She reached the fork in the path that led to the fiber building, and with thoughts of Robin and Aiden's warning ringing in her head, she went on past it and toward the ceramics pavilion and Tom Bainbridge's office.
When she reached the porch, she stashed her bag under a rattan bench then looked carefully each way before pulling open the large carved-wood door. She strode briskly toward the exhibition area, the one legitimate destination for a person outside the ceramics program. She wandered past a display of mugs without seeing anything; she could hear the grinding of potters’ wheels coming from behind her, and a voice delivering a lecture off to her left.
Suddenly, she heard Tom Bainbridge's voice approaching. She stepped into the women's restroom, keeping the door cracked open so she could observe him when he walked past.
His companion turned out to be a cell phone, one with a strong signal, she guessed, given how poor the service was here. He was telling someone he would “be right there.” Good, she thought. Wherever there was, it should give her enough time to see if Lauren's quilt was in his office. If it wasn't, perhaps there would be some useful shipping information.
She counted to sixty after the door closed behind him—she wanted to be sure he wouldn't come back for forgotten keys or a jacket or anything that would cause him to discover her rifling through his stuff. She went to seventy-five just for good measure then stepped out of the restroom, hurried down the hall and ducked into the room she'd attempted to hide in a few nights earlier.
The octagonal shape of the pavilion made for some unusual interior room shapes, especially since an attempt had been made to create rectangular classrooms wherever possible. Tom's office was one of the rooms that had absorbed a number of oddly angled walls. His desk sat diagonally across a narrow point where two walls came together. The table he'd been sitting at on her previous visit was in the middle of the room. Several sheets of paper were laid out side-by-side on its surface.
Harriet went to the table and picked up two of the papers. They appeared to be real estate documents. She quickly scanned them. They were competing offers for a piece of property that had to be the meadow.
"Find what you were looking for?"
She dropped the documents and turned to the door. Tom stood just behind a handsome gray-haired man carrying a black briefcase.
"If you'll excuse us, Miss Truman?” Tom said, and held the door open.
Harriet felt her cheeks burning. There was nothing she could say. She started out the door, but he grabbed her arm in a none-too-gentle grip.
"I've got a meeting that can't wait, but we aren't through. I will call for you...” He looked at the stainless steel Rolex on his wrist. “...in one and a half hours at the Tree House. Do not disappoint me."
He released her, and she left, not stopping or taking her gaze from the floor until she was back out on the porch. She picked up her bag and headed back to the Tree House.
Mavis was in the kitchenette munching on a cookie when Harriet came in.
"What's wrong, honey,” she asked around her mouthful. She reached out, putting the back of her hand on Harriet's forehead. “Your cheeks are pink, are you feeling okay?” she asked. “Do you feel feverish?"
"I'm fine—at least, for now, anyway.” She explained her encounter with Tom.
"He can't just barge in here and demand that you go with him,” Mavis said indignantly.
"I was trespassing, don't forget, and, actually, apart from my embarrassment, I'd like to speak to him. According to Lauren's brother, Tom is the one who ships quilts around from school to school for evaluation. He could have the answers about how a quilt that looks like Lauren's ended up in England."
"Oh, honey, do you think that's wise?"
"If we're going to help Lauren, we need answers.” Harriet ticked off the points on her fingers. “One, Selestina copied Lauren's quilt—maybe—and, two, now Lauren is accused of killing Selestina. Three, we know Lauren didn't kill Selestina, but, four, the quilt copying has to be connected. I can just feel it."
She clenched her fists in frustration. “It's just too big a coincidence that as soon as we discover the plagiarism the person most likely to be doing it dies suspiciously. And now we find out that her son was selling her property out from under her, which gives her a good reason to want him dead, not vice versa."
Mavis took her by both hands, pulled her to a wooden stool and pushed her onto it.
"Take a deep breath, honey, you're turning red again."
Harriet did as instructed.
"All we really know,” Mavis said, “is that someone killed Selestina and the police believe it was our Lauren. We know it wasn't, so that means a very dangerous person is still out there, someone willing to kill if you get in his way."
"I'll be careful. I'm telling you, when we figure out what's going on with the quilts, we're going to know who killed Selestina.” Harriet picked a Braeburn apple from a bowl of fruit that had appeared on the counter since the last time she was at the house and put it in her pocket. “Besides, killers rarely do in strangers. We're in the most danger when we're with our loved ones."
"Well, that's a happy thought,” Mavis said.
Harriet looked at the wall clock. She still had an hour before Tom arrived.
"Les also told me about some studio space Selestina has—it's farther back in the woods. If Selestina was copying student work, maybe the answers will be there. And I've got some time to kill before Tom comes back."
"I don't think going off in the woods by yourself to go snooping in a studio that is obviously private is a good idea,” warned Mavis.
"I'll go with,” Carla volunteered. She was just coming down the stairs and had apparently heard the last part of the conversation. She laid a sheaf of papers on the counter in front of Harriet.
"Do you even know where I'm talking about?"
"I heard you say it was Selestina's private studio."
"We'll be trespassing,” Harriet reminded.
"I think Selestina's beyond caring,” Carla replied, surprising Harriet. The girl was starting to show glimpses of a dry wit that might become wicked with the right guidance. “And if we can get things sorted out for Lauren that would be good, right?"
"I'd feel better if you had someone with you, honey,” Mavis said as she picked up the tea kettle and started filling it with water.
Harriet looked from Carla's hopeful face to the worry lines on Mavis's wrinkled one.
"Okay,” she surrendered with a sigh. “We better go if we're going to do this."
Carla opened the door and found Patience on the porch. She stepped aside to let the teacher in.
"You two look like you're going somewhere."
"We're just going out for a walk around the meadow,” Harriet said.
"Yeah, we been sitting all day,” Carla added.
Patience looked over the rims of her glasses. “Apparently not in the classroom."
Carla started to say something, but Harriet nudged her and the words died on her lips.
"At least, one of you didn't show up. Ray Louise said Harriet wasn't in class today. She asked me to check and make sure nothing was wrong."
"A friend of mine from Foggy Point is here in town, and he was injured yesterday, so I went to visit him this morning. You know, to make sure he was okay."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you were playing hooky. We just...” She stopped and thought a minute, then began again. “Selestina always wanted to make sure students got their money's worth when they were enrolled here, and between our lovely setting and the rigors of our curriculum, students have a tendency to start skipping class as the week wears on. Some of the teachers get overwhelmed with students coming to them at the end wanting notes and materials from the class sessions they missed, and unfortunately, some dealt with the issue by refusing to give notes out except in class."
"So, you're the truant officer,” Harriet said with a half smile.
Patience smiled back at her. “I suppose I am."
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"I got the handouts for Harriet,” Carla said, and then looked at her feet. Harriet realized she hadn't seen her do that lately.
"I guess you won't need these, then,” Patience held up a sheaf of papers that was identical to the set Carla had placed on the counter a few minutes earlier.
"Oh, Patience, I'm sorry you went to all the trouble. Thank you,” Harriet said.
"It was no trouble. You were doing so well in class yesterday, I didn't want you to miss anything.” Patience turned and went back out.
"Seems like people around here are bending over backwards to make sure the students don't leave early because of Selestina,” Mavis said. “That woman's visited us at least once a day, hasn't she? Jan said she's been coming by their place, too."
"You can't blame her,” Harriet said. “She's still got a business to run. She needs to make sure we all come back."
"I suppose so.” Mavis looked at the clock. “You better scoot."
Carla and Harriet left the Tree House and went down the path toward the meadow.
"It's not too late to change your mind,” Harriet said as they entered the woods.
"I'm good,” Carla said. She tipped her head down. “This is a lot more exciting than diapers and laundry."
Harriet looked at her, and a wave of guilt washed over her as she thought of how much time she spent feeling sorry for herself, sitting with a full stomach on her comfortable couch in her warm parlor with soft music playing on her stereo. Carla was living in a car, raising a baby and probably going to bed hungry, by the looks of it. Yet, here she was at Harriet's side, willing to risk life and limb to help Lauren, who as near as Harriet could tell had never been anything but mean and judgmental toward her.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Twenty
The path from the Tree House joined the loop trail just beyond the dining cabin. The women followed the trail past the fiber arts building and then the ceramics building. The day was warmer than the previous one, and the damp layer of rotting needles and bark that made up the forest floor gave off a fine cloud of fir-scented steam.
A duck flew across the meadow as they entered the clearing, skidding to an open-winged stop as it reached the water. Carla jumped as it flapped its wings.
"Sorry,” she said. “I guess I'm a little jumpy."
Harriet had noticed Carla had the sort of startle reflex one associated with whipped puppies and battered women.
"The studio should be somewhere over there,” she said, and pointed across the pond. She raised her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, but she still couldn't see a building. “Can you see anything?"
Carla squinted and shaded her eyes. “I think I see it.” She pointed across the pond and to the left. “See, kind of behind that big spruce tree. It's really dark, but you can see the sun reflecting off the window."
Harriet looked, and could just make out the dark shape of the studio. “Come on,” she said and led the way around the water. A flock of mallards skittered away from them and back toward the safety of the pond's center.
"Boy, if Miz Bainbridge was wanting her privacy, she picked a good spot.” Carla said.
"I wonder if this was one of the original buildings on this property. Look at how thick the moss is on the roof."
Roof moss in the Pacific Northwest wasn't the pretty lace organism that adorned the graceful old oak trees in the south. The algae and moss that grew on northern roofs appeared in thick, yellowish-green lumps that thrived in the dark and damp weather. It shortened the life of roofs covered in asphalt shingles just as easily as it did wood shakes. In urban areas, you saw a variety of remedies used, from zinc or copper strips to oxygen bleach. In the country, you were more likely to see sagging roofs straining under the load of many years’ accumulation.
Selestina's studio was in the latter category. The roof sagged, and the cedar siding was bleached white where the sun reached it and coated in green and black algae where it didn't. The wooden door had three small glass windows at its top. The center pane had a long diagonal crack.
"Now,” Harriet said when they had made their way to the front of the building. “I wonder how we're going to get inside."
While she was musing out loud, Carla walked up the rotting wooden steps, grasped the rusty tin doorknob and turned.
"It's open,” she called back over her shoulder as she went through the doorway.
"Wait,” Harriet called out, but it was too late. Carla was inside, and the door had shut behind her.
Harriet took the steps in two leaps and pulled the door open. She promptly ran into Carla, who was standing just inside, rooted to the spot.
"Wow,” said Harriet as she looked around.
They were standing in an entryway facing an open door that led to a large room with a high ceiling. Harriet stepped past Carla to the center of the workspace. A large cutting table was to the left of the door; its surface was made of green self-healing cutting mat material; the mat compound separated when the blade cut into it then closed back up when the blade was past. Selestina could use her rotary cutter—a round, razor-sharp blade in an ergonomic plastic handle that had replaced scissors as the favored cutting tool among quilters—without fear of scarring the table surface. The table looked like it was large enough to lay a double bed-sized quilt on with room to spare.
At one end of the table and a few feet back was a shoulder-high horizontal oak rack that held quilting rulers of all sizes and several shapes. A quilter's ruler is marked in eighth-inch increments both horizontally and vertically. In addition, they often have forty-five-degree and sixty-degree angles marked on their surface. There are several sizes almost every quilter has—six inch by eighteen or twenty-four inch is common. Most people also have a six- or eight-inch square. Beyond that, ruler collections were dictated by the types of quilting the individual did. People who tended toward small, intricately pieced projects usually had smaller rulers; bigger pieced projects dictated larger rulers. Selestina appeared to have one of every size and type ever made.
The long wall behind the table had two large design walls mounted on it. Carla walked around the table and stood in front of the nearest one. A series of fabric squares in varying shades of brown and green were stuck to its surface at eye level.
"These look like the background of Lauren's quilt,” she said.
Harriet came around the opposite end of the table to stand beside her.
"Maybe.” She pulled one of the squares from the tacky surface.
Traditionally, design walls are a large piece of flannel attached to an empty wall somewhere near a quilter's sewing machine. The one hundred-percent cotton fabric that is used in quilt-making sticks to flannel once the cotton has been cut into pieces, enabling a person to lay out and evaluate segments of their quilt before they stitch the parts together. Selestina had a high-tech version of flannel. Hers had been treated with a sticky material that gripped the cotton more firmly, allowing for more precise layouts.
Harriet felt the fabric then held it up to her nose.
"What are you doing?” Carla asked.
"I was hoping to tell if this was hand-dyed fabric. Lauren dyed her own fabric. This smells faintly of vinegar. Acetic acid is one of the chemicals people use to set dye. There are commercial products that will do the trick, but some people still use vinegar."
Carla walked along the wall past the cutting table area to another table. This one was smaller and lower, with a wheeled armless chair pushed up to it. A light box was built into its surface. She felt along the edge of the table until her finger hit the switch. She flicked it on.
"Wow,” she said.
A page that looked like it had been torn from a spiral sketchbook was taped to the center of the lighted portion of the table surface. A larger sheet of tracing paper was taped over the first sheet. It appeared that someone was in the process of copying the image from the sketchbook page to the tracing paper.
"What have you got?"
"Someone is
copying a really cool picture from a sketchbook."
"Is it Lauren's?"
Carla bent closer to the page. “It's not the one she's in a flap about. There's some writing at the bottom of the page, but the tape is covering up part of it. I can't tell if it's a name or not."
Harriet crossed to the opposite side of the room. Four sewing machines sat on tables in a row. Selestina had one each of the popular brands, each a high end model for the maker.
"Business must have been good,” she said, running her hand across the top of the nearest machine. She opened the partially completed quilt that was folded neatly at its side. “Whoa, look at this.” She held it up. “Look familiar?"
"Oh, my gosh, isn't that the quilt that was hanging to the left of the entry door in the exhibition hall? In the group before Lauren's? Or at least most of it?"
"Looks like it's well on its way to being an exact copy.” Harriet folded the quilt and put it back on the machine table.
A tall shelving unit filled with folded fabric that was organized by color separated the sewing machine area from what appeared to be a sitting area. Two matching overstuffed chairs with ottomans sat on either side of a multi-headed floor lamp. A woven-wood basket was on the floor beside one of the chairs. A piece of folded fabric lay on top of the basket.
"This just keeps getting better.” She unfolded the fabric and held it up.
"Geez,” Carla said as she recognized the quilt top. “They copied the applique class, too?"
"So it would seem."
Harriet moved to the final space in the room. Two computers sat on desks, side by side. One had an in-basket next to it on the desktop and a lateral file cabinet standing beside it. The other had an oversized monitor and a For Dummies book on a popular quilt design software program lying open beside the keyboard. Clever, thought Harriet. They were using design software to analyze other people's original work.
Quilter's Knot Page 13
