Quilt As Desired (26 page)

His voice trailed off, and his eyes filled with tears. Harriet took the framed picture he had been holding from his hand, put it in the box and shut the car door.

"I think Randy's ready now,” she said and took his hand.

She led him away from the car toward the edge of the woods. Randy was sniffing and pawing at the ground. When she saw Aiden moving toward her, she ran to him and danced around his feet, wagging her curved tail. He bent down, and she rapidly licked his face, wiping away the tears that had threatened to spill down his cheeks. He smiled and ruffled the hair on the dog's head.

"Let's follow this path down to the water. The founding fathers decided Foggy Point's beaches should have a buffer from civilization, so they created a long narrow green space that runs from Smugglers Cove all the way to the Point. We can connect up to a trail that goes to my mom's house."

"How do you know so much about the secret paths around here?” Harriet asked, hoping to distract him.

"Four years of running cross-country at Foggy Point High School. I think we ran every road, trail or animal path on this peninsula. It comes in handy now. There are short cuts through almost every neighborhood if you just know where to look."

Given recent events, she didn't find that fact very comforting.

"Follow me,” Aiden said and headed down the path, Randy hot on his heels.

They'd gone less than a thousand feet when the woods thinned out and the path joined the trail that circled the end of the peninsula. Harriet could now see the water. Randy ran through the remaining brush to the water's edge. In this area, there wasn't anything you could call a beach. A weedy area led to a strip of round rock that led directly into the saltwater of the lagoon.

They stood and watched Randy as she dashed into the water and out again, barking and biting mouthfuls of the salty liquid.

"Has anyone asked you about your mom's show quilt?” Harriet asked.

"Wanting to buy it, maybe? Not a one. Why?” he asked.

"Just a theory the group came up with.” She explained about the duplicate backing fabric. “So, it's possible that even though it was Lauren's that got destroyed, someone who wasn't familiar with the front image on your mother's could have confused the two."

He looked at her, his nearly white eyes wide. “That's it? That's the big revelation? Whether it's my mom's or Lauren's, what's so important about any quilt that someone would repeatedly break into your house to get at it and destroy it?"

"We haven't figured out that part yet, but I think it's significant that it could have been your mother's someone was after, given what happened."

"Is it worth a lot of money or something? I hate to admit it, but I'm totally clueless when it comes to quilts. I know Mom always won prizes, and a couple of hers appeared in people's books as examples of their style after she took classes or workshops."

"Her work is valuable, but if that were the reason someone was after it, it seems like they would have taken the ones out of your house. Aunt Beth said a couple of her quilts won awards at the International Quilt Festival in Houston. Those would be worth more than the one that's being shown now, just because they've already got a history."

"You know, now that you mention it, I can't say if Mom's other quilts are still at the house or not. Each of us kids has the ones she gave us, but the rest are in one of the bedrooms. She has them in these glass cabinet things that have little wooden closet poles to hang them on. Maybe we should go have a look. If we follow this trail for another mile, it will go right by the yard."

"I wonder if she's ever had them appraised,” Harriet said and fell in step behind him as the gravel path narrowed.

"Do people do that? I mean, when they're alive? Are they worth that much?"

"Quilts can vary, but I wouldn't be surprised if your mom's were valued in the fifteen hundred to two thousand dollar range. The ones that won national awards could be higher than that. It's none of my business, but you should check about the appraisals before your sister sells any of them at the estate sale. I'd hate to see her give them away."

Aiden was silent. The trail turned away from the shore and wound back into the woods as it climbed. She had to concentrate on the path in front of her to avoid slipping on the damp rocks. There was a brief break in the trees, and she could see the water well below them now.

"Are you doing okay?” Aiden asked as he stopped, causing her to bump into his back.

"I was until you stopped without warning,” she said. “My head is pounding a little as we're climbing, but I think that has more to do with my lack of conditioning than the bump."

"We're almost to the path that leads into my mom's property,” he said and pulled her into his arms. Randy pushed between their legs. He reached down and rubbed the dog's furry head.

"You're still my favorite girl,” he said to the dog and then straightened. “I want to apologize in advance for my sister."

"She does seem to dislike me."

"It's not you,” he said, but Harriet was pretty sure it was a lie. “She doesn't really like anyone but herself and her demon offspring. But what she thinks doesn't matter. I like you, and that's what counts. Remember that, okay? No matter what she says."

Harriet had a feeling Michelle disliked any female Aiden showed the slightest interest in, including Randy. Anyone or anything that took his attention away from her was the enemy.

"Okay,” she agreed.

They continued on the peninsula trail for another ten minutes then followed a path deeper into the woods. In another few minutes, the trees thinned and the underbrush began to look more purposeful. They passed a wooden bench hidden in a leafy glen.

"We're almost to the house,” Aiden said just before they came out of the woods onto a broad grassy slope. They ascended the slope and then followed a stone walkway through a grove of mature rhododendrons. Another grassy area led up to the back of the garage.

He led her around the former stables and to the back door of the house.

Avanell's kitchen looked very different from the last time Harriet had passed through it. The contents of cabinets and drawers were on the countertops, orange tags attached to every item. The table in the breakfast room was covered in lead crystal glasses, pitchers and serving bowls. Bundles of silverware were tied with string in what looked like sets of six place settings. A grey-haired woman in a long-sleeved floral dress came into the kitchen.

"The pre-sale viewing doesn't start until tomorrow morning at seven,” she said.

"Who are you?” Aiden asked.

"I'm the estate sale manager,” the woman said. Her spine visibly stiffened.

"I'm Aiden Jalbert. This is my mother's house."

"I see,” the woman said. “I understood your sister was the sole family member involved in the sale. She's upstairs, on the third floor. Will you be staying?"

"Only long enough to speak to my sister.” He picked up a mug with the Seattle Mariners logo on its side. He peeled the orange sticker off and stuck it to the tabletop.

"I would encourage you not to move things. I've already arranged them for the liquidation."

"My Mariners mug is not for sale,” Aiden said, and strode from the room.

Harriet had to hurry to follow as he stormed to the servant's staircase. He took the steps two at a time until he reached the third floor.

"Michelle!” he yelled.

"Stop shouting,” she answered. “I'm in here."

He went through the open door of his mother's tower office. He held out his mug.

"You were going to sell my Mariners mug?” he said in a cold voice.

"This house doesn't run itself. It takes money—lots of it. We need to get as much money as we can as quickly as we can. And if that means selling your Mariners cup, so be it. It would take someone months to sort through every little thing just to find a few sentimental trinkets. Who's going to pay for that?"

"We could get a loan to pay a few months’ expenses. I don't understand why you're in such a rush."

"That's because you're an idiot,” Michelle said. “I've told you every way I know how. I have no money. My credit is maxed. I can't get a loan. Uncle Bertie isn't in any better shape, and whatever resources he has he's using to keep the business going. Marcel doesn't want to be involved. You aren't working yet. Someone has to take charge. Why should we pay who knows how many months’ worth of utilities if we're just going to sell it anyway? It'll be better this way. We'll just get it over with then we can all move on."

"What about Mom's quilts?” Aiden asked.

"What about them?"

Aiden looked at Harriet as he spoke to Michelle. “Have you had them appraised? Do you even know how much they're worth?"

"I know how much bedding costs. The estate sale woman asked me to price them and I did."

"Did your mother specify any special bequests regarding the quilts in her will?” Harriet asked.

Michelle whirled around to face her. “That's really none of your business. What are you doing here, anyway? The sale isn't until tomorrow."

"She's with me,” Aiden said and stepped closer to her.

"A little long in the tooth for you, isn't she?” Michelle sneered and arched a brow.

Harriet felt her face burn. She bit her tongue but remained silent.

"What about Mom's will? Did she say what she wanted to happen with the quilts?"

"Not really.” Michelle looked away. “She said to use our best judgment."

Aiden stopped. “I know I'm not the executor of Mom's estate, but aren't we supposed to have a group reading of the will at the lawyer's office?"

"You watch too much television."

"I want to see the quilts,” Aiden said. “Where are they?"

Michelle glared at her brother, and Harriet thought she wasn't going to answer.

"They're in the blue bedroom."

"Come on,” Aiden said and took Harriet's hand. He led her to the main staircase and down to the second floor to a blue-walled room.

Show-quality quilts were stacked on the bed, folded on the dresser and draped over a small green upholstered chair and its matching ottoman. They varied in size from queen-size to lap quilts. Several still had their winning ribbons attached. Harriet picked up the corner of a large appliqued one. Purple Celtic knots made from narrow bias-cut fabric twined around a golden-yellow border fabric. The center medallion pattern resembled a Persian rug. The rich green, purple, red and blue fabrics Avanell had appliqued on the gold background appeared to be hand-dyed. Small perfectly round circles of fabric had been placed in various geometric shapes. Harriet preferred piecing to applique in her own work, but knew her preference had more to do with her lack of applique skill than anything else. It took a lot of patience to make the necessary tiny invisible stitches, and patience wasn't a trait she possessed in great quantity.

She flipped the corner of the quilt back to expose the next one in the stack. Red, yellow and green tobacco roses were stitched onto cream background blocks. The applique blocks were set on point and alternated with ecru-colored blocks. Harriet recognized the style from a book her aunt had on Civil War quilts. A paper tag was attached to the corner of the quilt with a small strip of plastic that had been punched through the fabric. Two hundred-fifty dollars, the tag read.

"This is a travesty,” Harriet said.

"What?” Aiden crossed the room to stand behind her. She could feel the heat of his body through the thickness of her sweatshirt. She had to remind herself to think about the quilt.

"This quilt is priced ridiculously low.” She flipped through the rest of the stack, turning the tags and looking at each in turn. “You couldn't buy the fabric for most of these for the prices they've put on them. I'll bet you anything the estate sale manager knows that, too. She probably has a shill or two who will show up first thing tomorrow to snap these up. Then she'll take them out of the area and resell them at their true value for a tidy profit."

"You're sure about the values?"

"Oh, please. I'm in the business. Believe me—these prices won't even cover what Aunt Beth charged to machine stitch them."

"Really.” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the three-digit information code. “Nathan Bohne, please.” He paused then hung up and dialed again. He must have been gotten an assistant, judging by his rather firm insistence that he needed to speak to Mr. Bohne now and he would hold while she interrupted him. After another pause for the man to come on the line, he proceeded to explain the basic situation.

He inquired about Avanell's will, and she saw his jaw tighten as he listened silently—the man's voice was loud enough she could hear it. She couldn't make out everything that was being said, but she did grasp that he said the sale should be stopped and that he would call Michelle and inform her to cease immediately.

Aiden snapped his phone shut. “That was weird."

"What did he say?"

"It's more what he didn't say. He said to stop the sale. He said that he is the executor of Mom's estate. Besides the executor, she apparently made a change to her will a few months ago as well. He wants me to come down to his office now—and Michelle, too. He said he'd been planning to call a meeting next week to read the will, but since Michelle was so intent on taking action, he would move it up and talk to us individually if that's what it took."

"Did he give any hint as to what the changes to the will were?"

"No, he didn't. Knowing my mom, she could have decided to give her house or money or even everything she had to her scholarship fund. She was determined that every child who wanted to attend college and had worked hard in high school should have a scholarship. She donated money herself, but she also was a master at getting donations from both individuals and business people. You can bet that anybody who ever made it big in any venue after leaving Foggy Point heard from my mother."

"She was an amazing woman,” Harriet said.

"You want to ride along to the attorney's office? We can take one of the cars from the garage so we don't have to walk back to the cottage first."