Four-Patch of Trouble (4 page)

"That's unusual," Matt said. "Most people
like
talking to us muckrakers."

I forced myself not to smile. That would have been the last straw for Tremain. As it was, I thought he was going to turn red and stomp his feet again, but he simply gave a huff of irritation. "Let's get this meeting over with. I'm due in Seattle this evening to meet with…let's just say they're friends of mine. Close, influential friends."

I could feel Matt preparing to deflate Tremain again, something I would have dearly enjoyed watching, but it would only make the meeting more confrontational. I resorted to the age-old trick for subtly managing a client: I stomped on Matt's foot. As I passed him to go into the shop, I lowered my voice to whisper, "Do
not
make my job any more difficult than it has to be. I reached my recommended daily allowance for irritation hours ago."

Matt swallowed whatever he was going to say and started to follow me through the doorway, but he was cut off by a beefy man wearing a carpenter's tool belt.

"Coming through, coming through." The man pulled a handcart behind him, overloaded with a toolbox and assorted lengths and diameters of PVC piping. He continued across the shop to a propped-open door halfway down the left side wall and then disappeared through the opening into a hallway with stairs and the sign for a restroom.

"That's my landlord." Tremain ushered everyone past the back wall where the interesting four-patch quilt was displayed, down a short corridor, and into a small conference room. "It's taken me months to convince him to fix the second-floor apartment's plumbing. I don't have to tell you ladies what a disaster it would be if there was a leak that dripped on my textiles. He was supposed to use the entrance from the alley, instead of traipsing through my shop, but at least he's finally shown up."

His partner, Alyse, was already in the conference room, tapping her ornately monogrammed silver cigarette case on the table in front of her. The room was tiny, and the conference table barely left enough room for the six chairs. The cheap table seemed oddly out of place in a shop for vintage and antique items, even if it was hidden away from shoppers. A hand-stitched tumbling-blocks quilt hanging on the wall only served to emphasize the cheap, mass-produced nature of the table.

Tremain took the seat at what he apparently considered the head of the table at the far end of the room. The habit was too ingrained from years of negotiation sessions for me to sit anywhere other than at the
other
head of the table, opposite him and nearest the door, so we were both in positions of power. Alyse perched on the edge of the chair to Tremain's right, and Matt slouched into the seat on his left. Dee sat between me and Matt, with Emma across from her.

"Is this everyone you could find with complaints against me?" Tremain asked Dee with a forced smile. "From the way you've been talking, I thought we'd need an auditorium to fit them all."

I intervened before anyone rose to the bait. "Dee and Emma are representing the local quilting community. They believe you and your merchandise present a risk to the quilt show's reputation. I'd like to hear your side of the story."

"Your friends"—he stabbed a pudgy finger first in Dee's direction and then in Emma's—"are jealous of my success. That's why they want to keep me out of their quilt show. It has nothing to do with my merchandise."

I'd once been so used to the irritation and stress of negotiations I hadn't even noticed it. Now I had to be more careful so I could disengage before I passed out. I kept my voice calm, even as my pulse sped up. "So it's not true you've been misrepresenting the age, and therefore the value, of the quilts you sell? I'm willing to believe mistakes might have happened, without any blame being assigned, but we need to take steps to prevent future issues."

"There's nothing to prevent," he said. "I haven't made any mistakes. It's defamation to suggest otherwise. I'm going to sue everyone in the guild for everything they've got unless I get an apology right this minute."

I hated it when people played lawyer without having the license to back them up, but I just took a calming breath and fought the urge to explain all the technical ways he was wrong about defamation law.

Tremain didn't have any such limits on his irritation. He pointed at Matt. "And I expect this so-called reporter to retract everything he's ever said about me."

"I once called you a successful businessman," Matt said. "I'd be glad to retract that statement."

Tremain glared at me. "Why did you bring him anyway? He's not part of the quilt guild."

I hadn't brought him, but I was starting to be glad he was here. His gleeful provocation of Tremain was just the dose of humor I needed to keep the light-headedness I was starting to feel from getting any worse. "Mr. Viera is here now, and we'll all have to make the most of it. Unless, of course, there's something you don't want the public to know."

"He's a lying freak." Tremain's face flushed, and he somehow managed to find the space under the table to stamp his foot. "I shouldn't have to put up with people like him."

"You mean, people who tell you the truth?" Matt said.

Tremain looked like he was going to have a heart attack on the spot. He kept making gasping sounds while his lips moved as if he were testing out snarky comebacks. I couldn't decide whether to slap him or call 9-1-1.

I glanced at Alyse to see what she made of her partner's behavior. She was absently tapping her cigarette case on the table in what appeared to be boredom rather than embarrassment or concern. She must have seen his tantrums dozens of times before to be so blasé about this one.

Tremain finally found his words, if not his coherence, and began to rant unintelligibly about biased reporters until his anger petered out and his skin faded to a more normal pinkish tone.

Apparently it was just a matter of waiting him out, like any child having a tantrum. I asked, "Are you finished?"

He poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher in front of him. "For now."

"Then perhaps you can address the real issue of whether you've been misrepresenting your quilts. If you have some paperwork, the provenance for them, producing it might be more useful than shouting."

"I've got provenance for all my quilts." Tremain was completely calm now, his face a normal pink color, as if his tantrum had never happened. "The files are in my office. All anyone has to do is ask to see them."

"Why don't we take a fifteen minute break while you get the documentation for some of the quilts out front," I suggested. "I'd particularly like to see the paperwork on the four-patch hanging on the back wall."

"I'd be glad to." He pushed himself to his feet.

Dee was gearing up to say something I just knew wouldn't be helpful, and I wasn't going to make it through another tantrum. Nausea joined the light-headedness, warning me I was on borrowed time.

Dee was too fragile to risk stomping on her foot, so I took her hand and squeezed it gently. She sighed but got the message and refrained from provoking Tremain.

"Excellent." I stood more quickly than I should have, and the light-headedness caused me to sway. I knew what would come next if I didn't get somewhere calm for a few minutes. A trip to the ladies' room to splash some cool water on my face might help, especially if it was followed by a few minutes viewing the four-patch quilt on the back wall. "We'll see you back here in fifteen minutes."

Alyse was the first to leave, rushing outside for her smoke by way of a side door that led to a hallway where the landlord had disappeared earlier.

Matt offered his arms to the two elderly quilters. "I'd be honored to escort you all to the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery. Chocolate fudge cupcakes for everyone."

It was more tempting than it should have been. There was something about his face… No. I needed to have a moment to myself. "I'm going to stay here and check on a few quilts in the shop."

As soon as they were out the front door, I headed for the side exit where I'd glimpsed a ladies' room sign earlier when the landlord had gone out there. Once inside the single-occupancy ladies' room, I shut the door and leaned against it, giving in to the light-headedness. All I needed was a moment of calm, I thought, and then I'd be fine.

I slid down the door, losing consciousness on the way.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the floor, my face resting on the hexagonal tiles that, thank goodness, looked remarkably clean. I rolled onto my back to see if even that simple movement would send my head spinning again. So far, so good.

How long had I been out? I raised my arm to check the time. Only a minute or two had passed.

I sat up cautiously, prepared to lie down again if necessary. The nausea was gone, along with the light-headedness, but my head hurt. I got to my feet and peered into the mirror. A spot of blood was congealing on my temple, surrounded by the faint imprint of hexagonal floor tiles. I must have hit my head when I passed out.

My doctor would have told me to cancel the rest of the meeting, but Tremain would never agree to a postponement. I'd never left a client in the lurch, and I wouldn't start now. I'd been through this sort of syncope episode before, and there wasn't much that could be done about it after the fact. Just avoid stress. Which was exactly what I'd been trying to do before Lindsay had dragged me into this mess.

It wasn't really Lindsay's fault, and I knew it. Part of me had been thrilled by the opportunity to get back into the fray one more time. Subconsciously, I must have been thinking that if I could get through today's negotiation session with nothing more than a hint of nausea, or at least without passing out, then maybe I could go back to my old career, at least part time. That was just a pipe dream, and it was time to accept reality.

Tremain was only mildly irritating, and I still hadn't been able to manage the stress. It made me wonder if I'd be able to handle my speech at the quilt show this Friday. If not, I might not get to say more than, "Good afternoon, quilters," before I landed on the floor with a thud.

I just had to hope that the flooring there would be softer than the tiles in here.

A damp paper towel took care of the smudge of blood on my forehead, and the imprint of the tiles was already fading. I tugged at my shoulder-length hair, grateful that it was thick and a dark enough brown to cover the worst of the laceration, and straightened my suit jacket.

After a final deep breath to confirm the nausea was truly gone, I headed back to the conference room. I was the first to arrive, with Dee, Emma, and Matt appearing a couple of minutes later, carrying travel mugs emblazoned with the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery's logo.

I must have missed something when putting myself back to rights, because Emma greeted me with, "Are you all right, dear?"

"I'm fine."

"Emma's being polite instead of direct," Dee said, pointing to the side of my neck. "You've got blood on your shirt."

I reached up to touch the sore spot on my temple. The blood must have dripped from there. "It's nothing. Just an old scratch that must have reopened while I was washing up."

"Sorry to be late." Alyse hurried into the conference room, having changed into pants. "I burned a hole in my skirt while I was outside." She took her previous seat. "Where's Randall?"

"Still in his office, I presume," I said.

Alyse glanced at the vintage silver watch on her wrist. "It's been twenty minutes. Randall is a brilliant man, but he can never keep track of time. I'd better go get him."

A few moments later, Alyse screamed.

Matt was the first to react, dashing out of the conference room. I was right behind him when he skidded to a stop in the doorway of Tremain's office.

I peered past him, catching sight of an open-eyed Tremain on the floor, with blood pooled around his head.

Alyse was still screaming, hugging the corner of a faded quilt to her chest, with the rest of it draped over her obviously dead partner.

Matt found his smartphone in the third pocket he checked. While he called 9-1-1, I went to intercept Dee and Emma so they wouldn't have to see the corpse.

"What happened?" Dee tried to peer past me and down the corridor. "I hate being treated like a helpless little old lady."

"I know the feeling," I said. "I'm sorry, but Tremain is dead."

"I'm not sorry," Dee said.

"Dee!" Emma said. "You don't mean that."

Dee sighed. "You're right. As usual. He just made me so angry."

Emma tugged Dee back to the table. "I'll keep her here. Did he have a heart attack?"

"It didn't look like natural causes, but we probably shouldn't talk about it until the police get here. Matt called 9-1-1, so they should be here any minute. I'm going out front to let them know what happened."

I'd barely emerged from the corridor into the shop when a young blond man in a blazer and khakis came through the front door. I hadn't heard any sirens, and it was too soon for the police to have arrived, so he had to be a customer.

Dee spoke from somewhere behind me. "What's the twit from the prosecutor's office doing here?"

I turned around to see Dee peeking out of the conference room and Emma trying unsuccessfully to tug her back out of sight without hurting her.

"I'll take care of him," I said. "Just stay in the conference room with Emma. It's the biggest help you can be right now."

I pointedly kept my back to the prosecutor until Dee disappeared from view.

Finally, I turned around and called out, "We're back here." 

The prosecutor favored his left knee slightly as he came toward me. He was too young to have gone into the military between college and law school, so it was probably a sports injury, consistent with his football-player build.

"I'm Keely Fairchild, and I'm told you're a prosecutor." I didn't like to use my legal credentials, but they did expedite matters when dealing with other lawyers. "I'm an attorney too. Retired though."

"Frank Wolfe. Nice to meet you."

"You got here awfully fast."