by Jean Flowers
“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, straightening his posture, crinkling the map. “I’m just checking something out here.”
Again, strange. It looked like a street map of North Ashcot, the freebie at all our fast food and convenience stops. How often would anyone have to look at that map before having it memorized?
I shrugged, told him to have a nice day, and climbed the steps to my house.
Inside, I cast a longing glance at my rocker and stack of books and magazines. Wouldn’t it be nice to settle back with a newly acquired McIntosh—the apple, not the laptop—and read for a while? But a cop’s work is never done. I took a deep breath and made my way to the back bedroom. I packed up the quilt top, the bamboo batting I’d bought, and a few yards of a mottled-cream-and-gold piece of fabric for the back. My plan was to take the bundle to Fran Rogers, who was one of the quilters in the group who owned a long-arm sewing machine. The other was Eileen Jackson, but I’d already bothered her enough, sending her on a fruitless mission to find my nonmissing sunglasses.
The first thing I’d learned when I joined the group was that, no! Sewing squares of fabric together by hand or on my basic machine was not quilting. It was just that, sewing, or as the experts in my group called it, “piecing.” Technically, quilting referred to stitching together three layers: a top layer, which could consist of any number of patched-together pieces of fabric or appliquéd blocks; a middle layer of batting; and a final layer or back of the quilt, often one solid piece, though some overachieving quilters in our group created backs as elaborate and complicated as the fronts.
This final step in the quilting process went so much more smoothly with a long-arm machine. Fran’s model included a twelve-by-four-foot table with long railings, variable needle positions, a stitch regulator, and a host of other features she was always glad to talk about at our meetings.
I called Fran to be sure it was okay to stop by and take her my project. She agreed to take it on, and said she could have it done in a week to ten days.
“Were you hoping to have it for the display next week?” she asked.
“Oh no. Not hanging next to yours,” I said, thinking of the beautiful quilts, works of art, that she and other members of our group and quilters in neighboring towns turned out. “Maybe a few years from now.”
I didn’t bother explaining that I didn’t care how long the quilting took; my true motive for the visit was to talk about Daisy’s murder. Besides, though I didn’t admit it to Fran, it was unlikely that I’d be ready to hand over such a present to Quinn very soon whether it was finished or not.
I’d already stalled with the project, telling myself I didn’t have time to work on it, but Linda had gotten me to face the real reason: I wasn’t sure the time was right for such an elaborate (for me) personal gift.
“Didn’t you say his birthday was coming up?” she’d asked recently.
“Right after Labor Day. Way too soon.”
So far, Quinn and I had exchanged sweatshirts from our respective alma maters, UMass from me to him, CAL from him to me; and not much else of significance. My birthday had come and gone with no acknowledgment. I’d managed to hide it from everyone in North Ashcot except Ben, who had access to my employment records, but agreed to keep it to himself and claimed it was just a coincidence that he’d brought a strawberry shortcake into work that day.
Was a birthday quilt over-the-top for this point in my relationship with Quinn? Maybe a store-bought scarf was more appropriate. Or a basket of goodies from the farmers’ market. Good thing I didn’t have to decide on the spot.
I stuffed my fabric into a large tote and carried it to my car. I noted that Ross was still parked out front and gave him a wave.
Fran’s home was on the western side of town, well past the post office. On the way, I passed Ashcot’s Attic, where Quinn worked. I tried to shut out the image of my quilt one day flung over an old sofa, with CLEARANCE SALE signs on both.
* * *
Fran welcomed me into her home and into her quilt room. She’d turned what might have been meant as a TV or family room into an enviable sewing room, dominated by the elaborate machine/table combination, and lined with shelves containing well-organized storage boxes for fabric and notions. The skylights were the perfect source of light for close work.
“Daisy Harmon helped me set up this space,” she said, her tone subdued.
“We all miss her,” I said, feeling a little guilty that I was thinking about seizing the moment for data gathering. “I remember I closed the post office around noon on that day, just last Monday, and went home to wait out the storm. And then I learned that not too long after I drove by her shop, poor Daisy . . .” I trailed off.
Fran shook her head. “It’s hard to believe.” She sat on her sewing chair and motioned that I should sit beside her and hand over my project pieces.
“Cliff was all the way down in Springfield for a conference when it happened,” I said. “Isn’t it ironic that the seminars were all about security?” A second shot at alibi talk.
“I hope he’s doing okay,” she said, separating the three layers of my soon-to-be quilt. It seemed Fran was not about to give up her own alibi for the time Daisy was killed. “Cliff is one of our subs for security at the bank now and then, as you probably know. A very nice guy, not one to start trouble. I’m sure he regrets all the tension between them this last month or so.”
Tension? This wasn’t the first time I’d heard a reference to a less than perfect home life for Cliff and Daisy.
“I heard about that,” I said, tsk-tsking, straining to remember where and from whom the subject had come up. “I thought things were getting better, though.” A fake, and with it came a sour taste in my mouth. I tried to keep it at bay. I wasn’t built for deception at this level.
“That’s not how I understand it,” Fran said. “Daisy didn’t really care where or when she spoke her mind. She even got into a brouhaha with her accountant, right on the floor of the bank.” When my eyes widened, Fran clarified, “I mean in the middle of the open area, not literally on the floor. The point is, lately Daisy had been stepping it up. Her community involvement was getting out of hand and Cliff was upset. It’s never good for businesspeople to be too vocal about political matters.”
Stepping it up? Involvement? Now I remembered. Random suspicions about Cliff. First from Ben, but only on general principles and murder lore. And then again from Sunni. During our suspect brainstorming, she’d implied that Cliff should have been on my list, and more than simply for his position as spouse. Once more from Reggie, this morning. He’d brought up Cliff’s displeasure at his wife’s activism with regard to the farmers’ market. And now Fran.
I felt my loyalty to Cliff taking over. “Right now he’s a grieving widower and wants nothing more than to find who killed Daisy.” When Fran didn’t respond, I pushed further. “I guess you’re in favor of Reggie Harris’s proposal. I noticed you were at the meeting last evening.” Pulling out all the stops.
I’d only guessed at the nature of the meeting—another fake that worked. Fran nearly dropped my bamboo batting, which she’d taken from the dryer after a few minutes of fluffing. “You’re very observant,” she said, meaning, I surmised, nosy.
“I’m just an interested citizen,” I said, worried that in her nervous state she’d stick herself—or me—with one of the nearly two-inch, large-head quilting pins on the table between us.
“I’m sure you are,” Fran said. It was the first time I’d seen any sign of anger in the mild-mannered bank teller. Her wiry frame seemed to have come unglued. She took a long, loud breath and held up the top layer of my lap quilt. “We probably should talk about this instead. These seams are very well done, Cassie.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I see you’ve followed the common wisdom of using dark colors for the corners and the center and lighter colors on alternating interior squares.”
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br /> “I had advice from the chief of police,” I said, but Fran simply smiled, already safely back in her neutral persona. The investigative moment had passed.
“This is for Quinn, right?” Fran asked, arranging the front and back of my quilt on a hanger, then on a rack with other to-be-quilted projects.
“Yes, but there’s no rush,” I said.
“Would you like me to quilt some hearts in the center? I can use red thread. Maybe with your initials and his inside? Or some other sentiment?”
I gasped. “Uh, no, thanks. No sentiment, okay?”
Fran gave a short wave to indicate understanding. “Too soon?”
“Uh-huh. Just some of your usual graceful swirls will do.”
“I can do some small items like lamps or clocks. Would that be more appropriate?”
“Much better.”
We both laughed and I was glad we were on good terms before she attacked my project. I had visions of an angry Fran tearing into my layers of fabric with shredding scissors.
In lieu of a fee for her work, Fran usually asked her customers to make a donation to whatever cause was at the top of her list that week. In the recent past she’d solicited support for a neonatal IC unit, a community food bank, a girls’ soccer team, and a homeless shelter. I took my checkbook from my purse and asked her preference.
She spelled out the name of an organization of hospital volunteers. “I’m going to ask our group to help me make at least six wheelchair quilts this fall. I have a special pattern that calls for usable scraps.”
“I think I have a few of those,” I said, already planning to weed them out of my stash.
We chatted for a few minutes about the upcoming Henry Knox Parade and other festivities, which had been taking a backseat to a murder investigation in the minds of our citizens. It was a lot for a little town to handle. The parade was scheduled for Saturday, a week from today. Would the selectmen cancel it? Would we go ahead with the plans but have a moment of silence for Daisy? Would there be another storm, as predicted? We were both looking forward to the display of quilts (Fran’s included) that would be part of the weekend celebration.
Much to my relief, Fran and I parted friends. I wondered how soon I could come back and assume the role of investigator again.
* * *
I used my hands-free link in my car to answer a call from Cliff on the way home. Of course, he wanted an update on my progress, and I regretted that all I had were innuendoes that he himself had motive to kill his wife. Was it my place to tell him that? I decided against it. I did want to ask what he really thought of Daisy’s aggressive interaction with the farmers’ market proposal, but having to yell at my dashboard to be heard on the car’s system wasn’t the ideal setup for that conversation.
“I just heard from Dr. Wilson,” Cliff said. “He’s ready to release Daisy’s body, so there’s nothing standing in the way now. I can finally take her to her parents in Miami.”
“I’m sure they’re very relieved,” I said. “When are you leaving?” It was up to Sunni to let him know if she felt she needed him in town until Daisy’s killer was found. Or for more questioning.
“As soon as I can get the funds together. In a day or so, I hope. You wouldn’t believe what it costs to transport a . . .” Cliff paused. I thought I’d lost him, then heard him whisper, “A person who’s deceased. You have mortuary costs at both ends, plus the airlines. It turns out, like, about ten times the amount for an ordinary flight. I need to talk to Jules to see what’s the best way to get the money together, but I can’t reach him. He’s not answering either of his phones. I hope I don’t have to wait until Monday till someone’s in his office. I’ll let you know.”
A call from Sunni to me interrupted us and Cliff rang off with a promise to touch base with me before he left for Florida. I clicked over to Sunni, feeling as if I’d been caught not doing the homework assigned by two teachers. It didn’t help when I heard her first question.
“How come you cancelled the pickup from Ross this morning?”
I hated to admit to her that I couldn’t find Nasty Letter Number One. “It’s probably because I was in a hurry. I’m going back to check again,” I said, coming up with the idea on the spot. It was possible that I had missed it, I told myself. Strictly speaking, I wasn’t lying.
“How about I stop by this evening and get a report on your day?” she asked.
“And you show me yours,” I said, a weak chuckle following my inane remark.
“See you around seven,” she said, and hung up.
I realized what a mess my so-called investigation was. I couldn’t even keep the terms of the reasonable deal Sunni had made with me. I’d lost a threatening note; I’d neglected to tell her about my car break-in, as well as my theory about the premeeting crowd that I’d witnessed in front of Molly’s salon. So what if none of these things was in a direct line with the investigation? I remembered hearing someone—probably a TV cop, but they were smart, too—say that, in a homicide, everything matters.
I hadn’t even talked to all the quilting ladies.
I checked my watch. Barely midafternoon. There was still time to pull the day out of the loss column. I could start with Liv in the card shop, and move on to Molly, who was sure to be in the salon today. The worst that could happen would be that I’d stock up on birthday cards for the year and, so that Linda would be proud of me, spring for a mani-pedi.
I turned onto Hawthorne Street and realized I made a wrong turn somewhere between Fran’s house and a construction detour I’d been forced to take. Talking while driving, even on a hands-free link, had its disadvantages. After my mental ridiculing of Ross, it turned out I wasn’t above using a North Ashcot street map.
I pulled over to the curb and reached into my glove compartment. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a car slow down, then pass me. I could have sworn it was Ross. In fact, I knew it was Ross. Another coincidence, or was he following me? I made a mental note to take Quinn up on his offer to install an updated GPS in my old car.
What if Sunni considered me a suspect in Daisy’s murder and had set me loose while ordering her deputy to keep track of me? I could think of nothing more uncool. Or maybe Ross was acting on his own. He might even be leaving the NAPD because of me, preferring to work for a police department that did its own homicide investigations and didn’t engage personal friends of his boss.
My perspiration level rose by the minute as I considered these possibilities, finally settling on the most convenient choice: coincidence. I had work to do.
I checked the map and made a U-turn that would ultimately bring me to the business district on Main Street. I drove off. No more wild ideas about being stalked or tailed, I told myself. There was nothing to worry about. Unless Officer Ross Little showed up for a dye job at Molly’s salon.
16
I parked in the lot behind the bank again, in part to avoid walking in front of Daisy’s Fabrics. From the steady stream of pedestrian shoppers in the area, all seeming indifferent to their surroundings, no one would know that the small house-turned-shop had been a crime scene earlier in the week. I knew it would take me a long time to achieve that level of detachment.
I crossed Main Street and entered Liv Patterson’s card shop on the corner, which was comfortably air-conditioned and not very crowded for a Saturday afternoon. It was still pool weather, typically hot and humid for late August, and I imagined families gathered at various public and private watering holes in town. I’d gotten used to being near the ocean all those years living in Boston and, as a result, had passed on swimming during my year back inland. It wasn’t the same without the tides and the waves and sandy beaches.
I waved to Liv, who was helping a customer choose an engagement book among the colorful options, and started down one of the card aisles. It had been a while since I’d bought a formal card for any occasion. I still drew from my lar
ge supply of note cards from Boston’s many museum shops.
I was amazed at the different headings on the racks; many categories had been added since my last look. Now you could buy cards for pets; for all members of blended families; in foreign languages; and with a range of religious messages. I opened cards that played music, and cards for holidays I’d never heard of. National Hug Day, National Newspaper Carrier Day, National Cookie Day. And I was just in time for National Trail Mix Day at the end of the month.
I wondered why Liv was so upset that the fabric shop next door was carrying a few handmade cards from local crafters; surely Daisy wasn’t trying to compete with this array.
Since there was no card labeled “From Mid-Thirties Woman to Boyfriend, Dating for About a Year,” I chose an innocuous birthday card for Quinn, one very masculine with just the items Fran had offered to quilt for me. On the cover, an antique lamp with a bronze base and a dark green shade sat on a stack of old books, each volume with illegible but attractive gold lettering. Inside, a simple birthday greeting was spelled out in plain font.
On the way to the counter, where Liv was now alone straightening packages of tissue paper, I passed an aisle of small gift books, most of which offered inspiration or quick solutions—ten ways to do this or seven ways to stop doing that. On display behind Liv was one of her own quilted wall hangings. A colorful four-by-six-foot piece featuring images of summer, fall, winter, and spring. Meant to remind customers that there were cards and gifts for all seasons, I presumed.
“I remember when you were putting the finishing touches on that beautiful hanging,” I said, stepping up to the register with my purchases. I’d picked up a small ceramic replica of the Duxbury Pier Light for Linda, who collected lighthouse tchotchkes.
“Hi, Cassie,” Liv said, coolly, I thought. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in here.”
“I don’t have much of a list for card giving,” I said. I held back on assuring her that it wasn’t because I’d been buying my cards at Daisy’s.
