“Those quilts have to get hung,” I argued.
A compromise was reached, and Miguel, his Walkman and his pistol went along for protection. When I saw how deserted the neighborhood around the museum was, I was glad for Miguel’s presence. He stretched out on the floor in the lobby and listened to a football game while I finished Eric’s work. Eric’s tools were still spread out in the main hall, so at least I didn’t have to venture back into the studios. Even with Miguel there, I didn’t know if I could handle that.
I quickly became engrossed in the physical work of hanging the quilts. The co-op’s quitters had already basted strips of Velcro to the backs of the quilts so it was just a matter of hanging the frames and attaching the quilts to them.
I silently called off the names as I hung them: Jacob’s Ladder, Young Man’s Fancy, Texas Tears, Wild Goose Chase. I traced the tiny stitches with my finger, and wondered about the women who had sewn them. The histories I’d gathered revealed small pieces of their lives, answering my general questions about when they made the quilt and why. Some just gave short, terse replies. Others gave stories that were heartbreaking. I picked up one of the framed histories, the one for the stunning Jacob’s Ladder quilt. Muriel Phillips was the quilter. Born 1909. Quilt made in 1943. “I made the quilt when my three sons were called to war,” she’d written. “The real war. The Big One. They was all over the world—Alaska, the South Pacific, Italy. I pieced this quilt, a little bit every night, listening to the radio, using scraps from their old shirts. They surely loved blue, my boys did. That’s why there’s so much blue in the quilt. My youngest, Tommy Lee, the one who was sent to Italy—he never came back. I gave this quilt to his wife, Nona, and when she was dying of cancer in 1954, she gave it back to me. My husband and I slept under it for 38 years until he died last year of his heart.” I hung the history next to the quilt, peering closely at the picture of Muriel Phillips. The perky smile under her crown of white curls disguised all the sadness in her life.
I saved Grandmother Harper’s Double Wedding Ring quilt for last. I studied the intricate stitches and wondered who of Jack’s ancestors made love under this quilt, who was conceived, who died. The interlocking circles were made up of tiny scraps of material in the odd shades and patterns of blues, pinks, flowers and plaids popular seventy-five or eighty years ago. The ivory muslin background was faded yellow in spots; in the center of one ring a pale brown drop of blood stained the lightness.
When I was nineteen and newly married, Mom Harper started telling me I was to have this quilt. The Lone Star, honoring their Texas heritage, was to go to Wade’s wife, and I, as Jack’s wife, would receive the Wedding Ring quilt to pass down to future Harpers. As time went by and Jack and I never had children, Mom Harper stopped mentioning it. Now that I was no longer her daughter-in-law, I took it for granted Sandra would inherit them both. I told myself it didn’t matter, that it really had nothing to do with what I had with Jack. Not really.
After it was hung, I sat cross-legged in front of it and enjoyed the serenity of the whole pattern, wondering which of Wade and Sandra’s children would inherit it, picturing it going on down through the Harper family, further and further away from me.
Maybe we should have had those tests. We just kept putting it off, thinking—a baby will come in its own good time. Maybe it was fear—which of us would it be? We’d owned cows who’d taken a while to conceive. Wade always allowed them the standard two tries, then wanted to sell them, but Jack would take a shine to three or four every year and convince his brother to give them another chance. He’d sneak them treats of alfalfa cakes and croon to them in a low, gentle voice as he fed them, a voice I knew as well as my own sigh.
When it wasn’t the cows but me that needed his special attentions, Jack made the most wonderful hot chocolate—the kind made from scratch with real cocoa. He’d pour a thick white mugful, top it with whipped cream and bring it to me on a pink glass plate with roses etched on the bottom that once belonged to his grandmother. He’d drink his straight from the pan, feet propped up on the coffee table, a warm hand caressing the nape of my neck.
“Isn’t this the life?” he’d always say.
I left the plate at the ranch when I moved out.
The next morning, I arrived at the museum early but didn’t beat the yellow and white truck of the Coastal Goodtimes Party Rental people. I handed the placement chart I’d drawn to the two workers, a skinny Hispanic man not much bigger than me, and a sullen red-headed boy with a rooster comb Mohawk. With a small feeling of trepidation, I left them to the job of readying the studios for the pre-showing.
After calling Marla’s mother for the time and place of Marla’s funeral, I typed an announcement and tacked it to the co-op’s bulletin board. With that done, I puttered around, typing more quilt histories, writing a thank-you note to the local VFW for a hundred-dollar donation, picked off and inspected every brown leaf I could find on the fig tree in the corner of my office. Finally I had to face the inevitable.
Red is a power color, I tried to convince my reflection in the co-op’s bathroom mirror. I slid my palm over the front of the scarlet linen shirt I wore. I’d run out of clean flannel shirts and was forced to wear one of my own. I’d spent fifteen minutes that morning sitting in front of the dirty clothes hamper trying to decide just how tacky it would be to dig one out. The Aunt Garnet gene in me won. I rolled up the sleeves and made a face at myself. There wasn’t a color in the spectrum that was going to make me feel confident about telling the police about Rita.
On the drive to the police station, I mentally rehearsed my story, realizing after a few minutes the one good thing about the truth was, it didn’t take much rehearsal. As I neared the station, the square knot in my stomach blossomed into a full-fledged macrame wall hanging.
The municipal parking lot was packed. I was forced into circling three times before even a metered spot was free. San Celina had recently decided to pad the city coffers by installing meters on most of the downtown spaces. It was a favorite coffee break complaint among the old-time residents. Something else to blame on the influx of Southern Californians buying up all the land, bringing their big-city ways to the Central Coast. Plinking in every bit of change in my purse, I won seventy-five minutes. Enough time to tell my story. Unless they arrested me. Then, a parking ticket would be the least of my worries. In the chief’s parking spot, his Corvette sat arrogantly topless under an ominous cloudy sky.
The new police station was one of the few buildings downtown that didn’t adhere to the Mission theme. It was a flat-roofed stucco building painted in subtle tans with brown wood trim. Neatly cropped ivy laced the walls, and a sluggish, beige-and-blue-tiled fountain gurgled at the entrance. It looked more like an office for a group of successful orthodontists than a police station. There must have been some kind of crime wave taking place in San Celina because it took ten minutes to work my way through the line in the lobby to the desk officer, a redheaded kid with a small cowlick. He looked as if he’d graduated from San Celina High School all of three minutes ago. A large revolver was strapped around his skinny waist.
“Can I help you, ma‘am?” He smiled, displaying those kind of braces that are suppose to be invisible but aren’t. Braces and a loaded revolver. Now there’s a scary thought.
“I’d like to see Detective Ryan or Cleary.”
“Just a minute.”
I studied the various notices on the wheat-colored walls of the lobby. Their bowling team placed second in the city championship last year. The FBI’s Ten Most Wanted looked as hollow-cheeked and menacing as ever. I’d moved on to memorizing the faces of missing children when a smooth, tenor voice called my name.
“Ms. Harper? Is there something I can do for you?”
I turned to face the dark, curious face of Detective Cleary. The bulge from his gun was apparent under his snug tweed jacket. Someone in his life was a good cook, or he hadn’t bought any new jackets for a while.
“I have some information about Marla’s murder,” I said.
“What is it?” He crossed his arms and cocked his head, throwing me off a bit. Blurting the whole story out in the lobby was not what I’d expected.
“I found Rita,” I said. “My cousin. Do you know about her?” The eager look on his face answered my question.
“Where is she?” he said. “Is she with you? Get her in here.”
“Well, she’s not exactly with me.”
His dark brown eyes blinked rapidly as he rubbed his jaw. “Just a minute. I think I’d better call the chief.” That was exactly what I’d hoped to avoid. I swallowed hard and considered bolting. No use. He knew where I worked and probably where I lived.
Cleary reached over the counter and punched a number on the desk officer’s phone. After a few short sentences in a voice so low I couldn’t make out the words, he jerked his head at me.
“He wants to talk to you himself.”
No kidding. I followed him through a maze of beige desks down a long hall, past a women’s restroom I contemplated ducking into, to a closed oak door with a brass nameplate—“Aaron Davidson—Chief of Police.” He knuckle-rapped sharply twice and swung it open. “Here she is, Chief.” The small, sympathetic smile he flashed in my direction as he closed the door behind me didn’t ease my mind or the tangled rope in my stomach.
Ortiz sat in a tall black executive chair, his blue eyes alert, his olive-skinned face expressionless. He gestured to a matching office chair in front of his desk. Tilting his chair back, he tented his fingers and regarded me. I avoided his gaze with a quick glance at my surroundings. Oak was the only word to describe the office. Everything matched, down to the brass-and-oak desk accessories. They say you can tell a lot about a person by their work surroundings. But this office was a loaner, so any stories it had to tell wouldn’t be his. The top of the desk in front of him was bare. I wondered if he kept a file cabinet at Liddie’s. I decided not to ask.
“Where’s your cousin?” he finally asked, his voice smooth as the burnished wood desk in front of him.
I told him my story and waited for the meltdown.
“Did he touch anything after they found the body? Did your cousin? Did they remove anything from the premises? Did he call anybody?” His voice became louder with each sentence.
“I don’t know.” I tried to make out the signature on the painting behind him. It was a surrealistic desert scene with cacti shaped like green bullets. It looked like Crap. The artist’s name, not the painting.
“Why did he go for gas? Where? Had his hands been recently washed? Were there stains on his clothes?” Two deep lines formed on either side of his black mustache.
“I don’t know.” A strong urge to chew on the tip of my braid, a childhood habit, came over me as I readjusted myself in the stiff chair.
“Why did he duck down when he saw you drive by? What did he and your cousin talk about after they discovered the body? Which way did he start walking when your cousin dropped him off?”
“I don’t know. I ... didn’t think to ask.”
He slammed a hand down on his desk; the unexpectedness of it caused me to jump. He rose, tore off his glasses and pointed them at me.
“Exactly. You didn’t think to ask those things because you’re not a cop, which is why I should have been the one talking to her, not you.” He shoved his glasses back on, walked over to the window, and stood there muttering to himself in an incomprehensible mixture of Spanish and English.
I froze, wondering what I should do. Bolting out the door was my first choice, clearly not a viable one. Too many guns between me and my truck. Still, doing nothing had never been my style.
“She never would have called
you,”
I said. “And I tried to get her to come in and talk to the police but she refused. I couldn’t force her. You have more information than if I hadn’t seen her at all.”
He turned and looked at me, the flinty lines of his face grim. “You could have taken me with you.”
Good point. But it didn’t take into consideration family loyalty.
“She didn’t have anything to do with Marla’s murder. She was just an innocent bystander. I think you should find Eric. Were his fingerprints on the murder weapon?”
He was silent so long, I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
“That is none of your business,” he said, walking back to his chair and sitting down. I watched with apprehension as a small muscle twitch in his jaw.
“Anything else you care to add, Ms. Harper?”
“No.” I scooted forward in my chair. “That about covers it. Now can I go?” Even I cringed at the adolescent ring of petulance in my voice. Except that’s how it felt. Like being sent to the principal’s office. Of course, detention here took on a whole different meaning.
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, ankle to knee. Pulling at his thick mustache, he studied me with solemn eyes. I stared back. Boldly. I think.
“Ms. Harper,” he said quietly. “What am I going to do with you?”
I had a few suggestions but I suspected my vote didn’t count for much. Dove’s voice came through loud and clear in my mind—Kiddo, sometimes your best bet is to keep your trap shut.
He stood up, walked over to the door and held it open. I jumped up, and squeezed past him.
“Just one minute.” He grabbed my shoulder as I started to walk away. “I have something I want to show you.”
He held my upper arm in a firm grip and steered me down the long hallway outside his office to a large white door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” It opened to a stairway leading down two flights. Another white door. No writing on it. He slipped a small blue plastic card in a slot at the side of the door. A loud click. He pulled the thick door open, and with the flat of his hand, he gave my back a gentle but very definite shove.