It was obvious the photo was meant to show that these two megawealthy young men were “regular guys,” people you could trust with your business. Caleb had straight, dark brown hair while Nicholas’s was wavy and black, but both had athletic builds, brown eyes, and friendly faces. I’d buy office products from these people.