Read Thread End: An Embroidery Mystery for Free Online Page B

giving a press conference this afternoon at the station.”
    “I’ll be there,” Paul said.
    “Paul was just regaling us with a story about Professor Geoffrey Vandehey,” Vera said.
    Ted’s eyes flew to mine.
    “It wasn’t Marcy’s fault,” Paul said quickly. “She told me that nothing had been verified.”
    “I did say—off the record—that the victim
might
be Professor Vandehey,” I said.
    “If it
is
Vandehey, then I might be able to point you in the direction of a viable suspect,” Paul said.
    “Who’s that?” Ted asked.
    “Chad Cummings, the buyer from whom Vandehey stole the Cézanne. He was at the exhibit last night.”
    Ted’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me? How did I not know that?”
    “Why would you?” Paul asked. “There’s no reason Cummings would be on your radar. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
    “Well, maybe he hadn’t before last night,” Vera said. “Wait. Did I meet this Cummings fellow?”
    “No, dear. I believe you were talking with that aromatherapy lady.” Paul frowned. “I find her terribly off-putting.”
    I could understand that. Ever since I’d opened my shop, Nellie Davis—proprietress of the aromatherapy shop two doors down from the Seven-Year Stitch—had all but tried to have me run out of town. She’d even hinted to a reporter once that my shop was cursed. I’d been half expecting her to show up with a flaming torch and a pitchfork for months now. In fact, this latest discovery might lead her to round up a gaggle of angry villagers this very night.
    “I don’t care for Nellie all that much myself,” Vera said. “But she does carry some good products in her store.”
    “Back to Cummings,” Paul told Ted. “I’d done an article on him several months before his acquisition of the Cézanne and the matter with Vandehey, so when I spotted him, I went over to say hello. His wife is an embroidery enthusiast, so he brought her to Tallulah Falls for the weekend to enjoy the exhibit.”
    “Thank you, Paul,” said Ted. “I think you just earned yourself an exclusive.”

Chapter Five
    A fter everyone left, Angus napped and I was bored. Ted and Manu were gone. Vera and Paul had left almost immediately after Ted and Manu. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that Barbara Walters and Sam Donaldson had trailed after the police in order to get “the scoop.”
    There weren’t even any customers dropping in. On a Saturday! I wondered if they’d heard about the body in the alley and had stayed away because either they assumed the shop would be closed or they were creeped out about the murder.
    I sighed. And even though he was half-asleep, Angus heaved a sigh of his own. What loyalty.
    Still, if my life were a musical, this is the point where I’d begin to dejectedly sweep the floor. As I swept, I’d sing, of course—a slow and sultry tune—the Gal Who Found the Murdered Guy Blues.
    After the first verse, Jill would come to life and harmonize with me. Suddenly, we’d be in evening gowns dancing around with a gorgeous cast of characters. And then the song would fade. The lights would go down, leaving me alone in a spotlight. I’d be dressed in my jeans again. I’d toss aside the broom, hug my dog, and belt out the ending of the song.
    Did I mention that my mom was a costume designer? Having a parent entrenched in Hollywood was pretty much a guarantee that I’d have a rich imagination. I felt I’d outdone myself with my musical number, though. In fact, I was just getting ready to call Mom and fill her in—together, we probably could even have come up with words to the song!—when a man walked into the shop.
    He was above-average height, a little too thin, and had shoulder-length, wavy brown hair streaked with gray. He had a prominent nose, and he strode with his chin lifted as if he were sniffing the air.
    Angus slowly stood but did not approach the man.
    “Oh, my,” the man said in a British accent. “Is he aggressive?”
    “No.” I smiled at