by Terri Thayer
“I’ve always thought you were beautiful, Dewey.”
I gasped at the feel of his body pressing into mine. I couldn’t remember the last time a guy had made me feel pretty.
I broke free and pulled him into my bedroom. At the foot of the bed, he crushed me into him and I felt him swell. He gripped me through my boxers. Constant waves of sensation washed over me, and I gasped for air. His kisses traveled down my body and I felt a jolt each time his hot lips contacted my flesh. I could feel the lines around my body blur, my boundaries vanish in an instant. I couldn’t tell where he began and I left off.
I wriggled out of my boxers; tore at his T-shirt. I felt myself nearing an edge, ready and willing to tumble into a lovely abyss.
Everything faded; the day’s dreadfulness, the struggles of the last six months. I feel a puddling in the middle of me. A tight spot in my chest that had been there for months dissolved. It was as though Buster had reached inside me and kneaded that spot until it softened and spread.
When I woke up, the sun was shining and I was alone. For a moment, I thought I’d dreamed last night, then I felt the soreness along my jaw, scraped raw from Buster’s unshaven face. I stretched like a pampered cat, feeling every nerve ending sing. Buster had tended to my body like no one else ever had, and I’d enjoyed every minute of it.
There was a note on the pillow. “Lesson number one.” A pencil sketch of a guitar punctuated the sentence. I felt myself grin.
Greedily, I ran though the possibilities for a repeat performance. I could get free today. I didn’t have much to do at the quilt show without the computer. Being the fourth woman in a three-man booth meant I was more of a hindrance than a help. Buster was going to be there. Late last night, he’d said he was going to be interviewing witnesses in the hotel conference room. Setting up on-site had solved the logistics of getting all the out-of-towners over to the police station.
I sank back on my pillow. I had never taken a guy into my bed so quickly. What had I been thinking? Buster was in the middle of an investigation. Claire was dead—a terrible tragedy for her and her family, and all I was thinking about was getting Buster back in the sack.
And then there were Sanchez’s accusations that I murdered Claire.
Talk about your rude awakening. I felt my gut wrench.
On my way to the shower, I heard my neglected cell phone beeping irritatedly in the living room. I retrieved the messages. The first three were old, from Kym, yesterday. I wasn’t looking forward to facing Kym after our blowup. I knew she would do anything to stop me from computerizing. But she wouldn’t want me to sell either. She just wanted me to do things her way. I punched the delete key without listening to any of her messages.
The next was a brief call from Dad, repeating what he’d told Kevin—he’d be home Sunday, in time for take-down. The sound of his voice made me tear up. I could have used some of his strong silence right about now.
The last was from Justine. “Hey, Dewey. I heard you found Claire. Please come to my room tomorrow morning. Room 511. I need to talk to you.”
I would like to talk to her, too. I felt a connection with her. Being the show’s organizer, she probably had a good sense of who might be interested in buying the shop.
And I wanted to ask her about Claire.
Had she seen anything when she left Claire’s door? I glanced at my watch. It was only eight thirty. I had time to shower, dress, and get over there, see Justine, and still get to the booth before the show opened at ten.
After I talked to Justine, I would look for a potential buyer for the shop.
I hustled through my morning routine. When I got to the point where I usually made my bed, I could see the dent Buster’s body had made in the side of the bed that usually was empty. I liked the way it looked and left it unmade.
The Dixie Chicks blasted out of the CD when I turned on the car, singing about needing a boy like a hole in the head. Like a wild goose chase. Were they right? Did I need a boy like Buster like a hole in the head?
____
I entered the hotel from the lobby connected to the convention center and went into the elevator. Without thinking, I pushed a button. I was lost in thought, bouncing between moments with Buster last night and wondering what Justine would tell me. The door opened. To my surprise, I was looking right into the conference room where Sanchez and Buster had questioned me yesterday. I glanced up at the number above the elevator door. Six. I’d pushed the sixth floor button instead of the fifth.
The elevator began to close. I put my foot in the way to stop it when I saw Buster’s broad shoulders through the glass doors of the conference room. He was seated at the table, talking to a gray-haired woman. I stepped out of the elevator and got closer to the door, sidling across the hall like a crook, just to get a closer peek. It was weird to have butterflies in my belly over Buster.
His gray suit coat was strained across his back as he leaned forward. From the admiring smile on her face, his earnest manner was impressing the hell out of the woman across from him. Hair curled over the collar of his dress shirt. I got lost in the blue-black wave of his hair, until the elevator door dinged open behind me.
Sanchez was in deep conversation with a uniformed officer in the elevator car. Instinctively, I went in the opposite direction, pushing open the exit door to the stairs before Sanchez could see me. I let the door close behind me, my heart pounding.
The last thing I needed was for Sanchez to think I was snooping. Even I knew that the murderer returns to the scene of the crime. I had not meant to do that.
I charged down the stairs to the fifth floor. As I pushed open the gray door with the number five stenciled on it, I stopped to catch my breath, listening for noises above me. I held the door slightly open, ready to slam it and run if anyone came after me. After my heart stopped racing, I realized no one was after me. I leaned against the door, pushing against the stitch in my side.
Once in the hall, I tried to shut the door, but it wouldn’t close all the way. Looking down, I saw a small notebook wedged in the door hinge. I pulled it out and the door hissed contentedly and closed. I continued out onto Justine’s floor and found room 511. I knocked, then thumbed through the book idly as I waited for Justine to answer.
It was a spiral notebook, the size of a small index card. I was surprised to see the name of Freddy’s shop on the top of one sheet, with pencil drawings below. Flipping through, I found pages dedicated to other familiar names from the quilt show. It looked like someone had been making cryptic notes about what they saw at the Extravaganza. There were no words, just drawings and letters.
I’d seen Justine in this stairwell yesterday. These were probably her thoughts about their clients. She must have developed some kind of code so as not to offend anyone if she lost the notebook. Smart move, considering where I’d found it.
I knocked again, and when there was still no answer, I glanced at my watch. With Sanchez one floor up, I could not hang around the halls of the hotel. I didn’t want to stand here and bang on an empty door. Been there, done that. Got the blood on my T-shirt.
Justine was probably already downstairs. I made my way back down to the quilt show. Inside the lobby, the crowd waiting to get in looked even bigger than yesterday morning. It was déjà vu all over again with one exception—there was no sign of Justine. I spotted Eve standing at the head of the line, where Justine had been yesterday, ready to collect cash. Eve was wearing another version of the JustEve shirt, this one teal with black lettering, and black Dockers. From the looks of the red-eyed young woman in the information booth, biting back tears, Eve was in a coordinating black mood. I hurried over there.
“Hey, I was looking for Justine,” I told Eve.
“You just missed her.”
I disregarded her scowl and offered the notebook. “Maybe you could give her this for me.”
“Why?” Eve said, barely glancing at it. She twisted away from me, watching the burgeoning crowd.
I raised my voice. “Eve, I found this in the stairwell by your room. I think it belongs to Justine.”
I poked the notebook toward her hand, trying to get her to take it reflexively.
She lifted her hands up, away from the book, looking at me like I was a lower life form. “Dewey, I don’t have time for this. Get lost.”
I stuffed the notebook into my pocket, feeling at the same time rejected and humiliated for caring. A few feet away, the same officious security guard was on duty, standing with his feet spread. The way he rushed me out last night came back with a sting.
The rent-a-cop watched me approach through slitted eyes, hiking up his pants with the inside of his wrists as though ready to rumble. This guy loved to throw his puny weight around. Our family station wagon had had a “Question Authority” sticker on the rear bumper most of my childhood. No way was this little twit going to play his power games on me.
He parked himself in front of me. I was wearing my ID badge. What was his problem?
“Excuse me.” I bent down and looked him in the eye.
He didn’t move. His face strained as he maintained his quasi-military stance.
“Remember me?” I asked.
“I do.”
“Good, then you’ll let me in?”
His eyes flicked to the long line behind me. I could hear the waiting show-goers breathing as though part of one organism, like a giant Chinese New Year dragon float.
“Show me your badge,” he said.
I couldn’t believe he was giving me grief. What does he want me to do—take it off and hand it to him? “You let me in yesterday morning.”
“You were with Claire Armstrong. You said you had an ID,” he hissed, his eyes darting between me and the waiting crowd. He was losing his cool. “You’re a vendor.”
“What if I’m not? What if I’m just a loser, coming in on a famous person’s coattails?”
Someone nudged me from behind, tugging on the cord around my neck, pulling the badge out from my shirt, making it visible. “Just show him your badge, Dewey.”
I hadn’t realized my badge was under my shirt. I turned to see Freddy, still wearing his sunglasses. He snapped his badge into view like an FBI agent.
He leaned in and whispered, “Not a good idea to make enemies with the guy who controls the ingress and egress.”
“I didn’t realize that’s what I was doing.” I pulled the ID badge the rest of the way out of my T-shirt and pointed it at the security guard, who stepped back.
Freddy smiled at the guard and steered me down the main vendor aisle, empty now of traffic. He was wearing a polyester shirt, all turquoise and pink whorls, that made him look like he’d just stepped off the Partridge Family bus. I had to wonder if these clothes were ones he’d worn in his youth or if he paid big bucks at a vintage store. Either way, it was a look he should have stopped wearing thirty years ago. The absurdness of his shirt drained the fight out of me.
He walked on the balls of his blue Keds, bouncing up and down in front of me, waving to folks in their booths as we passed. Everyone had a greeting for him, and he bestowed a smile on everyone as he passed. If there had been a baby available, he’d have kissed it.
“You’re pretty chipper for a person with all that scotch in him,” I said.
He pushed his glasses down to let me see his bloodshot eyes.
“Ouch,” I said.
“It’s all about the flash, girl. Fake it ’til you make it. Act like a million bucks, even when you feel like shit.”
“Your outfit is enough to give me a hangover.”
He nudged me with his elbow. “You missed a good time last night. Shouldn’t have left so early. Turned out to be karaoke night. Ryan did a credible version of ‘Me and Mrs. Jones.’”
“Sorry I missed it.” Not. Whoever Ryan was, his karaoke couldn’t have competed with Buster’s guitar.
“Have you seen Justine around?” I asked. “She called me.”
“Not today.” Freddy rushed over to his booth where one of his employees was starting up a sewing machine. He stopped her. “Hey, don’t pull on the hoop like that. You’ll break it.”
I’d heard of these high-end embroidery units that cost thousands of dollars and used computer technology to stitch out designs. Freddy got the machine going and I watched it fill in the yellow petal of a daisy. Look, Ma, no hands.
Within a few moments, that petal was finished and Freddy stooped to change to a new color thread. The show had opened, and people were flooding the aisles. I needed to find my way to a potential buyer.
“Can you help me find someone to buy Quilter Paradiso?” I pulled the notebook out. We were interrupted by a woman with tight gray curls wearing a hot pink T-shirt that said, “Don’t Even Think About Touching My Fat Quarters.” Freddy bent his head to her stooped height. He answered her question about the price and kissed her hand. She walked away, her hand trailing along the body of the sewing machine the way a teenager caresses his first car.
“You ready to find a buyer for the store?” Freddy asked.
I showed him the notebook. “Think this’ll help?”
Freddy looked at the book. “What is it? A list of vendors? Not everyone is in here. Look, this person isn’t even in business anymore. Use this.”
He handed the notebook back to me, and grabbed an Extravaganza brochure from the table. He snapped open the newsprint brochure, folding the pages to reveal a vendor list and map of the show.
“Remember talking to them last night? The Freitas sisters with the hand dyes?” He took a fat Sharpie out of his pocket and circled several names. “Go see them. Here’s the Youngs, that couple from Canada who specialized in custom machine quilting. Their daughter works at Google, and they’re considering relocating. If they had any Google stock at all, they’ll have money to burn.”
He ran down about ten names of people we’d met in the bar last night. I was amazed at his total recall of these people and their lives. I was struggling to put faces with the names. I stashed the notebook in my back pocket.
“Enough,” I said, taking the brochure from him as he circled another name. At least a dozen had thick black lines around their names. “The show is getting crowded already. I won’t be able to talk to people if they’re waiting on customers.”
“Suit yourself. Good luck,” Freddy said, waving me off.
I turned the corner and an image of Claire brought me up short. For a moment, I thought I’d conjured it up. But no, her picture was printed on a white T-shirt floating ethereally in mid-air, putting her smiling mouth right at my eye level.
A chill ran through me as her image shimmied when a shopper passed by.
This was too creepy for words. Seeing Claire’s face like this felt like a violation. I would hate it if someone took my mother’s face and put her lopsided grin on a T-shirt. Who thought this was a good idea?
I peered into the booth. A large sign in the back said this was Nanny’s Notions. I’d just seen that name somewhere in the notebook, or maybe the brochure.
The tables were filled with items printed with Claire’s image. T-shirts, lapel pins, aprons, even a mouse pad. The picture had been bootlegged from the cover of her latest book. Someone must have been up all night making this stuff.
The vendor was a large woman, her butt dewlapped over the sides of a tall stool. She glared at me, slurping a cup of coffee.
“If you want a shirt, you’d better get it now. I expect to be sold out by noon,” she said.
The crassness of someone profiting in such a crude way from Claire’s death was appalling. Myra should be told. Claire must have had lawyers who could put an end to this. I grabbed my phone before I remembered I didn’t have Myra’s num
ber.
I turned my attention back to the woman in front of me.
“Did you get the company’s permission to use her likeness?” I said, trying to sound like I knew all the ins and outs of copyright violation. The woman was not fooled. She waved off my objections with her coffee cup.
“Cutie, if I waited for permission in my life, I’d still be in a trailer park in Fresno.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “It’s my tribute to her. Claire meant a lot to me. She helped me get my business started.”
What would Myra’s reaction be to coming across this? Would she see it as a tribute or insult? I had to put Myra’s problems aside and get on to my own business before the show got gridlocked. I gave the vendor what I hoped was a withering glance and walked away.
I looked up and down the aisle. My mother had always talked about the people she met at these shows, but I hadn’t paid any attention. I hadn’t known then that one of those names might hold my future.
I felt a jolt of anger run through me that my mother had died and left me with such big shoes to fill. I was not up to the task, I could barely find my way around this place. She had been intimately familiar with the show and the people. There was so much I didn’t know.
I shook myself. She might have left me with a mess, but my mother had taught me the only way to get an unpleasant task done was to get started.
Checking Freddy’s list, I saw the Freitas sisters’ booth was several aisles over. Closer was another name on his list. I approached a grandmotherly-looking woman who was talking to a bulky man in a booth piled high with antique quilts. The seventy-something man was wearing overalls decorated with frayed-edge calico patches. He had yellowy-white muttonchops, reminding me of one of the cranky old Muppets that sat in the balcony. Why would Freddy send me here? I could only hope these two old people had younger partners somewhere.