by Mary Marks
“Huh?”
“Exactly. You don’t have anyone who can do what I can. I know quilts, Detective.”
“And I know thieves and murderers, Ms. Rose.”
I was getting pissed. “Well, if I run into any, I’ll give you a call.”
Beavers stood and looked at me. “Let’s hope it won’t be too late by then.”
I thought I saw him looking at my bosom again. I hated when that happened. I stood and crossed my arms. Beavers towered over me by about ten inches so I craned my neck to look at him. “Detective! Were you just looking at my chest?”
He smiled. “No, but if I were, you couldn’t blame me for admiring a flower in full bloom, Ms. Rose.”
I desperately searched for a comeback. “I—I have thorns.”
Beavers chuckled as he closed the door behind him.
I slumped against the door. Oh God, I’m an idiot. Thorns?
A bank of fog settled over my brain. I hit the familiar wall of fatigue and pain that happened so often when stressed. I wanted to look at the quilts, but my mind was beyond processing any more data. The clock read nine-thirty, and I headed toward bed. As excited as I was to have these wonderful quilts to study, they would just have to wait until morning.
I stepped into a steamy shower and let the jets of hot water coax my neck, shoulders, and back to relax a little, but my overall pain index was still high. In my grandmother’s day, my condition might have been called rheumatism. Nowadays it was called fibromyalgia. My body was so sensitive, I could predict a rainstorm three days before, and the weather didn’t have to be local. I could tell when it drizzled in Fresno two hundred miles away.
I toweled off, put on a clean pair of cotton jersey pajamas, and took a Soma. I nuked a long fabric tube filled with raw grains of rice and lavender buds in the microwave. Then I wrapped it around my neck and shoulders, breathing in the waves of lavender fragrance. The heat penetrated my muscles like honey on a waffle. I crawled into bed with my rice bag collar and almost immediately fell asleep.
MONDAY
CHAPTER 10
The persistent ringing of the phone woke me out of a deep sleep. The sun was up and the clock read eight. I’d slept almost eleven hours and felt much better. Most of the achiness was gone. I reached for the phone.
“So, tell me what happened.”
“What?” I cleared my throat.
“With Claire’s mother. What happened? I kept waiting for your call yesterday. I couldn’t wait any longer. Did I wake you?”
“No problem.” I yawned. “Listen, Lucy, I know it’s only Monday, but are you free today? Can you get Birdie and come over? There’s a lot to tell you, and I have some of Claire’s quilts here.”
“No way!”
“Just come over and I’ll tell you everything.”
An hour later we were eating pastries out of a pink box from Bea’s Bakery and sipping fresh coffee in my living room. I told them Claire said her quilts were her journals and Siobhan asked me to search for the messages. I explained I’d searched Claire’s house and found four quilts and Will Terry told me I could only keep them until Wednesday.
“Will you help me?”
“Does a chicken have lips?” Lucy joked. “I’m dying to see them.”
“There’s one more thing. Detective Beavers came over last night to show me the composite drawing of the thief, but I didn’t recognize him.”
Birdie sat up straighter. “Yes, he came over to my house yesterday afternoon. I didn’t recognize him either.”
“Neither did I.” Lucy shook her head.
“I also told the detective about the possible messages in the quilts. At first he was skeptical and then he warned me to back off and leave the investigating to the police. Said poking around could be dangerous.”
Lucy peered at me through narrowed eyes. “You know, he’s a good-looking man, and I didn’t see a ring on his finger.”
“I didn’t notice,” I lied. If Lucy knew I was the tiniest bit attracted to a man, she’d go out of her way to push us together. Lucy and Birdie worried about my being single, but I was perfectly happy living alone. Besides, I hadn’t been particularly successful with romantic relationships in the past. My daughter, my uncle, my quilting, and my friends were my life. Why would I want more?
I picked up the pillowcases and walked over to the dining room table situated at the end of the living room near the kitchen. “So, let’s open these up and make a list of what we’ve got.”
All of these quilts were meant to be used as wall hangings and none were larger than four feet by four feet. I showed them Mother’s Asleep and pointed out the silver seeds in the clouds and the water drop beads below. “Doesn’t this remind you of rainmaking?”
Lucy bent over the table to get a closer look. “Yes, but I don’t recall seeing this quilt. Did Claire ever show it?”
Birdie picked up a corner of the quilt. “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure we’d remember a quilt as odd as this one.”
I reached in a pillowcase and pulled out the quilt I removed from Claire’s living room wall. “Here’s Secret Garden.”
Lucy reached out and gently touched it. “Ooh, I remember this from the show two years ago. Wasn’t it featured in Pieces magazine?”
“Yeah. Can you make anything out of the design?”
Birdie shook her head. “Just looks like a painting of a tranquil garden.”
Lucy nodded in agreement.
“Let’s look at the next one then.”
We looked at the label on the back of a quilt measuring about three feet by four feet. We didn’t feel any notes sewn inside, and the only writing was on the label: Jamey I Hardly Knew Ye. The traditional pieced blocks on the front were composed of squares and triangles within triangles. The whole thing was also embellished with French knots.
“I remember this quilt.” Birdie smiled. “Jamey was in our show a few years ago. This block design looks like something I once did called Cat’s Cradle.”
“Well, let’s look in BlockBase to make sure of the name.” I booted up my laptop and opened the software program containing a database for thousands of traditional block designs. I typed in Cat’s Cradle in the search box, and up popped a picture of Claire’s block.
“Look how many names this block has. Cat’s Cradle, Double Pyramids, Dove at the Window, Flying Birds, and Wandering Lover.”
Lucy pointed her finger. “You know, the title of this quilt contains a man’s name—Jamey. What if he was Claire’s ‘wandering lover’?”
Birdie patted Lucy on the back. “Brilliant! Do we know if she had a lover?”
“Well, when I searched for the key to Claire’s quilt cupboard, I discovered a half-full box of condoms in her panty drawer.”
Lucy nodded. “There you go. Now, if the condoms were in her sewing room, I’d say she could have been using them as grips to pull a stuck needle out of a quilt. Since they were in with her panties, we have to assume they were being used as God intended.”
“That’s pretty funny coming from a Catholic girl, but you’re right. Aside from those little rubber circles you can buy in the quilt store, I’ve seen quilters use finger cots and even pieces of balloons to grip on to a stubborn needle—but never a condom.”
“What kind of panties?” asked Lucy. “You can sometimes tell a lot about a person by their underwear.”
“Black lacy thongs, about the size of the palm of my hand.”
“Bingo. Those are ‘do me’ panties.” She wiggled her fingers in air quotes. “Claire could’ve been having an affair with someone named Jamey. Maybe he was the wandering lover. They could have fought and he killed her.”
“So why steal her new quilt and not this one?”
Lucy shrugged. “You said this quilt was in a locked cupboard, right? Maybe he didn’t know about this one.”
Birdie smoothed her hand over the quilt. “Just look at all these French knots. They remind me of an odd kind of painting they did. What was it called?”
<
br /> “Pointillism?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“You know what else they remind me of?” asked Lucy. “The funny pictures in old-timey newspapers. Do you remember when you were a kid looking really close at the Sunday funnies and discovering the colors weren’t solid but made out of hundreds of tiny dots of ink?”
“Well, if there’s a picture in these knots I don’t see it.”
The next quilt was an appliqué Claire named Night Flower. Stunningly detailed red roses were appliquéd over a field of navy blue. Each flower was created by layering the petals one at a time. The petals of the roses were attached with great skill, using invisible stitches around the edges. Claire arranged the roses in the middle of the quilt in the shape of a T.
Small four-leaf clovers nestled randomly around the edges of the quilt created a border of green. Claire had used a great deal of skill to appliqué those small inside curves without visible stitches. Did she use silk thread? Silk was thin and slinky and tended to sink into the weave of the fabric where it couldn’t be seen. Sewn in among the clovers were the same clear beads in Claire’s other quilts and, of course, the ubiquitous French knots in the background.
“I don’t remember Claire ever entering this in a show. Do you?”
Both Birdie and Lucy shook their heads.
“Look at this. Here are those beads again. They must mean something if she has them sewn in so many quilts.”
Birdie fingered one of the beads. “Well, look at the pear shape. Maybe they don’t just symbolize water drops. Maybe they’re tears.”
Lucy reached out to finger the beads. “If they represent tears, she must’ve lived one really sad life. Many of her quilts seem to have those beads. Whoa . . . Look! Do you see this? The quilting stitches are so close to the roses, I almost missed them.”
I adjusted my glasses to get a closer look.
Lucy pointed to the visible, even quilting stitches. Unlike appliqué stitches, quilting stitches are meant to be seen. They’re the things holding the three layers of a quilt together. They’re usually sewn in a regular pattern yielding a secondary geometric design of intersecting straight lines, regular curves, or stippling. These stitches were different.
I could hardly believe my eyes. “There’s an outline of a woman who appears to be lying behind the roses. She’s almost hidden under the flowers. See? There’s just an outline, but her legs are slightly spread to either side and her arms outstretched. You can see her head peeking out from behind the top of the T and sort of hanging down on the side. Like a crucifixion, only the body is under the cross, not on top of it.”
Birdie’s eyes widened. “This is just like finding an image of the Virgin Mary in a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“Better. I’m going to write this all down in my notepad.”
I looked at what I had so far. Rainmaking. Crucifixion. Tears. Lovers. I was convinced we were on to something but couldn’t quite figure out how to find the story. Clearly no paper notes lurked in any of Claire’s quilts. Siobhan said Claire kept a list of all her quilts. I needed more data to connect the dots. I needed to see Claire’s other quilts, and that meant going back to the house to look for the list.
“I’m starved.” Lucy put her hand on her stomach.
“I’ll fix us something to eat. What do you feel like?”
“How about grilled cheese sandwiches?”
CHAPTER 11
I took out my black cast iron skillet. I preferred cast iron over any other kind of cookware. A well-seasoned pan had a natural nonstick quality and cast iron distributed the heat evenly. My bubbie was the best cook I’d ever known, and she always used cast iron pans, one set for meat and one for dairy. The weight of those pans made the wooden shelves in the pantry sag over time. My uncle Isaac still lived in our old house, still cooked with those pans, and the shelves still sagged. I totally got why he didn’t fix them; doing so would be like erasing decades of family history.
I put slices of sharp cheddar cheese on pieces of challah and sprinkled each with a hint of powdered garlic. I slapped a second piece of bread on top of each one and buttered the outside of the sandwiches. When the pan was hot enough, I cooked the sandwiches a couple minutes on each side. The bread turned a golden brown and the yellow cheese dripped luxuriously down the crust of the bread. I garnished each plate with a handful of baby carrots and fresh apple quarters. You had to draw the calorie line somewhere.
Since the dining table was covered with quilts, we sat at the kitchen island. The island served as a divider between the cooking area and the living area and also served as an informal eating surface. We climbed on the high stools, and Lucy’s were the only feet resting on the floor. Birdie and I dangled like children at the grown-ups’ table. Birdie picked up her sandwich and turned it over. “Does anybody see an image in their grilled cheese?”
I munched on an apple quarter and studied my plate. “I think I see a picture of Elvis Presley.”
Lucy perked up and reached for my plate. “For real? His image could bring hundreds on eBay. Let me see.”
Birdie started to giggle.
“Dang it, Martha.” Lucy handed my plate back.
When we finished eating, we washed the grease off our hands and examined Claire’s quilts again.
Finally Lucy stepped away from the table and looked at me. “I’m not seeing anything new.”
Birdie shook her head. “Me neither.”
I took several photos of each quilt with my digital camera and then folded them back up. “We need more data. I’m going back to Claire’s house and search for the list of quilts Siobhan mentioned.”
“We’d offer to go, but both Birdie and I need to get back home.”
“Tomorrow’s Quilty Tuesday anyway. Let’s meet here at the usual time, if that’s okay with you. I should have the list by then.”
Birdie picked up the empty pink bakery box and put it in the recycle bin next to my sink. “Don’t worry about getting goodies. I’ll bake something tonight.”
“Great. Thanks.” I hoped Birdie would either make her coconut ginger cookies or my very favorite, her applesauce cake. She was very liberal with the sugar and the butter, just the way I liked it. I hugged each one before they walked out the door. “See you mañana at the usual time.”
After they left, I put the quilts back in the pillowcases. I was afraid if the thief ever figured out the quilts were in my house, he wouldn’t hesitate to come after them, so I put them at the bottom of the laundry hamper under some dirty clothes. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t go through my dirty laundry. Another chess move. What I didn’t realize at the time was although thieves can come when you’re not at home, they can also come when you’re there.
I arrived at Claire’s around two and let myself in with the key. The cat ran up to greet me. “Come on, kitty. Let’s check on your food.” I entered Claire’s sewing room five minutes later and immediately saw something was very wrong. The quilt cupboard I emptied yesterday and relocked had been jimmied open. Siobhan was right about the thief coming back for Claire’s quilts. I looked inside the empty cupboard but didn’t touch anything. If my plan worked, the thief’s prints would be all over it.
If I got the heck out of the house and called Detective Beavers about the open cupboard, he’d make this a crime scene again, and I’d never get to finish my search. The quilts were due to go back to the Terrys in two days, but first I wanted to make sure I was alone. I picked up a pair of eight-inch sewing shears to defend myself and tiptoed through the house, my heart pounding in my throat. The cat padded right beside me. “Why couldn’t you be a Rottweiler?” I whispered.
There was a broken window in the guest room, with glass all over the floor. The window faced the front of the house and was hidden behind a tall, dense hibiscus—the perfect secluded entry point. The thief broke the stationary side of the window in order to reach in and unlock it. Then he removed the screen and slid aside the moving half of the window, creating a smooth entryway. A
five-minute search of the house confirmed the thief was long gone. I definitely ought to call Beavers. Just not yet.
I headed back to the sewing room to look for a quilter’s diary. Many quilters kept a sort of journal with photos and histories of each of their quilts—like when it was made and who it was made for.
A journal might also contain small samples of the fabrics used or anecdotal comments such as This quilt took me three years to complete, or The floral fabrics came from my daughter’s little dresses and my grandmother’s feed sacks. I kept thick loose leaf binders with separate pages of photos and text about every quilt I made. I was on my fifth binder.
I searched the wall of books first but didn’t find anything. I opened the drawers and cupboards one by one. Nothing. Where could Claire’s journals be?
The cat and I walked back through the bedroom to Claire’s office, passing again the luxurious silks and Mary Cassatt painting. Funny the thief didn’t take the painting. Maybe he didn’t know what it was worth. A four-drawer metal file cabinet stood against the office wall.
I hesitated to touch Claire’s personal files. I reminded myself I was only after the list of her quilts, so I shouldn’t snoop into anything else. Right. Like I was really going to listen to myself.
The files were color coded and neatly labeled. I went to the green Income section first, thinking that since she had sold many of her quilts, she would have filed the list there. Wrong.
Well heck, since I was already there, I might as well take a teensy little peek at her financials. I knew from watching lots of crime shows that money was one of the main motives for murder. So, who might benefit from her death?
Claire kept a huge investment portfolio managed by J.P. Morgan and had a half-million-dollar annual income from something called the Terry Family Trust. I could have lived on the income from her CDs alone and still had enough left over to buy a new Corolla every year.
Claire had been very wealthy but she hadn’t flaunted it. She seemed so shy at the guild meetings and liked talking to Birdie. From her modest behavior, I would never have guessed she was worth so much. If the rumors about her messy divorce were true, I could see why. A lot of money had been at stake.
