by Terri Thayer
I had never understood my mother’s need to make quilts, but I was here, in the middle of the West Coast’s biggest quilt show, with entries from the most famous names in the business. Whatever drew my mother to quilting was here at this show. Maybe all I had to do was free my mind.
As a kid, I’d steered clear of Quilter Paradiso. To my three brothers, sewing was for sissies. They were always poised to catch me doing anything girly and exploit it as a sign of perceived weakness, taunting me mercilessly. One pot holder crocheted on a spool when I was six earned me the nickname of “Knitting Nincompoop” that stuck until I was eleven. Consequently, I’d spent much of my childhood proving I could kick the ball, take a punch, and give a wedgie like a boy. I left my mother to her feminine pastimes and mastered the soccer field instead of a sewing machine. My chosen career was in a man’s world, computer programming. Lately, I had begun to wonder if I had cheated myself.
Kym tapped Ina on the shoulder when she returned and took over the computer duties. I watched from a safe distance. The computer beeped irritably as Kym tried to push items through the scanner too quickly. I heard another beep as Kym tried a function that wasn’t open. In the hour she’d been gone, she seemed to have forgotten how the system worked.
I moved closer. The drawer was not opening. Kym tapped on the keyboard. A white-haired lady with dangling purple earrings and two circles of rouge approximately on her cheeks was waiting to pay.
“I think you forgot to hit the total button.” I tried to insert myself in a non-threatening manner, but Kym turned on me, eyes flashing.
“I’ve got it,” she snarled. She pressed the correct key, and the drawer flew open.
I backed off.
Finding a lighted seam ripper for a smiling Japanese woman with minimal English grabbed my attention for the next few minutes. Her friend wanted the latest ruler. That led to a stilted, half-spoken, half-signed discussion about which ruler was easier to read, the clear or the yellow. I was rubbing my fingernail along the rough surface on the back of the clear ruler to illustrate its usefulness when I noticed a line forming near the register.
Five customers were waiting to pay. The same white-haired woman was still standing next to Kym, her sale not finalized. Ina was entertaining the waiting customers with knock-knock jokes, talking fast like she did when she was nervous. I heard someone muttering that this used to be her favorite booth, as she put down the hundred-dollar quilt kit she’d been planning to buy and walked away.
I struggled to see what Kym was doing from where I was positioned. A large woman stepped aside. Suddenly, I had a clear view of Kym pulling the plug out of the laptop.
I felt heat rush to my face. What did she think she was doing? She knew that wasn’t the right way to shut down. I tried to make my way over, but the line of waiting customers clogged the small inside aisle, and I could make no headway. I had to watch from ten feet away as she tugged on the power cord, dislodging it from the strip underneath the table, and took out a pad of sales slips from her apron.
Only the presence of customers stopped me from screaming. The sales slips in her apron meant one thing. She’d never intended to use the computer this weekend.
I leaned over a table toward Ina, who was already in the main aisle and closer to Kym and the cash register. “Go take her place. You and Jenn get these customers moved along quickly.”
Ina looked startled at my tone of voice. I modulated. “Please. Tell Kym I need to see her.”
I walked away, wanting to pace but finding no room to take more than two steps without running into a disgruntled customer. I plastered a smile on my face, and murmured assurances that things would be fixed soon.
“Dewey?”
My sister-in-law tried to arrange a sincere look of remorse on her face, but I could see she was barely suppressing a smile.
“What happened?” My throat was so tight, I barely got the words out. I felt the customers staring at us. I took several steps away with Kym in tow. Ina and Jenn hurried through each sale, bagging items and getting signatures on the old-fashioned credit slips.
“The computer started acting funny.” She tried the little-girl voice. I narrowed my eyes at her. She looked down at her folded hands.
“So you unplugged it? I was right here, Kym. Why didn’t you call me over?”
“Did I do something wrong?” Her guile was amazing.
“I’m sure I could’ve solved the problem. I would have walked you through. We need to use the computer here this weekend.” I leaned in close, not caring that I was spitting on her apron. I saw my cell in her pocket and snatched it, jamming it into the carrier on my belt.
“I don’t see the big deal.” She fanned a pad of sales slips at me. “We’ll be fine working the way we used to.”
Could she really mean that? I saw that she did. She was happy with the old-fashioned methods my mother had always used. My sister-in-law was not going to allow me to computerize the store.
It was clear to me now that Kym had wanted me to bring the computer to the show to prove we didn’t need to get our systems online.
My face burned with the realization that Kym would never be on my side, and yet she would always be a part of the store. I couldn’t fire my brother’s wife.
Claire’s offer to buy the shop came back to me. That was a way to get out from under Kym and her schemes. Sell the shop. Now. I would be free to return to my real life. Claire Armstrong had delivered me the solution. All I had to do was take it.
I made my way through the crowd, turning my back on Kym and the line of customers, and shoved the laptop into the padded section of my backpack. I would have to find someplace quiet and turn the computer on to know for sure if data had been lost. But first, I would go talk to Claire.
Ina, Jenn, and the customers stared at me as I left the booth without saying goodbye. Let Kym explain.
I would sell the shop and go back to my old job in high tech. Before I’d turned thirty, I’d been able to construct and furnish an entire fantasy house in the first ten minutes of a date with an eligible guy. I used that skill now, except instead of envisioning life with bamboo floors and a fireplace in the bedroom, I imagined life without Quilter Paradiso. I saw myself returning to a programming job. Going to a corporate office park instead of the dingy office under the shop stairs. Working in a clean, organized cubicle rather than the old, wooden partner’s desk with its stuck drawers. Dealing with silent, male co-workers instead of chatty, conniving females.
As I walked across the now-empty atrium, my loafers echoed loudly on the marble floor. With each step, my stomach clenched. I rubbed my gut, without relieving any of the pain.
Down a glass-fronted corridor past the hotel bar, I found the elevator that led to the hotel rooms. Soon I was on Claire’s floor. I looked left and right to see where number 605 would fall. At the far end, I caught sight of a blonde disappearing through the stairwell door. The entwined J&E of the JustEve logo was visible on the back of her shirt. Justine was on her way back to the show.
Better her than me. I was never going back.
My phone rang, but when I saw it was Kevin, I turned the phone off completely. I would pay for that later. He would not be happy with me, but I didn’t need to hear his pleas for mercy for Kym.
I didn’t want to discuss what I was about to do.
I found Claire’s room. A Do Not Disturb sign hung from the door knob, but that was no deterrent. She probably just wanted to work in peace. I knocked. There was no answer. I listened, but couldn’t hear anyone moving inside. I knocked again, louder. Still nothing. Damn, she had said she’d be here.
What a letdown. Once I made up my mind, I wanted action. If Bo hadn’t answered my knock the night I went for my tattoo, my ankle would still be unadorned. I liked it so much better with the poppy.
Would I be able to go through with the sal
e if I had more time to think? I didn’t want to find out. I wanted an agreement from Claire to buy the shop. Now.
I knocked again. My knuckles hurt, and I blew on them. I had to see Claire. I didn’t have an alternative plan.
The hall was empty. Most of the hotel occupants were gone for the day, in quilt classes or at the show. I heard a door open behind me. A man carrying golf clubs headed for the elevator. Some quilter’s husband on his own for the day.
The man with the golf bag reminded me of my father. What was he going to think about me selling the store? He hadn’t had much to say about my running the shop to this point. I didn’t know if he’d approve or not.
I tried again. “Claire. You in there?”
The elevator pinged, and a thin woman in a business suit disembarked as the golfer got in. I recognized her as Claire’s assistant, Myra. She would be able to help me. I took a step toward her.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” I said.
She was carrying a lunch tray with an apple, a container of cottage cheese, and a Diet Coke. A napkin was wrapped around a plastic fork. Between the fingers on her left hand, she held a key card.
She looked at me expectantly. “Need something?”
“We met earlier, remember? Dewey Pellicano,” I said. “I’m looking for Claire.”
The woman eyed me. Her clothes were drab, a uniform more suited to a bank than a quilt show. The only bright color she wore was a beaded bracelet on her right arm.
“How did you know she was here? She never gives out her room number.”
“We had an appointment.” That was an exaggeration, but I hoped this guard dog of a woman would believe that.
“I calendar Claire’s appointments,” she said. “We had none this morning.”
“Look, Claire and I have business to discuss. Obviously, if you’re bringing her lunch, she’s in there. Let me in.”
“I can’t do that. Claire specifically asked not to be bothered. She’s busy with last-minute preparations for our class.”
I’d had my fill today of passive-aggressive women whose only power came though their connections with others—Kym via my mother, Myra through Claire. I felt the need to exercise a little power myself. I threw my shoulders back and faced Myra down.
“I’ve got to see her,” I said.
She remained unmoved, feet planted in front of the door, blocking me. She wasn’t going to let herself in until I was long gone.
My resolve deepened. Downstairs, Kym was running the QP booth the way she wanted. I was not going back to that.
I reached for the key and got two fingers on it before Myra tightened her grip and I lost my grasp of the plastic. I grabbed the soda can. As I’d hoped, the sudden weight shift caused the plastic tray to teeter. Myra scrambled to keep it balanced. The apple slid, and the cottage cheese began its descent to the floor. I grabbed the room key from Myra’s loosened fingers, reached over her arm, and swiped the door before she could react. I heard the apple hit the floor with a dull thud.
The green light came on, and I pushed the door open without waiting to see if Myra followed. Immediately on the left was a bathroom. I set the soda can on the counter, eager to let go of the cold sliminess.
I shifted my gaze toward the bedroom that opened up off the short hall. The room was very large, dwarfing the king-size bed and round table beyond. The table had been pulled up close to the bed. On the table was a green rotary-cutting mat. A clear acrylic ruler lay across the mat with a piece of fabric underneath, as though Claire had been cutting. Looking up, I saw a quilt pinned to the curtains. It looked off-kilter until I realized the quilt had borders on only three sides. A work in progress.
“Claire?” I called out. I looked back at Myra. She had picked up the tray and the lunch. I was glad to see the lid was intact on the cottage cheese. I hadn’t meant to ruin Claire’s lunch. “Where is she?”
“She’s not here. As you can see.”
“I’m going to wait for her to come back.”
I took another step into the room, heading for a chair. A strange smell lingered in the air, metallic and earthy. It caught in my throat and swirled around, making me catch my breath and hold it. The smell was familiar; I remembered the butcher shop next to Grandpa’s hardware store. It had been closed for years, why was I thinking of it now?
Suddenly Myra was right behind me. I felt her breath in my hair and I turned around and glared, trying to get her to back off. She was looking past me, over my head; her nostrils flared. I took several steps forward to see what she was looking at.
Past the far side of the bed, Claire lay on the floor, almost under the table. She was on her back, her eyes open but unseeing. From the waist up, she looked untouched. But she was in a puddle of blood. Her pink polyester slacks were red. The upper part of her right thigh was visible through a gash in the fabric. I could see the muscle showing on either side of a deep cut.
Next to her hand was a bright yellow-handled rotary cutter.
I was surprised how obvious it was that she was dead. The blood was fresh, still bright red in spots, but Claire looked so icy cold, I was sure no life remained.
I heard Myra gasp behind me and felt the air rush out of my body in response. We stood at the foot of the bed, unable to move or stop staring. My backpack slipped off my shoulder and clunked to the floor, landing on the rucked-up bedspread. I worried for a second about damage to the laptop, then, without warning, I felt the gorge rise in my throat and pushed past Myra to the bathroom.
I retched and retched, my body shaking with the effort of throwing up food that wasn’t there. When I was finally finished, I felt bruised and battered. I lay my head down on the closed toilet lid, welcoming the cool porcelain on my cheek. The smell of bleach irritated my nose.
A small noise came from the doorway of the bathroom. Myra leaned against the jamb, a feline keening sound emanating from her. I pushed myself up and pulled her into the bathroom. Myra was docile. I steered her toward the edge of the bathtub and sat her down. Her shoes tracked blood onto the clean white floor. She must have tried to revive Claire.
“Myra, sit down. I’m going to call the police.”
She didn’t answer, dropping her head into her bloody hands.
I reached for the phone on my belt and dialed 911. Myra had slipped onto the floor and was leaning up against the tub, her skin the color of the porcelain, her black hair in sharp contrast against the rim. I was reminded of Snow White lying, poisoned, waiting for her prince. Too bad no prince was on his way today.
“I think she’s dead,” I said to the woman who answered the phone. Saying the words out loud, I felt the enormity of the situation. The 911 operator coaxed the details from me and promised help was on the way.
“Myra, let’s get out of here. We can wait in the hallway.”
“I told her to be more careful,” Myra said. “She insisted she could sit on the bed and cut from there. I told her.” Myra’s eyes were fixed as though she could see through the tile wall into the bedroom where Claire lay dead. She reminded me of my neighbor’s dog that sat at the gate for weeks after he died, sure that its master would come up the walk any minute.
I took a deep breath, regretting it immediately as the smell of blood caught in my throat again. Shuddering, I choked it down. I perched reluctantly on the edge of the toilet and patted Myra’s shoulders. She didn’t move, her body stiff under my touch.
I knew nothing about shock. Perhaps that’s what was going on with her. I pulled the towels off the rack and covered Myra’s hunched shoulders. She looked ridiculous, like she was at the beauty parlor about to get her color done, but I felt like I had contributed something. I hoped help would be here soon.
Claire—what had happened to her since I last saw her? She’d left me a few hours ago. Then what? She came back here to do some work and cut herself w
ith her rotary cutter while Myra was out getting her lunch. She must have hit an artery. By herself, she had no way to staunch the blood.
Dying alone was the worst thing I could imagine.
Finally, I heard loud voices in the hall, and firemen in black and yellow suits swarmed into the room. Two paramedics broke off from the others and came into the bathroom.
I assured them I was okay, and, after they turned their attention to Myra, I moved into the hall. The air felt cool against my superheated skin. My stomach was still roiling and sore from the heaving I’d done earlier. I leaned against the wall across from Claire’s room. I slid down and sat on the floor, the industrial carpet scratchy and rough. A draft from an air-conditioning vent overhead sent cold air down my neck, but I was unable to move away. I closed my eyes, but I could see only Claire.
“Miss?”
I opened my eyes to see a man hunched down in front of me, his graceful hands resting on his knees. His head hung low as he peered into my face. His pants broke on his shiny, tasseled loafers at the perfect length. He was a small man, and I thought about the expense he must incur to have his pants hemmed.
I pushed my back against the wall to get some leverage to stand up, but he stopped me, laying his hand on my shoulder. I sat back down, grateful I didn’t have to move.
“Stay put,” he said.
I nodded.
“You the one who found her? How did you get in?” he said.
“Myra had a key.”
“Myra?”
I indicated the room inside.
“That her in the bathroom? Who’s the woman in the other room?”
“Claire Armstrong. She’s pretty famous. Just Claire.”
I felt myself babbling, trying to spill out everything I knew.
