4 Plagued by Quilt Page 19

  “You or Cole?”

  “Both of us. Okay, so no. No, not like me. But Fredda and Grace both left bad relationships.”

  “Grace followed her bad relationship.”

  “And Fredda might have fallen into another one. If the police are using abuse as a motive for Grace, it works for Fredda, too. How is it you came to recommend her for the caretaker’s job?”

  “I ran into her a time or two. She’d started her lawn care business. She worked hard and the business let her get by, probably just barely. I knew she’d be good out there at the Homeplace and she could use a more reliable income.”

  “I’m glad you were able to help her.”

  “It helped me, too. I didn’t mind filling in out there short term, after Em died, but I didn’t want to be tied down.”

  “You have a reputation to uphold?”

  “Renaissance Appalachian Idler. It’s a low-maintenance facade.”

  “And you do it well. You even had Ardis fooled for a while this afternoon with your fishing trip. But you can’t fool all the people all the time.”

  “What about fooling around with some of the people some of the time?”

  It flashed through my mind to wonder if his “some” was just wordplay or if “some” included Fredda. But Joe had been completely matter-of-fact talking about her, not evasive or uncomfortable, and he wasn’t with Fredda. He was with me. Reaching his hand across the table for mine.

  That weird sensory business that made me leery of brushing against a sleeve, or of resting my hand in the small of a back, wasn’t a problem at all when clothing didn’t get in the way.

  * * *

  Due to one thing or another, telling Joe about the missing hackle slipped my mind that evening and the next morning, too. Or maybe that happened subconsciously on purpose, because what he didn’t know wouldn’t be something he might or might not feel obliged to pass along to his brother. Not that TGIF was in competition with the sheriff’s department, and not that we didn’t want Clod to find the murder weapon. But by letting Joe go off and do his Appalachian Renaissance thing without the worry of weighing moral decisions, I felt I’d done my first good deed for the day. Two, really. Because by keeping the rumor about a missing flax hackle from percolating through to the sheriff, I was continuing to be a good, non-interfering citizen. No deputy was going to catch me making reports that couldn’t be backed up by facts.

  After a cup of coffee, that logic still made sense to me. I left for the Homeplace and another morning of Spiveys, eager teenagers, quilting, and Hands on History with a clear conscience. But first, I stopped by the Weaver’s Cat to check on Geneva.

  Argyle met me at the back door. He twined around my ankles to make sure I knew the way to the cupboard and from the cupboard to his bowl. Geneva floated down the stairs while he supervised portion control. She circled me. Twice.

  “You look . . . happy,” she said, going around one more time.

  “You make that sound like a questionable activity. The morning is beautiful, Geneva. I’m happy and enjoying it.”

  “A good weather report does not usually give you such a self-satisfied look.”

  “I, uh, I slept well. How about you?”

  “To sleep, perchance to dream,” she said. “There, Argyle wants a rub.”

  He butted his head against my ankle and said, “Mrrph.” I knelt and scrubbed him between his ears.

  “Rather than sleep or dream,” Geneva said, “I thought of a clue. The other woman in the cottage—”

  “Let’s call her Fredda instead of ‘the other woman.’ What about her?”

  “I am trying to tell you. She turned off the high-quality, high-def television halfway through Magnum, P.I.”

  The TV again. I didn’t groan; the morning was that beautiful and Argyle’s attention that sweet. “You told me about that last night.”

  “She turned it off at the halfway point.”

  “Yes. And your point?”

  “She turned Thomas on at the beginning. She turned Thomas off halfway through.”

  “Thomas?” All I could think of was tank engines and the fact that Geneva was stuck on a one-way track.

  “The beautiful morning and the love of a shedding cat have addled your brain. I will try to simplify the clue so that you can follow along. Please pay attention.” She hovered in front of me, back straight, hands clasped—a foggy gray schoolmarm. “Thomas Magnum is a brave man with a moustache, a current P.I. license, and an exciting caseload. Fredda was in the cottage for half of one case, including commercial breaks for products that made me blush and watch between my fingers. A whole case is solved in one hour—Thomas is that clever. Do you see how this is like a math problem? If a whole case is a whole hour, a half case is a half hour. Fredda was in the cottage for one half hour, and during that time she could have touched or taken any number of things. Unfortunately, we will never know what things, because I did not know she was a suspect. You did not tell me, and I cannot take responsibility for your lapse in judgment.”

  I sat back on my heels. “That’s a good clue, Geneva.”

  “Thank you. After listening to my audio episode with Jessica last night, I rehearsed my clue so I would not have a lapse in memory the way some people have lapses in judgment. What do you think the clue tells us?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “I wish you knew, too. I put a lot of work into it.”

  “Thank you for all your work, Geneva.”

  “And my attention to detail. Did I remember to mention his moustache?”

  “You did.”

  “I should have also remarked on his muscles.”

  “Speaking of muscles, I liked what you said last night—that searching for clues and answers feels like strength. I think searching for concrete clues really is doing something for you. And that gives me hope that we’ll find answers. Maybe to a lot of our questions.”

  She held one arm up in a muscleman pose and prodded her biceps. “Do I appear stronger?”

  Oddly enough, she did appear stronger, though not in the sense she meant. I could see her better. She wasn’t as watery or filmy. She was still gray, but she appeared more . . . dimensional, more solid, and there was something about her face that I could almost see clearly.

  “Geneva, pull your hair back from your forehead, will you?”

  She lifted her hair and held it just long enough for me to see a frightening crimson streak. But in the next second she cried out, jerking back as though she’d been struck, and she sank toward the floor, falling in terrible slow motion, her hands reaching up to catch hold of something, anything, nothing.

  “Geneva?”

  She started to fade and, still in slow motion, she collapsed on the floor.

  “Geneva! What’s happening? What happened?”

  She’d been strong, searching for clues. She’d even been happy. But then what? Had she remembered something?

  She lay like a shadow on the wide boards. Like a ghost. Argyle and I sat beside her until I had to leave for the Homeplace.

  “Keep watch until I get back,” I told the cat. “And you,” I said to the ghost. “You stay with us.”

  * * *

  As I turned the corner to head out of town, I saw Thea leaving Mel’s with Wes Treadwell—Thea laughing, her hand on Wes’ arm. That echoed Nadine’s habit, and I was oddly comforted knowing I wasn’t the least bit tempted to put my hand on his arm. I waved as I went past, but neither of them saw me. No matter. That Thea was engaging one of our unknown quantities—up and detecting well before the library opened—could only be a good sign.

  * * *

  Nadine opened the door for me at the visitors’ center, a coffee mug in one hand. “Good morning, Kath.”

  “How are you, Nadine? Oh, sorry.”

  I’d caught her with the mug to her lips. She finished with a
gulp and a smile. It was nice to see that some of the strain of the last few days had left her face.

  “I’m doing better. Thank you for asking.” Some of the sharp tones were gone from her voice, too. Wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and old sneakers might have helped that impression along. Looking forward to working in the herb garden—with a heady mix of green growing things and budding historians—might have helped, too.

  “Any changes in the schedule today?” I asked.

  “Not unless you want to help us weed and water the garden after you finish quilting.”

  I looked down at the knees of my pressed khakis and back at Nadine.

  “I’m kidding, Kath. You’re doing enough for us already. I would like to talk to you sometime, though, about the natural-dye classes you have at your shop. I’m putting together a grant proposal for an herb festival next spring and I thought your shop and the members of your group would be a natural fit.”

  “Interesting. What are you thinking, a demonstration? A workshop?”

  “A workshop—hands-on like we’re doing now—would be an attraction, don’t you think? I want to line up presenters for a variety of topics. I’d definitely like to cover cultivation and traditional herbal medicine, and get someone in for a cooking demonstration. All of that’s a conversation for another time, though. Your quilting volunteers beat you here this morning. They’re already in the room setting up. I’ll call you about the grant. Better yet, I’ll stop by the shop sometime.”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  I put the brakes on at the door to the education room, too chicken to set foot inside. The place looked dangerous. John Berry and Ernestine stood on one side of one of the long tables, staring at Shirley and Mercy. Shirley and Mercy, immobile and belligerent, stood on the other side of the table, staring back. None of the four spoke. None of them needed to. Their nonverbal volleys screamed across the chasm of that thirty-six-inch-wide table with expert precision.

  Their silent skirmish was my fault. I hadn’t told Ardis or Ernestine—I hadn’t told anyone in the posse—that the twins had volunteered for Hands on History and were entrenched. Clearly, I’d made a huge tactical error.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the darling twins would be here!” Geneva’s joyful exclamation exploded in my ear.

  “Gah!”

  The four combatants in the room hadn’t noticed me standing in the doorway. My sudden leap in the air and wide-eyed shriek was all it took to break the tension around the table.

  “Hi,” I said, somewhat breathlessly, one hand holding my hair to my head and the other holding my heart behind my ribs. “How nice to see all of you.” I smiled at each of the five in turn, so they would all feel included and welcome. Geneva had floated over to hover between the twins. That was good; if she’d been floating five or ten feet to either side of the group when I’d smiled at her, I would have looked more like a loon than I already did.

  “If we aren’t wanted,” Mercy said with icy petulance, “we won’t stay.”

  “We don’t want to stay if we aren’t needed,” said Shirley.

  “Shirley, you are needed,” I said. “Mercy, we do want you here.”

  What extraordinary statements I’d just made, although they were extraordinary only because I’d made them to the Spiveys. Even they hadn’t expected me to say anything of the kind. They were slower to recover from their shock than Ernestine and John. Geneva wasn’t shocked or surprised, but she was also the only person I’d ever known who was always happy to see the twins. That was because she was superstitious and thought they must be good luck. It was also because, being unseen and unheard, she couldn’t really interact with them and never felt the full Spivey effect.

  “Shirley and Mercy, why don’t you show Ernestine and John the Plague Quilt?” Knowing how uneasy the twins were when I got too close to the quilt, I stayed where I was, just inside the door.

  Shirley and Mercy exchanged looks with each other, but avoided Ernestine’s and John’s eyes. As well they might, considering their bullying history. But I needed this to work, for the program’s sake.

  “Ernestine, John, you really have to see this quilt. Their great-grandmother—my great-great-grandmother—made it. It’s an embellished crazy quilt, velvet and—well, let them show you and tell you about it. They’re the ones who know it. But it’s gorgeous. And you have to believe me, as truly gorgeous as that quilt is, Shirley’s and Mercy’s own work is even more beautiful.” My compliments did impress Geneva.

  “You do not usually gush over the twins,” she said. “More often you say something rude under your breath and run the other way. Unless Ardis sees them and runs first. Or unless they sneak up on you, which they are very good at doing.”

  “I don’t often gush,” I said to all of them. “I’ve seen a lot of amazing textiles over the years. Amazing for a variety of reasons that don’t necessarily have anything to do with appearance or artistry or value. But there’s something special and touching about this quilt.” I hesitated for a gnat’s breath at the word “touching,” then went on. “This quilt has more heart and story sewn into it than most I’ve seen. You two show,” I said to the twins, “and you two look,” I said to Ernestine and John. “I’ll go meet the students and then we’ll get started.”

  Geneva came with me into the hall and I took out my phone so we could “talk.”

  “Remember not to use my name,” she said before I got the phone to my ear. “You blew my cover when you shrieked my name at Ardis’ the other night. And speaking of shrieking, you should warn people before you shriek and jump the way you did just a minute ago. Why were you so surprised to see me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” I said into the phone. “When I left, you weren’t exactly lively. Even the cat was worried. What was that? What was happening?”

  “A bad moment.”

  “A memory?”

  “I do not know. I am not sure. I felt different. My head felt . . . full.”

  “You looked different.” She was back to her normal appearance now—watery, cobwebby, and slightly out of focus. “How do you feel now? Are you still feeling strong?”

  “I was. And then I lost my hold.”

  “I could tell. I saw you falling.”

  “Falling, falling, falling . . . but I heard you say, ‘Stay with us,’ so here I am. Did you forget you told me that?” As simple as that—my literal ghost. “Now that we are both here,” she went on, “would you like me to dodge here and there like a shadow or a spy, moving as silently as a ghost on sneaking cat feet, to see who is up to nefarious no good?”

  “That hasn’t worked out very well for us in the past.”

  “Practice,” she said, emphatically smacking one fist soundlessly into the other. “What I need is practice.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay being out here today? That it won’t prompt another traumatic memory?”

  “I have no idea, but I am game if you are.”

  “Huh. Well, I guess we’ll find out. Come on this way.” I started toward the lobby. She followed. “Practice isn’t a bad idea,” I said, “and I know where you can start. You’ll enjoy it, too, which will help, because then you’ll be less likely to lose interest and wander off.”

  “Please do not be insulting.”

  “I don’t mean to be insulting. I’m sure even the best cops get bored when they’re working surveillance. It’d be hard to avoid. It must be an occupational hazard. All great detectives probably have to practice.” I was trying reverse psychology with her—a Tom Sawyer approach. If she thought she could prove herself with a hard “assignment,” maybe she’d stick with it, and I wouldn’t have to worry about where she was and what she was doing.

  “Practicing surveillance—it sounds sneaky and sleuth-like,” she said. “Where shall I slither in and start?”

  “Why don’t you practice your super-sleuth techniq
ues on the twi—” I stopped. I’d gotten too caught up in our “phone call.” The students would be arriving, and there I was on the verge of suggesting questionable behavior without checking first to see if anyone other than Geneva might hear.

  And clearly I’d made another tactical blunder. Geneva and I were not the only ones waiting to greet the students. Nadine was back in the lobby and Wes was there, too, looking at me with eyebrows raised. So was Clod Dunbar.

  Chapter 22

  “Tell them staring is impolite and maybe they will stop,” Geneva whispered. “Also, that it is impolite to listen in on private conversations, even if they are carried on in front of Clod and everybody. I am affronted on your behalf.” Said she who planned to practice surveillance techniques.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly. I didn’t usually speak loudly on my phone in public, and maybe I hadn’t embarrassed myself this time, either, but the raised eyebrows made me wonder. I raised my own to the three of them, held up a just-one-minute finger, and tried to finish the conversation with Geneva without being too explicit. Or overheard. “I have to go now, but why don’t you start with the quilting—practice, stick with it, and that should work out fine.”

  “I have no idea what message you tried to convey,” Geneva said. “Try it again. Be less cryptic and do not mumble.”

  “If you want to practice your technique, watch Shirley and Mercy. You might learn something new or interesting if you watch and listen. If you do learn something, remember it so that you can tell me, because I’d love to hear all about it.”

  “Oh,” she said, drawing the word out to show her comprehension. Then she gave me one of her hollow-eyed winks and flitted back to the education room.

  I dropped my phone into my purse and went over to chat and be pleasant and try to appear normal to the others.

  “Old friend,” I said to Nadine, making the universal “phone” sign with my thumb and little finger. “She watches too much reality TV.”

  That remark didn’t work to immediately lower her eyebrows, but then she must have decided I was joking, since she laughed. Wes didn’t laugh, but his eyebrows came down anyway, and he offered me a quick “Nice to see you.” He was dressed with his usual ready-for-a-board-meeting polish. Between the clothes, the cordial but less-than-warm greetings, and the way his eyes only ever made glancing contact with mine, he gave me the impression of always being on the lookout and ready for . . . what? The next idea or opportunity? I wasn’t sure.