I needed to think calm thoughts, maybe even lie down on the bench, before my body took over and forced me to take a break. The museum's tile floors wouldn't be very comfortable to pass out on.
"Are you sure Plan B is a good idea, dear?" Emma helped Dee to her feet, apparently willing to go along with whatever her friend suggested.
"Wait." Lindsay straightened up from the wall. "What if you just went and talked to Tremain? Let him know you're on to him, and Keely's going to sue him for all he's worth if he doesn't stop, but she'd leave him alone if he withdrew from the show voluntarily."
"No one believes threats of a lawsuit," Dee said. "Not without an actual lawyer in the room."
"Keely could sort of come with you." Lindsay had the same eagerly apologetic look that had always, just barely, saved her from being fired. "She really is good at threatening people, and she's a certified quilt appraiser, so her saying his quilts are fakes might be enough to convince him to withdraw from the show. He couldn't claim he'd simply made a mistake about the quilts' history. Not after an expert told him they're fakes."
Lindsay and the two quilters looked at me expectantly. There was a definite family resemblance between Lindsay and her grandmother in their matching blue eyes, although it seemed unlikely Dee had ever been as timid as her granddaughter.
While they'd talked, my light-headedness had cleared enough for me to consider Lindsay's suggestion. Helping the guild might be good for my business reputation, if the word spread that my expertise had been instrumental in keeping a bad dealer from tarnishing the show's reputation. And I did admire Dee's and Emma's determination to protect their guild.
Surely, one little meeting wouldn't be that stressful. A quick appraisal of the store's inventory and a brief conversation. I could handle that without passing out. And if not, well, it wouldn't be as big a deal as if I passed out in the middle of a jury trial.
I stood up. "If Lindsay can set up the meeting, I'll go with you."
"I'll call as soon as I've got it set up." Lindsay rushed to escort Emma and Dee out of the museum as if she feared I'd change my mind.
They'd just reached the front door when the museum director's assistant came striding around the corner from the stairs. "There you are, Ms. Fairchild. I see I just missed Dee and Emma. Did they tell you how much they do for the quilt show each year? Dee is one of the judges, and Emma oversees both the set-up and take-down."
"I'm a friend of Dee's granddaughter." I picked up my quilted messenger bag. "Is Mr. Torres finished with his earlier visitor?"
The woman smiled. "I'm Gillian Torres, but as long as I can remember I've been called Gil with a hard G, as if it were short for Gilbert."
As someone who'd worked in a male-dominated field, I couldn't believe I'd made that mistake. "I'm sorry. I should have known better to assume."
"Don't worry." She hummed a few bars of "Don't Worry, Be Happy" as we headed for the stairs. "I'm used to it. I should have warned you. The confusion is almost guaranteed to happen whenever I meet someone solely through email. In any event, I owe you more of an apology than you could possible owe me. Nancy Grant is on our board of directors, and I'm sure you know how that can be."
"I do understand," I said, grateful that Gil had given me a lifeline after my gaffe. "Office politics is one of the reasons why I'm self-employed now. No backs to stab or be stabbed."
"Just clients to please." Gil sang a bit of the Beatles song, "Please Please Me." "I'll try not to be too demanding."
"You have a lovely voice."
"Thanks. If I hadn't already forgiven you for calling me a man, I would now." She opened the door to her inner office and waved me into a paisley-covered chair that matched the ones out in the waiting room. "I've been looking forward to meeting you ever since I saw you listed in the quilt show's program. The museum has been working with an appraiser in Seattle for years, but he's about to retire."
"Did you discuss my terms with your board of directors?"
"I did." She pulled a folder out of a desk drawer. "There's just one minor, teeny-weeny little glitch. They'd like to hire you for one appraisal first, and then if they're satisfied, which I'm quite sure they will be, they'll sign you up as our official appraiser."
"Something tells me there's more to it than that."
Gil sang a few notes of the Elvis Presley song, "Suspicious Minds." "You won't have any problems with the appraisal. It's just that it needs to be done right away. Before the quilt show, if at all possible. The dealer is available to meet with you any time that fits into your schedule. Still, I'm sure you're busy. If you can't do it, I'll understand, but, well, you saw Nancy Grant when she barged into my office. Now, imagine six more of her, in various sizes, shapes and genders."
I knew I should just say no. I'd started the week with plenty of time to write my speech and prepare for the quilt show, even with my limited tolerance for stress these days, but that had been before Lindsay added in a negotiation session for her grandmother. But I wanted this contract with the museum. For the past six months, Gil had been laying the groundwork for making at least one new quilt acquisition a month for the next several years. That kind of regular work would provide a solid foundation for my new career and, over the long run, reduce my stress levels. Besides, working with Gil would be fun. And then there was the enjoyment I got from seeing a new-to-me quilt.
"Tell me about the quilt."
Gil sang a line from the Hallelujah chorus before getting down to business. "A local antiques dealer found it for us. I'll give you his card. He says the quilt is a simple four-patch but quite old, and he believes it was made right here in Danger Cove. A connection to anywhere in the state would meet our acquisition criteria, but it would be a real coup if it were from this town."
"I assume the rush is because you'd like to announce the acquisition at the quilt show."
She nodded. "No pressure to decide either way, though. If this quilt isn't right for us, I'd rather wait for another opportunity. If I make a mistake with my very first acquisition, the board of directors will be even more difficult to wrangle the next time."
"I should be able to at least give you a preliminary report before the quilt show."
"Excellent." Gil stood. "Did Dee and Emma say why they were here? I would expect them to be too busy with preparations for the quilt show to have time for a museum visit."
Accusing someone of fraud was a serious charge, not to be made lightly and definitely not without having seen Tremain's inventory for myself. I settled for saying, "They needed an emergency quilt appraisal too."
CHAPTER TWO
Lindsay texted to let me know she'd arranged a meeting with Randall Tremain at his shop, Monograms, for 1:30 that afternoon. If it went well, I'd have plenty of time afterwards to go see the quilt the museum wanted me to appraise. A new-to-me quilt would be just the right antidote to whatever stress built up during the meeting with Tremain.
A little after 1:15—yes, I was early again, and it was a good thing this time—I approached Tremain's shop. It was on Main Street, in the section of Danger Cove that catered to tourists, just a short walk from the Danger Cove Historical Museum. In fact, it was this area of the town that had convinced me to move here as part of my doctor-prescribed lifestyle changes. Other towns I'd considered had shops that looked charming from the outside, but might as well have been big box stores since their offerings were nothing but mass-produced tchochkes with the town name pasted on as an afterthought.
Danger Cove's Main Street was different. No franchises here, just an organically grown group of eclectic small businesses, the kind that didn't need to ask its patrons to shop locally, since their specific products and services couldn't be reproduced anywhere else. Or at least it felt like no other haircut, cinnamon bun, or floral arrangement could possibly be as good as the ones found here.
I'd happened on the town while on the way to a weekend retreat with a friend who was trying to convince me that yoga and meditation would solve all my worries. We'
d pulled off the highway to grab some lunch at the Smugglers' Tavern that another friend had raved about. I'd known this was where I wanted to live the minute I'd ridden down Main Street. Contrary to my natural instincts reinforced by my legal training, which usually made me research every little detail before I made any decision, I'd immediately called my broker and instructed her to start looking for a house for me in Danger Cove.
This section of Main Street had been renovated in the last few years to make it more tourist-friendly. The sidewalks were wide, neatly maintained, and handicapped accessible. Even during the most popular events when tourists descended on the town, the pedestrians could wander freely without any pushing or shoving.
Which was why I was so surprised to see people clogging the sidewalk now, with a few even spilling into the street. I was somewhat less surprised to realize they were congregated in front of my destination, Monograms. Everyone in the crowd was female and wore handmade patchwork vests or jackets despite the warm summer temperatures. About a quarter of them were carrying professionally printed signs warning against shopping there.
I caught a glimpse of Emma at the front of the colorful group, near the entrance to the antiques store. I couldn't see the shorter Dee, but if Emma was mingling with the protestors, then Dee couldn't be far away. Probably egging them all on. At least it kept her too busy to hire an assassin.
I had to remind myself that it wasn't any of my business. No one had asked me about the picket lines, and I wasn't in the business of giving legal advice—paid or unpaid—any longer. I leaned against a corner of the brick building to watch the spectacle until it was time to go inside.
After a minute or two, a tall woman with the bored, emaciated look of a fashion model peered out from the alley just around the building's corner from me to check on the crowd. The half-smoked cigarette in her hand suggested she'd been there for several minutes already.
"What's happening?" I nodded in the direction of the crowd.
"A bunch of crazy old women are picketing the store." She blew out a long stream of smoke. "You aren't one of them, are you?"
"The last I checked, I wasn't crazy or old."
"Sorry." The woman squinted at me through the smoke. "I should have known. You're not dressed for the event. If you're not part of the picketers, what are you doing here?"
My suit was a few years old and not as obviously expensive as the smoker's navy jacket with a matching pencil skirt and a white silk blouse, but it was definitely less flamboyant than the protestors' attire. I really ought to do something about my wardrobe, most of it left over from when my job required me to appear professional and understated, before the quilt show so I'd fit in better. As long as I was on Main Street already, surrounded by some of the best shops on the west coast, I ought to get something a little more colorful to add to the suit I'd planned to wear for my speech on Friday.
Shopping would have to wait until after business, though. "I'm here to see Randall Tremain."
"I can take you in the back entrance." The woman used her cigarette to gesture over her shoulder, down the tiny alley that ran beside the building. "I need to wait until the police get here, though."
"Police?" The almost complete lack of noisy sirens was one of the things I particularly liked about Danger Cove after living in a big city. "Is that really necessary?"
The woman took another puff on her cigarette. "We called 9-1-1 right before I came out for my smoke. The women are blocking the entrance to the store, and they might scare away customers."
"It's your shop then?"
"Half of it. I'm Alyse Laurens." She was too occupied with her cigarette to shake hands. "Randall Tremain is my partner."
"Did he leave you to deal with this alone?
"He's in the thick of it." Alyse pointed to a short, extremely obese man in a dark three-piece suit, standing with his back to the shop's main entrance and looking like the famous profile caricature of Alfred Hitchcock. Tremain didn't appear to be saying anything; he just stood there like an overdressed bouncer. His arms hugged his chest, his hands not quite touching, as if he were trying to cross his arms but couldn't quite reach across the pin-striped expanse.
Dee and Emma were directly in front of him now. Dee whispered something to Emma, who shouted, "Mic check!"
The members of the crowd abandoned their own slogans and immediately responded, "Mic check!"
Emma shouted, "We're here…"
The crowd responded, "We're here…"
Emma continued to lead them. "To protest…"
"To protest…"
"Fake quilts."
"Fake quilts." The crowd shook their signs and shouted a hubbub of slogans: "Down with fraud!" "Validate the vintage!" "No sham shams!"
I felt sorry for whichever police officers responded to the 9-1-1 call. Perhaps I could calm the protest down a little before things got out of hand. It was also the fastest way to get this meeting with Tremain over with. He wasn't likely to do any negotiating while being held hostage by the picketers, and Dee couldn't present her case to Tremain if she and Emma were loaded into the back of a police car.
"If you'll excuse me, Alyse, I see someone I know in the crowd. I'd like to have a word with her." I didn't wait for her acknowledgment but made my way along the sidewalk, losing sight of Tremain as I was surrounded by the protestors and a few disgruntled lunchtime pedestrians who were just trying to get past Monograms. I had to struggle not to get caught up in the flow, fighting the tide until I emerged next to Tremain, facing Dee and Emma.
Tremain turned to open the door for me, apparently mistaking me for a customer, but he was unable to maneuver in the tight space. "Move back, ladies. You're trespassing."
None of the protestors moved except to shake their signs even harder. Apparently everyone had chosen her own individual slogan, and now they were all trying to out-shout each other. They couldn't hear Tremain, probably wouldn't even hear the police siren when the cruiser arrived. If it arrived. I had to hope the dispatcher would make it a low priority, but there weren't many high priority calls in Danger Cove, so there might not be anything more important for officers to respond to.
"Move," Tremain shouted and was ignored once again.
"You can't do this to me." He stomped one foot, and his face turned red, like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum in a short but massive fifty-year-old body.
I caught Emma's attention and gestured for her to move back slightly with Dee. They did, taking the other protestors with them far enough that Tremain was able to open the door and invite me inside with an exaggeratedly polite flourish of his pudgy hand.
Once we were both inside, he turned a key in the deadlock on the glass front door to keep out the protestors, although it did little to muffle the sound of their shouts.
"I'm Keely Fairchild. I believe you're expecting me and the leaders of the local quilt guild."
"The woman who called to set up the meeting didn't say anything about a picket line," Tremain said in a whiney tone. At least the redness of his face was fading. "I thought we were going to have a nice, civil conversation among people who share a common interest in quilts."
"There does seem to have been a bit of a miscommunication. If you'll give me a minute with Dee and Emma, I think I can straighten everything out. While I do that, perhaps you'd like to let the police know the situation is under control. You wouldn't want to waste their time and have them ignore you when you really need help."
"No one ignores Randall J. Tremain." He turned the key to unlock the front door. "But I'm a reasonable man. I'll call off the cops if you'll call off the protestors."
I nodded, and Tremain headed toward the back of the shop, presumably to make good on his promise. I pushed the front door open and called for Dee and Emma to join me inside. While I waited for them to untangle themselves from their posse, I took a peek at the shop's merchandise.
As the name suggested, the offerings were limited to items that could be monogrammed. Most were textiles of some sor
t: towels, pillowcases, bathrobes, and finally my area of expertise—quilts. In addition, there were some lovely hand-crafted wood and glass display cases filled with pieces of antique silver. Neatly printed cards described the history of silver mining in the Pacific Northwest and its importance in the days of the Spokane Stock Exchange.
Most of the quilts were draped over the backs of chairs or stacked in open cupboards, but there was one hanging on the back wall in a dimly lit corner. The poor lighting wasn't good for drawing in customers, but as an appraiser who'd seen the damage sunlight could do to a quilt, I had to respect the decision to keep what looked like a potentially valuable quilt out of direct sunshine.
I didn't have time to take a close look at it now, but I wanted to check it out after the meeting. At least at first glance it had a great deal in common with the description of the quilt the museum wanted me to appraise: a simple four-patch design, old, and in remarkably good condition.
At the sound of the door closing behind me, I turned to face Dee and Emma.
"Sorry we took so long," Emma said. "Janiece Jordan didn't want to leave, and you know how stubborn she can be."
I didn't, of course. Most of the residents of Danger Cove had lived here all their lives, so they couldn't fathom that anyone might not know all their friends. I knew an Alex Jordan, who'd done the renovation work on my home, and I knew she had a grandmother named Janiece, since it had been impressed on me that I should never call her Janice, but I'd never had the opportunity to call her anything or to observe her level of stubbornness since we'd never met.
I didn't bother to explain, though, because I had a more pressing concern. Dee and Emma had brought another person inside with them. I'd seen him earlier, on the outskirts of the picket line, not quite a part of the group but observing it. He was over six feet tall, maybe five years younger than I was, with shaggy dark hair and a face that was hard to look away from, even for me, and I'd never been impressed by good looks. He didn't seem to care about his appearance either. I had no aspirations whatsoever to becoming a fashionista, but even I knew his sport shirt's shade of yellow was not a flattering color for anyone, and there were about twice the usual number of pockets on his cargo pants, almost as if in parody of the style, and both pieces had been worn dozens if not hundreds of times. And yet, despite everything wrong with the outfit, he looked surprisingly good in it. Some people really could wear anything and make it look like high fashion. I could wear high fashion, and despite my long legs, I make it look like the cheapest rags.
Death by Scones Page 24
