by Terri Thayer
He came toward me, holding his hand out, palm up.
“Give it to me.”
I handed over my badge. The smiling picture, taken Wednesday night when all I had to worry about was getting through the weekend without killing Kym, mocked me.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” he said, his fist closing over the badge. “This is a crime scene, Dewey.”
“I needed my badge.”
“Are you trying to give Sanchez a reason to throw you in jail? It wouldn’t take much, believe me. Why do you think he took you to the office last night? One wrong word and you’d have been put in custody.”
“You don’t actually suspect me …”
“Do I think you killed Justine or Claire? Of course not, but you’re not making my life any easier.”
I started to protest, but he silenced me with a look and walked me out of the dressing room, his hand rough on my upper arm. Once we were in the hall, on the other side of the yellow tape, he let go.
“I can’t get into the show without the ID,” I said. “That frustrated security guard playing his power card won’t let me in. I didn’t think the dressing room was part of the crime scene.”
“Dewey, this is a police investigation. Leave it alone.” He placed my badge in my hand. I felt his fingers tickle my skin and pulled my hand away before I could feel anything more.
“Come on, you know I was with you when Justine died.”
“Yeah, I know. Therein lies the problem,” he said.
I arched an eyebrow at him. “Problem? I thought we were having fun.”
“While you and I were out having fun, someone got killed. On my watch. Not cool.”
“Sanchez seemed to know a lot about our time together.”
He was shaking his head. “I never told him.”
“He knew that we knew each other before.”
“That came up when we were at the Armstrong scene.”
“He practically accused me of sleeping with you to get away with murder.”
Buster shrugged. “Sanchez is testing you. He thinks if he puts people under pressure, he gets the truth.”
“You don’t?”
He shrugged. “Not always. Sometimes scared people say dumb things. Things that could make them look guilty.”
Was Buster saying I had said dumb things, but he could understand why? I looked into his eyes and tried to read what was in there but I came up short.
His guarded expression made me mad. “You’re the same, Buster. You and Sanchez. You can’t trust anyone. Including me.”
“Come on, Dewey, this is my job. I don’t get in your way of doing your job.”
“Oh, no? What about taking my laptop? All my store stuff is on there.”
“All right, all right. I’ll get the computer back to you today.”
It wasn’t much as far as peace offerings went, but I’d take it. “Thanks.”
His phone rang and he snapped it open, striding away from me. He handled that thing like it was a weapon in his arsenal. I found myself imagining what he looked like with a gun in his hand.
He was quickly engrossed in his call, so I walked the rest of the way to the atrium alone. I got into the show unmolested; the skinny security guard barely glanced at me, now that my badge was around my neck.
I went down the aisle to find Freddy and the notebook. When I approached his booth, he looked up from a sewing machine demo in surprise.
“Where’ve you been? I thought you were right behind me.” He looked at me, squinting his eyes as if he wasn’t sure I was here now.
“So tell me about Claire.”
“Quiet,” he hissed. He pulled me farther into the booth, shielding me from his customers and sales help. He held up the notebook, using his long arms to keep it just out of my reach. He whispered harshly, “Everyone used her.”
“What are you talking about?”
His eyes narrowed. I felt the hair on the back my neck stand up. “Do you think that starting a business was easy? We all needed money, especially in the beginning. Banks wanted nothing to do with quilt shop owners whose business experience consisted of bake sales and raffle quilts. Claire saw an opportunity.”
I waited for more, my breath caught in my throat. Freddy gestured and I flinched. Surprise crossed his forehead and he softened his tone.
“Throw a rock from here,” he said, “and you’d hit at least three people who borrowed from her at one time or another. Not so much lately. I told you, times have changed. Now the banks are crawling over each other to give out money.”
“Like the woman with the T-shirts,” I said. “Nanny’s Notions. She said Claire gave her her start.” Was this what she was talking about? And the toasts in the bar, didn’t some of them mention money?
“Like me, last year. I had a great deal on embroidery cards coming from Southeast Asia. All cash deal. I had to act fast. Claire gave me the dough. I used it, paid her back a month later. Fourteen grand, plus interest. End of story.”
“Why all the secrecy?”
He glanced around and lowered his voice again. “She charged interest like a Soprano. Last time I looked, usury was still a crime.”
I thumbed through the book. “So all these people in here …”
Freddy’s face turned pensive. “I just wish Claire hadn’t been so flipping ready to lend me the money. Turned out the DVDs were worthless. I lost the fourteen grand investment. Still had to make good to Claire, though. She didn’t care that I’d been ripped off. She just wanted her money back.”
“DVDs? Were you going into the music business?” I was confused.
Freddy chuckled. “No, knucklehead, DVDs of embroidery designs.”
He pointed at the sewing machine. Chugging along, the needle was rapidly filling in the spaces of a lime-green cartoon character.
“That’s what makes those things go. The designs are on CDs. Download to your machine, and you’re good to go. I was buying DVD technology, very cutting-edge. Too cutting-edge. Turned out the discs weren’t compatible with the machines on the market now. I have a storage unit full of crap. Fourteen-thousand dollars worth of shit.”
I flipped open the book to Freddy’s page. On his page, next to the fourteen flying-geese blocks, was the notation DVD.
TLA, Three-Letter-Acronyms. The high-tech world was full of them.
I flipped to the QP page in Claire’s notebook. There were the ten flying geese, but it was the notation alongside that suddenly made sense. Next to our name, Claire had noted POS.
At my old job, the letters could have stood for Pissy Operating System, or possibly Piece of Shit. But I knew immediately what they’d stood for. Point-of-Sale system. The computer program that contained every sale, all our customer information, and the inventory.
The kind of business application that should cost thousands of dollars. Ten flying geese. Ten thousand dollars.
I knew in a flash the real story—that my mother had purchased this system when I was laid off, to put me to work. Mom had borrowed the ten thousand dollars for this software. She hadn’t cleared the purchase with Dad or he hadn’t agreed to it, so she got the money from Claire.
A week later, she’d been mowed down by a drunk driver.
“Dewey,” Freddy said. From the exasperation in his voice, he must have called me several times. I looked up from the book.
“I gotta go,” I said. “I need to have a talk with my sister-in-law.”
I headed for the booth. Did Kym know why Mom borrowed the money? Why hadn’t she told me?
The doors had barely opened to the show, but our booth had a half-dozen people in it. Word about Justine being shot was obviously not out yet. Eve was doing a good job of keeping it quiet. Or maybe it was the way Sanchez wanted it.
Ina was
writing up a sales slip, and several people were waiting to check out. A stack of bolts sat at the cutting station, ready to be cut.
“Where’s Kym?” I asked, more abruptly than I’d intended.
“Haven’t seen her yet,” Ina said.
“I pissed her off pretty good this morning. She’s probably punishing me by being late.”
Ina looked worried. “Jenn’s not due until one. I’m going to need help.”
I softened my tone and Ina’s forehead relaxed. “I’ll stay. But I’ve got to go to Myra’s lecture,” I warned.
“Okay,” Ina said, thrusting a rotary cutter and ruler at me.
The booth had a steady stream of customers for the next two hours. Kym didn’t appear and I didn’t have much time to wonder where she was. In the first lull, I grabbed a bottle of water for myself and one for Ina out of the cooler beneath the table. Under there, I spotted the QP bag that held the Wild Goose Chase quilt, and resisted the urge to take it out. I’d be sure to take it home later.
I’d barely opened the top of my water when I noticed a pile of reproduction fabrics on the cutting table.
“Quarter yards of everything, please,” a wiry red-haired woman in a “Don’t Call it a Stash, it’s My Life” T-shirt said.
I tried not to sigh. It would be no fun cutting nine inches, over and over again, but I’d learned quilters liked variety. With an effort, I pushed myself off the table I was leaning on.
“Finish your water, hon. I’m in no hurry,” she said.
I sucked down the rest of the bottle gratefully. She added another bolt to the top of the pile.
“I’ve got the whole day. I told my doctor I had to attend the Quilt Extravaganza. He said okay, as long as I don’t overdo. So I’m taking my time.”
I half-listened to her chatter, keeping an eye out for Kym as I cut. What did Kym know about Mom buying the POS system? Was it the reason she resented me so much?
The customer made more trips to the back of the booth, carrying bolts one at a time. I now had fifteen bolts in front of me, and I had cut only two pieces. This job was going to take forever. I caught Ina’s eye. She shrugged and nodded toward the line that was forming in front of her at the cash register. I smiled bravely at her.
“Besides, he’s the one that told me to get a hobby,” the lady continued. “Wrote a prescription and everything. ‘One hobby taken with passion, as needed.’ Like it was some kind of anti-puking drug or something.”
These fabrics reminded me of the Wild Goose Chase quilt, and I thought of Harriet making her choices as she added to her quilt. I looked up from the pink paisley I had on the mat.
“Who’s this quilt intended for?” I asked.
“A new daughter-in-law. My son is getting married for the third time.”
I must have looked startled, because she laughed. “Hey, it’s family. What can you do? I figure maybe this one will stick around.” She waited a beat and caught my eye. “Or not. Either way, I’m too old to worry about it. So I make her a quilt and hope she sticks around long enough to give me another grandchild before I kick the bucket.”
She spoke so easily about dying. I looked closer at her face and saw she had no eyebrows. Her hairline was uneven. The oddly colored hair was a wig. I finally saw the pink ribbon lapel pin she wore. She saw the realization in my eyes.
“Yup, breast cancer. Survivor, so far.”
“I’m sorry,” I choked out, feeling guilty for even thinking about complaining about her quarter-yard cuts.
She smiled at me, a smile so genuine, so real, that it felt like a gift. I couldn’t help but smile back.
“I only know one thing for sure—I’d be already dead without quilting. D-E-A-D. Some days all I can do is fold my fabric. Hell, who am I kidding, there are days all I can do is look at my stash, but it’s enough to get me through to the next treatment. And the next wedding. That’s what matters.”
In the midst of this speech, Kym quietly entered the booth. She avoided my gaze, fussing with her apron. I turned my attention back to the woman, who was still talking.
“My will stipulates that my mini-group gets my stash. If I leave it to my kids, all this fabric will end up at a garage sale, selling for ten cents a yard.”
“That would be awful,” I said, remembering with a twinge that I hadn’t cared what happened to my mother’s closet full of fabric six months ago. I’d let Dad deal with it. I wondered now what he’d done with all the boxes.
“Well, I’m not dead yet. So bring it on.” With that, she ran out of energy. She leaned heavily on the table, a tired but satisfied smile on her face.
I brought over a folding chair so she could sit while I finished cutting.
“You’re a doll,” she said. “Take some advice from an old broad on her way out—enjoy each day as it comes.”
“I’ll give it my best shot,” I replied.
“Look what happened to that poor Claire Armstrong. She never expected to die like that. You never know.”
Or Justine. I felt my gut twist.
I turned my attention back to the task at hand, sorting her quarter yards by color, arranging the small fabric pieces in a pretty array. I gave her one of our special tote bags, even though she hadn’t spent the requisite two-hundred dollars.
When the woman left, Ina brought me a soda while Kym took over at the register.
Ina said. “What are you smiling about?”
“That woman has breast cancer, but buying fabric made her happy,” I said in wonder.
Ina gave me a sideways hug. “Quilting helps people cope with tough times. Meeting people like her makes me glad I work in a quilt shop.”
“Me, too.” For the first time, I felt the truth of that statement. “Me, too.”
“I’m grabbing lunch,” Ina said. I looked at the clock. It was just before one. Ina and I had been working for nearly three hours without a break.
“Take your time,” I said. “Kym’s here now and there’s Jenn.”
Kym approached. “Why did you give that old lady a tote bag? She didn’t spend enough,” Kym said.
“Because I wanted to.” When she gave me a spiteful look, I added, “Because I’m the boss, and I could.”
She didn’t like the sound of that, and began to flounce away. I stopped her, and asked, “Do you know why my mother borrowed that money from Claire?”
Her face twisted with anger. I wasn’t sure if she was mad at me or my mother. After all, the POS system was what brought me to—and kept me—at the store.
Before I could get an answer, Lark came into the booth. Today she was dressed in flowing pants and an unconstructed jacket made of handpainted silk, the colors of the ocean. Her high-heeled sandals were delicate with tiny pearls on the crosspiece. Kym sidled up to her, smiling obsequiously.
“Lark, I brought more of those batiks you liked from the store,” Kym said. “Let me show you.”
Lark ignored her and approached me, her eyes searching my face. “You doin’ okay? That was nasty last night. The police kept me there until after nine. I didn’t see you.”
“I’m okay,” I lied. I didn’t want to talk about Justine’s death. “Go ahead, check out the batiks. They’re awesome.”
I watched as Kym led Lark to the other side of the booth. Kym and I would talk later.
____
“I’m off,” I said when Ina returned just before two. Kym was still cutting fabric for Lark, keeping her back to me. “I’m going to grab lunch and go to Myra’s lecture. I’ll be back.”
I took a yogurt from the cooler and ate quickly before I headed to the back of the hall to the alcove where the award-winning quilts were hung. I skirted the edge of the crowd, looking for the room where the lecture would be held. The far wall of the alcove had been opened, revealing another room. I could hear
Eve yelling. This must be the place. I followed the sounds of her voice through the quilts.
“I can’t believe you waited until now to set up those stands. Get a move on, people. You’ve got ten minutes.”
I passed through the doorway and saw Eve, arms crossed, barking at several of her workers who were struggling to set up quilt stands. These were portable stands, smaller than the ones in the main exhibit. A skinny boy in a knit cap and a struggling mustache pulled up the side rods that telescoped from a tripod base. He grabbed a pole, threading a quilt on it, and slotted it into the cross bar. Two quilts had been hung. Myra’s dolly sat to the side with its large pile of quilts. I counted at least nine more that needed hanging.
I tapped Eve’s shoulder. “Can I help?”
She shuddered at the unexpected touch and turned. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. I wondered how long Sanchez had kept her last night. She looked like she had gotten no sleep. Of course, with only an empty hotel room to go back to, she probably hadn’t.
She hugged her ever-present clipboard. I felt sorry for her, despite her treatment of me. I knew about using work as a distraction from grief. Mostly I knew that it only worked for a while.
“Sorry if I startled you,” I said.
She shook her head, barely glancing at me before turning back to the scene in front of her. “Come on, Adam, quit showing off.”
I moved out of the way as a young man in precariously low-slung jeans struggled to move a wooden podium into position. I was afraid to watch, in case his pants made the short descent off his flat butt to the floor.
Adam set the podium down and helped the other kid to tighten the screws that keep the horizontal pole in place.
“Can we talk?” I asked. “Do you have a moment?”
“Do I look like I have a moment?” she said harshly.
I couldn’t be put off by Eve’s brusqueness. Justine was the template for all of Claire’s lending business. The more I knew about how Claire operated, the better I could figure out what Mom had borrowed and protect myself from Sanchez’s suspicions. I plunged in. “Eve, you knew Justine borrowed money from Claire, right?”
