Forget Me Knot: A Quilting Mystery Part 5

CHAPTER 9.

I lived in a midcentury house on a street lined with towering liquidambar trees providing dappled shade in the summer. Their roots had broken the sidewalks, raising the concrete like so many playing cards. Our street was on the list for sidewalk repair, but in this economy, work wasn't scheduled to begin for another fifty years.

I pulled into my driveway and a wave of fatigue washed over me. I took the quilts into the house and dumped them on the ivory chenille sofa in my living room. Beyond the living room was an open plan kitchen and dining area that made the house feel more s.p.a.cious. I plopped down on the sofa and closed my eyes. It was only seven o'clock, but felt like midnight, and my emotional fuse was about to blow.

I opened my eyes. The living area soothed me with its neutral colors ranging from cream to taupe. I loved the way the white gauzy curtains dressed the windows. Watercolor paintings of blue and orange beach scenes added spots of color, as did the blue and orange pillows and area rug. This was a cozy s.p.a.ce where a person could put up her feet-totally the opposite of Siobhan Terry's vast and formal living room.

I hadn't lied to Siobhan. Claire really had looked like she'd just fallen asleep on the floor. You'd think a murder scene would look a lot messier. Then there was the matter of the blood on her hands. How could someone who was drugged end up with blood on her hands?

I touched a pillowcase, curious to see the other quilts, but decided to wait until after I ate something. I nuked some macaroni and cheese and sliced some Persian cuc.u.mbers and sprinkled them with rice vinegar, salt, and pepper. Just five hours ago I'd eaten cuc.u.mber sandwiches with Claire Terry's mother.

I ran my hand appreciatively over the new apricot-colored marble counters. They looked as pristine as the day they were installed a year ago, and the stainless steel oven was still s.h.i.+ny inside. Only the microwave seemed to get a daily workout. I really needed to get my act together and cook healthier meals. I used to be a fabulous cook for my daughter and husband. That was then. Now, cooking for one hardly seemed worth the effort.

As I ate, I was intrigued by the idea of hidden messages. The thought of the thief coming after the quilts, however, was scary. Especially if the thief was Claire's murderer.

Cleaning up after this meal meant putting a few utensils in the dishwasher and the plastic container in the recycle bin. I dried my hands on a towel and the phone rang.

"Miss Rose?" The voice was urbane and male. "This is Will Terry, Claire's father. I want to thank you for visiting my wife today. I'm sorry I wasn't at home to greet you."

"Oh, Mr. Terry, I'm so sorry about your daughter. Her death is a real tragedy."

"Yes. A parent should never outlive a child." He cleared his throat. "I understand my wife has involved you in a wild goose chase."

"What do you mean?"

"Siobhan believes our daughter left some mysterious messages in her quilts. My wife is desperately trying to make some sense out of Claire's death. When she finds out there are no messages in the quilts, she might go off the deep end. She's already hinting about organizing a seance."

"Well, I'm not so sure, Mr. Terry. Your wife may be right about those messages."

"I doubt it. You see, my wife is so fragile now, I'm afraid if you can't come up with what she wants, she might have a complete breakdown."

"What if there are messages, Mr. Terry? Wouldn't you want to know?"

"Of course I would. What we have here is a double-edged sword, Miss Rose. As long as you have the quilts-and they are in your possession?"

"Yes."

"As long as you have them, my wife is going to harbor great expectations. On the other hand, the higher her hopes, the harder she'll fall in the end if you find nothing. I've already lost my only child. I don't want to lose my wife, too."

"Yes, I see what you mean. Nevertheless, she seems to really be counting on me, and I'd like to try. For her sake."

"I'm a very rich man, Miss Rose, but I didn't start out that way. I was a penniless Irish boy from Chicago who came to California and made good. I didn't get to where I am by chasing rainbows. I started to fill my pot of gold in the movie industry and parlayed that into a global communications business."

Okay, okay, I'm impressed.

"However, for my wife's sake I'll give you three days, after which you'll have to return the quilts. We plan to display them during the wake on Thursday evening and after the funeral on Friday."

"What a wonderful tribute, Mr. Terry. It's a privilege to be able to study such important quilts. Your daughter was a gifted artist."

The tone in his voice softened. "Thank you for understanding. I'll call you on Wednesday to arrange for someone to pick up the quilts."

Will Terry was pushy, a man who was used to telling people what to do. He also seemed genuinely concerned about Siobhan. I felt sorry for both of them.

I poured myself some Ruffino Chianti Cla.s.sico in my favorite Moroccan tea gla.s.s painted on the outside with red and gold curlicues. I appreciated the solid reliability of the flat-bottomed tea gla.s.s because stemware tipped over too easily. I took a sip of the fruity, deep red Chianti and lamented that Will only gave me three days to crack the code of the quilts before they had to be returned. Tomorrow was Monday. I hoped Lucy and Birdie were free to help me.

The phone rang again.

"This is Detective Beavers. Could I come over and show you the composite drawing the eye witnesses came up with?"

"Now?"

"Actually, I'm nearby. I can be there in five minutes if that's convenient."

"Well, I suppose so." I looked at the clock in the kitchen. The time was eight and The Closer was on. Thank G.o.d for the DVR. I never missed an episode, not even the reruns.

I hurried to the bathroom and checked myself in the mirror, smoothing my clothes over what I fondly referred to as my ample but honest curves. Maybe the extra weight in my face ironed out the wrinkles, but my skin was still tight. I wore my fifty-five years well. I put on some lipstick and ran a wide-tooth comb through my curls. What was I doing this for? I reached for a bottle of Marc Jacobs and then put it back. Too obvious.

The doorbell rang. I tugged the hem of my pink T-s.h.i.+rt down over the hips of my Liz Claiborne jeans and headed for the door, sucking in my stomach. So what if he smiled at me yesterday at the quilt show. I'm an idiot.

The dark circles under Beavers's eyes were evidence of a long working day. Still, he was the kind of man who always appeared neat. His white s.h.i.+rt was still crisp, his blue necktie hung straight, and his gray pin-striped suit was unwrinkled. I caught the very faint scent of a woodsy cologne. "Come in, Detective. Would you like some water? Tea?"

Beavers shook his head. "No thanks." I could have sworn he took in my geography as he casually looked at the floor. When he looked up again, my cheeks warmed.

I led him toward the kitchen. "The light is better in here." I stretched up to sit on a stool at the island, but Beavers looped a long, easy leg around his and slid smoothly onto the seat.

He pulled the sketch out of his pocket. "Look at all familiar?"

I adjusted my gla.s.ses and studied the drawing, glad for a reason to hide my still burning cheeks. The drawing was of a stocky figure with a ski mask. The only thing showing on his face was a pair of small eyes.

"This looks like my cousin Barry."

Beavers took out a pad and clicked the top of a pen, preparing to write.

"No, no, don't get excited." I held up the palm of my hand. "Barry lives in Tel Aviv and is much older than this man seems to be. I haven't a clue who this is."

"I'll leave a copy with you anyway. Something might come to you later."

"So, are you investigating the theft after all?"

"Both. I'm still not convinced the theft was a random act apart from the murder. I'm looking for a connection."

"I agree." I told him about my visit to Siobhan and what Claire said about her quilts being her journals and how Siobhan wanted me to figure out the hidden messages in them. "I've only examined two, but I think Mrs. Terry may be right. I just have to figure out what the messages are."

"Do you mean she left notes in them?"

"That's what I thought at first, but there were no hidden written notes. I want you to see something." I went to one of the pillowcases and pulled out Mother's Asleep. I showed him the silver knots on the clouds and the teardrop beads. "This is symbolic for rainmaking."

Beavers looked skeptical. "How is that relevant?"

"Well, if you seed clouds with silver something-or-other, they start to rain."

Beavers looked impressed. "Silver iodide. So, what's the message?"

"If I can solve that one, maybe I can work out who the thief is."

"How?"

"I'm thinking maybe the thief stole Claire's quilt because he didn't want anyone to figure out what it could reveal."

Beavers ran his fingers through his gray hair. He looked tired.

I studied the wrinkles around his dark eyes and the way the skin of his eyelids drooped. Definitely the right age range. I snuck a look at his left hand. No ring.

"Sounds a little far-fetched to me."

"Your partner, Kaplan, definitely thought so, too. When Mrs. Terry tried to tell him about the messages, he blew her off."

"He never mentioned anything to me. I'm sure he didn't think it was worth pursuing."

"Neither does Will Terry. He doesn't want me to research this because he thinks his wife won't be able to stand the disappointment if I come up empty handed. Still, I don't think Siobhan Terry is deluded. If there are hidden stories in Claire's quilts, I'm determined to find them."

"Finding hidden messages is a long shot, but if what you say is true, you may be getting in over your head."

"Oh?"

"If the thief finds out you're poking around, you could be in danger." Beavers s.h.i.+fted, leaned forward, and looked me hard in the eyes. "This would be a good time to back away, Ms. Rose, and let the police handle this investigation."

I hated ultimatums, even from s.e.xy brown eyes. This was the second one thrown at me tonight by a man in charge. How many of these did I have to suffer in one day? "How many quilters do you have on the police force?"

"Huh?"

"Exactly. You don't have anyone who can do what I can. I know quilts, Detective."

"And I know thieves and murderers, Ms. Rose."

I was getting p.i.s.sed. "Well, if I run into any, I'll give you a call."

Beavers stood and looked at me. "Let's hope it won't be too late by then."

I thought I saw him looking at my bosom again. I hated when that happened. I stood and crossed my arms. Beavers towered over me by about ten inches so I craned my neck to look at him. "Detective! Were you just looking at my chest?"

He smiled. "No, but if I were, you couldn't blame me for admiring a flower in full bloom, Ms. Rose."

I desperately searched for a comeback. "I-I have thorns."

Beavers chuckled as he closed the door behind him.

I slumped against the door. Oh G.o.d, I'm an idiot. Thorns?

A bank of fog settled over my brain. I hit the familiar wall of fatigue and pain that happened so often when stressed. I wanted to look at the quilts, but my mind was beyond processing any more data. The clock read nine-thirty, and I headed toward bed. As excited as I was to have these wonderful quilts to study, they would just have to wait until morning.

I stepped into a steamy shower and let the jets of hot water coax my neck, shoulders, and back to relax a little, but my overall pain index was still high. In my grandmother's day, my condition might have been called rheumatism. Nowadays it was called fibromyalgia. My body was so sensitive, I could predict a rainstorm three days before, and the weather didn't have to be local. I could tell when it drizzled in Fresno two hundred miles away.

I toweled off, put on a clean pair of cotton jersey pajamas, and took a Soma. I nuked a long fabric tube filled with raw grains of rice and lavender buds in the microwave. Then I wrapped it around my neck and shoulders, breathing in the waves of lavender fragrance. The heat penetrated my muscles like honey on a waffle. I crawled into bed with my rice bag collar and almost immediately fell asleep.

MONDAY.

CHAPTER 10.

The persistent ringing of the phone woke me out of a deep sleep. The sun was up and the clock read eight. I'd slept almost eleven hours and felt much better. Most of the achiness was gone. I reached for the phone.

"So, tell me what happened."

"What?" I cleared my throat.

"With Claire's mother. What happened? I kept waiting for your call yesterday. I couldn't wait any longer. Did I wake you?"

"No problem." I yawned. "Listen, Lucy, I know it's only Monday, but are you free today? Can you get Birdie and come over? There's a lot to tell you, and I have some of Claire's quilts here."

"No way!"

"Just come over and I'll tell you everything."

An hour later we were eating pastries out of a pink box from Bea's Bakery and sipping fresh coffee in my living room. I told them Claire said her quilts were her journals and Siobhan asked me to search for the messages. I explained I'd searched Claire's house and found four quilts and Will Terry told me I could only keep them until Wednesday.

"Will you help me?"

"Does a chicken have lips?" Lucy joked. "I'm dying to see them."

"There's one more thing. Detective Beavers came over last night to show me the composite drawing of the thief, but I didn't recognize him."

Birdie sat up straighter. "Yes, he came over to my house yesterday afternoon. I didn't recognize him either."

"Neither did I." Lucy shook her head.

"I also told the detective about the possible messages in the quilts. At first he was skeptical and then he warned me to back off and leave the investigating to the police. Said poking around could be dangerous."