“You are too good to us. Thank you.” She tried to pay, but he refused, reminding her that her aunt was providing free labor at his food cart all week.
“Any calls yet?” Harriet asked Lauren when she’d returned to her booth.
“Geez, you’ve been gone, what? Ten minutes? My nerds are good, but they can’t breech the time-space continuum. It’ll take awhile for them to mobilize. And Jabba is going to drive by the homeless camp.”
“One of them is named Jabba?” Harriet asked, incredulous.
“His parents were Star Wars fans, what can I tell you? And no, he doesn’t look like a cross between a slug and the Cheshire cat. He’s tall and skinny.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.” Harriet said. She knew all about parents and names.
“That’s a terrible thing to do to a child,” Connie proclaimed.
“He seems to like it,” Lauren said. “And the other guys are all jealous and think he has cool parents. He goes by JB when he’s out in the real world.”
“I don’t care what his name is if he finds tattoo guy,” Harriet said and handed out the burritos.
“This doesn’t seem like sixties food,” Lauren said.
“I’m sure people ate burritos in the sixties,” Harriet said.
“Only if they lived in northern Mexico,” Connie said and laughed. “I think burritos are more popular in America than they are in most of Mexico.”
“Mmmm,” Lauren said around a mouthful of chip and guacamole. “He does make great guacamole. Did they have that in the sixties?” She looked at Connie.
“I think the Aztecs invented it,” Connie informed them. “It’s been around forever.”
“So, it qualifies,” Lauren said.
“I wish we knew who tattoo guy is,” Harriet said, changing the subject. “It’s hard to imagine how Jenny could be connected to him.”
“Is it?” Connie commented. “What do we really know about each other?”
“We know a lot about the Loose Threads,” Lauren answered. “Most of them have lived in Foggy Point forever.”
“Not really,” Connie countered. “Most of us have lived here a long time, but not forever. Very few of our group were born and raised in Foggy Point. Our lives before coming here are taken at face value. Whatever we tell people about ourselves is what is accepted as truth.”
“You mean Harriet didn’t really grow up all over Europe? She really lived in Columbus, Ohio, before coming here?” Lauren said.
“Harriet did not grow up in Ohio,” Connie said. “But yes, that is the idea. Jenny clearly had another life we don’t know about, including being raised in a commune, and it wouldn’t be a big surprise if she knew more than one tattooed person from that life.”
“Most of us don’t do that, though,” Harriet said. “Sure, everyone embellishes some, but the core of what we share is true. At least, I choose to believe that most people are honest and upright.”
“I think we all know you’re a little more naive than the average quilter,” Lauren said.
Lauren’s phone rang before Harriet could come up with a cutting response.
“He’s where? Thanks, I owe you guys one,” Lauren said and then pocketed her phone. “He’s in Annie’s,” she said to Connie and Harriet.
“Let’s go,” Harriet said and they gathered up their purses and coats and headed to the parking lot.
“What’s the plan, Kemo sabe?” Lauren asked as Harriet pulled to the curb and parked a block away from Annie’s coffee shop on Ship Street.
“I thought we could go in and get drinks.”
“Well, that’s brilliant.”
“Oh, hush, and let me finish. We get drinks, and then on the way to our table, we ‘notice’ the guy then pull out some of the money Jenny dropped and say we thought we saw him drop it in the parking lot.”
“And if he demands the rest of the money?”
“I’m not giving him all of Jenny’s money.”
“Are you going to tell him we know Jenny?”
“Not if I don’t have to. We don’t know who he is or what their relationship is. Our goal is to find out without revealing any more than we have to.”
“Okay, let’s get this over with.” Lauren unbuckled her seatbelt and got out of the car.
Annie was a retired county librarian who had spent years making people toss their drinks before they came into her building. The day after her last day of work, she bought her coffee shop, lining the walls with books so people could drink coffee and read to their hearts’ content.
Harriet and Lauren entered the shop and casually dropped their coats on chairs at a table near the tattooed stranger. Lauren made a show of choosing a book while Harriet walked up to the library table that had been converted into a counter. She ordered two mocha drinks and joined Lauren at their table. Annie herself delivered the drinks, asking about the festival before returning to the coffee bar.
“I thought she’d never leave,” Lauren whispered. “By the way, see that guy in the gray cardigan sweater and black-framed glasses?”
Harriet looked across the room at a young man bent over a large book that lay open on the table in front of him.
“He’s one of mine.”
“Good to know,” Harriet said and took a deep breath. “Show time. I guess.”
“Don’t blow it,” Lauren cautioned.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Harriet replied in a low tone then stood up, pulling two bills from her pocket as she went. “Excuse me,” she said when she’d reached tattoo man’s table.
He jumped like he’d been shocked.
Close up, Harriet could see that not only did he have a lot of ink on one side of his face but he had a bar sticking through the top of one ear, metal barbells through the eyebrow on the tattooed side, and a large hole in the earlobe on that same side was held open with a black ring. His foot tapped a silent rhythm on the floor.
“I was at the sixties festival this morning, in the parking lot,” she said, clearing her throat. She could feel sweat forming at her hairline.
The man stared at the surface of his table without saying anything. His clothes gave off the sweet-smoky odor of marijuana, leaving little doubt about what he’d been doing since she’d seen him.
Harriet held the money out to him.
“I found this on the ground. I thought I saw you talking to a woman there. I thought maybe you dropped it.”
The man looked up at her for the first time. Harriet nearly did a double-take, but forced her face to remain still. He was much older than his wiry frame, tattooed face and straggly hair had made him appear at first glance.
“Do I know you?” he finally said. “What makes you think this would be mine?”
It was her turn to stare.
“This is a small town,” she finally said. “We don’t get many people with facial tattoos on just one side of their face. I guess I was mistaken. Sorry I bothered you.” She started to draw the hand with the bills toward her, but he reached out like a snake striking and snatched them from her before she could put them back in her pocket.
“Maybe it was me,” he said.
Harriet didn’t move.
“Thank you,” he said finally and went back to staring, this time at the coffee in his cup.
“I’m Harriet,” she said and offered her hand.
“Bobby,” the tattooed man said without looking up or taking her hand. He busied himself straightening the two bills she had given him before slipping them into a wallet he pulled from the dirty camo colored backpack that was on the floor next to his chair.
“His name is Bobby,” she reported to Lauren as she sank back into her chair. She grabbed her mocha and took a big gulp of the hot liquid, burning her tongue.
“And?” Lauren prompted.
“And that’s it. He wasn’t very communicative.”
“Bobby? That’s all you got for forty dollars? Bobby? How’s that supposed to help us?”
“Grilling a stranger is harder
than it looks. He didn’t want to say anything. I couldn’t exactly get out the bright lights and rubber hose.”
Lauren sighed.
“Do I have to do everything?” She pulled a handful of papers from the messenger bag she took nearly everywhere and slipped them into the book she’d taken from the shelf.
“What are you going to do?”
“Hide and watch, grasshopper, hide and watch.”
She got up and made her way to the bookshelf beside Bobby’s table. She browsed the books, reading the authors’ names on the spines. She used her fingers to make a space between two of them and turned her book around in her hand as if she were going to put it back on the shelf. At the last moment, she fumbled the book, dropping it on Bobby’s table, knocking his coffee into his lap and sending the papers from her book flying.
“I’m so sorry,” she said and pulled a handful of napkins from the dispenser on his table. She handed them to Bobby, who immediately began dabbing at his lap. She set her book back on the table at the same time.
“Let me buy you another coffee,” she offered and took her book back. Without waiting for a reply, she bent and started gathering her papers. “What would you like?”
“One of those fancy drinks,” he growled at her. “I don’t care what kind.”
Lauren dropped her papers in front of Harriet and continued on to the table to order Bobby’s drink. Harriet picked up the stack and began straightening them. Neatly hidden between the third and fourth pages was an identification card, the sort that fit in the clear plastic sleeve on suitcases and backpacks. It belonged to one Robert Cosgrove, who lived at 1561 Alaskan Way S, Seattle, Washington, zip code 98134, and listed a phone number with a Seattle area code.
“I’m impressed,” Harriet said when Lauren returned from ordering and paying for Bobby’s drink.
“That’s how it’s done. Does it look useful?”
“Assuming it’s his, it’s a start,” Harriet said in a quiet voice, watching Bobby the whole time to see if he was paying attention to them or his backpack. He wasn’t
“Assuming it’s his?” Lauren whispered in a tone that was more like a hiss than a whisper. “Are you crazy? This is a major clue. Why would he have someone else’s name and address on what is probably his only possession? Of course it’s him. Besides the fact that he told you his name is Bobby and this ID card belongs to a Robert.”
“Let’s wait until we get back to the show, and then we can look up his address and phone,” Harriet said. “We need to look casual and finish our coffee so he doesn’t get suspicious.”
“I know how to research a person, and it’s more than looking up his address and phone number. Those are just starting points. And I’m not sure if you noticed, but the man is barely conscious.”
“Even so, we need to be careful.”
“Whatever,” Lauren said and picked up her now-tepid mocha. “I suppose I have to drink this.”
Harriet rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything.
Chapter 14
“I thought I’d come keep Connie company while you two were out sleuthing,” Mavis said. “Did you find the guy you were looking for?”
“We not only found him, but Lauren was able to get his name and address.”
“So, who is he?” Connie asked.
“We have a name and address,” Lauren reiterated. “We won’t know who he really is until I can do some research.”
“He’s a lot older than he seems at first glance—mid-fifties, at least. Maybe even in his sixties,” Harriet said.
“Course he looks like he’s led a hard life. He’s a druggie,” Lauren said with conviction. “That could add a decade to his looks.”
“I wonder what he wants with Jenny,” Connie said, more to herself than the others.
“Money, if what Harriet saw is any indication,” Lauren said.
“But why would he think Jenny would give it to him?” Mavis said.
“Hopefully, that will become obvious when Lauren checks him out,” Harriet stated.
“Is anyone going to the dance party tonight?” Connie asked.
“Not me,” Lauren said. “I saw the list of dances from the sixties and, except for the twist, and maybe the monster mash, I didn’t recognize any of them.”
“You mean you never learned the Watusi or the Hully Gully?” Mavis asked with a smile.
Lauren turned to Harriet.
“Don’t look at me,” Harriet told her. “I learned ballroom dancing at boarding school and a little salsa. Miss Nancy would have had a stroke at the thought of those pagan dance steps being done at her school.”
“I’m taking my tired feet home and sitting in my recliner with Curly,” Mavis said.
“Rod and I are going to a talk about the history of the war in Vietnam,” Connie said.
“I’ll be researching our friend Bobby, plus I have to do some work for my paying customers,” Lauren said.
“I haven’t decided what I’m doing.” Harriet glanced at her watch. “Thirty more minutes until closing. You all don’t have to wait with me. All I have to do is cover my tables.”
One by one, Connie, Lauren and Mavis took their leave. Harriet was alone straightening her samples when Tom stopped at her table.
“Are you doing anything tonight?” he asked.
“I’m torn between going home and seeing one of the movies.”
“Funny you should mention the movies. I was just going to see if you wanted to go with me.”
“What do you want to see? They’re running three double features at the same time in the exhibit hall conference rooms.”
“If I don’t choose the right movie, are you going to turn me down?” he asked with a grin.
“No, but I’ve been trying to talk someone into coming to see Psycho with me, and so far no takers. Hope springs eternal, though.” She raised her eyebrows up and down in encouragement.
“I would love to go see Psycho with you. Can we get a bite to eat first?”
“As it happens, Psycho is the second movie after The Graduate in Room A.”
“Do you mind if we eat somewhere besides here?” Tom asked. “The sixties fare is fun and all, but I need some real food.”
“Jorge brought us lunch from his restaurant today, but I agree.”
“Italian?”
“Sure.”
He drove them to Aberto’s, a mom-and-pop place on the far side of Miller Hill. Dinner was scallops with angel hair pasta and green salads, with a basket of warm crusty bread.
“I assume you’ve seen the movie at least once,” Tom said when they had finished their meals.
“Hasn’t everyone? I thought it was a rite of passage in America.”
“I think I saw it for the first time at a junior high school Halloween party.”
“It’s been so long I don’t remember all the details.”
Tom looked at his watch.
“Let’s go refresh our memories.”
A car door slammed loudly as they crossed the parking lot on the way to Harriet’s car after the movie. She jumped and leaned into Tom; he put his arm around her shoulders.
“Don’t worry, I’ll save you,” he said and laughed. “Not that there are any crazy guys with big knives out here.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, the way things in Foggy Point have been going lately.”
He tightened his arm around her.
“If we’re going down, we’re going together.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on her lips. “Isn’t that your friend Jenny?”
He pointed with the hand that was on her shoulder. She looked where he was pointing. Two men in dark coveralls looked like they were attaching chains under the front bumper of Jenny’s Mercedes. Jenny stood to one side watching.
“I wonder what’s going on,” Harriet said.
“Can’t be anything good if a tow truck is involved.”
“Do you mind if we check and see if she needs help?”
Tom sighed, and Harriet cou
ld tell he was seeing any hope of alone time with her slipping away.
“Sure,” he said and led the way across the empty lot.
“What happened?” Harriet asked, but then saw the problem when she looked at the tires. All four had been slashed multiple times and were very flat.
“Where are the police?” Tom asked. “Are they gone already?”
“I didn’t call them,” Jenny said quietly.
“What?” Harriet asked her. “Why not?”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
Tom looked at Harriet. She gave him a slight nod. Jenny had been unwilling to tell her anything so far; maybe she’d talk to Tom.
“One tire might be teenagers or a prank, but all four? Someone is angry. What might have happened if you’d come out when they were there with knife in hand, slashing? You might have ended up dead.”
“Especially after what happened opening night,” Harriet added. She paused a moment to let her words sink in. “Instead of nine-one-one, how about we call Detective Morse? If she thinks it’s not a big deal, that will be the end of it.” She knew that would never happen. Morse was going to be all over this like spray starch on appliqué grapes.
“Can’t we just drop it?” Jenny pleaded.
“’Fraid not,” Tom said. “You know the tow drivers are going to talk about it, and then the police will come for you anyway. Wouldn’t you rather control the situation by calling it in yourself? Or if you want, Harriet can call Detective Morse.”
Jenny stood in silence—weighing her options, if the emotions flitting across her face were any indication. Harriet and Tom waited, equally silent.
“Okay,” she agreed. “Make the call.”
Harriet pulled her phone from her purse, found Detective Morse in her contacts list and made the call. As she’d expected, Morse instructed her to tell everyone to stay put until she got there.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to stop what you’re doing for now,” she informed the tow truck drivers.
“Is this going to take a while?” the older of the two men asked. They looked like they might be a father and son—both had barrel chests and slight beer bellies. And two unrelated people couldn’t possibly share that same hooked nose. “We just got another call,” he continued. “They’re over near the high school. We could be back in an hour or so.”
Make Quilts Not War Page 9
