Stitches in Time (12 page)

“What?” Rachel's voice rose. “You're taking them?”

Tom looked at her in surprise. “They're stolen goods, Rachel. Evidence.”

“You can't be absolutely certain yet. The—niece?—hasn't even seen them.”

“Grand-niece. She's supposed to come in this afternoon to identify the objects.” Tom hesitated. “If you're going to go by the book, I suppose I could bring her here.”

“I'd prefer that. After all,” Rachel said, “Cheryl left me in charge. I'm responsible, and I don't think I'm being unreasonable to insist that we follow the rules.”

It sounded convincing, even to her.

Tom shrugged. “If that's how you want it…”

“What if this guy doesn't watch the news?” Adam asked. “Or draw the logical conclusions? Criminals are not, by definition, logical persons.”

“Obviously you should continue taking sensible precautions. Don't go out alone. Keep the house locked and the dogs inside at night. Don't open the door to strangers—any strangers, he could be wearing a disguise. Call if you see anything out of line, and if I'm not there tell them to contact me immediately. Okay?”

Rachel wondered if he knew that the precise instructions and the gravity of his voice negated his earlier reassurance. “Okay,” she said faintly.

“Don't worry, Rachel. This was a stupid, unnecessary crime but it means we'll be giving it top priority. We'll get him.”

Adam had been eating doughnuts, assisted by the dogs. He offered the plate to Tom, who shook his head. “I have to get back. Come and show me exactly where you found this, Dr. Nugent.” Wrapping a handkerchief around it, he dropped the knife into a plastic bag.

Uninvited, Rachel followed the men out onto the porch. I should sweep it, she thought, noting the smears of mud and dried grass. There was no danger of anyone slipping that morning; the cold snap had continued, and the ground looked hard as iron. She wrapped her arms around her shivering body.

“Go back in the house,” Tom said, without looking directly at her. He had dropped to one knee and was staring at the top step.

Rachel ignored the suggestion—or was it an order?—and moved closer.

The place wasn't hard to find. A straight, inch-long slit broke the surface of the wood, which was dulled by a patch of dried mud. Flaking paint outlined the edges of the cut.

Tom took a thin steel probe from his pocket and inserted it delicately into the gash. When he withdrew it, his thumb marking the depth, he let out a whistle. “At least three inches. The blade went straight through.”

“I had a hell of a time getting it out,” Adam said.

The implications weren't lost on Rachel. “He must be stronger than he looks.”

“Or very, very angry,” said Adam.

Tom stood up. The look he gave Adam was decidedly unfriendly. “Is that the kind of theorizing anthropologists are taught?”

“Just a suggestion,” Adam said meekly. “I was also going to mention—”

“Don't.” Tom glanced at Rachel. “You'll catch cold. Go inside.”

“Is that an order?”

“Just a suggestion.” He smiled.

“Good-bye, then. And thank you.”

“I'll let you know when to expect us. And don't worry.”

After she had closed the door Rachel stood watching through the glass panel. The conversation didn't last long. Tom appeared to be asking questions and cutting off Adam's expansive answers in mid-sentence. Then Tom started down the steps, giving the slit in the wood a wide berth, and Adam came in.

“I'm chilled to the bone,” he announced, with appropriate, exaggerated gestures. “Why anyone would choose to live in the so-called temperate zone—”

“What did he say?”

“Huh? Oh. Among other things, he wanted to know the address of the Esbat.”

“So you need an alibi?”

Hugging himself and shivering, Adam watched her lock the door. “Don't be dense. What kind of alibi would that be? Nothing happened until I got here.”

“Then why—”

“It's obvious, isn't it? He thinks I may have been the one who drove that knife into the step. I'm big enough and strong enough,” Adam said, without false modesty. “Unlike your burglar.”

“But why—”

“If you'll stop interrupting, I'll tell you. It's rather shrewd of him, in fact; he's got more imagination than your average cop. That patch of mud on the step could have been—most probably was—a footprint. The use of footprints in sympathetic magic is well documented; like a man's shadow or his name, they are extensions of his soul, and any harm done to the extension can—with the proper spells and rituals—be duplicated on his body. Stab a footprint, and you stab the man himself. It's common practice in—” He broke off, seeing Rachel's expression. “I guess you know that. Well, there I was last night, fraternizing with a bunch of people who call themselves witches. Who's to know I'm not a believer, instead of the detached observer I claim to be? I'm not, as it happens, and the group doesn't practice or approve of Black Magic, but Tom isn't familiar with the Wicca creed or with my personal beliefs. He's right to check it out.”

Rachel started to speak. Before she could get the first word out, Adam hurried on. “As for why I should do such an idiotic thing—that's what you were going to ask, wasn't it?—the police don't worry a lot about motive. They've seen too many people do too many bizarre things for inadequate or irrational reasons. Could be I resent your presence here, when I had expected to be alone—free to loot the place or throw wild parties or entertain the low-life of Leesburg. Could be I'm madly in love with Cheryl, and wildly jealous of Tony. Or vice versa.”

“Could be you're crazy.”

“That too. And don't forget the interesting fact that the dogs didn't bark till I showed up. I was here and so far there's no concrete evidence that anybody else was here. In short,” Adam said, looking idiotically pleased, “I am a logical suspect.”

“In short my foot,” Rachel snapped. “Did Tom tell you all that?”

“Of course not. You don't tell suspects you suspect them.”

“So he went off leaving me at the mercy of a demented witch?”

“Warlock,” Adam said. “Although some nonsexist groups do use the word
witch
for male and female participants. He's just considering all the possibilities, as is his duty. He doesn't really believe it.”

“Neither do I. And I don't believe the idea ever entered Tom's head! You're the one who has too much imagination. If you think you can scare me—”

“Scare you?” Adam's jaw dropped. “You're a sensible, adult female and a scholar; I assumed you'd see the flaws in that theory even if I hadn't pointed them out.”

Rachel didn't know whether to be furious or flattered. He hadn't spared her tender female feelings, any more than he would have minced words with another man. How could she complain about that?

“Forget it,” she said ungraciously. “Come out of the shop, I want to lock up. You don't see any of the cats, do you?”

“No.” He followed her toward the rear door. “I suggest we keep it locked and use the side door from now on. Is there any reason why you have to go into the shop for the next few days?”

“I guess not. The things I should be working on are in the workroom.”

“Which is where?”

“That door.” Rachel pointed, adding, “The one Figgin is staring at. I swear, that damned animal has learned how to teleport himself. I thought I shut him in the kitchen.”

“He materialized on my bed this morning.” Adam picked up the cat, which had been sitting absolutely still except for its twitching tail, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on
the workroom door. As soon as he lifted it, it began to kick and complain. Adam tightened his grip. “Cut it out, you monster. What does he want in there?”

“In,” Rachel said. “Just
in
. It's forbidden territory, like the shop. The animals could damage the garments, and there are some dangerous substances in the workroom.”

Adam opened the door of the family room and propelled a protesting Figgin through it. “Is the stolen merchandise in the workroom?”

“Yes.”

“Can I have a look?”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

There was no reason why he shouldn't. Rachel shrugged, opened the door, and turned on the light.

Adam stood in the doorway, his eyes moving around the room. “Quite an elaborate arrangement.”

“What did you expect?”

“A rocking chair and a sewing basket, I guess.” Adam grinned. “What's all this stuff for? And where are those dangerous chemicals you mentioned?”

Enjoying the opportunity to monopolize the conversation for once, Rachel unlocked the cupboard above the stainless steel sinks and gave him a brief lecture. “Even common household cleaning materials can be dangerous when taken internally or combined with other substances, and some of them, like dry-cleaning solvents, are highly flammable. There have been cases of fanatical housecleaners being knocked out by breathing a mixture of ammonia and bleach. The fumes are deadly.”

“You've got an outside vent and exhaust, I see.”

“Cheryl believes in being extra careful. That's why she keeps this cupboard locked, so the kids and the pets can't get into it. The vent also helps control the humidity. Mold and mildew can ruin a garment.”

“Very professional.” Adam picked up a can of insect spray. “Fleas?”

“No, moths and silverfish. Everything that comes in, especially from Kara's auctions and flea markets, is inspected and, if necessary, treated, before it's brought into the shop. The darned insects spread like crazy. Cheryl usually puts suspect garments into an airtight container with the insecticide, and leaves it for a couple of weeks. Don't touch that,” she added sharply, as Adam leaned over to inspect the quilt she had left spread across the table.

“Evidence?”

“It's one of the stolen pieces, yes. The others are here.”

She displayed them. Adam gave them only a cursory glance before returning to the table and the album quilt.

“I don't understand what all the fuss is about. They're just scraps of cloth. And this one is dirty. Except for…You cleaned this part?”

“Just brushed it.” She stood with hands tightly clasped, fighting the urge to pull him away.

“Just brushed it? I wish my laundry would respond so well to a simple brushing. Save me a bundle on laundromats and cleaning. It's kind of pretty, I guess—if you like pretty. But diamonds and rubies it ain't.”

“It's quite valuable.”

“I'll have to take your word for it. Well, how about lunch? I'll cook.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Spaghetti? I make a mean marinara sauce.”

She got him out of the room finally, and at once set to work. It was already after noon. She would have to hurry. Tom hadn't said when he expected to bring the murdered woman's niece to identify the quilts.

Later the phone rang. Rachel ignored it. A few minutes later Adam knocked at the door. “Cheryl wants to talk to you.”

Rachel had locked the door. She went on working. “I'm in the middle of something, I can't stop now. Tell her I'll call back.”

Adam went away. The phone rang again; with a murmured curse, Rachel unplugged it. She was working at top speed, with a recklessness Cheryl would have deplored, but without visible damage to the quilt. In her haste she didn't pause to examine the results of her labors, getting only hasty impressions of unusual and exquisite images—bluebirds nesting, a spray of roses, paired hearts pierced by an arrow feathered with stitches fine as hair…

 

Hair soft as yellow silk slipped through the bristles of the brush as it moved in rhythmic strokes. Her eyes were fixed on the mirror and on the other face it reflected
.

“
What else did you expect
?”
Her delicate, arched eyebrows rose in mocking inquiry
. “
Did you think I wouldn't put a stop to it
?”

“
A stop to…Then you knew
.”

“
Of course I did
.”
She sounded surprised, as if the answer should have been obvious
. “
I know everything that happens here. There was no reason for me to interfere then. After all, he wasn't the first, now was he
?”

“
You can't blame me for that! My Lord, I never wanted
—”

“
Blame
?”
Her laughter was light and indifferent
. “
Men have different needs. It was his right. But you wanted this, didn't you
?
You got what you wanted. Now I want it, and I don't share with anyone. Especially the likes of you
.”

 

Rachel hung the quilt over a drying rack and got out the camera—not the Polaroid Cheryl sometimes used, but the expensive thirty-five millimeter. After taking close-ups of each square in turn, she finished the roll with several over
all views. She took the film out and put it in her pocket before replacing it with an unused roll.

The feeling of frantic haste, as if some enemy were in hot pursuit and closing in, began to diminish, and her taut muscles relaxed, leaving her weak-kneed and exhausted. A wave of dizziness swept over her and her vision blurred. Blinking, she focused on the clock. Almost three o'clock! Where had the time gone?

Adam was in the family room. “You look sort of green
around the gills,” he remarked tactlessly. “Have something to eat before Kara and the fuzz get here.”

The words made no impression at first; she was too outraged at what she saw. Seated in front of her word processor, Adam was pounding energetically at the keyboard, using the clumsy-looking but effective four-fingered method of an amateur typist.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” she demanded.

“Writing a letter. I have to get it off right away and I haven't unpacked my stuff yet. I didn't think you'd mind…” His voice trailed off into silence as it dawned on him that she did mind. In a misguided attempt to improve matters he added, “I didn't look at any of your personal files, just your thesis notes. I think you may be onto something.”

“Do you?”

His smile faded. “What's the matter?”

“Does the word
private
mean anything to you?”

“Well, sure. I said, I didn't look at anything except your
notes. Where'd you get that stuff about coded messages in quilts? I ran into a similar case in Guatemala.”

“I thought you had been in…Never mind, I don't care where you've been.” Rachel looked over his shoulder. Adam obligingly leaned back so she could see the screen. “My dear Rosamund,” the letter began. “How are you? I am fine. The weather is cold. Snow is predicted for…”

“I haven't finished it,” Adam explained.

“So I see.” Yelling at him would have been as ineffectual as hitting a rock with a feather duster. Rosamund must be the girlfriend, question mark, Cheryl had mentioned. If that was the sort of letter he wrote the love of his life, it was no wonder he wasn't concerned about privacy.

“Did you say Kara is coming? Why didn't you tell me?”

“I just did.” Adam resumed typing.

“Before this. Why is she coming?”

“She wants to meet the grand-niece. Cheryl called her—Tom called her—everybody's been calling everybody,” he added. “Including you. You told me you were busy, so I didn't interrupt you.”

“Considerate of you.”

“I made a pot of coffee.”

“You didn't put the peanut butter away.” It was on the counter, open, with a knife protruding from it.

“I thought you might prefer it to spaghetti,” Adam said. “In view of the fact that there isn't time for a proper meal before our guests arrive.”

Rachel wasn't in the mood for spaghetti or peanut butter, but she decided she had better eat something, so she spread some of the latter on a piece of bread, folded it over, and leaned against the counter while she ate. His tongue protruding with the effort of composition, Adam rattled off a few more sentences, let out a long “whew” and punched the print key.

“That's that. Maybe I should run to the store and get some cookies for our company.”

“There's a bag of them in the cupboard.”

“Not anymore. I ate 'em.” He started to slip into his jacket.

“You said they'd be here any minute,” Rachel pointed out. “Besides, this isn't a social occasion.”

“Strictly speaking, that is correct, but even business meetings can be facilitated by a display of social—” The dogs began to bark and Adam said brightly, “Somebody's here.”

The new arrival was Kara. Shedding her coat, she tossed it carelessly over a chair and fixed Rachel with a cold stare. One of the cats headed for the trailing folds of mink and was about to claw them into a comfortable nest when Rachel rescued the coat.

“I'll hang it up.”

“It's not valuable,” Kara said. “I picked it up at an auction. Don't try to distract me, Rachel, I'm going to bawl you out. Why didn't you tell me?”

Rachel didn't ask what she meant. She had had time to reflect on her mistake, and wonder why on earth she hadn't reported immediately to Kara. As an employee, she had assumed a responsibility she had no right to assume. As a guest—an unwanted guest at that—she had been guilty of a breach of basic good manners. Since there was no reasonable excuse for her behavior, she remained silent.

“After all, I am one of the owners of this establishment,” Kara went on. “You ought to have contacted me and let me deal with the police. Your involvement in this very unpleasant situation is a direct consequence of your employment here, and although we may not be legally responsible for your safety, it is a matter of concern to us.”

She sounded more angry than concerned, and resent
ment replaced Rachel's feeling of guilt. “I'm sorry,” she said stiffly.

“She's been busy,” Adam said. “Want a cup of coffee?”

Kara turned her inimical stare on him. The look and the tapping foot would have cowed most people, but Adam, amiably unperturbed, went on, “I was going to get cookies, but Rachel said there wasn't time. How about cinnamon toast?”

Kara's lips relaxed into an unwilling smile. “For God's sake, Adam, this isn't a tea party. I should be yelling at you, too. Why didn't you…Oh, hell, what's the use? Put the damn coat down, Rachel, and relax. How much time have we got before Tom arrives?”

“None,” Adam said calmly as the dogs hurled themselves, howling, at the side door. Opening the door to the porch, he urged them out.

“Let me do the talking,” Kara said. Tucking a strand of hair back in place, she sat down in the rocking chair, crossed her legs, smoothed her skirt, and leaned back.

It was a calculated pose, designed to display not only cool self-possession but her well-cut skirt and raw silk blouse and understated jewelry—gold chains and bracelet, no rings except the wide gold band on her left hand. The contrast between her appearance and that of the woman who entered couldn't have been more emphatic if Kara had planned it. Maybe she had, Rachel thought in reluctant admiration.

Mrs. Wilson, like all women, knew that fine feathers increase confidence. Unfortunately her taste didn't match her instincts. She was short, only an inch or two taller than five feet, but the word
petite
didn't describe any of her measurements except her height. She had made the common error of buying clothes that were a size too small; the tight skirt hugged her thighs and the extravagantly ruffled red blouse clashed with her orange hair. She was wearing
too much jewelry—dangling earrings, a pearl choker, several gaudy rings.

Tom's face was particularly impassive. His dour expression brightened momentarily as he greeted Rachel but settled back into a frozen mask when he introduced Mrs. Wilson. It wasn't hard to deduce that she had been giving him a hard time.

Mrs. Wilson sat down, her skirt folding into horizontal pleats across her stomach, and looked at Kara. “You're the one who wants to buy—”

Smoothly Kara cut her off. “I'm so sorry about your aunt, Mrs. Wilson. Please accept my condolences.”

Thus reminded of her bereavement, Mrs. Wilson took out a handkerchief and raised it cautiously to her eyes. “It was a terrible shock. Poor Auntie Ora. If she'd been in a nursing home like she should of been this wouldn't have happened. I told her over and over she should sell that big old house. My boy Rocky would of helped her get moved, though it would of been a terrible job getting rid of all that junk she'd collected over the years. We could have had a real nice auction.” She glared at Tom. “Now he tells me we can't have her things back. That's not right. What kind of country is this when the police can take a person's property?”

“I've explained that, Mrs. Wilson,” Tom said wearily. “You—if you are the heir—will get the quilts back as soon as possible. They are evidence.”

“Yeah, and what about the TV and the other things? You never found those.”

Kara had been listening with a faint smile. Now she said, “What else was taken?”

“Not much,” Tom answered. “The television set was the only modern appliance. She didn't have a stereo or CD player, just a radio, and her jewelry was in a safe deposit box. A few pieces of furniture and bric-a-brac appear to be
missing. We haven't located them yet, but we've put out a description.”

“They was valuable antiques,” Mrs. Wilson interrupted. “That old radio cabinet—”

“We're working on that, Mrs. Wilson.” Tom looked at his watch. “I don't want to take up any more of your time or Mrs. Brinckley's. If you'll make a formal identification of the quilts I'll take them with me.”

“Certainly.” Kara responded as if the speech had been addressed to her. “They're in the workshop. This way.”

She led the way to the door, her heels clicking decisively. The others trailed after her, including Adam, who brought up the rear. Rachel started to close the door and heard Kara say sharply, “Grab him, Adam, and put him back in the kitchen.”

“Him” was Figgin, of course. Cursing and squirming, he was reimprisoned, and after making certain the kitchen door was shut tight, Rachel followed Adam to the workroom.

Tom had taken the carton from the cupboard. Rachel stared blankly at it. She couldn't remember folding and repacking the quilts after she had showed them to Adam. She must have done so; the table and racks were bare.

“Let me do that,” she said, as Kara reached for the first neatly wrapped bundle. “You'll get dirty.”

The tissue came away to display the Carolina Rose quilt. Rachel spread it out across the table and Mrs. Wilson pounced. “That's hers. That's Auntie's.” Her long, scarlet nail picked at one of the patches. “It's tore. It was perfect before.”

“Before what?” Kara inquired coldly. “I noticed that rent when I first examined the quilt. The fabric must have caught on something—a pin or a nail—during the robbery.”

Mrs. Wilson gave her a shrewd glance and realized that
the trick wasn't going to work. “I'm sure you took good care of it,” she said in a syrupy voice.

Tom had taken out a list and a pencil. “Okay, that's one. Next, please.”

Mrs. Wilson identified the white quilt as another of Auntie's treasures. The album quilt was the last. Rachel didn't stop to wonder why it was at the bottom of the box. She was anticipating a reprimand, or at least a question; if Mrs. Wilson didn't notice that the quilt had been cleaned, Kara certainly would. I'll say Cheryl told me to, Rachel thought. Cheryl had authorized it. Not in so many words, maybe, but…

Pencil poised, Tom said, “Well, Mrs. Wilson?”

The woman was slow to answer, and Rachel held her breath. Finally Mrs. Wilson muttered, “That has to be one of hers. It looks different….”

“Yes or no?” Tom demanded.

“Yes.” Mrs. Wilson smiled like a shark at Kara. “Beautiful, isn't it?”

Even Rachel recognized the gambit. Kara, who had been hardened by innumerable encounters with prospective sellers, braced herself for combat.

“Badly faded,” she drawled. “A pity; it would be worth money if it were in good condition. She must have stored it in a hot attic or a damp basement. Look at the mold.”

“That's not mold, just dust,” Mrs. Wilson retorted.

Whatever it was, it was there—not as heavy as the film Rachel had removed only a few hours earlier, but the same dulling gray.

“You can wrap them up again,” Tom said, tucking the list into his pocket. “Rachel?”

“What? Oh. Yes, of course.” She waved aside Adam's offer of help and began folding the album quilt. How strange and how infuriating, the return of the dulling film. It must be seeping out to the surface from the filling, cot
ton batting permeated with decades of dust. Obviously more intensive cleaning than simple brushing would be required. The hand vacuum, or…

The mercantile duel between Kara and Mrs. Wilson was interrupted by Tom. “You ladies can make any arrangements you want, but you'll have to do it on your own time. I suggest you consult your lawyer, Mrs. Wilson; he can tell you how long it will be before you can dispose of your aunt's property.”

“Quite right,” Kara said.

“But you are interested?”

“I might be. At the proper time and under the proper conditions.”

“I'll bet other people would be interested, too,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Those quilts are famous. One of them was in a book. A lady came around to see them one time, and she put one of them in a book.”

“Really.” Kara's polite indifference parried that thrust. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Wilson. Let me know what you decide.”

After Tom had removed Mrs. Wilson and the quilts, Kara dropped into the rocking chair and kicked off her shoes. “You did a nice job on the album quilt, Rachel.”

“I just brushed it.”

“So I assumed. You didn't get all the dirt out, but you were wise not to tackle anything more extensive. It will require careful handling. It is gorgeous, though.”

“Are you going to buy it?” Rachel asked.

“I think so.” Kara accepted a triangle of toast, thickly spread with melted butter and cinnamon sugar, from Adam. “She'll try to hold me up for an outlandish price, but I can deal with her. I know the type.”

“She isn't a very nice woman,” Rachel said.

“She's a greedy, crude, selfish woman,” Kara corrected. “Who won't shed a tear over poor old Auntie. She's proba
bly had her eye on those quilts ever since Miss Ora told her about the lady and the book and how valuable they were. I won't get any bargains.” She dusted off her hands and reached for another piece of toast. “But we can make a reasonable profit on the deal, I think. That album quilt is really quite remarkable. I wish I'd had a chance to examine it more closely. Cheryl should have photographed it.”

The roll of film in Rachel's pocket weighed like lead. She concentrated on eating cinnamon toast.

“I'll make some more toast,” Adam said, pleased at how well his offering had been received.

“Not for me, I've got to be on my way.” Kara slid her feet into her shoes. “That hit the spot, Adam; I can't remember when I last had cinnamon toast. Where'd you put my coat, Rachel?”