Wild Goose Chase

by Terri Thayer

  She stepped away from me, dabbing the skin under her eyes carefully with a forefinger, and grabbed her purse and the deposit bag. “I’m out of here,” she said, pretending to be composed.

  A huge sigh escaped me as she walked away, and I realized I’d been tensing for a scene that never came. I wasn’t the only one confused and missing my mother.

  I felt the adrenaline drain from my body, leaving in its wake a feeling of being slightly sick, like I’d been running full out and hit the wall.

  Eve’s voice came over the loudspeaker, thanking the vendors for sticking with her through the hard times. Her voice broke, and she abruptly reminded everyone that they had five minutes to close up and leave. The sound of static ended her announcement. Poor Eve. How would she get through the night now?

  The laptop sat next to the cash register. I ripped off Kym’s calico cover. I needed only a few minutes to see if it was up and running. Around me the vendors filed out. Some that I met earlier shouted goodbyes.

  Freddy was one of the last ones out, and he stopped. “Want to go for a drink?”

  I shook my head. He shrugged and went on without another word. His invitation seemed forced and I wondered if he was mad at me for exposing Claire’s secrets.

  In a booth somewhere a cell phone rang, forgotten or maybe purposefully left behind. My cell beeped ominously; the battery was about to run out. I glanced at the screen. One missed call—Buster. I wasn’t going to return that call. I had no idea what to say to him.

  I grabbed the laptop cord. Parting the full calico skirts that were velcroed to the table next to the cash register, I reached under blindly, but couldn’t feel the power strip to plug in the cell and the laptop. The floor space under the table was a jumbled mess of plastic bins.

  The power strip had gotten pushed all the way to the back of the booth. I had to get down on my knees and crawl underneath the table to reach it. Misjudging, I hit my head on the edge of the table and sat down hard, rubbing the sore spot. The sharp pain brought tears to my eyes, disproportionate to the ache. I felt the tears welling and swiped at my face. I pushed the plugs in roughly.

  I heard footsteps and stilled myself, adjusting the calico curtain so I wasn’t visible. I felt ridiculous sitting underneath the table, but I knew I would feel sillier if that jerky little security guard found me scrambling around on the floor, crying.

  I scooted backward to conceal myself better. My feet got tangled. I pulled up whatever it was I was struggling with. By the dim light cast by my charging phone, I could see it was Kym’s apron. I pushed the cotton pinney off me like it was a slimy beast and heard cellophane crinkling.

  I’d knocked out a pack of Winstons. What were cigarettes doing in Kym’s apron? I rummaged through the other pocket and found a neon pink butane lighter, decorated with hearts. No doubt about it, the cigarettes and lighter belonged to Kym.

  Tears still hot on my face, I laughed right out loud, then clamped my hand over my mouth. These were Kym’s cigarettes. I wondered if Kevin knew. I doubted it. I’d never even smelled smoke on her. She must have gone to elaborate means to conceal her habit. I had a secret on her, but I couldn’t enjoy it like I would have earlier.

  I heard footsteps going past and froze again, holding my breath. The security guard must be on his way back out. I wanted to be sure he didn’t find me so I withdrew farther back, moving something else out of the way. The smell of lavender and mothballs wafted toward me. It was the bag with the Wild Goose Chase quilt from my mother. I pulled the quilt out. I couldn’t help but stroke the yielding bulk. I pictured a young married couple lying beneath it, planning their life together.

  I needed to feel the quilt around me. I struggled to get it out of the bag quietly in the limited space. I felt the tears coming freely now and stuffed down a sob with a fist in my mouth. With a final yank, the quilt was out, and I cuddled it. Under the table, wrapped in the quilt my mother had bought for me, I couldn’t stop crying.

  The quilt was tangible proof of a true love over a century old. The woman who’d made the quilt waited for her man for years, never losing hope. The love behind the quilt spanned the decades.

  This old quilt laid my feelings bare. The beauty of the quilt, the simple juxtaposition of color and texture and form, reached in and wrung my heart out.

  My mother’s hopes for her little girl to find love were infused in the quilt. This quilt, which my mother had never seen, never touched, connected her so deeply to me.

  A week after her death, my mother had appeared in my room. It was a vision. I wasn’t dreaming. I hadn’t even been sleeping. I was scrunched against the headboard, watching the sunrise send watery pink rays of light on my walls. I felt a shift at the bottom of the bed as though someone had sat down. When I looked up, she was perched at the foot, smoothing my bed quilt and smiling at me. My face ached as I grinned, testing muscles I hadn’t used in a week.

  She patted the end of the bed where my toes had just been. I felt the heat coming off her hand. A sense of well-being washed over me. I felt comforted by her touch like I had as a child. All I’d needed then was one touch, and pain had disappeared. One kiss on the bruised knee, the sting miraculously gone. One strand of hair tucked behind my ear was enough to take away whatever hurt my brothers had inflicted.

  That early morning, I felt the certainty that she hadn’t left me. I knew in that moment she would always be with me. She was in her quilts. In her family. In her store.

  Curled in a ball on the cold concrete floor in the convention center, I cried all the tears I’d been holding in for months. She was here in this quilt.

  I wept until I ran dry. When I finally crawled out, the large room was completely quiet. Auxiliary lamps were on, dimly illuminating the aisles. Natural light leaked in through the high windows.

  I folded the quilt and returned it to the bag. I would take it home and put it on my bed.

  I turned on the computer. No need to hurry out now. I might as well take a few moments to make sure it booted up okay. I’d come in early in the morning and finish the setup.

  The POS screen came up. I could fix the inventory easily now that I knew why money was going to WGC. I’d wipe the account off the books and pay back Claire’s estate once I’d sold the store.

  Another gift from my mother. Like the pink and brown antique quilt, the POS system was meant as a gift to me. Neither one was meant to come to me after her death, but that’s what happened. I felt incredibly sad.

  The database and point-of-sale systems looked fine, so I closed down the computer and felt for my car keys on my hip. I grabbed the Wild Goose Chase quilt and walked away from the booth. I would find my way out of here and to my car. I might have to find the security guard to let me out, but I’d try to get one of the back doors first. I needed to go home, be in my own living room, wrapped in the quilt, watching Pride and Prejudice.

  After tomorrow, I would be done with the quilt world. I could sell the shop to Myra and get out from under the daily grind of following in my mother’s footsteps. I knew now she had never meant for me to make the shop my life’s work. Like Kym had said, it was only supposed to be temporary.

  I turned left out of the booth, heading for the back wall, toward the dock where we’d unloaded Wednesday night. That was only three short days ago, but the difference was immense. A wide gulf between what was then and what was now.

  I heard the air conditioner cycle off, a large bang when the cooled air hit the metal baffles. I passed a sewing machine that had not been shut down, the red lights on the panel glowing. My footsteps sounded loud on the wooden floor, each reverberation a reminder of how alone I was. Weird undersea light emanated from a digital sign, casting blue stripes in front of me. Looking up, I saw the sign that read “Award-Winning Quilts.”

  Through there was the door Buster had used to escape earlier. My steps slowed as I passed into th
e alcove. Wall sconces illuminated the space. I made my way to the back wall, but I found no door. I remembered that the door Buster had used was behind the panels that had been opened earlier for Myra’s lecture and were now closed up tight. There was no way to exit through here.

  I turned to wend my way back through the exhibit to the main hall. Several rows of quilts were in front of me.

  These were the penultimate quilts—the best in their field. The Extravaganza was one of the biggest conventions in the country, attracting the most elite quilters. Tomorrow the show would be closing, and these quilts would never be assembled again. This was my last chance.

  Time spent with my mother was only a memory now. I had to glean something new from the lessons she’d already given me. The thousands who came to the show found something in the quilts. I needed to figure out what drove all these people to attend.

  And maybe drove one person to kill.

  I walked down the first row, studying the wonderful color and designs of these quilts. As I came into the next row, I gave out an involuntary yelp. A tiger’s face was staring at me, watching through jungle fronds, his green eyes glowing in the low light. The tiger had been rendered in thread, the orange and black colors intensifying the bright eyes.

  I moved away, feeling as though the animal’s eyes were following me. The tiger’s fierce look reminded me of Eve protecting Justine. Could it be that the same fierceness had led her to murder?

  I stopped in front of a quilt. The card attached said the title was Sunbonnet Sue Does Dallas. There were twelve blocks, each featuring a strange-looking character with a large hat covering her face. She was in profile, walking in front of images of Texas: oil wells, a city skyline, longhorn bulls. Her shape and hat never changed, just her dress fabric. I didn’t get that one.

  The next quilt was abstract. Like a Mondrian, blocks of color were assembled on a black grid. I admired the way the colors were rendered, but it didn’t do anything for me either.

  The quilts were hung in threes. Each grouping was interconnected by the quilt racks. I moved to the next batch.

  I stepped back, trying to get a better view. I had seen my mother look at quilts. She usually stood back and squinted, I remembered. Blurring the lines of the quilt was important to visualize the quilt as a whole and not see the individual blocks. As she got older, she joked she didn’t need to narrow her eyes; she only needed to take off her glasses.

  Claire’s first-prize quilt was to my left, and I turned to read the card. The quilt was made of what I knew now were flying-geese blocks, although these flew in a curved formation.

  “How do you like that quilt, Dewey?”

  I was startled to hear Myra’s voice. I turned; she was watching me. How long had she been there? The natural light coming in from the high windows was beginning to fade, putting her face in shadow. I couldn’t see her eyes clearly.

  “How’d you get in here?” I asked.

  “I sneaked in—the guard is fast asleep. I’ve been looking for you.”

  “I was heading home.” Why was she looking for me? Warning bells went off in my head.

  Myra pointed at the quilt. “Take a good look. Do you think this quilt deserved to win first prize?”

  Her colorful bracelet caught the low light, throwing tiny rainbows of color onto the floor. It looked different than when I’d first seen it on her, outside Claire’s room. One button didn’t reflect like the others. I looked closer and saw it wasn’t a button at all, but a hardened glob of amber-colored glue. Something was missing. A button about the size and shape of the one I’d found on the stage had fallen off. Myra had taken the button from me on the loading dock after Justine died. Had she taken it to repair the bracelet?

  My mind raced. Pam, the smoker, said Myra saw me get into Buster’s truck. That was at two o’clock, well before the fashion show. Hours before Myra said she’d arrived. Myra had lied about being in the building when Justine died.

  She was the one who arranged to meet Justine.

  I blurted out what I knew. “You set up a meeting with Justine at the auditorium before the fashion show.”

  Myra looked away from the quilt, studying me with a smirk on her face.

  “Indeed I did. Very smart. I didn’t think anyone remembered me coming in.”

  “The smokers,” I said, almost to myself. “No one pays them any attention.” I was embarrassed that I hadn’t noticed them either. In fact, I’d ignored everything Pam said because she’d said Kym was out there with her, smoking. She’d been right about both things.

  “Justine got greedy. She wanted her money back. She thought that with Claire dead, I’d hand it over. Just because she saw me argue with Claire.”

  I had to get out of here. I was locked in the quilt show, after hours, with a murderer.

  Myra reached into her purse and thrust something at me. I jumped back, but it was only a neatly strapped bundle of money with the now-familiar JustEve logo. Myra must have taken the money from Claire’s room after Justine had repaid her debt.

  “Take this. Put it in your bag.” She pulled at the tote hanging over my shoulder. I shied away. I didn’t want her hands touching the Wild Goose Chase quilt.

  “You put the money in Lark’s bag?” I asked.

  “I thought it was your bag. A mistake I will not repeat.”

  She held out the bundle of cash. I took it reluctantly. I opened my bag. This was my chance to get my cell. I could push the buttons that would call Buster without taking it out of the bag. She didn’t have to see me. As I rooted around, my heart sank. My cell was still in the charger, under the table at the booth. Defeated, I dropped the money inside.

  Myra stuck her hand into her purse again. I was ready for another bundle of cash, but instead she palmed something else. I felt a sharp stab in my ribcage and looked down.

  Myra was holding the gun that had killed Justine.

  Days of speculating who had killed Claire, who had murdered Justine, had not led me to Myra. She’d hid her hatred well until now. It was as though the inside of a beautiful quilt was suddenly revealed, with twisted seams, uncut threads, points that didn’t match up.

  Even if the security guard made rounds, it was unlikely he would see us. We were hidden in the alcove, surrounded by quilts. I took a step away from Myra, but she stopped me, her long fingers curled around my arm above my elbow, the bracelet dangling from her arm. I tried to push her away, but she had a death grip on me. Her brown eyes were as dark as night; the whites looked unnaturally vivid. She smelled bad, like wood rot coming to the surface.

  I pulled back, feeling her fingers dig deeper into my bicep, and got another steely jab in my side.

  “We’re going to do this my way, Dewey.”

  “Myra, come on. I never did you any harm. Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Because you are the one. You’re the one the cops will believe killed Claire and Justine.”

  “Not true, Myra. I was with Buster when Justine was killed.”

  “Time of death is so tenuous, you know. I guess she was killed earlier than they thought. Or later. You’ll explain it all in your suicide note. Do you think the cops are going to look much harder once you’ve confessed to the dirty deed? I don’t think so.”

  “Buster will. He won’t believe that I’d kill myself.”

  I flinched as spittle hit my face. I wanted to lash out and hit her, but the gun was supreme right now; I didn’t want to do anything to make her mad enough to use it. I held my breath, only releasing it when she began talking again.

  “First we’re going to go sign the contract, selling me the shop. Gee, I think the price just went waaay down. My negotiating skills are greatly enhanced by this,” she said, waving the gun.

  I had to keep her talking. As long as she was talking, she wasn’t shooting.

  “
The shop? You want Quilter Paradiso? You can have it; you don’t need to hold a gun on me. I’ll give you the shop.”

  “First, you confess to their murders.”

  “Listen, Myra, I’m no lawyer, but I don’t think it’s murder if you didn’t mean to kill them. They were both accidents, weren’t they? Take Claire—she dropped the rotary cutter; it fell open and cut her. Justine, you were talking, the two of you chatting, the gun went off …”

  Myra looked interested. Was she buying my idea that she would be able to talk her way out of a murder charge? I kept going.

  “You didn’t mean to kill Claire, did you? She was like a mother to you.”

  She laughed, a cackle that cut through me, seemingly cutting my spinal cord in half, making it impossible to stay upright. I started to slide, but she caught me under the right shoulder and hauled me back up. I had to stand on my own; there was nothing solid to lean on. The only things around us were quilts hanging from their frameworks. I steadied my knees, straightened my spine, and threw back my shoulders. It was a brave posture, one I did not feel. What had Freddy said? Fake it ’til you make it. I faked courage.

  “That’s not a good thing, Dewey. For you, being compared to your mother is wonderful. That’s all I heard all weekend. Isn’t Dewey just like her mother? Sweet, kind, sooo nice.”

  I’d spent the last six months trying to measure up to my mother. Was I going to get the chance to prove myself or was Myra going to cut me short?

  “My mother, on the other hand, was a junkie and a whore. Although she preferred to be called a free spirit. She should have thanked me for putting her out of her misery.”

  “You killed your mother?” Shit, shit, shit. I was getting in deeper and deeper. I needed to get out of here now, away from Myra and her tiny, deadly gun.

  Myra laughed. “Anyone can kill, Dewey. All you need to be is hungry enough, battered enough, desperate enough.”

  “I couldn’t kill.” The words came out in a squeak. I tried to clear my throat. I wanted to sound strong.