“We meet once a month on the first Saturday,” she continued after a short pause. “We take turns supplying a quilt to sew which usually works out to one every eight months.” Absorbed, fascinated by the sound of her deep voice, I mostly listened. So there must be eight in the group?
“Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes of course. I’m just surprised. How did you know...?”
Hannah Lilly continued, not hearing my question, her voice changing subtly to something more reserved.
“One catch though, our gatherings begin after six in the evening, always on a Saturday, and we sew until it’s done, so you should wear comfortable clothes for naps. And when it’s your turn to host, we sew your quilt and in return you supply us with snacks. You should understand that we will keep sewing until the quilt is done.” Her lyrical voice halted momentarily. “Probably all night.”
“Oh, really.” What on earth was this? I wasn’t looking for a cult. “What I mean is, yes. I mean, I realize that’s how quilting bees were sometimes done a long time ago. I don’t know if I expected that to be the case today, however…staying up all night…” I was stammering like an idiot.
Again she interrupted. “Well, so many women work now, it’s the best way we can do this. In fact two of our gals work on Saturdays. But also, this group has a history of sewing all night that goes back years. And, we don’t quilt in the summer, in fact we’ve just started up again…this month, in September.”
Okay, this sounded really bizarre. I found myself wondering if I had the stamina to sew all night long. I was really an early-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of person. She continued to talk through my musings, offering up a little more information with each halting sentence.
“Our group is made up of women of different ages, including a couple well into their eighth and ninth decades. We pace ourselves, sleep occasionally, and eat tons of sugar.”
Eighth and ninth decades? Was she trying to make me feel silly about the all-nighter thing? But I began wondering how Matt would take this. Glancing back toward the kitchen and the sounds of the weather channel changing to the history channel, I thought he might not even notice I was gone. He probably thought I was already in bed, reading instead of risking being eaten by a stray pack of hyenas out on our side deck.
No, that would only be my worry. Wisdom had finally roused himself enough to come join me. Our old shepherd was on guard duty. I stroked the fur behind his ears as I listened.
“You must have quite a time finding new members with the all night thing,” I said.
Matt probably wouldn’t even miss me if I left for a night, would spend the night channel surfing in his sleep, I mused. Good grief. Was I talking myself into this idiocy?
The voice on the other end of the phone sighed, and said, “You have no idea how hard it is to find new members, Rachel. Actually it was while talking to someone else, attempting to convince her it was safe to venture out into the evening to spend the night with us--that I wasn’t a witch wanting to start a new coven—that I learned of your interest. The gal who runs your local quilting store there in Escondido, the Collage Cottage I think she calls it, she told me about your interest in a hand quilting group.”
Really? I’d mentioned my interest to her?
“Karen. You mean Karen Harper.”
But I found myself smiling. The Hannah woman sounded real enough. Not a whole lot more delusional than the rest of us. And if the Collage Cottage gave my phone out they must have felt it was safe.
“Can you send me some information…by email? Perhaps point me to your web page, or blog or whatever?”
“Oh great! I know this is coming at you out of left field, and that you don’t know anything about us, but I assure you we are a safe bunch. The group has been meeting for forever this way and…we just had a vacancy open. By death, actually.” She went from hesitant to full-on stop and sighed again. Wishing she could bite off her tongue, I guessed.
But with quilters in their seventies and eighties, I wasn’t concerned about her news that one of the members had died.
I heard Matt calling. So what came out next was, “Listen, I have to go, Hannah, so where can I read about you?”
“Actually, we’re registered with the American Society of Quilters, ASQ--not to be confused with the American Quilters’ Society. There’s a brief description of us online at their site and you can contact them with other questions you may have as well. They’ll vouch for us.”
Hannah Lilly paused, her hand apparently over the mouth of the phone, then resumed in a tighter voice, I’m afraid that shout you just heard was my daughter picking a fight with one of her little brothers and I need to say goodbye now.” She was a mother. “Our group is named Quilted Secrets. You should receive a letter in a day or two giving you more details…Deborah quit teasing Sam!”
She was a normal mother. She gave me the group’s web address and her personal email, and I gave her my email and told her I would email my address. And then she was gone. The complete silence that followed her call made me question whether the conversation had ever really happened. But Matt’s questing voice had retreated to the back of our house toward our office and bedroom, so I broke off that line of thinking.
A lion roared in the distance. A Lyon was roaring in my house.
A hand quilting group. Wow. An actual old fashioned bee. I was filled with excitement as I walked back inside to reassure Matt that I hadn’t really just been time-traveling, as I felt I’d been.
Chapter 4: Quilted Secrets
One week later, I was wending my way toward my first authentic quilting bee under a darkish sky. Totally energized. A little anxious. But smiling all the way. Matt had been surprised at first, maybe even concerned, but as we’d sat together in our office reading the online information on The Quilted Secrets Bee: A Small Hive of Old Fashioned Hand Quilters webpage, he’d slowly warmed to the idea. On some level Matt knew I needed this camaraderie with other women, and for me socializing had always been easier when combined with an activity--something to help fill the void when conversations lagged.
The web site also gave me two names to work with. I already had Hannah Lilly, and her chocolaty voice. Apparently Hannah was their public contact person. The other name was Victoria Stowall and she was the leader of the group—perhaps its originator. But aside from the background photograph of a beautiful block quilt, there were no photographs.
I looked up at the sky ahead of me at the low flying gray and charcoal clouds that covered our bit of California like a lumpy army blanket--damp and stinky. The weather was so unusual for this time of year. Rain was a rarity anytime in Southern California—the average rainfall being somewhere around twelve inches--but it was especially rare in the fall. Tonight the clouds were supposed to evolve into a drenching storm, an event that could turn the recent fear of fires into fear of mudslides. My winding hour-long drive would take me through Julian to I-13, and then on south into Cleveland County.
Dusk was just settling in under the thick blanket of clouds as I found my next turn. I passed the ashes of several burned out neighborhoods, small groups of what were once homes but now were reduced to lone chimneys sticking up here and there like giant grave markers. They reminded me of the burned tree spires at Applepine where we’d stumbled upon a corpse.
I bore right onto I-13 and quickly found the turnoff to Iguana. I spotted the next sign, a local product far less welcoming than the one on the freeway. This one needed a coat of paint, and was a warning not a welcome.
IGUANA:
Population small and meant to stay that way.
Lovely. But not an unusual sentiment for over-crowded Southern California.
I passed through a hamlet of meager stores and starving restaurants, a gas station so old I wondered if it was up to code with today’s green laws. And finally a small wooden church, which made me pray I would beat the rain to the front door of this event. It was going to be a close race. I kept searching for the elusive dirt road I’
d been instructed to find a little past the old town—something about a low rock wall entrance with the name in Mexican tiles on it: Stowall.
Finally, there it was. I gratefully pulled to a stop just inside the long driveway. I needed a moment to compose my slightly panicky brain. I gazed at the house before me, now feeling completely time-warped back to the thirties and teleported to the Appalachians—sans the green woods.
Ahead of me lay a sprawling one-story wood frame structure, fully lit from one end to the other (obviously no fear of electric bills here) with spotlighting on a few crippled looking shrubs that hugged the oddly shaped perimeter. A strange landscaping choice that was immediately compounded by a large pile of boulders on the right, also lighted and planted in a bed of dried weeds and grasses.
The junkyard-slash-geological grouping was either a miserable attempt at outdoor statuary or perhaps someone’s idea of what to do with the heavy trash. Decorate the yard.
A flash of light and clap of thunder warned me to speed it up or prepare to muck-swim my way to the front door.
The crooked home seemed to have been built over a period of years, some sections with wood facing, some with stucco, huge and disjointed. I concluded the Stowalls must be a large family, the rooms having been added as the family added children.
Grapes of Wrath, came to mind. To Kill a Mockingbird. A librarian’s habit, to relate in book titles. But this scene was more than strange. I would have turned tail and run except there were already several cars parked in a helter-skelter gathering in front of the house—no doubt the other quilters. The cars gave me courage. Most of them were new, much newer than my own. Beyond the cars the dirt road faded away, taking my fears with it around the back of the odd house.
I opened my door and placed a tentative foot—wearing a comfortable burnt orange Moc--down on the half gravel, half dirt road. I was dressed in yellows and oranges tonight, something cheerful I hoped would help keep me awake. A rousing breeze played with my hair. The storm was arriving. I hurried.
Someone within the house was watching me. I could feel their eyes although I saw no one at the dirty windows as I scurried toward the door. I raised my hand to knock feeling slightly winded. Altitude, I lied to my brain. We’re up a mile. Yeah, sure, brain answered.
The door swung open.
“Victoria wanted to welcome everyone with lots of lights. Thus the garish display of electric wealth.”
I looked back at the smiling middle-aged woman, about my height. Hannah. I’d know that voice anywhere. She was unpretentious, with long brown hair hanging straight around her face. Soft blue, even transparent, eyes. High color in her cheeks. She wore no makeup and her skin was smooth and clear. Plain beauty. I returned her smile. Hers was as natural as wild birdsong.
“Welcome Rachel. I hope you found us easily enough.”
“Yes, just fine, although the storm had me worried.” I was excusing my silly hesitations on the way in. Hers must have been the eyes that I’d felt on me as I’d approached. I stepped inside.
“Yes it is forecast to be a wild night, but should clear by morning,” Hannah Lilly tossed over her shoulder, her words like a string of soft sounds leading me deeper into the house.
Hannah was wearing a nondescript plum-colored polo shirt and faded baggy cotton pants I could have sworn were the same brand as my own. Dressed for comfort. She padded ahead in thick white cotton socks. I noticed she was limping.
“The limp is due to a sprained ankle. I was toddler chasing,” Hannah said, as if reading my mind. Occupational hazard, I thought. Been there done that.
To the right of the undefined entrance was a huge high-ceilinged room with four large couches, and several chairs and tables scattered around like pick-up-sticks. There was at least enough seating for twenty. I gaped. At the back of this open space was the dining area forming an L-shape around what I assumed were the walls of the kitchen. The dining room table was enormous, too. Yep. The Stowalls had many children.
But something was missing in this picture. Where were those children now? Why weren’t they helping mom and dad maintain their abode? There were legitimate answers, of course, like, busy with their own lives, the parents were stubbornly independent, all living at distant locations. But the condition of things here spoke of need and not-so-benign neglect. And lack of use.
Hannah stepped halfway into the kitchen to mutter a few words to whoever was there, while I continued my examination. The couches were covered with a variety of faded floral fabrics. Lamps listed with shades akimbo perched on odd end tables, all covered with dust. The whole house had an air of having served its purpose. Now it was searching for an appropriate ending. Hannah returned and rescued me from a growing melancholy.
“Most everyone is in the back where we’ll quilt. My mom, Ruth, is puttering in the kitchen. Victoria’s too old to take care of the refreshments, so we all chip in when it’s her turn to host.”
“I better lead the way, as there are nine bedrooms built off the halls every which way. You probably noticed that as you drove up. You might get lost, or stumble on one of the many dark secrets hidden in them.”
I stared at her.
“That was a joke. This way,” she said and turned, never cracking a smile. Dry. Very dry humor.
And paranoid. Very paranoid, I chided myself. I silently followed her lead down a hall running south off the living room. We passed two opposing closed doors. We turned left down another hall. This one ended at the front of the house with a French door that opened to the outside but had clearly been overgrown by some of those dead bushes the Stowalls used for landscaping. A bit of my own humor.
Before reaching that dead-end door however, we made a quick right onto a longer hall with more closed doors. I was suddenly certain I would never find my way back.
“Breadcrumbs,” I muttered.
“No. Too many wild birds,” Hannah quipped.
Also very quick.
With all the land, why didn’t they just build the house in a straight line?
The only lighting for these bending halls was coming from little wall lamps fashioned like imitation candles with miniature parchment shades, and a glow emanating from the floor. Light was seeping from under the closed doors.
I’d noticed that when I drove up, come to think of it. All the windows were lit. Were they all occupied?
“Victoria lives alone now and I think she’s afraid of the dark, so all of the rooms are lit all of the time. The doors are usually open, but my mom and I closed them when we got here. I think maybe Jake thought the bending halls would help keep down the noise when their children lived with them.” Hannah said.
Victoria was the only one living in this huge structure? No wonder it was dusty. And Jake was Victoria’s husband, now gone.
“The rooms were for the children, of course, but now there’s stuff stored in them.”
“Stuff?”
I caught a grin on her face as she rounded what seemed like the fifteenth corner.
“I almost forgot you’re an investigator. Someone, I think Jake, was a collector of old newspapers and other stuff. A packrat.”
I understood packrat. I lived with one. So was Jake Victoria’s ex-husband, or was he deceased?
I was making mental notes of things I needed to learn. It was a habit.
We came to a hall with an open door and I prayed we had arrived. I’d greatly underestimated the size of this one story maze-like structure. I would have worried about finding my way back, except we hadn’t passed any forks in the road. It was a straight shot, a crooked straight shot.
“Okay, we’re here,” Hannah announced, then ushered me in. “Everyone this is Rachel Lyons. I’ll let you guys take it from here, mom needs help in the kitchen with the tea.” She turned to me and added, “Tea is our mainstay for these events, keeps us going all night long.” It made me wonder which of the closed doors led to a bathroom. Then she abandoned me, disappearing back down the broken hallway.
I stepped into the q
uilting room and raised a feeble hand in greeting to the others, my heart doing a steady tom-tom in my chest.
It was the altitude.
Three young women sat on a low-slung couch just inside the door to my left. The couch—another floral job--was so broken down the three were almost sitting on the floor. The closest one was a redhead, the middle one was a very young-looking blond, and the farthest was a tall, olive-skinned, black-haired woman I guessed was in her twenties like the redhead. The redhead had an impish look, probably because of her short stature.
Across from the three were two empty chairs. I waited in vain for some response to my wave from the three females. Uncomfortable, I looked away to take in the room. With all the lights burning in the rest of the house, this room was strangely under-lit. Only the two lamps on either side of the low couch offered light to the surrounding darkness.
I stood awkwardly wondering if I should just take a seat, feeling as if I’d just entered a doctor’s waiting room. No one ever talked to anyone else in a doctor’s waiting room. Privacy was expected there, even secrecy.
But this was a social gathering so why wasn’t anyone being sociable?
Maybe they were deaf. Certainly they were mute. But they could see, and they were staring at me expectantly. I waved less feebly this time. Feeling genuinely silly, I decided to challenge them. Force them to respond with my affability.
The blond smiled sheepishly and waved back. Good! Progress.
I spoke. “Hi.” It came out sounding funny, squeaky. My throat had tightened. This behavior was making me tense.
Two of the women looked at each other, passing the buck. But the redhead scowled and shook her head, then nodded toward the darkness beyond the couch. I peered. Squinted. But there was nothing to see. They were having fun with me so I persevered.
“Any of you can answer.”
More silence.
Ada Unraveled Page 2
