The Rose Quilt

by Mark Pasquini

  Chapter 8

  The elevator took him up to the fourth floor. When he stepped out of the car, Steve saw a tall, sun-browned man with a narrow face beckoning him. He walked over to the thin, well-dressed figure. He had a long face; sunken cheeks; and close-set, piercing hazel eyes. Thick lips were tightened above a weak chin. Steve shook hands with Paul Sullivan and was ushered into the couple’s rooms.

  Steve introduced himself and took the chair indicated by Paul. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry for your loss,” he started. After acknowledging Catherine’s quiet thank-you, he continued, “Could you tell me your movements on that night?”

  Paul sprang from his seat on the arm of the chesterfield next to where his wife sat. “Do you mean to accuse us?” His dark eyes flashed, and his lips compressed more tightly under his long, sharp nose.

  Steve thought, A man with a temper. The indignation had come too fast. He paused, thinking it likely that these two had a prepared story.

  “Mr. Sullivan, I am not in a position to accuse anyone. At this point, I’m interviewing everyone who was there that night and the family.”

  The next question was directed at Mrs. Sullivan: “Can you please outline your movements?”

  She sat there with worry lines on her forehead and long-fingered hands clutching a mangled handkerchief. She was dressed in a modest black dress, more funereal than Silene’s. She was not as tall as her sister and was slightly plump. Her round cheeks had small, bright spots of color. The smudges under her reddened eyes marred what was, Steve thought, otherwise a pleasant face. She waved a hand at Paul, who answered for her, his voice formal and rehearsed: “We met with Mrs. Chandler that evening around four o’clock. We went to tell her about our nuptials. She was very unhappy. I was told to remove myself from the house, and she insisted the marriage be annulled. I was dismissed, and Catherine was told that she was now assigned to the company offices. If we refused to ‘disabuse ourselves of this foolishness,’ she would ruin us. Cath remained strong, and we left. It was a short interview.

  “We returned to the hotel; Catherine lay down. I ordered supper, ate, and retired.”

  Steve stopped scribbling in his notebook and asked, “Did someone see both of you during the evening?”

  Paul responded again. “The waiter, when he delivered the meal.”

  The inspector looked at Catherine. “Both of you?”

  When Paul began to answer again, Steve interrupted him sharply. “Mr. Sullivan, I asked your wife. Please let her answer.”

  “Catherine is understandably upset. She is delicate and in no state to be brutally interrogated,” he defended his wife.

  Steve sighed. “A brutal interrogation would be one that is taking place at the police station with bright lights and rapid-fire questions. Unless, of course, you mean the use of large phone directories or rubber hoses. Unfortunately, Chandler is a small town with an inadequate directory, and I left my rubber hose in my other suit. So, I am forced to fall back on the old-fashioned interview. Now, when I ask you a question, you answer it. When I ask your wife a question, she answers it. Do you understand the procedure?”

  Paul’s thin face was becoming redder and redder under Steve’s sarcasm. “Get out, Inspector. Get out now!”

  “Paul, darling, he is only doing his job.” Catherine turned to Steve. “I am sorry for my husband’s outburst. What is it you wanted to know? Oh, yes. As I was lying down, no one saw or spoke to me after we returned to our rooms. I took a sleeping powder soon after I entered the bedroom and slept for the rest of the night.”

  She made Steve feel like a boor, and he resented it. “So, both of you would be fired unless you divorced or annulled your marriage?”

  “I know where you are trying to go with this, Inspector,” a minimally calmer Paul said. “But I have a degree in business management from Harvard. There have been several offers from well-established firms—Chevron Oil and Pittsburg Steel, among others. It would be no financial disadvantage if we left Chandler Mills. As a matter of fact, it would be more remunerative.”

  “All right. Were there any other problems between you and your mother, Mrs. Sullivan?”

  “What do you mean by ... ” started Paul. Steve’s sharp glance stopped him and he sat with his thick lips tightly compressed.

  His wife patted his hand on her shoulder and replied, “Mother never had any respect for my judgment, Inspector Walsh. She felt that I was too meek for the business world. That is the reason she exiled me to the Carolinas. And why Paul was assigned as my ‘assistant.’ He had been the manager of the mill operations here, in Chandler. Not only did that free up the position for Francis, but I was provided an experienced manager. Paul and I fell in love. We married secretly three months ago. We decided to inform Mother while we were both here for the flower show. It was a mistake, obviously.”

  “Why was your mother upset?”

  “Mother has always desired to oversee the business and her family very closely. My marriage had not been sanctioned by her, and she was upset. In time she would have accepted it, and we would have reconciled.” She looked tired by the explanation.

  After a pause to consider how best to proceed, Steve said, “I would like to speak to you privately, please.”

  Paul stiffened but kept quiet.

  “Any question you have for me, you can ask in front of Paul.” She looked up and smiled at her husband wanly. He replied by giving her shoulder a light, loving squeeze.

  Steve shrugged and delicately inquired, “There is some vagueness about the reason for your being ‘exiled.’ Something about an, a ... ”

  “An affair?” asked Catherine. “Emma Black, our local gossip, told you I had an affair with someone on the estate and Mother sent me away? Possibly to have a child?”

  Red-faced, Steve cleared his throat. “Something of that nature.”

  She smiled. “Emma saw me come out of the stables, followed by a young man, a groom, who worked with the hunters we kept. We were laughing. We both had wisps of hay attached to our clothes. We had not been tumbling in the straw, Inspector. I was rubbing down my horse, Resolute, and Bill was pitching hay from the loft and missed the manger and covered me instead. I suspected it was on purpose. Bill and I had been friends since we were little. Friends and nothing more. She, Mrs. Black, was there to oversee the loading of some manure for the planting beds at her home. If I can be slightly vulgar, Mrs. Black has an affinity for that material because her mind is made of it.” She blushed at her daring statement.

  Steve and Paul tried to hide their shock, while Catherine gave a low laugh and continued.

  “Even though Mrs. Black had her ears blistered, as Daddy was wont to say, by Mother for spreading gossip, I was sent to Carolina for my indiscretion of enjoying a brief moment of humor with a stable boy. Poor Emma. She just could not avoid the temptation to gossip about one of Mother’s children. Silene told me at Christmas that year that the vile woman had learned her lesson when my sister amused me with the story of Barry Jones’s amorous behavior.”

  Steve turned to Paul. “Mr. Sullivan, did you resent your demotion to the South? You lost your position as executive at the mill.”

  “No, Inspector. Not only was I tired of the close management style of Mrs. Chandler, but I found the love of my life. You may not have ever been subjected to that style of management, but having every decision you make second-guessed is uncomfortable for a man of my temperament.”

  There were more questions but no answers to help with the investigation. Steve thanked Catherine and Paul for their cooperation, picked up his hat, and left. He debated having supper in his room but felt that was a little too decadent for his sensibilities. He took the elevator to the lobby.

  As he stepped from the car, a pert brunette called to him from behind the front desk.

  “There is a message for you, Inspector.” She gave him a bright, friendly smile.

  He opened the envelope she handed him and unfolded the note. His heart jumped when he read the
signature. This time it was Julie’s handwriting. He read: “Meet me for dinner in the hotel restaurant at 6:00, please.”

  He glanced at his watch and saw he had half an hour. That is, if he was going to meet her. Then he ridiculed himself for the thought. Of course he was going to meet her. Who was he trying to fool? Steve wondered whether the meeting would be personal or professional.

  Steve and Buck had planned to meet at seven o’clock to compare notes and drive up to the Chandler house to interview the committee members when they arrived for the evening. In the interim, he had planned on taking a taxi to the mill and looking around. Steve argued with himself that Julie might have some important information for him. He debated going back to his room for a drink but decided to sit in the restaurant instead. Steve did not want to talk with Julie with his mind clouded by alcohol.

  He asked for a private booth in the corner and asked the maître d’ to show Julie back when she arrived. Steve said, “She is a tall, slender woman. She has long blond hair and is beautiful. Blue eyes, nose upturned on the end, full lower lip, and a slight dimple on her chin. Long legs that don’t quit, walks like a model ... ” His voice trailed off into a mutter as he realized he was babbling—an awareness that was confirmed by the amused look on the face of the maître d’. Steve found his heart rate accelerated and his palms damp. He berated himself for feeling like a kid on his first date. Here he was, a cool, steady investigator, feeling like a schoolboy.

  He was deep in thought when Julie was shown to the booth. The table rocked when he tried to leap to his feet, and it caught his thighs in the tight space. He managed to grab the small vase containing a rosebud before it toppled over and spilled water on the table. Steve muttered an apology, which the maître d’ waved off as he placed two menus in leather sleeves on the table. The waitress stepped up to take their drink orders.

  Before Steve could answer, Julie asked for a pitcher of ice water and two glasses. The stout woman gave her a knowing smile, nodded, and left.

  She turned to Steve and said, “Well, hello there. Long time no see.” Her bright smile had a slight edge of uncertainty. Steve’s hope that this encounter represented a thaw in their rocky relationship brightened.

  “How are you doing, Julie?” he asked hesitantly. Steve had a sudden urge to dry his hands on his white linen napkin but fought it. He did not want to show how seeing her affected him.

  “Pretty well, thanks,” she replied. “How have you been?”

  They made small talk and looked at the menu until the waitress brought their drinks and took their orders. Leaving the table, she closed the curtains that gave them privacy.

  Both were too self-conscious to open them, and they sat there for a moment in uncomfortable silence. Julie moved first, taking a half-pint bottle from her handbag. With an easy, smoky laugh, she poured a drink for each of them and added water to her own glass. Shaking his head, Steve followed suit. She used her spoon to fish out ice cubes for both of them.

  “To memories,” Julie said, holding her drink up. He tapped his glass against hers and took a healthy swallow, which went down the wrong way. He waved away her offer to slap him on the back and managed to regain his breath. The liquor was no moonshiner’s make with caramel coloring. It was probably imported—read: smuggled—from Canada.

  The laugh he loved came again. “I would have brought apple juice if I had known that you couldn’t hold your liquor.”

  He snorted and, to change the subject, said, “You wanted to meet. This is social, I hope.”

  Julie colored slightly. “Of course, but we can talk business, too?”

  Disappointed, Steve responded, “You first. What can you tell me about the players?”

  “This isn’t for nothing. You know what I want in return. Right?” She paused for a moment, giving him a sharp look.

  Steve took a sip and equivocated. “I’ll give you what I can with the understanding that nothing goes to print until I give the word.”

  “Done. Let’s see. Emma Black is an old gossip. Very little of what she says can be believed—though, like all good gossip, there probably is a kernel of truth in it. She is a small, mean-minded woman. I think her husband died on purpose, myself,” she said as she took a stenographer’s book from her bag.

  After flipping a few pages, she said, “I put down some notes for you. I understand that you have already interviewed Mrs. Black, the kids, and the servants.”

  He stiffened. How did she know that?

  Knowing what he was thinking, she smiled, which brought out the cleft in her square-cut chin. Steve shook off the memory of running his finger there. “I have my sources,” she said archly.

  “A few things you may not know. I met Mrs. Chandler to interview her, and she is a contradiction. She had a sharp mind and had to be in control. Business, family, politics, everything. On the other hand, she was a marshmallow when it came to her husband or his memory. It was one of those marriages of convenience. He went after her for the cotton, and they ended up really falling in love.” She gave him a look Steve had no problem interpreting.

  “Miss Anna Carlyle is a well-known botanist and artist. She and Mrs. Chandler worked together on several hybrids. Contrary to what you may have been told, Anna was ecstatic to help anyone on her favorite project, which is botany in general and flowers in particular. She helped Mrs. Chandler with the paperwork to register their creations. There is not a jealous bone in Anna’s body.

  “Professor Lech Poltovski is also a flower lover and has a wide knowledge of historical gardens. He supposedly carried a secret torch for her from the time they met. That is only rumor, mind. Of course, he may have been hiding a secret resentment, but he is against violence. He is a Quaker.

  “Mrs. Mary Flowers lost her husband during the war. Her mother was ill, and Mary ‘borrowed’ money from the show funds for treatments. Mrs. Chandler found out about it. Mary told Mrs. C about her story. For a year, she paid all the medical expenses until the mother’s death.

  “Then there are Wanda and Barry Jones. They came here at Mr. Chandler’s invitation before he died and at Mrs. Chandler’s instigation. Mr. C had met Barry somewhere in England, and Mrs. Chandler set them up in business. The nursery is a partnership between the Chandlers and the Joneses. Wanda has a love for the bottle, and Barry has a love for willing women—rumor only.”

  Their meals came. Buttering a roll, Steve asked casually, “So, what have you been doing when you’re off work?” He hoped Julie did not hear the real question in his voice.

  Obviously, she did. “No, I’m not seeing anyone. I have no time for that.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t talking about that. Um, you always liked museums and the arts. Have you seen the new French Impressionist exhibition at the Wadsworth?”

  Julie smiled knowingly. “Yes, I went with a friend.”

  Too quickly, Steve asked, “Who?” He mentally kicked himself. For an experienced interrogator, he sounded like a bumbling rookie.

  With a low chuckle, she answered cryptically, “Just a friend. You wouldn’t know the person. Just someone I met during an interview. You’ve been pretty caught up in your work. I hear that you rarely get out, socially.”

  At his surprised look, she continued, “You know a good reporter always has her finger on the pulse of the city.”

  Steve did not know whether to be pleased that she still seemed interested or irritated that she was keeping track of him. He had a sudden, guilty thought about the woman on the train. He decided that she was playing with him. He could not think of how to continue without making a bigger fool of himself, so he changed the subject. Until he could sort out his feelings about Julie and their future, he needed to stay away from the personal.

  He amused her with stories of his last two cases. About a senator, his smuggler son, and a high-speed chase and a judge caught with his pants down and attempted bribery.

  Over coffee, they finished going over Julie’s notes.

  “To summarize: The kids are a mixed bag. Lo
ved father and had problems with mother. Silene is a wild one. Decided to be a flapper during her time at Bryn Mawr. She has a degree in mathematics and economics. She did very well with the sales department, and two years ago was put in charge. She cuts up just enough to irritate her mother but not enough to get her name in the paper, negatively, with too much regularity.

  “Catherine Mermet Chandler Sullivan is another story. She was always a serious young lady. She matriculated with a degree in social science. After a stint as her mother’s right hand for her charity work, she was assigned to take over the agricultural side of Chandler Mills. Paul Sullivan was moved from manager of the mill operations to assist her. She and Paul fell in love and married secretly. When Mama heard, she insisted that the marriage be annulled or Catherine would be cut off. She and Paul seem to have the strongest motive for killing her?” She made that a question, but drew no response from Steve.

  With a shrug, she finished. “Francis Dubreuil. Graduated from Harvard, where he met Paul Sullivan, who was several years ahead of him. On his recommendation, Paul was hired and eventually became manager of the mills when the prior executive retired. Two years ago, Mrs. Chandler shuffled things and Francis replaced Paul. The only dirt on Francis is that he takes trips to Havana twice a year to delve into the fleshpots.”

  Julie closed the book and handed it over to Steve, making sure that her fingers lingered on his. He hastily withdrew his hand and blushed at the taunting look in her eye.

  “Now give,” she demanded. “Who are you looking at?” Julie was looking for her quid pro quo. “I want this scoop.”

  At his hesitation, she said angrily, “Just something I can work into a story. Steve, I will not be a social reporter for the rest of my life. This is the best chance I will ever get. I am on the ground, and I can scoop every other reporter. A byline is only good on the first page, above the fold.” She crossed her arms and gave him a disgusted look. “I should have known that you wouldn’t play fair with me,” she huffed.