Forget Me Knot: A Quilting Mystery Part 23

I started searching for Claire's last quilt, the one that was stolen. What was the name again? Ascending? There was nothing in her computer. No photos. Darn. Without clear photos to read, how would we ever know why it was stolen?

I thought back to the day of the quilt show and tried to picture the quilt in my mind-pink, red, and purple roses on a gray background covered with hundreds of red French knots. I remember thinking the hearts and flowers reminded me of Valentine's Day. Maybe the quilt was all about the romance between Claire and G.o.dwin, a romance that made her heart soar, or ascend. Jerry told me she'd been noticeably happier lately. Maybe G.o.dwin stole it to destroy any evidence of their relations.h.i.+p.

So why would he steal mine and Birdie's quilts, too? With a sinking feeling, I became almost certain we'd never see our quilts again. I was glad I'd taken so many pictures of them right before they were stolen. I hoped the red knots on the gray background of Claire's quilt would show up clearly in those photos. With any luck I'd find the evidence I was looking for right in my digital camera.

I wasn't sure where to start searching for my camera. I remembered putting my f.a.n.n.y pack in my sewing room after the quilt show, but the killer made an awful mess in there. The night of the break-in he raked through my fabric and tossed it all over the room in a futile search for Claire's quilts. Richie and Joey put everything in cardboard boxes for me to sort through when I was ready.

I looked around the room and when I didn't see my f.a.n.n.y pack on any of the shelves, I started dumping the contents of each carton on the floor. Some of the pieces of fabric were twisted and bunched, but others fluttered to the floor like rainbow-colored flags. My f.a.n.n.y pack tumbled out of the third carton. I jerked open the zipper, pulled out my camera, and was soon downloading the pictures onto my computer.

After scrolling through the images from the quilt show, I selected two that clearly showed the knots on Claire's quilt and clicked on the print icon. If only I'd known what those knots really were, I would've taken more photos.

I found a place to start, positioned the ruler under the line of text, and began the slow process of writing the translation on my notepad one letter at a time.

ddy stay away.

I was pretty sure ddy meant Daddy. Was Claire saying her father was still forcing himself on her?

A help me stop The text ended at the edge of the photo, thwarting any further attempt to translate the rest of the line. However, I was pretty sure A referred to Alexander G.o.dwin, who helped Claire cut her father off. Didn't Will Terry say that happened about a year ago? This proved Will was telling the truth. I hurried on because goodness knows I didn't want such unwelcome pictures lingering in my head.

I laid out the second and only other readable photo, hoping for the best.

my new meds The rest of the section was unreadable. Well, this only proved she was taking meds at some point, but she probably stopped taking them because of her pregnancy. If they were the same drugs used to kill her, how did the killer get her to take them?

There was more text at the bottom of the photo.

A my secret The next letters were lulr. What in the heck was that? After wracking my brain for words that might fit and coming up with nothing, I decided to recheck the photo. Sure enough, I'd missed a knot. The word was actually luvr-probably shorthand for lover. By now I knew A stood for Alexander. Here was the proof G.o.dwin was Claire's lover.

Big money 4 BCA. 4 r futur This was the clearest string of text yet. Claire was going to give a large donation to BCA, G.o.dwin's nonprofit. However, I didn't recall seeing a recent large donation in the BCA file in Claire's office. I wonder if she ever followed through?

The clock read eight. I thought about calling Detective Beavers and telling him what I'd just discovered, only I wasn't sure I was ready for another encounter. In fact, I was terrified. What if he kissed me again? I was so out of practice, I didn't know if I could handle an actual romance.

I let the animals out one more time and when they came back in, I set the alarm. Then I got into my pajamas and made a pot of tea, preparing to read long into the night if necessary to get the answers I was after.

The next quilt I wanted to examine was the baby quilt, to find out why Alexander G.o.dwin tried to get rid of it, although I was sure I knew-the message would confirm he was the father of Claire's unborn baby.

The pictures in Claire's files were so much clearer than the ones I took. I suspected Claire hired a professional photographer to take them. This crib-sized quilt featured yellow baskets with bright gold French knots on a white background. Almost every knot was clearly visible. I began with the photo of the upper left-hand corner of the quilt and laid a ruler on top to find the line of text.

4 my baby but A doesn't want.

So I was right. G.o.dwin was the father of Claire's baby. I was starting to get used to Claire's shorthand.

not leave wife.

Claire must have been devastated when she didn't find her happy ending after all. Did she know about G.o.dwin's wife also being pregnant?

I picked up the next photo in the series.

A 4 abort. My heart brokn. All re money.

A whole hour had pa.s.sed while I deciphered that little bit, but I wasn't about to stop.

I say no more losing babies.

Poor Claire. Did G.o.dwin panic and kill her because she was determined to keep their baby?

The final entry was the most shocking.

Cancel big money. Tell board. Baby name will b G.o.dwin.

Oh my G.o.d. Claire signed her death warrant. If she really intended to expose G.o.dwin, he stood to lose everything. The large donation Claire planned to give to BCA, his career, his reputation, and maybe even his marriage. No wonder he threw this quilt in the Dumpster-the message gave him a strong motive to kill her.

I knew I couldn't wait any longer to call Beavers.

He picked up on the second ring. "Beavers." There was a television in the background.

I realized I didn't know what to call him now that we'd kissed. Detective? Arlo? Honey? "Hey."

His voice was smiling. "Is this a social call?"

"No. I figured out who the murderer is."

He chuckled. "Who's the killer this time?"

I ignored the sarcasm. "It's still Alexander G.o.dwin."

"Can't be. G.o.dwin was with his wife the night of Claire's murder."

"Well, duh. Why wouldn't she lie for him? I have new evidence pointing straight to G.o.dwin as the killer."

"What new evidence?"

"I read the quilts."

"What quilts? Are you saying the Terrys handed over the quilts to you?"

"No. I have photos of them."

The sarcasm left Beavers's voice. "Photos? What photos?"

"Don't ask. I just translated the baby quilt and part of the stolen quilt, and-"

"The stolen quilt? You have a part of the stolen quilt? Where'd you get that?"

"Not the quilt itself. I took pictures of it."

"Don't you ever listen, Martha? Didn't I ask you this afternoon to tell me if you knew anything more?"

"That's why I'm calling. I'm telling you now."

"Anyone else know?"

"Not yet."

"Have the photos and the notes ready for me. I'll be right over, and try your best this time to keep all this to yourself, just for now."

"Okay, but no kissing!"

Strange sounds came over the phone. Wheezing. Choking.

"Don't worry." He swallowed his laughter. "If you're right, I'll be too busy closing this case, and if you're wrong, I'll be too busy yelling at you."

CHAPTER 32.

Before Beavers arrived, I made a copy of my translation and clipped it to a dozen photos of Claire's quilt to make a neat package, and as soon as he walked in the door, I handed him the package. He petted Arthur while he looked over the material. "This doesn't look good for G.o.dwin. I'm going to go pick him up now." Then he looked at me. "You still have to explain where you got these photos and why you withheld them from the police."

"You've had the photos all along. They're in Claire's computer."

"Did you print those photos before Kaplan took Claire's computer away?"

I didn't want to tell him about Lucy downloading them on a flash drive, so I just shrugged my shoulders. He could think whatever he wanted.

Beavers just stared at me, wagged his head in resignation, and turned to go.

"What?"

"You're either really smart or really lucky, Martha."

"Give me some credit." I put my hand on my hip. "Luck didn't figure out the code was in Braille, and luck didn't translate the code."

"But luck has kept you alive so far. Until we know for sure G.o.dwin is the killer, I want you to keep your alarm on and Arthur by your side."

I thought better of telling him Ray's semiautomatic pistol was in my bedside table.

That night I dreamt Alexander G.o.dwin broke into my house, dissolved all my headache pills in a gla.s.s of wine, and forced me to drink them. When I started to lose consciousness, he carried me to my bed and stood over me with a knife, preparing to stab me. I tried to scream, but I was paralyzed. I woke up with my heart pounding. Arthur must have sensed my distress because he jumped up on the bed and lay down right next to me. Dogs really could read minds.

SUNDAY.

CHAPTER 33.

At nine the next morning, Lucy and Birdie arrived to help me put my sewing room back together. Lucy brought the rest of the pumpkin-walnut loaf, and I made a pot of coffee. Before we started working, I showed them my notepad with the translation of the quilts.

Birdie shook her head. "Looks can really be deceiving. When I saw him at the wake, Dr. G.o.dwin appeared to be such a devoted husband, so respectable."

Lucy frowned. "What I can't figure out is how he had the nerve to show up at the wake of someone he killed. I mean, that's cold."

"No doubt he's been feeling a lot hotter since Detective Beavers picked him up last night."

We freshened our cups of coffee and carried them to my sewing room. Cardboard cartons full of jumbled-up cotton material were stacked against one wall, and in the middle of the floor, where I dumped them yesterday, were more piles of fabric, some of which I'd used in my Civil War quilt-a tiny print in double pink, black squares marching across a gold background, purple paisley, and a green leafy print.

Lucy picked up the fabrics from the floor, Birdie carefully folded them, and I stacked them on the shelves according to color. All the miscellaneous items like rulers, scissors, pins, and needles were collected in an empty cardboard box to be sorted through later.

When the floor was cleared, Lucy emptied the rest of the cartons and we sorted fabric. Half-yard cuts and under went to Birdie to fold, while Lucy managed to fold the larger cuts.

"Look what I found." Lucy pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from a twisted chunk of blue and tan s.h.i.+rting. The composite drawing of the quilt thief wearing a ski mask fluttered to the floor. The only distinguishable features were the odd little eyes and a physical description: Caucasian, 5'5"to 5'8" stocky.

I picked up the drawing. "This isn't much to go on, but there's enough to know G.o.dwin must have gotten someone else to steal Claire's quilt from the quilt show. He is, after all, around six feet tall and slender." I put the paper next to my notepad in the kitchen.

By noon the three of us had cleaned and organized my sewing room. I stood back to admire our hard work. We'd sorted through all the sewing notions in the cardboard box. Scissors, rotary cutters, my collection of antique pin cus.h.i.+ons, thimbles, needles, binding clips, and dozens of other sewing accessories had been put back in their proper drawers.

My reclaimed fabric sat neatly folded on floor to ceiling shelves along one wall. One whole shelf was filled with just the blues (I have a weakness for blue), from robin's egg polka dot to a deep indigo fish batik made in West Africa. The year before I painted the room a soft dove gray-a nice neutral background for the rainbow hues of my fabrics. The whole effect was calm but cheerful. "My sewing room has never been so neat." I smiled.

"What do you need to clean up next?" asked Lucy.

"I did my bedroom yesterday, so I guess the kitchen is the only big project left."

"Well, we might as well jump in as long as we're here."

Lucy put down the last piece of fabric. "Let's eat first. I'm hungry. Do you have anything, or shall we run down to the Sandwich Shoppe?"

"How about leftover barbeque?"

By three in the afternoon, my friends were gone, my house was restored, and I was relaxing in the living room with a can of c.o.ke Zero, wondering how Beavers was doing with G.o.dwin. b.u.mper jumped up on my lap purring, and settled down for a nap while Arthur put his chin on my knee, asking for some attention. I closed my eyes and smiled, thinking life couldn't get any better than this. Did I really need a man? Animals were much safer and, in my experience, a lot more loyal.

As I scratched Arthur behind the ears, I remembered Dixie was supposed to come over this evening to pick up the appliqued flower basket wall hanging I promised to give to the charity auction for the Blind Children's a.s.sociation. I really needed to get out of my work clothes and take a shower before she came, but I didn't have the energy to clean up right then. I figured she'd call at some point to get directions, at which time I'd freshen up. Then I fell asleep.

I woke to Arthur growling softly and somebody knocking on my front door. "Okay, Arthur, I'm awake now." I got up, turned on the porch lights and strained at the peephole to see who it was.

Dixie stood looking at the door and blinking rapidly. I'd never given her my address. How did she find me?

I turned off the alarm and opened the door. "Hi, Dixie. Come on in. I apologize for my appearance, but I thought you'd call first for directions. How did you know where I live?"

Dixie wore a long-sleeved blue s.h.i.+rt and polyester trousers. As she strode into the living room, she smiled. "Your check. Your address and phone number were on the check you gave me. All I had to do was look up your address on Google maps, et voila! If you don't want anyone to know where you live, you shouldn't publish the information on your checks."

Her last remark struck me as a little short of friendly, if not downright snarky. I walked toward the kitchen. "Well, how about some tea?"

She followed me as far as the island. "Fine."