by Mary Marks
The wall facing the backyard was all windows, flooding the space with natural light. No wonder Claire chose this room as a studio. Fabric colors were truest in natural light. An old wooden sewing table sat under the windows next to an upholstered chaise longue, the perfect spot for sitting and quilting.
White floor to ceiling shelves and cabinets lined two of the walls. The third wall was painted white and featured a white quartz counter spanning the entire length. The counter was empty except for two sewing machines, a CD player, and a green cutting mat with one-inch yellow grid lines. The drawers beneath contained every gadget and notion a quilter could possibly want.
There were several things a serious quilter needed besides fabric, needles, and thread: a reliable sewing machine, a rotary cutter, a cutting mat, an acrylic ruler, sharp scissors, a good thimble, a steam iron, and a wooden hoop. Claire’s sewing room was a warehouse of quilting supplies.
On the shelves were books about quilting and a large collection of audio books. I quickly scanned the titles and discovered Claire preferred mysteries, memoirs, and biographies. Like Claire, I also listened to stories while quilting. Were there other things we might’ve had in common? If she’d lived, would we have become friends?
I didn’t like the idea of prying into the life of someone who was defenseless to stop me. With a mental apology to Claire for the intrusion, I started opening the cabinets. Piles and piles of neatly folded fabrics sorted by color sat on shelves. Clear plastic storage boxes held smaller pieces of fabric and were labeled according to color or theme. In this we couldn’t have been more opposite. I didn’t own a label maker, and fabric was strewn over every surface of my sewing room, resembling the Gulf Coast during hurricane season.
I mentally drooled when I saw the plastic Rubbermaid container labeled Vintage Fabric. Collecting old fabric was a particular passion of mine. Vintage fabrics weren’t easy to find. They usually became available when somebody died and their heirs cleaned out the attic or sewing room. Then the fabric might occasionally find its way to a quilt store or antique shop, but you really had to look hard. I was dying to see what was hidden in Claire’s stash.
Carefully lifting the layers of fabric, I discovered a piece of sky blue cotton printed with little cowboys dressed in tan and red. Suddenly I was back in the fifties in elementary school when my cousin Barry once spent Passover night with us. I was sure his pajamas had been made out of this same material.
I carefully put the cowboys back, closed the container, and continued my search. I came to a locked cupboard and guessed this was where Claire stored her quilts. Something tickled my ankle. Oh God, I thought in a panic, a spider!
The cat meowed. “That makes twice in one day you’ve scared me.” I bent down and scratched him under the chin. “Are the quilts in this cupboard? Did your mommy tell you where the key was?” The cat blinked twice and started to purr. I swore he smiled.
I opened every drawer in the room and didn’t find a key to the cupboard, so I moved on to the master suite. Luxurious pink silk drapes hung like ball gowns in front of the tall windows. A matching silk duvet and lots of puffy pillows covered in silks, brocade, and lace adorned the queen-sized bed. Decorative bone china plates hung in a grouping on one wall and a real Mary Cassatt painting of a mother and child hung on another wall. This room was a luxurious feminine retreat.
The key to the cabinet wasn’t in the bedroom, so I moved to the room-sized closet. Claire’s clothes hung precisely like soldiers in a military parade: blouses all together, size six slacks neatly pressed, a row of designer dresses in pink garment bags, and dozens of shoes in plastic containers that weren’t only labeled but identified with snapshots of the actual shoes glued onto the outside of the boxes.
Really? What would compel someone to be such a compulsive neat freak? What was the driving need behind all of this organization?
I opened the top drawer of a built-in dresser and found neat little piles of scanty underwear. I lifted out a lacy black thong no larger than the palm of my hand.
Maybe if I lost about fifty pounds.
Well, well. What had we here? Next to the underwear was a half-empty box of condoms. So Claire had a boyfriend. Did they have a fight? Did he kill her?
I replaced the tiny piece of black lace and the box of condoms and came out of the closet feeling a lot fatter than when I went in.
At the back of the bedroom was a door leading to an office. A polished walnut desk sat under a large window facing the backyard. A laptop and a telephone sat on the uncluttered desk. No mess here. No surprise.
I sat and opened the top desk drawer. A red and white Altoid tin rattled when I picked it up. A faint peppermint smell lingered inside along with unmarked keys of various sizes.
I took the tin full of keys back to the sewing room and unlocked the cupboard on the third try. Inside were only three quilts. I unfolded the first one.
This quilt was a brilliantly designed appliqué about four feet square. Mother’s Asleep featured a naked woman with her arms over her head. She floated with her eyes closed on white clouds discretely covering her private parts. French knots made of gray thread covered the clouds like thousands of silver seeds. Clear teardrop-shaped beads dripped from the bottom of the clouds.
I felt for a note inside the quilt. Nothing. Claire’s message must be in the design itself. Silver seeds. Water. Clouds. All of those elements suggested rainmaking, but what did that have to do with the title, Mother’s Asleep?
I took out my cell phone and punched in Siobhan’s number. The maid put me through to the familiar soft voice.
“Yes?”
“Siobhan, this is Martha. I’m at Claire’s and have found three of her quilts. Four if you count the one in the living room. Is that all of them?”
“I’m sure there are more. She kept a record somewhere of all the quilts she made. Maybe you could look for it.”
“I think you’re right about the messages in the quilts, but it’s going to take a while to figure out what they are. Do I have your permission to take them home where I can study them more at length?”
“Yes. Just give me a list of the ones you’ve taken. And, Martha, I’m afraid whoever stole Claire’s quilt might try to come after the others.”
“Why?”
“Well, they’re valuable, you know. So let’s keep their location secret for now. It’s safer that way.”
I snapped the cell phone shut and looked outside. It was past six and the sun was going down. Siobhan warned me the thief might strike again. If so, I didn’t want to be alone in Claire’s house after dark.
I locked the empty quilt cabinet and put the Altoid box of keys in my shoulder bag. If someone was going to come after Claire’s quilts, I wasn’t going to make this easy. If he figured out Claire locked her quilts in the cabinet, he’d have to look for the key just like I did. He wouldn’t find it, so he’d be forced to jimmy open the door. Not only would he not find the quilts there, he might actually leave fingerprints for the police.
I smiled at my cleverness. I’d never played chess, but if I had, I thought it would feel exactly like this.
When I opened the door to the linen closet, the fragrance of lavender and gardenias floated out in a pleasant cloud. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Then I pulled out a couple of crisp pillowcases and put the quilts into them. I locked the front door and put the bundles in the trunk of my car.
On the drive home I remembered the cat. I decided to leave him there for now. He had plenty of food and water and a clean litter box. Anyway, I’d be back soon to look for a record of Claire’s quilts.
CHAPTER 9
I lived in a midcentury house on a street lined with towering liquidambar trees providing dappled shade in the summer. Their roots had broken the sidewalks, raising the concrete like so many playing cards. Our street was on the list for sidewalk repair, but in this economy, work wasn’t scheduled to begin for another fifty years.
I pulled into my driveway and a wave of
fatigue washed over me. I took the quilts into the house and dumped them on the ivory chenille sofa in my living room. Beyond the living room was an open plan kitchen and dining area that made the house feel more spacious. I plopped down on the sofa and closed my eyes. It was only seven o’clock, but felt like midnight, and my emotional fuse was about to blow.
I opened my eyes. The living area soothed me with its neutral colors ranging from cream to taupe. I loved the way the white gauzy curtains dressed the windows. Watercolor paintings of blue and orange beach scenes added spots of color, as did the blue and orange pillows and area rug. This was a cozy space where a person could put up her feet—totally the opposite of Siobhan Terry’s vast and formal living room.
I hadn’t lied to Siobhan. Claire really had looked like she’d just fallen asleep on the floor. You’d think a murder scene would look a lot messier. Then there was the matter of the blood on her hands. How could someone who was drugged end up with blood on her hands?
I touched a pillowcase, curious to see the other quilts, but decided to wait until after I ate something. I nuked some macaroni and cheese and sliced some Persian cucumbers and sprinkled them with rice vinegar, salt, and pepper. Just five hours ago I’d eaten cucumber sandwiches with Claire Terry’s mother.
I ran my hand appreciatively over the new apricot-colored marble counters. They looked as pristine as the day they were installed a year ago, and the stainless steel oven was still shiny inside. Only the microwave seemed to get a daily workout. I really needed to get my act together and cook healthier meals. I used to be a fabulous cook for my daughter and husband. That was then. Now, cooking for one hardly seemed worth the effort.
As I ate, I was intrigued by the idea of hidden messages. The thought of the thief coming after the quilts, however, was scary. Especially if the thief was Claire’s murderer.
Cleaning up after this meal meant putting a few utensils in the dishwasher and the plastic container in the recycle bin. I dried my hands on a towel and the phone rang.
“Miss Rose?” The voice was urbane and male. “This is Will Terry, Claire’s father. I want to thank you for visiting my wife today. I’m sorry I wasn’t at home to greet you.”
“Oh, Mr. Terry, I’m so sorry about your daughter. Her death is a real tragedy.”
“Yes. A parent should never outlive a child.” He cleared his throat. “I understand my wife has involved you in a wild goose chase.”
“What do you mean?”
“Siobhan believes our daughter left some mysterious messages in her quilts. My wife is desperately trying to make some sense out of Claire’s death. When she finds out there are no messages in the quilts, she might go off the deep end. She’s already hinting about organizing a séance.”
“Well, I’m not so sure, Mr. Terry. Your wife may be right about those messages.”
“I doubt it. You see, my wife is so fragile now, I’m afraid if you can’t come up with what she wants, she might have a complete breakdown.”
“What if there are messages, Mr. Terry? Wouldn’t you want to know?”
“Of course I would. What we have here is a double-edged sword, Miss Rose. As long as you have the quilts—and they are in your possession?”
“Yes.”
“As long as you have them, my wife is going to harbor great expectations. On the other hand, the higher her hopes, the harder she’ll fall in the end if you find nothing. I’ve already lost my only child. I don’t want to lose my wife, too.”
“Yes, I see what you mean. Nevertheless, she seems to really be counting on me, and I’d like to try. For her sake.”
“I’m a very rich man, Miss Rose, but I didn’t start out that way. I was a penniless Irish boy from Chicago who came to California and made good. I didn’t get to where I am by chasing rainbows. I started to fill my pot of gold in the movie industry and parlayed that into a global communications business.”
Okay, okay, I’m impressed.
“However, for my wife’s sake I’ll give you three days, after which you’ll have to return the quilts. We plan to display them during the wake on Thursday evening and after the funeral on Friday.”
“What a wonderful tribute, Mr. Terry. It’s a privilege to be able to study such important quilts. Your daughter was a gifted artist.”
The tone in his voice softened. “Thank you for understanding. I’ll call you on Wednesday to arrange for someone to pick up the quilts.”
Will Terry was pushy, a man who was used to telling people what to do. He also seemed genuinely concerned about Siobhan. I felt sorry for both of them.
I poured myself some Ruffino Chianti Classico in my favorite Moroccan tea glass painted on the outside with red and gold curlicues. I appreciated the solid reliability of the flat-bottomed tea glass because stemware tipped over too easily. I took a sip of the fruity, deep red Chianti and lamented that Will only gave me three days to crack the code of the quilts before they had to be returned. Tomorrow was Monday. I hoped Lucy and Birdie were free to help me.
The phone rang again.
“This is Detective Beavers. Could I come over and show you the composite drawing the eye witnesses came up with?”
“Now?”
“Actually, I’m nearby. I can be there in five minutes if that’s convenient.”
“Well, I suppose so.” I looked at the clock in the kitchen. The time was eight and The Closer was on. Thank God for the DVR. I never missed an episode, not even the reruns.
I hurried to the bathroom and checked myself in the mirror, smoothing my clothes over what I fondly referred to as my ample but honest curves. Maybe the extra weight in my face ironed out the wrinkles, but my skin was still tight. I wore my fifty-five years well. I put on some lipstick and ran a wide-tooth comb through my curls. What was I doing this for? I reached for a bottle of Marc Jacobs and then put it back. Too obvious.
The doorbell rang. I tugged the hem of my pink T-shirt down over the hips of my Liz Claiborne jeans and headed for the door, sucking in my stomach. So what if he smiled at me yesterday at the quilt show. I’m an idiot.
The dark circles under Beavers’s eyes were evidence of a long working day. Still, he was the kind of man who always appeared neat. His white shirt was still crisp, his blue necktie hung straight, and his gray pin-striped suit was unwrinkled. I caught the very faint scent of a woodsy cologne. “Come in, Detective. Would you like some water? Tea?”
Beavers shook his head. “No thanks.” I could have sworn he took in my geography as he casually looked at the floor. When he looked up again, my cheeks warmed.
I led him toward the kitchen. “The light is better in here.” I stretched up to sit on a stool at the island, but Beavers looped a long, easy leg around his and slid smoothly onto the seat.
He pulled the sketch out of his pocket. “Look at all familiar?”
I adjusted my glasses and studied the drawing, glad for a reason to hide my still burning cheeks. The drawing was of a stocky figure with a ski mask. The only thing showing on his face was a pair of small eyes.
“This looks like my cousin Barry.”
Beavers took out a pad and clicked the top of a pen, preparing to write.
“No, no, don’t get excited.” I held up the palm of my hand. “Barry lives in Tel Aviv and is much older than this man seems to be. I haven’t a clue who this is.”
“I’ll leave a copy with you anyway. Something might come to you later.”
“So, are you investigating the theft after all?”
“Both. I’m still not convinced the theft was a random act apart from the murder. I’m looking for a connection.”
“I agree.” I told him about my visit to Siobhan and what Claire said about her quilts being her journals and how Siobhan wanted me to figure out the hidden messages in them. “I’ve only examined two, but I think Mrs. Terry may be right. I just have to figure out what the messages are.”
“Do you mean she left notes in them?”
“That’s what I thought at first, but
there were no hidden written notes. I want you to see something.” I went to one of the pillowcases and pulled out Mother’s Asleep. I showed him the silver knots on the clouds and the teardrop beads. “This is symbolic for rainmaking.”
Beavers looked skeptical. “How is that relevant?”
“Well, if you seed clouds with silver something-or-other, they start to rain.”
Beavers looked impressed. “Silver iodide. So, what’s the message?”
“If I can solve that one, maybe I can work out who the thief is.”
“How?”
“I’m thinking maybe the thief stole Claire’s quilt because he didn’t want anyone to figure out what it could reveal.”
Beavers ran his fingers through his gray hair. He looked tired.
I studied the wrinkles around his dark eyes and the way the skin of his eyelids drooped. Definitely the right age range. I snuck a look at his left hand. No ring.
“Sounds a little far-fetched to me.”
“Your partner, Kaplan, definitely thought so, too. When Mrs. Terry tried to tell him about the messages, he blew her off.”
“He never mentioned anything to me. I’m sure he didn’t think it was worth pursuing.”
“Neither does Will Terry. He doesn’t want me to research this because he thinks his wife won’t be able to stand the disappointment if I come up empty handed. Still, I don’t think Siobhan Terry is deluded. If there are hidden stories in Claire’s quilts, I’m determined to find them.”
“Finding hidden messages is a long shot, but if what you say is true, you may be getting in over your head.”
“Oh?”
“If the thief finds out you’re poking around, you could be in danger.” Beavers shifted, leaned forward, and looked me hard in the eyes. “This would be a good time to back away, Ms. Rose, and let the police handle this investigation.”
I hated ultimatums, even from sexy brown eyes. This was the second one thrown at me tonight by a man in charge. How many of these did I have to suffer in one day? “How many quilters do you have on the police force?”
