by Diane Kelly
Brigit was like a shark in a feeding frenzy, whipping her head back and forth. I had no idea how to stop her.
Wait. Maybe I do.
“Squirrel!” I hollered.
Brigit immediately stopped fighting the quilt and dropped it from her teeth. She looked at me, spun on her paws, and ran ninety to nothing for the back door. I tossed the blanket back into the shopping bag and ran after her. She was scratching at the back door like she’d tear through it if I couldn’t get it open fast enough.
I turned the dead bolt and threw the door open.
She bolted into the center of the yard, stopped, and looked around, lifting her nose to scent the air. When she smelled no squirrel in the vicinity, she looked back at me with an expression of absolute disgust.
FORTY-TWO
CHEAP TRICKS
Brigit
Crying squirrel? That was a cheap trick. She had half a mind to pounce on Megan, take her to the ground and show her who was boss. What had gotten into her partner today? First she encourages Brigit to tear up a blanket after all that scolding she’d given the dog for chewing up her shoes, then she goes for the false squirrel ploy. Brigit felt tricked and cheated. Her first owner had pulled pranks like this on her all the time, but he’d been an asshole. Why Megan had done it, she didn’t know.
At least Megan seemed sorry. She gave Brigit another slice of cheese and scratched her behind the ears. Still, Brigit was mad at her partner. She trotted off in a huff, plopped down on the couch, and lowered her head.
FORTY-THREE
WIRED
Father Emmanuel
He called Jebediah to his office and handed him a wad of cash.
“I need you to buy razor wire,” Emmanuel said. “Lots of it. Enough to run the entire perimeter of the refuge.”
Jebediah said, “Okay,” asking no questions.
If only everyone were so obedient.
FORTY-FOUR
REMOTE POSSIBILITIES
Megan
Tuesday morning, I was ready to return to the store with the damaged quilt. But first, I had to sew my message into it. The night before, I had taken the quilt with me to a fabric store, where I carefully selected the shade of thread that most closely matched the trim. I’d bought a package of the thinnest needles they sold to minimize the marks the needle would make on the fabric. I had also purchased a quarter yard of cotton fabric similar to that used to make the blanket. Other than patching the occasional small hole in my clothes, I’d never sewn much of anything. I’d need to practice on the sample before sewing the message into the blanket trim.
Now that I had all of the necessary supplies, there was the matter of the message. What, exactly, should it say? I sat down on my bed, holding the needle and thread aloft, and placed a call to Detective Jackson. “What should I write on the quilt?”
“The message needs to be cryptic,” she said. “Something that only the woman who stitched the cry for help would recognize as a response to her earlier message.”
I pondered things for another moment. “What if I write ‘how, when, and where’?” After all, we’d need to know how to help her, when to do it, and where she’d be when we executed the plan. “You think she’d get it?”
“I think she will. After all, she was sharp enough to think of sewing the message in the blanket in the first place. She seems to be a smart cookie.”
We ended the call and I readied the swatch of cotton. What font should I use? With its straight lines, block lettering would be easier to sew and probably take fewer stiches, but it was also more likely to stand out among the curved lines on the trim of the quilt. A script style would blend in better. I spent fifteen minutes sewing the words “how, when, where” in different sizes, comparing them to the quilting pattern on the blanket. Though shorter stitches made more needle marks, they also held the thread tight to the fabric, unlike the loose stitches the baby’s mother had been forced to sew in haste. Once my technique was perfected, I stitched the message along the trim near the damaged section.
When I finished, I laid the blanket down on my bed to take a look. Knowing the words were there, they seemed obvious to me, like flashing beacons. Better to get an unbiased opinion.
“Frankie!” I called to my roommate. “Can you come here a second?”
She’d been working a double shift to cover for someone on vacation, so I hadn’t yet had a chance to tell her of my ingenious plan. If she didn’t notice the words, maybe nobody else—other than the baby’s mother—would, either.
Frankie stepped into my doorway, still in her pajamas. I waved her in. “Look at this quilt and tell me what you see.”
She walked over and looked down. “I see Brigit got a hold of it, if that’s what you mean.”
“Notice anything else?”
She turned from me back to the quilt, leaning over it. She ran her eyes back and forth for a moment or two before standing back up. “Nothing’s catching my eye. What am I supposed to be seeing?”
I pointed out the tiny words I’d stitched along the trim.
“Wow,” she said. “I never would have spotted the words if you hadn’t pointed them out.”
Ugh. Now I was worried I’d made them too inconspicuous, that the baby’s mother wouldn’t notice them, either. But I had to take a chance and get things moving along.
An hour later, I was back at the country store. The clerk I’d spoken to originally was at the counter, but there was no flicker of recognition when I showed her the blanket. Being out of uniform and without my K-9 partner, I likely made a very different impression.
“What happened?” she asked. “Did a dog get a hold of this?”
I decided it was best to leave the dog out of things, lest she put two and two together, remember me as the K-9 officer who’d come by previously, and inadvertently out me to the People of Peace. “No,” I said. “It was the bedsprings. I’ve got the old-fashioned kind. The quilt got caught in them and when I tugged it out it tore the corner to pieces.”
She looked over the rest of the quilt, which remained intact. “I assume they can fix this,” she said. “I’m not sure how long it will take, and I have no idea what they’ll charge, though.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I told her. “I’m sure whatever it costs, it will be less than buying a new one.”
I left her my cell number to call once she had some information.
“I won’t know anything until next Monday,” she said. “That’s the day the guy from the church brings the stuff in each week.”
“No problem,” I said, though to be honest, I was screaming inside. Why does this case have to move so freaking slow?!?
* * *
As I was out on patrol Tuesday afternoon, a request for assistance came in from the Fairmount neighborhood. “We’ve got another stolen remote,” the dispatcher said. “Who can respond?”
I grabbed my mic and squeezed the talk button. “Officers Luz and Brigit responding.”
I aimed for the address the dispatcher had provided, keeping an eye out for a Suburban along the way. I saw none. I saw no ugly guy with a nose like raw meat, nor a Latino guy in need of a haircut, either.
As I drew near the house, my eyes spotted a late-model white Chrysler 300 in the drive. Nice. The car, as well as the professional landscaping, told me whoever lived here wasn’t hurting for money. Unfortunately, it would tell the thieves the same thing.
I pulled up to the curb. The curtains on the front window parted an inch or two as someone peered out. The drapes closed as I climbed out of the car. I let Brigit out of her enclosure and took her to the door with me.
I’d just raised my hand to knock when the door swung open.
Looking up at me was a woman sporting an abundance of gold jewelry and well-coiffed, champagne-hued hair. It was no wonder she’d peeked out through the curtains. She was probably too short to reach the peephole. She looked to be in her late sixties or early seventies, around Ollie’s age.
Her eyes moved down from me
to Brigit, who was nearly as big as she was. I’d even say the dog might outweigh her. “My goodness!” she cried. “You’re a big pup, aren’t you?”
Brigit wagged her tail.
“May I pet her?” the woman asked.
“She’d love it.”
The woman reached out a hand and stroked Brigit’s head for a moment. When she returned her attention to me, I held out a hand. “Officer Megan Luz.” I angled my head to indicate my partner. “The big girl is Brigit.”
The woman took my hand. “I’m Beverly Rubinstein.”
Introductions complete, I said, “I understand someone stole the remote for your garage door?”
“Yes. It happened just a few minutes ago,” Beverly said. “It was the strangest thing. I was bringing in my groceries from the car.” She gestured back to the kitchen, where several bags stood on the countertop. “I’d left the back door open on my car so I could get the bags out. After I carried the first load inside, I was coming back through the living room when I spotted someone through the front window. A young man’s heinie was sticking out of my car. He was halfway in the backseat, reaching over to the front. I had no idea what he was doing, and I was so surprised I couldn’t move or even speak! He backed out and hurried off. I don’t think he even realized I’d seen him. When I went out to my car and looked things over, I found the remote was gone.”
It was broad daylight and the car had been left open, the driver certain to return. In other words, the thieves were getting more brazen. That wasn’t a good sign. “There’s been a rash of these thefts in the area. The burglars steal the remotes with the hopes of using them to get into the houses and steal valuables.”
Beverly frowned. “What will they think of next?”
“No telling.” Unfortunately. Seemed that criminals often stayed a step ahead of law enforcement, figuring out new and crafty ways to rip off other people.
I glanced around the space. There were dozens of pictures of what I presumed to be Beverly’s children and grandchildren on the walls and shelves. Given that they all resembled each other fairly closely, it was difficult to tell how many she had. The photos might have chronicled the lives of only two or three kids over the course of decades, or they might be recent photos of twelve different children. At any rate, there didn’t seem to be much of value in the living room where we stood. The adjacent dining room, though, was a whole other story. The china cabinet was laden with silver pieces, everything from chafing dishes to platters to a tea service for twelve. She had an extensive collection of crystal, too, and it didn’t look like the cheap stuff. In fact, when I stepped over to take a closer look, I noticed most of it bore the Waterford mark.
I gestured to the cabinet. “I see you have a lot of valuable pieces here.”
“My husband and I were both the youngest in our families. Everything got passed down to us, eventually.”
“Is your husband home?” I asked.
She walked over to the mantel and put a loving hand on a large urn. “He’s right here.”
He wouldn’t be much help if a burglar broke in. Not unless she used his urn to konk the thief over the head. “So you live alone, then?”
“At the moment, yes. This is actually my son’s house. I’ve lived here with him and his wife and their three kids going on five years now. He’s a political science professor at Texas Wesleyan University. He’s on a sabbatical in Spain until the end of the spring semester. Took the family with him. They invited me to go along, but I decided to stay put. Someone would need to keep an eye on the house. Besides, I’ve got a dressmaking business here.”
She held out an arm to indicate the study through the open French doors to her right. The room apparently doubled as her sewing room. Four rolling garment racks lined the walls. Hanging from them were dozens of colorful costumes in various sizes, ranging from child-sized to adult. Judging from the sequins, netting, and ruffles, they appeared to be dance costumes. Some seemed to have already been altered, while others still bore the telltale pins indicating where the material still needed to be taken in. At the end of one of the racks hung what looked to be the bodice of a yet-to-be-finished wedding dress. A sewing machine sat on a sewing table in the back corner. The broad cherrywood desk was covered with ivory satin, tiny cloth-covered buttons, shiny sequins, and pearlescent beads.
“You make wedding dresses?” I asked.
“I sure do,” she said. “Sometimes brides come in with a pattern. Other times I work with a custom design of my own. I do alterations for several of the dance studios in town, too. Sometimes I even make costumes for theater productions or the Renaissance fairs. My daughter-in-law used to help me while the kids were at school, but now that she’s gone I’ve got more work than I can handle.” She gave me a hopeful look. “You don’t happen to sew, do you?”
The only thing I’d sewn recently was the message in the quilt. “Sorry. Never learned. Maybe you can put an ad online for a helper.”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
Returning to the matter at hand, which was Beverly’s safety, I asked, “Do you have other children in the area? Someone else who can come stay with you for a few days to make sure you’ll be safe?”
“Not really,” she said. “My son is my only child. All my friends are my age. Not sure they’d be much help. I’m in better shape than most of them.”
“What about a neighbor?”
“You know how it is these days,” she said with a sigh. “Nobody stays put for very long. They move in and out so quickly I hardly learn their names before the houses go up for sale again.”
I cut a glance at her front door but saw no keypad mounted beside it. “Does the house have a security system?”
“No,” she said. “My son tried to talk me into getting one installed before they left, but I didn’t want to fool with it. I’m not good with all those high-tech gadgets.”
If the house didn’t have a high-tech security system, maybe it had a low-tech one.
“What about a dog?” I hadn’t heard one bark, but maybe she had an outdoor dog in the backyard. If so, I’d suggest she let it inside.
“I’ve got Pumpernickel.” She gestured toward the corner of the room.
I followed her arm to see a chubby Chihuahua asleep in a round fleece doggie bed. He hadn’t stirred when Brigit and I came in, and had continued to lie there in total oblivion since. Brigit wandered over and gave the dog a thorough sniff. Still he didn’t stir. Disappointed, or perhaps insulted, Brigit stared at him and issued an insistent Arf! When he still failed to respond, she looked up at me, her expression saying, This dog has really bad manners.
“He can’t hear, can he?” I asked.
“Not well,” Beverly said. “He’s seventeen years old.”
Darn. He’d be useless as a watchdog. He’d make a good doorstop, though. Or maybe we could drag his bed out into the middle of the floor. The thieves might trip over him.
So no family, no security system, and a potential victim who’d be unable to defend herself. All of this information worried me. Any thief who set his sights on this woman’s house would have a jackpot waiting for him. I wondered if the thief had seen the woman, realized she’d be easy to overpower. I feared what could happen if the thieves surprised her, or vice versa. Sometimes, what began as a simple burglary ended up as a homicide when a homeowner unexpectedly got in the way.
I whipped out my pad and took some notes. When I finished, I gave Beverly the usual warnings. “Keep your doors and windows locked,” I told her, “and manually lock your garage door so that they won’t be able to get it open.”
“How do I do that?” she asked.
“I’ll show you.”
We went into her garage from the kitchen. She flipped on the lights. Inside the garage were the usual implements. A lawnmower. Leaf blower. Yard tools. A large plastic cooler and folding lawn chairs. A white baby crib had been disassembled and leaned against the wall next to a padded high chair. Perhaps Beverly’s son and his wife
planned to go for a fourth child at some point. There was also an ancient dress form, the expandable kind with a hand crank to make it expand or contract, as well as wheels so it could be moved around. Beverly must have used it in her dressmaking business at some point. Someone, probably one of her grandkids, had improvised a head by placing an orange plastic pumpkin on top of it, the type with a handle and a jack-o’-lantern face that kids used for trick-or-treating. They’d also strapped a bright red nylon water vest on the form and draped a hula hoop slantways across the shoulders. The look was simultaneously creepy and amusing.
While Brigit sniffed the storage boxes and garbage cans, I walked over to the garage door and slid the metal bar to the side. It locked into place with a click. “There,” I said. “Now the thieves can’t get in, even with the remote. Call a garage door company as soon as possible. They can come out and reprogram your unit, give you a new device.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll do that right away.”
“If anybody comes to your door selling magazines,” I told her, “call 911 immediately. We suspect the burglars have been going to the victims’ doors posing as magazine salesmen to see if anyone’s home before they break in.”
“Oh, I don’t open my door for anybody I don’t know.”
“That’s a good policy,” I told her, “but if they think nobody’s home, they might try to get inside. Since they won’t be able get in through the garage now, it’s possible they might decide to smash a window.”
“Oh, my!” Beverly clutched her hand to her chest, her diamond rings glinting in the light from the overhead bulb. “I hope they don’t do that!”
“That why it’s best to speak to them through the door, tell them you’re not interested in whatever they’re selling. That way they’ll know someone’s home and hopefully they won’t take a chance on trying to get inside.”
The woman looked pensive. “You think they’ll come back? Really?”
I hated to tell her the truth, but I knew I had to. “Yes,” I said. “I think the chances are good. I’ll be sure to swing by as often as I can, okay?”
