The Quick and the Thread (18 page)

“Yeah, I know. Thanks again. And good night.”

“Good night, Blake.”

I hung up the phone and lay my head back against the pillows. What a mess. How on earth could Blake let himself become involved in this?

For some strange reason, I impulsively picked up the phone and dialed the number to find out where the call from Blake had originated.

The mechanical voice droned, “The last number that called your line is not known.”

I knew I should call the police and report the harassing calls, but I didn’t. What if it
had been
Blake? He’d never hurt me. He’d just gotten himself into a mess and didn’t know how to get out of it. I didn’t want to be the reason my best friend’s husband got arrested and thrown in prison for who knows how long.

“Thanks for ruining our lives, Marce,” Sadie would say. “It’s not like
you’ve
never made a mistake.”

 

 

I slept that night better than I’d expected and was happy to see there were a couple of boxes sitting by the front door when I got to work the next day. For some reason, most of my shipments arrive on Saturday.

I was expecting some Pacific Coast Collage design packs by Laura J. Perin from Nordic Needle. The collages were beautiful, and perfect for those of us living here on the Oregon coast. They were sure to be a hit with my customers.

The design had an otter in the middle of the canvas, surrounded by blocks containing shells, a butterfly, a starfish, and other patterns. The design pack even came with bead packs and a shell to be placed between the otter’s paws. I was planning on starting on my own Pacific Coast Collage to frame and display in the shop after I finished the tote bag, the MacKenzies’ Mochas logo, and the haunted house. I know, I know; I always have too many projects going at once. But that’s better than not having a project at all.

Thinking of the MacKenzies’ Mochas logo brought to mind Blake’s phone call. I still couldn’t understand how he could let himself get involved in Mr. Trelawney’s shady dealings. Nor could I understand how my own name had wound up on that list and my credit history compromised.

And what about Todd? Had he, like Blake, allowed Mr. Trelawney to use his financial information? Had he simply been a pawn like me? Or had he actually been a straw buyer for Four Square Development and had avoided detection?

I opened the top box and was delighted to see that it did, in fact, contain my Pacific Coast Collage design packs. I looked at the photograph of the completed collage, particularly the otter’s sweet face.

I had thought I’d love life here in Tallulah Falls. And for the first month, it had held such promise. Now I was wondering if I ever should have left San Francisco.

I’d wanted to embark on an adventure, but this was ridiculous.

I was putting the Pacific Coast Collage design packs—all but one—on display when the bell over the door jingled. I looked up to see Vera.

I smiled. “Good morning. You’re here early.”

“I know. John went in to the bank this morning, and for some reason, I didn’t want to be home alone.” She gave me a half smile. “I suppose it’s all the craziness that’s been going on lately. How’s Margaret?”

“Pretty good, I think. She left yesterday to stay with Sylvia in Portland for a few days.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

Angus brought his tennis ball and dropped it at Vera’s feet.

She laughed. “You’re feeling friskier than I am this morning, my good man.” She tossed the ball, and Angus loped after it.

“Look what I just got in,” I said, showing her one of the collages.

She took in a breath. “How beautiful. I want one. Do you think I can do that?”

“You can do anything you put your mind to,” I said, thinking that I’d help her through the hard parts. “By the way, I heard yesterday afternoon that my identity was stolen.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I wish I were. Do you think John could see me about it sometime this week?”

“You can see him today,” she said, taking her cell phone out of her purse. She walked over to the sitting area and set down her tote as she called her husband. “John, darling, it’s Vera. Someone has stolen our Marcy’s identity.”

Our Marcy
. That made me smile.

I’d been so impressed with the collages, I hadn’t opened the other box yet. The collages were the only things I’d been expecting, so I was curious about the other box. The return address was unfamiliar. And it wasn’t from the East, so it couldn’t be that Mom was sending me something from New York or somewhere.

In the background, I could hear Vera talking with John. I took my scissors and cut the tape binding the box. When I opened the top, I saw nothing but newspaper at first. I began taking out the newspaper and saw that inside the box was a bees’ nest.

A hornets’ nest, to be exact.

V
era approached me, returning her cell phone to her purse. “Okay, he—” She broke off and placed her hand gently on my forearm. “Are you all right? You’re as white as rice.”

“I’m . . . I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting . . . that.”

Vera peered into the box and gasped. “What on God’s green earth is that thing? A bees’ nest?”

I nodded. “I believe it’s supposed to be symbolic.”

“If one of your beaus is trying to tell you he wants to be your honey,” she said with a grimace, “he’s going about it in an entirely creepy way.”

I grinned. “What were you going to say before?”

“Oh, that John can see us now if we go on over.”

“Great.”

I set the box containing the hornets’ nest in the storeroom. I’d go by the police station on my way back here to see if someone could come to the shop and take a look at it. Maybe whoever had sent it had left fingerprints on the box. But somehow I doubted it. I agreed with Vera—it certainly was creepy.

I kissed Angus on the top of the head and told him to be a good boy for the few minutes I’d be gone. Then I put one of those clock signs on the door saying when I’d be back and locked the door. I didn’t expect to be gone more than half an hour.

“Shall we take my car?” Vera asked, indicating a silver BMW. “I still plan on stitching when we’re finished talking with John.”

It wouldn’t make sense to take two cars, but I couldn’t impose on Vera to drive me to both the bank and the police station. I decided a call to the police station would serve as well as a visit.

I smiled. “Sure.”

For the second time in as many days, I was not in the driver’s seat. I had to admit, though, I didn’t feel in control of anything at all at the moment.

 

 

John Langhorne’s office was weird. I suppose a more politically correct person would call it idiosyncratic. I’m sticking with
weird
.

It rather reminded me of one of those online games where you study a scene and find the hidden objects. To say Mr. Langhorne’s desk was cluttered was akin to saying the Grand Canyon was a big hole.

Both an in-box and an out-box were filled with loose papers and files. Files, yellow legal pads, at least two pencil cups jammed full of pens and pencils, a tape dispenser, a large stapler, a mini stapler, various stamps, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bottle of hand sanitizer, and a tube of hand cream crowded the desk. A credenza behind the desk contained various alcoholic beverages, seltzer, and bottled water, a coffee urn and a teapot (both of which sat on a hot plate). Assorted cups, mugs, and glasses took up the rest of that space. A side table situated between the desk and the credenza provided the only apparent workspace, complete with desk, mouse, and keyboard.

The aesthetic pieces were strange, too. Instead of austere “banker” scenes or Norman Rockwell prints, Mr. Langhorne’s office contained surrealist paintings. Not like Dalí or Escher, but like . . .

“Wow, did you do these paintings yourself?” I asked.

“He didn’t,” Vera said, “but I did.” She smiled smugly, obviously proud of her work.

“Wow,” I repeated.

“And now my little artist has applied her talents to the embroidery canvas,” Mr. Langhorne said, rising from his gray leather desk chair to give his wife a peck on the cheek. “Isn’t she prolific?”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Vera tells me you’ve been the victim of identity theft,” he said, sitting back down and indicating that we do likewise. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that. How can I help?”

“Mainly, Mr. Langhorne, I want to check to make sure that, other than this bogus real estate transaction, my credit history is good. After all, this bank holds the mortgage to my home.”

Mr. Langhorne bobbed his small, balding head. “No red flags have come across my desk. Of course, I wasn’t aware of the real estate transaction. What’s that about?”

I explained about my call from Alfred.

Mr. Langhorne frowned. “That’s disturbing. I’ll do a quick search later this afternoon, and I’ll be sure to let you know if anything else shows up. I’m sure your attorney is doing thorough credit checks, as well.” He shook his head. “Hopefully, this was merely an unfortunate accident. Transposed numbers do happen . . . more often than people think, actually.”

“True, but, Mr. Langhorne, the transactions were in
my name
.”

“Ah yes . . . Well, let me look into it further, and I’ll let you know if I find something. All right?”

“Sure.” I stood. “Thank you for your time.”

“Anytime,” he said. “You ladies enjoy your stitching. Vera, darling, I’ll see you at dinner.”

Vera and her husband shared another quick kiss, and then she and I returned to the shop.

She settled onto the sofa to work on her tote bag while I took Angus for a bathroom break. I used that opportunity to call Detective Nash.

“Ted Nash,” he answered.

“Good morning, Detective,” I said. “It’s Marcy Singer. I wondered if you or one of your officers could bring your handy-dandy fingerprinting kit over here and check out a box for me.”

“A box? Should I bring the bomb squad?”

“No, I’ve already opened it.”

“Marcy, you should never open a suspicious box.”

“It didn’t look suspicious. It still doesn’t. It’s the hornets’ nest inside the box that bothers me.”

“Is it full of hornets?”

“I don’t think so. At least, none swarmed out when I opened the box.”

“Where’s the box now?”

“In the storeroom.”

“Good. I’ll be right over, and I’ll bring a couple crime-scene techs with me.”

After talking with Detective Nash, Angus and I returned to the shop. I retrieved my tote bag and went to sit by Vera. I had the top third of Angus’ head completed on my tote bag, and Vera’s teacup was looking more like a teacup every minute.

She looked up from her work and smiled. “John’s probably right about this identity-theft thing being a misunderstanding. I’d rather think that than believe someone did this to you on purpose. Wouldn’t you?”

“I would rather think that, yes.” The trouble was, I didn’t think that.

When Detective Nash, a young man, and a woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties arrived, I escorted them to the storeroom. Detective Nash introduced me to the man and woman as Scott and Shirley, crime-scene technicians who could analyze any trace evidence found on the suspicious box. I left them to their task and placed Angus in the bathroom until the techs could obtain whatever they needed.

“Is this about the bees’ nest?” Vera asked when I returned to the sitting area.

I nodded.

“Somebody wants to impress his lady friend,” she said in a singsong voice and with an eyebrow raised in Ted Nash’s direction.

I shrugged, not quite knowing how to respond to that.

She saw that her thread had become too short to go any farther, so she ran the thread through some stitches on the back of the pattern and then cut it off. As she rethreaded her needle, she cocked her head. “On the other hand, you may not want to settle down with a lawman. That’s dangerous work. Of course, your pub owner could become too fond of the drink. I’ve seen liquor ruin many a good man.”

I remembered Mr. Langhorne’s credenza and wondered if that could apply to him, but I kept my mouth shut.

At that moment, Detective Nash called me into the storeroom . . . an act for which I will be forever grateful.

“Any idea where this box came from?” he asked.

“Not really. Mr. Patrick warned me about stirring up hornets’ nests, but I seriously doubt this came from the prison. Still, I’ll mention it to Riley Kendall and see what sort of reaction I get.”

He nodded. “We’re going to take this back to the station, if that’s all right with you.”

“Suits me,” I said. “I haven’t had enough time to get sentimentally attached to it yet.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll check back with you later. In the meantime, don’t open any suspicious boxes.”

 

 

After Vera and the police left, I called Riley Kendall and asked if she could come by the shop today. She said she was in her office but would be leaving at lunchtime.

“Would you like me to bring something for us to eat while we chat?” she asked. “I’m craving Captain Moe’s ham and Swiss on rye.”

“Captain Moe?”

Riley laughed. “Yup. It’s a deli this side of Depoe Bay. Captain Moe is the owner. He’s this jolly bear of a man who reminds everyone of Santa Claus. Actually, he always plays Santa in the Tallulah Falls Christmas parade.”

“Why does he call himself Captain Moe?” I asked.

“He’s an actual captain. He used to pilot a salmon boat. I’ll run by there and then come on over. Is ham and Swiss on rye all right with you, or would you like something else?”

“Ham sounds delicious. Thank you.”

When I ended the call, I marveled at how cheerful Riley had sounded. I’d never heard her that way before. Was there a reason for this bubbly new attitude? Or was it an act?