The Alpine Quilt (21 page)

“Of course not,” I shot back. “The only way I’d print any of this is if it had a direct bearing on who killed Genevieve.”

“Rot.” Roseanna swung her head around to look up at Buddy. “I’m beginning to feel persecuted.”

Buddy didn’t say anything, but the beleaguered expression he wore spoke volumes.

I stood up. “I should be heading home. I went straight to the office from church.”

Buddy pointed to the bound volume that now lay on the floor. “To look up that old crap?”

I was the one who now felt defensive. “Aren’t you interested in who killed your mother? Don’t you want to know if you have a half brother?” I pointed my toe at the old newspapers. “I look for answers everywhere. You’d be surprised how many of them come from the past, especially in a small town where things don’t change very swiftly.”

“I still say Ma’s death was a fluke,” Buddy declared, rising from the recliner but keeping Roseanna’s hand in his. “Come on, Emma. Why do people kill other people? For gain or for love, right?”

“True, but—”

Buddy interrupted me. “According to the lawyer, Mr. Vaughn, Ma’s estate is worth—we guessed—more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That’s mainly for the condo, which was paid off a few years back. She had about four thousand dollars in savings, plus a fifty-grand IRA. It’s enough to put the kids through college.”

I didn’t respond. Collecting the newspaper volume, I started for the door.

“I don’t intend to share,” Buddy huffed as both he and Roseanna followed me. “If this character who claims he’s Ma’s son ever shows up again, he’ll have to prove it. Frankly, I think he’s a crook. As the sole heir, I don’t have to pay inheritance tax, because the estate’s less than seven hundred thousand. That’s the law.”

Even as I turned the doorknob, Buddy continued his diatribe. “So if people don’t kill for money, it’s for love. I don’t think Ma had a guy hanging around for the last five years. Good God, she was close to seventy. And who in Alpine would consider her a rival? Mary Lou Blatt? Darlene Adcock? Annie Jeanne? Come on, Emma, you’re just looking for headlines.”

On that contentious note, I headed for my car.

But I still felt sorry for Buddy.

Instead of going home, I went back to St. Mildred’s. Ben was on the playfield, teaching some of the parochial school students how to make free throws. Judging from the sweat that trickled down his reddened face, this was not a day of rest for my brother.

“Want to play?” he called to me.

“No, thanks,” I shouted. “Can you still dunk like you did at Blanchet High?”

“Sure, if I have a ladder,” Ben replied, tossing the ball to a redheaded boy of twelve. “Are you in need of spiritual guidance?”

“Some kind of guidance,” I admitted. “Can I pull you from the game?”

Ben waved at the half-dozen kids who were passing the ball around the top of the key. “Later, fellas,” he called. “Keep practicing. Focus, relax at the line.”

We went into the rectory, which felt uncommonly warm. “Is this the tropics?” I asked.

“Damn,” Ben breathed. “Annie Jeanne’s turned the heat up again. She’s always cold. No body fat. Let me adjust the thermostat.”

I followed him down the hall where the control panel was located just outside the pastor’s study.

“Eighty-eight?” I said, leaning over his shoulder to look at the current setting. “I may pass out.”

Ben led the way into the study. “I’m already hot as a fresh tamale. You want something to drink?”

“What’ve you got?”

“Beer,” he said, turning to a small refrigerator in back of his desk. “Dennis Kelly kept chocolate in there. He swears it tastes better cold. I’ve got beer and bottled water and some diet pop. What’ll you have?”

I grimaced. “I don’t drink diet, I prefer water out of Burl Creek, and you know I’m no beer lover. But I’ll drink one anyway. I feel as if I’ve put in a long day already.”

“Who hasn’t?” Ben retorted, taking two cans of Bud Light out of the little fridge. “I’ve got two Eucharist ministers down with flu, so I had to bring Holy Communion to the nursing home after Mass. Tonight I’m going to Monroe to say the five o’clock at St. Mary of the Valley. Their regular priest is out of town.”

I was only beginning to realize the responsibilities that Ben had taken on in Alpine. Sunday was not a day of rest, nor were the other days of the week. I hated to burden him with my problems, but if he was a priest forever in the order of Melchizedek, he was also forever my brother.

So I unloaded. Ben listened patiently, sipping beer and occasionally frowning. Unlike Milo and the Bayards, he took me seriously.

“I’m not sure if I’ve got all this straight,” Ben said when I’d finished. “You’re trying to tie in a thirty-year-old accident with Genevieve’s poisoning. It’s a stretch. But life’s a tapestry, with threads appearing and reappearing over the years.”

“In this case,” I put in, “it’s more like a quilt. A crazy quilt.”

“Exactly.” He frowned again. “So what did Gen do with all the money she made off those quilts?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” I responded, shifting in my chair as the afternoon sun came through the window. “Even if she could make two or three a year, she should have had more than four grand in her savings account. Buddy and Roseanna never mentioned her being a lavish spender. Furthermore, she bought a relatively inexpensive condo back when prices were really low in Spokane.”

“The other son,” Ben said.

I stared at him. “You mean she supported him?”

My brother shrugged. “Why—if he is her son—does he keep such a low profile? That suggests something shady. Maybe Gen spent money on lawyers and bail bondsmen.”

“That’s possible,” I allowed. “I hope Milo gets some information back from Sacramento tomorrow.”

“Are you thinking this Knuler character may have offed his mother for money?” Ben asked.

“Considering the modest size of her estate and the fact he’d only get half of it,” I replied, “I’d think she’d be worth more to him alive than dead. She might have been his cash cow with those quilts of hers. Besides, it appears he didn’t arrive in Alpine until after Gen died. I don’t see how he could have done it—unless he got here Monday and spent the night in his car. It seems unlikely that he was the one who sneaked into the rectory kitchen and doctored the cheesecake.”

“Somebody did,” Ben pointed out. “What if Gen had decided to cut him off? There’s a motive.”

I sighed. “A motive,” I repeated. “Any motive I can think of is weak. Buddy and Roseanna could have killed Gen for the same reason. None of it makes sense. If only I could speak freely to Vida . . .”

Ben leaned back in his chair. “There’s the rub.” He spoke softly and looked at me with steady brown eyes.

I shifted my gaze to a fat robin on the windowsill. “I know,” I murmured. “Am I steering clear of the obvious?”

“Maybe,” Ben allowed. “It’s unthinkable, of course. It’s also unavoidable.”

Sadly, I nodded. “Vida hated Gen. She suspected Ernest of being unfaithful with the woman. She may even have blamed Gen in some weird way for the accident. Gen’s ex-husband egging Ernest on, perhaps even causing the disaster—or intentionally making it happen. But,” I continued, raising my voice a bit, “even if Vida has the best motive, she wouldn’t have done such a thing. Besides, she didn’t get back to Alpine until after Gen died.”

“Vida’s hardly the homicidal type,” Ben noted. “Though I understand your reluctance to bring up such a touchy subject with her.”

The robin was pecking diligently at something in the windowsill’s wood. “I’d never consider Vida a suspect,” I stated firmly. All the same, I suppressed a shudder as I recalled the near glee that Vida had exhibited when her old enemy, Thyra Rasmussen, had dropped dead in the
Advocate
’s newsroom. I put both elbows on Ben’s desk and propped up my chin. I was still eyeing the busy robin; the bird eyed me back.

“Damn!” I exclaimed, my head jerking up.

Ben gave me a startled look. “What?”

I was utterly dismayed. “Vida
did
get home before Gen died.” The words dropped like lead.

Ben scowled. “What’re you talking about?”

I pulled and fretted my shaggy brown hair. “She told me she got back late, but she didn’t.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It was the bird,” I said, pointing toward the window. “Somebody—maybe it was Vida or possibly Bill Blatt—mentioned that Buck forgot to cover Cupcake that Monday, but Vida returned before dark to keep the canary from having a conniption fit.”

Ben looked thoughtful. “In other words, Vida doesn’t have an alibi for the time frame when the glipizide was put into the cheesecake.”

“It’s too stupid,” I declared. “But why would she fib about her return?”

Ben shrugged, but said nothing.

I looked out the window again. The robin was gone. I’d probably scared it with my loud exclamation and frantic gestures.

God knows, I’d certainly scared myself.

TWENTY

Ben and I tossed ideas and theories around for almost an hour. On the surface, we didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. But my brain was stirring in some distant place I couldn’t quite bring into focus. Or maybe I didn’t want to. Vida still was the key. I was sure of that much. The problem was how to approach her.

But first, I felt I should say hello to Annie Jeanne.

She was sitting up on the bed, huddled under a quilt—presumably made by Gen Bayard. She seemed glad to see me. “Sit in the rocker, Emma dear,” she said. “It seems so cold today. I was making notes on organ music for Advent, but my fingers got so stiff I had to quit. Do you think we’ll have frost tomorrow?”

“It’s that time of year,” I allowed, lowering myself into the old rather spindly rocker. “Usually, we have frost by the end of October.”

“Yes—’the frost is on the pumpkin’ and so forth.” She smiled and chafed her hands.

“I was glad to see you in church,” I said. “You must feel better.”

“I do.” Annie Jeanne pulled the quilt closer. “I’m just cold. But I’m trying to put Gen’s death into perspective. I know she’s at peace with the Lord. Father Ben assures me that’s so.” Her eyes, which had misted a bit, roamed over the different quilt pieces. “This is a crazy quilt Gen made for me. See, she’s used fabrics that symbolize our friendship.”

I got up from the rocker and went over to the bed. Sure enough, there were patches with a schoolhouse, a church, mountains, trees, waterfalls, and even a small town scene.

“So clever, don’t you think?” Annie Jeanne remarked. “She sent this to me for my birthday two years ago.”

“She must have spent a lot of time going through fabrics,” I noted. “Some of these almost look like photographs.”

Annie Jeanne giggled. “They are! I don’t know a single thing about computers, but Gen told me that if you manage them properly, you can learn all kinds of craft tricks. What she did was to take some of her own pictures and transfer them to plain fabric. Then she’d work them into the quilt. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Yes, it is.” I sat down next to Annie Jeanne and peered more closely at the different pieces. “I’m farsighted,” I confessed. “I think I’m about ready for glasses.”

“You’d look nice in glasses,” Annie Jeanne said. “Brown frames, to set off your pretty brown eyes.”

I nodded, but was more intrigued by the quilt than improving myself. “Why, this is a photo of Alpine. When was it taken?”

Annie Jeanne tapped the small-town fabric. “Before Gen moved away. It’s Front Street at Christmas. See the decorations?”

The view included the courthouse, the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre, and even the
Advocate
office. There were some cars, too, though they were too small to discern the models’ age. Some of the holiday décor looked familiar. It had been only five or six years since Mayor Fuzzy Baugh had been coaxed into spending a small portion of the city’s budget for total replacements.

“The quilt has a theme,” Annie Jeanne pointed out. “See in each corner? There’s an initial for each of us. The
A
and the
G
in the upper and lower left-hand corners stand for Amity, or friendship, and Giggles—for all the fun we had. Every piece in that half of the quilt has some reference to the two of us, growing up together—the church, the school, Old Mill Park, and so on. The
J
and the
H
—her middle name was Helene—on the other side represent Joy and Happiness. Or Health. I forget. Maybe both.”

There were only two photo transfers on the right half of the quilt. One was of a church organ, right under the
J
for Jeanne. The other was at the bottom, just above the
H
for Helene. It was of a bridge with a waterfall in the foreground. I couldn’t help but shiver as recognition dawned. The landscape looked like Deception Falls.

“You see?” Annie Jeanne said with a gentle poke in my upper arm. “You’re cold, too. I think your brother likes to suffer. Offering it up, no doubt, for the poor souls in purgatory.”

I ignored the comment. “That’s Deception Falls, isn’t it?” I said, pointing to the panel above the
H.
“Why is that special?”

Annie Jeanne frowned, but quickly brightened. “Picnics,” she said. “Yes, of course. That must be it. We used to have picnic lunches there.”

The hesitation in Annie Jeanne’s response made me wonder. There definitely was a picnic area just off the highway by the falls. I’d gone there myself. It might even be true that Annie Jeanne and Gen had picnicked there. But Annie Jeanne hadn’t needed to think about the other patches. I had an uneasy feeling that Deception Falls might be included for a different reason. That piece of fabric wasn’t on the friendship half of the quilt, but under Joy and Happiness. Whose happiness? I didn’t know how quilts were put together, but it appeared to be the last piece, way down in the corner above the
H
for Helene.

A very strange idea was forming at the back of my brain.

“Gen must have worked on this for a long time,” I noted.

Annie Jeanne nodded with vigor. “My, yes. Ages, it took her. That’s why I only got it two years ago. She worked on it in her leisure hours. As she told me, it was a labor of love.”

I moved away from the bed. Gen’s concept was charming, her execution was clever, and her workmanship was flawless. But for some reason, I wanted to distance myself from that quilt. There was a sinister quality about Gen’s handiwork, though I could only begin to guess what it was.

“I should go now,” I said. “I don’t want to tire you out.”

“Oh, I’m feeling much stronger,” Annie Jeanne assured me. “And,” she added with a big smile, “I enjoy the company. Mary Jane Bourgette and Betsy O’Toole are coming again tomorrow and Tuesday, but after that, your dear brother and I will be on our own.”

Only a slight frown indicated that the prospect upset her. Or perhaps she was hinting that I should take over where Mary Jane and Betsy were leaving off. I didn’t volunteer, however. It’d do Annie Jeanne good to get back into her old routine.

Ben was on the phone when I paused by his office. He pointed to the receiver, mouthed “blah-blah-blah,” and waved me off.

I sat in the Honda for two or three minutes before deciding what to do next. If only I could fast-forward the digital clock on the dashboard and make it indicate tomorrow morning. I felt thwarted by weekend closures in high places, particularly Sacramento where questions about Tony Knuler might still be answered.

Finally, I drove out of the parking lot and started up Fourth Street. My intention was to turn left on Tyee and head for Vida’s. But when I got to the intersection, my nerve failed me. I kept going up the mountainside to Fir and my little log house.

I had a limited choice of activities at home. The TV was gone; so was the stereo system and my laptop. Reduced to the Stone Age, I decided to clean Adam’s room, including the closet. I’d resisted throwing out any of his belongings after he moved away to college. But nearly fifteen years had passed: Adam wasn’t coming back home. In fact, he’d e-mailed me Friday from his frozen Alaskan outpost to say that maybe it’d be more convenient if he stayed at the rectory with Ben during the Christmas holiday. I’d fired off a responding e-mail, telling him that if he didn’t stay with his dear old mother, I’d start nasty rumors about him and a saucy walrus named Tina Marie. My son had knuckled under.

After ten minutes, I’d managed to get rid of eleven worn crew socks, four ragged sweatshirts, and a pile of underwear so old that one pair of shorts was decorated with Darth Vader.

But housework wasn’t distracting me from my obsession. Standing up from a crouching position by the closet, I vowed to confront Vida. I could do nothing else except drive myself crazy.

The phone rang as I was hauling the garbage bag out of Adam’s room. Maybe it was Vida. I grabbed the receiver off the end table next to the sofa.

“Hi, Dreamboat,” said Rolf Fisher. “I take it our love hasn’t sunk yet. Or did we pass like ships in the night?”

It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought of Rolf or had forgotten his kiss. But I’d been so caught up in the mystery of Gen’s death that he’d slipped slightly under my radar screen. Or maybe I really was trying to forget about the spark he’d ignited. It’d be safer that way.

“Oh, Rolf!” I cried, and uncharacteristically burst into tears.

“Hey—what’s wrong?” He sounded justifiably startled. “Are you missing me that much?”

Maybe I was. I fought for control. “It’s . . . this . . . damned murder,” I blubbered. “It’s . . . taking me in a . . . direction I don’t . . . want to go.” Snorting and sniffling, I paused to blow my nose. So much for the glamorous outfit that had put me in deep debt. I sounded like a sick rhinoceros. My image was sorely damaged.

“Do you want me to drive up?”

I sighed. “Oh—no, of course not.” Snort, sniffle, squeak. “The afternoon’s moving along.” Clearing of throat, another blast into the Kleenex. “We both have to work tomorrow. I’ll be okay. Really. I’m just tired and frustrated.”

I’d expected a provocative comeback, but Rolf was serious. “I get the impression your sources are unavailable on a Sunday. I also infer that you suspect someone you don’t want to be the killer.”

“Not really,” I said, at my most piteous. “It’s that I don’t want to hurt or upset the person who knows the most about . . . certain events which may or may not lead to finding out who killed Genevieve Bayard.”

“And that would be . . . ?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but abruptly shut it again.

Rolf waited. When I didn’t say anything, he spoke again. “Your House & Home editor, the redoubtable Vida Runkel. Am I right?”

Hearing Rolf say her name out loud unsettled me. “I don’t suspect her of killing anyone,” I said staunchly. “It’s the background I’m trying to figure out. Only Vida may know the truth, but I’m afraid . . . Oh, why burden you with this? It’s small-town stuff. Stick to your international hot spots and Beltway shenanigans.”

“I think I mentioned that my beat is the Puget Sound basin,” Rolf said in a droll voice. “If you want to unload, go ahead. I’m sitting here in my overpriced Queen Anne Hill condo watching the rain pelt hapless tourists at the Seattle Center.”

I was tempted to take up Rolf’s offer. But it would only delay my visit to Vida’s. “Never mind,” I said, and sighed.

“When do you want me to arrive this coming weekend?” he asked.

The query took me aback. “I . . . I don’t know yet. I mean—”

He interrupted me. “Maybe you don’t want to see me.” He almost sounded serious.

“I do!” I exclaimed. “I do,” I repeated, lowering my voice. “Friday seems so far away. Can we talk on the phone in the meantime?”

“Sure,” Rolf responded. “We can do a Harry-Met-Sally thing with both of us in our beds, talking to each other and not acknowledging that we’re deeply in love.”

The tears had stopped. Maybe the reason I hadn’t dwelled on Rolf was because he was right. I was afraid of love. It had brought me great pain. And great joy.

“Whatever we do,” Rolf went on when I didn’t respond, “don’t let Spencer Fleetwood get the story first for KSKY.”

“You know Spence?” I asked, surprised.

“Sure. You think we ignore the other media just because they’re inferior?”

“No, of course not. Don’t you like him?”

“All these months that I’ve pined for you, Emma Lord, I figured Spence was my biggest rival. How come you two never hit it off?”

“I don’t know . . . the media rivalry, maybe.”

“In novels, that’s what sparks passion. Hey, I better go. I think a family of four from Fresno just drowned outside the Experience Music Project. Kisses on your face and anywhere else I can reach. Bye.”

Despite my brief crying jag, somehow Rolf had managed to inject steel in my spine. I put on my jacket, grabbed my purse, and drove to Vida’s.

Defying the gray clouds that had begun to gather again, she was out in the garden.

“Well now!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

I noticed that Vida was wearing gardening gloves and holding a pair of shears. A half-dozen stalks of bedraggled chrysanthemums lay near her feet.

“We need to talk,” I said, going down the walk. “How about some tea?”

Vida grimaced. “I really shouldn’t.” She looked up at the glowering sky. “It’s going to rain any minute, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was snow mixed with it. The temperature’s dropped ten degrees in the last hour.”

“It is colder,” I admitted. “Can’t your gardening wait?”

Vida shook her head. “I’m picking a bouquet for the cemetery. Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday. I don’t want to take time off from work to do this. Nor do I relish tromping around in snow up there. The cemetery is so lumpy.”

I knew what Vida meant. The local burial ground had been established over a hundred years ago just below First Hill, when Alpine was known as Nippon. The loggers hadn’t yet arrived, but miners were already digging into the veins of silver and gold on Tonga Ridge. Several had died in a cave-in, and had been buried just below the mine shafts. When Carl Clemans bought his parcel of forest a few years later, he was heedless of the rocky turf and proclaimed the rudimentary site as the town’s official cemetery.

“I’ll ride up with you,” I said. “When do you want to leave?”

Vida wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Oooh . . . I could go as soon as I pick a couple more mums. I have some amber ones alongside the house. Do you want to wait in the car?”

“Yours or mine?”

Vida shrugged. “As long as your car is here . . .”

“Fine. See you in a minute.”

Vida disappeared around the corner of the house. I turned on the Honda’s radio. It was always set to KSKY, since few other stations came through clearly in our mountain aerie.

“It’s two-thirty in Sky Country, and this is Rey Fernandez on KSKY-AM, the voice of Skykomish County, with the latest breaking news. Deputy Sheriff Sam Heppner has just announced that the burglary ring which has been plaguing local residents has been uncovered by county law authorities. Two young men working as valets at the ski lodge were arrested less than an hour ago and charged with breaking and entering, grand theft, and destruction of property. As minors, their names have not been released pending notification of their families.”