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Monday was my regularly assigned day to work a morning shift at the arts council shop, and before it opened at ten, I stopped by Mavis’s for a caramel cappuccino and Danish to go. Monday was often a slower day for us, but unlike some neighboring small towns, Roseland had chosen not to close up shop on Mondays and risk running off any shoppers—especially tourists—who decided to come our way.
The breakfast hour regulars were finishing up at Mavis’s when I arrived. As she rang up my purchases, I said, “I’m unveiling some new jewelry designs in the shop today. And Savannah’s bringing by some new watercolors of downtown landmarks, so stop by if you get a second.”
Mavis handed me my change and smiled. “If we have a halfway quiet morning, I’ll be over. I think the girls here can handle it long enough for me to pop over there for a few minutes. I want to check out your jewelry before it gets gone this time.”
The previous month, Mavis had said she intended to stop by and purchase one of my ever-popular black-and-white sets. But by the time she’d stopped in, all of them were gone. I didn’t like to be too pushy in promoting my jewelry, but I wanted Mavis to know she couldn’t dillydally around and expect to get the best selection. I had offered to bring some pieces by the bakery, but she’d insisted she wanted to check them all out at the gallery shop.
I parked in the alley behind the shop, got out of the car, and reached in the back for my canvas market basket full of jewelry. After slinging my tote-slash-purse over a shoulder, I clutched the to-go sack from Mavis’s in my left hand and slung the market basket over my right arm. Fumbling only slightly, I clicked my key to lock the car and headed to the back door of the gallery shop.
A piece of mail appeared to be wedged between the door and doorknob, but I couldn’t grasp it while I was impersonating a pack mule. Instead, I thrust my key into the door’s lock and barged into the shop with my belongings in tow. Once I plopped my purse, basket, and snacks onto the counter, I walked back to the door and retrieved a business-sized envelope, which curiously had my name written on it.
Maybe Trish Delgado from the arts council had left a list of things she wanted me to tend to. More likely, it was the downtown shopkeepers’ association letting us know about an upcoming event they wanted our help with. But that still didn’t explain why my name was on it. Before I could speculate further, I tore into the envelope and removed a single trifold sheet of paper. It appeared to have been printed on a computer, and my eyes scanned the words rapidly.
Emma, You may want to rethink your involvement in the Tina LeMann murder case. Appearances aren’t always what they seem, and neither was she. You may be biting off more than you can chew, and I’d hate to see something happen to you. A Concerned Friend.
I stared at the letter in disgust. Who wrote this? My mind started racing. Why on earth should I back off on trying to find out who murdered my friend simply because some cowardly person had written me a letter?
On the other hand, I was beginning to learn things about Tina that I hadn’t known before. Like her problems with her family. And that dustup when she was on the library board. Maybe the letter writer was right. Maybe I was biting off more than I could chew.
But I knew one thing for sure: I was not about to be cowed by someone who didn’t have the courage to sign his name.
I flung the letter on the counter, reached for my caramel macchiato, and took a sip. Ah. The hot, sweet liquid was exactly what I needed. Letter, schmetter.
Then it occurred to me that the letter with my name on it had been left at the store on the very morning I was scheduled to work, before the very hour I was to arrive. Someone obviously had known I was going to be there. Maybe the letter was a not-so-subtle personal threat.
I peered around the shop. Two doors led to storage space, and a short hallway led to an office and tiny bathroom. I wasn’t about to check them out while in the shop alone. A loud creak caused me to quickly turn toward the back door and glance out the window, but no one was there.
You’re letting your mind run away with you, Emma.
I glanced at my watch. Nine forty-five. I went to the counter for my purse and pulled out my cell phone. I tapped a quick message to Jen and received a response instantly. Be there in 5 minutes.
Meanwhile, I decided to prop open the front door of the shop. If a killer was waiting somewhere inside and grabbed me before Jen arrived, at least someone on Main Street would be able to hear my final screams.
Annoyed more than shaken by the anonymous letter, I walked around the store and straightened the jewelry display, fluffed a stack of Shareta Gibson’s latest hand-dyed scarves, and generally tried to compose myself while I waited on Jen. Then I got angry that someone would dare to threaten me.
I looked at my cell phone. Four minutes had passed since the text from Jen. I walked to the front door and leaned against the doorjamb. Thirty seconds later, my friend turned the corner, clearly having hustled to get there in five minutes from the newspaper office.
“Right on time, as I knew you would be,” I said.
“Hey, what’s wrong? You look like you’re ill.”
“Do I?” I didn’t realize the letter was affecting me physically, but Jen knew me well.
“It’s probably nothing.” I motioned for her to follow me to the counter. “But the strangest thing just happened. This letter was waiting for me when I arrived.” I handed her the letter and drummed my fingertips on the counter while she read it.
Jen placed it on the counter. “You’ve called the police, haven’t you?”
“No. I got here literally only a few minutes ago. It’s probably no big deal, but—”
“Emma, you need to call and at least get them to make a report about this. What if it’s important?”
“What if it isn’t and I’m wasting their time?”
Jen’s face had that look I never liked to see—her chin was firm, and her eyes were fiery. “Are you going to call the police, or am I? I’m not leaving here until you do something about this.”
She was right, of course. Although I hated involving the police, the letter—and the threat—might be important.
I called the Roseland Police Department, and Evelyn answered. We exchanged greetings, then I quickly got to the point. “I’m afraid I’ve got another incident to report. It may be nothing, but when I got to the gallery shop this morning, a strange letter was waiting for me, and it said I needed to back off the Tina LeMann murder investigation.”
Jen looked on as Evelyn fired question after question at me through my cell phone.
“You sure you aren’t hurt?”
“No, not a bit. I’m fine, really.”
“Are you there by yourself?” Evelyn sounded concerned.
“No, a friend is here at the shop with me now.”
“And this letter definitely had your name it?”
“Yes, but just my first name.”
“Did you see anyone when you came in? Was anyone else in that alley entering a business?”
“No, no one was around at all that I could see.”
“And you’re going to be there for a while, right?”
“Mm-hmm, for the rest of the morning.”
“Hang tight, and make sure that friend stays with you. I’m sending someone from the department over now to check on you.”
“Okay. Thanks.” As Evelyn ended the call, I set my cell phone on the counter and looked at Jen.
She crossed her arms. “Well? What’d they say?”
“Evelyn said she’s sending an officer over and to make sure someone stays with me until the police arrive. I didn’t think about that—the letter writer might come back if he or she knows I’m here alone right now. Sorry. I didn’t mean to tie up your morning.”
Jen looked at her watch. “It’s been seven minutes, and I think I can spare that. Besides, I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.” Lightening the mood, she added, “Because then who would listen to me gripe about the newspaper business?”
I grinned. A few minutes later, a flash of navy blue appeared at the front door. And it wasn’t a customer. It was someone from the police department. I could have predicted who it would be.
“So, I hear we’ve had a bit of excitement up here today. Morning, Jen,” Detective Shelton said, nodding.
She smiled. “Good morning, Detective.”
I grimaced. “It’s the kind of excitement I could do without. As I told Evelyn, it’s probably nothing, but this letter was waiting for me at the shop this morning. It seems designed to stop me from looking into the murder investigation.”
“May I see the letter?”
I started to hand it to him, but he held up a hand. “Let me glove up first.” He pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on before quickly reading the letter. “And again, where did you find this?”
I explained that the letter had been propped on the knob of the back door when I’d arrived.
“Who has handled this letter? Just you?”
I dipped my chin at my friend. “And Jen.”
“I’m going to need to take this and see if we can get any prints off it, just in case.”
“That’s fine, but first...”
“Yes?”
“Do you mind if I snap a picture of it with my cell phone?”
“Why?”
Jen saved the day on that one. “Maybe something in the words will jog her memory?”
“Yeah, that’s it!” I said, perhaps a bit too eagerly.
The detective raised an eyebrow. “Okay.” He unfolded the letter and held it flat for the photo. “Go ahead.”
I clicked a shot. Two, for good measure.
“Thanks,” I said as he placed the letter in an evidence bag.
He looked me in the eye and paused only for a moment before he spoke. “You’re welcome.” Glancing around the shop, he appeared to take in the doors and the hall. “No one else is in here this morning? Just you?”
“I sure hope it’s just me.” I casually walked over to one of the closet doors and opened it. “This is a supply closet”—mercifully, no killer was folded into the tight space below the shelves of cash register tape and gift bags—“and this is the bathroom.” I opened the door and flipped the switch. The room was empty.
The detective nodded. “Good, but I’d like to keep someone posted here for a bit to be sure nothing unusual is going on.”
“And meanwhile”—he turned to Jen—“are you going to be here for a while? I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to be here by herself, all things considered.”
Jen shook her head. “I’ve got to get back to the office. But I could probably take a few breaks and stop back by.”
“Really, I’ll be fine,” I told her. “Look, Detective, I’ll call you if anything else odd happens today, okay?”
Jen looked torn about whether to leave.
“Why don’t I hang around here for an hour or so and see how it goes?” Shelton asked.
“That’s a great idea,” I said, though of course I didn’t mean it. “Jen, see, I’ll be fine. You go on with your day. Okay?”
“Will you call me if you need anything?”
“Sure will,” I said. “And don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Jen looked around the shop—at what, I didn’t know—and gave me a quick but tight hug. Then she left in a whirl.
“Why are you so sure this letter writer didn’t mean you any harm?” Detective Shelton asked.
I gripped the edge of the counter and leaned forward. “For one thing, if someone genuinely wanted to shake me up—and they obviously knew what time I usually get to the shop—there was ample opportunity for them to harm me right as I arrived this morning. If the letter writer had intended to do something to me, that would have been the perfect chance. I was alone, there were no witnesses, and it was a quiet Monday morning. For anyone who wanted to harm me, it doesn’t get much better than that.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Did you stop to think that the person who wrote this could have been the killer?”
I gulped. Actually, I had considered that. But hearing him suggest it made it seem more real, except for one thing. “A killer wouldn’t have given me a warning. He would’ve gone on and killed me, wouldn’t he?”
“You seem to have thought of everything, haven’t you?” Detective Shelton’s tone indicated that he didn’t exactly mean it as a compliment.
“I’m just saying that my gut instinct tells me this wasn’t Tina’s killer.”
Officer Shelton stared at me.
“What?” I asked. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem right now is you.” His face was beginning to turn red. “You’ve made yourself front and center of this case the whole time I’ve been working it. Now, when I should be out following up on other leads, I’m sitting here protecting you because some bad guy who might or might not be the killer seems to know that you’re all caught up in this thing.”
“Then by all means, feel free to leave.” I stabbed a finger at the front door. “I already told you that I think it’s overkill for you to stay here. I know my neighbors on either side of this store. One call, and they’d both be over here in an instant.”
The officer shook his head.
“What?” I asked again. “Why are you doing that?”
“Emma, you’re still assuming that some criminal, someone who might have a knife or a gun, is going to show up and give you time to contact your friends. Excuse me for saying so, but that’s a bit naive.”
The front door opened. It was Mavis. I imagined she was coming in search of that new jewelry. “Well, hi there, Alan. Fancy seein’ you here. Now, Emma, I’m looking forward to getting first dibs on those new jewelry sets. Where are they?”
Three of the tables had some of my jewelry on them, and Mavis was soon bouncing from table to table, shopping for sets with the Emma Madison Designs logo.
“I’m afraid I haven’t had time to get any of the new ones out yet,” I said. “Detective Shelton here stopped by for a... um... a chat, and I’m afraid we’ve been so busy, it put me a bit behind here this morning.” I gave him the stink-eye to let him know he was interfering with my work. On top of that, I didn’t feel one bit safer with him in the room.
Mavis snapped her head his way. “Alan Shelton? Are you interfering with this young lady’s business? If you want those free doughnuts to keep coming, I suggest you let this young woman get her work done.”
Detective Shelton sighed and headed toward the door. “You’ve got my number,” he said to me. “And I would appreciate a call if anything else happens this morning.” He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged before leaving.
“What was that all about?” Mavis asked. “And what did he mean by ‘if anything else happens this morning’? Have I missed something?”
“Nah, not really,” I said, eager to put the unpleasantness behind me. “The detective had a few more questions about something that might be related to the Tina LeMann murder. But you’re here to talk jewelry, not investigations, right?” I reached for my market tote and carried it to the largest of the three jewelry tables.
Mavis was already up to her elbows in jewelry sets and seemed more than willing to drop the topic of police visits and murder investigations. “Ooh, that green set is gorgeous! You made this too?”
“You like it?” I asked, pleased by her enthusiasm. “That’s a new color combination for me, mixing the dark greens with the turquoise and aqua stones.”
“I love it.” She fingered the necklace. “I’m going to be giving a workshop for cake decorators next month, and I want to look a little more professional than I do in my day-to-day uniform.” Her uniform was actually a large yellow smock with the Cupcake Café logo embroidered on a front pocket. “This will be perfect. And oh my goodness, here are those black-and-white sets. I don’t know if I like the pearl ones or the glass ones best.” She held the beads up and let the glass catch the reflection from the sunlight streaming through the front windows.
No matter how many sales I made, I would never get tired of watching women appreciate the simple beauty of a piece of jewelry.
Mavis twirled the necklace and earrings in the air. “Would you look at that?”
Thanks to the light hitting at precisely the right angle, a rainbow of colors swirled across the stark white walls of the shop and led our eyes straight to the front of the room. Outside our front door, Detective Alan Shelton sat on a bench, quietly continuing his visual patrol of Main Street—right there in front of the shop.
Glancing at her watch, Mavis said she needed to get to the bakery. I quickly rang up her purchases, and soon she was out the door with a big bag of jewelry.
While I kept an eye on the detective to make sure he wasn’t scaring off our shoppers, I answered a text from Carleen, who wanted to know if I cared to join her for lunch at Mama’s Place, a great little hole-in-the-wall soul food restaurant tucked into a hidden alleyway downtown.
Emma: Can’t be there till 1. Will that work?
Carleen: See you there then.
A few minutes later, the door to the gallery shop creaked open, and two women entered, deep in conversation and never drawing a breath. “I heard he threatened to cut her out of the antique mall on the highway, and she got mad and told the police he did it. Can you believe that?” the blond woman asked.
Her brunette friend was quick to offer her opinion. “I wouldn’t put anything past those two. They were some of the stingiest people in town when I lived here back in the nineties. Looks like they would have either killed each other or worked out their problems by now, doesn’t it?”
It always amazed me when customers acted as if the shop owner—or clerk, in this case— were deaf. For all they knew, I could’ve been a friend or family member of the very people they were talking about.
And assuming they were talking about the Harrises, I was indeed a friend of theirs—or at least it seemed that way. I was Harriet’s friend because I helped her explain to the police why she’d “accidentally” led them to think Hubert might have killed Tina. And I was Hubert’s friend because I believed he wasn’t a killer and that I wanted to help find the real one.
When the women finally paused for air, I piped in while I had the chance. “Good morning, ladies. I won’t bother you while you’re shopping, but if I can help you with anything, please let me know.”
The blonde dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “Uh-huh, okay. Thank you, dear.”
The women kept up their gossiping as they strode over to a jewelry table and picked up piece after piece, not really looking at the jewelry but continuing to talk a mile a minute.
“All I know is, if Richard ever cheated on me like Hubert has always cheated on her, I would kick him out of the house and never let him back in. I’d take that man for all he’s got.”
Ain’t love grand?
“What I heard was that she accused him of murder just to get back at him. Her daughter, Holly, was at the gym yesterday—and I don’t know why, because it never seems to do her a bit of good—and she was on the phone with her mother, accusing her of letting him go to jail purely out of spite. Holly was practically screaming into the phone, and all of us on the exercise bikes and treadmills were rolling our eyes at each other. Such bad manners. Of course, Harriet was always kind of rude that way too, if you ask me. I used to hate how she would be gossiping with someone at the front counter whenever I went into that antique mall.”
Pot, meet kettle. I nearly snorted the bottle of water I’d been sipping behind the counter.
I could have predicted that the two women would leave without buying anything and that they would leave without offering me the courtesy of a goodbye. I hadn’t volunteered at the retail shop very long before I learned to recognize the types.
The brunette seemed fascinated with the blonde’s account of Hubert and Harriet’s problems. I thought it was sad, and not just because a couple’s marriage was on the skids. It was sad that Harriet’s daughter would discuss their private matters in public for the world to hear.
On the other hand, I knew I was being a complete hypocrite. Although it wasn’t nice for such matters to be aired in public, I had no objections to using what I’d just overheard. I realized there was another angle I’d failed to pursue with Hubert. If he’d really been having all those affairs, Harriet might not be the only woman in town who had wanted to see him behind bars.
As soon as I had the opportunity, I intended to ask Hubert some uncomfortable questions about his well-known womanizing.
* * *
THE SIZZLING SOUNDS of chicken frying were music to my ears when I opened the weathered blue door at Mama’s Place.
Opened fifteen years ago by one of the best African-American cooks Roseland had ever seen, Mama’s Place was something of a legend to those few souls fortunate enough to know about it. I had been introduced to Mama herself many years ago when I first moved to town. The reporters at the newspaper ate there regularly, especially those of us who were young, away from home, and missing our mothers’ home cooking.
Mama—LaNelle Jenkins—had been cooking for her large family all her life. It had long been her dream to open her own restaurant. When a tiny back-alley space between a carpet factory and a barber shop had become available, Mama did what the naysayers had said couldn’t be done—she’d set up a commercial kitchen, brought in a few of her young-adult children to help, and started dishing up plates of her famous Southern cooking.
Mama didn’t advertise, she didn’t run specials, and she didn’t put up with any foolishness in her restaurant. Her menu consisted of whatever she had a mind to cook that day, and anyone who didn’t like it was free to dine elsewhere. A paint-by-number portrait of Jesus and a plaque stating the Golden Rule hung above the checkout counter and served as the restaurant’s primary decor.
Monday was fried chicken day, and I was practically drooling just thinking about it. Carleen and I knew we would have to claim a table no later than one o’clock unless we wanted to get take-out plates. My friend was already sitting at a table covered in red-checked oilcloth and nursing a red plastic tumbler full of sweet tea when I walked in.
“This food smells divine,” she said. “It’s been months since I’ve had time to come over here for lunch, and oh, have I missed it.”
A waitress asked for my drink order, and like Carleen, I wanted sweet tea. Soon, I was guzzling Mama’s delightful nectar, which she sweetened with her special simple syrup. I hadn’t realized how parched I was.
Carleen wasn’t the only one who loved to eat at Mama’s. The regulars included blue-collar workers, lawyers from the downtown offices, the local police force, store clerks with just an hour to get in and out, and small business owners like Carleen. I looked a few tables over, spotted Trish Delgado and Shareta Gibson with their lunch plates, and waved. Mama considered us all part of her extended family.
“Hey, doll. What’ll it be today?” Mama asked Carleen, sidling up to our table with her notepad in hand. Mama wrote our orders on one of those old-fashioned flip-style notepads, the ones with the mint-green lined pages and a carbon copy underneath. I had no idea where she still found them, but clearly, electronic cash registers and credit card readers attached to iPads were light years away from ever coming to Mama’s.
“The fried chicken, of course,” Carleen said. “I’ve been tied up with work far too long, and I have been seriously missing that fried chicken of yours.”
“You got it, baby,” Mama said. “What do you want for your vegetables? We got butter beans, green beans, mac ’n cheese, stewed okra, squash casserole, and fried green tomatoes.”
“Mmm, I’ll take the okra and the squash casserole.” Mama scribbled it all down in a practiced shorthand that was no doubt unreadable to anyone but her and the family members who helped in the kitchen. “And I already know what you want, sweetheart,” she said to me. “Tell me if this isn’t right—fried chicken, fried green tomatoes, and mac ’n cheese.”
I knew the old punch line about how only Southerners considered macaroni and cheese a vegetable, but I didn’t care. Not when I was dining at Mama’s. And not when she was known to slather her perfectly cooked macaroni noodles with extra butter and cheddar cheese.
“Am I that predictable?” I asked.
“Honey, that’s not a bad thing.” Without asking, Mama swiped my half-full tea glass. “Let me get you a refill.” I heard her as she turned the corner and hollered out, “Marion, get a large sweet tea to table three!”
I turned to Carleen. “I thought your idea of hosting that tea yesterday afternoon was a great way to break the ice with Teri and help her get to know us. I noticed she didn’t have much to say about her brother. Did she happen to mention anything about him after I left?”
Carleen paused while one of Mama’s daughters slid a fresh glass of tea my way. “Not much. I know that Tina’s mother is still in the assisted-living place—and apparently a little frail after burying a daughter this week—and Teri is going by every other day to check on her. Did you realize that’s how often Tina went out there to see her mother? I can’t imagine when she had time for herself in between all those visits.”
I nodded. “It seems there’s a lot we didn’t know about Tina. Including some bad blood between her and her brother.”
Carleen’s eyebrows shot up. “You learned something about Tony?”
“Mm-hmm.” I finished a sip of tea. “I didn’t think that yesterday was the proper time and place to mention it, but after church yesterday, I went by the jail to see Hubert. He said that one of the last times he ever saw Tina, she was having an argument with her brother. The conversation was hard to overhear, or so Hubert says, but it had something to do with a missing piece of jewelry.”
Carleen had a faraway look in her eyes. “I wish...”
“You wish what?”
“I wish I could remember what Tina told me about emeralds that time.”
“You two discussed emeralds? Like those in the missing necklace?”
“That’s the strange thing,” Carleen said. “I have this vague memory of something she said one day that had to do with emeralds, but it wasn’t actually a jewelry conversation per se. It’s on the tip of my tongue... or maybe the tip of my brain. I’ve tried and tried, and I cannot for the life of me remember what it was. Oh, I hate getting old!”
Carleen was only in her midfifties, so I had to laugh at her remark. “Maybe you just need to try not to think about it so much. You know, that old advice about how if you give your brain a rest, the missing piece of information will muscle its way to the front.”
Carleen relaxed her shoulders, reminding me of one of the wilted tulips in front of my house. “I guess there’s nothing else I can do except give that a try, because grasping to remember it sure hasn’t helped. I have this feeling it was something important, though. Now if only I could remember what it was.”
“Here you go, ladies.” Mama delivered our fried chicken plates with a flourish. She eyed my refilled tea glass with a firm nod, quickly looking over at Carleen’s, which was still three quarters full. “If y’all need anything else, you just give me a holler, hear?”
We thanked her, and after she left, I whispered, “Do you think there’s any chance Mama would adopt me?”
“You wish.” Carleen tore into her large piece of fried chicken with more gusto than I would have expected from a refined and ladylike antiques dealer.
As I tucked into a perfectly breaded fried green tomato, Carleen told me a little more about what she’d learned in her recent conversations with Teri LeMann. She and Teri had sure hit it off, which was fortunate for Teri since Carleen was such a solid, dependable friend—something Teri apparently could use these days. Teri said Tina had left behind some old family silver, and she wanted Carleen to take a look at it and help her determine the value. It sounded as though Teri was trying hard to make new friends in Roseland.
“Since they have the same last name, I assume the sister never married?” I asked.
Carleen speared a forkful of squash casserole. “Actually, she did. Teri was married until just last year, it turns out, but she went back to her maiden name after the divorce.”
“Know anything about her ex?”
“Just that he was addicted to gambling. She said she finally got fed up and made him leave. She was a little shy about telling me any more about him, and of course I didn’t want to pry.”
“Oh, come on. Pry, pry,” I said with a laugh. “We need info here.”
Carleen smiled softly. “I know we do, but you know what I mean. I barely know Teri, so I’m depending on her to lead the conversation whenever we get together. She says she’s trying to settle Tina’s affairs, but I’m not convinced there’s that much to settle. I believe she’s just lonely and needs someone to talk to, especially now that her sister’s gone.”
“So I gather she’s not into selling antiques herself, just wants her vendors to sell them at the new antique mall?”
After wiping a well-manicured finger onto her second paper napkin of the meal, Carleen finished another mouthful of chicken before replying. “It’s not exactly that she doesn’t like antiques. She appreciates them, but her passion is what I would call upscale crafting. Her high-end furniture pieces aren’t the sort of thing you can put on eBay or Etsy, but she’s had some success selling them through antique malls and small-town boutiques. From what you’ve told me, that sofa she has out at Harriet’s right now is a real showstopper.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I said. “It’s the kind of furniture you might see at the occasional boutique every now and then but few other places. I guess there’s not that big a market for colorful overstuffed furniture at a time when brown leather sofas and white canvas slipcovers lead the market.”
Carleen balled up her well-used napkin and placed it to the side of her plate. “I don’t think Teri’s work would be my cup of cappuccino, but good for her for finding a niche and running with it.”
We’d both cleaned our plates by then, and one of Mama’s daughters discreetly popped over to the table and removed them. Waiting until a break in our conversation, she asked, “Any dessert today, ladies? We’ve got caramel cake, fried peach pies, and chocolate layer cake.”
We both begged off, even though we knew Mama’s desserts were to die for. I made a mental note to stop by sometime and pick up a dessert. Jen would definitely be all in on joining me for sweets.
Since customers were still waiting for one of the diner’s coveted ten tables, Carleen and I gathered our purses and got ready to leave.
Mama was in her spot behind the register as I paid my tab. “How was it?” she asked.
“Terrible!” I said. “It was so bad, I think I’ll come back tomorrow and give you another chance to get it right.”
She roared, and Carleen and I pulled out our cash, the only form of payment accepted. We paid our bills and prepared to leave.
I was standing in front of the door when it swung open abruptly, hitting me in the arm. “Ouch!” I said, rubbing my shoulder.
The door opened again, more slowly this time, and Detective Alan Shelton walked in. I rolled my eyes.
“Oh, sorry, Emma,” he said.
I looked him in the eye. “No problem,” I said as I breezed by.
“Now what was that all about?” Carleen asked. “It looked like an innocent mistake to me, but you sure gave Detective Shelton the evil eye.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. I’m getting more irritated by the day that he hasn’t been very helpful in finding Tina’s killer. Every time I start to do something that could move the case along, he’s waiting to criticize and accuse me of meddling.”
“Have you ever thought that maybe he’s trying to keep you out of harm’s way?” Carleen asked. “The police always know more about an investigation than they let on. What if he’s afraid of you getting too involved in this case?”
I humphed. “Right now, it doesn’t appear that anyone knows too much about this case.” In fact, it seemed only one person had a keen grasp of Tina’s murder and what was going on with the investigation surrounding it. And that, I was sorry to say, was her killer.
When Carleen and I parted ways along Main Street, I was intending to head home and get to work when I remembered two things. First, I’d meant to ask her about those brochures Teri was supposed to have dropped off for me. And second, I’d been planning to show Carleen a new creation I had stashed in my purse, a Scarlett O’Hara–inspired necklace I’d been working on for weeks. I’d finally strung the pendant and beads on a simple green velvet ribbon that perfectly set off the colors in the necklace. I’d christened the piece “Fiddle Dee Dee” in honor of its inspiration, the Southern belle who’d famously wore a gown made of green velvet curtains. I was eager to get Carleen’s reaction, and a quick trip by her shop would take only a few more minutes out of my day.
“Knock, knock,” I said as I entered the Silver Squirrel.
Carleen looked up and smiled. “I was supposed to give you these brochures.” She tapped the small stack of them on the countertop before her.
“I just remembered to come get them,” I said. “Plus, I wanted you to see a new necklace I finally completed.” I whipped out a flat silver box and pushed it across the counter toward Carleen, who carefully opened the tissue inside.
“You made this?” She leaned forward and examined the heart-shaped soldered glass pendant that was the focal point of the necklace.
I nodded. “Finished it over the weekend.”
“Gorgeous,” she said. “I love how you used the green glass beads along with your pendant. If I had half your talent, I too would be making jewelry instead of occasionally selling it. So call me a jealous fan.”
“Are you ‘pea green with envy,’ as Scarlett O’Hara once put it?”
Carleen’s eyes widened, and she started to speak, but something must have caught in her throat. For a second, I thought she was going to choke. She slapped the glass countertop, dabbed at her watering eyes, and wagged her head vigorously. “That’s it! You’ve nailed it, Emma!”
“Nailed what?” I didn’t know what she was getting so worked up about.
“You know how I told you there was something I was trying to remember, something related to emeralds? One day, Tina and I were talking about families who bicker over the furniture and jewelry left behind after a loved one dies. Happens all the time, right?”
“Uh, right, I guess.”
“Trust me, you hear about these squabbles frequently in my line of business. Tina told me about having a family heirloom that one of her siblings was determined to get. When I suggested someone was ‘pea green with envy,’ like Scarlett O’Hara wanted her enemies to be in Gone with the Wind, she said no, it went much deeper than that. She said their envy was more of the emerald-green variety, yet she didn’t seem to want to say too much more about it.” Carleen was more animated than I’d ever seen her, waving her hands around and talking a little too loudly. At my surprised expression, she lowered her voice a fraction and continued. “I always assumed Tina was referring to the degree of family jealousy over the necklace. But now, I can’t help wondering if she was literally referring to emeralds. Maybe I just failed to pick up on it at the time!”
“And Tony LeMann is obviously the one who was more interested in things than in his own family,” I said. “Would you feel comfortable telling Teri about your conversation with Tina?”
“I think I probably need to.” Carleen tapped her lips with her index finger. “And Teri is stopping by tomorrow at closing time, anyway. When she dropped off those brochures about her furniture, she said she wants to bring me a gift, something that once belonged to Tina. I have no idea what it is, and of course it’s completely unnecessary. She said she’s so appreciative of my help that she wants me to have something of Tina’s. I hate to accept it, but I hate to decline it as well. She still seems so grief-stricken over losing her sister, I want to do whatever I can to make her feel better.”
How thoughtful. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is simply accept the gift and say thank you. Who knows? Maybe doing something nice for someone else will be cathartic for her.”
After promising Carleen she’d seen the last of me for the day, I headed home to work on jewelry for a few hours, leaving me plenty of time to complete some pieces and clean up my workspace before going to dinner with Justin.
That afternoon, my goal was to craft some new resin jewelry, which had first come on the scene in the seventies and was suddenly—and inexplicably—all the rage again. I’d been utterly fascinated as a young teen when I first discovered the trendy jewelry encasing almost any object whatsoever within neat little blocks of Lucite, the trademarked version of acrylic resin that was invented in the thirties. I’d worn a necklace encasing a miniature Mr. Goodbar, a source of much fascination among my junior high classmates.
Memories of that schoolgirl necklace got me thinking about all the jewelry trends through the years. From charm bracelets and Add-a-Bead necklaces to floating hearts and mood rings, jewelry was a strong memory for most women, who could easily chronicle their lives through the jewelry they’d once worn. I smiled as I thought of my old college roommate, Carson, who still had a Mickey Mouse watch that she’d kept since she was a girl.
Carson, in fact, was the one who had inspired me to try resin casting. I’d reminded her of that old Mr. Goodbar necklace during a phone call one night, and she’d told me I ought to try to recreate it for old time’s sake, so I did. After searching online, I had found a mold for making resin circles, ovals, squares, and hearts. I was ready to start designing some new resin pieces for an arts market I would attend later in the spring.
After digging into my tin of vintage jewelry bits, I pulled out some pieces I thought might make good resin fillers. One small plastic Ziploc bag contained nothing but mismatched rhinestones. Those jewels had fallen out of other pieces but were too pretty to throw away—like the rhinestones I’d recovered from beneath that seller’s table at Making Memories a week ago. Some emerald-green stones caught my eye, and I added them to the smallest of the circular molds and added the resin.
Emeralds. I can’t get away from them these days.
Using another of the round molds, one about an inch and a half wide, I added a distressed bottle cap whose interior was stamped with the word “Dream.” After filling the remaining molds with assorted rhinestones, beads, and bottle caps, I carefully poured in the resin. I had already learned the hard way that the stuff was almost impossible to get off a surface once it spilled there. Caution was the name of the game.
Soon, all the cavities of the molds were filled, and my resin pieces were curing. I capped the resin bottles, put all my supplies back in place, and spent a few minutes petting an unusually needy Miriam Haskell before I showered and got ready for dinner. Justin was going to pick me up, and I wanted to be sure I was dressed to the nines before he got there.
* * *
AFTER BEING ON THE go for so many days, I was happy to slow down and spend some time simply selecting an outfit and getting dressed for a nice dinner out. I chose a simple black wrap dress and accessorized with vintage pearly earrings—clip-ons that I’d converted to pierced—and a matching choker. The final touch was a stretchy pearl bracelet I’d made with a vintage cameo button at the center. Tossing on a lightweight ivory sweater, I figured I could easily shed it if the room was too warm or keep it on if the air-conditioning was on full blast. We Southerners were notorious for optimistically cranking up the air at the first signs of spring.
Justin picked me up promptly at six forty in a big black Explorer for our seven o’clock reservation. Dressed in a dark-gray suit and tie, he looked even more handsome than usual. He’d brought me a small bouquet of yellow tulips, and I wondered how he knew they were my favorite flowers. I quickly stepped inside and put them in water before he ushered me to the car and opened the door.
“Nice ride,” I said. “You’ve certainly got a lot more room than in my little car.” I pointed at my red Fusion in the driveway.
“And you probably get a lot better gas mileage.” Justin looked over and smiled, then he got behind the wheel, and we headed to the restaurant. “You know, I drove a smaller car for a few years, especially when gas prices got so outrageous, but now I need the space for all these paintings and prints and easels. I used to spend hours trying to cram everything into a subcompact. Finally, I gave up and got something more practical for transporting the artwork. It saves time in the long run, and that’s what counts.”
I laughed. “You sound as time-crunched as I am these days.”
Soon we were turning in to the brick-paved parking lot in front of The Loft. Few parking spaces were left.
“Looks like we got here just in time,” I said.
“You’re not kidding.” Justin walked around to my side of the car and opened the door. Such a gentleman. I like that.
The Loft was one of the hottest new restaurants in town, so I had been only too happy when Justin got a reservation and asked me to join him there for dinner.
Since Roseland’s defunct mill buildings were no longer used for the textile trade, town officials had been eager to find other uses for them. Fortunately, our town’s largest old mill building was in good shape and had some great architectural features. After an apartment complex had taken over most of the building with loft apartments, there had been enough room left to create The Loft, an upscale restaurant on the building’s third floor.
When we entered, Justin told them our reservation was under the name “Hayes.” Our server, a pleasant college-age blonde, wore The Loft’s uniform of black pants, a crisp white shirt, and a black apron with the discreet gold-and-black Loft logo.
Soon, we were seated and browsing heavy black leather folders containing the evening’s menu. Since I’d eaten a hearty lunch at Mama’s Place, I was surprised when my stomach gave a low rumble. Everything on the menu sounded good. The description of the veal piccata with freshly made linguini made my mouth water, but so did the chicken marsala. Seafood had long been my favorite, though, so I ordered a house salad and the broiled salmon with fresh asparagus.
Justin ordered the veal. If I’d known him better, I would have asked to try a bite, but that seemed like a second or third date kind of request. No use rushing anything.
Our drink orders came quickly—unsweet tea for Justin, water with lemon for me. A loaf of crusty bread and a tray of herb-infused olive oils arrived at the same time, and we were soon slicing off pieces and sampling the oils.
“You said the other night that you’re on the board of the arts council,” Justin said. “So how did you get involved with them?”
A lot of people in town still knew me from my reporter days, so it was refreshing to find someone who knew me simply as Emma, a jewelry designer and not the small-town news reporter who had written features for a few years.
Before answering, I finished the bite of fresh bread I had just dipped in olive oil. “I got to know a lot of the arts council members back when I worked for the newspaper. They were a great bunch of people. Hardworking, talented, some super volunteers. So I always said that if I ever came up with an arts and crafts passion of my own, I’d get involved.” I paused to sip a drink of my ice water.
“Then how did you make the leap from newspaper reporter to full-time jewelry designer? I’m sure that didn’t happen overnight.”
I nodded. “When newspapers began shrinking and even going out of business a few years ago, I could see that I needed to think seriously about my career, to have a backup plan. I thought about going back to school and getting more training, in digital journalism this time, but that wasn’t where my heart was. I started spending every spare moment working on my jewelry designs, and these days, my jewelry commissions keep me busy.”
Justin smiled. “I love your story, Emma.”
I could feel myself blushing. “But it’s not terribly exciting.”
“Are you kidding me? Think of how many people dream of going into business for themselves and never have the guts to do it, but you did. So yeah, that does sound exciting to me.” Justin finished his salad and sliced off more bread.
“As far as the arts council, that was a logical place to go to learn more about the business side of the arts and crafts world. I had no idea so much would be involved in marketing and selling my work. Imagine my surprise when I heard my fellow artists analyzing the market and talking about color trends and popular images in design. That was really eye-opening. I had always assumed that making jewelry would take up the vast majority of my time, and as I’m sure you’ve learned, those days of simply making art and sitting back and relaxing are forever gone.”
“If that was ever really the case to begin with,” Justin said.
“Touché. So that’s the saga of how I got involved with the arts council and why I’m involved today. Is that a little TMI for you?” I laughed and realized I was slightly nervous. Even though it wasn’t exactly a blind date, the evening still had that blind date vibe. And Justin’s chocolate-brown eyes were awfully handsome.
“No, it’s not too much information at all. And frankly, I think it’s always smart to analyze your market.” Justin got a twinkle in his eye. “Even painters do that, you know.”
I raised an eyebrow. “But your work is mostly landscapes and portraits. How could you possibly change those based on a market analysis?”
“You know the story behind the painting of Madame X?” he asked.
“Some.” I nodded. “I know John Singer Sargent originally painted her with the strap hanging down, which was considered scandalous at the time. And if I remember correctly, he went back and painted that part of the portrait again, right?”
“Correct.” Justin saluted me with his glass of tea.
“Obviously a smart move,” I said. “But I’m betting you’ve never had to redo a portrait like that, have you?”
Justin shook his head. “No, but I’ve certainly read the art magazines and websites and visited enough galleries to know what sells. I do plenty of work that’s only for me, and paintings that I certainly hope someone will like, but I’m not ashamed to tell you that I watch the kinds of things that are selling well when I’m coming up with ideas for new pieces.”
“What’s something you’ve painted recently that you might not have originally planned to create?”
Justin looked thoughtful. “The houses here in Roseland, for one thing.”
“But paintings of houses aren’t anything new.”
“No, but the fascination with them here sure is. Individuals often want a painting of their own home. In a town like this one, though, there’s such an emphasis on history that I often come across people who want paintings of several historic homes, not just the one they happen to live in.”
“That’s not true in other places?”
Justin sliced off another piece of bread. “Not at all.”
I was glad I didn’t have to worry about eating daintily around him.
“And another thing I’ve started painting is more landscapes. Those seem to sell well in all places and at all times. What about you? Have you created any new jewelry in response to something the public wants?”
“Have you heard the phrase ‘Throw a bird on it’? That’s been the motto in the jewelry world for the last few years. Wire nests with pearl ‘eggs’ and those dangly owl necklaces that look like the 1970s pieces our mothers wore. Yeah, bird stuff has been a real hit for jewelry designers. Does that say something about us, that we’ve suddenly rediscovered birds?”
“You want my cheap pop-culture analysis?” Justin asked.
I nodded, intrigued to hear what he had to say. At that moment, though, his analysis would have to wait because our meals arrived.
My salmon was the perfect shade of pink, and Justin’s veal piccata had lemon slices in a rich, buttery-looking sauce. The tantalizing scents threatened to make me light-headed.
I smiled at him. “Maybe I can hear your analysis after we’ve gotten a few bites of this great food in us.”
Justin looked relieved. He must have been as hungry as I was.
It was always strange to share the silence with someone I didn’t know well. I wondered what he was thinking. I also wondered whether I should have declined the rich cream sauce with my asparagus. I had to admit it was delicious.
Justin cleared his throat. “This veal is excellent. How’s your salmon?”
“Melt-in-your-mouth good. I like to think I’m a bit of a seafood connoisseur, and I must say this is cooked perfectly.”
“Glad to hear it.” He took a drink of his tea. “Ready for my pop culture analysis about birds now?”
“Sure.” I coolly touched my chin and gave him my best Thinker pose. Really, though, I was trying to surreptitiously make sure I didn’t have any cream sauce dribbling down my chin.
“Okay. So we live in this highly technical, less industrial but increasingly man-made world, right? Well, I think the renewed interest in all things nature is the ‘natural,’ if you will, reaction to that, a corrective measure. When you see people committed to organic gardening, or setting out birdfeeders, or searching out new farm-to-table restaurants, it’s all a reaction against the technical and the man-made.”
“And so we give them birds?” I asked, barely able to contain the amused smile I felt tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“Exactly,” Justin said. “And so we give them birds.”
A commotion near the front of the restaurant caught our attention. “Is this a restaurant or a private club?” a haughty voice asked so loudly that many of the diners turned around in their seats to look.
It was Tony LeMann, and after we’d heard a little more of the conversation, it became apparent that he was complaining because he and the blonde with him couldn’t get a last-minute seating for dinner.
“Oh no,” Justin said, a weary expression overtaking his face. “Him again. After his latest run-in with Gail Ginn, I hoped that was the last I’d see of him for a while.”
“What happened with Gail?” I leaned in.
Justin rolled his eyes. “Wait till he’s out of range, then I’ll explain.”
The manager was called to the front of the restaurant. Though I could hear only snippets of the conversation, it soon became clear that Tony had called earlier, asked about the usual crowd size on a Monday night, and assumed he could get a reservation. The beautiful and much younger woman at his side—not someone I’d seen with him before—looked off coolly, as if she were not embarrassed but simply bored that Tony was making a scene.
“I’m so sorry there was a misunderstanding,” the manager said. “If you can wait just ten or fifteen minutes, I believe a table near the back will be opening up shortly.” He pointed at a corner table, but Tony was already shaking his head.
As he glanced in the direction of our table, I quickly turned my head. Curious as I was, I didn’t want to be seen watching the whole kerfuffle. I was relieved when I heard Tony say, “Just forget it. I can’t imagine the food here would be that great, anyway.” He turned to his lady friend. “We might as well head toward Atlanta, where the good restaurants are.”
In one fluid movement, he spun around, companion in tow, and stormed from the restaurant. Whew. I was glad to see him leave. And based upon the now relaxed faces of the manager and waitstaff around him, so were the employees of The Loft.
Justin swallowed his last bite of veal piccata and cleared his throat. “How do you know him again?”
“We’ve never actually been introduced.” I glanced toward the entrance to be sure Tony hadn’t changed his mind and returned. “But I’ve seen him around town a few times lately, and I know who he is. He’s the brother of my late friend Tina, the one who worked at the Silver Squirrel downtown.”
Justin grimaced. “If you haven’t been around him, then you might not know that Tony LeMann has never heard the word no. I was at Gail Ginn’s the other day to start making plans for the next Gallery Stroll. Tony came in—with no appointment—and said he was headed out of town and wanted to, as he put it, ‘give your little shop an opportunity’ to carry his girlfriend’s artwork.”
I was eager to hear more. “Seriously? Does he not know who Gail is? Or how insulting it was to tell Roseland’s famous weaver what her ‘little shop’ needs to sell?”
Justin shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t think he had a clue. But Gail explained that she allowed only fine arts and crafts in her gallery, not the sort of decoupaged pieces his ‘friend’ makes. Tony wasn’t too thrilled to hear that. Said he was sorry to hear that Gail wasn’t interested in his friend’s ‘one-of-a-kind’ offerings and even implied that her own weavings were second-rate.”
I finished the last of my meal and placed my napkin on the table. “Then he obviously doesn’t know Gail’s reputation or the quality of her work.”
Justin nodded. “And he doesn’t know how to help his girlfriend if he thinks he can buy his way into any place in town that he wants. Like Gail’s shop. Or this restaurant, for that matter.”
“Buy his way? Did he actually offer to pay Gail?”
Justin grimaced. “That was the shocking thing. He whipped out his credit card and asked how much it would take to get his girlfriend on the schedule at Gail’s next Gallery Stroll. When she told him there was no charge for exhibiting in her gallery, Tony scoffed and said, ‘Everyone’s got a price. And whatever yours is, believe me, I can afford it.’”
“You can’t be serious?” I whispered to make sure no one could overhear us.
“Serious as a heart attack.” Justin laced his fingers together on the table. “From what Gail told me, Tony LeMann does have the money he claims, and he loves to flaunt it around town. Her husband’s an attorney too, you know, and he’s had a few dealings with Tony in the past. In fact, Gail thinks Tony might’ve worn out his welcome in Atlanta and is thinking of coming to Roseland so he can be a bigger fish in a smaller pond.”
Wow. If Tony had that kind of money and wasn’t helping with his mother’s assisted-living expenses, it wasn’t because he couldn’t. It was simply that he wouldn’t.
We agreed that Tony was getting off on exactly the wrong foot in Roseland. By that time, our server had returned to see if we were interested in dessert. The crème brûlée and other offerings sounded quite decadent, but I couldn’t eat another bite. Justin said he was full as well, so he paid our bill, and we were soon headed to my house.
Justin and I chatted all the way home, and I appreciated how easy he was to talk to. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little apprehensive as we approached the house. Should I invite him in? Will he expect a kiss? Furthermore, I needed to package some jewelry pieces for one of my customers so I could get them in the mail the next morning.
Justin pulled into my driveway and came around to my door.
“It’s been a lovely evening, Justin, and I wish I had time to invite you in, but I’ve got a bit of jewelry work to take care of this evening.”
He smiled. “No problem at all. I have a few hours of business to tend to myself, so maybe next time.”
Next time. I liked the sound of that.
Then Justin grasped my right hand, brushed his lips across the back of it, and said good night. It was such a gentlemanly gesture, and it made me like him even more.
Once I climbed the porch steps and unlocked the front door, I turned around. Justin sat in my driveway, clearly waiting to see me safely inside before he waved goodbye.
Inside the house, I flipped on the living room light and was about to step inside the kitchen to get the teakettle going when I looked down in horror. My red tackle box and beads were strewn across the floor, which looked like the debris field following an F5 bead tornado. The glass pane in the side door to the kitchen was shattered, with shards of glass scattered across the beads.
My heart skipped a beat. “Miriam? Are you okay? Miriam?” I cried out.
Then, before I did anything else, I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse and called the Roseland PD.
As soon as the police assured me they were on their way, I continued calling out for Miriam. At last, a pitiful meow came from the living room, where she was hiding under the sofa. I coaxed her out, held her close, and waited on the porch for the officers to arrive.
However, the first car that pulled up wasn’t a patrol car but Jen’s blue Honda Civic. “I thought you were supposed to be on your way to Atlanta with Todd.”
Jen ran up the porch steps and gave me a hug. “And I thought you had a big date tonight.”
“I did, but I came home and found that someone had broken into my house while I was gone. So I walked in and—”
Just then, a patrol car pulled to the curb. Detective Shelton apparently wasn’t on duty that evening, which suited me fine. Instead, as Jen looked on, I led the two officers inside and answered their questions about where I’d been, who I’d been with, and how I’d spent my evening. They took photos of the damage and dusted for prints. After I’d spent two exhausting hours talking to the officers, they finally said good night. I put on a pot of coffee and got ready to clean up the mess with help from Jen, who had kindly volunteered to stay and assist.
It had been such a fine evening until I returned home, and I gave Jen the rundown as we corralled thousands of wayward beads and baubles.
“So why didn’t you go to Atlanta with Todd?”
She gave me an eye roll. “Because the Daily Tribune apparently doesn’t expect its reporters to actually turn in stories on time. And you know me. I couldn’t just leave the dirty work for someone else to take care of while I was off having fun.”
Fortunately for me, Jen had been at work and listening to her police scanner when the officers got dispatched to my address. After about an hour of painstaking work, the two of us had managed to restore some semblance of order to the kitchen. I assured Jen that she could go home and I would be fine.
“What makes you so sure the perp won’t come back again while you’re here?” Jen crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at me.
I pointed out the kitchen window. “That unmarked patrol car. He told me he’s going to be parked in front overnight as a precaution.”
Craning her neck, Jen took a look and seemed to begrudgingly accept that answer.
After thanking my friend for the help, I walked her to the front door, told her goodbye, and gave a slight wave to the officer behind the wheel of the silver car on the other side of the street.
Safe or not, though, I knew I wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night.