“When did you last see her?” Tony stole Theo’s glass and drained the last of the tea.
“This morning.” As she retrieved her empty glass, Theo gave him a glare that could have melted an iceberg. “It’s funny you should be asking about her. I saw her the other day for the first time in years.” She pulled an ice cube out of the glass and rubbed it on the soles of her bare feet. “She came into the shop just a couple of days ago. We chatted for a little bit and I suggested lunch. She showed up this morning just before Nellie Pearl arrived with the news about Doreen.”
Tony felt a chill, and the hair on his arms lifted. He hoped his voice would not betray his unease. “She was in your shop? Today? Has she moved back again?” He surged to his feet, preparing to call the boys home, and sat back down when he realized he was overreacting. The golden retriever only behaved like a clown. She was fiercely protective of the boys.
He hoped Theo hadn’t noticed his bizarre behavior as he continued his interrogation.
Theo’s eyes widened behind the lenses of her glasses. She had definitely noticed.
Her mouth opened. He rushed ahead, forestalling her inevitable curiosity. “Is she married?” In his horrified state, he realized he hadn’t given Theo time to answer one question before he asked the next. He shut up.
“Maybe.” Theo gave him a curious look. “She did have a little boy with her the first time. I think she said he’s one year old. She didn’t have the boy with her today.” Theo held her arms protectively close to her chest. “I don’t know why she makes me feel uneasy. When Nellie Pearl announced Doreen’s death, she stayed for a little while and then left. I was glad. I don’t want to eat with her.”
Most days, Tony saw Theo for the woman she had grown up to be—confident but reserved, creative, energetic and full of love. Rarely now, he saw glimpses of the tiny little girl she’d been, looking out at a world she was forbidden to join. Growing up without television or other “lurid” entertainment, Theo hadn’t become desensitized to violence of any kind.
“If it’s all the same, I’d rather you two don’t become chums.”
Theo stared at him for a minute and then nodded.
Tony hoped he’d said the right thing. Vicky’s killing spree, if true, took place almost twenty years ago and had yet to be proven. He could imagine what would happen if he told Theo about it. Her social skills didn’t extend to acting. She’d make Vicky suspicious. Theo couldn’t pretend she hadn’t heard the weird story. Theo would end up staring at Vicky as if she was an exotic insect.
Tony shifted and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close to his side. Even in the stifling heat, he welcomed the warmth of her pressed against him. He was not surprised to feel her tremble. Until he realized it was himself and not her who shivered.
Tony lay awake in the dark.
When he closed his eyes, he could still see the devastating wound the flax hackle had left in Doreen’s throat. He hadn’t seen the injury until he attended the autopsy that had taken place late in the afternoon.
Tony’s stomach churned and he eased from the bed, searching for antacids. Doreen’s throat had been pierced to the bone with the rows of spikes. Death was inevitable. The coroner doubted immediate medical attention could have done more than slow the process.
Tony’s number-one suspect in the death of Doreen had to be Calvin. His obvious glee at his wife’s demise was understandable, however politically incorrect. Dragging packing boxes into the house before setting the date of the funeral was not acceptable behavior. Surely, if the mayor wanted to look innocent, he would trot out the sackcloth and ashes instead of tap dancing up the sidewalk like Fred Astaire?
The whole scene of the crime out at the museum didn’t look like a premeditated job. It looked angry, impulsive, like someone had grabbed the murder weapon from a shelf and used it. It might even have been self-defense.
So suspect number two had to be? His mother? Fabulous. His aunt? Excellent. His own wife. Better and better. If his list expanded to include everyone who ever had a skirmish with the woman and drew back a bloody stub, it would be a roster of the whole county.
His thoughts shifted to the problem of getting a search warrant for the Nelson property. That dispelled the last possibility of sleep, so he wandered downstairs to his miniature office where he distracted himself by scribbling ideas for his Western in a worn spiral notebook. Questions about Doreen’s death and Icky Vicky continued to plague him.
Tony awoke with a start.
He realized he still held his pen and the notebook had shifted into the space between his leg and the recliner’s armrest. Although he dozed in his chair, he found little comfort anywhere. He might as well go to work. He needed to organize his rioting thoughts. Every question that popped into his head led to six more.
A quick shower revived him a bit, so he felt reasonably alert when he arrived in his office.
He found a pink phone message slip on the center of his desk. Deciphering the night dispatcher’s handwriting, he learned Doreen’s beige Volvo had turned up in a long-term parking lot near Maghee Tyson Airport, the airport serving Knoxville and the surrounding area.
When had the car been left? By whom? More questions circled in his head and Tony hoped the parking ticket would be inside the Volvo and might provide some lead.
Tony didn’t know what to think. Had the killer driven the car to the airport or had Doreen? It was too early to phone Calvin. He left his office and drove, searching for inspiration.
Drawn to the museum site, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something important.
He parked the Blazer at the entrance, rolled down the window and simply sat. At this time of day everything remained in semidarkness, awaiting full morning light. It was already hot and muggy. The promise of a storm hovered in the air.
A rooster crowed. The way sound bounced through the hills, it could have come from anywhere. If Doreen had screamed, that sound would have been distorted as well.
“What was Doreen doing out here?” If he could answer that question, Tony believed all of the other answers would fall into place like a key opening a lock.
He closed his eyes, thinking. An educated guess would be that Doreen went into the trailer because of the quilt. She might have decided against lending it. Did she surprise a thief? Before he finished that line of thought, another scenario presented itself. Maybe Doreen and her killer arrived together, had an argument and things got nasty. And then what? The killer drove out to the airport and abandoned Doreen’s car?
Either way, he suspected those quilts were at the center of the events.
Gus should arrive soon.
Tony settled in to wait for his brother. The scent of warm earth mixed with the soft sounds of birds and insects lulled him to sleep.
The
k-chunk, k-chunk
sound of a nail gun awakened him. He checked his watch, surprised to find an hour had passed. In full light it was easy to see that where the previous day’s red mud had dried, it now looked like alligator skin.
A quick call to the mayor produced nothing new. The man was useless as far as information about his wife’s travels. He didn’t know when she planned to leave. He didn’t know when she was due back. He didn’t know where she was going. He didn’t know if she might leave her car at the airport and drive somewhere with someone else. He promised to look for the extra set of keys.
The foundation and framing showed the new part of the museum was moving rapidly. Tony watched as Mac and Gus worked high off the ground, nailing plywood on the pitched roof. Below them, skinny Quentin and tiny Kenny wrestled a sheet of plywood over to the wall and then shoved it up until Mac and Gus could lean over, grab it and lay it in place. The idea of being up there and leaning over the side made Tony feel a little queasy.
He looked away.
Yellow police tape still sealed off the trailer and the surrounding area. Steam rose from the deeper puddles. Heavy equipment sat idle, parked between the new structure and the kudzu-covered hillside. At this time of year, you could practically see the stuff growing, twining itself around everything in its path. A noxious experiment had gone awry like some science-fiction monster, kudzu had been imported to lessen erosion. It thrived on the poor soil and climbed telephone poles and buildings with equal enthusiasm. It was a cosmic joke.
His mother and aunt arrived and met him as he lowered himself from the Blazer. The women looked tired. He doubted either of them managed even as much sleep as he did.
“Did you want us to go inside with you?”
“We’ll wait for Wade.” Tony frowned at his mother’s disheveled state. Her hair looked uncombed. Not at all Jane’s style. “I need you to look around and tell me if you notice anything out of place or different in any way.”
Wade arrived and pulled his camera out of its case.
Tony nodded and escorted them toward the trailer. The broken hasp and hardware had been bagged as evidence. The laboratory technician who had taken his call assured him that if presented with a tool, they would be able to confirm or eliminate it as the item used to pry it off.
A new, stronger hasp had been bolted to the trailer door and wall about a foot below the original. The size and strength of it displayed Gus’s workmanship. His first construction job had been a birdhouse in Cub Scouts. It would last a hundred years.
Gus loved to build things to last.
His brother Gus was a gentle soul, the least violent of all his siblings. That was enough information to keep him off the serious suspect list. Finding it inconceivable wasn’t enough to eliminate him.
Suspicion nagged at Tony. Gus and Doreen had an unpleasant history. Last he knew, Doreen still hadn’t paid Gus for some carpentry work in her shop. And he was one of the last to leave the site. And it would be child’s play for him to break into the trailer. And he would easily have the strength to wield the flax hackle.
Tony could only positively eliminate himself as a suspect. That left the field wide for possibilities. He could even come up with a scenario in which any of the women in his life would want to kill Doreen; however, none of them would have tossed an antique quilt onto her.
His mother sagged against him. Although she wasn’t young, she wasn’t old, and her energy level was remarkable. Not today. Today as she looked around the items in the trailer, she appeared pale and smaller than usual. Of course, stepping over the chalked outline of Doreen’s body was enough to make anyone quiet.
“I just don’t understand. What are we looking for?” Jane’s fingers caressed the items on the shelves. “There is nothing here with any monetary value. It’s all family stuff or something with regional history.”
“No one’s donated the original Magna Carta?” Tony teased, trying unsuccessfully to get a rise out of either of the women.
His aunt pointed to a clear glass cookie jar. Even from across the room, it was easy to see coins and bills inside. “I’d take that if I broke in, and it’s only got maybe a hundred dollars in it.”
“You don’t think Gus did it, do you?” Jane’s sudden statement looked like it took her by surprise.
Tony swung around to look into her face. “Do you?”
“No.” Her response was emphatic. Her eyes remained uncertain. “I can’t imagine him doing such a thing, can you?”
“No.” With the word came total belief, and he knew what he said was true. “Not Gus.”
Theo sat in the corner of the shop classroom working on a wall quilt. The room buzzed with chatter as quilters worked on the charity quilt or a project they’d brought along. Theo’s current quilt had informed her it wanted beads added to it. As usual, she accepted the notion that arguing with fabric was a waste of time. Either projects held real opinions, or the subconscious was smarter than the conscious. It didn’t matter. She would sew beads. Concentrating on placing the beads and keeping up with the various conversations in the room was becoming difficult.
From what she could tell, the general consensus among the quilters gathered in the room was, although Doreen had not been anyone’s favorite, hers was a terrible way to die. There was a certain amount of speculation among the older ladies about whether or not the murder quilt had played a role. Maybe it carried a curse.
As titillating as the idea of a voodoo quilt might be, the truth was much sadder.
“What do you know about the murder quilt, Theo?”
Theo looked over at the small group working on a charity quilt. The sweetly voiced question came from an unexpected source. Louise Gormet, co-owner of the new Gormet Coffee Shop next door, was a newbie to quilting.
“Doreen gave us a brief history.” Theo frowned, remembering Doreen would not be able to give them the full one now. The family might even decide to remove it from the museum. She hoped not. “Do you know there are two quilts?”
Louise nodded.
“As I understand it, the engagement quilt was pieced by her father’s family. It was made to celebrate Abigail’s engagement to the son of a state senator.” Theo set aside her project. “All accounts are that Abigail didn’t want to marry the young man her father had more or less selected for her. He put his foot down when he learned Abigail was with child. The father of the unborn baby was never disclosed. The assumption is he was already married or he simply abandoned her.”
“So why did she agree to the engagement?”
“It was an arrangement by the families, more or less.” She glanced around the room. “Women weren’t so independent then, you know. Having a fatherless child was beyond shocking.”
“Did you say there was a second quilt?”
“Yes,” said Theo. “Apparently, Abigail made it all by herself to give to the young man she loved and was pregnant by.” The room seemed filled by Abigail’s sorrow. “I don’t have many facts. I understand Abigail finished the quilt about the same time her groom realized she was pregnant and he killed her, wrapped her body in her lover’s quilt, and left town, never to be heard from again. The murder fueled stories for the next generations, but her lover’s name was never spoken.”