Wild Goose Chase

by Terri Thayer

  Lark set the bag on the chair, picked it up, then put it down again as though it contained a ticking bomb. She was coming apart. I’d have thought she was unflappable, but finding this money in her purse had frightened her. Maybe her tenure as host of Wonderful World of Quilts was more fragile than I thought. Or maybe she had killed Claire and Justine. I tried to remember if her name was in the notebook. She would be a good one to take over Claire’s lending. She had a very high profile, knew everyone in the business, and no one would suspect her.

  I took another step back. “I’ll get Detective Healy.”

  She followed my eyes and saw Buster at the podium talking to Myra. “Do that. Get him over here.”

  I waved at Buster. He held up a hang-on-a-minute finger.

  I looked at the QP tote. It was just like the one I’d been carrying around yesterday. A realization chilled me.

  “Lark, when we were looking at the quilts,” I said, “the bag was just sitting back there. Anyone could have dropped the money in.”

  “But why? Why would someone do that?”

  A feeling of dread crept through my belly. Her bag had a Quilter Paradiso logo on it. Anyone who didn’t know better might think that bag belonged to me.

  First the notebook, now the money. Someone was trying to set me up. For murder.

  Lark twisted her fancy rings on her fingers, eyes over my head. “Oh no. Here comes my crew. They’re ready to film Myra. I don’t want them to see this.”

  The same camera-toting man and young woman I’d seen approach Claire Thursday morning were headed our way. Lark grabbed my arm, squeezing my bicep uncomfortably. I swallowed a yelp.

  “Dewey, if my production company gets wind of this, I’ll be fired. I need this job. I need to be on air. I’ll never find another gig unless I’m on the air. I need to be seen.”

  She started toward the door, the QP tote on her arm. I stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Just wait. Buster’ll be done in a minute. He can get the money tested for fingerprints or something. That would prove you didn’t touch it.”

  Or that you did.

  I couldn’t let her leave. If someone was trying to set me up, I needed that money tested. There was no way my fingerprints were on it. I made a grab for the tote, but Lark pulled it out of my range. I grabbed again. The contents spilled onto the floor, and she gave me a horrified look.

  Neither of us moved, just stared at the pile of fabric now covering the money. Buster looked up from talking to Myra and questioned me with a raise of his eyebrows. I shrugged and looked down. His eyes followed mine, and I saw him excuse himself and start over.

  “Drop something, ladies?” he asked.

  Buster had moved silently and quickly; Lark and I were still staring at the floor. “May I?” Buster squatted down and reached for the pile. I couldn’t let him destroy evidence that I needed to prove my innocence.

  “Don’t touch the money!” I said, ignoring the baleful glance Lark shot me. She stomped her foot in frustration. Buster looked up in surprise, drawing his hand back. Her high heel had come down too close for comfort.

  “Money?” He moved aside enough fabric so the money was visible. “Explain,” he said.

  “The money doesn’t belong to Lark. It might be part of the stolen bank deposit,” I said, stuttering. “JustEve’s.”

  Buster sat back on his haunches, his eyes moving from Lark to me and back again. “Go on?”

  I waited for Lark to speak. After all, this was her deal. Lark remained silent, her lips a thin line.

  “Lark …” I invited.

  She shook her head.

  I took over again. “She found the money in her tote bag after Myra’s lecture. We don’t know how it got in there, but it’s probably what Justine stole.”

  “You think?” Buster asked.

  “Hey, no need for sarcasm,” I said.

  “You find a pile of money, quite possibly the motive for murder, you neglect to tell the police, and you bust me for being too sarcastic. Come on, Dewey, what part of dumb don’t you understand?”

  I felt my face redden. “I didn’t find it, she did. Yell at her.”

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Buster said to me, his face a wall of implacable copness. He called a uniformed police officer and asked her to stand guard over the money.

  “Please come with me, Miss Gordon.”

  Buster led Lark to the other side of the room, away from the doorway. Several of Eve’s people were tearing down the exhibit under Eve’s watchful eye. She had gone to a lot of trouble for nothing and didn’t look happy about it.

  Myra crossed over to where I stood, leaning against the door jamb. “I can’t believe that stand fell apart like that,” she said without preamble. “Eve’s boys are pretty useless. I should sue her. Look at my head.”

  She leaned forward, and I could see a bump rising. I made what I hoped was a sympathetic noise. Over her shoulder, I watched Buster and Lark.

  Myra straightened. “You know, our latest book, Quilts from Claire’s Clipboard, sold over fifty thousand copies. I think people will continue to buy my books and patterns, don’t you?”

  Given the muttering I’d heard in the room, I doubted that. “You may have to give people time to adjust.”

  “You’re probably right. That’s exactly what I will do. By this time next year, my goal is to have an award-winning quilt at the Quilt Extravaganza. Under my own name.”

  Was she kidding? I took my eyes off Buster and Lark and looked at her. She was sincere. Myra’s bravado was touching. It took a certain kind of character to pick yourself up and start all over again, especially so soon after the death of her mentor. I patted her hand.

  “I’m sure you’ll succeed,” I said.

  Lark’s raised voice drifted across the room to us. Buster was leaning in, attentive as she explained. Her hands moved rapidly and gracefully. She was almost as tall as he was, and I felt a stab of jealousy at her easy beauty.

  Jealousy that I had no right to. Buster and I were over, and there was no going back.

  Lark’s crew entered. Myra’s eyes followed the guy carrying the camera.

  “That’s my cue. Does my hair look all right? How great that Lark wants to interview me. I’ll be able to get myself on TV and tell everyone about ‘Myra Creates.’”

  I watched her go. I wasn’t sure if she was naïve, dumb, or very smart. Her ability to stay focused on her task in the middle of this chaos was amazing. Lark’s entourage surrounded her. Lark joined them.

  Buster crossed over to me. “You okay?” Buster said, his face grim.

  Did he really care, or was this just the cop talking?

  I nodded. “What’s up with the money?”

  “I don’t know, Dewey. That’s why we investigate. Tell me why that bag has your logo on it.”

  “It’s a promotional item,” I explained our policy.

  “Where’d the money come from?”

  “I don’t know.” He was silent, waiting for me to say more. “Claire was running a side business, loaning money to quilters. Justine …”

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  I handed him the notebook. “It’s all in there once you know the code. I figured it out. I told you Justine owed Claire money. What if the money we just found came from Claire’s room? The murderer—”

  “Dewey, stop.” He slapped the notebook on his thigh. “Back off. We will find out who did this and bring that person to justice, just like we will find the hit-and-run driver who killed your mother.”

  My temper flared. “Are you on that again, Buster?” I felt betrayed by him. My voice grew cutting. “You know you might be right. I went crazy and killed Claire, slicing her open with a rotary cutter, and then shot Justine. And next I’m going to kill Lark. Oh, and Myra.”

 
My sarcasm was lost on him. Buster wasn’t looking at me any more; his eyes had gone unfocused, his expression grim.

  “I had the bastard that night,” he said quietly. “I should have cuffed him when I arrived on scene; he was in no shape to drive. Then I recognized your mother’s car. I stayed with her until the ambulance came, but by then he’d disappeared.”

  He was talking about the drunk driver who ran into my mother’s car, but all I could comprehend was that he had been with my mother when she died. Suddenly I could hear nothing. I saw Buster’s mouth moving, but I couldn’t take in what he was saying. I leaned in closer, cupping my hand to my ear like one of my elderly customers.

  “Say that again,” I demanded.

  Buster drew back, his ears turned pink with surprise.

  “I was there. Six months ago, I was still a patrol officer. The guy that killed your mother, I should have taken him into custody first.”

  “Not that part. My mother …”

  “Dewey, I was the first one on the scene,” Buster stammered. “She died in my arms.”

  His expression was a combination of pain and pride. Then his face fell as he realized this was new information to me.

  “You didn’t know?” His words were soft as though he was trying to gauge the impact he was having. I struggled to keep the hurt from showing in my face. I wanted to hear what he had to say. I knew he would stop if he thought he was causing me too much pain.

  “Tell me,” I said, giving him an impatient gesture, resisting the urge to grab his lapels.

  He saw my need to know the truth and nodded. “She was in rough shape, but she knew me, I saw the recognition. I told your dad and Kevin. Sean and Jamie knew. I just assumed you and your family had talked about it.”

  The pain grew deeper and wider. All my brothers knew. And for sure Kevin would have told Kym. The idea that Kym knew this, when I did not, crushed me.

  I opened my mouth, but no words could express how I felt. For the last six months, I’d thought my mother died alone. Before today, when I’d pictured my mother’s death, it had been in the form of sensation—a crash, followed by a white light. A light too bright to look at—like a solar eclipse. Just a noise, light, and my mother’s life was over.

  Buster had laid that lie to rest. My mother was conscious, aware of what was going on. Aware enough to know she was being held by Buster. Could I bear to know that my mother had been awake, had suffered?

  “I tried to tell you myself,” Buster said quietly. “But I couldn’t say that to your voice mail.”

  I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse about my mother’s death, but I did, my stomach turning sickeningly. The messages—that’s what the messages were about. God, I was stupid. He’d been extending a hand in friendship—in family—and I’d misinterpreted it as an invitation to date. I felt my face flame with embarrassment.

  Buster touched my arm gently, like a rider would a shying horse. I pulled away and tucked my hands over my chest, letting my arms swaddle me.

  I took several steps away. “I’m okay.” I didn’t want him to touch me. I couldn’t bear for him to console me. I needed to process this information by myself.

  His cell rang. He glanced at the readout. I could see by his expression that the call was important. He caught up to me, flipping his phone open at the same time.

  “Wait,” he said to me. “Healy,” he said into the phone.

  I walked faster, eager to get away from him. I fought to assimilate what he’d said. He dropped back, murmuring, then clicked his phone shut.

  He reached for my shoulders. I twisted away, and he dropped his hands. His eyes searched mine. I blinked to keep them tear-free.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said. “We’re not finished talking about this. I’ll get with you later, I promise. Be careful.”

  He took off at a run, leaving me wondering about everything I had accepted as truth. What had my mother gone through in her last minutes? Pain and despair, even recognition that she was going to die. I couldn’t bear to think about her slipping away slowly.

  I knew I should be grateful that my mother had died in the company of someone she cared about, but all I could think about was the fact that I’d been robbed of that knowledge these past six months. All because my father and my brothers thought they should protect me from the facts. My father and the boys not knowing what was important to me. Again.

  Buster disappeared through an outside door I hadn’t noticed before. I went in the opposite direction, back through the award-winning quilts alcove. The room was packed with quilters, elbow to elbow, generous hip to generous hip, all chattering as they examined the best in the show. I heard Myra’s name mentioned.

  I headed for the main entrance to go outside for better cell reception. I would call my dad to find out what he knew. Didn’t I have the right to know how my mother died? Obviously, Dad and my brothers didn’t think I was adult enough to handle the truth. I could handle the store, but not the details of my mother’s death.

  The problem with a sheltered life was that the pain didn’t lessen when you found out the bad things later rather than sooner.

  His cell rang and rang, until finally his brusque voice exhorted me to leave a message. I knew that this was only a feeble stab at phone etiquette. He refused to learn how to retrieve messages. I hung up.

  I called Kevin next. He answered on the first ring. His cell was an extension of his person. With Pellicano Construction booked solid and Dad gone, Kevin spent most hours of the day with the phone to his ear.

  Noises from his workmen infiltrated the phone. “What’s up?” he asked over the din. “How’s the show going?”

  I had no time for niceties. “Kevin, why didn’t you tell me Buster was with Mom when she died?”

  I could still hear the background noise, but nothing but breathing from my brother. His lack of reaction made me angrier still.

  “Did you think I’d never find out that Mom didn’t die right away?” I asked. “That she lived on, probably in pain.” My voice broke. I stuffed down thoughts about how she might have suffered. Kevin had kept this from me, and I needed him to explain why.

  “I can’t talk now, Dewey. I’m about to go into a progress-report meeting.”

  I wouldn’t let him put me off. “What else don’t I know? Does Dad have a girlfriend on the side? Was Mom running drugs out of QP? Are you really my brother?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I caught my breath, ragged and painful as though I were trying to breathe inside a burning room. My throat felt seared. “You told Kym.”

  There. I’d said it. I could probably live with the knowledge that they hadn’t told me, if Kym hadn’t known.

  “Kym knew more about my mother’s last moments on this earth than I did. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  He went on the defensive. “She’s my wife. I needed to tell her.”

  “What about me?”

  “You? Miss Independence? You don’t need anyone, Dewey. You never have.”

  “Is that what you think?” I said, the sadness leaking through my voice. He’d completely bought my act of self sufficiency. Mistaken my bravura for true courage.

  “I can’t do this now. I’m working,” he said.

  My anger rose. My brother was gone, in his place a guy I didn’t recognize. All my life, I’d thought Kevin would be there for me. My little brother, but the one I could count on, talk to. Until Kym came along and got between us.

  “Do me a favor. Give Dad a message. Myra Banks is buying Quilter Paradiso. We’ll sign the papers as soon as we can.”

  I hung up and sat by the fountain, trying to breathe but finding it hard to draw a full breath. The pressure had returned under my sternum, the one that had begun to dissolve this weekend.

  I would not go back
to not talking about my mother.

  A steady stream of chattering women passed me, walking two by two, pulling their overstuffed rolling carts and tote bags. The show was closing. Another day of the Extravaganza over. I couldn’t wait for the end.

  The laptop. I pushed myself up. If I was going to sell to Myra, I needed the laptop up and running. I bucked the tide of shoppers and headed for the booth.

  Once I got past the bottleneck of people exiting the show, the aisles were mostly empty. Around me, vendors were shutting down their booths for the night. I heard the scrape of coins and shuffling of bills and a strained voice counting loudly, “Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, two hundred.”

  The closing routine—so normal, so far removed from the day I’d had.

  Kym was alone in the booth when I got there, putting the day’s receipts and cash into the mesh bag.

  “Can we talk?” I began. Kevin’s words had stung, but I still wanted to know everything Kym knew about my family. Kevin told her everything, I knew that now.

  Kym interrupted. “Here’s the thing. I knew your mother borrowed the money.”

  The POS system. I’d momentarily forgotten that Mom had borrowed ten thousand dollars from Claire.

  “I didn’t know what she wanted it for,” she continued. “I believed her when she said the software was a test program. I didn’t know we were going to actually use it.”

  “You thought the software program was just my mother’s way to get me to work in the store.”

  “Not permanently.”

  I flinched at her choice of words.

  She waved me off. “I mean, I thought your mother was trying to help you out while you were out of work.”

  “Then I would leave, and things would go back to the way they were.”

  I saw tears in the corners of Kym’s eyes. “With your mother gone, nothing is the same. I hate it!”

  Tears flowed down her cheeks. I’d never considered that Kym might love my mother, too.