The Rose Quilt

by Mark Pasquini

  Buck thumbed through the notebook extracted from a breast pocket and found a diagram. “A couple of them have been nudged a little, but none of them were moved more than a couple of inches, if that. Why?”

  “I just thought that if one had been knocked over and blocked her off from the door, she might have had a reason to crawl to the quilt instead of out the door.”

  Glancing again at his notebook, Buck said, “She was hurt pretty bad. The rest of the committee were too far away, in the dining room or out on the terrace. That’s through the foyer and down the center hall. Even the servants were back there or in the kitchen, downstairs. Jeremy and Susanne and Annette, the maids, were serving and keeping the buffet full or pouring refreshments. Cookie was in the kitchen.” At Steve’s interested look, he continued with a grin, “No. Tea, coffee, sodas—that kind of thing.” He laughed at the inspector’s faux shudder.

  Steve asked, “All right, who was where during the time Mrs. Chandler was gone from her guests? When was that, by the way? And how long between the time she left them and when they found her?”

  Flipping pages until he found the timeline he had prepared, Buck answered, “They broke up in here at about eight o’clock. They adjourned to the dining room, where the buffet was set up on the sideboard. The plates, utensils, and napkins were at one end and the food laid out at the other. The middle had candles and flowers and decorations. It was the usual: those little cakes, macaroni salads, finger sandwiches, custards, and so on. Mrs. Chandler didn’t eat anything, according to the rest, just made some chitchat. Made the rounds and made sure that there was enough of everything and everything was running smoothly. Most of the others figured she was there for fifteen to thirty minutes.

  “Usually she went back to the sewing room to look at the quilt after the group had finished. No one knows what she planned on doing. You know, make changes to the quilt, finish up a stitch or two, or consider what to do next or whatever.” Before Steve could ask about the rest of the committee, Buck proceeded: “The rest of them loaded up their plates and either sat at the table or wandered onto the terrace or around the gardens. And nobody kept track of anyone else, especially. No one stayed the whole time with another person. Mrs. Black went into the little area behind the dining room where the silver and dishes were kept. I almost checked her bag before she left. Miss Carlyle visited the powder room, upstairs. You get the idea. It was like any get-together—everyone was wandering around, like I said, and no one was keeping track of anyone else. At least, that they admitted to.

  “From the dining room, you can, and just about all of them did, exit onto the terrace. Once outside, you can swing around the house and reenter the house from either end of the gallery along the front windows. There is also a door to the terrace from the ballroom, through which you can get to the main corridor across from the dining room. The bathroom is upstairs.

  “As close as we can tell, it took only two, three minutes to stab Mrs. Chandler and beat it. I don’t think anyone who was here can be out of the running for killer.”

  While Buck was talking, they had walked down to the main hall. Steve gave a cursory glance into the dining room and made a circuit out the back, onto the terrace, around the left side of the house, past the ballroom, and back through the corridor door to the sewing room.

  Suddenly, a whirlwind burst through the front door. It was hard to see who was wrapped in the heavy black coat, though it was a warm day outside. Buck groaned as a tiny woman charged toward them, shedding the coat on the floor. She was followed by Jeremy, who picked up the garment. “Inspector, Inspector. I need to talk to you.”

  The captain turned to Steve. “Mrs. Black.”

  “Excuse me, sir. She was rather forceful, and I tried my best,” the butler informed them calmly.

  Steve ignored the little bantam who kept trying to get his attention. “Thank you, Jeremy. Is there somewhere we can conduct interviews?”

  “Yes, sir.” He bowed them to the other end of the corridor. “I readied the morning room for just that purpose. If you will follow me, please.” He led them past the foyer to a sitting room. “Mrs. Chandler used this as her private office,” Jeremy informed them.

  Steve held out a chair for Mrs. Black in front of the desk. “Please, stay here, Mrs. Black.”

  He moved toward the door, but the woman jumped out of the chair and began to follow him. Steve spun around and pointed a finger at the chair. “Sit down. Stay there. If you don’t, you can wait your turn to talk to me. Sometime this afternoon or even tomorrow. Maybe.” He spoke to her much as he would a disobedient puppy. He had met these insistent types before and knew that he had to show them who was the boss immediately.

  Under his stern look, she returned to her seat with tight lips and stiff shoulders. With a sniff thrown in Steve’s direction, she hoisted herself into the chair, clutching her oversized leather bag tightly in her lap.

  The inspector quickly closed the door to muffle Buck’s snicker. “Are we all done with the crime scene? Got anything else in your little book?”

  “No. You are stuck with talking with her. Good luck. I don’t envy you.”

  “You can only hope, friend,” Steve said, taking a firm grip on his arm. “You are not leaving me alone with her. As you insisted, you are part of this investigation, and that means you sit in on the interrogations.”

  He turned to Jeremy. “Is Mr. Francis Chandler ready to talk with us yet?”

  “No, sir. Annette just brought his breakfast and newspapers up to him. He rings when he is dressed and ready for them. Normally, he requires a half hour for breakfast, sir. He informed me that he would be ready for your interview when he finishes. And Miss Silene does not arise until later in the morning,” Jeremy said, answering Steve’s next question proactively.

  Steve grunted. He had wanted Mrs. Black to wait and stew in her own juices.

  Chapter 5

  The captain shook his head with what looked like dread and followed Steve. He moved a chair next to the door and sat. Steve rounded the Louis Quatorze desk and took a seat. He looked up, unconsciously expecting to see the door directly across the room in front of him. The desk was off-center, and it struck him that there was an inordinate amount of space to the left. He mentally shrugged the thought off and turned his attention to Mrs. Black.

  Perched on the edge of her seat, Mrs. Black reminded Steve of the crows he had seen in his father’s fields. They were the same shiny black. The woman’s dress was black bombazine and made a whispering noise whenever she moved. Her eyes brought to mind round ebony stones as she stared at him with her head sitting on her scrawny, tucked neck. A midnight hat, with a long, matching feather, covered her head like a helmet. Even her hands were covered by dark lace gloves. Her face was the only part of her that was not her signature color. It was pinched and scrunched tight in an angry expression, and Steve wondered if the expression was permanent or passing.

  “Now, Mrs. Black ... ”

  “We need to be able to finish the quilt. We have only this week until the Chandler flower show starts, and we will not have any time to work on it after the fair starts on Monday,” she interrupted.

  Steve tried not to smile. Even her voice sounded like that of a crow’s. “Of course. Captain Daniels and I are almost done with the room. You may use it after I give it one more look. But you will have to wait until this evening.” She was prepared to continue the argument, and his ready agreement was unexpected. She sat frozen in surprise, her mouth open and finger raised to emphasize her next point.

  Before she could recover, Steve pressed on. “Mrs. Black, what can you tell me about the night of the murder? Where you and the other members of the committee were between the time you broke for the night and the time the body was discovered?”

  “Oh,” she croaked. She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. “We worked until eight o’clock. I wanted to continue, but Alice felt we should break for the evening as we had been laboring since five o’clock. We all adjourn
ed to the dining room, where a delicious buffet had been prepared for us. Alice mingled with everyone and then, as was her custom, returned to the sewing room. She liked to review our labors, to decide which of us were holding up our end of the job and which were not.” From her tone, Steve thought it likely shirkers would be shot. “I wanted to go with her, but she insisted, as always, that she wanted a solitary moment to herself. I did not understand her reluctance to have me along. After all, I am the executive secretary of the show, and I would never intrude upon her thoughts.” Her furrowed brow visually expressed her puzzlement at Mrs. Chandler’s refusal.

  “I can understand your confusion, Mrs. Black, but let’s stick to that night. We are trying to figure out who could have done this. Can you remember seeing anyone heading back to the sewing room between the time Mrs. Chandler left the dining room and her body was found? Why did you go looking for her, anyway?” asked the inspector. He could understand, even after the short time he had talked with her, why Mrs. Chandler preferred to be by herself—or at least not with this woman.

  Mrs. Black tugged down her skirt, smoothing it over her bony knees. “No, there is no one whom I remember observing all evening. Mary Flowers, Anna Carlyle, and I went looking for Alice to take our leave. That was almost nine o’clock. I remember because Jeremy had asked just a minute before if we had seen her. He wanted to ask her if anything else was needed for the buffet, and he hesitated to disturb her in the sewing room. Poor man—he just cannot seem to think for himself. He should have been able to see that no one was taking refreshment any longer. Some people say that they hired him out of pity. He seems very incompetent, and I do not know why Alice retains him.”

  Steve cut in. “Yes, Mrs. Black, please keep to the subject.”

  She sniffed and let out a little humph, which made it clear that she did not appreciate being interrupted. “Well. Let me see. Yes, I spoke with Anna Carlyle while I was supping. I had a petit four and a cucumber sandwich. I thought the bread was not as fresh ... ”

  “Mrs. Black,” snapped Steve, exasperated.

  Another sniff. “Anna and I did not speak for long. Professor Lech Poltovski wanted to ask her about something. Some people say that Anna was extremely angry with Alice. She is a botanist, you know. Anna, not Alice, of course. Anna developed a rose hybrid that she was attempting to register. Alice had a desire to develop her own hybrid. They worked together and created several beautiful plants. But some say Alice insisted on having her name, exclusively, on the registration application. Of course, she provided the funds, so it was only appropriate that Alice attach her name to the registration. Some people say Anna was heard speaking inappropriately about Alice regarding this. Very disloyal, if you ask me.”

  Again, Steve interjected himself in Mrs. Black’s irrelevancies. “So, Miss Carlyle and Professor Poltovski were together for the rest of the time until you went looking for Mrs. Chandler?”

  She gave him an irritated look. “Certainly not,” she stated emphatically. “I saw the professor exiting the dining room onto the terrace a short time later in her company. Some people say he was a suitor for Alice’s hand. He did not take the rejection calmly. I’ve heard he took an oath to make her sorry. I think that he was too young for her, too stuffy. Very sour, he was. Some people say she insisted on bringing him over from Austria-Hungary and he misinterpreted her attentions, at least some people said he did.”

  Buck jumped in, startling her when he spoke up from his seat behind her. She had forgotten all about the constable. “Did you see Mrs. Flowers at any time during the evening?”

  She put her bird claw of a hand against her chest and twisted around to glare at him. “Oh my goodness. You startled me, Captain Daniels.” She turned back to Steve and directed her answer to him. “Mary Flowers took a plate and just piled food on it. I was under the impression that she had not eaten for a week. A week. I can understand that, however. Some people say Mary was caught trying to abscond with show funds. That Alice, who was an experienced accountant, I might add, went over the books and found a discrepancy. Some people say Mrs. Flowers, a widow, you know, was addicted to gambling. And there is a dog-racing establishment in East Bowling. Some people say she went there to gamble, and she was using money from the flower show.”

  “Doesn’t, um, didn’t Mrs. Chandler have more control over the finances for the show?” Steve asked, confused as to why Mrs. Flowers was still the treasurer, if she was dipping into the till.

  Mrs. Black again tugged at her skirts. Steve decided it was a nervous habit. “Oh, no. Alice would deposit funds to the account at the conclusion of the previous year’s show. That was to allow for expenses throughout the year. And Alice had too good a heart and was too trusting. She always believed in redemption. I informed her that this would be a mistake, and for once Alice did not heed my advice. Usually she does, you know. Alice always depended on me to help guide her. But Alice allowed Mary to return to her post. Some people say Alice contemplated prosecution at some future date. And I always kept a close eye on my pocketbook, I can tell you.

  “Mary went out immediately to the terrace after she completed her repast. Barry Jones followed her out. Some people say Barry is a womanizer and that he propositioned Alice a year after her dear husband passed. Some say they knew each other prior to her marriage and that one of the children, I do not know which one, is the fruit of their liaison, and that is why she insisted that they adopt. Some people say he wanted to renew their relationship, and she threatened to force him out of his nursery by canceling his lease on the property.”

  Buck interrupted. “So, could someone say that all the children could be Mrs. Chandler’s?”

  Mrs. Black seemed to consider this for a moment, unaware of Buck’s sarcasm. She tilted her head to one side. “No-o-o, I do not believe so. The other two were adopted because she and A. J. were unable to have any of their own. At least, I suppose so.”

  Steve spurred her on with, “And Mrs. Jones? Did she see this?”

  “Of course. She did not seem to care. Some people say she has a drinking problem and only cares about her next cocktail. I heard that Alice knew and threatened to cancel their lease if she continued in her dissolute behavior. As for her husband, some people say Wanda prefers that Barry take his dalliances away from her, if you understand me.” Her look was prim and disapproving.

  As tired as Steve was of listening to this wellspring of gossip, he continued his questioning. “What about the children? Were they around that evening?”

  This gave Mrs. Black another direction for her venom. “The children were ungrateful. They were given everything and were a frightful disappointment to A. J. and Alice. Some people say Francis Dubreuil has a gambling problem, also. He vacations in Havana, and everyone knows what goes on there. That is why he is still in Chandler. Alice does—did—not trust him out of her sight. Some people say that is the reason he attempted to produce woolen cloth. Alice would not give him any money, and that was the only method by which he could satisfy his addiction—by taking some of the money for that or by getting paid some of it back as bribes. A. J. Chandler tried to incorporate him into the mill, but some people say A. J. had to threaten to eject Francis from the family and have him provide for himself before Francis would agree to join the firm when he matriculated ... ”

  Steve held up a hand to stop the flow. “If I understand you, both Mary Flowers and Francis Dubreuil had gambling problems.”

  Mrs. Black looked offended. “Well, it is a common problem. And a sizable number of persons suffer from it.”

  He waved her to continue.

  Another nervous tugging of her clothing. “Catherine Mermet is incompetent. She was exiled to the South to handle the agricultural side of the enterprise. Some people say she was involved with a common lout from one of the farms, and Alice could not face the shame. Once ensconced in South Carolina with a manager to act as the actual administrator, she continued to wallow in her shame, some people say, and not only had a forbidden relationsh
ip but also compounded it by actually marrying him. And I tried to warn Alice about her activities, but she, uncharacteristically, did not heed me.”

  “Who did she marry, again?” asked Steve. He wondered how Mrs. Black knew what was happening in South Carolina but did not feel it was worthwhile asking. Not only did it seem unimportant but he was avoiding another long, rambling explanation.

  “Why, Paul Sullivan, of course.” At Steve’s blank look, she continued impatiently, “The manager. At least this time, she had the decency to find a more suitable choice. He had some education, and his family did not still grub in the dirt. However, he was unacceptable to Alice, and some people say she swore she would modify her will and sever all relations with them.”

  “And Silene?” encouraged Steve.

  “Silene is an embarrassment,” sneered Mrs. Black. “She is a flapper. A flapper. She wears scandalous clothes, listens to jazz music, and has cut her hair so that she has the appearance of a boy. And she smokes. In public. She frequents dens of iniquity where she listens to inappropriate music, drinks alcohol, and stays out to all hours. Some people say she indulges in opium and other disgusting practices. Some people say she is a—a—a loose woman. Some people say she was seeing Barry Jones, and Alice found out and threatened to disinherit her,” she finished with a whisper and a quick, darting look around. “That was another reason for her antipathy toward Barry Jones.”

  “And you, Mrs. Black? What did you do that night? Were you in the dining room all evening?” Captain Daniels asked from his seat by the door.

  “Me? Oh my! Alice and I were the last to leave the sewing room. We were having a difference of opinion on the hanging tabs. I wanted the darker material that matched the border, and she was inclined toward a contrasting lighter material that matched one of the shades in the interior of the quilt, accented with a rose that matched those in the quilt. The others were divided.”