“I explained why I asked about a locket. I could also have asked about shoe buttons or a particular style of eyeglasses.”
“I don’t think so. I think your locket goes back to your story.”
“What story?”
“You know the one. Once upon a time, you heard a story about a sensational double murder that’s completely unsupported by facts or local records. You’re stuck on it. To say you’re obsessed might be going too far, but you’re dying to take these bones and cram them into your cameo locket fairy tale.”
“That was uncalled for.” And if that was the way he was going to play, then my sarcasm shield was coming down. “Tell me, Deputy, have you or your colleagues had any luck finding the weapon used to murder Phillip Bell? Have you had any luck figuring out what that weapon even is? And without those facts, are you still so sure that Grace Estes is guilty?”
“Let me tell you something, Kath.
Clue
you in, as it were. Most murders are fairly simple. They’re nasty and brutal, and after the deed is done, people don’t like
owning up to it, but they aren’t really all that puzzling. The simple truth about Phillip Bell’s death is this: It was a crime of passion and Grace Estes is the only one in town who knew him well enough to be that passionate.”
Darn the simple logic of his last statement. It’s what kept going around in my mind, too. But I still didn’t believe it. It was simple to the point of being simplistic and “true” only because the police had stopped asking questions. I hadn’t and darned if I would. One question I couldn’t ask was if he knew that Fredda had snuck into the cottage the night before. Asking that would open a whole bait shop of worms. But I had other questions.
“Then how do you account for the fact that you
haven’t
found the weapon? And how do you account for the fact that Grace hasn’t been able to tell you what that weapon is?”
“Again, it’s simple. She’s lying.”
“Or maybe it’s even simpler than a lie, Deputy. Try this—she’s telling the truth.”
When Clod had planted himself in front of me, he’d put his back to the barn, and he didn’t see what I saw—Fredda standing at the edge of the big open doorway, arms crossed, head tipped, watching us.
F
redda stood in a shadow, making it impossible to see the expression on her face. I used the imagination Clod accused me of mishandling and pictured her eyes narrowed and assessing, her smile sardonic and amused. She lifted her hair off her neck and let it fall again. Then she crossed the open doorway and disappeared farther into the barn. I had questions for her, too, but I wasn’t feeling brave or foolhardy enough to go after her. My imagination conjured pitchforks and scythes.
“Lost interest in pigs?” Clod called after me when I turned around and headed back to the visitors’ center.
“Had enough.”
* * *
Watching the students get caught up in creating their quilt blocks was soothing. Up to a point. Ernestine and I complimented them on color and pattern combinations and encouraged faltering stitches. We were the good-cop quilters. Shirley and Mercy stalked around the room, adamant about exact and unvarying seam allowances, clipped rather than dangling thread ends, and frequent use of the iron.
“Start as you mean to go on,” Shirley told them.
“You don’t just want to learn the
right
way,” Mercy said. “You want to learn the
best
way.”
“And that’s
our
way,” said Shirley.
I got the feeling that if Ernestine and I hadn’t been there, there would have been some knuckle rapping and hand smacking to clarify that message and send it home. The students seemed to be enjoying themselves, accepting the warlord approach to quilting as easily as the good-cop approach. It was nice to see we hadn’t lost any more of them overnight. Without more skeletons to exhume, Zach sat stitching a series of stylized coffins to each other. Even the tenderhearted girl, Carmen, was there. It must have been my deputy-certified overactive imagination that saw her cringe when Mercy stopped to inspect her needlework, because then Carmen proved her courage by asking Mercy a question.
“Ms. Spivey, if we can embroider as much as we want on our squares—”
“Quilters call that embellishment,” Shirley said, closing in on Carmen from the other side.
“Ribbons, beads, lace . . .” Mercy ticked options off on her fingers. “They’re all embellishments, and you can add what you like.”
Carmen stayed strong. “If we can add as much embellishment as we want, then how will we know when we’re finished?”
“Buttons and sequins, too,” Shirley said.
“I’ll tell you the secret,” said Mercy. She paused and looked around the room, until our dozen avid, eager students looked back at her. “How do you know you’re finished? You just do.”
“And feathers,” Shirley said.
“Or you don’t,” said Mercy.
Geneva, meanwhile . . . had started by following the twins around the room, peering over their shoulders,
watching with fascination when they showed Ethan and Nash how to correctly press seams without pressing their fingertips, too. She floated by to tell me her sleuth practice was paying off because she already knew that Barb and Ethan were going separately but together to a party Saturday night. She studied Zach’s coffin pattern. But eventually she floated over to the table where Shirley and Mercy had put the muslin bag holding the Plague Quilt. She settled on the table next to the bag, drew her knees up so she could rest her chin on them, and gazed at the bag. I don’t know how long I stood looking at her look at it, but it was long enough that I’d tuned out the room, and I gave a start when Barb asked me a question.
“Ms. Rutledge, have you found out yet if Lillian Holston made her quilt?”
Geneva turned and looked at Barb, then hunched her shoulders and started rocking.
“The one she talked about in her scrapbook you showed us,” Barb said.
Geneva answered. “No-oh,” she said, in time to her rocking. “No-oh, no-oh, no-oh, no. Lillian, Lizzie, Ezra, and Flory, Sweet Uley, and Nan, it was the end of their story. No, Lillian did not finish her quilt. Lillian, Lizzie, Ezra, Uley, Nan, and Flory. Mattie and I were so very sorry. The plague came and they were all gone.”
“Kath, dear?” Ernestine moved in front of me, her kind eyes peering into mine from behind her thick lenses. “Can I help?”
“It’s okay, Ernestine. I’m fine.” I turned to Barb. “I’m sorry, Barb. I don’t think Lillian did make the quilt, and that’s such a shame. Her scrapbook tells part of a story. Her quilt would have told more of it. That’s one of the engaging characteristics of quilts. Quilts are folk art. Folk
art is full of story. Engaging in story is a basic human endeavor.”
“She’s put on her professional hat,” Mercy said.
“Which she was so recently obliged to take off,” said Shirley.
“Hush,” said Zach.
I smiled at him and at the other students, and then I zeroed in on the twins. They drew back, tucking their chins. “Shirley? Mercy? You haven’t told the class the story behind your quilt yet. And I’d like to know why it’s called the Plague Quilt.” If they’d been turtles, their heads, arms, and legs would have disappeared inside their shells.
Carmen raised her hand. “Could it have anything to do with the cholera epidemic? We studied that in school.”
“Eighteen seventy-nine,” Zach said.
“Three-quarters of the population fled,” said Barb. “Of those who stayed, two-thirds died.”
Bless their avid, history-loving hearts.
“Bingo,” said Shirley, followed by “Ow!” when Mercy’s elbow caught her.
“Unfortunately,” said Mercy, “Mr. Treadwell was given half an hour of our time this morning, and so we’ve run out. Your questions will have to wait.”
“You could tell
me
,” I said.
“Don’t you have to be back at the shop?” Shirley asked.
Darn. She was right.
“And we have other places to be and things to do,” said Mercy. They sighed identical, exaggerated sighs.
I didn’t say anything more while the students put away their quilt blocks and materials. I held my tongue while the twins told the students how much they needed
to get done on their blocks each day in order to have a quilt at the end of the program. I made pleasant small talk when Nadine came to take the students on to their next session. But before the Spiveys scooped up their muslin-wrapped treasure and escaped, I cornered them.
“We have an agreement, correct? You are here, doing a really fine job with the students. In exchange for letting you do that, I will get to spend an equal amount of time, alone, studying the Plague Quilt. Correct?” I didn’t wait for answers. “I want you to know I do trust you. But I want to know when that’s going to happen.”
“At the end of the program,” Mercy said. “Otherwise how would we know how much time to give you?”
“Shirley and Mercy Spivey,” Ernestine said, coming up behind me. For a twinkling tiny mole of a woman, she could be extremely fierce. “I
don’t
trust you and I want to hear you promise that’s what
will
happen.”
“Why don’t you tell her about it now and let her see it?” Zach asked.
I hadn’t realized he was still in the room, too. Or, judging by the door to the auditorium standing ajar, maybe he’d slipped back in.
“We have no problem sticking with the original agreement,” Shirley said.
“Or trusting you to do the same,” said Mercy. “See you later.”
Geneva still sat next to the muslin bag on the table. The twins carefully lifted the bag, shivered, and left.
“I know why they won’t tell you about it,” Zach said, watching them go. “It’s all about power. And theirs is the worst kind. It’s old-people power and some of them flaunt it.”
“Watch yourself,” I told him.
“He’s right, though, Kath. You are right, dear,” Ernestine said to Zach. “A certain amount of power comes with old age. The thing is, we all have it, but some old she-devils abuse it. Now, that wasn’t a kind thing for me to say. Not that it wasn’t true, but I’m sorry you had to hear it.” She patted his cheek.
Cool Zach’s eyes went wide, and he blushed from the neck of his T-shirt up to his hairline. “I have another question,” he said, with a bit of a squeak in his voice. “Do you think the skeletons in the dump were plague victims? We read about how they ran out of wood for coffins.”
“That’s a good question,” I said. “I don’t know the answer. I suppose, if things were so bad, with so many people leaving, so many sick or dead, if there wasn’t any better choice, it might have happened. They weren’t laid in the ground very respectfully, though. Did Jerry say anything that makes you think they might be plague victims?”
“He didn’t say much about anything. I was just wondering. No big deal.”
“Wondering is a fine thing to do, in my book. Here’s what I’m wondering. Does either of you remember any of the names you saw on the Plague Quilt?”
Neither Ernestine nor Zach had paid attention to the names on the Plague Quilt. Like me, they’d been more absorbed by the colors, patterns, embroidery, and whimsical details of Rebecca’s work. I didn’t prompt them with the names Geneva had mentioned, but between them they came up with half a dozen—some first names, some last. I wasn’t sure whether they were more access points for our search, or more pieces we’d be trying to fit together. I planned to take the names they remembered
to Friday’s Fast and Furious meeting the next afternoon, along with the names from Geneva’s sad rhyme. But first I had to get through the evening—and dessert with the Spiveys.
* * *
What kind of dessert did one serve to enigmas such as the Spivey twins? Did they really expect dessert? I stopped at Mel’s on the way home, ran in, asked for three slices of the honey nut cake, and dashed back out, happy that I hadn’t run into Mel. She would have had the expected Spivey attack out of me in three seconds flat. Once home, I ate a virtuous green salad, then waited. While I waited, I nibbled around the edge of one slice of cake, reflecting on the appropriateness of my choice. Honey, to sweeten and soothe the unpredictable twins; nuts because I liked the symbolism. The clock ticked and I realized I could be knitting while dreading instead of picking at the cake.
I washed my hands and took up my knitting needles to work on a peony pink baby hat for Friday’s Fast and Furious thousand-hat challenge. It was my third pink hat in as many weeks, and I was looking forward to the last of that color. Debbie never seemed to tire of knitting yellow hats, and Thea stuck with her mission to instill a love for reading and good literature early in a child’s life by knitting red-and-white-striped beanies. She called them vestigial
Cat in the Hat
hats. Mel went with food colors. But I hadn’t settled on a color or a theme or a mission. I also didn’t knit as often or as fast as I should.
The Spiveys waited until full dark, parking down the street, away from the streetlight. They’d told me that after they crept up onto the porch, knocked softly, and scurried past me into the house. I was expecting them, of
course, but I still had trouble making myself open the door wide enough for them to actually get in.
“In case he’s onto us,” Shirley said.
“Wes? What’s he likely to do?”
“Let’s go on into the kitchen,” Mercy said, “away from prying picture windows.”
“Cozier in the kitchen, too,” said Shirley. “Oh, and look, you have cake for us.”
They ate first and had seconds on sweet tea, then told me their story of Wes Treadwell. They didn’t know details and they were fuzzy on dates, but they knew it had happened in California and involved taking advantage of bankrupt homeowners.
“Finding a weak spot and moving in is his forte,” Mercy said.
“Exploiting the salt of the earth for personal gain,” said Shirley.
“But you don’t really know what happened or when. Just that it happened in California. How do you even know that much?”
“Shirley’s ex keeps in touch with her,” Mercy said. “He’d like her to move out there with him.”
“Frank is a skunk,” said Shirley. “That’s why he knows another one when he smells him.”
“And why Shirley left Frank,” said Mercy.
“That and I don’t like the idea of leaving everything I know and hold dear.”
“Or moving to California and falling off into the ocean when the big one comes,” Mercy added.
“Does Frank know the details?” I asked. “Could I call him?”
“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that,” Shirley said. “He suffers from high blood pressure.”
“When Frank called last week and said he’d like to personally kill Wes Treadwell, Shirley had a terrible time calming him down again,” Mercy said.
They left when I told them there wasn’t any more cake. Mercy turned back before I got the door closed.
“Don’t breathe a word of this when you see us at the Homeplace,” she said. “We daren’t rile him.”
“You were trying to rile him loudly enough to get through to him on the other side of a closed door today.”
“Sometimes we’re too hotheaded for our own good. Thank you for the cake. Such dainty slices. The tea was a tad on the sweet side. See you tomorrow.”
Bless my heart.
* * *
By Friday morning, the quilting session felt like a routine. The students made progress on their blocks and we’d fallen into an easy companionship of stitching. It was a quiet, unremarkable morning except for two things. One was that the twins avoided speaking to me about anything other than snipping threads and pressing seams. They even avoided making eye contact, and that was soothing. The other was an embellishment Zach added to his quilt block—two of the coffin-shaped pieces he’d stitched together turned out to be identical, and in those coffins he embroidered identical skeletons. All in all, it was a good morning.
* * *
“Do you realize,” Ardis said that afternoon as we were setting up for Friday’s Fast and Furious, “we have investigated enough crimes by now that we have our own organizational thing that organizations have. One of those things, if you know what I mean.”
I wheeled the whiteboard into position so it could be
seen from any of the comfy chairs we’d pushed into a half circle in the TGIF workroom. The workroom—the same used by Joe and his fly tiers—was a flexible space whose odd assortment of chairs and worktables accommodated formal and informal meetings of needleworkers of all kinds as well as the posse’s strategy meetings and information exchanges.