Authors: Clare O'Donohue
That evening I sat in the kitchen with a little notebook, writing out every clue and every suspect. If Jesse was going to let me be a part of the investigation, I wanted to have something to say.
When Eleanor and Nancy finally closed up shop and Nancy left for the night, I stopped my work and made my grandmother dinner. While I cooked, she sat at the table looking over my notebook.
“What is this?”
I turned red. “It’s my list of suspects,” I admitted.
“Carrie, Natalie . . . these aren’t suspects. These are my friends. Your friends,” she said.
I put a plate of chicken tacos and rice in front of Eleanor and a second plate at my place. I sat down but was too excited with my theories to actually eat. I told my grandmother about my weeks of detective work.
“Carrie needed money to open her own business. She said so,” I said. “Plus she was having an affair with Marc, then he started going after me, so she was upset and jealous and she killed him,” I said as we headed back to town.
“Based on the fact that she gushed about him.”
“And she had his keys.”
“Why did he give her his keys?” Eleanor asked.
“So they could meet at his place. They couldn’t exactly go to her house. They couldn’t get a hotel room in town. It makes perfect sense.”
“
If
Carrie knew about the money.
If
she was having an affair with him.
If
she had his keys,” my grandmother reminded me.
“Okay. Natalie. She had tons of motive.”
“Yes, she did.”
I looked at her. “You don’t think it was Natalie.”
“She doesn’t have the stomach for that kind of thing.” I realized Eleanor was considering each suspect as carefully as I was. “Susanne had the same motive.”
“I don’t think so. For all her faded glamour girl stuff, she’s a pretty smart person. If she were going to kill Marc, I think it would have been planned out,” I said.
Eleanor smiled. “So we’re ruling Susanne out because she’s more of a premeditated killer and we’ve got a spur-of-the-moment murder on our hands.”
“Do you think she did it?”
“Not really. I think you’re right on that one.”
“Ha.” I smiled. “Okay, who’s left?” Eleanor glanced over at me. “You said he didn’t do it,” I said.
I didn’t feel like playing this game anymore, and I wasn’t hungry either.
The next morning I went to Jesse’s office early. Maybe it was better leaving the investigation to the experts. As an amateur I kept coming back to the same suspect. I was anxious to hear what Jesse had come up with, especially if he finally was willing to be open with me about the investigation. The problem was, Ryan was the only suspect Jesse wanted to talk about.
“We have to consider it so we can rule him out,” he said. “Ryan punched Marc on two occasions on the day he was killed. Plus he admits that he saw you and Marc kissing in the shop, so he knew where Marc was.”
“He was at Moran’s Pub when Marc was killed.”
“So he says.”
“No. I checked with the bartender.”
“You checked your fiancé’s alibi?”
“Yes.” I didn’t want to say any more, but Jesse would find out anyway. “The bartender remembers him, but he can’t be specific about the time, and Moran’s is only a few blocks away. Besides, Ryan was on the phone saying he’d made a big mistake.”
“About calling off the wedding?” Jesse asked. “Who was he talking to?”
“A friend. I don’t know. What difference does that make?”
“Did he tell you calling off the wedding was a big mistake?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Later.”
“Nell.” I looked away from him. I knew his next question, and I didn’t want to answer it. “When did he tell you that calling off the wedding was a mistake?”
“After the murder.”
“After you expressed doubts about his innocence.”
“I was mad at him about the wedding. I felt like he wasn’t being honest. But I never . . .” Jesse looked over at me.
“What are you holding back?” he asked flatly.
“Nothing.” I bit my lip but said it anyway. “He didn’t come into the shop.”
“What?”
“You asked me if Ryan came into the shop with me on the day Marc was killed. He didn’t. The only way he could have gotten his fingerprints on the stuff in that box is if he . . .”
“Was in the shop after you left.” Jesse stared straight ahead.
“Say something,” I prompted.
“You should have told me when I asked.”
“I was trying to protect him.”
“And now?”
I didn’t have an answer. Jesse waited for a moment, then opened a drawer in his desk.
“I wasn’t sure whether I should play this for you, but I think I probably should,” he said.
Jesse put a small tape recorder on his desk and popped in a tape. I sat down, with my wedding invitations still on his desk where I’d left them days before. They blocked my view and made me feel uncomfortable, so I put them on the floor.
Jesse pressed play, and I heard his voice, “So if the wedding was off, why did you come up here?”
“I felt like I owed Nell a better explanation,” I heard Ryan say. “She left her apartment, her job, her friends. I felt bad.”
“You didn’t come to win her back?”
“No.”
“So why did you punch Marc?”
“He said some really crass things about her. It made me mad.”
“How mad?”
“Look,” I heard Ryan say, “it wasn’t like he was taking my girlfriend. She wasn’t my girlfriend anymore. And that was my choice.”
Jesse stopped the tape. “I’m sorry. But you seemed to want to know the truth.”
I felt a ball form in the center of my stomach and tears well up behind my eyes. I wanted to run into the bathroom and cry, but I didn’t want Jesse to see me fall apart. “He didn’t want you to think he had a motive,” I said.
“That’s possible. He could have lied about why he came up here. Just liked he lied about being with you in the store.”
I nodded. “I think he was nervous. And maybe he didn’t know at that moment that he wanted me back.”
“You’re playing one hell of a tennis game with yourself,” he said. Jesse pointed to the blue box at my feet. “Do you still want those?”
I picked them up and started to walk toward the door, hoping I’d get out before I burst into tears.
“If you need to talk . . . ,” he said quietly as I opened the door. I nodded, but I didn’t answer him.
CHAPTER 51
Though it was a Wednesday, the entire Friday Night Quilt Club was at Eleanor’s house when I got home. I was in no mood for quilt wisdom or the kind words of women I had pretty much acquilt wisdom or the kind words of women I had pretty much accused of murder, so I walked past the activity and headed upstairs. I dumped the invitations on my bed and was about to lie down when Barney came in the room.
“Hey there, fellow.” I patted his head lightly. I could hear the activity in full swing down below and I knew he had come to me for an escape, but he wasn’t going to get it. I suddenly realized I didn’t feel like examining my conflicted feelings for Ryan. I’d spent enough time doing that already, and it was getting a little old. “Sorry, boy. We have a quilt to make.”
Barney reluctantly followed me out the door and down the stairs, and when we walked into the dining room, I could see why he needed a break. There were three sewing machines set up, with Carrie, Eleanor and Natalie each manning one. The rest of the women were furiously cutting fabrics. Nancy was in the middle of it all, arranging sewn blocks on a long piece of white flannel that looked as if it had been stapled to the wall.
“The fabric sticks to the flannel without having to pin,” she said when I went over to check out the progress.
“Everything looks great,” I offered. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Ladies, we have a volunteer,” shouted Susanne.
“I’ll put you to work right here,” Maggie said. “Each of these blocks needs to be pressed very carefully before you give them to Nancy. And watch out, the iron is hot.”
“Sounds easy enough.” I picked up a block and ran the iron across it, nearly giving Maggie a stroke.
“No, dear,” she said. “We don’t iron a block. We press it.” She held the iron and moved it onto a spot on the block, held it there for a moment, then picked it up and placed it on another spot. “It’s simple.”
“I know there’s a difference,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “But what is it?”
“If you iron back and forth, you might distort the block, stretch out the fibers,” Maggie said, sounding patient and soft toward me for the first time. “It’s a mistake we all make, dear.”
I took the second block and carefully placed the iron on it for a few seconds. Maggie nodded her approval and left me alone to the task.
“How’s the progress at the shop?” Bernie asked me. “Are we ahead or is he?”
“It’s hard to say. He’s got the place painted and the shelves are up. He still needs to put in the countertop and a few other things.”
“It’ll be a tight race,” said Eleanor.
“Then we need reinforcements.” Bernie smiled and walked out of the room, returning a few minutes later with a plastic container full of fudge.
I grabbed a piece, even though I wasn’t sure if Maggie would approve of my eating and ironing. “This is amazing.”
“I’ll give you the recipe.”
“Hand it here, Bernie,” Maggie said with a smile. Apparently quilting and chocolate did mix. Maggie grabbed herself several hunks of fudge and tossed a piece to Natalie, who barely caught it, making both women laugh.
After I finished with the pressing, I was put on one of the machines.I think it was more to amuse the rest of the group than to teach me sewing, but I did a pretty good job sewing a straight line. As it turned out, it wasn’t that hard. It just took a little coordination.
“Piecing a top,” Bernie said, referring to sewing the top of the quilt, I had figured out, “can be pretty easy if you choose a simple pattern.”
I took a deep breath and kept sewing. I felt an odd satisfaction in taking the separate pieces of fabric and making them one. After twenty minutes of steadily sewing block after block, I looked up for my next piece.
“Let me see,” Maggie said. “Not bad,” she said as she examined my work. “Let’s look at it.” She handed the quilt top to Nancy, who put it on the wall. Then Nancy placed long pieces of mottled purple fabric on each side of the quilt.
We all stepped back and took a first look at what the quilt would look like. The effect was mesmerizing. Alone the blocks had seemed like a jumble of multicolored squares, but put together it was like an impressionist garden.
“I hope the shop is as nice as this quilt,” Natalie said, and we all agreed. Bottles of wine were opened, toasts were made and everyone sat around feeling pretty good—and a little high on the strangely satisfying combination of white wine and fudge.
“Well, you’re not a virgin anymore.” Bernie poured me a second glass of wine.
“Honestly, Bernadette,” Maggie said, “you have the oddest way of putting things.”
“It’s okay,” I laughed. “I guess I’m a quilter now.”
“Well, you hang out with the wrong crowd and you’re going to pick up some bad habits.” Nancy patted me on the shoulder.
I looked over at my grandmother sitting on a chair, her broken leg propped up. She smiled at me and I smiled back. I could finally see what had brought her to quilting. It was creative, it was practical and it was tradition. Passed down from one generation of women to the next going back hundreds of years, no matter the circumstance. From the slaves in the pre-Civil War South, who sewed scraps to warm themselves and celebrate their individuality . . . to Victorian-day women who showed off their high social station by making elaborate embroidered pieces on silks and satins to display both their wealth and the amount of leisure time they had . . . to the Amish women who even today use bright colors and elaborate stitching to showcase their abilities, while still remaining humble . . . to the women in this room with their unique styles, often strange personalities and strong friendships. I was proud to be considered one of them, even if only for one night.
“Isn’t there still a lot of work to do?” I finally asked.
“Tomorrow,” Nancy laughed. “Unless you can figure out a way to stall Tom.”
“I guess I should get home to the baby,” Natalie sighed.
“Oh, yeah. Children,” Carrie said. “I should go too.”
Nancy and Bernie agreed to stay behind and clean up the dining room so it would be ready for customers in the morning. I walked Barney, who had spent most of the evening in the kitchen.
“What is his problem?” I asked Eleanor, who was making herself tea when I got back to the house.
“He’s not used to so many people, all day long,” she said as Barney dropped into his dog bed. “I think the poor thing is petted out.”
I petted him anyway, and he did his best to ignore me. And then I did the dishes.
“Well, you’ve put that one to work, haven’t you,” Bernie said to Eleanor as she walked in the kitchen.
“She has,” I admitted. “And I’ve got the dishpan hands to prove it.” I held up my dry hands in kind of show-and-tell.
Bernie reached into her purse and took out a small jar. “Try this,” she said, and tossed it to me. “It’s quilter’s hand wax.”
“What makes it for quilters?”
“It’s not specifically,” Eleanor said. “It’s just a great waxy moisturizer that softens hands but won’t get greasy and ruin fabric, so you can use it while you’re sewing.”
I opened the jar and smelled it. It didn’t smell like anything. I dipped in. It was, as described, waxy. I spread a little on my hands and rubbed it in. My hands felt softer, but she was right—there was no greasiness. I put my finger back in the jar and took a little more. It seemed familiar. It seemed like the same stuff that had been on the stairs in the shop—the stairs Eleanor and I had both slipped on.
“Where did you get this, Bernie?” I asked.
“At the shop. Your grandmother sells it by the truckload.” Eleanor nodded.
I turned the jar upside down. “What are you doing?” Eleanor asked.
“I’m just trying to see if it spills. If it could have been accidentally spilled on the steps.”