Wild Goose Chase

by Terri Thayer

“Not me, I’ve got my hands full,” Freddy said. “Let’s go in the bar. I’ll introduce you around. Lots of vendors from the show will be here. Pretty soon this place will be crawling with potential buyers.”

  We entered the darkened space. Straight ahead was a long wooden bar with red upholstered stools and a mirror reflecting rows of neat liquor bottles. To my right, round tables with matching tub chairs were scattered around the floor. We headed for the table in the back where Eve was already seated. I sank into the chair next to her.

  There were about twenty people in the bar, most sporting vendor IDs from the Extravaganza. Freddy produced a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and announced that he was paying for drinks for everyone.

  Eve looked up in surprise. “Now I’ve seen everything. He’s actually going to buy drinks.”

  “What that man won’t do to impress a pretty girl,” she continued, after Freddy left to go fill our orders. “He likes you.”

  I shrugged. “I doubt it. He just feels bad about this morning.”

  I helped myself to a handful of pretzels. “I do wish Justine were here though. I’d like a chance to talk to her,” I said.

  Eve’s eyes narrowed as she checked out the room. “I wonder where she is. We always go to the bar the first night of a show. Our little tradition. I’m surprised she’s not here already.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine, Eve.”

  “I know that,” she said sharply. “Justine and I are a team. We’re so connected, I’d know if something bad happened.”

  Oh boy, I knew how untrue that was. When my mother lay dying in her Volvo, I was at happy hour with a bunch of engineers. We were comparing worthless stock portfolios, cursing the Alternate Minimum Tax and doing Jell-O shots. Before that day, I’d thought I would know, too. Now I knew better. The moment my mother died, I was laughing at a joke about the size of Larry Ellison’s plane.

  I hadn’t been in a bar since that night, I realized. I would only stay long enough to meet potential buyers.

  Eve’s phone rang, playing “Let It Be,” and her eyes lit up. It was the first time I’d seen her smile. Her face brightened, her features softened, and she looked years younger. “Hey, babe,” she shouted, holding the phone with one hand and clamping the other over her free ear. “Where are you?” She moved to a quieter corner toward the front of the room.

  Returning with our drinks, Freddy rolled his eyes. “Must be Justine.”

  Freddy had linked Claire and Justine. I’d seen Justine outside in the hall before I knocked on the door. What was their connection?

  “Why did you say that about Claire and Justine?” I asked him.

  Freddy’s answer was drowned out as cries of “Bonnie” and “Rick” rang out. A middle-aged couple dressed in matching plaid shirts came in. The room was filling up quickly.

  “I know, it’s not really funny that Justine borrows money from Claire,” Freddy said.

  “What are you talking about? Why would Claire lend money to Justine?” I asked.

  A large bang jump-started my heart. Freddy and I looked in the direction of the noise. Across the room, a large man with a sweater vest almost covering his belly was standing. His table was still rocking from his fist pounding. His beer glass was raised high, slopping the liquid over the side. He licked his hand and lifted his glass even higher.

  “To Claire!” he shouted. “Claire, who had the biggest balls in the business. May she rest in peace.”

  A cheer went up from the crowd.

  “News travels fast in this place,” I said to Freddy, over the din.

  “What else would people talk about?” he said. “It was too good to ignore—the woman who taught the world to rotary cut, the queen of strip-piecing, falling on her rotary cutter? How much more Siegfried and Roy can you get?”

  I cringed at Freddy’s characterization.

  “Which one was it that got eaten by the tiger?” he continued, hand on his chin. “Roy? No, Siegfried. Or is that the same person? I can never remember.”

  A rash of toasts broke out from all corners of the room. I swiveled, trying to follow the cheers from my chair.

  “To Claire, who taught quilting to the klutzy, math-challenged, uncreative masses,” a brassy blond chimed in from her bar stool.

  “To Claire, whose sense of decency never got in her way.”

  “To Claire, who never met a dollar bill she didn’t like.”

  From behind me, a stout woman in black jeans and a red denim jacket said, “Remember that time Claire arrived at the Extravaganza by helicopter?”

  “Scaring every living creature within a square mile,” another woman put in.

  “How about that time she decided to decorate the fountain out front to match her latest quilt? The dye killed every plant within a hundred yards. She didn’t know the water was recycled into the sprinkler system.”

  A roar of laughter filled the space.

  Eve came back to the table. She picked up her drink and took a deep sip. “To Claire! That rotten bitch. May she rot in hell!” she said, low enough that only Freddy and I heard her.

  We exchanged a glance. Freddy watched Eve over his glass, his reptilian eyes following her as she tossed back the rest of her drink. Eve turned, her face creased with a false smile. “At least Justine’s up a thousand dollars.”

  “Up a thousand dollars?” I said, not understanding her meaning.

  “Gambling,” Freddy put in, sotto voce.

  Eve shot him a look and explained to me, “She’s playing poker at the local card club. That’s how she blows off steam.”

  I tried to hide my surprise that a woman like Justine had spent the day gambling. It seemed kind of tacky.

  “You okay with that?” I asked Eve, trying to keep the judgment out of my voice.

  “Why not? She always comes home when she’s finished,” she said defensively. “Granted, it would have been nice if she’d told me where she was going. She thought she was on track with the fashion show, figured she wouldn’t have to deal with anything until tomorrow. She’ll be back later. It’s fine.”

  “Whatever gets you through the night,” Freddy said.

  Eve took a sip of her second martini and glared at him. I felt like a kid in the crossfire of an adult argument. I didn’t understand exactly what was going on, but it was uncomfortable. I tried to move the conversation to less incendiary topics.

  “This seems like a very different crowd than the quilters I see at the store,” I said, pointing at a representative table. “Younger for one thing, more my age.”

  Eve agreed. “With business savvy. When quilting became a billion-dollar industry, the corporate world started to take notice.”

  That meant Mom had been on the right track with the software. I needed to finish computerizing the store to attract a good buyer.

  Freddy sighed and sipped his scotch. “I’m old school, like your mother was. We were interested in quilts and spreading the word. We started vending at these shows for the same reason we started our shops—because we loved quilts. We made the mistake of making our avocation our vocation.”

  “Why was that a mistake?” I asked. “Seems like you should be happy doing what you love to do.”

  “Things changed,” Freddy said and lowered his voice. Eve looked bored as though she’d heard this diatribe before. “This new generation of vendors are business people first. They could be selling sewer pipe, for all they care.”

  Eve’s face twisted with impatience. “Just because owners have starting running their shops like businesses meant to turn a real profit,” she said, “doesn’t mean they don’t care about the industry.”

  Freddy pouted. “They don’t give a hoot about quilting. These people are direct descendents of the snake-oil salesmen. They’re vagabonds, setting up at quilt shows like itinerant trav
eling salesmen. Claire, for all her faults, was one of us.”

  Eve sniffed and took a drink. “Selling is selling, Freddy.”

  “Quilting is big business now, run by people ignorant of the art,” he continued.

  Was he including Eve in that characterization? I glanced at her to see how she was taking this. Her eyebrows were gathering like thunderclouds.

  “That’s the type of owner I am,” I said, trying again to lighten the mood. “I know nothing about quilting.”

  “Yeah, but you’re different because you know nothing about business either,” Freddy quipped.

  I punched him in the same spot Eve had hit earlier. He grunted and rubbed his bicep. I had more experience inflicting pain than she did.

  “What was Claire, artist or businesswoman?” I asked.

  Freddy brightened. “Claire was the exception. She managed to do both.”

  I thought about Claire’s assistant. What would she do for a career now that Claire was dead? “And Myra?” I asked.

  Eve and Freddy exchanged a look and laughed. “She’s all business, that one,” Freddy said.

  Eve picked up her drink. “I’m going to make the rounds,” she said.

  “Watch her work the room,” Freddy said as Eve put on a smile and stopped at a nearby table. “She’s like a bride at her wedding, greeting her guests. All she’s missing is the money bag to collect her gifts.”

  To sell the store, I had to talk to some of these people. Swallowing a sudden shyness, I tapped Freddy on the arm. “So what about it, Freddy?” I said, with far more enthusiasm than I felt. “Are you going to introduce me around or what?”

  Freddy and I followed in Eve’s wake as she circumvented the room. For the next hour, Freddy made good on his promise. I met at least thirty new people. Conversation centered around two things: the amount of business done today and Claire’s death. I was surprised to hear several men comparing the sizes of their daily totals, and I felt stupid when I didn’t know exactly how much business the booth had done today. I ducked any conversation about Claire. No one knew I was the one who found her and I wanted to keep it that way.

  The muscles in my face were beginning to ache from constantly smiling so I decided to have one more glass of wine and leave. I gave Freddy a twenty and sent him to the bar and found a seat at a table just vacated by a group from Fresno. It felt good to be alone.

  Freddy returned with a fresh drink for me and one for himself. A commotion went up at the front door. He stood up to see what was going on.

  “Sweet. Lark Gordon in the house,” he reported. “Have you met her yet?”

  I looked where he was indicating. Over the heads of a barrier of people, I could see the elaborate pattern Lark’s tiny braids created on the back of her head.

  I shook my head. “I saw her earlier, talking to Claire. She’s got a show on cable, right?”

  “Yes, Wonderful World of Quilts.”

  “I hear customers quoting her all the time,” I said. “Too bad she doesn’t have a way of letting the shops know what’s coming up on her show. My life is hell if she mentions a tool on the air that I don’t have in stock.”

  “I’ll introduce you and you can suggest it.”

  “Oh yeah, right. I’m sure she’s interested in what I have to say.”

  Freddy stood up and snagged Lark as she went past. I got out of my chair, and he introduced us. When Lark turned, I could see why she was a successful television personality. With her eyes on me, I felt like I was the only person in the room.

  “So sad about Claire. I saw you talking to her earlier,” she said. “She was a frequent guest on my show. We were good friends.”

  Good friends? It hadn’t looked like that to me. If that was true, then something had happened between them, because it was obvious that Claire hadn’t wanted to talk to Lark this morning.

  Lark peered into my eyes. “You might have been the last person to see her alive. Do you want to go on camera?”

  “TV?” I took a step back to break the intensity of her gaze. “No.”

  Freddy interceded. “Come on, Lark. Give the girl a break. She’s here trying to forget the events of the day.”

  Lark interrupted him. “How about getting me a drink, Freddy?”

  He looked at me. I waved him off. I could handle Lark. He headed for the bar.

  Lark said, “Your shop is Quilter Paradiso, right? That’s a great place. I don’t sew much, but since I started this job, I’ve become quite the fabriholic, buying tons of fabric I’ll never use.”

  “You’re not a quilter?” I asked.

  Lark reared back and laughed. Her laugh was a very girly giggle, at odds with her sophisticated exterior. “Can you keep a secret? I can’t sew, let alone quilt. I’m a journalist, although I’ve been working as a television personality lately.”

  “So how long have you been in this job?”

  “Five years.”

  “Is that how you met Claire?”

  A frown crossed Lark’s pretty features quickly, and then she composed herself. “Yes, she had a great interest in television.”

  How many pies did Claire have her fingers in? Was that what they had been arguing about? I could see Claire as a hostess of a quilting show. If she had lived, that might have been something she would have done.

  Lark looked around the room, playing idly with her earrings. They were large gold hoops, the size of a salad plate. She wore a gold necklace with a diamond at the neck and several charm bracelets. Rings, but no wedding ring. Her jewelry and her clothes looked expensive. A cable TV hostessing job must pay better than I thought.

  She sat down and leaned toward me. “How about the local news? I’ve got contacts in the local market. I’m sure I could get air time. We could probably get on the local early morning show, talking about Claire.”

  I shook my head vigorously. Lark settled back in the chair, with a pretty pout on her face. She turned away from me. Her eyes lit on Freddy’s back. He was leaning against the bar.

  “What’s he doing up there? Schmoozing the cute bartender?”

  When I didn’t answer, she asked, “Is your shop doing well?”

  I hesitated, then shook my head. “Not great. In fact, I’m looking for a buyer.”

  The noise in the bar suddenly abated as though the air had been sucked from the room. I felt eyes staring in my direction and looked up to see Myra standing at my elbow.

  Lark stood abruptly. “My condolences,” she said to Myra. “Tell Freddy never mind the drink.” She took a step back and was immediately swallowed up by the crowd.

  Lark’s fascination with Claire didn’t extend to Myra, for some reason.

  Myra had changed into navy pants with a pale-blue silk blouse. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been covered in blood. The only sign of upset was the slight tremor in her hand. I pulled out a chair for her to sit down next to me.

  “Hello,” she said quietly, twisting the colorful bracelet on her arm.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  She shrugged.

  “If you need to talk,” I said, “I’d be willing. After all, I was there with you. They say talking helps. We could get a more private table …”

  “Ha!” The syllable burst out of her; her eyes were flashing with anger. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Why would I want to talk about what happened today?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. I felt singed by her tone of voice. I didn’t dare look around, but figured every eye must be on us again. I shrunk against the seat back.

  She continued her rant. I fought off the urge to jump up and leave. “Do you want me to sear every detail in my brain, guarantee myself a lifetime of nightmares? Ensure that I never forget a single detail? So I can always remember what Claire looked like, lying in her own blood? No th
anks. Give me good old-fashioned repression. People talk way too much.”

  Her words stung. I sipped my drink, watching her over the top of the glass. I would cut her some slack. She was grieving; I knew people grieved differently. Dad went fishing; Kevin sought solace in his marriage, sublimating his own personality so much as to disappear; my brother Sean threw himself into his work, building stage sets at twice his normal speed; and Tony, the oldest, sought solitude in the desert, coming home every couple of months to do laundry before going back to categorizing succulents.

  Where was Freddy? I could use his silliness right about now.

  “Great jewelry,” I said, trying to shift focus.

  Myra looked down, and stopped twisting. Her shoulders relaxed. “I made it from the buttons we’ve used in our projects over the years.”

  “Buttons? They look like beads.”

  I took her wrist in my hand and examined the bangle. It caught the light, and the buttons glittered.

  Myra took her hand back. “Nope, I glued them on a Bakelite bracelet I found at a flea market. All of them came from Claire’s button collection.” Her eyes misted.

  My throat closed up. “Detective Sanchez thinks I killed Claire,” I blurted, to avoid telling her that every little thing would be fraught with meaning now that Claire was gone. I faced that feeling every day when I went into the shop.

  Myra looked shocked. “That’s crazy. Why would he think that?”

  I looked around the bar. The jukebox was playing loudly but I wanted to make sure no one heard me. I moved my chair closer.

  “He found an empty rotary cutter package in my backpack,” I whispered.

  Myra sneered. “So what? Does he seriously think you would open a new cutter, kill someone, then put the cardboard in your backpack and go back up to her room and find her body?”

  “Guess so.” Out loud, that scenario sounded ridiculous. I relaxed against the back of the chair, feeling the plush sink beneath my shoulders.

  Myra leaned in and said, “Dewey, it was obviously an accident. She was sitting on the edge of the bed and cutting fabric. I told her that was not the way to use that blade. Did she listen? Of course not.”