4 Plagued by Quilt Page 11

  “You’re not going to look at it? Phillip thought he knew who’s buried out there. He was going to share his notes with me. What if that’s one of his notes? What if it tells us something?”

  “Me. It might tell me something. Highly doubtful, though. And I will look at it after I finish with the desk. Call me a methodical plodder, but I like doing things in order. These are all bona fide detective tips, by the way, in case you want to write them down.”

  Calling him a methodical plodder wasn’t the first thing that came to mind. “I thought you had Grace all stitched up for Phillip’s murder. What are you looking for?”

  “Stitched, huh?” He put his fist on his hip and leaned artfully to one side, as though he’d practiced his John Wayne look in a mirror. “Clever. And quilting? That’s why you’re hanging around here again? I’ll put this in terms you’ll understand, then. I’m looking for the odd pieces. Tying off loose ends. See? I know your jargon. I used to watch my grandmother quilt. I’m not without needle skills.”

  “Needle skills? Good for you.” That sounded only half sarcastic. “Why were you needling Zach Aikens out there? Why did you embarrass him like that?”

  “You don’t know his family.”

  “He can’t help who he’s related to, and he’s a smart kid.”

  “Then he’ll take my message as cautionary. But you met him, what, yesterday? Day before? You don’t know him, either. Now, if you don’t mind, I have official business to attend to. Please shut the door on your way out.”

  It took most of my self-control not to slam the door. It took a soupçon of what was left to leave the door very . . . slightly . . . open, and walk away.

  * * *

  With my nerves hovering on the brink of a Clod-induced simmer, I went back down the hall to the education room to see if my volunteers had arrived. Shirley Spivey, or it might have been Mercy, hovered inside the door as though waiting to pounce on me. When the twin saw me, she struck a pose with one hand artfully indicating the mobcap on her head and the other spreading the fabric of her ankle-length patchwork skirt for maximum effect. Mercy’s unpleasant cologne didn’t spread in cloying waves with the spreading of the skirt, so in my role as keen detective, I deduced that this was Shirley.

  “Oh.” Really, my eloquence knew no bounds.

  “Good!” Shirley exclaimed. “You like it. We weren’t sure you would. But we thought we should rally to the spirit of the program and dress the part. It’s good for the kiddos to see how we did things in the olden days.”

  “You used to dress like that? When?”

  “Not us, per se, but you know what I mean.”

  No, I didn’t know what she meant, and even my eloquent “oh” failed to cover for me. I tried blinking as though in accord, instead. Then I looked more closely at Shirley’s skirt—eccentric pieces of embroidered velvets in colors so deep they approached black until they caught the light as Shirley moved. “Shirley, your skirt’s beautiful. Where did it come from?”

  Mercy marched over before Shirley answered. Her mobcap had slipped down the back of her head, revealing her badly permed gray hair, and she wore the twin of Shirley’s skirt. Both skirts looked as though they’d been fashioned from an antique crazy quilt.

  “The kiddos have started arriving and that woman with the bee up her nose—”

  “Mabeline,” Shirley said.

  “Nadine,” I said.

  “She asked where you were,” Mercy said. “Is she always that uptight? Or do you think that’s because of the murder? Come to think of it, that’s probably it. Some people can’t handle that kind of stress. Anyway, don’t worry. We covered for you.”

  “We found the notes and materials you left in here,” said Shirley. “I organized the notes, and Mercy distributed the needles and fabric around the tables.”

  That worried me, but I had another question for them. “Should you be wearing those skirts?” I asked. “Aren’t you afraid something will happen to them? Where did you get them?”

  “Tell her,” Mercy said, nudging Shirley with her elbow. “We made them. As for wearing them, we don’t like to keep our light under a bushel.”

  “Crazy quilting is our forte,” said Shirley.

  “I’ll say. I’m . . . I am so impressed. Why haven’t I seen these skirts before?”

  “You might be surprised how few occasions there are for taking our light out from under the bushel,” said Mercy. “New Year’s Eve is about it. This seemed appropriate.”

  Hardly. There was nothing historically accurate about the skirts as clothing and they weren’t practical for working—or volunteering—at a historic site. But I wasn’t about to argue. I wanted to fall into the blue blacks, inky emeralds, and deep purples of those skirts. I wanted to trace their feather stitches and running daisies.

  “What else have you made?” I asked. “May I?” I backed into a chair at one of the tables, and sat, leaning forward, my elbows on my knees. Shirley swished closer and stood in front of me. Mercy moved in beside her. Their crazy quilt velvet skirts took up my entire field of vision. Even Mercy’s cologne didn’t matter. I clasped my hands between my knees and drank in those skirts. “This velvet is silk, isn’t it? I mean, with no synthetics. Is it old? And what about the embroidery threads?”

  “Our mother had a box of silk threads. Go on and feel it, if you want,” Shirley said.

  “She won’t, I told you,” said Mercy. “It’s her training.”

  My textile training, yes, but also my new fear of “feeling” when touching certain fabrics.

  “The velvet and threads were handed down from Rebecca,” Shirley said.

  I glanced up. “Rebecca who made the Plague Quilt?” I tried to look around the skirts. “Where is it? Did you bring it?”

  “Backseat of the car—oof.” Shirley’s skirt shifted to the left.

  “It’s safe at home,” Mercy said.

  “As I was saying,” Shirley said, “our velvet came from Rebecca. She had two daughters and a son. Her wedding present to each of them, her daughters and the daughter-in-law, was six bolts of velvet and silk threads in enough colors to embroider a garden.”

  “Granny’s mother was the daughter-in-law, right? Rebecca was Granny’s granny? I’ve never heard that story about the velvet and threads. How cool. But that would have been ninety or more years ago. And you made these skirts from some of that velvet? You still had some of it?”

  “Ours is the thrifty side of the family,” Shirley said.

  “No telling how the rest of it was used,” said Mercy. “Or wasted. Here, forget your dang training.”

  I only half listened, so I wasn’t prepared for Mercy’s sudden move. She twitched a handful of her skirt, flipping the bottom up and into my lap.

  I caught it in my hands.

  Chapter 13

  I was lying on the floor, looking up into the faces of a dozen curious teens and an anxious Nadine. I felt as though I’d been lost in a complicated embroidery pattern, as though I’d watched a stop-action video of . . . of what? The history of the Spivey family? Because I’d held the hem of Mercy’s skirt in my hands . . .

  I realized Clod was holding my hand. I yanked my hand from his and worked very hard not to wipe it manically on my pants leg. Shivers went through me and I jammed both hands in my armpits. I heard an odd, gurgling noise and realized it came from me. I stopped when I also realized one of the teenage girls standing near my feet was crying.

  “Hey, I’m okay.” I sat up. “See? I’m fine.”

  Clod was still too close and everyone else was staring. Except the twins. I didn’t see them. And I couldn’t smell Mercy. Where had they gone with those skirts as dark as night, velvet night . . . nightmares . . .

  “Did you hit your head?” Clod asked. “Come on, we should get you checked out.” He put his hand out to help me stand.

  “What?
No. No, really, I’m okay.” I was, too. Head clear again, breathing easily, steady hands. I stood up. “I’m okay now. Thank you, though.”

  “All right, everyone, the drama is over,” Nadine said. “It is over, isn’t it?” She glared at me, looking and sounding more angry than anxious. “The quilting will take place?”

  “Sure, Nadine. Of course. Give me five minutes?”

  She leaned close, still glaring. “You were supposed to be ready to start,” she hissed, “and this is turning into my personal nightmare. You need to start and finish, on time, so that Wes can start and finish on time. He’s stepping in for Phillip, but he is a busy man, with other commitments, and we cannot waste his time.”

  And I frittered my own copious hours away, lolling on cold linoleum floors. I leaned closer to Nadine, reducing the comfort gap further, and stared without blinking until she pulled back. I’d used that technique before, and found it effective for unnerving confrontational colleagues. I thought of it as my “dead-eyed shark look.” Considering how often Geneva used it effectively on me, I decided I could probably rename it my “dead-eyed ghost look.”

  “Fine, Nadine. No problem. We’ll start immediately. But may I make a suggestion? You should take five minutes and get a grip.” Ah, no, I should not have made the suggestion. Too late—mouth opened, tongue disconnected from brain. Granny would not have been proud, and neither was I.

  Nadine gave me the look of an antagonized site director. It was a look that didn’t bode well for gaining her confidence and permission to snoop in her domain. I should have slapped my forehead and apologized instantly, but Clod stepped between us in one of the smoothest moves I’d seen him make. Or maybe he’d missed the tension he’d interrupted, and he was taking the shortest route to the door. In fact, from the tilt of his head and the direction of his nose, it looked as though he’d seen someone or thought of something . . . Without another glance at Nadine or me, without another word, he quickened his pace and disappeared out the door.

  And then I was torn. I wanted to follow him. He’d just reacted in an interesting way. To what? Why? I wanted to know where he was going. But Nadine was right—I needed to get the students engaged in the quilting. I needed to put my nosiness in check. Besides, Nadine saw Clod leave, too, and she was already going after him.

  * * *

  Nadine had either fudged on the number of teens who’d withdrawn from the program, or more had dropped out since she’d called me the night before. It didn’t matter which was true. The first day, two dozen students sat in the auditorium listening to Phillip’s introduction and followed him on the tour of the site. Now—one death, two skeletons, and two days later—half that many sat at tables in the education room, waiting for me to begin the quilt unit. I wondered if, in the name of public relations, Nadine had offered to refund the hefty chunk of money the dropouts had paid for the program.

  I also wondered where Shirley and Mercy were. I didn’t like to admit it, but I needed them; none of my other volunteers had shown up. I wasn’t quite ready to agree with Nadine that the program was a disaster, but it couldn’t take too many more body blows. And then I wished that turn of phrase hadn’t popped into my head.

  “Hi, welcome to the crazy quilt portion of Hands on History. It’s nice to see all of you again. I’m Kath Rutledge. You can call me Kath or Ms. Rutledge; either works for me. I’m going to give you a short introduction to crazy quilts, we’ll look at examples of quilt blocks and a few other artifacts, and then if we can, we’ll jump right into the project.” We would if the irritating Spiveys came back or the other volunteers arrived. I glanced at the door. That didn’t make any of them magically appear. “Along the way, I’ll work in information about nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century textiles, and I’ll do it in such a brilliantly seamless way that each of you will develop a burning desire to pursue advanced degrees in textile conservation.” I looked around at them. “Didn’t you have lanyards with name tags on Monday?”

  “Mr. Bell collected them.”

  “Ah. Well, we’re going to talk about autograph quilts anyway, so let’s start by making one.” I sketched a chart on a blank piece of paper—rectangles for the tables, squares for the students, and then added a frivolous sawtooth border all around. “Quilts with embroidered signatures were popular keepsakes and going-away presents in the nineteenth century. They were a functional, decorative way of remembering friends. This will be my keepsake, and at least for this morning I’ll know your names.” I held the paper up. “Your piece of the quilt is where you’re sitting. Find your square on our seating quilt and put your name in it.”

  “Should we put our last names, too?”

  “First and last names will be great. And neatly, please, so I can read them.”

  While they passed the seating chart, I stewed over the missing volunteers. The TGIF quilters were experts—artists who enjoyed hooking other people on their art. Our plan called for me doing my academic bit, but the Hands on History quilt sessions really belonged to them. They’d be guiding the students through the steps of making a quilt—albeit a small one—from start to finish. Most of the volunteers had committed to quilting with the students each morning through the whole two-week program. Surely they hadn’t all backed out in reaction to Phillip’s death—not without telling either Nadine or me. So where were they?

  Oh. I looked at the communicating door at the back of the room and felt like a fool. In the confusion of . . . everything . . . we’d no doubt crossed wires, and I would find them sitting in the auditorium, chatting happily and wondering where the heck we were.

  But the auditorium was dark. Empty, too, unless the Spiveys hung like a couple of old bats from the ceiling. On my way back to the front of the room, I pulled out my phone and called Ardis.

  “I haven’t heard anything on this end,” she said when I told her what was going on. “Don’t send anyone looking around for them.”

  “It isn’t dangerous, Ardis.”

  “We don’t know that, but I can find them faster with a few phone calls than a teenager will traipsing around the Homeplace. I’ll hunt, you punt, and I’ll call you back.”

  I disconnected and one of the girls handed me the completed chart. “Thanks . . .” I waited to see where she sat down. “Thanks, Barb. This is great. All right, let’s get started with a question. What do zombies and yoga pants have in common with bacon-flavored ice cream?”

  And there wasn’t a single peep. Zach would have gotten that riddle, I told myself. But he’d attached himself to Jerry and the skeleton. Skeletons. Two skeletons. Did these kids know there were two? Two and counting? Did that mean it wasn’t Geneva out there? Or was it Geneva and someone else? Two bodies where they shouldn’t be . . . the memory of two bodies haunting Geneva . . .

  “Ma’am? Are you sure you’re all right?” Ethan, according to the chart.

  They really were a nice bunch of teenagers. They continued staring at me, but now they looked concerned instead of clueless.

  “Sorry.” I gave myself a shake and smiled at them. “Zombie walking over my grave. What do zombies, yoga pants, and bacon-anything have in common? They’re fads. Everyone agree with that?” They did. “Good. People followed fads in the 1890s, too, and making crazy quilts was one of them. Quilters—men as well as women and girls—made crazy quilts for a variety of reasons, and not just to sleep under. This was the height of the Victorian era, and people loved clutter. They filled their parlors with curios—” I stopped. “Do you know what a curio is?”

  “I don’t, but I’m curious.” That wag, sitting next to Ethan, was Nash. They fist-bumped and sat back, looking pleased.

  “Kudos for being curious. The term ‘conversation piece’ was coined at that time. They filled their parlors with objects—natural and man-made—from around the country and around the world, and crazy quilts fit into that trend. You saw the crazy quilts on display in the museum here on Monday.
Did their crazy—their crazed—pattern remind you of looking through a kaleidoscope? Because the Victorians loved kaleidoscopes, too, and some historians see a connection between that love and the love for crazy quilts.”

  “I can see that,” Barb said.

  “Good.” And then I realized that I had seen that—the weird patterns that spun through my head when my hands touched Mercy’s skirt were completely kaleidoscopic. Thinking about it, trying to anchor those fractured, spinning images, trying to bring them into focus, threatened to make my head spin again. I needed to concentrate on what I was doing.

  “Crazy quilts,” I said on a deep breath, “were it. And the Gilded Age Victorians put them everywhere. They covered pianos with them and draped them on tables and on the backs of sofas. And the quilts weren’t just part of the clutter. With their lush fabrics, lack of symmetrical or repetitive patterns, and elaborate embroidery, the quilts themselves were cluttered. Quilters created them out of scraps of velvet, pieces of favorite dresses, handkerchiefs, men’s ties, silk cigar bands, ribbons commemorating special celebrations and events, and out of the clothes of loved ones who’d passed on.”

  “They recycled,” said a boy sitting behind Barb—that would be Tyler.

  “They did, Tyler. But not always. Companies were as sharp in 1880 as they are today, and some of them capitalized on the crazy quilt fad. You could go down to the mercantile in Blue Plum and buy bags of velvet and silk scraps packaged specifically for crazy quilts. Or you could buy them through mail order. And you could buy magazines with quilt patterns and embroidery designs.”

  I held up a scrapbook I’d borrowed from Ernestine. Her granddaughter had started it when her first baby was born. I flipped through the pages so the students could see the decorative papers and colorful borders highlighting the story of the baby’s first year.

  “Do any of you know someone who scrapbooks?” I asked.