Patchwork Peril (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery)

by Lois Winston

  “And I also appreciate that you put your life on hold to fly here for me.”

  Jane’s face lit up. “Thank you.”

  *

  The hospital discharged Rosalie the next day. That evening I walked through our respective backyards for a quick visit and to return Rosalie’s quilts.

  “The poor dear was exhausted,” said Jane when she answered my knock at the back door. “She’s already sound asleep. I’ll let her know you stopped by.”

  I handed over the bag. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “The quilts I rescued from her clothesline the day she fell.”

  Jane scowled at the large plastic bag. “More? Every square inch of this place is covered with these rags.”

  Not everyone appreciates the craftsmanship that goes into quilting, but as an editor whose livelihood depends on crafts and crafters, I found Jane’s comment offensive. “Rosalie’s quilts have appeared in several museum exhibitions.”

  Jane shrugged. “No accounting for some people’s taste, right?”

  “Quite true.” I looked her right in the eyes and added, “Some people have extremely poor taste.” I then made an excuse about having to help my mother-in-law and took my leave.

  *

  Both Wednesday and Thursday I worked late and didn’t have a chance to visit Rosalie. Friday evening I arrived home to red and blue lights flashing through the azalea bushes.

  FOUR

  I raced through both yards to Rosalie’s back door, which swung open at my first knock. Officers Fogarty and Harley, two of Westfield’s finest, stood on the other side of the door. I had feared the worst but saw no evidence of a medical emergency. Rosalie sat at her kitchen table, no paramedics in sight. She glared daggers at Jane who stood in the middle of the room, arms folded in front of her chest, her lips pursed tightly together.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Rosalie glared at Jane. “She’s trying to kill me.”

  Was Jane mistreating her? Rosalie sported no fresh bruises, cuts, or scrapes, only the fading remnants of last week’s accident. Her body was clean, her clothing laundered, her silver hair recently washed and pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.

  “How was I to know she’s allergic to shellfish?” asked Jane. “She never told me not to buy certain foods.”

  Rosalie showed no evidence of an allergic reaction, no hives, no swelling, no difficulty breathing. “Did you eat any shellfish?” I asked her.

  “Of course not! The moment I saw the empty can of clam sauce sitting on the counter, I called the police.”

  I turned to the officers, both of whom were veterans of countless run-ins with my cantankerous mother-in-law. “I think this is all a big misunderstanding.”

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell Mrs. Schneider,” said Harley, a heavy-set man in his fifties and the senior of the two officers.

  “But she’s demanding we arrest Miss Sherman for attempted murder,” added Fogarty, the junior partner by about ten years.

  I sighed. “Really, Rosalie?”

  Her belligerent attitude dissolved, replaced by one of confusion. She stared at the quilted placemat in front of her, picking at a loose thread. “Something is not right,” she mumbled.

  “With your attitude,” said Jane.

  Rosalie raised her head. The confusion dissolved. Her features hardened as she glared at Jane.

  Researchers now believe that head trauma can cause dementia years later. As the mother of sons who play sports, I worried constantly about concussions and knew to look for certain symptoms after a blow to the head. Had the hospital released Rosalie too soon? I settled into the chair next to her and placed my hand on her forearm. “Are you nauseous, Rosalie?”

  She pulled her attention from Jane, her features softening as she turned to me. “No.”

  “Dizzy?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a headache? Ringing in the ears? Blurred vision? Further memory loss?”

  She denied suffering from any symptoms.

  “She’s not telling you the truth,” said Jane. “She’s extremely forgetful. She’s constantly accusing me of stealing things, but I’ll find the items she claims I stole in different rooms. In plain view. What happens when I go home? Will she forget to turn off the stove and burn the house down?”

  Could severe head trauma cause sudden dementia? I had no idea. “Maybe you should bring her to the hospital for a scan,” I said to Jane.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. The doctors warned me she might experience further bouts of memory loss, along with possible confusion or emotional instability.”

  “For how long?”

  “Anywhere from days to months.”

  “Months?”

  “No one really knows for sure. Her brain is still healing.”

  “I’m not delusional,” said Rosalie. “She’s trying to make you think I’m crazy.”

  Jane ignored her. “She must have called the police while I was in the bathroom.” She came up behind Rosalie and patted her shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll be fine in the morning. “All she needs is a pill and a good night’s sleep.”

  “What kind of pill?” I asked.

  “The doctor prescribed a mild anti-anxiety medication to take as needed. I’ll get one for her.”

  While she was gone I tried to convince Rosalie that Jane hadn’t tried to kill her. “She’s gone out of her way to help you, Rosalie. What would she have to gain by killing you? She’s not after your money.”

  “So she says.”

  “She knows you have an ironclad will. Can we let the officer’s leave now?”

  “I suppose.” She glanced across the room to where Harley and Fogarty both leaned their massive frames against the kitchen counter, one on either side of the sink. “I’m sorry. Maybe I did overreact.”

  “Don’t worry about it, ma’am,” said Harley. “We’ll chalk it up to your recent injury.”

  I walked the two officers to the front door. When I returned to the kitchen, Rosalie’s stomach rumbled loud enough to startle me. “When did you last eat?” I asked.

  She glanced at the wall clock. “Lunch, I suppose. Why can’t I remember?”

  “Because you’re still healing,” said Jane, returning to the kitchen. She placed a small pink pill in front of Rosalie, then filled a glass with tap water and handed it to her.

  I swung open the refrigerator door and pulled out a loaf of bread and packages of deli ham and sliced cheddar. “How about a sandwich?”

  “I’ll make it,” said Jane. “I’m sure you have your own dinner to prepare, Anastasia.”

  She took the food packages from me and placed them on the counter. Then she turned her attention back to Rosalie who sat staring at the pill on the table. “Take your medicine, Aunt Rosalie. You’ll feel better. Then we’ll have a nice chat about any other allergies you have.”

  *

  Rosalie called me the next day. “Would you mind coming over? I’d like your help with something.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Bring your camera.”

  My camera? That seemed like an odd request, but I grabbed it out of my work tote before leaving the house.

  Rosalie met me at her back door. “Where’s Jane?” I asked.

  “Out.”

  “Running errands?”

  “I’m not sure what she’s doing, but she’s up to no good.”

  “Rosalie, we’ve been through this.”

  “Sit down, and hear me out.” With the aid of one crutch and her good arm, she hobbled over to the kitchen table and settled into a chair. When I took the chair opposite her, she continued, “I’ve been feeling muddleheaded ever since the hospital discharged me.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “No. Not like this. I’m sleeping all the time, and when I’m awake, I feel like my brain is full of cobwebs.”

  “Maybe your meds need to be adjusted.”

  “I stopped
taking them. And I didn’t eat the breakfast Jane prepared for me this morning. I think she’s drugging me.”

  As far as I knew, Rosalie had never suffered from paranoia. This change in her personality might be a result of the fall or a side effect of her medication. “Why would she do that?”

  “That’s what I want you to find out. Last night when she placed that pill in front of me, I experienced a moment of clarity. As if something had cut a path through all those cobwebs. I pretended to take the pill. This morning, when she left the kitchen, I tossed my breakfast down the drain. And do you know what?”

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t feel muddleheaded today. Not one bit. But I pretended otherwise, same as I did last night.”

  “Did something happen after I left last night?”

  “When she thought I was asleep, she left the house.”

  “For how long?”

  “Hours. I tried staying awake, but I finally fell asleep around two o’clock. This morning I pleaded exhaustion after breakfast. Twenty minutes after I pretended to doze off, she left again.”

  I studied Rosalie and saw the exact same woman I knew prior to her tumble down the basement stairs. Sane. Rational. But was she?

  “There’s more,” she said. “Things keep disappearing.”

  “Jane said she found the items you claimed were missing.”

  “Jane is playing games. That’s why I asked you to bring your camera. I want you to take pictures to document where everything is in each room. I also want you to find those pills she’s been giving me. I looked in the downstairs bathroom. They’re not there. She probably has them hidden upstairs.”

  At this point, I didn’t know what or whom to believe, but I had nothing to lose by humoring Rosalie. We went room by room throughout her downstairs as she pointed out various pieces of bric-a-brac, vases, china, and jewelry she wanted me to document. All hardly worth stealing. Besides, judging from Jane’s designer wardrobe, I doubt she’d be caught dead with any of Rosalie’s possessions.

  “The quilts, too,” she said. “She keeps eyeing them.”

  Rosalie need not have worried about Jane stealing her quilts. I didn’t have the heart to tell her what Jane thought of her handiwork. I kept my mouth firmly shut and dutifully shot photos of each quilted wall-hanging, table runner, pillow, and blanket throughout the downstairs rooms.

  After quilting for over fifty years, Rosalie had amassed enough of a collection to open her own quilt shop. She rarely sold or gave away any of her quilts. However, she occasionally donated one for a local charity auction. When she did, the winning bids ran into the thousands of dollars. Throughout the area, a Rosalie Schneider quilt was highly prized, not just for the quality of her workmanship, but also because so few people were lucky enough to own one.

  I spent nearly an hour capturing images of every quilt on the first floor. When I finished, Rosalie said, “You’ll have to go upstairs by yourself. I can’t manage the steps with these casts.”

  “Do you want me to photograph anything upstairs besides the quilts?”

  “No, just find those pills.”

  In the upstairs bathroom medicine cabinet I found a container of Xanax. I brought the pills down to Rosalie. “The prescription is in your name. A quarter-milligram, three times a day. I believe that’s a very low dose.”

  She held out her good hand. “Let me see what they look like.”

  I popped open the cap and spilled a white pill into her palm. “These aren’t the pills she’s been giving me.”

  “The pill Jane gave you last night—”

  “Was pink. I told you she’s drugging me.”

  Up until this point I’d dismissed all of Rosalie’s rants about Jane, convinced she was projecting her long-held anger toward her husband and sister onto Jane. Now I began to have doubts. “What about the other pills she gave you? Were they all pink?”

  Rosalie thought for a minute, then shook her head. “I can’t remember. I was clearheaded when I left the hospital, then everything grew muddled until this morning.”

  “What do you want me to do, Rosalie?”

  “I want you to call the police. They won’t believe me, not after last night.”

  I doubted they’d take me seriously, either. If Rosalie were as befuddled as she claimed the last few days, her memory would be far from reliable. As for the pills, I knew of a simple way to find some answers.

  I headed into the kitchen, grabbed Rosalie’s phone, and punched in the number for the pharmacy. When the pharmacist came on the line, I placed the phone on speaker. “I’m calling for Mrs. Rosalie Schneider. She’s a bit confused by her medications. Can you explain to her what she was prescribed since Tuesday?”

  After he verified that Rosalie was with me, he said, “Certainly. One moment while I access your records, Mrs. Schneider.” Computer keys clicked in the background. “Here we are. On Tuesday we filled a prescription for Xanax and Tylenol with codeine. Last night your doctor called in a lesser dosage of Xanax. The original prescription was for a half-milligram. The new prescription is for a quarter-milligram.”

  “What color are the Xanax?” I asked.

  “The half-milligram pills are pink; the quarter-milligrams are white.”

  Mystery solved. I thanked the pharmacist and hung up. “Rosalie, I believe Jane noticed how muddled you’ve been and called the doctor to adjust your medication. She left last night to pick up the new prescription.”

  “Then explain why she gave me a pink pill this morning.”

  I couldn’t. “Are you sure?”

  Rosalie hesitated. Confusion settled over her face. “I think so.”

  “What did you do with this morning’s pill?”

  “I flushed it down the toilet.”

  “Since we have no way of proving which pill you were given, why don’t we give Jane the benefit of the doubt and wait to see which pill she gives you later?”

  “But she was gone for hours last night. The pharmacy is less than a mile away.”

  “Is it possible you dozed off and didn’t hear her come back?” Or more likely Rosalie was still suffering from the effects of too high a dose of Xanax and had no real concept of time, but I refrained from suggesting that possibility.

  “So where is she now? Explain that. She left the house at nine-thirty.” Rosalie glanced up at the clock mounted on her kitchen wall. “It’s almost noon.”

  Jane wasn’t hired help. However, if she had decided to take off for a few hours, she should have told Rosalie. “Have you had anything to eat today?”

  “Some toast and an apple after she left this morning. I couldn’t manage more than that.”

  I set about preparing her a sandwich. Jane walked in as Rosalie took her first bite. “Aunt Rosalie, I’m so sorry! I had no idea the dentist would take so long.”

  “You were at the dentist?” I asked.

  Jane looked from me to Rosalie. “Don’t you remember?”

  “You never mentioned anything about a dentist.”

  Jane turned to me. “I broke a tooth last night after you left. Rosalie gave me the name of her dentist. I called first thing this morning. He squeezed me in for an emergency appointment.” She turned back to Rosalie. “You don’t remember our conversation this morning before you went back to bed?”

  Rosalie dropped her sandwich onto her plate. Her eyes narrowed; her voice rose. “We never had a conversation about a broken tooth, and I didn’t give you my dentist’s name.”

  Jane shook her head and sighed. “Another lapse of memory,” she said to me.

  Then she turned back to Rosalie. “I spoke with your doctor last night after the police left. I’ve suspected your medication was too strong. When I told him about the forgetfulness and paranoia, he agreed with me and phoned in a prescription for a lower dose. I picked it up last night after you went to bed. Hopefully, we’ll begin to see some improvement soon, although I’d hoped by now—”

  Rosalie slammed her fist on the table. “I’m not par
anoid.”

  Jane’s phone rang. She fished it out of her purse and checked the display. “I have to take this,” she said leaving the kitchen. “It’s a business call.”

  FIVE

  “She never said anything about going to the dentist,” reiterated Rosalie once Jane was out of earshot.

  I reminded her that she couldn’t remember the color of the pill Jane had given her this morning. “Although you’re no longer feeling muddleheaded, you still might be suffering side effects from the medication.”

  She reluctantly conceded.

  After Jane finished her call and returned to the kitchen, I headed home. Jane had freely offered valid explanations for her absences from the house—without being asked. Rosalie exhibited definite personality changes, whether from her accident, her medications, or both. The logical side of my brain told me to dismiss Rosalie’s claims. Yet, I’d known Rosalie for years, and I’d only met Jane a week ago. The emotional side of my brain urged me not to dismiss Rosalie’s suspicions and accusations.

  Or maybe her paranoia was rubbing off on me.

  Out of curiosity, once back in my house, I fired up my computer and searched “Xanax side effects.” Some of the more common ones included forgetfulness, sleepiness, irritability, and trouble concentrating. A few of the less common side effects included changes in behavior and problems with memory. Rosalie had exhibited all of these symptoms to some extent, but they were also some of the symptoms associated with her injury.

  Since Jane had given me no reason to question her behavior or motives, I allowed the logical side of my brain to win out over the emotional side. I powered down my computer and headed to the basement to toss in the first load of a week’s worth of laundry.

  A few minutes later, while transferring a sink full of dirty dishes into the dishwasher, I noticed Jane gingerly tiptoeing across my yard in an effort to avoid her stiletto heels sinking into the still-soft earth. I met her at the back door.

  “Can we talk?” she asked.

  I ushered her inside and offered her a cup of coffee. While I made a fresh pot, she took a seat at the kitchen table. “How do you put up with Rosalie?” she asked.

  “I’ve had a lot of practice. You should meet my mother-in-law. But Rosalie isn’t normally like this.”