Forget Me Knot (A Quilting Mystery)

by Mary Marks

  We roamed up and down aisles created by row upon colorful row of hanging quilts. People of all ages enjoyed the show. A few women had actually dragged their husbands along.

  One particularly bored man in a Dodgers baseball cap turned backward stopped suddenly at a pink and white quilt with a repetitive pattern. Each of the twelve-inch blocks making up this bed-sized quilt featured an outline of a square with a triangle outside each corner. He turned to the petite redhead next to him. “Here’s your blanket, Peaches.”

  The sign next to this quilt disclosed some of the many names for this common block: Churn Dash, Monkey Wrench, Hole in the Barn Door, and Shoo Fly. Peaches handed her husband a camera and stood in front of the quilt. “Take my picture.”

  He snapped a couple of shots. “Well, it sure looks good, Peachie. Uh, now that we’ve seen it, can we go? I don’t want to miss the game.”

  Peaches gave him a withering look and walked over to the next quilt. “Turn on your iPad.”

  Women wearing white gloves and white bibbed aprons patrolled the aisles. They were there to turn a quilt over if someone wanted to see the reverse side. However, the White Gloves, as they were called, were mostly on the lookout for anyone daring to ignore the dozens of signs warning DO NOT TOUCH THE QUILTS.

  Some quilts really begged to be touched, especially if they had a lot of texture from heavy quilting or surface texture like the French knots on Claire’s quilts. The only problem was hundreds of caressing hands left oil and dirt deposits and spoiled a quilt. One vigilant White Glove discovered a woman yesterday who more than once fondled Claire’s quilt with both hands. She had to be told several times to stop.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and listened to the chatter of hundreds of women. They sounded like the rushing waters of a mountain river in the spring.

  I opened my eyes when there was a loud crashing sound from the back of the ballroom. The room suddenly became quiet. Then someone screamed, “Stop him! Stop him!”

  The noise rose again, and the news started to flow up the aisles in a torrent. Words like “stolen” and “back door” and “Claire’s quilt” bubbled and eddied through the crowd.

  I looked at Lucy and Birdie. “Claire’s quilt was stolen?”

  Lucy headed for the back. “Let’s find out.”

  Women started to surge toward the entrance in a kind of controlled panic. We struggled to swim against the current, like salmon going to spawn, and made our way to the back of the ballroom.

  The exhibit of winning quilts was a shambles with display racks overturned. A door next to the podium stood wide open.

  A woman lay on the floor near the door and moaned while a knot of her friends tried to comfort her. “Don’t worry, Selma dear. The paramedics are on their way.”

  I rushed over to them. “What happened?”

  Selma’s friend scowled at me until she saw the badge pinned to my shirt identifying me as a board member. “A man yanked down some quilts and escaped out that door. Poor Selma was standing in his way, and he pushed her down. I think she’s broken something.”

  A dozen years ago, this couldn’t have happened. Every quilt had a sleeve sewn on the back to accommodate a hanging rod. The rod was fitted onto support poles, and the quilt hung down like a curtain. A snatch and grab would have been impossible. Nowadays, quilts were hung by clips, much like those from an old-fashioned clothesline. Just one hard tug and the whole thing could come loose, especially the wall hangings that were smaller and lighter than bed quilts.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Not too tall. Stout. He wore a stocking mask, so I really didn’t get a good look, but there was something really odd about his eyes. Selma probably saw more than any of us.”

  I peered through the open door and down a hallway leading to a parking lot at the end. The thief was probably long gone.

  I made my way back to Birdie and Lucy, who stood next to the podium. Birdie wept softly.

  “What?” I looked at Lucy.

  “They’re gone, Martha. Yours, Birdie’s, and Claire’s quilts. They’re gone.”

  I stood in shock, trying to figure out what to do next, when someone in a blue blazer with the hotel logo on the pocket walked over to the microphone next to the podium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the police are on their way. If you witnessed anything suspicious, you’re asked to remain and give a statement. The rest of you may go. We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience.”

  My stomach churned. This was the second time in less than a week we’d been mixed up in a police investigation involving Claire Terry. That woman was turning out to be a terrible jinx.

  CHAPTER 5

  We found three chairs near a vendor table selling thread in more colors than I’d ever seen in one place. The rainbow displays were beautiful enough to hang as wall art. The next table sold stencils cut out of thin acrylic sheets for marking stitching designs on quilt tops: cables, fans, grids, feathers, clamshells, and Bishop’s Fan were the most popular.

  I estimated we’d been there for at least an hour, because Birdie had already gotten up to go to the bathroom twice. Clusters of women spoke to each other in hushed tones. An electronic tapping sounded through the speaker system in the grand ballroom.

  “Testing,” a voice boomed. All conversation stopped. The announcer’s mouth was too close to the microphone, so she made little explosive sounds with the letter p. “Will the following people please report to the podium: Martha Rose and Birdie Watson.”

  As I helped Birdie get out of her seat, Lucy got up, too. “I’m coming with you.”

  The podium had been taped off and someone in a white jumpsuit with a toolbox dusted the overturned quilt display stands for fingerprints.

  Lucy snorted. “Look.”

  I followed her finger to a heap on the floor. The thief left Carlotta’s Rose of Sharon quilt behind.

  A policewoman in a blue shirt and pants waited for us. Her name badge said Salazar.

  “I’m Martha Rose, this is Birdie Watson, and this is our friend Lucy Mondello.”

  “Right. Please come with me.” The leather holster holding Officer Salazar’s gun squeaked slightly against her right hip as she moved in front of us down the hallway. A radio was clipped to her belt over her left hip. A baton and handcuffs hung off loops in the back.

  The hotel restaurant had been commandeered as a temporary interview room. Two police officers sat at linen-covered tables taking statements from groups of women. Salazar led us to a table in the back.

  The man at the table stood up as we approached. Oh my God. Could this be? I’d recognize his mustache anywhere. I straightened the hem of my T-shirt and shoved my glasses back on my nose, regretting my casual attire. I really wished I’d chosen something more attractive to wear that day.

  Detective Arlo Beavers sat down again. “We meet again, ladies.”

  I tried to make my voice sound jaunty. “I thought your business card said you were a homicide detective.”

  “Robbery and homicide.”

  “Do you manage to show up at every crime scene in the Valley?”

  “Do you?”

  Touché. “I’m beginning to wonder. This time, though, we’re not witnesses; we’re the injured parties.”

  “You and a couple of others. Three quilts stolen and one elderly lady injured in the escape. As soon as I arrived, they handed me a list of victims and I recognized both your names. Tell me what happened.”

  Birdie’s eyes filled with tears. “We were too far away to see anything. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

  Beavers shrugged. “Why do you think someone would steal them? How much could a couple of blankets be worth?”

  I bristled and squared my shoulders. “For your information, those quilts are legitimate works of art. Only the artists didn’t use paint, they used fabric.”

  He put up his hand. “I stand corrected. How much are these works of art worth?”

  “Claire sold her last quilt for ten thousand
dollars. Birdie is an unknown artist, so I’m not sure anyone would pay that much money for hers.” I quickly looked at my friend. “Sorry, Birdie. Your quilt was every bit as beautiful as Claire’s.”

  Birdie nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  “As for my quilt, well, only a Civil War buff would be interested. It’s historically accurate, but hardly worth a lot of money.”

  Birdie’s normally gentle voice cut sharply through the air. “Well, money isn’t the point!”

  Whoa. The last time I heard that tone was when she discovered Eleanor Peavy had stolen the hundred-year-old embroidery scissors that belonged to Birdie’s great-grandmother.

  “I worked over a year on my quilt. Hundreds of hours. Now it’s gone.” Her voice quavered.

  Lucy opened her pink purse, handed Birdie a tissue, and looked at Beavers. “What are the chances of your finding the quilts?”

  “The eyewitnesses are working with a sketch artist. The preliminary description identifies the thief as ‘stout’ and wearing a knit ski mask. Does that ring a bell?” We shook our heads.

  “I didn’t think so. We’ll try to do some kind of composite drawing and have you take a look. Meanwhile”—he pointed to a nearby table—“you can file a formal complaint with the officer over there.”

  I felt a surge of disappointment. “So you’re not investigating the theft?”

  “Right now, I’m more interested in solving Claire Terry’s murder.”

  Birdie gasped. “Murder?”

  My stomach churned again.

  Lucy’s face turned white. “Oh my God. Do you remember I kept saying I had a bad feeling?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucy raised her eyebrows. “Do you think I’m becoming psychic? Like Allison DuBois or something?”

  Beavers cleared his throat. “I’ll need to get fingerprint samples from each of you to eliminate some of those we took from the crime scene. You can go to the West Valley station when you’re finished here.”

  “What about our quilts?” asked Birdie.

  “The three of you found Claire Terry’s body. Then her quilt gets stolen and so do yours. I’m wondering what the connection is.”

  The longer I sat, the harder the chair became. “Coincidence?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “How was Claire killed?”

  “OD.”

  “Wait. She did drugs? She didn’t seem the type.”

  “Not recreational. Prescription.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t an accident or suicide?”

  “We believe she fought with her killer.”

  I felt like I was in an elevator descending too fast. I’d forgotten about the blood on Claire’s hands.

  Birdie put her hand over her mouth. “Dear God.”

  Lucy whispered, “Look. Carlotta’s watching us. Over there.”

  I turned. Carlotta Hudson sat at a nearby table filling out a form with a cheap Bic pen. She looked up at us with an expression on her face I couldn’t quite figure out. How many cards are missing from her deck?

  “What’s up with her?” I whispered.

  Lucy snickered. “Probably mad because nobody wanted to steal her quilt.”

  Beavers stood and handed us each another card. “If you have pictures of your quilts, make sure we get copies for identification purposes in case we ever find them.”

  “You don’t sound very hopeful.” I sighed.

  “You never know. You ladies be careful. I don’t want to alarm you, but a possible connection between the murder and the theft bothers me. Call me if you think of anything that might help.”

  “Shall I call you if I get another bad feeling?” asked Lucy.

  “Why not.” Beavers looked at me and turned up the corner of his mouth in an affable smile that made his brown eyes crinkle. “Sorry about your work of art.”

  My heart skipped a little. I didn’t even care he initially referred to my first-place Civil War reproduction bed-sized quilt as a blanket.

  On the drive home, I watched from the backseat as Birdie wrung her hands and sighed. “Poor Claire. Murdered. Can you believe it?”

  Lucy switched on the turn signal and slid into the right turn lane. “I find this all hard to comprehend.”

  “Also very scary. Why would anyone want to kill her?”

  Lucy waited for the oncoming traffic to thin out so she could make the turn. “My money’s on Carlotta Hudson.”

  “Whatever for?” asked Birdie.

  “She’s so outclassed. The only way for her to ever get to Houston would be if she killed off the competition.”

  I laughed. “Well then, you’d better be careful, Lucy. You really pissed her off today.”

  Lucy made her turn onto Vanowen Boulevard. “Don’t worry about me. I’m from Wyoming, remember? I can take care of myself.”

  Birdie worked furiously on her braid. “We know Claire’s hands were caked with blood, probably from fighting with her killer. Did you notice Carlotta had a bandage wound around her arm? What if Lucy’s right? What if she’s out to kill the competition?

  “Claire got the first-place ribbon, I got second, and Carlotta got third. Do you think she’ll be coming after me next? Do you think she’s behind the quilt thefts?”

  “Oh, hon’, I’m sorry if I scared you.” Lucy’s voice softened with sympathy. “I was just trying to be funny. I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “They’ll find our quilts.” I tried to sound convincing.

  “Yeah, I have a good feeling about this.”

  “So what are you now,” I asked, “the Ghost Whisperer?”

  Lucy looked at me in the rearview mirror and scowled. “Go ahead and laugh, but I’ve always had really powerful intuitions.”

  “Like when you agreed with Birdie we should invite Eleanor Peavy to join our group?”

  “How was I supposed to know she was a klepto?”

  “Intuition?”

  As we parked outside the West Valley Police Station to have our fingerprints scanned with a modern digital reader—no ink—Birdie smiled for the first time in hours. “Oh, Lord. What more could possibly happen?”

  CHAPTER 6

  When I got home I went straight to the refrigerator, the place I always visited when I was upset. I was angry about my missing quilt. I’d spent months searching for and buying just the right reproduction fabrics because I wanted my Civil War quilt to be authentic. Now it was missing. Possibly in the hands of the person who murdered Claire Terry.

  I cracked open a diet cola and drank straight from the can. Why would anyone want to steal my quilt? Claire’s I could understand; hers sold for thousands of dollars. Maybe the thief thought he could also sell Birdie’s beautiful quilt for the same price. However, why bother with a traditional one like mine? Another quilter or a Civil War collector might appreciate the authenticity, but it was hardly in the same class as the other two.

  I pulled out the freezer drawer and rummaged around for the frozen cheese tamales. They were under the Angus burger patties from the supermarket. The phone rang, and I slammed the freezer shut. What now?

  “Hi, Martha. It’s Barbara North from the guild. I’m so sorry about your quilt.”

  Barbara was the board president. She ran the guild meetings like a drill sergeant, but I didn’t really blame her. The feminist in me hated to admit this, but three hundred chatty women in the same room could be hard to control. Barbara was all about control, a trait I understood and admired.

  After my divorce from my manipulative husband, I took charge of my life and vowed never again to allow anyone else to tell me how to feel, think, or live. The only exception I’d ever made had been for my Uncle Isaac, who practically raised me, and my daughter, Quincy. Her needs had always determined my priorities.

  “Thanks, Barbara. I just got home from Birdie’s. We were all pretty upset.”

  “That’s why I hate to ask you this.” She took a deep breath and her words tumbled out as if s
he were running a race with them. “Martha, since you’re on the board, and since you had a connection to Claire Terry, and since your quilt was stolen, too, I thought you’d be the logical person to make an official condolence call to the family.” Finish line.

  Oh no. The last thing I wanted was to face Claire’s family. What if they asked about finding Claire’s body? What would I tell them?

  “Oh really, Barbara, I think as president you’d be the best person to call them.”

  “Well, I would, but Hal and I are leaving in about ten minutes, and we won’t be back for two weeks. I can’t trust anyone else on the board. You know how they are. I really need someone sensible to handle this.”

  Darn it! She was right. I gritted my teeth and reached for a pencil and notepad. “Okay, give me the info. It’s spelled how?”

  I hated things hanging over my head and decided to make the call right away. I deserved an extra tamale for my trouble, so I put two of them in the microwave and dialed the phone number Barbara gave me.

  “May I speak to Siobhan Terry?” I pronounced her name “ShaVAHN,” the way Barbara pronounced it.

  “May I say who’s callin’?” The woman spoke with a thick Irish brogue.

  “This is Martha Rose calling from the West Valley Quilt Guild.”

  “May I tell her what this is regardin’?”

  Who talks like that anymore? “This is a condolence call.”

  “One moment, please.”

  I watched the digital countdown on the microwave. Four minutes and thirty-nine seconds to go. At three minutes to go, the same voice returned to the phone. “Mrs. Terry will speak to ya now.”

  There was a click and then a faint voice. “Siobhan Terry.”

  “Mrs. Terry? My name is Martha Rose. I’m calling on behalf of the quilt guild to offer our deepest sympathy on the death of your daughter, Claire.”

  “Martha Rose did you say?”

  “Yes. I just wanted to tell you how sorry—”

  “The same Martha Rose who found my daughter?”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

  “Miss Rose, I wonder if you’d be kind enough to pay me a visit.”

  She was going to ask me about finding Claire. I just knew it. How could I say no? The poor woman just lost her daughter. I resigned myself to the inevitable. “Of course. How about tomorrow?”