"It's going to be scrappy, but within three or four color families. I think using lots of different prints is more in keeping with how quilts actually looked during the Civil War.” Mavis went into her sewing room and brought out a few more pieces of brown fabric for Beth's approval. The women rearranged the material into several piles until the sound of the teakettle whistle interrupted.
"How are you feeling about things,” Harriet asked when Mavis came back to the living room carrying a tray with three mugs of tea on it. “Are you up to looking at Gerald's quilt again?"
"Of course,” Mavis said. “And I'm not sure how I'm feeling about things, but the options are running towards angry and frustrated."
"We don't need to do this now if you don't want,” Beth said.
"Don't be silly. I want to get to the bottom of this, and the sooner the better. The quilt's in my sewing room. I'll get it.” She went back into her sewing room and returned with the plaid quilt draped over her arm and the piece of strange material in her hand. “I figured this is what you really want to look at,” she said and handed Harriet the black square.
"There must be something special about this material,” Harriet said. “Why else would he hide it, yet keep it with him. And what about this would make him come back?"
"It is strange-looking,” Mavis said.
Harriet raised an eyebrow. “How so?"
"It's the only black one I've seen. The samples he usually brought home were white or off-white or dingy gray or yellow. Nothing I ever saw was black."
"Huh,” said Aunt Beth. “So, this isn't a memento from his final success, the fire cloth?"
"No, that stuff is yellowish-white, but it could be an earlier version. Let me get a match.” She went to the kitchen and came back with a box of wooden matches. “Here,” she said as she positioned the black square in Harriet's hand. “Now, hold it out while I try to burn it."
Harriet did as she was instructed. The fabric resisted burning, but it got so hot she dropped it, and when she grabbed at the falling square, she jostled her sore collar bone, causing her to yelp and jerk back onto the sofa. In the process, she slopped her tea onto the square and knocked Mavis's appliqué scissors off the table. The scissors ended up stabbing point-down into the floor, impaling the wet black square in the process.
"Well, that eliminates a few experiments we might have done,” Mavis said. “It's neither waterproof nor scissor-proof, and from your reaction I'm guessing it wasn't protecting you from the match."
"What are we missing?” Aunt Beth wondered. She picked up the flannel quilt and felt the intact squares as Harriet had done before. “I don't feel anything out of the ordinary,” she said when she'd finished.
Mavis took it from her and took a good look at both sides. When she didn't find anything, she folded it, placed the black square on top of it and returned both to her sewing room. “With him dead, we may never know what was going on,” she said when she came back. “It may simply have been a wear test.” She went into the kitchen and made Harriet a fresh cup of tea.
"What are you thinking regarding the funeral?” Aunt Beth asked when Mavis was settled in her chair in the living room again.
"I go back and forth,” Mavis said honestly. “For the boys’ sake, I need to do something, and if that Ilsa person really was married to him for fifteen years, she needs to be involved. I'm just so angry at Gerald.” She stared out the window for a moment, gathering her composure. “But I guess that can't be helped. And anyway, on a cheerier note, it seems like I'm no longer alone at the top of the suspect list."
"There is that,” Harriet said. “By the way, we have Lauren on the case, computer-wise. She'll see what she can find out about Ilsa and also see what she can find out about Gerald's activities over the past twenty years."
"Why does she need to be involved?” Mavis asked. “Let's get Ilsa over here and grill her."
"I think we should do that, but I also think Lauren can help us know if Ilsa is telling us the truth,” Harriet said. “I mean, we have no reason to believe she isn't being truthful, but on the other hand, she could be anyone."
"Why don't we invite her to our Loose Threads meeting tomorrow?” Aunt Beth suggested. “Then it won't seem so much like an inquisition."
"Does she quilt?” Mavis asked.
"I don't know,” Harriet said. “But I think Aunt Beth's right. I'll call DeAnn later and see if Ilsa's arrived."
"Well, we better get going,” Aunt Beth said and drained her cup. “I've got some quilting to do while someone...” She glanced at Harriet. “...gets some rest."
"Hey, you were the one who insisted on taking over."
"Okay, missy, how are you going to stitch the orders you have with one arm tied to your side?"
Harriet smiled. “I don't know, maybe I can train Fred to help."
"That's what I thought. Come on, we've got work to do."
"Bye, Mavis,” Harriet said. “See you tomorrow."
Aunt Beth hugged her friend and then ushered Harriet out to the car.
* * * *
"Wake up, sleepyhead,” Aunt Beth called from the top of the stairs. Harriet looked at the clock beside her bed and was shocked to see she'd been asleep for almost two hours. “Carlton's here,” Beth continued.
Carlton was the last person Harriet wanted to see, but she was pretty sure he wouldn't leave if she refused to come downstairs, so she got up and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face.
"Carlton,” she said as she came into the long arm studio a few minutes later. “How can I help you?"
He was wearing a pink Hawaiian shirt over khaki shorts. His basketball-shaped stomach held the shirt away from his waist, and his thin legs looked stick-like coming out of the stylishly baggy shorts. He watched the stitch head on the long arm machine as Aunt Beth guided it around a large quilt that was made up of circles in squares. The woman who'd made the quilt had chosen sunflower colors—gold, forest green and brown with touches of orange and lime. She'd incorporated sunflower prints in several scales in the circle parts. It would make someone a nice late-summer bedcover.
Carlton turned toward Harriet.
"How's the arm?” he asked in his slightly too loud for indoors voice.
"Its fine, Carlton, but I'm pretty sure you didn't drive over here to ask about my health.” She was still annoyed about the workload he'd dumped on her during the re-enactment and was pretty sure he was here to ask for something more.
His face turned a pink color that matched his shirt. “Of course I'm concerned about your arm.” He was obviously stalling as he shuffled his feet and then studied their new positions.
"But you'd like to ask me to do something?” Harriet prompted.
"Well, now that you mention it, the city council is having a meeting tomorrow and wondered it we could provide some information about our event. I was hoping you could put a few figures together for me."
"Are you sure you don't want me to just come to the meeting?"
"Oh, I couldn't possibly ask such a thing while you're wounded."
Of course not, Harriet thought. People might realize who'd really done the work, and that would never do.
"I'll see what I can come up with,” she said. “I'm not promising anything—after all, it's hard to work with my arm like this.” She already had the information, but she wanted to watch him squirm. “Now,” she continued, “I have a couple of questions for you."
"Sure, ask away. I have no secrets."
"This isn't that sort of question.” Harriet led him to the sitting area near the front door and gestured for him to sit down, then took the wing back chair opposite him. “Think back about twenty years, to the time just before your dad's company became Foggy Point Fire Protection."
"You mean when Gerald disappeared?” he asked.
Maybe he was sharper than she was giving him credit for.
"Yeah, around that time. Do you remember what products were under development?"
He was silent for a
few minutes. “Nothing stands out. Back then they made a lot of low-volume products. They were trying to make a fabric shielding sleeve that could be used to fireproof cable bundles, but I don't think they got very far with it. I could try to look in the company archives, but I'm not sure we kept the data on products that didn't go anywhere."
"That would be useful,” Harriet said. “I'd like to see a list of everything Gerald was working on, successful or not."
"Sure, I'll get my secretary right on it.” He pulled a smart phone from his pocket and keyed in a reminder note.
"Oh, and one more thing,” she said. “Do you remember an employee during that same period named Terry Jansen? I don't know what sort of position he held."
Carlton appeared to be thinking. Finally, he shook his head. “No, it doesn't ring a bell. That's not to say there couldn't have been, but one of my jobs was to sign Christmas and birthday cards from my dad for each employee. There weren't a lot of employees back then, you see. Dad wanted people to feel like the company was their extended family. When we got bigger, we had to do away with the personalized stuff."
It must have really made the people feel great to get a card from the company owner that hadn't even been signed by him, Harriet thought, but then focused on the task at hand.
"If you could check the employee rosters I'd appreciate it."
Carlton looked skeptical about adding another task to his list.
"Perhaps you could give me that information when I bring you the information for your meeting?"
His shoulders sagged, and he tapped on his phone again, adding the additional request.
"What time is your meeting?” she asked.
"After lunch,” he said.
"I'm coming downtown for a Loose Threads meeting,” she said. “I'll swing by on my way."
"See you tomorrow, then.” He stood and turned toward the long-arm machine. “Good to see you as always, Beth,” he said, and let himself out.
"Is there anything I can do to help you?” Harriet asked her aunt when Carlton was gone.
"I can't think of anything you could do left-handed that would help.” Beth said. “Your job is to rest up and heal."
"How about I walk downtown and get us some dinner?"
"Are you sure you're up to it?” Aunt Beth asked. She looked at her closely.
"I'm fine, really. I've had lots of rest."
"Okay, but take your cell phone with you, and if you're not back in an hour, I'm coming looking."
"I'll be back, don't worry. If I get too tired, I'll call and you can come get me, but I won't need to."
She went into the kitchen and picked up a thin brown flowered nylon shopping bag that folded up in a small pouch she could carry in her pocket until she needed it. She took money from her purse, wrestling left-handed with her wallet until she finally was able to extract enough bills to cover the anticipated cost of dinner.
"Do you have any preference?” she asked Aunt Beth when she'd returned to the studio.
"Honey, if I don't have to fix it, anything sounds great."
Harriet headed out of the studio and down the driveway. She still was undecided about what dinner would be.
"Hey, doll,” came a male voice from behind her. A familiar vintage Ford Bronco cruised into view, inching forward, keeping pace. “Want a ride?"
"Sure,” she said.
Aiden stopped and jumped out to open the door. She was still on a neighborhood street, so no traffic was in sight.
"I'm on my way to California,” she told him.
"I'll go anywhere with you,” he said. “Let's go."
"Don't you need to pick up Randy?"
"Nah, Carla will feed her eventually."
"You're impossible,” she said with a smile. “Actually, I'm on my way to pick up dinner for my aunt and I. Would you like to join us?"
Aiden was silent. Harriet looked at him. It was unusual for him to not have a ready quip. “What?” she finally said when he continued to stare out the windshield. “Do you have a date?” She was joking ... until he didn't answer. “If you have a date, just say so. It's okay."
"I don't have a date,” he said. “Not like you think, anyway. It's just...” He broke off, obviously choosing his words carefully.
"Just what?"
"It's just that I promised I'd be a guinea pig for Carla tonight."
"That's okay,” Harriet said. A deep stab of pain knifed through her stomach; or maybe it was her heart—she wasn't sure. “Carla needs you."
"She wants to have Terry over for dinner, but she's afraid her cooking isn't up to snuff. I've tried to tell her what a great cook she is, but she wants to try the dinner menu first, just in case."
A great cook, Harriet thought. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised. Carla was his housekeeper, after all. But now she was his cook. His “great cook,” she amended.
"That's fine. I realize I was inviting you at the last minute."
"You don't have to give me notice,” he said. “You know that. I'd rather eat with you, but Carla was so worked up over having Terry over, I agreed. If I'd known you were going to ask me, I'd have said no."
"It's no big deal,” she said. “It's my pain meds talking. Of course Carla needs your support. Are you going to be there when Terry comes to dinner?"
"I told her I'd take Wendy to Tico's Tacos and introduce her to Mexican food."
Harriet looked out her window. Aiden reached over and turned her face toward him.
"I can get one of the vet techs to babysit. I'm sure Carla wouldn't mind."
"It's not that,” Harriet said. “I'm actually worried about Carla being alone with that guy so much. There's something off about his genealogy story. He claims he's trying to get to know his father by retracing his past. He says his dad used to work for Carlton's dad, but Carlton doesn't remember him."
"And that surprises you?” Aiden asked.
"Actually, it does. Carlton's dad made him write out the birthday and Christmas cards for all the employees back then. He wrote every name at least twice every year for some number of years. I realize he could forget someone after twenty years or more, but when I told him the name, it didn't trigger anything."
"Carlton's a weasel—I wouldn't put faith in anything he remembered or didn't remember. I can guarantee you the only thing he thinks about these days is Bebe."
"Still, I don't trust Terry."
"They're just having dinner. They're not even leaving the house."
"Unless they go for a walk by the strait. Then he could kill her and dump her in the water and we might never find her."
"You have been watching way too much television,” Aiden said. “Terry is not out to kill Carla."
"Maybe not, but he's lying about something—I can feel it."
She sank back in her seat, and Aiden drove in silence.
"Have you decided where you want to get food?” he finally asked as they approached town.
"Tico's sounds good and easy to carry, too."
"I'm going to drive you home when you get your food,” he said. “I don't have to be home for a while.” He looked down when he said the last part.
"It's okay, really,” she said and put her hand on his arm.
Aiden guided the Bronco into the small parking lot at the side of Tico's. He got out and came around to Harriet's door, opened it and pulled her carefully into his arms, making sure he didn't jostle her collarbone.
"I'm sorry I can't come to dinner. I really want to."
"Look,” Harriet said as she leaned back and gazed into his ice-blue eyes. “I just overreacted there for a minute. Like I said, it was the pain meds talking. I really do want you to help Carla, and more important, I want you to protect her."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm positive,” she said, and almost meant it.
She leaned toward him. Aiden steadied her face with his hand and gently brushed his lips over hers. She smiled against his mouth, and he kissed her more deeply, being careful still of her wounded sho
ulder.
"Please, amigos, get a room,” came a booming voice from the back door. “You're going to drive my business away."
Jorge laughed and waved the dish towel he was holding at them. Harriet laughed, too.
"Busted."
"I guess we better go in,” she said.
"Yeah, he's probably on the phone with your aunt already."
"What?"
"You heard me. Jorge is as big a gossip as any of the Loose Threads."
Harriet finished getting out of the car, pushing him out of the way.
"I don't need them talking about me any more than they do already."
"Do you two want food today, or are you just here to make out?” Jorge asked when they came into the restaurant.
Harriet's face burned, and she took a deep steadying breath before she spoke.
"I actually came to order take-out for my aunt and I."
"What? No food for the señor?"
Jorge couldn't have missed the look that passed between Harriet and Aiden. He clapped his large hands together.
"Well, then, mija, what did you have in mind for dinner? You want to try something different? How about some nice barbacoa burritos?"
"Sounds good,” Harriet said.
* * * *
There were more than burritos in the bag when she unpacked it. Aunt Beth came through the studio door into the kitchen as Harriet was pouring a glass of lemonade for each of them. She glanced at the two place settings on the island bar, and her eyebrows rose.
"No Aiden?” she asked.
"He had to be home for dinner,” Harriet said, and busied herself dividing the generous carton of guacamole into two smaller bowls. She pulled out a small bag of tortilla chips from the main package and poured them into a basket she placed within reach of both places.
"Are you regretting sending Carla to be his housekeeper?"
"No,” she said, too quickly. “No. I couldn't in good conscience let her continue living in a car with a baby.” She set a container of salsa by each plate—mild for Aunt Beth, medium for herself.
"You didn't have to suggest Aiden. She could have stayed here.” Aunt Beth settled at the bar, and Harriet handed her a plate with a foil-wrapped burrito.
"Aiden does need a housekeeper. It works for both of them. He would have had to pay someone anyway. It might as well be Carla. It's a win-win.” She knew her response lacked the enthusiasm usually associated with such words. She set her own plate and burrito on the counter.
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