Deadly Thanksgiving Sampler: a Danger Cove Quilting Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 21)

by Gin Jones

  "Relax," Matt said. "Everyone's going to have a great time tomorrow, even if they have to drink wine out of water glasses."

  There were times when his laid-back attitude really got on my nerves. "I'm going to tell everyone it's your fault that we don't have the right glasses."

  He shrugged. "Fine with me. I'll even record a video taking responsibility for it and post it online if you want."

  "Better not." Thinking of his fans' reactions to that made me smile. I never could stay irritated with him. It wasn't his fault that he didn't understand my anxiety any more than I understood his wardrobe consisting almost exclusively of cargo pants and sport shirts. And I really didn't need any more stress right now, not if I wanted to remain conscious throughout tomorrow's events. "Your fans would probably start sending you wineglasses so you'll never run short again, and there won't be enough room for all of them in your cabin."

  "That sounds like a good reason to do the video," Matt said. "If the cabin gets filled up with stuff, I'll just have to move in with you."

  I totally wasn't prepared for a serious conversation like that. At least not until I'd first explained to him why it was so important to me that everything be prepared for the meal ahead of time. I couldn't take the chance that some last-minute disaster would cause me to pass out right as our guests were arriving. But right now, I could feel my elevated blood pressure and the hint of a headache that could presage a syncope attack. Just thinking about such serious discussions was putting me at risk of passing out.

  Serious discussions about my health and our future had to wait until after Thanksgiving. I was under enough stress already. And Matt's eyes were still troubled, I thought, so he wasn't in the best condition to talk about anything serious either. Any discussion about our future needed to be more than just a distraction from bad memories.

  "I don't think either of us is up to major decisions this week. Or dealing with your fans." I picked up my phone. "I'll just text Dee and Emma to see if they can bring some wineglasses with them tomorrow. There's something else I want to talk about right now. I went to Lawrence Donnelly's repair shop today."

  Matt paused in the process of setting out the plain white plates that, unlike the wineglasses, I had plenty of. "Taking up driving again?"

  "That's what Ohlsen wanted to know too," I said. "But no."

  "You know I'm always happy to squire you around the town. I'd even take you around the world if you asked."

  "I do know that." I just hoped his willingness to be with me didn't change when he realized what a burden I might be in the future if my syncope incidents became more frequent.

  "Okay," he said. "I can guess why you ran into Ohlsen. But how did you convince him you weren't snooping into his investigation?"

  "I told him I was talking to Lawrence about a quilt. Which was true, at least partially," I said. "Ohlsen wasn't happy about my being there, but he didn't give me a huge lecture. He might have gotten around to it eventually, but we were interrupted by someone causing a scene in the waiting room. Guy named Albert Hollister. Apparently he was a dissatisfied customer. Threatened to get what he was owed, 'one way or another.' Those were his exact words."

  "Are you thinking he's a suspect in Brooke's murder?"

  I paused in the counting of flatware to go on the table. Matt didn't sound reluctant to discuss the investigation. He might not be ready to talk about the trauma he'd apparently experienced by viewing the bloody crime scene, but perhaps talking about how the killer would be caught was cathartic for him.

  "I don't know yet. I couldn't exactly interrogate Hollister or Lawrence while Detective Ohlsen was there. I only caught snippets of the argument from the hallway where I wouldn't be spotted. Hollister was complaining that he'd brought his car in for a simple oil change and right afterwards one thing after another stopped working or fell apart. He claimed Lawrence had turned his vintage muscle car into a piece of trash."

  "That sort of thing can happen with older vehicles for no reason at all," Matt said with a glance toward the front yard, where his battered old pickup was parked. "Even if it was Lawrence's fault, the car's demise is hardly a good reason for murdering anyone."

  "There's never a good reason for murder," I said. "But people do get awfully attached to their cars. Plus, little things can get under people's skin, especially if they keep happening, and the frustration escalates."

  "But why kill Brooke and not Lawrence?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps he thought he could scare Lawrence by threatening his wife and things just got out of hand? Or maybe Hollister saw it as revenge for the death of his car by killing the person Lawrence loved?" I sighed. "It's a mistake to assume that a killer is being rational, but you're right that Hollister is an unlikely murder suspect. He's definitely angry, and if I were Detective Ohlsen, I'd definitely want to know if he had an alibi if Lawrence had been killed. And I can see him doing something stupid, like planting the tire gauge at Tricia's house to try to embarrass Lawrence or to leave a message that he had the quilts and he'd trade them for whatever he wanted in compensation for his dead car."

  "How would Hollister have known to take the quilts?"

  "He might not have even known there were quilts in the bin," I said. "He could have just been following Brooke, looking for something to hold over Lawrence's head, and figured they were important to her."

  "If you're right about that, then how did Brooke know Hollister was the quilt thief? Is she that involved with her husband's business that she knows about his unhappy customers?"

  "All I know so far," I said, carrying the counted flatware over to the table," is that he's got a motive to wish the Donnellys harm, so unless he's got an alibi, he's got to be a suspect. Hollister definitely has problems with letting his anger get in the way of rational thought. He threatened Lawrence, right in front of Detective Ohlsen. That's not something a person would do if he weren't blinded with rage."

  Matt began moving the jumble of forks and spoons to their appropriate places beside the laid-out plates. "Still, it's a big leap from making threats to actually carrying a gun into someone's house."

  "You're probably right. I wish I knew how the tire gauge ended up at Tricia's house. I've been assuming that it was planted there to steer us in the wrong direction. But it could simply mean that the burglar was very sloppy."

  "That seems more likely," Matt said. "It doesn't take much planning to break a window, and he wasn't even prepared enough to bring a rag with him to keep from cutting himself. Tricia mentioned that there was a…" Matt trailed off into a moment of silence before picking up his train of thought with what appeared to be an effort of will. "There was a blood trail from the window to where the quilt bin was before it was stolen."

  "Judging from Hollister's lack of impulse control in front of Ohlsen at Lawrence's shop, if he stole the quilts, he'd have probably done it on an impulse. But even if he did that, he's still not the most likely suspect in Brooke's death."

  I reached into the cupboard where I'd stored the napkins we'd bought yesterday. I needed a moment to decide whether to change the subject. Matt had stumbled over the reference to blood at Tricia's house, so maybe it would be better if we didn't keep talking about matters that would remind him of what he'd seen when he'd found Brooke's body. On the other hand, perhaps talking about getting justice for Brooke would help him deal with it, and he did seem interested in the investigation.

  "The most likely suspect has to be her husband. Or her stalker."

  "Brooke had a stalker?"

  "I forgot I hadn't told you about that. I had Lindsay do some research into Brooke's background to help me identify some of the blocks in her quilt, and it turns out that she'd been stalked by the parent of one of her students. He knew where Brooke lived, and he's also the manager of the local sporting goods store, so it seems likely he'd have pretty easy access to a gun."

  "He's not the only one around here who could put his hands on a gun though," Matt said.

  "Not you," I said. "O
r me."

  "I've never had one here in Danger Cove," Matt said. "But I did on occasion when I went to particularly dangerous places for photo shoots. It was all legal, of course, and I took the training and did the practice ahead of time. I can't say I've ever used one as powerful as the one that was on the floor next to Brooke."

  "You never cease to amaze me." When I'd first met Matt, I'd been fooled by his laid-back manner, but over time I'd come to realize that it didn't mean he was lazy or unwilling to make reasonable preparations for whatever he planned to do. He just didn't stress about little things the way I did. "I never would have pictured you as being familiar with firearms. But now that I know, what can you tell me about the murder weapon?"

  "Not that much," Matt said. "I did a story on a collector of firearms once, but it was more about the visual display of them than about their use. Beyond that, I just know the basics."

  "Lawrence is ex-military," I said. "Is that the sort of weapon he might own?"

  "Perhaps," Matt said. "Handguns are generally purchased for self-protection, but some, like the one on the floor near Brooke, can be used for hunting, generally small game like squirrels and rabbits. Do you know if Lawrence is a hunter?"

  "He is," I said. "Tricia told me that her husband and Lawrence go hunting together."

  "Still," Matt said, "Lawrence isn't the only person around here who might have owned a handgun designed for hunting. They're pretty common, and the local sporting goods store probably sells several models, including the one that killed Brooke."

  "I guess I'll stick to investigating her quilt then, see if I can find some embellishment details I've missed, rather than looking for clues in the murder weapon."

  "Good idea. It's a lot safer being around quilts than around guns."

  "Before I moved to Danger Cove, I'd have agreed with you," I said. "Quilts may not be inherently dangerous, but I'm pretty sure more people have died here due to innocuous things like quilts, books, and manicures in the last few years than due to anything related to guns."

  * * *

  Matt had to go to a seven o'clock meeting he'd been arm-twisted into covering for the Cove Chronicles while other reporters were out of town getting a head start on the holiday. I'd been a bit skeptical about his reason for leaving, thinking he might have been trying to keep me from knowing just how upset he still was by what he'd seen inside Brooke's house and he'd made up the meeting so he could go home and brood all by himself in his cabin in the woods. I'd even made a comment about how no one in their right mind would schedule anything for the evening before Thanksgiving, but he'd explained that it was a political group instead of his usual arts groups, so of course no one there was actually in their right mind.

  He had a point, and it was just the sort of thing he'd say if he were feeling okay, so I didn't interrogate him any further.

  While I waited for Lindsay to stop by—Emma had texted that she was sending over the requested wineglasses ahead of time so they wouldn't have to deal with remembering them after the parade—I did some last-minute housework.

  As I was putting the cleaning supplies away in the pantry, I was startled by what I thought was the sound of breaking glass. Since I'd been in the pantry with the door partly shut, the sound had been muffled, and it was difficult to pinpoint where it had come from. A moment later, my security system started beeping. I closed the pantry door and returned to the kitchen. There was no obvious problem visible from there, so I checked the security panel near my front door, confirming that a window had been breached in my office.

  I hesitated, unsure of what to do next. I didn't want to bother the police with what would probably turn out to be a minor incident, probably something related to the wind that had been howling all day. There was a tree not far from my office window, and one of its branches could have been blown into the glass with enough force to break it.

  I had five seconds left to decide. If I didn't key in a password by then, it would set off a loud alarm outside and trigger an automated call to Danger Cove's first responders. It could have been an electronic glitch, but I hadn't experienced any trouble with the system before, so I didn't think that was the source of the problem.

  The neighborhood—all of Danger Cove, really—was generally safe and free of vandals or harmful mischief, but there had been two break-ins recently that I knew about, both by way of a window and both with victims connected to the quilting community, and one was connected to a murder. I decided not to take any chances and backed away from the panel. The police could sort it out when they arrived.

  Having made my decision, I became aware of the nausea rising from my stomach. I had to get myself to a safe spot where I could wait for the police. I'd been trapped inside an appraisal client's house once when I was alone and vulnerable, and I didn't want that to happen again. It was too bad I hadn't known how dangerous life could be for a quilt appraiser back when I had the bank building converted into my home, or I might have done things differently with the vault, turning it into a safe room. Too late for that now.

  The sound of footsteps on the tile floors of my office caused my stomach to churn even faster, and lightheadedness made it difficult to think about what I should do. All I knew was that I needed to get somewhere safe before I passed out. Now that I was sure someone was inside, I thought the best place for me to be was outside the house. The door between my office and the great room didn't lock, so the intruder now had access to the entire interior of the building.

  I ran past the kitchen to the back door and fumbled with the knob. A reverberating pain in my head had joined the lightheadedness, making the piercing sound of the alarm almost unbearable. From past experience, I also knew that the sudden onset of a severe headache was the final symptom before I passed out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I came back to groggy consciousness slowly, only vaguely aware that I was lying in a heap on the floor inside my back door. The reflections of blue lights pulsed on the walls above me, and it took a moment for me to realize the lights meant that the police had arrived.

  I could also hear a rhythmic pounding from the front of the house. At first, I thought it was just a projection from my headache, but then I heard Lindsay's voice shouting my name. She was at my front door, demanding that I open it.

  I dragged myself to my feet, steadying myself by holding on to the wall as I made my way through the house. I peered through the sidelight to see Lindsay was there with a two-foot-square box that she'd set down by her feet, leaving her hands free to pound on the door. She was so enthusiastic about it that I thought she was going to leave dents in the wood. Lindsay wasn't a particularly large woman, but she was strong from controlling the ropes of the multi-ton big bells she loved so much.

  Beside her stood a uniformed officer I hadn't met before. I was still a little dazed and having difficulty remembering why the police might be outside my house. Rather than make a fool of myself by asking stupid questions, I opened the door and waited for someone else to speak.

  Lindsay gave me a sharp glance that promised a later reckoning, and then she told the officer, "This is Keely Fairchild. The person I'm here to visit. I told you she was home and expecting me. I'm not the intruder."

  Lindsay knelt to pick up the box and brushed past me into the house.

  "That's right," I said, finally remembering what had happened before I passed out. "I was expecting Lindsay. And then the alarm went off. I think someone broke a window to get into my office. I thought I heard someone in there…" I trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence with "before I passed out." Instead, I pointed to the officer's left, where what used to be an ATM lobby led to my office.

  "You don't know for sure?" the officer asked.

  "I was waiting for you to arrive before I checked." I led him over to the door, opened it, and flicked on the interior light before stepping back to allow him to precede me inside.

  The window on the side of the building was indeed broken, and a strong breeze was coming inside. I
was going to have to call the woman who'd rehabbed my home for me, Alex Jordan, to come fix the window after the holiday. For now, I had some plywood in storage that I could use to cover it.

  "Well?" the officer asked. "Anything missing?"

  The room looked untouched, except for the glass on the floor and one glaringly empty spot on my desk. Brooke's sampler quilt was gone.

  "It will take some time to check everything," I said, "but I can tell you right now that a quilt I was appraising was taken. I left it on my desk a few hours ago."

  "Value?" he asked.

  "That's what I was trying to figure out," I said. "Can I get back to you on that later?"

  He shrugged. "I'll just put down a hundred bucks for now."

  "It was worth considerably more than that," I said.

  "Okay, two hundred bucks." He turned toward the exit, adding over his shoulder, "You can work out the details with your insurance company. Do you want me to check the rest of the house for your intruder?"

  "That won't be necessary. Nothing was disturbed outside this office." I just wanted him and his condescending attitude gone, so I walked him to the front door and then went to get Lindsay to help me board up the broken window.

  She was waiting for me at the kitchen peninsula. Her box had been emptied, flattened, and tucked away between the refrigerator and the adjoining cabinet for easy retrieval when it was needed to bring the glasses back to her grandmother's house.

  Lindsay had also made us a pot of tea. She handed me a filled mug. "Don't worry. It's decaf. You need extra fluids. I know you were passed out when I got here. It took way too long for you to answer the door, and you weren't as alert as you usually are. Now, sit down and tell me why I shouldn't take you to the hospital right now."