The Rose Quilt

by Mark Pasquini

  “Well, he doesn’t like you very much,” added Bob, lamely.

  Steve snorted and ruined the smoke ring he was working on. “That doesn’t make him a member of some kind of exclusive club or anything. Nobody’s going to raise any statue to me, and I don’t much care. You want a politician in this job; find someone whose only vocabulary consists of ‘Yes, sir.’”

  Bob rubbed his mouth with his ham of a hand, but Steve caught the smile the gesture tried to hide. He pulled a paper from his desk and tossed it toward Steve, who only gave it a quick glance. The pale blue color of the cover identified it as a subpoena. “You have to be here for the duration of the trial. That means no vacation for that duration. They are going to start selecting jurors Monday. Until then, I want you to write up your report. Get it to me by Friday. And use a typewriter this time. Your handwriting would embarrass a two-year-old. Now get yourself out of my office.”

  Steve knew from his reception that Bob was pleased at the rapid and successful outcome of the investigation. Best of all, there could be no repercussions from either party. Even the news story would only see the press grumbling about an anonymous source.

  Without a comment, Steve rose and picked up his hat from the table at his side. While he was settling it on his head, Bob said, “Oh, by the way, the state attorney general wants you at his office on Saturday morning. You and his team will be going over your testimony all weekend.”

  “Saturday only. I have plans for Sunday, and I won’t be available. My testimony won’t change, and I don’t like to be coached. I will speak my piece in my own way, in my own words, in my own style. I’ll tell the attorney general that I won’t disappoint him. There is not a whole lot of leeway in the case.”

  “You say,” snapped Bob. “Both of us know what a snake Bucklin is, and he has a big enough staff to find a way to discredit the witnesses.”

  Steve left without another word. Rather than use his desk at the office, he decided to work on the report at home. He found the battered typewriter at the bottom of the closet in the spare bedroom. Several hours later, he had the written version of the report finished.

  He broke for supper at La Tavola di Felice, owned and run by Giovanni Conti. Steve had gotten him out of a dangerous situation, and he had never forgotten it. Every time Steve entered, Giovanni would rush up, shouting in Italian, welcoming him. The chubby little man would pull him down for a hug and kiss on either cheek. He would always lead him to a table in a private room with thick, heavy curtains. His wife, Francesca, would bring out a bottle of wine and three glasses, and they would sit and have precisely two glasses. She would put the cork back in the bottle, after pouring Steve a third glass, and bang it home with the heel of her hand.

  Giovanni would make the same joke every time: “Don’t tell no cops about this, Stevie boy. It’s a secret for you and me.”

  Somewhere along the line, they got the idea that Steve’s favorite was veal ravioli, chicken Marsala, and spaghetti Bolognese, and they supplied them all. Francesca served him personally and refilled his wine glass constantly. “Steve. Why you not married? I can introduce you to a nice Italian girl.”

  “Mamma Conti, you are the only one I want. Run away with me,” Steve shot back at her, holding his hands over his heart.

  She would giggle like a schoolgirl and slap his shoulder. She continued their conversation like they were reading a script: “I could never leave my Giovanni. Unless, maybe, you got rich?”

  While he ate, he smiled at the memory of the first time he had put on the act. He had practiced the line for days before using it, perfecting the Italian on Mrs. Colletti. When he had first said it, Francesca had let out a roar of laughter and had to sit down as she tried to catch her breath between gales. Steve had flapped his napkin in her face, and that struck her as funny, too. She got louder and sounded like the seventh wave breaking on a shore. Giovanni came rushing in to see what was happening and, between laughs, she managed to tell him what Steve, who caught only part of it, had said.

  The chef rushed from the room to return a few minutes later with a carving knife. It was the size of a small saber, the wooden handle worn and scarred and the steel blade dull except for the edge, which sparkled in the light. He struck a pose, knife raised, head tilted toward the ceiling, and fist on hip, looking like a plump Mussolini in a long white apron. He said, in English, “You will never have my Francesca while I live. Draw your sword!” He threw a tiny paring knife on the table. His wife had erupted in further roars of laughter, rocking back and forth and dabbing at her eyes with double handfuls of her apron.

  Steve covered his head with the napkin and said, “I am safe now; no one can see me.”

  Suddenly, Francesca stopped making any sounds. Steve removed the napkin and looked at her in alarm. She was sitting with her left hand over her breast and her right waving at them to stop. Her husband was pounding her on the back, trying to help her breathe again. Finally, she took a deep breath. “Basta, basta,” she gasped.

  “Sì, sì, mamma,” Giovanni said, a worried look on his face. “We will be enough. Sì, sì.”

  Francesca dabbed her streaming eyes. She rose and slapped Steve with her apron. “You are a bad boy,” she said with attempted dignity, which was marred by her continued chuckling. Giovanni shooed the staff away from the doorway, where they had been attracted by the uproar. They had never achieved the same level of laughter since, but Francesca loved the comedic act.

  At the end of the meal, a waitress would enter bearing Steve’s dessert. Behind the girl’s back, Francesca would shape an exaggerated hourglass with her hands and make a crude Italian sign and nod eagerly. Her intent was to make Steve laugh at her antics and embarrass him, if not convince him that the girl would make a perfect wife. Giovanni would then follow the server, eyes wide, trying to look like Barney Google, and pour thick Italian espresso.

  As part of the game, he tried to pay them. “Mah,” spat Giovanni. “You don’t pay for nothing here. You want to pay for something, go down to that garbage scow, La Dolce Vita, down the street.” He would then take the proffered bill and stuff it in the handkerchief pocket of Steve’s coat. “And then you never come back and insult me and my family again.” Francesca would stand there looking disappointed and sad, shaking her head in mock dismay at Steve’s rudeness. They would find a bill tucked under his coffee cup and give it to the servers as a tip.

  With apologies, Steve would back out the door, duly chastened.

  Back home, he gave the mess on the kitchen table a dirty look and turned on the floor lamp in the living room. He stretched out on the chesterfield with his book lying open on his chest. His mind drifted from Susan to Julie to Silene, and, somewhere along the way, he fell asleep.

  Chapter 20

  Steve stuffed the finished report into his well-used briefcase on Friday morning and walked in the summer heat to the office. Steve cheerfully greeted Mrs. Clark. He looked for a crack in her unassailable manner, but she shot him the hard look she reserved for insolent young men. Steve winked insolently and could have sworn he saw a hint of a smile. He walked back to Bob’s office door, arched his eyebrows at her, and received a stern nod.

  Steve opened the glass-paneled door and entered. “Here is the report on the Chandler case, Chief,” he offered. He flicked the clasp on the briefcase and drew out the folder. With a flourish, he placed it on the desk and took a seat.

  Bob spent a few minutes reading the report and tossed it on the desk. “Okay. The state attorney general wants to see you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” He looked over his glasses and continued, “And Sunday, too.”

  Steve shook his head and smiled wearily. “I told you that I will be in Chandler on Sunday. They have invited me to the funeral—the family, I mean. I keep telling you that my testimony is going to be straightforward, and I hate being coached.”

  Bob scowled. “That you will have to take up with the attorney general. This is a tough one and you will cooperate, Steve. Full cooperation. Und
erstand?”

  “Yep. Understand perfectly. Do you have any message for Captain Daniels?” he asked, making his own position clear.

  “Get out of here,” Bob growled wearily. “I’ve got work to do.”

  Steve rose and left. He tossed a cheerful wave at Mrs. Clark and received a glare in return. The smiles of the two girls from the secretarial pool cheered him up as he left.

  Having rushed to get to the state attorney general’s office a little after nine, Steve spent the next half hour sitting in the well-appointed waiting room. The pale carpet and rich leather couches and chairs were tastefully lit by lamps sitting on expensive tables. Obviously, the attorney general did not have the same budget constraints as the Connecticut State Police. The room was lined with shelves holding law books in leather bindings with gleaming gold accents. Paintings of past attorneys general hung between the shelves. In a place of honor, the stern face of President Harding looked down. The picture stirred thoughts of the Veterans Bureau scandal, which was still being investigated by Congress. Cramer had committed suicide and Forbes had fled to Europe. The opposition papers were making hay with the resulting mess. While Steve admired Harding’s handling of the postwar recession, as a veteran he was disgusted at the administration’s handling of this affair.

  The secretary was a petite redhead who murmured into the intercom on her desk. She told Steve that Mr. Franklin would be with him almost immediately, nearly convincing him with her sincere, hushed tone. He sat in one of the butter-soft leather chairs.

  Steve thumbed through several magazines, growing bored. He pointedly checked his watch and was just as pointedly ignored by the secretary. After being rebuffed when he tried to initiate a conversation, Steve closed his eyes and fought off the urge to doze. After thirty-two minutes, by the clock on the wall, Mr. Samuel Bucklin Sr. exited. He wore an expensive dark-blue pin-striped three-piece suit and a bright red tie. Silver hair perfectly combed and a haughty look on his florid face, he walked through the office with regal indifference. His companions were undoubtedly junior attorneys from his office, brought along to cow the state. He gave a curt and grudging nod to Steve. One of the juniors opened the door as if ushering out royalty.

  Paulie Franklin stood at his office door, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. The state attorney general was a tall, rail-thin man with thinning, dark hair in a deep widow’s peak and gray eyes. Steve wondered if the sharp, angular planes of his face could slice bread. His thin lips formed a tight, humorless smile as he motioned to Steve.

  After nodding to the two assistant state attorneys in the room and shaking hands over introductions, Steve sat in a deep armchair whose leather felt as good as that of the seating in the waiting room. Franklin seated himself behind his acre of desk and started shuffling papers. “Inspector Walsh. We would like to spend some time going over your testimony. Because of the importance of the case, Judge Towers wants the trial to take place as soon as possible. Mr. Francis Chandler was arraigned this morning and, as you saw, we had a preliminary meeting with his attorney, Mr. Bucklin Sr. Not surprisingly, he has filed several motions.” Franklin’s long, slender fingers tapped a stack of legal documents. “They are contending that you coerced him into admitting guilt. That the venue should be changed away from Hartford. They have also filed a complaint against Captain Daniels and the Chandler Constabulary. He insists that they are not a recognized police force, only a group of strong-arm ex-military thugs, and had no jurisdiction. You are accused of criminal tactics and not giving the attorney access to his client. He wants the confession thrown out, and without that, the case will prove almost impossible.”

  Steve received a nod when he extracted a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and raised an eyebrow at the state attorney general for permission. After lighting up, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. With one hand, he ticked off the points on the other: “In order of importance, Bucklin knows that capital cases are tried in Hartford. You must have told him that.” Franklin nodded. “Second, he was in the room with Chandler from the time the shyster arrived on the train. Next, Francis wanted to show us how smart he was and insisted on talking with us over Bucklin’s advice. At first, he was smug and answered all our questions. He tried to fudge about what he admitted in the interrogation at the house. Sure, Buck—Captain Daniels—and I worked on him, not physically, but using normal techniques. At no time did we touch him. Bucklin tried to get him to shut up at every opportunity.

  “When he finally broke down, he was only too eager to tell us how he did it and why. He again ignored Bucklin when Bucklin told him not to speak. We had a recorder and witnesses, and he signed the confession of his own free will. Look at the transcript of the interrogation. Two detectives transferred him to Hartford, and you have had two people from your office sitting outside his cell on a suicide watch.

  “As for the Chandler Constabulary, the sheriff has certified the training and experience of the force. There are three deputies with military police experience and training, and all but one have had some military training. I would put them up against any small-town police department in the state.”

  Steve settled back in his chair. “The trial venue problem is up to you. You want to crucify me, go ahead. I did nothing unlawful, and I didn’t let anyone else do anything unlawful. Bucklin would be a great witness for you, since he was there most of the time.” Steve leaned back in his chair, barely containing the irritation he felt.

  Franklin used the intercom to ask his secretary to bring in fresh coffee. He turned back to Steve. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Bucklin is trying to throw smoke around. All right, I will handle the motions. They do not look like too much to me, depending on what the judge has in mind.

  “Now, I want to go over your testimony. Start at the beginning with your arrival in Chandler ... ”

  The three state attorneys spent the next six hours throwing questions at Steve in rapid fire. He took his time and gave his story in chronological order, leaving out only the private moments with Silene and with Julie. He was concise and orderly, referring to his notebook frequently to refresh his memory. The attorneys’ interruptions did not faze him or cause him to stumble. They broke for lunch and then continued through the early afternoon. By four o’clock, Steve felt wrung out and tired. A couple of times he had to rein in his temper and take a deep breath, especially when the questions drifted close to slandering his relationship with Silene. The two daughters had been accused by Bucklin of conspiring to murder their mother and placing the blame on their brother. Steve carefully dismantled any attempt to shift the blame from Francis to another suspect. He went over the alibis of the committee members, Silene, and Catherine. Steve thought Bucklin’s accusations sounded like one of Emma Black’s creations.

  Before Franklin called it a day, Steve informed him that he was returning to Chandler for Mrs. Chandler’s funeral. Franklin looked over his notes and told him to go ahead. “I expect you at the courthouse Monday for the preliminary hearing on the motions. The judge will probably have some questions for you.”

  Steve had enough time to pick up his laundry, pack, and make it to the station for the evening train to Chandler.

  Silene was waiting for him at the station. She waved enthusiastically and gave him a happy smile. A tight hug matched the wave. Clasping his arm, she walked him to her car. Despite her apparently cheerful demeanor, Steve suspected she was upset. She was chattering about the weather, her car, and other irrelevant topics in an uncharacteristic manner.

  They drove to the hotel at her usual breakneck speed and with several close calls. Steve wondered whether the endangered citizens had an instinctive sense of self-preservation when they knew she was behind the wheel.

  The doorman was at the curb when they screeched to a halt. Steve started to thank her for the ride when she jumped out and threw the keys to the uniformed doorman. “Park it for me, will you, Sam?”

  She stood waiting on the sidewalk for him. Tall and elegant, even in jodhpurs and boots
. Her red silk blouse moved in the light, warm breeze, and she played with the silver bauble on the chain around her slim throat. There was a nervous half-smile on her patrician lips, and her eyes hesitated to meet his.

  With a sigh, Steve exited the car and pulled his bag from the back. As the car drove away, he asked, “What’s going on, Silene?”

  Her face flushed under her tan, and she clasped her hands in front of her, twining and untwining her fingers. “I don’t want to go back to the house right now. There are too many people, saying nothing. I need a—a moment. Just a drink, and you don’t have to say anything. I’ll leave when you want—I promise.” Her voice was quiet and almost shy.

  He picked up his bag, took a firm hold on her arm, and ushered her through the door to the lobby. After retrieving his key, they moved to the elevator. The operator stared at them until Steve cleared his throat, and then sprang into action, his face red. The lad tried not to turn and stare, but he stole glances at their distorted reflections in the brass panel in front of him. His passengers looked straight ahead and said nothing.

  At his floor, Steve allowed Silene to precede him out of the elevator, and they walked silently to his room. He opened the door and ushered her in. While he took his bag to the bedroom, she crossed to the window and stared out distractedly. Steve returned to the living area and stood for a moment looking at her slim figure. Silene had her left arm crossed under her chest and gripped her right arm above the elbow. The bauble whispered along the chain in a steady rhythm.

  “Bad day?” he asked.

  With a sad, quiet laugh she turned and walked slowly over to him. Both arms reached around his chest and tightened. She laid her head on his shoulder. Steve stood there awkwardly for a moment and hesitantly held her. He hoped she was not crying but swiftly realized she was. He should not be too surprised, he thought. Her mother had been murdered and her brother arrested, and still everything had to be held together—something with which Catherine was of little help, from all he heard.