The Long Stitch Good Night: An Embroidery Mystery (7 page)

“I didn’t realize you and Mr. Stott were friends.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know that I’d call us friends. We were more like business acquaintances. We’re—we were—both in health insurance administration, so our paths would cross on occasion. Still, it’s hard to believe he’s gone.
His death reminds me not to take unnecessary chances though, you know? Especially now that I’m a dad.”

“‘Unnecessary chances’?” I asked, frowning. Keith made it sound as if Graham had been killed doing some sort of motorcycle stunt. “But he was at a party.”

“True, but some parties and some people should be avoided at all costs,” he said.

My frown deepened as I tried and failed to follow Keith’s logic. “But he was with his buddies…his fraternity brothers. Why shouldn’t he have gone to the party?”

“Because someone there hated him.…Heck, more than one of them hated him. And one hated him enough to kill him.”

“And you think he knew that going into the party?” I asked.

“If he didn’t, he should have. That bunch has fought for years over petty garbage—in particular, their various relationships with Tawny Milligan.”

“Tawny Milligan? Who’s she?”

Before he could answer my question, Keith removed his cell phone from his pocket. “Sorry. I need to take this.”

His phone had apparently been on vibrate. I knew phones were forbidden in certain areas
of the hospital. Either this wasn’t one of those areas, or that was some important call.

I waved as Keith turned away and went into a deserted lounge to talk with the person who’d called him. When I went back to speak with Riley, I found her asleep with Laura’s new baby blanket still on her lap. I quietly left.

I swung by the Brew Crew to check on Robbie before I went home. Since the crime scene was restricted to the one back room of the pub, police officers had barricaded the entrance to that room only and had allowed the craft brewery to “resume normal operations in order to avoid financial hardship.” The barrier was an effective one—it included chains with combination locks to ensure no one could enter the room where Graham Stott had died.

Like MacKenzies’ Mochas, the Brew Crew was more crowded than usual for this early on a Saturday. It rapidly became apparent that the “extras” were on hand because they were curious about last night’s shooting. In just the few seconds that it took me to get from the door to the bar, I was already tired of hearing the whispered—and some not-so-quiet—speculations:
You think it was over money? Graham’s family is loaded, you know.
I’d wager that both Blake MacKenzie and Todd Calloway have been jealous of Graham Stott ever since they were in college together. Graham had a lot of enemies—in fact, I’m surprised he lived as long as he did.

At last, I was standing in front of Robbie. “Hi!” I faked a bright smile. “How’s it going?”

His chubby, cherubic face sagged with fatigue. “Frankly, I’ll be glad when this night is over.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Yell ‘Fire!’” His lips tipped up slightly. It was the closest thing to a smile I was going to get from him this evening, but it was easy to see why.

I cupped my hands at my mouth as if I were indeed going to call out, and then I put my hands down and laughed.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

Remembering Sadie’s assertion that I either order or get out, I opted for a diet soda.

Robbie scooped some ice into a glass and then poured my drink. “Say, Marcy,” he said softly. “Do you think the judge will let Todd and Blake out on bail?”

“Of course,” I said. “Don’t you?”

“I hadn’t thought much about it until some of the folks in here said the judge might hold the guys in jail until after the trial,” said Robbie.

“But that could take months!”

“I know.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t think I’d be able to run the Brew Crew by myself for that long.”

“Don’t you worry. Todd will probably be back here by Monday evening.” I sipped my soda. “Most of the people you hear talking are only speculating. They don’t know anything more than you or I.” Still, I had to admit that I hadn’t considered the possibility of the judge denying bail until Robbie brought it up.

He excused himself and went to serve another customer. When he came back to check on me a few minutes later, I reiterated my offer to put on an apron and help out.

“Nah. This crew is pretty good, and this is nothing they haven’t dealt with before after football games and stuff like that,” he said. “We’ll be fine, but thanks anyway.”

“If you change your mind, just give me a call. I’m pretty sure my number is in Todd’s Rolodex.” I bit my lower lip. “Speaking of that Rolodex, could I step into his office and look at that for a second?”

“Sure. Is there anyone in particular you want to talk with? Maybe I can help.”

“I want to talk with the men who were here last night,” I said as quietly as I could speak
and still be heard by Robbie. “I want to get to the bottom of what really happened. In fact, maybe you and I could compare notes sometime tomorrow.”

“Okay. I’ll give you a call.” He jerked his head toward the office, indicating I should go ahead and slip in there.

I hurried into the office, closed the door, and quickly found the names and phone numbers for the men who’d attended last night’s party. I also found a number for one Tawny Milligan.

When I returned to the bar, I asked Robbie if he’d ever heard of Tawny Milligan.

He actually blushed. “Sort of. Why do you ask?”

“Someone mentioned to me that the fraternity brothers had been fighting over her for years,” I said.

“I guess that’s true. From what I understand, she hooked up with some or all of them at one time or another.” He took his index finger and rubbed at an imperceptible spot on the bar in front of him. “She was”—he cleared his throat—“kind of loose…I guess. But I think a couple of the guys really cared about her.”

“Were they talking about her last night?”

“Maybe. Her name usually came up whenever any of them got together,” he said. “But I
was running the bar while Todd was entertaining his friends.” He shrugged. “I didn’t get in on their conversations.”

“Of course not,” I said. “Thanks so much for your help. Do call me tomorrow. Maybe I can buy you brunch.”

He finally raised his eyes to mine again and smiled. “Thanks, Marcy. I’ll call you.”

Leaving the Brew Crew, I looked across the street at MacKenzies’ Mochas and saw Bill and Dorothy Van Huss going inside.

Sadie’s gonna kill me. Sadie’s gonna kill me.
The internal mantra taunted me as I hurried to the Jeep.

By the time I arrived home, I realized how hungry and tired I was. I ordered a pizza and then sat down in the living room with my list of names and phone numbers. I thought I could probably speak with most of the people on the list in the half hour to forty-five minutes before my pizza arrived, but I had no idea what to say to them.

Hi, I’m Marcy Singer. You met me at the Saint Patrick’s Day party. You know, the one where your friend Graham was killed? I’m trying to convince the world that neither Todd nor Blake is responsible for Graham’s murder. Can you help me out with that?

I then waffled back and forth as to whether to start with the men—who were at the party—or Tawny Milligan—who, to my knowledge, was not. Maybe it would be easier to talk with her first. I could say I knew she was a friend of Graham’s and I was calling to ask whether or not she knew he’d…he’d what? Been in an accident? I couldn’t come right out and say Graham had died the night before. That would be gauche. Hopefully, she’d have seen a news report about Graham’s death and—should she decide to speak with me—could tell me if she thought Blake or Todd had anything to do with Graham’s murder.

She could also tell me more about Graham. If he’d been her boyfriend at some point, then she’d likely know more about him than his fraternity brothers and could provide some solid leads Sadie and I could follow.

I punched her number into the phone. I was immediately blasted with the earsplitting beeps that preceded the message: “The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this message in error—”

I ended the call, rechecked the number, and dialed again. Same message. I was still hoping to speak with her before calling the fraternity
brothers, so I switched to my phone’s Web browser and did a search for the name Tawny Milligan.

I could hardly believe it when a nationwide search of white pages turned up zero matches. Of course, Tawny Milligan did sound like a stage name or something. But where had she gone? She couldn’t have simply disappeared.

N
ot being able to reach Tawny Milligan, I looked down at the list of names. I’d decided to be subtle in my approach with most of the men. I was afraid that coming right out and asking them about Graham Stott or the events of the previous night would likely scare them and cause them to clam up. They certainly wouldn’t want to say anything that would deflect suspicion from Todd and Blake onto themselves. And since they were all still at the Brew Crew when the shooting occurred, they were viable suspects. It was possible that some of them had even retained attorneys who had told them not to speak with anyone about Graham’s death.

I perused the list again. I recalled that Andy
was an economics professor at Tallulah County Community College. I ran a small business. That one should be simple. I punched in the number.

“Hello.” Andy said only that single word, but it was packed with trepidation and a hint of dread.

“Hi, Andy. This is Marcy Singer. We met at the Brew Crew last night.”

“Sure, I remember. You’re Sadie’s friend.” Still cautious.

“Yeah. Anyway, I understand you’re an expert on economics,” I said.

“I guess you could say that,” said Andy.

“Could I make an appointment to see you…or could I maybe buy you dinner tomorrow night? I only opened the Seven-Year Stitch a few months ago, and I’d like to pick your brain about what I should be doing to get the most tax breaks this year.”

He hesitated before answering. “Don’t you have a CPA to advise you on financial matters?”

“Sure, but…” I suffered a pang of guilt as I thought of all the years I’d spent in accounting myself and scrambled for a valid-sounding excuse. “Well, as you can imagine, a CPA would charge me a small fortune for this kind of information.
I thought maybe you could give me a few pointers to make sure I’m on the right track in exchange for dinner. If you aren’t interested, could you recommend someone? One of your students, maybe?” I hoped the addition of asking for a recommendation would assure him I was legitimately seeking information. Which I was…just not about tax breaks.

“Uh, no. I mean, yeah. I could meet you for dinner tomorrow night,” he said. “Just tell me when and where.”

“Great. Thank you,” I said. I suggested we meet at a seafood place in Lincoln City, and he agreed to be there at six o’clock.

So far, Sunday was shaping up to be a food-filled day—brunch with Robbie and dinner with Andy. While I was contemplating all the food I’d likely be eating the next day, my pizza arrived. I realized I should’ve probably made a healthier choice tonight, but it was too late to think about that now. Besides, I was starving.

I took my pizza into the kitchen, grabbed a diet soda from the fridge, and placed two slices of the cheese pizza on a plate. As I bit into the first slice, I saw that the next name on my list was Mark, the personal trainer. Perfect.

When I called Mark, I got his voice mail. I left a message telling him my name and saying
that I needed to develop some upper body strength. I said I’d like to make an appointment with him for advice on how to do that.

He called back almost immediately, and I got the impression he thought my request was just a ploy to get to see him again. I tried to explain that since opening the shop and receiving regular shipments of embroidery supplies, I needed to learn to lift the heavy boxes without hurting myself. That was totally true, but he still acted like he was patronizing me when he made me an appointment for Monday after work. If I hadn’t wanted to talk with him so badly, I’d have told him to shove his appointment. But I did want whatever information he could give me about Graham, the other guys from the fraternity, and what had happened at the Brew Crew last night.

The next name on my list was Charles. Being a journalist for the
Portland Patriot
, Charles would want the truth too. Surely he’d want to cover the story for his newspaper, especially given his personal interest in the case.

When I called Charles, a child answered the phone. “Hi,” I said in my sunniest voice. “May I please speak with your dad?”

“Are you trying to sell us something?” the boy asked suspiciously.

I suppressed a giggle. “No. I’d just like to talk with him for a second about his work.”

“You’re not trying to
date
him, are you?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I promise, it’s strictly business.”

“Okay.” I heard the phone being set aside. Then, “Dad! Phone!”

In a minute Charles came on the line. “Hello, this is Charlie.”

I introduced myself and offered to help him gather information on the case. “I know you’ll need a local to do some of the legwork for you, and I’m willing to keep you posted on everything that’s going on.”

“What’s in it for you?” he asked.

The kid obviously came by his skepticism genetically.

“I believe Todd and Blake are innocent. I don’t know what happened in that back room of the Brew Crew, but I don’t think either of my friends killed Graham Stott. And I intend to prove that.”

“That’s awfully noble,” said Charles. “So what do you need me for?”

“Leverage—so the authorities will listen to me once I learn the truth,” I said. “They’re far more likely to pay attention to a respected
journalist than to an embroidery shop owner. And I’d also like information on Graham Stott.”

Charles asked me to meet him Monday evening at a bar in McMinnville, halfway between Tallulah Falls and Portland. I’d have to hurry through my personal training lesson, but I told him I’d be there.