by Ellen Crosby
The housekeeper opened the door and invited me in as Robyn walked into the foyer, a tired smile on her face. Today she wore faded skinny jeans and an untucked denim shirt, which only emphasized how petite she was. Looking at her I couldn’t imagine she would have the physical strength to plunge a pair of secateurs into Jean-Claude when his back was turned. She wore no makeup and dark circles ringed her eyes.
“Good morning, Lucie,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t have as much time this morning as I thought I did, so we should get started.”
“We don’t have to do this right now if it’s not convenient,” I said.
“It’s fine. I wouldn’t mind a distraction. After this Toby and I are driving over to meet Bobby Noland at the Sheriff’s Office. He has some more questions for us about Jean-Claude’s death.” She was still smiling, but her eyes were clouded with worry.
“I’m sure it will go just fine,” I said. “I spoke to Bobby again yesterday as well. In fact, I think he’s been talking to a lot of people for a second time.”
“Is that so?” She seemed to relax a little. “Well, I suppose it’s our turn next.”
I nodded, feeling guilty for offering her false comfort, as she added, “Why don’t you let me take that bag from you? We can examine your quilt in my studio. I’m using an old dining room table as a worktable, so there will be plenty of room to lay it out.”
I handed over the bag and followed her down the hall. We passed by the closed door to Toby’s study and Robyn said in a low voice, “Toby has some pages due to his editor today. He and Colette are working like mad to make his deadline. They got sort of derailed with everything that’s been going on the past few days.”
By everything she meant Jean-Claude’s murder. “I can imagine,” I said.
Robyn’s studio was a window-filled room with a set of French doors that led to a deck overlooking the swimming pool and a rose garden. Mick Dunne, the previous owner, had used it as a glorified man-cave decorated in shades of burgundy, black, and white with an enormous television, an L-shaped sofa piled with throw pillows, a well-stocked portable bar, microwave, and mini-refrigerator. Now the room was distinctly feminine, painted white like the rest of the house to better show off Robyn’s artwork. The oak floor, which had been covered with Oriental carpets, was bare except for a tarp underneath a painting easel. The dining room table sat in a corner near a bank of windows and was covered with tablecloths and a protective sheet of plastic.
Robyn set down the bag and removed the quilt. When she opened it up to its full size, she gasped. “My God, this is exquisite. I’ve never seen one of these before, but I’ve read about them.”
“One of what?”
“This quilt was probably made by an African-American woman,” she said. “A very talented woman. It’s called a ‘kente quilt’ because it’s based on kente cloth, which is probably one of the best-known African textiles in the world.”
“I’ve heard of kente cloth,” I said. “But I’ve never heard of the fabric being used in quilts.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to confuse you. It’s not actual kente cloth that’s being used for the quilt,” she said. “This is an American version, a quilter recreating the intricate designs of kente cloth—something remembered from home. From Africa.”
She walked around the table, one finger pressed against her lips, as she reverently examined the quilt. When she looked up she said, “I can’t believe it … this is incredible. Kente cloth is associated with the Ashanti people who live in central Ghana. Originally it was considered the cloth of kings, the sacred cloth of royalty. Now, of course, it’s more widely available. To this day kente cloth—African kente cloth—is still hand woven in four-inch strips on special narrow looms. The quilter imitated this by interlacing strips of different-colored cloth to form a length of fabric. In Ghana, the men were the weavers, never women.”
“Do you think this quilt was made by a man?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Kente quilts were an American creation and they were made by women—Ghanaian women—to keep the traditions of their country alive in the New World. The patterns would necessarily be different from those woven in Ghana because no Ashanti commoner would ever dream of wearing a design worn by their king. This quilt belongs in a museum, Lucie. Hanging on a wall by itself. Kente quilts are extremely rare and valuable because so few of them are known to have survived.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. The history of kente cloth goes back centuries. Originally it was made from cotton until Portuguese traders brought silk to Africa in the fourteen hundreds. The Ashanti unraveled the silk and used the threads to reweave into their own designs. Kente quilts—which originated in America and are more modern—are very much associated with slavery.”
Robyn lifted the quilt and ran her hand underneath it. She smiled. “Wow, this is perfect. Your quilt still has the paper-piecing in it. The quilter didn’t remove it.”
“What’s paper-piecing?”
“Just what it sounds like. Templates for individual pieces of a block were drawn on paper, which was then pinned to the fabric so it could be cut very precisely. Paper-piecing is especially useful with a meticulous geometric design like this quilt has, where different pieces are joined together—to make a star or a compass, for example—and the points or intersections must match perfectly.”
“Isn’t that sort of careless or lazy not to remove the paper?” I asked.
“Not at all. The paper provided extra insulation, which was practical and useful in those days. I’m sure it’s part of the reason—that additional layer—why this quilt survived as well as it did.”
Robyn turned the quilt over and held it up to the light coming in through the bank of windows. “You can see some of the printing on the paper through the feed sack backing.”
I moved closer and squinted at the thin white fabric. “What kind of paper did they use that it still had writing on it?”
“Anything. Don’t forget, paper was scarce in those days. So quilters used letters, catalogue pages, sheet music, newspapers—really, anything.” She set the quilt down right-side up, tapping a finger on one of the more colorful blocks. “One thing kente cloth and kente quilts had in common was that each color meant something … hang on a sec.”
She walked over to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase on a far wall, pulling out a large book that she brought back to the table. African Textiles: A World of Creativity and Color. On the cover was an intricately woven piece of fabric that reminded me of my quilt.
Robyn opened the book and began turning pages. “Here … kente cloth.” She pointed to a two-page spread with dazzling, colorful geometric textile designs and began reading. “Yellow stands for royalty or wealth; white represents goodness or victory; red symbolizes anger or violence; blue is for love, and so on … every color means something.”
“So each piece of kente cloth and each kente quilt has its own story?”
“That’s right. The design represents something of importance to the weaver, or in this case, to the quilt-maker.”
“It needs to be repaired,” I said. “And cleaned.”
“I know people—experts—who can take care of that. Don’t worry about a thing. It would be a privilege to restore a quilt like this.” Robyn paused and tilted her head, giving me a quizzical look. “I also heard the skeleton you found on your property was wrapped in a quilt. I presume this is it?”
I nodded.
“Was he or she African-American?”
“She. Not African-American, but she was in love with a man who was.”
Robyn looked startled. “Wow, that was a bold, scary thing to do. I’m sure they both knew the consequences if anyone found out.”
“I imagine they did.”
“Well, then I suspect this woman had a connection with someone who came to America from Ghana.”
“Her name was Susanna Montgomery, at least I’m reasonably sure it was. And she was considering becoming a Quaker.”
“Ah, so she’s related to you,” Robyn said. “Well, it makes sense if she wanted to become a Quaker, especially because they were such strong abolitionists. A lot of free blacks lived near the Quaker community in Lincoln. Quakers and blacks worked together. There was even a Quaker school where both Quakers and the children of free blacks were taught. If your quilt turns out to be local by some chance, it would be an even more exciting discovery.” She arched an eyebrow and said in a hopeful voice, “I don’t suppose you would be willing to leave it with me for a while?”
Lincoln. It was the third time that town had come up in the past twenty-four hours. David had mentioned it and now so had Robyn. And Susanna had written “Lincoln” on the back of Henry Wells’ photograph. Perhaps Henry knew the woman who had made the quilt. Perhaps he had introduced her to Susanna. Or the other way around.
“I’ll pay you for restoring it,” I said.
“We can talk about that another time. Maybe you’d consider donating it to the Virginia Quilt Museum? Or the African American History Museum in D.C.? A place like the Smithsonian would be over the moon to have it. That would be compensation enough.”
“You think it’s that valuable?”
“I do. I’ll call some of my colleagues at the Virginia Consortium of Quilters and the Virginia Quilt Museum,” she said, “and let you know what I find out.”
“In that case, sure, hang on to it for a while.”
“Excellent. This is wonderful, Lucie. Thank you so much.” She started to fold the quilt back up again. “Good Lord. How did I miss this?”
She set the quilt on the table and we both bent down to examine what she had found.
“The thread is faded so it’s nearly the same color as the fabric, but there’s a name monogrammed in the corner of this block. Rejoice Wells. 1861.” Robyn traced it with a finger and smiled. “Rejoice. What a perfect name.”
It was. But I was focusing on her surname. Wells. I told Robyn about the photograph I’d found.
“I figured Henry Wells was the man Susanna was in love with.”
Robyn’s eyes grew wide. “Good Lord, Lucie. Maybe Rejoice was Henry’s mother. Or his sister. That could mean the quilt could have been made right here in Virginia—that it would be local. For a quilt researcher that’s like finding the holy grail.” She pressed her hands together as if she were praying.
“I’m planning to stop by the Balch Library this afternoon to see if I can find out anything about Henry,” I said. “I guess I ought to look up Rejoice as well.”
“Will you let me know if you turn up anything?”
“Of course.”
She glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear, I ought to be going. We’re supposed to be at the Sheriff’s Office by eleven. I’ll have to drag Toby away from his work, though I’m sure Colette can take over for him while we’re gone.”
“Good luck. And thank you for the help.”
“Thank you for loaning me this quilt.” She paused and added, “But it wasn’t the only reason you stopped by, was it?”
No point lying. She knew. “No. Not exactly.”
“Does it have to do with Jean-Claude?”
“Yes.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You’re wondering if I was the person arguing with Jean-Claude in French right before he was killed,” she said in a conversational tone. “I figured that out after what you told me about Miguel last night. I did go see Jean-Claude that morning to talk to him about Miguel’s missing papers. Trust me, the conversation was entirely in English. I can barely order from a menu in a French restaurant. I once confused brains with venison when I was in Paris a few years ago. Or as I called it, ‘deer.’ Cervelle. Cerf. Trust me, they neither taste nor look the same.”
I smiled, but of course she was right that I’d known she’d put two and two together. “In French we call words like that ‘les faux amis.’ False friends,” I said.
“I know your cousin went to see Jean-Claude, Lucie,” she went on. “She was angry about the story in the Tribune and she left our meeting to drive down to the winery and have it out with him. I told her where she could find him because I’d already spoken with him.”
“Dominique says she didn’t kill Jean-Claude.”
“Neither did I,” she said, giving me a challenging look. “Besides, what motive would I have?”
“There is a rumor going around that you slept with him when Toby was up in New York.”
I think both of us felt the air leave the room.
“Is that so?” She turned pale. “Well, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear, you know.”
“Is that what you’re going to tell Bobby?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she closed her book on African textiles and put it back on the bookshelf. When she turned around she said in a low voice, “No. It’s not. I’m rather ashamed and embarrassed to say it’s true. Jean-Claude came up to the house to talk about something the night Toby left for his meetings at the UN and we started drinking. It’s no excuse. I regretted what happened afterward and it has haunted me. I finally confessed everything to Toby the other night after you and Quinn left. Things are strained between us at the moment, but I hope we’ll get through it. I love him. I hope he loves me enough to forgive me and we can put this behind us.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She shrugged. “So am I, but I’m glad it’s finally out in the open between the two of us. When Bobby asks me about it—as I suspect he will this morning—at least Toby isn’t going to find out in an interrogation room at the Loudoun County Sheriff’s Office. At least I will have spared him that indignity.”
She walked me down the hall. The door to Toby’s office was wide open and the room was empty.
“That’s odd,” Robyn said. “He told me he would be in his study writing until it was time to go. I wonder where he went. And where Colette is.”
When we got to the front door she said, “Thanks again for leaving the quilt with me. I’ll talk to someone next week, once we’re past everything. I hope it’s not going to be as bad as they’re predicting.”
I wondered if she was talking about Lolita or what the outcome would be when Bobby finally made an arrest for Jean-Claude’s murder. I felt the same way, as if my nerves were stretched like a guitar string about to snap.
“Me, too,” I said.
I drove down their serpentine driveway and considered what Robyn had just said. If Bobby believed Jean-Claude’s death was a crime of passion, what made him so certain the killer was a woman? The night before he was murdered, Robyn confessed to Toby that she’d slept with Jean-Claude. Maybe she had a motive for murder.
But now, it seemed to me, so did Toby.
Eighteen
On the drive over to Lightfoot, I called David and asked when he might have time to show me Grace Church, the African-American church in Lincoln, and its cemetery.
“I think Susanna Montgomery might have been in love with an African-American man named Henry Wells, who was from Lincoln,” I said. “I found his photograph hidden between the flyleaf and the cover of a book she owned, the journal of a Quaker named John Woolman, who was an outspoken abolitionist. I also think Henry was related to the woman who made the quilt Susanna’s body was wrapped in. Her name—Rejoice Wells—was embroidered in one of the blocks.”
“You learned all that since yesterday?” he said, surprised. “Look, I’m in Berryville taking photos for the Virginia Tourism Corporation this morning so I’m just around the corner from Lincoln. How about if I meet you at the Goose Creek Meetinghouse at two thirty? Do you know where it is? We can walk over to Grace Church from there.”
“I haven’t been there for ages, but don’t worry, I’ll find it.”
“Great.” He sounded upbeat, cheerful. “See you soon.”
* * *
LIGHTFOOT RESTAURANT WAS NAMED for Francis Lightfoot Lee, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence and the man who gave the town of Leesburg its name. The Romanesque Rev
ival Style building, built in 1888, was a historic landmark best known for the two gilded lions on the façade. The restaurant owners had retained its grandeur and elegance so that inside the decor reminded me of something out of La Belle Époque, with hand-painted Venetian chandeliers, numerous fireplaces, carved moldings, and a mahogany-coffered ceiling in the bar.
By the time I parked and walked into the restaurant, it was just after eleven-thirty. Kit was already there, seated at a table next to the fireplace, which, in cold weather, always had a cheerful fire blazing in it. She looked up from texting and smiled, slipping her phone into her purse.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said as we exchanged air kisses. “Were you getting some work done?”
“No, just texting Bobby.”
Our waitress arrived and we ordered—a Reuben and sweet iced tea for Kit and a wild-berry salad and unsweetened tea for me.
After our waitress left I said, “Then I guess you know by now Dominique is one of his prime suspects for Jean-Claude’s murder.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“I am. She spent last night with us she was so upset.”
“Good Lord. Bobby didn’t say a word to me, Luce. Not that he would ever tell me he’s going to arrest someone before he actually does it.”
“So you weren’t texting about that?”
Kit leaned toward me as if we were co-conspirators. “You know he can’t say anything about an ongoing investigation. But I promise you Bobby would never make an arrest until he’s damned sure he’s got the right person. If Dominique’s innocent she’s got nothing to worry about.”
If Kit was trying to make me feel better it wasn’t working. It wouldn’t be hard for Bobby to make a credible case against Dominique as Jean-Claude’s killer. She had gone to see him the morning he was murdered and she could have been the woman Miguel heard arguing with him in French. She would have been pissed off by the gossip-column story in the Trib that had just appeared that morning and there was long-standing enmity between her and Jean-Claude after she was forced to get an abortion when he got her pregnant and then dumped her.
