Crewel and Unusual Page 7

  SIX

  Wait, you didn’t think you should mention arson ahead of your worries over a couple of bickering women?” Joe asked.

  “Don’t patronize me, and don’t belittle the power of bickering women,” Sierra said.

  Joe looked at me and said, “Huh.”

  I felt sure a lot could be unpacked from that syllable, but there wasn’t time. Sierra steamed for the front door.

  “Who do you think she called at the fire department?” Joe asked as we hurried to catch up.

  “I see your ‘huh’ and raise you one. You know, there could be another explanation for the singed scraps.”

  “Huh.”

  At the door, Sierra peeled back the same corner of newsprint Joe had earlier. “He said he’d be waiting.” She might have said something else under her breath, but I didn’t ask her to repeat it. Then she returned to full volume. “I need fresh air. Lots of it.”

  She opened the door and went out. When she didn’t close the door behind her (or slam it in our faces), we followed again. Sierra hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms. After her stress steps, the outside air probably felt chilly.

  I didn’t see Clod. But jogging toward us from the end of the block were Al Rogalla and Chief Inspector Bruce of Scotland Yard. Rogalla, who rarely answered to his first name, was an accountant and volunteer fireman. The Chief Inspector, who usually answered to Bruce and always to a dog biscuit, was a brindle Scottie.

  “If she called Rogalla,” Joe said quietly, “Cole will be delighted.”

  By “delighted” he meant “snarling with suppressed scorn.” Clod and Rogalla had a long-running desire to one up, tear down, and drag each other through anything miserable—preferably involving deep mud—as well as a general loathing for each other. The rivalry had been going on since they were teammates in high school football twenty-five years earlier. Far too long, apparently, for either of them to stop and realize they probably liked each other.

  “Do you think you can distract him?” I asked Joe. “Maybe I can ease Sierra’s mind.”

  Hands in his pockets, ambling Joe Dunbar set off to waylay Rogalla and Bruce. Sierra looked as though she might join him, so I skipped around to get in front of her.

  “Hey, Sierra?”

  “What?” She moved sideways, watching Joe and Rogalla.

  “The singed scraps.”

  “Burned,” she said automatically, but it got her to look at me.

  “Right. You’re right. Burned. There’s another possibility for why someone did that. And if I’m right, it might make you feel at least a little bit better. It would mean no one tried to burn the place down.”

  “Okay. So what is it?”

  “Someone might’ve been testing the composition of the fabric with a flame test. Depending on how a fabric burns, you can tell whether it’s plant or animal fiber, or synthetic. You can get a pretty good idea, anyway.”

  “Why would anyone care?”

  “A collector would. Or someone like me. Someone who wants to know if the fabric is what the seller claims it to be.”

  “By ripping it to shreds? Are you as crazy as the person who did that? Did you do that?”

  “No!” The horror in my voice made both of us jump. I tried again. “That isn’t what I meant. I’m saying that fabrics burn. Sometimes they melt. You can tell something from the way they burn, the way the flame acts, how it smells, and by what’s left over.”

  If Sierra were any more skeptical, her nose would be permanently wrinkled. I could have warned her about her nose, or dropped the flame test explanation, but I decided to give it another try.

  “Your blouse, Sierra—what’s it made out of? What’s the fabric?”

  She plucked at the hem. “I don’t know. Polyester? Cotton? I can check the label.”

  “Or if I put a match to it, we can find out immediately.” In hindsight, I wouldn’t throw a flip remark like that at someone worried about things catching fire. And if I’d realized Joe and Rogalla, the volunteer fireman, had ambled our way and stood behind me, I definitely would have chosen another way to get my point across.

  “Are you threatening her?” Rogalla asked at the same time Sierra said, “You are crazy.”

  Without too much effort, I explained to Rogalla. Sierra, poor thing, sounded like she’d have to run up and down a building the size of the Empire State before she’d be herself again. Joe and Rogalla were doing a good job of bringing her around, though, so I left well enough alone. Then Rogalla handed me Bruce’s leash, and the three of them walked down the block. Bruce and I looked at each other. He gave a few testing sort of tugs on the leash. I wrapped the leash a few times around my wrist.

  “You can tell he’s a new dog owner, Bruce, or he wouldn’t have left you with me,” I said.

  Bruce thought that over and gave a firmer tug on the leash. Rogalla hadn’t exactly inherited Bruce, but he’d adopted him a month or so earlier, after Bruce’s former owner died. He eyed me now, possibly assessing my ability and agility. Between the tugs and some interesting shoulder and paw choreography, he appeared to be dancing closer to the conclusion he could best me. Any minute he might make a break for it.

  “Come on, Inspector. I think we’d better go fetch your fireman.”

  They’d only gone as far as the green space between the old bank and the new post office. The grassy area was the last vestige of the front yard belonging to a house that lost its front porch view of Main Street decades earlier. The house, hemmed in by progress and commercialism, sat on a slight rise behind the bank and post office. Wide enough for a serpentine path, the strip of green also had a few benches and a picnic table. The current homeowners had donated the strip to the town. The town had named the space Postage Stamp Park. Some muttered, afterward, about the mayor holding out for calling it Dollar Bill Park, because the adjacent bank predated the post office, and the park’s shape looked more bill- than stamp-like. Mayor Palmer “Pokey” Weems had never been one to let mutters bother him, though.

  Bruce didn’t let mutters bother him, either. When we got to the park, he sat himself down, facing the wall of the Vault, and wouldn’t budge. I kept a firm hold of the leash, in case he was bluffing, but otherwise he seemed more interested in the trompe l’oeil mural a local artist had painted on the wall as part of the renovation and repurposing. The artist incorporated several bricked-over windows and a bricked-over door into the mural, playfully giving the impression we were looking out the windows, shutters thrown wide, and could run through the open and welcoming door into a larger park that would forever be green and flowery.

  Bruce and I looked over our shoulders. Joe, Sierra, and Rogalla sat on one of the benches under a spindly mulberry tree. Joe, being Joe, lounged more than sat—long legs out and crossed at the ankles, the back of his head cradled in his interlaced fingers, staring up at the sky. And did I see Rogalla patting Sierra’s hand? Maybe. Bruce made a noise that sounded like pfft, and we turned back to the mural. It really was an astonishing optical illusion. From the way he stared at the mural, it was possible Bruce thought so, too. He kept making minor adjustments as he stared, though, as if each correction helped him figure it out. It reminded me of the way I sometimes turned my head a fraction to see if that would bring Geneva into clearer focus.

  Into that scene of staring at walls, lounging, and possible hand patting, Clod finally arrived. He stopped at the foot of the path. His uniform, his posture, the look on his face, the uprightness of his Smokey Bear hat—everything about him said harrumph, with extra Rs.

  “Hey, Cole.” Joe unlaced his fingers to wave one set at his brother over his head. The wave looked almost, but not quite, like a Three Stooges four-finger brush-off.

  Clod gave a brother’s minimalist acknowledgment. “Ms. Estep? Sorry to keep you waiting. I was unavoidably delayed. Shall we go inside?”

  The three on the bench got to their feet—Joe, hands sunk in his pockets; Sierra looking calm and professional again; Rogalla hooking his thumbs in his
belt. I’d seen him face Clod like that before and could never remember who he’d copied the pose from. Captain America and Mr. Clean both came to mind.

  “Still nothing to report on Gar Brown’s murder, Deputy Dunbar?” Rogalla asked.

  “Nothing to report to you,” Clod said. “Ms. Estep?”

  Rogalla didn’t let it go. “Lonnie said progress is slower than he’d like. He said that over breakfast this morning at the club. After a quick nine holes.” He paused, as though Clod might need more time to read between the lines. Reading wasn’t one of Clod’s problems, but he didn’t react to the dig. Joe had mentioned something about Clod and anger management sessions. “Lonnie,” Rogalla went on, leaning hard on the name of Clod’s boss, Sheriff Leonard Haynes, “wonders why you’re having trouble identifying and locating the Saggy Bottom Boys.”

  “The who?”

  “The smash-and-grab gang. Smash and grab, get it? S. A. G. Probably a bunch of unemployed, under-entertained, rural ne’er-do-wells, with jeans drooping halfway down their backsides. Saggy bottom.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” Clod said.

  “Not me. Lonnie. He also wonders if you and your colleagues take some of the leads you’ve received seriously enough. In particular, the tip about a liaison. A tragic tryst in the mountains. Find the other half of that equation, and you might learn something worthwhile. Not that I’m telling you how to do your job. Just a friendly word in your ear.”

  Whatever else I thought of Clod—and much of that “else” irritated me—I knew he was no slouch as a lawman. Ignoring solid leads didn’t fit his profile. Ignoring Rogalla’s comments didn’t either.

  Their posturing and Rogalla’s baiting had gone far enough. Bruce kindly responded when I tugged on the leash. Together we went over, and I destroyed the symmetry of Rogalla’s He-Man pose by handing the leash to him. He didn’t say thank you, so I thanked Bruce.

  “I felt we had a true meeting of minds, Inspector Bruce. Thank you.”

  Bruce ignored me, too, and looked back at the wall. This time he definitely saw something and let everyone know it. He danced around and ended up peering down the path farther into the park.

  “Possum,” Rogalla said. “Gotta be. They get him all stirred up. There, look at him.”

  Bruce had suddenly reared up on his haunches, front paws in the air.

  “Those are his jazz hands. Definitely a possum. It’s the only time he gets excited enough to wave his paws like that. Cute as the dickens, isn’t it?”

  Bruce toppled sideways, then righted himself, all four paws firmly on the ground.

  “That’s the trouble, though,” Rogalla said. “Scotties aren’t built for—” He splayed his hands to show what they weren’t built for.

  They weren’t built for embarrassment, either. Bruce had lost interest in the possum and now stared at Rogalla. He gave a good impression of someone assigning blame for his clumsiness.

  “Good dog,” I said.

  “Good nose, too. We’re going in to sniff around,” Rogalla said. “See if there’s anything for Sierra—Ms. Estep—to worry about. See if we can give her some peace of mind before the place fills up with innocent bystanders tomorrow.”

  Sierra’s professional look wavered.

  “Sniff around for what?” Clod asked.

  “Possible arson attempt,” Rogalla said.

  “I haven’t heard or seen any reports on that,” Clod said. “And I guarantee you I would have.”

  Rogalla’s supercilious look wavered. “Well, erm, it’s unofficial, as yet. Pending the sniff around.”

  “A credible report?” Clod asked.

  I raised my hand. “I have a theory that doesn’t involve arson.”

  Clod and Rogalla gave me identical looks, dismissive and annoying. Peace-loving Joe put a warm hand on my shoulder. I subsided, but I but didn’t plan to forget.

  Deputy and fireman went back to speaking civilly to each other over the top of my head. I put my hand over Joe’s to reassure him I wouldn’t jump up and bite either of them. A smile could have accomplished the same thing, but touching his hand felt nice. Besides, the only smile I could have pasted on would have been cheesy and wouldn’t have reassured anyone. I worked at not grinding my teeth, because I wanted to hear what the two who were sworn to serve and protect, but continued to irk, were jabbering at each other.

  “I’m going in more as a personal favor,” Rogalla said. “The last thing Ms. Estep wants is to cancel or postpone the grand opening.”

  Clod touched the radio at his shoulder. “Do you need more manpower for a full search?”

  “I’m thinking low-key, at this point in time,” Rogalla said. “Keep it quiet. No alarms.”

  “Agreed.” Clod’s erect posture went into hyper mode. “Here’s how it’s going to work, then. You will follow my lead. You will not do or touch anything until I say so. If you find anything, you will report it to me. Understood?”

  Rogalla gave a single nod. “Let’s go.”

  “Ms. Estep,” Clod said, “if you’ll lead the way?”

  No one thought to invite Joe and me along. I was kind of surprised they remembered to include Sierra.

  “Never underestimate the vexation of a couple of boys with badges,” I said, when we were alone on the sidewalk.

  “Nothing’s stopping us going in,” Joe said. “I’ve got a few more things to do before tomorrow, anyway.”

  Oh-so-tempting, and Debbie could handle whatever traffic a late Friday afternoon brought into the Cat. “Then let’s,” I said. “A couple of things before we do, though. Have you ever heard anything about Nervie’s embroidery patterns not being her own?”

  He looked blank.

  “My reaction, too. Okay. Had you heard what Rogalla said about Gar and a liaison? Could that be why he was up there? It’s a lonely spot. It could easily be a lovers’ lane.”

  Joe shook his head, as much dismissing the theory as answering my question. “Change of subject?”

  “Sure.”

  “You brought about a miracle. You saw those two going through the door together just now—that’s your work. By suggesting you knew something, and possibly knew better than either of them, you single-handedly caused them to stop butting heads and instead act together as a single butthead.”

  “You know how to tickle a gal’s fancy, Joe Dunbar.”

  “Why, ma’am, I tell you what. If I had a hat like Cole’s, I would take it off to you.”

  “If you had a hat like his, you’d use it for a bait bucket.”

  “Huh. I wonder if he’s got a spare. Here’s something else. I’ll do you one better than your adage about boys and badges. Better than the power of bickering women, too. Ready? Never underestimate the power of a perceptive woman.”

  “Lacks punch.” I punched my right fist into my left hand a couple of times, bringing back memories of a solid punch it once landed on Clod’s nose. A completely uncharacteristic but very satisfying punch when he’d referred to Granny as Crazy Ivy. “Add persistent to your adage and I’ll take it.” I paused, then asked, “Did you notice that Sierra didn’t say anything after Cole showed up? Not a peep.”

  “Hard to find an opening in all that testosterone to slide a word in. Not everyone has your skill and determination. She might just know it’s better to let those two talk through their aggression once they get started.”

  “Has she lived here long enough to know that?”

  “Probably not. Could be she’s just into WWE and thought she’d get a show. Come to think of it, the Arts Council might want to consider that for a fund-raiser.”

  “If I’ve told you that you’re brilliant any time recently, then I’m sorry, but that idea disproves it. Seriously, though, did Sierra say anything useful about the tablecloth while Rogalla patted her hand back there on the bench?”

  “Useful how?”

  “You mean he really was patting her hand?”

  “It’s the cherry red hair. He’s helpless. It attr
acts him like a fireman to a flame. Useful how?”

  “The way someone is who wants to help the police solve a crime.”

  “And you’re interested because?”

  “Because I’m a concerned member of the public.”

  He waited.

  “And because it’s like a locked-room mystery. If the building was locked, and the tablecloth lay safe and sound in a box, in a trunk, in the back corner of Belinda’s shop, then who did it? Who knew where to find it, had the chance to get it and the time to slice it up, and also cared enough to do a flame test? And why put the poor mangled thing back in the box in the trunk in the back corner of the shop afterward? Why not keep it or toss it in a garbage can or Dumpster?”

  “So again, do you see Nervie doing that?”

  “I don’t see how. I don’t know. What if Sierra did it? Or Belinda.”

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah, huh. It’s a puzzle. So, I’m puzzled. That’s why I’m interested. I loved that tablecloth. I wanted to see it again. I wanted to visit it often. I wanted it, period.”

  Plus I had that perceptive thing going, I hoped. Definitely the persistent thing.

  SEVEN

  I expected to hear Belinda’s high voice before Joe and I reached the top of the stairs. We didn’t. A low murmur of voices came from her shop as we approached and stopped when we stopped at the door. Clod noticed our presence before Bruce did. Chalk one up for the guy with the badge wearing brown and tan. The two brothers did their minimalist head nod.

  “Ms. Rutledge.” Clod didn’t smile. He didn’t growl, though, so chalk another one up for an excellent anger management counselor.

  Bruce didn’t growl, either. He looked preoccupied, not making eye contact with anyone. Rogalla stood off to the side, watching Clod and being as deferential as he’d promised to be. Belinda, her behind propped against one of the display tables, drooped like one of her vintage linens that needed to be aired and pressed. She stared at the floor, looking almost as sad and defeated as the scraps of her ruined tablecloth. Presumably we’d arrived in the middle of something Sierra was saying. She stood next to Rogalla, her arms frozen mid-gesture, chin lifted, her mouth still slightly open.