by Mary Marks
“Thanks a lot.”
Richie was Lucy’s middle son, who worked in the tech industry. They spoke or texted every day. She must have told him about last night.
Zsa Zsa popped her head out of the yellow tote bag and yawned. She wore a red gingham sundress matching Jazz’s shirt. He picked her up and set her on the floor. She sniffed the air and bolted off on her tiny Maltese legs straight for the guest room, where Bumper rested on the bed, still exhausted from all the nocturnal drama. We heard a lot of yipping and hissing.
Lucy pointed to the bulging bags Jazz had brought with him. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He removed dozens of colorful shirts. “I sewed all these for Rusty. Some of them go back twenty years. Not all of them are cotton. Can I still use them together in a quilt?”
“The great thing about quilting,” said Lucy, “is that there are no rules. You can do whatever you want. You just have to be aware that different kinds of materials will react differently to the process. Cotton and linen will be easier to cut and quilt, but silk will be tricky. As you already know, it’s more slippery and unravels easier.”
She handed Jazz a thick encyclopedia of quilt block patterns. “Before we cut into those shirts, you need to decide what pattern you want to use. Then we’ll draft the design. Take some time to look through these.”
I finished my apple fritter at the same time FBI Agent Kay Lancet showed up at Lucy’s front door. She breezed into the living room and sat in a chair facing me. “Well, Martha. Seems as if you managed to deliver not just the proof of his crimes, but the archcriminal himself. I’ve gotta say, nicely done.”
“How is he?”
“Van Otten’s out of surgery. Don’t worry, he’ll live. But he’ll never be a father. He confessed to everything.” Her voice softened. “Are you okay? You’ve been through a lot lately.”
Tears stung my eyes as I recalled for the millionth time how I almost died last night. “I’m still as shaky as heck and really tired. But I guess I’ll live too.”
She stood. “Can I borrow you for a little bit outside?”
“Sure.” I mouthed an apology at Lucy and Jazz and followed her out the front door.
She turned to face me and placed her hand softly on my shoulder. “You should’ve handed over that diary as soon as you and Mrs. Watson found it, Martha. We have people and software that could’ve decoded it and traced those accounts in an hour. Your decision to hide the evidence almost cost you your life.”
I shifted on my feet. “We really didn’t know what we had at first. And then when I deciphered the code and realized what it was, I just had to make sure Russell wasn’t guilty before I handed over the diary.”
“What difference would that have made? He was already dead.”
I looked at the agent and sighed. “If Russell had stolen the money, there would’ve been dire consequences for Birdie and Jazz. The bank could’ve sued his estate to recover the missing funds. The two of them could’ve lost everything. I thought if Russell was guilty and I found the money and returned it, Birdie and Jazz would be safe. But after talking to Gail Deukmejian, I was convinced Russell was innocent. That’s when I called you.” I lowered my eyes and stared at the ground.
Lancet gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’re lucky everything worked out the way it did.” Her next words took me totally by surprise. “So you slept with him again?”
I jerked my head up and stared at her. “How’d you know?”
“I didn’t know for sure.” The corner of her mouth turned up. “It was something in the way Arlo told me about being with you until nine last night that led me to suspect as much. You’re confident enough to try a relationship with him again?”
I sighed. “He’s attractive. I had a vulnerable moment. It just happened.”
“Well, you know Arlo. He doesn’t do well with indecision. He’ll want to wrap you up and stake a claim as soon as possible.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “He’s going to be disappointed then. I’m certainly not ready to admit that what happened between us last night was anything more than a moment of weakness.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Let me know how long that lasts.”
I hugged Agent Lancet good-bye and went back inside Lucy’s house. We sorted Russell’s old shirts into lights and darks while Jazz chose a pattern.
He held up the book and pointed to an eight-pointed Lemoyne Star. “I’m crazy about this pattern. It’s très jolie.”
“Mazel Tov,” said my orange-haired Catholic friend. “This block is usually not for beginners, because it requires sewing set-in seams. But since you’re already a pro, you shouldn’t have any problem with it.”
I held up a pile of Russell’s shirts. “You can use different fabrics for each ray of the star. And if you use a dark fabric for the background, the finished quilt will look like a colorful constellation.”
“Parfait!” Jazz clasped his hands. “What do we do next?”
Lucy printed pattern pieces for ten-inch blocks using Quilt Block software and cut templates for each piece from a sheet of Mylar plastic. We spent the rest of the day cutting Russell’s shirts into diamond shapes that would become individual rays in the Lemoyne Stars. Jazz finally left at three and air kissed us on both cheeks in the European style. “I’ll be back next week. Au revoir.”
Lucy closed the door behind him and said, “I think we’ve just gained a new member for our group.”
CHAPTER 36
At four, Lucy’s phone rang just as she put a meat loaf in the oven. She wiped her hands on her apron and answered. Then she put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Arlo,” she whispered. “He wants to talk to you.”
I shook my head vigorously and whispered back, “He’s been texting me all day, but I’m ignoring him. Tell him I’m asleep.”
Lucy removed her hand from the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, Arlo, but she’s sleeping right now. I’ll give her the message you called.” After she ended the call, she asked, “Why is he so anxious to speak to you?”
“I slept with him last night.”
Lucy’s mouth fell open. “Are you sure that was a good idea?”
I shook my head. “No! But I was feeling needy.”
A minute later, my cell phone rang. “Crap. That better not be Arlo again.” I looked at the caller ID. I recognized the number. The caller wasn’t Arlo Beavers, it was my missing boyfriend Crusher!
My hands began to shake. “Lucy! Yossi’s on the phone. What do I do?”
“Answer it.”
The phone kept ringing. “But I don’t know what to say. I’m really pissed he hasn’t called since he left town five months ago.”
“Did you ever try calling him?”
“At first. I also sent a couple of texts. But when he didn’t respond, I figured he didn’t love me anymore and had moved on.”
The phone stopped ringing.
Lucy began slicing a tomato. “Okay, I get why you don’t want to encourage Arlo. But don’t you at least want to hear what Yossi has to say for himself ?”
“I don’t know what I want. I’m pissed off at him but, to be honest, I’ve missed him terribly. I was really sad when he didn’t call or return my texts.”
She put down the knife and turned to face me. “Well, girlfriend, you asked for my advice, so here it is. If you miss him, talk to him. Find out why he disappeared. Maybe there’s a good reason. And for pity’s sake, don’t tell him about Arlo!”
“But what if he was just being a jerk?”
Lucy resumed cutting vegetables. “Then you’ll know what to do.”
I looked at my cell phone and saw a text from Crusher. Pls. call me.
I took a deep breath and pressed the call button.
He answered on the second ring. “Babe.”
A shiver ran up my spine at the sound of his deep voice. “Yossi! Where have you been all this time? Why didn’t you ever call me or return my texts?”
“I couldn’t contact anyone. T
he minute I left LA I was under deep cover. But my assignment’s over, and I’m coming home.”
My heart sped up a little. “By ‘home’ you mean . . .”
He chuckled. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Well, that was presumptuous. Did he think he could just waltz in and out of my life without explanation and I’d be waiting for him? “There’s something you need to know before you get here. I’m not exactly home right now.”
“What is it? Are you okay?” He sounded deeply concerned.
“I’m fine, but I’m staying at Lucy and Ray’s for the next couple of days. I’ll explain when you get here.”
I could scarcely eat dinner, I was so nervous. On the one hand, I was relieved and elated to see Crusher again. He hadn’t moved on and he wanted to come back home to me. On the other hand, I had just cheated on him in a moment of weakness. I tried to rationalize my romp with Beavers by telling myself it was Crusher’s fault for not contacting me in five whole months.
For the next two hours I checked my watch a hundred times. At eight, the doorbell rang and my stomach lurched.
Ray opened the door and my pulse fluttered in my throat. A bearded, six-foot-six Crusher walked through the front door, wearing a black T-shirt and blue jeans and a blue bandana over his red hair. He shook hands with Ray, clapped him on the back, and stepped into the living room. Ray and Crusher had become pals while Crusher recovered at my house from a gunshot wound.
Crusher greeted Lucy warmly, but his blue gaze never left my face. After some small talk, Lucy and Ray excused themselves and left us alone in the living room. As Lucy walked past, she handed me the key to Birdie’s house.
In one long stride, Crusher closed the distance between us and wrapped me in his arms. It felt like home. I put my arms around his neck and he lifted me up for a long, tender kiss.
He smelled like gasoline and lemons. “Babe, I’ve missed you so much.”
My feet dangled about ten inches above the floor.
“I’ve missed you, too, Yossi. I was so sad. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. But I’m also upset you never once contacted me in five whole months!”
He lowered me gently to the ground. “I’m sorry I had to put you through that, Martha. But that’s the nature of my job. I would’ve called if I could. I kept hoping you’d wait for me. Please tell me you haven’t moved on.”
Lucy was right. Best not to mention my night with Arlo Beavers. I led him to the kitchen table and took the foil off a dinner plate I’d saved for him. “Eat!” I ordered. I poured us each a glass of wine from an open bottle of Chianti and watched him cut into a thick slice of meat loaf with his fork.
“Why are you staying here? Did the water pipes at your house break, or something?”
I took a deep breath. “Not exactly. It all started when Russell Watson was killed.”
He put his fork down and frowned. “At your house?”
“No. He was shot during a robbery at his bank. So Lucy, Birdie, Russell’s gay lover, Jazz, and I followed his hearse to Oregon to bury him in the family plot. Along the way, I ended up driving his body until a crazy Swedish rapper forced me off the highway and I totaled the hearse. The coffin flew out the back and that’s when we discovered the body of Russell’s assassin stuffed inside with him.”
Crusher put down his fork and his shoulders began to shake. “Babe.”
“I’m serious! We finally managed to get him buried, but the ghost of Gus Marple got so angry he burned down Lafayette for the third time. Then Birdie got engaged to Denver so the three of us came home without her.”
Now he laughed out loud. “What about your house?”
“I’m getting there. Russell kept a secret diary. Birdie cracked the code and I deciphered the entries. It was a record of embezzlement. Last night the embezzler broke into my house demanding I hand over the diary. He would’ve killed me with his silencer, but I tricked him into looking away and shot him with Lucy’s Browning instead. That’s why I can’t go back inside my house just yet.”
His raised his eyebrows. “Did you kill him?”
“No. I shot him in the crotch. I didn’t mean to, exactly. This morning Richie posted a meme of me on the Internet. He’s calling me Dead Eye Dick.”
Crusher threw back his head and laughed so hard, tears rolled out of the corners of his eyes. I was not amused. When he saw the expression on my face he suddenly became sober.
“You don’t still have the gun, do you?”
Please turn the page for a quilting tip from Mary Marks!
CARING FOR YOUR QUILTS
Quilts have two basic purposes: to provide warmth and comfort, and to decorate. Either way, they’re meant to be used and enjoyed. So whether your quilt is going on a bed or hanging on a wall, you’ll want to take these simple steps to preserve your work of art.
With the exception of baby and children’s quilts, don’t wash. At least don’t do it often. Exposure to harsh detergents and chemicals can weaken the fibers and dull the colors. If you must wash a quilt, use only a mild soap like Ivory or Orvus, and cool water. Always lay your quilt flat to dry. The heat and agitation of the clothes dryer will weaken and break the fibers. And for heaven’s sake NEVER send your quilts to the dry cleaners! Remember, chemicals are bad for quilts.
I made a lovely, hand-stitched Grandmother’s Fan quilt for my daughter when she went away to college. She laundered that quilt right along with her sheets every week. At the end of four years, her poor Grandmother’s Fan was in shreds, too damaged to repair. The combination of heat and chemicals destroyed the cotton fibers and thread.
Don’t sit on your quilt. If the quilt is on your bed, keep your bottom away from it. The weight of your body will put a strain on the stitching and break the threads—especially if the quilting has been done by hand. Quilts are meant to cover your body, not the other way around.
Keep your quilt out of the harsh light. That means natural sunlight as well as indoor lighting. Wall hangings are especially vulnerable to fading from light exposure. If you’ve hung a quilt on the wall, chances are you’ve done so because you love it and want to show it off. Resist the temptation to shine a spotlight on it. If you do, the colors may not only fade, but a strong light may also weaken the fibers.
Today, a copy of the Declaration of Independence, a document precious to our national heritage, is barely readable because the ink faded due to decades of exposure to direct sunlight. The same damage can happen to the dyes in your quilt.
If you want to store your quilt, be sure to let the organic fibers breathe. Don’t store it in plastic. Don’t let it come in contact with untreated wood or ordinary cardboard since the former contains oils that may stain the fibers, and the latter contains acid that can also stain and damage fibers.
The best place to store your quilt is somewhere flat, like on an unused bed. If you have to fold your quilt, be aware that the fibers can weaken along a fold, resulting in fraying and fading. The best way to prevent this from happening is to change the way the quilt is folded every six months. If you fold it in halves one time, fold it in thirds the next. If you fold it right side out, reverse the next time and fold inside out. Varying the way you fold a quilt allows the fibers to rest.
With just a little thought and effort, your quilts can last for generations.
Please turn the page
for an exciting sneak peek of
Mary Marks’s next Quilting Mystery
KNOT WHAT YOU THINK
coming soon from Kensington Publishing!
CHAPTER 1
I hefted my red tote bag stuffed with sewing supplies, and made my way across my best friend Lucy’s newly landscaped front yard. Today was Tuesday, the day we always got together to quilt.
Peeking through a thick layer of redwood mulch were clumps of blues: pungent rosemary, English lavender, and cobalt salvia. Rows of giant white African Lilies on long stalks flanked the wide brick walkway. Dots of yellow kangaroo paws and red flax added more color, while
pepper trees provided lacy shade. The water shortage in California was worsening, and homeowners in Los Angeles County were being encouraged to replace their thirsty lawns with drought tolerant plants. Lucy had opted for Mediterranean rather than Mojave Desert as a theme for her new garden. I pushed my way through the front door into the colorful interior of her living room.
“Hey, Martha.” My orange-haired friend Lucy waved me over to a blue easy chair. She wore pink linen trousers and a white cotton blouse. On her feet were blue espadrilles with three-inch wedge heels that boosted her height to over six feet. Even though she was in her sixties, Lucy carried herself like a runway model. This morning, she held a pencil and note pad instead of needle and thread. “It’s time to plan Birdie’s wedding.”
Our seventy-seven year old friend Birdie Watson wore her signature denim overalls, white T-shirt and Birkenstock sandals—a style acquired during her hippie days living on a commune. She looked up from her appliqué project and blushed. “At least I won’t have to change my last name.”
Birdie’s longtime husband Russell had been killed during a bank robbery last year. His death brought her back together with Russell’s younger brother Denver, the man who had always been her one true love. Lately, the reunited couple divided their time between Birdie’s house in Encino, and the Watson ancestral homestead in McMinnville, Oregon, where she was about to become a bride for the second time.
“Have the two of you picked a date yet?” I asked her. “How much time do we have to plan this thing?” I unloaded scraps of fabric from my red tote bag onto a coffee table made of burled tree roots. A black and white cowhide rug lay beneath the table. The décor of Lucy’s house screamed Wyoming, where she and her husband Ray had grown up.
Birdie twisted the end of her long white braid. “Denny and I don’t want a big fuss, Martha dear. We prefer a simple ceremony with all our family and friends. At our age, we don’t have many of those left. So the sooner, the better.”
