Lie of the Needle(20)
I walked back to the ten-drawer seed counter with glass-fronted loading bins that housed all kinds of magical sewing notions. On top was an ornate National cash register, and next to it was a bowl full of handmade bookmarks for sale at a dollar each. My clever assistant, Laura Grayling, who usually watched the store on Fridays so I could attend some auctions, had taken strips of wide satin ribbons, studded them with a row of vintage buttons, and added a knotted fringe at one end. A simple design, really, but so appealing.
The bookmarks made me think of Stanley, and I leaned against the counter, allowing my mind to flood with memories. The way I wanted to remember him.
He was a fast and voracious reader and had introduced me to so many of my favorite authors. He bought the latest hardcovers the instant they came out because he couldn’t wait for the paperback editions, and I’d been the lucky recipient of many of his top literary picks. He loved nothing better than to discuss the book with me after I’d read it, while Joe and Ruth chatted about gardening or the weather.
The last of the coffee dripped into the pot, and the front door opened. Eleanor had impeccable timing, always seeming to appear just as it finished brewing.
I poured coffee into two mugs. We wrapped our cold fingers around the hot pottery and shivered.
“Wonder what Martha’s bringing today?” Eleanor said. “I could really go for some of her shortbread lemon bars. Ooh, or maybe the orange-scented mocha truffles? It is the season, after all.”
But when our redheaded friend arrived a few moments later, her arms were empty. Eleanor and I glanced at each other in dismay.
“No cakes today. I could barely drag myself out of bed as it is.” Martha heaved a sigh so deep, it seemed to suck all the breath from her body. “Let me tell you, I am completely exhausted. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night, wondering what on earth that man is playing at.” She slammed a hand down on the counter. “Where the hell is he? Is he trying to drive me insane, or what?”
Before we could come up with an appropriately comforting response, the shop door banged open, flung wide by the wind. Detective Serrano strode into the store, grabbed the wayward door, and shut it firmly behind him.
“Detective, Officer, sir. I need to speak to you!”
Serrano came up to us and laid a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Hold on, Martha. Listen, ladies, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. The photographer’s missing, and his studio in the carriage house was trashed.”
“Do you think something’s happened to him?” I whispered.
Eleanor arched an eyebrow as if that went without saying. “I thought it was weird that he never showed for the shivah. I mean, Roos was a flake, but not that much. And he definitely knew about Stanley’s death.”
Serrano adjusted the bowl of bookmarks one millimeter to the left, so the design on the bowl was facing directly forward. “Mrs. Bornstein wasn’t up to answering too many questions. I wondered if you ladies could help me.”
“Of course.” I poured another mug of coffee.
“Kathleen Brown discovered the mess when she went in to clean this morning. All the equipment’s gone, too. Cameras, lights, film, the whole shebang.”
“Oh, no.” I stared at him. “The calendar!”
“This is a disaster,” Eleanor said glumly. “We’ll need to reshoot the whole thing, assuming we can convince the guys to go through the process again. The printer was already freaking out as it was about the tight deadline to get it into the stores before Christmas.”
“Oh, good God, Cyril!” Martha pressed a hand to her mouth as she sank into a nearby boudoir chair.