“Any changes in the schedule today?” I asked.
“Not unless you want to help us weed and water the garden after you finish quilting.”
I looked down at the knees of my pressed khakis and back at Nadine.
“I’m kidding, Kath. You’re doing enough for us already. I would like to talk to you sometime, though, about the natural-dye classes you have at your shop. I’m putting together a grant proposal for an herb festival next spring and I thought your shop and the members of your group would be a natural fit.”
“Interesting. What are you thinking, a demonstration? A workshop?”
“A workshop—hands-on like we’re doing now—would be an attraction, don’t you think? I want to line up presenters for a variety of topics. I’d definitely like to cover cultivation and traditional herbal medicine, and get someone in for a cooking demonstration. All of that’s a conversation for another time, though. Your quilting volunteers beat you here this morning. They’re already
in the room setting up. I’ll call you about the grant. Better yet, I’ll stop by the shop sometime.”
“Sure.”
* * *
I put the brakes on at the door to the education room, too chicken to set foot inside. The place looked dangerous. John Berry and Ernestine stood on one side of one of the long tables, staring at Shirley and Mercy. Shirley and Mercy, immobile and belligerent, stood on the other side of the table, staring back. None of the four spoke. None of them needed to. Their nonverbal volleys screamed across the chasm of that thirty-six-inch-wide table with expert precision.
Their silent skirmish was my fault. I hadn’t told Ardis or Ernestine—I hadn’t told anyone in the posse—that the twins had volunteered for Hands on History and were entrenched. Clearly, I’d made a huge tactical error.
“Why didn’t you
tell
me the darling twins would be here!” Geneva’s joyful exclamation exploded in my ear.
“Gah!”
The four combatants in the room hadn’t noticed me standing in the doorway. My sudden leap in the air and wide-eyed shriek was all it took to break the tension around the table.
“Hi,” I said, somewhat breathlessly, one hand holding my hair to my head and the other holding my heart behind my ribs. “How nice to see all of you.” I smiled at each of the five in turn, so they would all feel included and welcome. Geneva had floated over to hover between the twins. That was good; if she’d been floating five or ten feet to either side of the group when I’d smiled at her, I would have looked more like a loon than I already did.
“If we aren’t wanted,” Mercy said with icy petulance, “we won’t stay.”
“We don’t want to stay if we aren’t needed,” said Shirley.
“Shirley, you are needed,” I said. “Mercy, we do want you here.”
What extraordinary statements I’d just made, although they were extraordinary only because I’d made them to the Spiveys. Even
they
hadn’t expected me to say anything of the kind. They were slower to recover from their shock than Ernestine and John. Geneva
wasn’t
shocked or surprised, but she was also the only person I’d ever known who was always happy to see the twins. That was because she was superstitious and thought they must be good luck. It was also because, being unseen and unheard, she couldn’t really interact with them and never felt the full Spivey effect.
“Shirley and Mercy, why don’t you show Ernestine and John the Plague Quilt?” Knowing how uneasy the twins were when I got too close to the quilt, I stayed where I was, just inside the door.
Shirley and Mercy exchanged looks with each other, but avoided Ernestine’s and John’s eyes. As well they might, considering their bullying history. But I needed this to work, for the program’s sake.
“Ernestine, John, you really have to see this quilt. Their great-grandmother—my great-great-grandmother—made it. It’s an embellished crazy quilt, velvet and—well, let them show you and tell you about it. They’re the ones who know it. But it’s gorgeous. And you have to believe me, as truly gorgeous as that quilt is, Shirley’s and Mercy’s own work is even more beautiful.” My compliments
did
impress Geneva.
“You do not usually gush over the twins,” she said. “More often you say something rude under your breath
and run the other way. Unless Ardis sees them and runs first. Or unless they sneak up on you, which they are very good at doing.”
“I don’t often gush,” I said to all of them. “I’ve seen a lot of amazing textiles over the years. Amazing for a variety of reasons that don’t necessarily have anything to do with appearance or artistry or value. But there’s something special and touching about this quilt.” I hesitated for a gnat’s breath at the word “touching,” then went on. “This quilt has more heart and story sewn into it than most I’ve seen. You two show,” I said to the twins, “and you two look,” I said to Ernestine and John. “I’ll go meet the students and then we’ll get started.”
Geneva came with me into the hall and I took out my phone so we could “talk.”
“Remember not to use my name,” she said before I got the phone to my ear. “You blew my cover when you shrieked my name at Ardis’ the other night. And speaking of shrieking, you should warn people before you shriek and jump the way you did just a minute ago. Why were you so surprised to see me?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I said into the phone. “When I left, you weren’t exactly lively. Even the cat was worried. What
was
that? What was happening?”
“A bad moment.”
“A memory?”
“I do not know. I am not sure. I felt different. My head felt . . . full.”
“You
looked
different.” She was back to her normal appearance now—watery, cobwebby, and slightly out of focus. “How do you feel now? Are you still feeling strong?”
“I was. And then I lost my hold.”
“I could tell. I saw you falling.”
“Falling, falling, falling . . . but I heard you say, ‘Stay with us,’ so here I am. Did you forget you told me that?” As simple as that—my literal ghost. “Now that we are both here,” she went on, “would you like me to dodge here and there like a shadow or a spy, moving as silently as a ghost on sneaking cat feet, to see who is up to nefarious no good?”
“That hasn’t worked out very well for us in the past.”
“Practice,” she said, emphatically smacking one fist soundlessly into the other. “What I need is practice.”
“Are you sure you’re okay being out here today? That it won’t prompt another traumatic memory?”
“I have no idea, but I am game if you are.”
“Huh. Well, I guess we’ll find out. Come on this way.” I started toward the lobby. She followed. “Practice isn’t a bad idea,” I said, “and I know where you can start. You’ll enjoy it, too, which will help, because then you’ll be less likely to lose interest and wander off.”
“Please do not be insulting.”
“I don’t mean to be insulting. I’m sure even the best cops get bored when they’re working surveillance. It’d be hard to avoid. It must be an occupational hazard. All great detectives probably have to practice.” I was trying reverse psychology with her—a Tom Sawyer approach. If she thought she could prove herself with a hard “assignment,” maybe she’d stick with it, and I wouldn’t have to worry about where she was and what she was doing.
“Practicing surveillance—it sounds sneaky and sleuth-like,” she said. “Where shall I slither in and start?”
“Why don’t you practice your super-sleuth techniques on the twi—” I stopped. I’d gotten too caught up in our “phone call.” The students would be arriving, and there I was on the verge of suggesting questionable behavior
without checking first to see if anyone other than Geneva might hear.
And clearly I’d made another tactical blunder. Geneva and I were not the only ones waiting to greet the students. Nadine was back in the lobby and Wes was there, too, looking at me with eyebrows raised. So was Clod Dunbar.
“T
ell them staring is impolite and maybe they will stop,” Geneva whispered. “Also, that it is impolite to listen in on private conversations, even if they are carried on in front of Clod and everybody. I am affronted on your behalf.” Said she who planned to practice surveillance techniques.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. I didn’t usually speak
loudly
on my phone in public, and maybe I hadn’t embarrassed myself this time, either, but the raised eyebrows made me wonder. I raised my own to the three of them, held up a just-one-minute finger, and tried to finish the conversation with Geneva without being too explicit. Or overheard. “I have to go now, but why don’t you start with the quilting—practice, stick with it, and that should work out fine.”
“I have no idea what message you tried to convey,” Geneva said. “Try it again. Be less cryptic and do not mumble.”
“If you want to
practice your technique
, watch Shirley and Mercy. You might learn something new or interesting if you
watch and listen
. If you do learn something, remember it so that you can tell me, because I’d love to hear all about it.”
“Oh,” she said, drawing the word out to show her comprehension. Then she gave me one of her hollow-eyed winks and flitted back to the education room.
I dropped my phone into my purse and went over to chat and be pleasant and try to appear normal to the others.
“Old friend,” I said to Nadine, making the universal “phone” sign with my thumb and little finger. “She watches too much reality TV.”
That remark didn’t work to immediately lower her eyebrows, but then she must have decided I was joking, since she laughed. Wes didn’t laugh, but his eyebrows came down anyway, and he offered me a quick “Nice to see you.” He was dressed with his usual ready-for-a-board-meeting polish. Between the clothes, the cordial but less-than-warm greetings, and the way his eyes only ever made glancing contact with mine, he gave me the impression of always being on the lookout and ready for . . . what? The next idea or opportunity? I wasn’t sure.
There were still times when I felt like a fish out of water in Blue Plum, and there probably would be for years. But Wes
looked
like a fish out of water. Was that enough reason to look at him with more suspicion than anyone else? No, it couldn’t be. Equal-opportunity suspicion was the better approach. Although Fredda was looking more equal than others to me.
“Nice to see you again, too, Wes. Deputy.” Smiling at Clod took some effort. Not asking him why he was standing there did, too. It took no effort at all to avoid babbling an explanation for last night’s Quickie Mart misunderstanding; this wasn’t the time or place, and the explanation would only have run downhill into something surly.
“Cole stopped by to let us know the students will be allowed to start excavating this afternoon.”
“That’s good news,” I said. “Are the bones still at the site? Will that be a problem if some of the students are squeamish?”
“Hicks removed the bones,” Clod said, “and the additional material.”
“Is the sheriff releasing any details?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Do you know any of the details that he isn’t releasing yet?”
“No.” His “no” was immediate and came firmly stamped with official snoot, but from the slightly calculating look he gave me, and the way his left eyebrow twitched . . .
Nadine interrupted my surveillance short course. “I meant to tell you, Kath—a gentleman interested in local history stopped by yesterday afternoon. He’d heard about the bones, and he has an interest right up your alley. He put together a proposal to research and attempt to identify them. He was quite thorough. I was impressed.” She turned to Wes. “In fact, I told him if he doesn’t watch out, we’ll draft him the next time we have a board opening.”
“Who is it?” Clod asked. “Who made the proposal?”
“There isn’t a problem with approving the research, is there, Deputy?” Nadine asked. “I planned to inform the sheriff, but mainly as a courtesy. Do I need to get an official okay?”
“I’m sure there won’t be a problem,” Clod said. “But I’d like to know who made the proposal.”
Nadine looked confused. “Does that matter?”
“I’m just curious. I wondered if it was anyone Ms. Rutledge knows.”
“Does that matter?” I asked. The gentleman in question would be John, of course, who was down the hall with Ernestine, the Spiveys, and the quilt, and could answer any of Clod’s unnecessary questions, but there was no reason I could see that Clod needed to know that.
Wes stepped into our moment of discomfort, proving that he was more than just a pretty suit. “Deputy, I’m sure you realize the bones present an interesting and special problem for the Homeplace.
Is
there a problem for your department if we go ahead with our own research?”
Clod held his hands up, as if to calm a rant of researchers. “There are no problems that I’m aware of. If your researcher comes to any conclusions, we’d appreciate being notified.”
“Absolutely.” Nadine was happy again. “I’ll see that you receive copies of any reports or documents generated. You, too, Kath, if you’d like.”
Sunlight glinting off a windshield alerted us to cars pulling into the parking lot.
“Here come the scholars,” Nadine said. “Oh, and Kath, there’s been a change in the schedule after all. Wes is going to follow up on the discussion he had with the students over lunch yesterday. He prepared another short program and we thought it would make a good starting point for this morning.”
“It’ll take about twenty minutes,” Wes said. “Add time for questions, and you can tell your volunteers the students will join them in about half an hour.”
“Sounds great.” I hoped my smile was less wooden than my reaction. “What’s the topic today?”
“The role of philanthropy in public history. You’re welcome to sit in, if you like. You, too, Deputy.”
It was a worthy topic. I knew that. But while Clod made his excuses, I made my escape.
* * *
The Plague Quilt had created peace in the education room. The former combatants had moved two tables side by side so the quilt could be spread out flat and seen whole. Each of them stood on one side of the square they’d created. Shirley and Mercy looked like an odd combination of prison guards supervising a visit and proud mothers watching their offspring entertaining guests. John’s back was to me, with Ernestine opposite, magnifying glass in hand. She looked up when I came in, and her face said it all. She was thoroughly and genuinely enchanted. Geneva floated above everyone. It was hard to tell whether she was engrossed in the scene below or had simply fallen asleep. I hoped that if the twins had divulged any more information about the quilt, she had listened carefully and would remember what they said.
“Students on their way?” Mercy asked. “Time and quilting wait for no one.”
“That makes no sense,” said Shirley. “We’re waiting, right now, for all of them. This is better—a diller, a dollar, our ten o’clock scholars, we only have them ’til noon.”
“Unfortunately, there was a last-minute schedule change, and you’re not getting them for another half hour.” I told them about Wes’ philanthropy talk. “You’re all welcome to sit in if you want.”
“We’ll pass on that opportunity. Again,” Shirley said.
“If Less-and-less Treadwell is taking precious time away from the kiddos,” said Mercy, “then our time will be better spent pressing seams and stitching ahead for them.”
“Better spent doing anything other than listening to Less-and less,” Shirley said.
Mercy gave Shirley a quelling eye, maybe because she wasn’t close enough to give her an elbow. Geneva was definitely awake. She watched the twins, looking from one to the other as they spoke, looking like a spectator at a tennis match.
“Why do you call him ‘Less-and-less’?” I asked.
“It’s his way of operating,” Shirley said. “He starts out small. Treads with care.”
“But with less and less care, as time goes by,” said Mercy, “because he’s predatory.”
“Preying,” said Shirley.
“A pirate.”
“Listening at the cunning door,” Geneva said.
The door between the education room and the auditorium was ajar.
Was
he listening? How would she know?
It didn’t matter, I turned my back to the door and made mad hand signals for the others to be quiet. The twins and John caught on right away. Ernestine thought I was waving and waved back. While John whispered to Ernestine, the twins faced the door and made elaborate, dismissive, and alarming gestures.
“Ernestine and I think we’ll attend Mr. Treadwell’s talk,” John said. “We’ll see what sorts of insight we gain.”
“Shirley, Mercy, thank you for letting us see the quilt,” Ernestine said. “I’ll be back to help with the students.”
“What about you, John? Are you coming back or are you bailing?” Mercy asked. “That was a nautical term, by the way, to go with your boating background.”
“Much appreciated, too,” John said. “And I’m sorry, but I have other plans.”
“That’s no scrap off our quilt,” Shirley muttered.
“Kath,” John said, “I meant to spend the morning doing research. Now I think I’ll change my schedule, too, and see if I can buy Mr. Treadwell a cup of coffee.”
“Be careful,” I said.
“Coffee in well-lit public places only,” he said, and then he leaned close. “I’ll start the research, too, and report on that and the coffee at Fast and Furious tomorrow.”
“No need to be formal with Less-and-less,” Mercy said, loudly enough to be heard through several closed doors. “What about you, Kath? Going to hear the squawk?”
I wanted to tell them they owed me
days
with the Plague Quilt, alone and unsupervised, for the way they were behaving. Instead I told them we needed to talk.
“I want to hear what you know about Wes Treadwell,” I said quietly, “but not now and not here.”
“Why don’t we come to the shop,” Shirley said, “later on this afternoon?”
“We’ll come to your house tonight,” said Mercy, “in time for dessert.”
Lord love a duck,
I said to myself.
What have I gotten myself into?
Geneva swooped down and put her arm around my shoulders, making me shiver. “The darling twins are getting you down. I recognize the signs, which are like the neon lights on Broadway. I would like to see those lights someday. But you should take a walk and calm down. Do not worry. I will stay here and work on developing excellent surveillance skills.”
* * *
Getting out into the Spivey-free air and sunshine felt wonderful, especially after Geneva’s bone-chilling
heart-to-heart embrace. I halfway toyed with the idea of wandering over to the retting pond to see if any of Clod’s fellow deputies were still searching it for the weapon. I hadn’t asked Clod how that was working out for them, and he hadn’t told me. And if they didn’t find anything, what did that mean? Would that make any difference to Grace?
I couldn’t make myself go to the pond. The memory of Phillip lying there was too much—it had been only two days since I’d found him. His death was still raw. And his murderer was walking free; I was convinced of that. But how could any person kill another human being and not look raw and wounded, too? How could that person appear healthy and whole and unremarked on, as though nothing had happened or changed?
The thought of dealing with deputies and the rotten smell of retting was too much, too, and I went to find Jerry Hicks instead. Maybe he would tell me what artifacts he’d found associated with the bones and if he’d found anything to suggest a cause of death. In Geneva’s memory, Mattie wore a dress of white lawn and Sam a frock coat. Sometimes she described the scene as though she’d been part of it, but at other times it sounded as though she’d stumbled across the horror. She had once mentioned a cameo at Mattie’s throat. She hadn’t said, then, that it was a locket. But her memories were so slippery.
“You can save yourself a walk.” Clod’s legs were as long as Joe’s, but they never ambled. Clod’s legs led a purposeful life. Their purpose now was to interrupt my free time and keep me from my goal. “You can save your breath and whatever questions you’re planning to ask Hicks, too.”
“You’re presuming, Deputy. You don’t know where I’m going.”
“You’re trying to make an end run for information,” he said, “but it won’t work.”
“Again, you’re presuming.”
“Hicks isn’t here.” He got ahead of me, planting his legs and crossing his arms. Smug clod.
“Pig.”
“Say what?”
“I said ‘pig.’ That’s where I’m going, Deputy. To see Portia the Poland China. She’s a heritage breed pig. Poland Chinas are known for slopping up anything you put in front of them. They aren’t so good at going out and finding things on their own, but that’s the way it is sometimes.”
With pigs and some policemen,
I thought.
The way he looked down his long nose at me, Clod reminded me more of Fred the mule than of a Poland China. “Say what?” he said again.
“I said I came out here to see Portia and her piglets. Now that you’ve brought it up, though, I do have a few questions about the excavation. If I ask you, that won’t be considered trying to make an end run, will it? I won’t be committing some kind of foul?” My anti-sarcasm campaign was faltering. I stopped, breathed, and tried to dial it back. “Deputy, I really am asking this out of curiosity. Please don’t think there’s an implied comment. But why does it seem as though information about the excavation is being kept secret? Isn’t it possible you’d come up with more answers by making what you do know public?”
“That’s a fair question.”
I was pretty sure there
was
an implied comment in
his
remark. I was big and let it slide.
“Now that the materials are secured, information will be made public,” he said. “Obviously, we couldn’t keep it entirely quiet.”
“You had two dozen teenagers with phones here.”
“Among others. But we didn’t want scavengers, and we didn’t want sensational or unpleasant stories or rumors floating around.”
“Like what?”
“Are you kidding? Use your imagination. Oh, wait”—he snapped his fingers—“I forgot. You already
are
using your imagination. Conjuring cameo lockets.”