The Devil's Puzzle
Page 1
Table of Contents
A PLUME BOOK
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
COZY UP WITH ALL THE BOOKS IN CLARE O’DONOHUE’S BELOVED QUILTING SERIES
AN EXCITING NEW MYSTERY SERIES FROM CLARE O’DONOHUE
ALSO BY CLARE O’DONOHUE
A PLUME BOOK
THE DEVIL’S PUZZLE
CLARE O’DONOHUE is a freelance television writer/producer. She has worked worldwide on a variety of shows for the Food Network, the History Channel, and Court TV, among others. An avid quilter, she was also a producer for HGTV’s Simply Quilts.
ALSO BY CLARE O’DONOHUE
SOMEDAY QUILTS MYSTERIES
The Lover’s Knot
A Drunkard’s Path
The Double Cross
KATE CONWAY MYSTERIES
Missing Persons
PLUME
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, October 2011
Copyright © Clare O’Donohue, 2011
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
O’Donohue, Clare.
The devil’s puzzle / Clare O’Donohue.
p. cm.—(A Someday Quilts mystery)
ISBN : 978-1-101-55259-9
PS3615.D665D48 2011
813’.6—dc22
2011004474
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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To my brother, Dennis, a man whose decency and kindness
I have always admired, and whose friendship
I will always treasure
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I only started writing this series in the fall of 2006 and now I’m publishing the fourth volume. Hard to believe. It’s all thanks to many people who have helped make this possible: my agent, Sharon Bowers of The Miller Agency, who has taken every step with me; my editor, Becky Cole, who is my partner in getting each story exactly where it was meant to be; and publicity manager Mary Pomponio (my hero), who works incredibly hard getting the word out about each book. Also, to the men and women in sales and marketing, Nadia Kashper, and everyone at Plume who put this together, thanks, once again, for all the hard work. To those women who loaned their names to characters in The Devil’s Puzzle: Molly O’Brien, Mary “Glee” Shipman, Dru Ann Love, Bunny Giordano, Kathryn Brigham, and Glad Warren, thank you. The characters are nothing like the people they are named after, but I do appreciate your letting me escape the hardest part of writing a novel: coming up with great names. To Dr. Brian Peterson, chief medical examiner for Milwaukee County, thank you, as always, for being a man with all the answers. To Julie Silber, who helped me with the sections on quilting history, thank you so much for your patience, expert knowledge, and quick responses. If there are errors in anything, don’t blame Brian or Julie, blame me. I try, but don’t always succeed, in getting things exactly right. Thanks to Margaret Smith, for all the photographs as well as the Sunday chats (you too, Brian). To my family, V, Kevin, and my many friends, your support has meant the world to me. And to the wonderful readers of both the Someday Quilts Mysteries and the Kate Conway Mysteries, thank you. Without you, I’d just be talking to myself (more than I already do).
CHAPTER 1
In any room full of people there are saints and sinners. There are those who would get out of bed at three in the morning to help a neighbor with a stalled car, and those who get out of bed at three in the morning, kiss a secret lover, and head home to their families with excuses about stalled cars. There are those who would die to save the life of a stranger, and those who would betray a loved one on a whim.
I looked around this room of esteemed citizens and wondered who fit into the first category and who fit into the second. They all seemed innocent enough, gathered together in the Archers Rest library, shifting on metal folding chairs, checking their watches and iPhones. Every one of them cou
ld easily be in the first group, the group of do-gooders. Perhaps they were here to help their neighbors, to help the town. But what if there was more to it? What if some people were harboring secret motivations for wanting to be in this room on this day? Maybe using this meeting as an alibi. Or a chance to spy on a neighbor.
Or maybe I was just bored.
I glanced toward the door. If I planned it just right I might be able to make my escape without too much trouble. There were two dozen people in the library’s reading room. They wouldn’t be the problem. It was the woman sitting next to me. Every time I moved in my chair or even looked toward the door, she glared at me. But she didn’t understand. I had to get out of there.
I checked my watch. 11:35 A.M. I was already late. I crouched a little and got ready to make my move. But just as I was about to bolt, her hand reached out and grabbed my arm.
“Nell Fitzgerald,” my grandmother whispered at me, “if you don’t sit still I’m going to nail you to that chair.”
I settled back. This was ridiculous. I could have left anyway. I could have argued that as a grown woman I’m pretty much past the listening-to-my-grandmother stage. But there was no point. I’m stubborn; at least that’s what everyone tells me. But my grandmother, Eleanor Cassidy, is immovable.
I rolled my eyes at her, but there was nothing to be done. Now seventy-four, with short gray hair framing her face, making her blue eyes all the more piercing, she was going to have her way. She was up to something; that much I could tell. But that was okay. So was I.
I turned my attention back to the front of the room where Gladys Warren, known to everyone as Glad, was going over the history of Archers Rest.
“As town historian,” Glad said, “I’ve had the great privilege of spending hours digging into our town’s past.” At this she laughed slightly. I looked around. No one—including me—got the joke. “We have quite a history. As you all know I’m sure, we were founded by John Archer in 1661 or thereabouts. Unfortunately Mr. Archer died the first winter of our founding, along with most of the people who had ventured up the Hudson River with him. But despite this setback, a town was born. And as others came after him, they recognized the sacrifices of John Archer and named this town for the place where Mr. Archer was laid to rest.”
She paused and looked around. The audience nodded. We knew the story, knew the macabre reason for our town’s name—it was named to commemorate a man’s grave—and knew that Glad didn’t care that we knew. She was going to tell us anyway.
As Glad launched into the story of John Archer’s heroic deeds, his high moral character, and his ultimate sacrifice, she edited out what I considered the most interesting part about our founding father. He and his original group of followers were supposed to have come to Archers Rest seeking a quiet place to practice witchcraft. It was nothing more than legend, of course, as there were very few actual facts available about the man. Even most of Glad’s version was fiction, or bits of truth heavily embellished by centuries of retelling. Either way, like everyone in the room, I’d heard it all before.
“I have to go,” I whispered to my grandmother.
“Not yet.”
I sighed heavily and dramatically. I couldn’t tell her the reason I was needed at her house, but it was a good reason. I couldn’t make up some story because she’d gotten very good at figuring out when I was up to something. And I couldn’t just get up and leave because, well, because I’d never hear the end of it if I embarrassed her in front of what appeared to be the who’s who of Archers Rest. Instead I sat back and waited for a good moment to break away.
From the podium Glad announced that the town would be hosting a special Fourth of July celebration to commemorate the 350th anniversary of the town’s founding. If it had been 350 years. No one was quite sure. But that wasn’t going to stop a celebration, especially one that might boost tourism.
There was a lot of talk in the town about that recently. The feeling was that we were being bypassed for other Hudson Valley towns that had more to offer the tourists. Local businesses apparently were missing out on cash-heavy New Yorkers coming up from the city and New Englanders coming south. A normal Fourth of July wouldn’t cut it this year. We needed something that put Archers Rest in the newspapers.
Glad asked for volunteers to demonstrate, as she put it, “the kind of community spirit that would show nonlocals what a special place we live in, and give them a reason to return time and again.” Several shop owners and restaurant owners offered to host parties or have special sales during the anniversary celebration. Carrie Brown, a fellow quilter and owner of Jitters, the local coffee shop, suggested a coupon booklet that would highlight town businesses and be handed out to visitors. That met with approval from everyone, and when she looked back to Eleanor and me, we clapped loudly as a show of support.
It was all going well, even if it was a little dull. I was just about to make a run for it when Glad announced that she wanted to introduce those who were chairing committees, and I could see Eleanor sit up straight. Mayor Larry Williams, who also ran half a dozen local businesses, told everyone he would handle the media and the fireworks display.
“I’ll be posting updates of the anniversary celebration on my blog,” the mayor said. “For anyone not familiar with it, it’s a great way to keep up with all the exciting events in our little town. I’m not a writer, but I think I capture the flavor of life in Archers Rest.” He then took out a half-dozen sheets of paper and read several recent postings. For nearly ten minutes.
After the mayor finally sat down, Ed Bryant, owner of the local movie theater, agreed to be in charge of the parade and carnival. And Maggie Sweeney, the town’s former librarian and my grandmother’s closest friend, took charge of the church bazaar.
Then Eleanor stood up.
“I thought it would be a lovely nod to our past to combine quilts, which as you all know is a tradition that predates the nation’s founding, with the celebration of our town’s history,” she said. “I propose doing a quilt show.”
Everyone applauded enthusiastically. If Eleanor was going to help, it wasn’t entirely unexpected she’d help by offering quilts. She was, after all, the owner of Someday Quilts, which had been drawing folks to town for more than thirty years.
While the small crowd was applauding, Eleanor leaned down to me and whispered, “How badly do you want to get out of here?”
“Badly.”
She nodded and stood up straight. “My granddaughter Nell is extremely busy with art school and working at Someday Quilts, so unfortunately she has to leave. But she has offered to take time from her schedule to organize the quilt show.”
I stood up and was about to protest.
“You can go now if you need to.” Eleanor took a deep and triumphant breath.
“This is why you dragged me here?” I asked her.
“I thought you might like to help your town.”
As others applauded my willingness to help, I whispered to my grandmother, “This isn’t over.”
Eleanor smiled. It was over and she knew it.
CHAPTER 2
It was shaping up to be a quiet summer anyway, I reasoned, as I sprinted from the library, down Main Street, and toward home. It might be kind of fun to put on a quilt show. And it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to help the town.
I’d lived in Archers Rest since September and it was now only mid-May, but I felt as though I’d been here forever. And that was a good thing. Mostly. But I realized since arriving in Archers Rest, I’d been stuck in a me-me-me kind of place. Worrying about boyfriends, jobs, art classes, a failure to get my borders to lay flat on the first bedsize quilt I’d made . . . and my grandmother had listened to all of it.
Now, with my twenty-seventh birthday in less than two months, I was starting to poke my head out of my world and focus on something really important. Not the quilt show. That wasn’t exactly in my plans, but it was fine. I’d help the community, stay out of trouble, and get to be part of the town I’
d grown to love. That was all wonderful, but it wasn’t important. Not really important.
But what I was doing today was. What I was doing was going to pay Eleanor back for all the support, love, and friendship she’d given me these last few months. It would give me a chance to be a small part of what I knew would be one of the happiest days of my grandmother’s life.
As I raced into the driveway of the Victorian home I shared with Eleanor, I nearly ran into the landscaping trucks that were parked there. To someone else it might have looked like old pickups stuffed with lawn mowers, dirt piles, and shovels, but to me it was the most romantic gesture I’d ever been privy to.
Just a few months before, Eleanor had become involved with my art teacher, a well-known English artist named Oliver White. Oliver had spent most of his life accumulating honors, wealth, and girlfriends. Not exactly the kind of man I would expect the guarded and sensible Eleanor to fall for—but she had. In truth, I hadn’t expected to watch my grandmother fall in love at all. Romantic love is so often, and so unfortunately, depicted as a privilege for only the young, and I guess I’d fallen into the trap of believing that at a certain age those feelings just evaporated.
But as I’d watched the relationship develop over the last few months, I’d seen how wrong that thinking was. Eleanor lit up whenever Oliver walked into a room. And Oliver never hid his admiration and attraction for my grandmother. They didn’t play games or get into stupid arguments. They just accepted each other, adjusted to their differences, and fell in love.
Oliver and Eleanor had become serious pretty quickly, but because they were both senior citizens I’d had difficulty referring to him as her boyfriend. “Gentleman friend” sounded like something from a Tennessee Williams play, and “significant other” was a bit too modern for either of them. Usually I stumbled around when I introduced him, eventually referring to him as a family friend.