The Double Wedding Ring

by Clare O'Donohue

  “If it can’t be perfect,” I said, “it will be close.”

  “I’m sure the ceremony will go off without a hitch,” Maggie agreed, “but we have to focus our energies on the bachelorette party.”

  I laughed, my first of the day. It felt good. “I don’t really think Grandma would want strippers and lingerie. And if she does, I don’t want to know about it.”

  “I wasn’t talking about that sort of thing. I was talking about getting all the women together to celebrate our dear friend and this exciting new adventure she’s embarking on. We may not see much of her once the wedding is behind us and they’ve left town.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oliver’s bought that big house in South Carolina.”

  I sat up. “When? Eleanor didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  “I suppose she’s waiting to tell you, dear,” Maggie said. “It will be good for her to retire and enjoy Oliver for as long as they’ve left.”

  “Retire?” That was another piece of news I hadn’t heard. “But even if Eleanor would retire, why couldn’t she do that here?”

  “This has already been a long hard winter and we have a long way to go. If you think it’s cold for you, wait until your bones creak. I imagine they’re both looking for a little sunshine and mild weather. Oliver said the house is near the ocean, so can you imagine how lovely it must be? We’ll all have to go visit, of course, but it won’t be the same. Which is why we need a party to celebrate dear Eleanor.”

  Maggie kept talking. Something about having people to her house for the bachelorette party, or maybe doing it at the shop would be better. A big dinner, lots of wine . . . I wasn’t listening. My grandmother was telling people she planned to retire and move hundreds of miles away, and I was the last to know. A day that had started off badly was now getting worse.

  CHAPTER 7

  When I got back to Someday Quilts, I immediately went to Eleanor’s office, but she was gone. Natalie had little Patch curled up on her lap and didn’t seem to notice me at all. She was too busy stroking the kitten’s fur while Patch slept contentedly.

  “She’s so precious I just want to eat her.”

  “Why do people say that?” I asked. “People are always saying that to babies and puppies and anything cute. Are we cannibals at heart or something?”

  “What put you in a bad mood?”

  “Eleanor’s retiring.” I told her everything Maggie had told me, and I could tell by the shocked look on her face that she hadn’t known anything about it either.

  “She’s closing Someday?” Natalie looked on the verge of tears. She sunk back in her chair and sighed heavily. That woke Patch, who meowed at her, concerned that her new friend was unhappy.

  I shrugged. “Why tell us if she is? We only work here.”

  “Don’t get overly excited by it, Nell. Maybe Maggie is jumping to conclusions.”

  Aside from being a mother of eleven, grandmother of twenty-five, and great-grandmother of two, Maggie was a retired librarian and the researcher of our little amateur detective agency. Maggie didn’t jump to conclusions, and Natalie knew it as well as I did.

  “Well, maybe Eleanor’s waiting to tell us,” Natalie tried again. “Maybe it will be a surprise. Maybe she’s giving the shop to you!” She jumped up to hug me, grabbing poor Patch and squeezing her between us. I expected the kitten to yelp but instead we got a long, satisfied purr.

  Was that Eleanor’s plan—to give me Someday Quilts? And if it was, did I want it?

  I would have liked a moment to consider the idea, but suddenly the shop got busy. A month before, we’d been featured in a national quilt magazine as one of the best shops in the country because of our eclectic mix of both modern and traditional fabrics and the wide range of classes we taught. Plus the article had a photo of us with Barney front and center, his goofy doggy grin making the quilt shop a must-stop destination. Lots of out-of-town quilters had begun making a special trip just to see the place, meet Barney, and feed their insatiable need for all things quilt.

  For more than an hour, I stood behind the desk ringing up sales while Natalie was busy at the cutting table. At the first sign of customers Patch had retreated to the office. I envied her the peace and quiet. I wanted a moment to think everything through, to put a needle in my hand and quietly appliqué while my mind settled on an answer to what seemed to be dozens of new questions. But there was no letup of customers.

  When I saw Jesse walk by the shop, I nearly left the customers to run out and see how he was, but instead I watched him. He didn’t look in the window as he usually did. In fact, he didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. He was just walking in a sort of daydream. Jesse was always alert, always on duty, so seeing him like that was unsettling, even a little frightening. But then I’d never seen Jesse suffer a loss before.

  I debated whether he’d want me to say hi—if it would be a welcome part of his day or just disturb his daydream. But my decision was made for me when a woman in a bright pink coat put a pile of about twenty different fabrics on the counter, along with several patterns, two rulers, and a rotary cutter.

  “Did you find everything you needed?” It was my standard line, though with this woman buying up half the store, it was impossible to imagine she hadn’t found more than what she needed.

  “No, actually,” she said. “Where’s the pattern for that?”

  I turned to where she was pointing and saw one of my own quilts. The pattern was Amish inspired, with long bars of alternating grayish blue and taupe. Where I went my own way was in the colorful pink, orange, and purple flowers I’d appliquéd along the edges, set off with deep green leaves and twirling vines.

  “There is no pattern for that,” I told her. “It’s just something I made.”

  “When is it coming out?”

  “It’s not,” I explained. “It’s just . . . mine. To decorate the shop.”

  She sighed and looked at her abundant pile. “Well, I guess this is all then. But when you do make a pattern for it, let me know. I’ll sign up for your newsletter.”

  I almost told her we didn’t have a newsletter, but I didn’t want to disappoint her again. Instead I took her e-mail address and started a list. Maybe we should have a newsletter. Something to talk to Eleanor about . . . one of many things to talk to her about.

  Bernie Avallone came into the shop, waved at me, and headed for the wall where we kept mostly tone-on-tone fabrics. She went straight for the blues. The good thing about having one of the quilt group members shopping was, in a pinch she could also help out with the customers. Like everyone in the quilt group, Bernie was as familiar with the inventory as I was.

  “What’s the name of the woman who runs things?” the woman in the pink coat asked me.

  “Eleanor Cassidy. She’s not here right now.”

  “Well then, tell her for me that if she hangs quilts in her shop the quilts should be available as patterns.”

  “I will,” I said.

  As she left, weighed down by her purchases, I wondered how many unfinished quilts that woman had at home, along with patterns, books, fabrics, kits, and magazines. More quilts in her imagination than she could make in a lifetime, and yet she was annoyed that somehow one quilt pattern had slipped through her fingers. I knew exactly how she felt.

  “She’s right you know,” Bernie said as she dropped a group of fabrics on the cutting table.

  “She is,” Natalie agreed. “You should make a pattern of that quilt. And the others.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  Bernie rolled her eyes. “You made a pattern to make those quilts in the first place, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t worried about being exact. I was just playing.”

  “Well, now that you’ve played, let the rest of us in on the fun.”

  “Especia
lly now that it will be your shop,” Natalie added.

  Bernie looked from Natalie to me. “Your shop? Are you planning a coup?”

  “Natalie is just—” I said, unable to finish. Natalie had jumped in with the story I’d heard this morning. Bernie almost didn’t believe it. Apparently no one knew what Maggie had told me. Maybe it wasn’t true after all. That was a hopeful thought. Enough was changing. I wanted Someday to stay the same.

  I walked to the cutting table and petted the fabrics Bernie had chosen. Non-quilters don’t understand that a lot of the enjoyment we get from quilting is running our fingers over the soft cottons, feeling the cool, smooth fibers underneath our hands. It’s calming, and I needed a little calm at the moment.

  “These are great fabrics,” I told Bernie, ignoring her questions about Eleanor, “but they’re mostly medium tones. Have you thought about adding some lights and darks to give it more depth?”

  Bernie examined her fabrics. “Well, how did I fall into such a beginner’s trap?” She laughed to herself. She went back to the blue fabrics and pulled another ten bolts. What she brought back to the table was a dizzying array of shades, from baby blues, to teals, to navy.

  “Much better,” I said. “Quarter yards?”

  “Better give me a half yard of each. What I don’t use will go in my stash.”

  “You have more fabric in your stash than we have at the shop.”

  She smiled. “You never know when there will be a blight on the cotton crop, and we’ll run out of fabric.”

  “Don’t even think it.” I laughed. “What would we do at quilt group if we didn’t have quilts to show?”

  “Aside from gossip and eat?”

  “Exactly. The quilts provide cover for the real activities.”

  Bernie sighed. “I won’t be able to make the meeting Friday. I’m going to Boston Tuesday for a pharmaceutical convention and I thought I’d stay for the weekend and visit some sites.”

  “I can’t make it either,” Natalie said. “My in-laws are coming for dinner.”

  It had been like this a lot lately. When I first joined, nothing short of a funeral kept the entire group from meeting every Friday, but things had gotten busier for everyone. It wasn’t unusual to have only half in attendance. With Eleanor moving, and the shop’s future in question, it could get to the point where we just disbanded.

  As Natalie cut, Bernie examined a sketch I’d made of a quilt I was thinking of doing. It was a medallion quilt. It featured an appliqué of flowers in the center, surrounded by row after row of borders, some pieced, and some appliqués of animals and flowers.

  “This is stunning, Nell.”

  I blushed. “Thanks. I did it in art class when I was supposed to be doing a still life of a vase full of roses. I just kept thinking how much better I would like it in fabric. I was also thinking . . .” I grabbed my sketch pad and flipped a few pages forward, “that this sketch of the gazebo in the park would make a nice quilt. I could simplify it a little so it would be easier to appliqué.”

  “This blue . . .” she held up one of the bolts of blue fabric, “would make an excellent choice for the sky.”

  “I was thinking maybe several layers of different blues.” I grabbed the fabrics I had planned to use. I was getting excited now, as talking about a new quilt always made me.

  “You should make it for Eleanor and Oliver. What an amazing wedding gift.”

  That stopped me. “Do you think there’s time? We already have the quilt we’re making as a group. I was assuming I’d buy them something. I just hadn’t figured out what it would be.”

  “Buy something?” Bernie looked horrified. “But you paint and quilt. You have to make them something. It’s so much more special.”

  “There’s nothing I could make them that would be nicer than what they could do themselves,” I said. “Oliver’s paintings hang in museums and Eleanor . . .” I waved my hand around the shop, and the many beautiful quilts that decorated the place. “Eleanor’s quilts are stunning.”

  “Which is why they will both appreciate your considerable talents turned into a one-of-a-kind wedding gift,” she said. “Buy something?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I’m surprised at you. Of course, if you do make this for Eleanor, don’t start it on a Friday. Friday quilts are ill-fated.”

  “Why?” Natalie asked.

  “If you start a quilt on a Friday you won’t live to see it finished.”

  “If that were true, quilters would be dropping like flies,” I pointed out.

  “Fine, don’t believe in quilt superstitions,” Bernie said. “Even though they’ve been around for generations and have served us all well.” She tried to look annoyed, but she smiled at herself. Bernie was still true to her sixties hippie youth, and she loved breaking with tradition more than anyone. But some traditions even Bernie believed in. “At least embroider a spider on it for good luck. I don’t see smooth sailing for this wedding, so we need all the luck we can get.”

  She wasn’t just a pharmacist, Bernie was our group psychic despite being wrong as often as she was right. But it was better to take her seriously, just in case.

  “Then a spider it is,” I said, as I drew a small spider in the corner of the gazebo sketch.

  “And hearts,” she told me. “Lots of hearts. All the quilt traditions call for lots of hearts on a bridal quilt.”

  “Is this Nell’s quilt or yours?” Natalie asked.

  Bernie raised an eyebrow. “It’s Eleanor’s, so it should be as lovely as she is.”

  As Bernie spoke, I saw Greg out the window. He was standing at the corner, writing out a parking ticket to a car too close to the corner. I grabbed my coat without a second thought. “Bernie, take over for me at the register.”

  “But I need to pay for my—”

  “Ring up your own purchases.”

  While Natalie cut for another customer, Bernie brought her fabric to the counter, and I ran out the door.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Lousy job for cold weather,” I said as I approached Greg, who was writing the license plate onto the ticket.

  “Sure is.” The annoyance in his voice was obvious. “It’s not my idea.”

  “You know Jesse is just upset about his friend,” I said. “I saw that he was a little rough on you. . . .”

  Greg leaned his lanky frame against the hood of the car. “I get that.” His tone softened, more hurt and concern than annoyance. “I wish I could help. I’ve been taking a couple of criminology classes in Peekskill. I’ve learned a lot about forensics, profiling, even how to run my own sheriff’s department. I don’t think Jesse realizes what I can do.”

  “He does, Greg. He knows you’re the town’s best detective.”

  He smiled a little and rolled his eyes. He was the town’s only detective, but that didn’t diminish his talents. “Lot of good it does me. I barely got a chance to look at the body, let alone investigate.”

  “Well, you know that he died from a bullet to the head.” I tried to sound encouraging.

  “That’s all we have,” Greg said, “plus the fact that he was driving a rental car he picked up in Tarrytown yesterday morning.”

  “Tarrytown? I thought he lived in New York City.”

  “He did. Queens to be specific. And he owned a car. And yet he went to Grand Central Terminal, bought a ticket to Tarrytown on the nine forty-five a.m. train, and then when he got there, he walked to a car rental place, rented that SUV, and drove the rest of the way up here.”

  “If he was going to take the train, why not take it all the way to Archers Rest?” It took more than three hours from the city, but there were two trains a day that stopped at our little station.

  Greg shrugged. “Wish I knew. If Roger was hiding from someone, he didn’t exactly try very hard. He used his own credit card to buy the ticket and rent the car.”

>   “It sounds like you’re making progress. So why are you giving out parking tickets instead of working on the murder?”

  “Ask the chief. He told me to ticket this car.”

  “This car specifically?”

  “Yeah, he said it was a danger to anyone turning the corner.”

  The car was a late-model dark blue sedan, the sort of car I’d drive if I didn’t want anyone to notice me. I didn’t recognize it from anyone in town, but Archers Rest was just large enough that it was impossible to know everyone. “Why didn’t he write the ticket himself?”

  Greg rolled his eyes. “Nell, you’re dating the guy. If you haven’t figured him out yet, then I can’t help you.”

  I knew what he meant. When Jesse was upset and didn’t want to talk about it, he tended to focus on the smallest of details. I guess because that was all he felt he could control.

  “But there are other officers on the force. . . .” I started.

  “I somehow got on his bad side. I don’t know how. All I tried to do was explain a little about a new technique to re-create crime timelines.” Greg put the ticket under the windshield wiper blade of the offending car, and flipped his ticket book closed. “He’s been weird since it happened. I found a card in the dead guy’s pocket and was putting it into evidence and Jesse told me not to. But that’s procedure. I told him, and he got mad at me about it.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t relevant.”

  “Everything’s relevant this early in the investigation. That was one of the first things Jesse taught me after I became a detective.”

  “Do you remember what the card said?”

  “It was a business card. C. G. Something. New York City,” he said. “Look, Nell, I know you help with stuff that comes up at the sheriff’s office. I know you’re really good at it, but it’s up to Jesse to tell you. . . .”

  I’d overstepped. One minute we were sharing, and now I was in danger of this entire conversation being reported back.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me. And Jesse is so sad. I don’t want to make things worse. I just don’t know how to help.”