Stitch Me Deadly by Amanda Lee Page A

your mind lately. Your interview with this journalist will be a good break for you . . . give you something to think about other than Mrs. Ralston and that horrible situation.”
    “Yeah. Thanks.”
    Ella said her good-byes and left the shop.
    “So you heard from Mr. Reed?” Mom asked.
    “Not yet,” I said. “I was just telling Ella about the possibility of being interviewed for a magazine article.”
    Mom sighed. “Darling, I can get you all kinds of publicity. I know a lot of people—”
    “You know a lot of people in the entertainment business, Mom. Besides, I want to do this on my own. Don’t you think there’s anything I can do on my own? Without someone being there to hold my hand?”
    “I find you very capable. I’m just offering my help. Is that such a bad thing?”
    I was saved from answering by the phone ringing. It was Devon Reed. He wanted to know what time he could come by and interview me.

Chapter Ten
    M om’s lips tightened as soon as she saw Devon Reed’s silver Lexus pull up outside. Today he was wearing jeans, a white polo, and a brown leather bomber jacket. As he approached the shop door, he took off his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. Considering there was precious little sunshine outside, I thought that was a good idea. Still, I supposed the man wanted to look cool—and he did.
    I was sitting with Mom on the navy sofa poring over the script for her next project. I started to jump up and try to appear busy, but I figured what was the use? I was too excited about the interview to do anything but rehearse answers to imagined questions floating around in my head, anyway.
    “Hello, Marcy . . . Ms. Singer. How are you both today?” Devon asked, standing just inside the shop and surveying his surroundings. He nodded toward Jill. “What’s with the mannequin?”
    I cleared my throat. “Sheʹs . . . um . . . more of a prop than anything. Since I named the store the Seven-Year Stitch, I thought it would be cool to have a Marilyn Monroe look-alike in the shop. You know, because of the movie The Seven-Year Itch ?”
    “Never saw it.” He strolled around, taking in all the displays and nodding occasionally. I couldn’t tell from his expression whether the nods were appreciative or critical. I glanced at Mom. Her expression was windowpane clear. She was flat-out disgusted.
    “Feel free to take whatever photographs you’d like,” I said.
    “Yeah,” Devon said, “I’ll do that before I leave.” He smiled and took a recorder from his pocket. “Shall we get down to business?”
    I nodded. “Sure.”
    “Let’s sit over here on this couch across from your mother,” he said. “That way, Ms. Singer, if you have anything to add, you can jump right in.”
    “Thanks,” Mom said drily. I noticed she’d closed the script and turned it facedown beside her on the sofa. She was ever vigilant in maintaining the confidentiality of her clients’ projects.
    Devon turned on the recorder. “This is Devon Reed talking with Marcy Singer, proprietor of the Seven-Year Stitch, an embroidery specialty shop. Also with us is Marcy’s mother, Beverly Singer. Marcy, how long have you been in business here in Tallulah Falls?”
    “Only a few months,” I said, “but business has been booming. Tallulah Falls is a generous, welcoming community, and the people here have been very supportive of me and the Seven-Year Stitch.”
    “This, despite the fact that there seems to be some sort of curse hanging over your store?” he asked.
    “I . . . um . . . Excuse me?” I replied.
    “Well, first you found a man dead in your storeroom shortly after you opened—during your first week, in fact, wasn’t it? And now there has been another death in your store. Isn’t that correct?”
    Slack-jawed, I turned to look at Mom, but she was already coming to my defense.
    She stood up and snatched the recorder from Devon’s hand. Glaring at him, she snapped the recorder off. “What’s the meaning of this? My