"So, they had to have come from the back side of the hill,” Harriet deduced. “There are four houses besides Aunt Beth's on our street. After the last house, the street terminates with a guard rail, with a wooded area beyond it."
"Well, let's see how far we can get from this side."
The road narrowed as they climbed the hill. The pavement was riddled with potholes and, eventually, gave way to gravel. They bounced on until the road ended in a small rocky parking area. A trail marker announced an overlook in one-tenth of a mile.
Aiden picked up his MagLite and got out of the car. “You coming?"
Harriet had seen too many slasher films in her youth to be willing to sit in a car alone in a dark, wooded parking lot. She followed him up the path.
The woods opened onto a clearing at the top of the hill. Under other circumstances, she might have stopped to take in the panoramic view of Smugglers Cove and downtown Foggy Point beyond it. Tonight she was more interested in the clearing itself, and what other paths might lead from it.
"Look,” she said. “Over there.” She pointed to a shadowy area on the opposite side. A gust of wind rattled the old fir trees overhead. Harriet shivered. When she was young she had believed the trees were fighting when they rattled together like that. It still seemed sinister.
Aiden joined her at what appeared to be a path leading down the hill. He shined the light into the dark tunnel in the trees.
"Come on,” he said. When Harriet hesitated, he took her hand in his firm grasp and led her down the path.
"Oh, my gosh,” she said when a short time later they popped out of the woods at the end of her street. Aiden had pushed a large, low-hanging tree branch out of the way to create the final opening. “So anyone could come and go freely from this street, and the people living here would be none the wiser."
"I'm not sure this helps much. We still don't know who came and went this way, but at least we know how they did it."
"And we know it wasn't a spontaneous act. Someone planned it."
He looked at her. “You didn't really think it was a random act, did you?"
"No, I guess not. That one policeman had suggested it was drug users looking for something they could turn for a quick profit. But they probably would have taken the computer and television if that was the case. I wanted to believe him, because I don't want to think about someone coming back if they didn't get what they were looking for the first time."
"Have you had any ideas about what that might be?"
"Not a clue."
They stood together looking down the street, each lost in their own thoughts.
Aiden snapped the flashlight back on. “We should get back. As much as I don't want to, I've got to face the family."
Harriet wished she could tell him things would be okay but she knew better than anyone the damage lies could do.
Chapter Sixteen
Harriet spent the following day cleaning and organizing her studio. In the morning hours, she folded fabric and quilts and matched them up with their work orders. The afternoon went slower. Thread, pins, chalk pencils and other small notions had been scattered all over the room, as if the thief had thrown a temper tantrum and hurled the containers against the walls. The big spools of thread for the long-arm machine were hopelessly tangled. She cut out the tangles where she could, but in the end several spools had to be thrown out.
She'd spoken to Aunt Beth's insurance man, Bill Young, and he'd asked her to do an inventory of what was missing and damaged, so she dutifully wrote down each lost item.
For his part, Fred chased bobbins around the floor, rolling on his back and tangling his legs in the thread. The third time she had to stop and cut him loose, she picked him up and shut him on the other side of the kitchen door.
She was about to give up and join him when the phone rang.
"How is the clean-up coming?” Mavis asked.
"I've got the big stuff organized, but now it's going a lot slower. I'm down to picking up pins and untangling thread."
"Do you feel like a change of pace?"
"Yes, please, anything."
"Well, if you're up to it, Michelle asked if the Loose Threads could come over and deal with Avanell's stash."
An important part of the quilting process is the collection of a stash. Every serious quilter will make a practice of gathering pieces of fabric for undefined future use. Stash building can be a regular part of their weekly trip to the local quilt store, or can be done scavenger hunt-style by taking tours to various other communities in groups or alone. It's also a critical part of any vacation trip, usually to the dismay of husbands, children or other non-quilting companions. People vary in their approach. Some people collect in half-yard quantities, some in multiple-yard cuts, just to keep their options open. Harriet could only imagine how large a stash someone who had been quilting as long as Avanell would have.
"It's kind of soon, isn't it?"
"Honey, Avanell is dead. Michelle needs to take care of things while she's here. In Loose Threads, we joke about taking care of each other's stash if something happens, but it really isn't a joke. Avanell told her daughter if anything ever happened to her we were to take care of hers. Michelle called me an hour ago and asked if we could come tomorrow. If this is too much for you, just say so and I'll understand."
"No, I'll be there,” Harriet said, and tried to make her voice sound like she meant it. “What time should I be there?"
"I told her we'd be there at nine."
"Do I need to bring anything?"
"If you can find any of those cotton project bags your aunt has, you can bring them. When someone passes, we usually finish up any UFO's.” Harriet knew that this meant unfinished objects in quilter's parlance. “Usually, we know who they were for. If not, we just give them back to the family if they want them, or donate them if they don't."
"Are there really people who don't want their loved one's handwork?” Harriet asked.
"We've only lost two or three people who were still active in the group when they went, and in at least one case, the woman was ninety-three, and she had given her family so many quilts over the years they really had all the keepsakes they needed."
"Is there any word on the memorial service yet?"
"Yes. There will be a viewing on Monday night and then a service at the Unitarian Church Tuesday morning and then the interment following that. Are you going to attend?"
"She was one of my aunt's oldest friends. Since Aunt Beth can't be there, I feel like I should go to represent her."
"Honey, I think people would understand if it was too hard for you."
"No, Aunt Beth is right. I have to start living again, and attending a friend's funeral is an unfortunate part of life."
"I'm glad to hear you say that. Would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?"
The two women agreed on a plan and ended the call.
Harriet knew her aunt was trying to help her move forward with her life, but even Aunt Beth couldn't have envisioned how her plan was going to play out.
* * * *
She was contemplating dinner when the phone rang again. She answered, and heard an unfamiliar man's voice.
"Harriet,” he said, “it's Harold."
"Harold, how nice to hear from you again,” she responded, and wondered if it was true.
"I couldn't help but notice how much you enjoyed the Chamber dinner the other night."
Was the man insane?
"Well, not the event,” he went on. “But you did seem to enjoy the food."
That much was true.
"I heard about a new restaurant that opened last week down on Smuggler's Cove. The owner used to be the head chef at the Hilton in Portland. I thought I'd give it a try tonight and, as you appear to be a connoisseur of fine food, wondered if you'd care to join me."
It wasn't the most romantic invitation she had ever received, but since she wasn't interested in romance that suited her.
"Shall I meet you there?"
>
"I'll be coming from the factory, so I could swing by at seven and pick you up, if that works."
"That will be fine. I'll be ready."
She hung up and went back into the kitchen.
"Come on, Fred,” she said, and the cat got up and followed her upstairs. “We have to put together an outfit for our dinner date."
The choices hadn't gotten any better in the last two days. She still had the basic black dress and Aunt Beth's scarves. Aunt Beth had a decidedly different shape than she did, making most of her wardrobe improbable; but Harriet was desperate enough to give it a try.
The floral jersey dresses Aunt Beth favored were a definite no even if they did fit. She passed them by and moved on to the skirts and blouses. She tried a skirt, but it was about three inches short and was too wide in any case.
The blouses showed more promise. She pulled out an off-white silk with a tie collar. She tried it on, twisting the two scarf-like ends of the collar into a bow. She looked at her image in the mirror. The blouse could be worn tunic-style over her sleeveless black shift. She found a soft leather belt on a closet door hook. She wrapped it around her waist and tied it instead of buckling. She twirled in front of the mirror. Her outfit made her look like an executive secretary. Or at least what she imagined an executive secretary would look like. It would be the perfect counterpoint to Harold's business togs.
She took a shower, towel-dried her hair and quickly blew it dry. She dressed and was waiting in her front room when Harold arrived.
"You look lovely,” he said when she opened the front door. She handed him the tan trench coat she'd found in the entryway closet. He held it while she slipped it on, overlapping the front and securing the extra width with the belt. If she was going to go out at night, she would have to go shopping, and not at Wal-Mart, either.
She quickly chased that thought from her mind. She wasn't going to be here long enough to need a dating wardrobe.
Harold was the perfect gentleman. He opened and closed doors, made polite small talk about the weather in Foggy Point and drove a consistent five miles under the speed limit. What he didn't talk about was Avanell, the Vitamin Factory or any other topic that might elicit an emotional reaction.
Harriet felt both relief and guilt that he didn't want to discuss Avanell. She'd spent every waking hour since she'd found her obsessing about what she could have done differently that might have changed the outcome. So far, she hadn't come up with anything but a headache.
When they arrived at the restaurant, he had reserved a table by the window. The owner of the restaurant, James, greeted them at the door, surrounded by the faint aroma of baked garlic.
"How nice to see you, Harold,” he said. “And who is this vision of loveliness?"
Harold introduced Harriet. He had neglected to mention that he and James had been fraternity brothers. James seemed pleased to see Harold with a date in a way that made her uncomfortable.
James seated them and immediately brought a plate of crostini with a pork liver pate.
"So, tell me about the quilting business,” Harold said when James had retreated into the kitchen. “The chamber dinner wasn't really conducive to conversation. You said you work at a studio in your home, but what does that entail?"
Harriet proceeded to tell him all about the long-arm quilting business—or at least as much as she knew about it with her month of experience. He asked intelligent questions and leaned attentively forward as he listened. She explained how her first week on her own in the business was made more difficult by the Tacoma quilt show.
Not wanting to appear self-centered, she asked what he did for fun.
"Calculations,” he replied.
"Uh, what sort of calculations?” She tried to think what she could possibly ask as a follow-up.
"Differential equations, usually, although I do branch out into combinatorial analysis sometimes for fun,” he replied.
I'm a dead woman, Harriet thought.
"That sounds interesting,” she said.
She was saved by James bringing a steaming poached salmon dish to their table. He followed this with roast squab; and then, after a palate-cleansing course of grapefruit sorbet, petit filet mignon with a blue cheese peppercorn sauce. The beef was served with garlic mashed potatoes and sauteed string beans. A salad of fresh wild greens was served after the beef.
Harriet had to assume either Harold or James was a tea-totaler. Italian sparkling water was served at the start of the meal, followed by an excellent French sparkling cider. The usual coffee and tea selections were offered, and they both chose tea.
The flow of food had made conversation not only impossible but also unnecessary. When James offered to bring a dessert tray for their perusal, Harriet spoke up.
"This dinner is the best I've had in years or maybe even in my lifetime, but if I eat another bite, I'll burst. I'd love to come by another time and maybe just have dessert and coffee."
James brightened, and she realized he was thinking she was suggesting another date with Harold.
Harold handed him a charge card.
"I'd like to pay for mine,” Harriet said.
"That isn't necessary. Besides, this was my idea. When you invite me out, if you insist, you can pay."
"Thank you, then. The food was truly delicious."
"It's been my pleasure. Now, however, I'm afraid I have to return to work."
Harriet imagined herself flopping onto her bed and lying immobile, reliving the pleasure of the meal until she fell asleep. She couldn't fathom going back to work after a six-course meal.
Harold delivered her to her doorstep at exactly ten o'clock. He got out of the car and walked her up the steps and onto the porch. Any fear about awkwardness at the front door was quickly laid aside. He squeezed her hand, thanked her for coming to dinner and left.
"Fred!” she called. The cat came running downstairs. “Dinner was really, really good, but can you see us with a guy who does differential equations for fun?"
She kicked off her shoes, picked up the cat and went to bed.
Chapter Seventeen
Harriet was in the studio when Mavis arrived the next morning. She'd gathered a bundle of cotton quilt bags, a pad of sticky notes and a couple of markers. She wasn't sure what the usual procedure was for the group, but she believed you could never go wrong with sticky notes and permanent markers.
"Avanell probably has a shocking amount of fabric in her stash,” Mavis said when they were settled in the front seat of her powder-blue Town Car. “Most of us have either husbands or budgets that prevent us from going overboard. After Ed died, she had neither. She made plenty of money, and stitching was her only vice."
"So, what do you usually do with the fabric?"
"There is no usual, thank the good Lord, but the Loose Threads are mostly seniors, so the subject naturally comes up now and then. Avanell made it clear that while she was willing to donate a fair share to the charity projects, she wanted her best stuff to go to members of our group who would appreciate it."
The car groaned as it climbed the long, steep road that led to Avanell Jalbert's home. The Queen Anne Victorian house had been built by Cornelius Fogg in 1851; its location overlooking the tip of the peninsula was no accident. It was rumored that, before he became the beloved founder of Foggy Point, Cornelius had been the notorious pirate Silver Beard. Some local historians believed he never gave up his thieving ways but used his ongoing proceeds to fund the development of his namesake.
The house had views of both the hidden inlets of Pirate's Cove and the deepwater channel of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. When Harriet was young, the local children told her there were tunnels from the basement of the house to the cove below. She had eagerly believed the tales back then but as an adult knew that almost every coastal town had rumors of tunnels that were nearly never true.
Jenny's black BMW was already parked in front of the house when Mavis pulled to a stop. Jenny took a large stack of clear plastic bins from the backsea
t and handed them into Aiden's waiting arms.
"Hi,” she called out when Mavis and Harriet got out of the car. “Connie and Robin are inside, and we're still waiting for DeAnn and Lauren."
"What about Sarah?” Mavis asked.
"She had a meeting she couldn't get out of.” Jenny rolled her eyes skyward as she said it. “Michelle has us in the upstairs parlor. We were just getting our stuff organized while we were waiting for you."
Aiden carried the boxes into the house, his broad shoulders disappearing as he climbed a narrow staircase off the entry. Jenny followed him up the stairs.
"Hi,” said a petite dark-haired woman as she crossed the polished marble entry. “I'm Michelle.” She held her hand out. “You must be Harriet."
Harriet took the offered hand. It was cold and hard, and the fingers circled hers in a claw-like grip.
"I'm so sorry about your mother,” she said, and had to force herself not to rub her hand to restore the circulation.
"Yes, I understand you were the one who found her.” She said it as if it were an accusation.
"Are you coming?” Mavis called from the stairwell. Harriet turned and climbed the stairs, leaving Michelle where she stood.
"Don't let Michelle get to you. She's grown a bit prickly since she left Foggy Point, but she's a good girl under all that."
Harriet wasn't so sure. She'd met dozens of good Foggy Point girls during her childhood whenever her parents got tired of playing the parental role and dumped her here. She had learned that kids can be cruel to anyone who is different, and when you spend your formative years bouncing between the capitols of Europe and Foggy Point, Washington, you were definitely different.
"Harriet,” Connie yelled from across the room. “Come here."
Connie met her halfway across the large room and embraced her in a warm hug. It had to be a conspiracy. These women were trying to make up for a lifetime of missed hugs in Harriet's life all in a few weeks.
"Are you getting things straightened out in the studio?” Connie continued without waiting for a reply. “It must have been so awful for you, finding Avanell like that.” She patted Harriet's hand. “Come over here.” She led her to an ornate sofa table behind a forest green velvet settee. “I brought some tea."
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