Priced to Kill

by Margaret Evans

  Oh, well, she mused. If not that day, then one day she’d get it out of him. And now for the quilts.

  twenty-eight

  Armed with a brand new quilting needle and what she believed was the appropriate quilting thread she’d picked up at the local craft store, Laura threaded the needle, stuck it into her pincushion and went in search of the flawed Melanie Dorr quilt. The quilt was so pretty and she wanted to get it out there for sale. It was back in its plastic bag, and Laura grasped the quilt and was about to pull it out to attempt a mend, when she realized she didn’t actually know how to sew or mend a quilt, which was likely to be different from the other sewing classes she had taken in Maryland. She’d seen the online videos and read about it in her library books, but maybe, just maybe, she should actually talk to someone who had done this before she attempted such a project. She let go of the quilt and shoved it back into the plastic dry cleaning bag.

  Laura heaved a big sigh and went upstairs to work on tax returns. She was anxious to get that big box of jumbled information from one of her customers out of her hair, and this was as good a time as any to do so. She hated the work when people did this, but often it was to her advantage because people didn’t organize everything or realize what was in the box, and she usually got what she needed. Most of the time, anyway.

  Nearly two hours into organizing this particular box of chaotic paperwork, Laura decided to put it away and do the tax returns another day. Her client hadn’t provided everything she needed. She managed to organize what he gave her and sent him email requesting the missing information. Hopefully, he would still have it or be able to reconstruct it and she’d get it soon. She marked down the time she spent on this customer in her spreadsheet and set the box aside.

  She went right back to her laptop to look up more information about the quilt maker, Melanie Dorr, and her mysterious illness. She found more websites in France, where her family had originated, with English translations that gave more information about the illness and death. As she stared at the screen, she realized she was scratching her hands and arms again. She went to wash them immediately, scrubbing them with lots of soap multiple times.

  Returning to her laptop, Laura saw that the woman was apparently in excellent health most of her life, and all of a sudden, developed a whole range of symptoms that no doctor could identify with any certainty. First one diagnosis, then another, then another, and it went on for the several years during which she suffered. All of this Laura knew, but there was more here than elsewhere. Nothing helped Dorr except morphine and even that was limited in the quantities they could give her without reaching dangerous levels. So apparently, her pain had increased significantly as the disease advanced. It was hard to imagine pain that severe.

  Laura made a note of all the different diagnoses that had been made and began to look up some of the symptoms of each. She saw that many of the symptoms crossed over and thought that was the reason they had had such trouble diagnosing Dorr’s condition. But the suffering and death perplexed her as it had her multiple doctors.

  Dorr should have lived much longer, according to the descriptions of the different conditions. Almost all of the suspected conditions were treatable and yet the woman didn’t respond and declined further. She found one French doctor who disclaimed all the other diagnoses and stated that he suspected something else was in play here, but whatever it was, he refused to say in his post. She looked up more about this doctor but found nothing else.

  She continued her unsuccessful search for a complete listing of Melanie Dorr’s symptoms. In the end, they all concluded that she had contracted some mysterious illness during one of her jaunts to a third world country that resulted in gastritis, the cause of which was unknown, vague muscle pain, skin irritations, and severe anemia, again without a discovered cause. She tested negative for all kinds of cancers, known diseases and conditions, and simply died.

  Laura turned to the English versions of online newspapers in France but found little more than she already knew. Dorr and her husband lived in Mankato, so she checked the papers both there and in the Twin Cities. Little more was there other than what she’d already found on other websites, except she did find one article that mentioned how devoted her husband was to finding out what was wrong with his wife and his dedication to making her better.

  Apparently, he would fly home in the middle of business trips to be by her side when she had a flare-up or had worsened. He called doctor after doctor, specialist after specialist, and yet no one could help her. The one article in the Star Tribune ran a blurred black and white picture of Christopher Dorr, pleading for anyone’s help, anyone who had heard about his wife’s condition and could recognize the disease and help.

  It was likely the woman’s wealth and status that got him the notoriety to begin with, Laura thought. But he did seem to have good intentions and wondered how he felt when his wife suddenly died. She found a small article in the St. Paul Pioneer Press that said Christopher Dorr was so devastated by his wife’s death that he could no longer bear to live in the house they had shared. He had sold everything they owned and given it away to charity, and now lived in a small apartment in Belton. He kept to himself, quit his job, worked on charitable trusts and foundations, many of which his wife had supported.

  Belton.

  Where had she heard that town’s name before?

  She continued perusing the online articles and found two more doctors’ opinions that while the woman suffered horribly for years, they both believed she should have lived longer and not died quite as suddenly as she had.

  Laura unconsciously scratched her arm again and concluded there must be more to this woman’s suffering and death than just something no one could figure out. There was more here to be uncovered. And it struck her with stark realization that some of Melanie Dorr’s symptoms matched the symptoms of her own illness.

  Connor was back in Harry’s man-cave. It was late, after dinner, but all three Kovacs brothers were there with him. The fridge with beer was still off-limits. Harry had brought down a plate of Beth’s dinner for each of them. After everyone had finished eating, the four men got down and dirty about the police staffing situation.

  “No one can hear about the implications of your losing another officer,” Harry began.

  “Laura knows,” Connor said. He left off that he’d caved under her pressure, but he knew they all knew he had told her.

  “She doesn’t count,” Charlie pointed out. “She’s too loyal to the constabulary and would never spread that around. So let’s share what we found out. I’ll go last.”

  “I found out nothing,” Harry began. “Nobody at the state level is talking. I find that very interesting in itself. Why would a budget adjustment, which is what this looks like, be so secret? Unless they have something to hide.”

  “And my friends at County,” Will added, “didn’t seem to know about it. Oddly, neither of them had time to meet with me for lunch, either. I don’t have much hope of finding out any more if they’re that closed-mouth about it. And that alone tells me somebody knows something and they’re hiding it.”

  They all turned to Charlie.

  “It’s important, gentlemen, that we all realize that the mere fact that we’re quietly nosing around is going to notify the people involved that their unusual actions have been noticed, and not just by one person, but by a number of influential people in a number of places. I think it’s a fair assessment, Connor, that you aren’t going to lose any more officers, and it’s a pretty good bet you’ll be getting at least one back and maybe more.”

  “You can’t know that will happen, Charlie,” Harry put in.

  “Yes, I actually do know it’s going to happen.”

  “Who is this guy you know?” Connor asked. “Or do we not want to know?”

  “Correct,” Charlie said. “You don’t want to know whom I know.”

  The men were s
ilent for a moment. Harry looked at Charlie.

  “Just so you know, I don’t want to know who you know, either. And neither does Will.”

  “I’m right here, guys,” Will said. “But I agree. Don’t tell me anything. If Peeks finds out, who knows what will happen.”

  “Good. I have many contacts you should not know about, nor should you even think I might know people you don’t want to know.”

  “What’s happening here?” Connor asked, drawing them back to the issue.

  “I heard a rumor there was some…persuasion…applied at a high level in the state that resulted in the loss of officers in our town, on a continuous basis, apparently, and also that is why no one would talk to you, Harry, but I wasn’t told the reason. I figure I don’t want to know. At any rate, there will be a budget adjustment very shortly, Connor will get his officer back and very likely another one or two, as well. My contact was…very concerned about that minimum ratio of officers to civilians. I asked about Sven because I like him. He’s a good officer and I know we would all benefit if he came back. Can’t promise you anything, though. Just keeping all our fingers crossed.”

  Connor shook his head in disbelief.

  “The staff is going to think I’m crazy. But I can’t say anything until I get the word from Mallory.”

  “I’m interested in how you did this,” Will put to his brother. “Did you engage in blackmail? And don’t tell me if you did.”

  “Not me. I would never cross that line. I just asked a question. It was looked into and fixed by someone who owed this town a big favor. I don’t know how, but it was.”

  “What about the blackmailer? Won’t the person who is responsible for the original ‘persuasion’ as you call it do something else more drastic as a result? Does your friend even know who it is and who the victim is?” Connor was concerned, as always, with upholding the law. They were all walking a fine line at the moment.

  “I don’t know the answer to that, Connor, but I can tell you that whoever the blackmailer is, that person has been made aware that their actions will be watched carefully in the future, because the victims—plural—are under scrutiny, whoever they are, but I was told there was more than one. And it’s very likely that the blackmailer will have a lot to lose if they step over that line again.”

  Connor still frowned.

  “I want to know why someone would have a vested interest in understaffing the police in this town.”

  “We may never know the answer to that,” Charlie continued, “but we do know that we were able to thwart that process this time around. And it’s very important to realize that this conversation tonight never took place among us.”

  After Connor left, the three Kovacs brothers regrouped.

  “I won’t be able to talk to my guy again. Ever. But that’s what I had to do to keep Connor on the right side of the union,” Charlie added. “He has a staff that would follow him over those hot coals. It would be devastating to this town. And I really did just ask one question. It’s who I asked.”

  twenty-nine

  Mary Donegan was the quilter extraordinaire who had formed the Raging Ford crafting club about eight years ago. A retired school teacher, she loved quilting and missed the companionship she’d found in the middle school where she had taught. She also remembered Laura from sixth, seventh and eighth grade, as well as her parents, and was delighted when Laura had returned to Raging Ford and joined the crafting club.

  Laura had had to wait for this first meeting following the holidays. Most of the members were off taking cruises or long-deserved vacations. She wondered if she would ever have such an opportunity to take time off and go somewhere fun. Like Paris. Maybe with Connor if he could ever get any time off. Of course, that would also depend on whether he wanted to go to Paris with her.

  Following a quick trip to an estate sale and an indoor flea market she found along the way, Laura had grabbed a quick dinner and was right at home with the crafters.

  “I always say, if you want to know the history of a quilt, ask the family it came from. Sometimes the design itself will tell you something, but the family knows the whole story.”

  Mary had responded to Laura’s questions about the quilt batch she’d just added to the store and how she thought she should know something about quilt-making, and in particular, even some of the history of the quilts themselves as an enticement to her customers to make the quilts even more exciting and desirable.

  “What if there’s no family to ask?” Laura posed. She’d discovered online that Melanie Dorr’s family was gone and there was no indication of where the husband was living besides the name of the town. The article was two years old; he might not even be there any longer.

  “Then you ask the other folks in that family’s town about them. There’s almost always someone in a small town who keeps passing on the information, if only as idle gossip. There might not be an interesting story, but there will be something that somebody knows about it.”

  Laura had just shown Mary and the others a picture she had taken of the reworked quilt with her iPhone. She kept to herself what she had found out about Melanie Dorr’s illness and its similarity in symptoms with her own recent illness. She was hoping beyond hope that there wasn’t something contagious in the quilt, as in some strange rare germ that no one had recognized or identified as yet. Perhaps that’s why the doctors couldn’t diagnosis her well.

  Mary peered closely at the snap of the quilt again, studying the re-stitched part.

  “I don’t know why someone who didn’t know how to stitch a quilt would do this. It’s so amateurish and looks bad. Almost looks like someone with a blindfold did this. This is outright sabotage to a work of art. I met Melanie Dorr once. She won lots of awards for her extraordinary quilts. You’re lucky to have gotten hold of a couple of them. I can’t see her ever knowing about this bad stitching. She was very particular about each quilt, even how it was merchandised and arranged for the conventions and contests. Maybe it happened after she died. If you like, I can redo this part for you so it looks better. Then you’ll get more money for it. Were any of the others re-stitched like this?”

  Laura shook her head.

  “None that I had. They all came from a group of estate sales, and the seller probably gathered them from more than one place to draw a bigger crowd of bidders and buyers. I’ve been trying to get a hold of her, but with little luck so far to find out more. Thank you for the offer, but let’s hold off for the time being until I have everything in a better place.”

  “Every family has its secrets. Maybe there’s a mystery about this quilt,” Greg Waller commented, busily weaving dampened, long pine needles into baskets.

  “Now, Greg,” Maura Stapleton commented. Maura was a nurse at the clinic where Dr. Anderson worked and was in charge of the pediatric unit. She was also a good quilter. “You’re always looking for secrets, ghost stories, and mysteries!”

  “Well, it’s true,” Waller defended himself. “Every family has a secret or two they don’t want to get out. Look at the family secret that Laura just unraveled a couple of months ago—that boy who killed his parents and brother? Everybody accepted him and nobody suspected a thing.”

  “That happened in Eagle Junction, not Raging Ford.”

  “Are you saying that nobody in our town has any secrets?”

  That question brought a heavy silence for a moment or two.

  “Okay,” Laura jumped in before anyone could make more comments about secrets, murder, mystery and mayhem that might be lurking under the surface in Raging Ford. “Tell me about your most favorite quilt, Maura.”

  With the definite shift in the conversation, Laura paid little attention to the words after that. She was worried about the silence and what secrets there were that might still lay hidden in Raging Ford. And if everyone had a secret somewhere deep in their past that they wanted to share with no on
e. Like the Rage Family mystery. Like Connor. Or Melanie Dorr’s illness and quilt.

  Connor’s head was in a whirl. He was getting a taste of what drove his father to all those late night conversations with his mother. Perhaps the conversations were still going on, if things like blackmailing elected and appointed state officials were happening. He had just gotten off the phone with his boss, Chief Mallory, who had given him the official word that he was not only not losing an officer from the latest cutback, but he would also be gaining those whom he had lost earlier in the year. Mallory didn’t have the names yet, but he sounded relieved and glad this was happening.

  Fitzpatrick called another staff meeting, with dial-ins from those off duty as soon as he got the word on the other three officers.

  “The state has somehow realized the error of its budgetary ways and rethought the ratio of officers to citizens in Raging Ford. On that note, we’ve been officially advised that Mo Sanchez is not leaving us—”

  The cheers on the phone and in the bullpen roared, and the grin on Corporal Sanchez’s face went ear to ear. Connor put up a hand to quiet down the room.

  “There’s more,” he said, stopping the cheers on the phone. “Corporal Sven Mortensen is coming back to us starting this Monday—”

  Again the cheers which had turned to roars interrupted him. Again, he put up his hand and shouted over the noise.

  “And we’re also getting back…” at this point there was a hush because everyone wanted to know who from their group was also being reclaimed.

  “Officers John Thompson and Adam Beauregard—” he said the names fast because the roaring, cheering, table-pounding and foot-stomping had begun. Whistles followed and officers got up to congratulate Sanchez and dance him around the room.

  Connor stood and raised his hands again, asking his staff to calm down a bit.