“Absolutely not. It's not safe. You know nothing about riding.”
“Abigail will show me.”
“She will not. I will forbid her. I forbid you .”
Eleanor smiled to herself and worked her needle through the fabric, embellishing the dark velvet and wool with a chain of white silk thread, each stitch another link.
Chapter Three
Their suitcases and supplies were stowed away in the motor home, Sylvia had the map spread out on her lap, and Andrew had just put the key in the ignition when Sarah ran out the back door waving at them. Agnes had just called and was on her way over with something she insisted she must show Sylvia before they departed.
Andrew pocketed the keys, and he and Sylvia returned inside, where Sylvia put on a fresh pot of coffee. Agnes usually sought rides from Diane, who would likely crave a cup or two this early in the morning.
Sure enough, when Agnes and Diane arrived, Diane barely mumbled a greeting on her way to the coffeepot. Agnes, on the other hand, was bright-eyed and pink-cheeked with excitement. “I found it,” she said, waving a thick, battered notebook in triumph. “It was with my old tax returns. Thank goodness I remembered the year.”
“Found what?” asked Andrew.
“Nothing that couldn't have waited an hour,” groused Diane, heaping sugar into her cup. “Even if it does mention your mother's quilt.”
“What?” exclaimed Sylvia.
Agnes beckoned Sylvia and Andrew to the table. “I had forgotten all about this notebook. I started it when Richard went off to war, to keep track of news from home to include in my letters. After he was killed, I continued it for myself, as a place to put down reminders, appointments, and so forth.”
Agnes opened the notebook to a page marked with a scrap of blue gingham fabric. “The entry for Thursday, March twentieth, 1947, includes my mother's birthday, reminders to write letters to two creditors, and the name and address of a caller who had come to buy a certain quilt,” she said. “Claudia was out, and when I told the woman I had no idea which quilt she meant, she left in a huff and ordered me to have Claudia contact her promptly if she didn't want to lose a sale. I assumed Claudia planned to sell her own quilts. If I'd had any idea she meant to sell your mother's, I never would have given her the message.”
“I know you wouldn't have,” Sylvia reassured her.
“Wait just a second,” said Diane, reading over Agnes's shoulder. “Is that who bought the quilts? Esther Thorpe? From right here in Waterford?”
“Not all of the quilts,” said Agnes. “Just the appliqué quilt.”
“The Elms and Lilacs quilt?” gasped Sylvia. It was impossible to believe she would ever see any of the missing quilts again, but if Agnes's recollection of her notes was correct, the Elms and Lilacs quilt had been sold to a neighbor.
Then Sylvia noticed Diane shaking her head in dismay, or maybe disgust. “Just my luck. It had to be Esther Thorpe.”
“What's wrong with Esther Thorpe?” asked Andrew.
“Nothing's wrong with her, not anymore. It's her family I'm worried about, the people who would have inherited her quilts after her death. Esther had a daughter named Nancy Thorpe Miles, and Nancy had a daughter—”
“Oh, dear,” said Agnes. “I see.”
“I don't,” said Sylvia. “Would someone care to enlighten me?”
“Esther Thorpe was the grandmother of Mary Beth Callahan.”
Andrew looked around the table, baffled. “And Mary Beth Callahan is …?”
“My next-door neighbor,” said Diane. “And my nemesis.”
“Oh yes, of course,” said Sylvia. “The one who turned you in to the Waterford Zoning Commission when you built that skateboard ramp in your backyard.”
“I didn't build it; my husband did,” Diane shot back, then nodded, chagrined. “Yes, that's Mary Beth. The one who has been president of the Waterford Quilting Guild for going on fifteen years now.”
“She must be doing a fine job, or the guild members wouldn't elect her each year,” Agnes pointed out.
“No, they're just intimidated. She has an incumbent's power plus the grace and subtlety of a bulldozer. If she has your mother's quilt, you'll be lucky if she lets you look at it through the window.”
The others laughed. Sylvia knew Diane had her own personal grudges against Mary Beth, and she couldn't deny that Mary Beth might have earned every bit of Diane's enmity, but she did not see any cause for alarm. “We'll stop by and see her on our way out of town,” she said. “It's our only lead, and I won't pass it up simply because you two don't get along.”
“Don't say I didn't warn you,” said Diane. “At least send Andrew in alone if you mean to buy the quilt back. Mary Beth might not recognize him, but she knows you and I are friends. She'll triple her price just to infuriate me.”
Sylvia promised to consider it, but she couldn't help feeling a thrill of anticipation at the thought of seeing the Elms and Lilacs quilt after so many years. Mary Beth could triple or even quadruple her price, and Sylvia would pay it—as long as she didn't have to mortgage Elm Creek Manor to do so.
After encouraging Diane and Agnes to stay and help themselves to breakfast, Sylvia and Andrew bid their friends good-bye. Soon the motor home was rumbling across the bridge over Elm Creek and through the leafy wood surrounding the estate.
They reached the main road and drove another fifteen minutes to Diane's neighborhood, a few blocks south of the Waterford College campus. Professors, administrators, and their families resided in the gray-stone and red-brick houses on the broad, oak tree-lined streets, but in the distance, the low, thumping bass of a stereo reminded Sylvia that Fraternity Row was not far away.
Andrew carefully maneuvered the motor home into Diane's driveway, nearly taking out a shrub near the mailbox. Sylvia raised her eyebrows at him, but didn't criticize. “Diane won't miss a few leaves,” Andrew said as he set the parking brake.
Mindful of Mary Beth's reputation, they went a few extra steps out of their way to stay on the sidewalk rather than walk on her lawn. Mary Beth herself answered their knock and gave them one quick, suspicious glance before the motor home caught her attention. Her eyes widened, and for a moment she seemed to have forgotten the couple on her doorstep. “If she thinks she can park that monstrosity there—”
“No need to worry,” Sylvia broke in pleasantly. “That monstrosity is ours. We parked in Diane's driveway to avoid blocking the road.”
“Oh.” Mary Beth frowned at Sylvia as if wondering whether to believe her. “I suppose that's all right. I'm not the sort to complain, but we do have an ordinance against that kind of thing.”
“Of course you do,” said Sylvia. “I don't know if you remember me, but we've met before. I'm Sylvia Compson, and this is my friend, Andrew Cooper.”
“Fiancé, actually,” said Andrew, offering Mary Beth his hand.
She shook it warily, her eyes still on Sylvia. “Of course I remember you. Every quilter in Waterford knows you.”
“Not every quilter, surely.” Sylvia made her voice as cheerful as she could, considering Mary Beth's viselike grip on the front door. “I'm sorry we didn't call first, but we're on our way out of town, and I needed to see you rather urgently.”
“If it's about that skateboard ramp—”
“Heavens, no.”
“Well …” Mary Beth glanced over her shoulder, then at her watch. “I guess I have a few minutes, but I can't invite you in. We just had the carpets cleaned.”
“That's quite all right,” Sylvia assured her, and decided she did not envy Diane her neighbor. “I recently learned that years ago, your grandmother purchased one of my mother's quilts from my sister. I hoped you might know what became of it.”
As Sylvia described the quilt, Mary Beth listened, frowning and chewing her lip. Then suddenly she brightened. “Oh, that quilt,” she said. “Of course. I saw it when I was a little girl.”
“Not more recently than that?”
“No, not since my
grandmother died and my mother got rid of all her junk before selling the house.” Mary Beth rolled her eyes. “Was that ever a chore. It took us a week to sort through her stuff. Grandma called herself an art collector, but she had terrible taste. My mother kept some of the antique furniture and a few other things of sentimental value, but she sold everything else to an auction house. She told my father she was surprised we didn't have to pay them to haul the stuff away.”
Sylvia smiled tightly. “I don't suppose my mother's quilt had sentimental value to your family?”
“No. Why should it have? My grandmother owned many quilts. If she had made them, we would have kept them even if they didn't go with our decor, but since she just bought them here and there, and they weren't even valuable antiques—”
“Funny thing is,” Andrew remarked, “they might be, by now.”
“I'm sure your mother's quilt was very pretty,” said Mary Beth hastily, “but we didn't have room enough to keep everything.”
“So you got rid of the junk,” said Sylvia. “I heard you.”
Mary Beth opened her mouth and closed it without a word, pinching her lips in a scowl.
Andrew asked, “You wouldn't happen to know the name of that auction house, would you?”
“Not off the top of my head.” Then, reluctantly, Mary Beth added, “My mother might remember. I suppose I could call her and get back to you.”
“We'd appreciate it,” said Andrew. “Thanks very much for your time.”
He prompted Sylvia with a tiny nudge, but Mary Beth closed the door so quickly Sylvia had no time to thank her anyway. She shook her head at the closed door. “Be a dear and remind me of this moment if I ever accuse Diane of exaggerating when she complains about her neighbors.”
Andrew chuckled. “I'll do that.”
“Junk, indeed.” Sylvia took Andrew's arm, but when he headed for the sidewalk, she steered him directly toward the motor home. She hoped that unpleasant woman was spying on them from behind the curtain as they trod on her carefully manicured lawn. Mary Beth was fortunate that Sylvia knew how to control her temper, or she might have marched right through the marigold bed.
Andrew drove west on I-80, pleased they had managed to get an early start despite their detour to Mary Beth's house. “By the time we get home from California, I'll bet she'll have the name of that auction house for you,” he said.
“She'd better have it sooner than that,” retorted Sylvia. “It's the least she can do, considering how she insulted my mother's quilts.”
Andrew agreed, but Sylvia couldn't help wondering if Mary Beth's dismissal of the Elms and Lilacs quilt was a response to its condition rather than its artistic merit. The Bergstroms had taken excellent care of it when it was theirs, but as Mary Beth had so gracelessly pointed out, the quilt had held no sentimental value for her family. Heaven only knew how they had used the quilt. Every quilter of Sylvia's acquaintance had her own horror story of quilts lovingly made and given as gifts only to be dreadfully mistreated by their new owners. As for herself, Sylvia had learned not to look too closely at the dog's bed or the rag bag with the cleaning supplies when visiting the recipients of some of her quilts.
They stopped for lunch outside of Youngstown, then drove on across Ohio. Just west of Toledo, Andrew asked her to check the guidebook for a suitable place to spend the night. Sylvia eyed him curiously but obliged. Ordinarily he preferred to drive well past dusk, especially on the first day when he was fresh, but if he'd had enough driving for one day, she wouldn't press him to continue. Driving wore her out, too, although she wouldn't admit it, since it seemed ridiculous that sitting down in a comfortable seat should fatigue her. Besides, Andrew enjoyed the freedom of traveling by the motor home, and she wouldn't dream of spoiling his fun.
The registration office at the campsite had a phone, so after they had settled in, Sylvia called home. Sarah answered and reported that Summer was working on their submissions to the Missing Quilts Home Page, and her mother's quilts ought to be on-line by the end of the week. Mary Beth Callahan had not called. Sylvia had not really expected to hear from her so soon, but she still returned to the motor home rather disgruntled. Andrew was already asleep on the fold-out bed, so Sylvia changed into her nightgown as quietly as she could. She kissed him on the cheek before turning in herself, but he did not stir.
In the morning, she woke to find breakfast ready and Andrew sipping coffee and reading a newspaper he had purchased at the office. Soon they were on the road, heading west to Andrew's son and his family in Southern California.
As the days passed, they crossed Indiana—with a detour to the Amish community in Shipshewana so Sylvia could visit friends and shop for fabric—and Illinois. In Iowa they spent a day with one of Andrew's army buddies, then stayed over another night to avoid driving in severe thunderstorms. Sylvia checked in with Sarah every other day, although with camp not in session for the season, her young friend had little business to report. Sylvia wondered if Sarah suspected the truth, that checking in on Elm Creek Quilts was really just an excuse to hear Sarah's voice and to let her know she and Andrew were fine. She knew Sarah and Matt worried about them, two old folks on the road alone. Sylvia might worry, too, if she didn't have absolute faith in Andrew's familiarity with the route and his diligence in maintaining the motor home. “Most accidents happen close to home,” she had told Sarah cheerfully the one and only time Sarah had expressed concern. “The farther we go, the safer we are.”
She knew her logic was flimsy, but at least Sarah dropped the subject.
Sometimes Sarah did have news when Sylvia called: The new brochures had come back from the printer with an error and had to be redone, Elm Creek Quilt Camp was going to be the subject of an article in an upcoming issue of American Quilter, Sylvia had been invited to speak at next year's Pacific International Quilt Festival. Other times, the news from home made Sylvia rather glad she was not there. Judy DiNardo had found the perfect wedding gown in a bridal magazine, Sarah had ordered several catalogs from which Sylvia could choose the invitations, and all the Elm Creek Quilters had taken a tour of the local bakeries to sample wedding cakes. Well, Sylvia was sorry to have missed the wedding cake audition, but she was glad to have avoided the other nonsense.
When Sylvia called from Colorado, Summer answered with unexpected and welcome news: She had received fourteen e-mails from people across the country with leads on the missing quilts.
“Fourteen,” marveled Sylvia. “I never thought we'd receive such a response so soon.”
“Now will you lose your silly e-mail prejudice?” teased Summer. “I wish you had a laptop so I could forward these e-mail messages to you. Several had photos attached, but you're the only person who can make a positive ID.”
“You sound like a detective.”
“I feel something like one,” said Summer, laughing. “Anyway, since I can't e-mail you, grab a pencil and paper. Most of the tips will have to wait until you return, but you'll pass by some of the locations.”
Sylvia fumbled in her purse for something to write with. “Hold on a moment, please.”
“There's something strange about these responses, too. Statistically I would have expected the responses to be equally distributed among the five quilts, but ten of them were about the whole cloth quilt.”
“That is rather odd. I expected the Ocean Waves and the Crazy Quilt to receive the most, since those patterns are more common and there will be more look-alikes to cause false alarms.” Suddenly Sylvia had a thought. “Unless you mean all ten of those e-mails mentioned the same location?”
“Sorry, no. I should have been more clear. Ten unique locations.”
“That's not a very good sign.” At last Sylvia found a pen. “All right, dear, I'm ready to take dictation.”
“First for the good news: One of the sightings of the whole cloth quilt was at a library in Thousand Oaks. That's close to Santa Susana.”
“Very close,” said Sylvia, delighted. “I recall seeing signs for Thous
and Oaks on the freeway near Andrew's son's home. My goodness, can you imagine? We might actually come home with one of my mother's quilts.”
“Or more, if you're lucky. Have you reached Golden, Colorado?”
“Golden is more than four hours behind us.”
“Too bad. Someone claims she saw the New York Beauty at the Rocky Mountain Quilt Museum.”
“I knew I should have paid them a visit,” exclaimed Sylvia. “I would have, except I didn't want to give Andrew another excuse to stop.”
“You can investigate on the way back. I have an antique dealer in Iowa and a family in Indiana you should check out on the return trip, too. The only sighting between you and California is a quilt shop in Nevada.” Summer hesitated. “And when I said you'll pass by these places, I didn't mean they're right on your route. You'll have to take a few detours.”
“I'd go hundreds of miles out of my way if it meant finding those quilts.” As Sylvia wrote down Summer's information, it occurred to her that she ought to prepare herself to go even farther—literally and otherwise.
One of the responses had come from a Las Vegas woman who said she had seen an Ocean Waves quilt fitting Sylvia's description in a quilt shop in a nearby town.
“It's not far out of our way,” said Sylvia as Andrew turned off I-15 onto the highway that led to Boulder City.
“It's no trouble,” said Andrew. “I don't mind the delay.”
“I almost wish you did.”
“Hmm?”
“Never mind.” Sylvia unfolded the map and put on her glasses.
They followed Summer's directions into the historic Old Town district of Boulder City and located Fiddlesticks Quilts with little difficulty. Andrew dropped Sylvia off in front of the shop and promised to return for her after checking over the motor home at a filling station. “Don't buy too much fabric,” he teased as she climbed down from her seat.
“If that's the kind of husband you're going to be, we're keeping separate checking accounts,” Sylvia retorted, but she smiled as she shut the door.
The Quilter's Legacy Page 7
