by Terri Thayer
“Oh yeah? How about that stone-cold bastard who killed your mother?”
“Leave my mother out of this!” I yelled. She was closer to the truth than she knew. Many nights I had imagined what it would be like to run the unknown drunk down with my car. I hadn’t acted on my impulse. Was that because I was a better person than Myra or because I’d never had the chance?
“I can’t. Your mother’s the one that started all this. She had what Claire wanted, what I want, what you don’t want. Quilter Paradiso. This all started with that infernal store.”
“Are you saying you killed Claire because of my mother’s store?”
“Let’s walk. We don’t have all night.”
“Wait, I want you to tell me what my mother has to do with all this.” I had just gotten my mother back. I wasn’t going to share her with a murderer. I planted my feet, and Myra stopped, still standing in front of Claire’s quilt.
“Your mother never cared about you, Dewey. She cared more about her shop than her kids.”
I lunged at Myra. “That’s a lie.”
She hit me across the head with the gun. I saw stars and cried out, feeling my knees buckle beneath me. I struggled to stay standing, the colorful quilts competing with the sparks in my head. I grabbed onto the nearest quilt. The quilt stand swayed, but then straightened.
My head swimming, I felt a presence in the space. My mother. My mother was here with me. I cleared my head, half listening to Myra’s tirade, trying to gather my strength.
“Come on, Dewey. Behave. Let’s go.”
“How can we get out? We’re locked in.”
“Not to worry. I stuck a piece of tape over one of the locks in the back. The final security check isn’t until eleven. That cute little security guard likes his work. He was happy to tell me all about the schedule.”
I couldn’t let her take me out of the building. Myra was staring at Claire’s quilt. An idea began to form. I tugged the quilt to my left. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the joint where the quilt stands hooked together move. I pulled again and saw the wooden stand sway slightly.
“It’s all very poetic,” Myra said. “You commit suicide with the gun you used on Justine. I don’t want to do it here. We wouldn’t want to get your brain matter all over this lovely exhibit now, would we? Lark took footage of this quilt for her show about me. It would be a shame to ruin it.”
With my peripheral vision, I studied the quilt stands. Each piece was dependent on the other; a kind of surface tension held the whole thing together. When I’d watched Eve’s minions putting the quilt stands together, I’d been struck at how tenuous the arrangement was, how one relied on the other to stand up.
If I pulled hard enough and quickly enough, maybe I could bring down the whole display. These stands were much heavier than the stands that had fallen on Myra earlier. If I could start a domino effect, these stands with their thick wooden supports and heavy metal pipes would come crashing down on Myra’s head.
The problem was my head was underneath here, too. I’d have to run as fast as I could. I bounced lightly on my toes and felt my head rock.
“I need one thing from you. Give me the notebook, Dewey.”
“You lied to me.” I tried to sound wounded. “You told me you didn’t know anything about WGC and Claire’s money lending.”
Her face tightened, and she gripped the gun so hard that the tips of her fingers were white.
“I didn’t. I was the only one who didn’t know. Right up until Claire pulled out that little notebook to show Justine what she owed.”
I held my breath, my stomach muscles shaking from the effort of keeping still. I let my hand explore behind me. I wasn’t close enough to the quilt yet to get a good grip.
“You saw Justine that morning?”
“That twat,” Myra sneered. “She was in and out of Claire’s room, first repaying the money, then begging for it back. The last time she knocked on the door, Claire and I were having our dispute over her lending practices. Justine told me later she’d overheard.”
“I saw her. She was going down the stairs when I got there.”
“I told you she couldn’t stay away. She knew that money was in the room, and that was all she could think about.”
Or maybe she was trying to see if Claire was alive. If I hadn’t been the one to find Claire’s body, would it have been Justine? The last few days would have been so different.
“The thing about Justine was she didn’t know when she had it good. She called me Thursday, begging for money. She’d lost all her money at the card club and was ready to go back for more. She was desperate to pay back Eve.”
“And you took advantage of her vulnerability.” I moved closer to the quilt behind me.
“I want that notebook,” she repeated.
“I gave it to the police, Myra. That book is going to lead them right to you.”
“You think so? Let’s find out. Give me your cell phone,” Myra demanded.
“I don’t have the phone on me,” I stammered. “I left it in the charger, back at the booth.”
“Come on, I really want to call Officer Studly. What’s he got in those pants, anyway?” She grinned lasciviously.
“Leave Buster out of this.”
“Leave Buster out, leave Mom out,” Myra mocked me. “Next you’ll be telling me to leave Claire out. Who says you’re making the rules? I’m the one with the gun.”
I needed more time to figure out which pole would take down the rest. I took another baby step away from Myra. “How can you kill someone with a rotary cutter, Myra?”
“I got lucky with Claire. I mean, she gave me the idea. She was so insistent on cutting the borders herself. She was sitting down, for pity’s sake. What did she think was going to happen? She pulled that rotary cutter right off the edge of the mat and into her lap. If she hadn’t been using the safety cutter, she would have cut herself right then. But I took care of that.”
She leaned in, and I caught a whiff of her foul scent. She was going to kill me. Would my mother be there to greet me if I died? She was surely in heaven, but I didn’t know about my own life. Had I lived a good enough life to end up where she was?
I wasn’t ready to die. I backed away another inch.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said with a bravado I barely felt. “I’m not the one who killed Claire or Justine. The police will figure out that you killed both of them.” And me, I thought.
“Would your faith in the cops be so strong if you weren’t banging Officer Meat? I doubt it.”
“You don’t need to get rid of me, Myra. Let me go. I won’t tell a soul.” No longer pretending, I was begging for my life.
I tried to appeal to her emotions.
“Didn’t you love Claire?” I asked.
She looked up at me sharply, then focused her attention on Claire’s quilt. Her features softened, and she answered me quietly. I got closer to the quilt behind me.
“I did, but it was never enough. Not enough for her to acknowledge me publicly. Not enough to keep her from starting over without me. She had been running this side business all these years and never told me. Then she was going to buy your mother’s shop and leave me out of that, too.”
I knew how she felt. It was not easy being the odd one out.
She shook herself, and her expression changed back to the woman ready to kill.
“She kept talking about a fresh start. I gave her a fresh start.”
I flattened myself against the quilt behind me. Myra had a clear view of Claire’s quilt. I needed to distract her so I could get a good grip on the quilt.
“Claire’s quilt won first prize, Myra,” I said, trying to inject as much sneer into my voice as I could. “But no one has given you the recognition you deserve.”
Myra looked at
me and then at the quilt. The metallic quilting thread glowed and reflected in her eyes. She seemed mesmerized by the quilt. This was as close to Claire as she was going to get again.
My back was right up against the crazy quilt that hung at right angles to Claire’s. I felt the soft velvet, the rough edges of the embroidery, the cool metal of a charm, as my fingers scrambled for a hold.
“I made this quilt. Not her.” With her open hand, Myra hit Claire’s quilt. The quilt moved wildly.
“Destroy it, Myra.”
She shifted the gun to her left hand and slapped at the quilt again. She grunted like a tennis player as she took the quilt by the binding and twisted.
Now was my chance. With my hand behind me, I gathered a large handful of the crazy quilt and pulled with all my might.
Nothing happened. The quilt stand rocked twice, but held fast. Myra looked back at me, her face distorted. She didn’t know why the stand was moving, but she sensed I was getting away. She shifted the gun toward me.
I heard the creaking of the wooden cross stands and the clanging of the pipes as the framework struggled to stay together. The stands held steady. My escape plan wasn’t working.
I looked at her face, expecting to see her exultant. Instead, her eyes flashed with terror. She was afraid. I’d thought she was powerful, but in fact, she had power only over those she killed. And I was still alive.
Keeping my eyes on her, I pulled back my right leg and cross-kicked the quilt support, using all the strength in my legs, catching the pipe fully. My hip bone resonated; the pain radiated from the ankle to the groin, setting up an answering throb in my head.
The quilt stands rumbled. It was working. The support shifted. The metal pole slipped from its crook and started down.
I ran, hands over my head. Behind me, metal rang loudly as it hit the convention center floor. The stands were toppling one after another. I ran alongside the falling supports, dodging wooden stands and jumping over rolling pipes. A pole clipped my arm painfully. I ran faster, putting all the falling stands behind me.
I made it to the doorway of the alcove and stopped and looked back. Myra was transfixed, her gun hand loose at her side, ineffectual. Poles fell like pick-up sticks all around her. I watched as a metal pole caught her on the shoulder, knocking her to the floor, toward the collapsing stands. Another pole hit her squarely on the head and she went limp. Claire’s quilt settled around her, covering her.
More quilt stands fell down. I ran again. The noise was deafening, as the quilt stands in the alcove collapsed one by one, their echoes reaching out as I cleared the entrance. My breath was painful, coming in short, cutting bursts. I got into the main exhibit and leaned over my knees, chest heaving with effort. Behind me the room was in total disarray—quilts, wooden stands, and metal poles scattered like driftwood on the beach. Myra moaned.
“Stop right there!”
My little friend, the security guard, stood in front of me, large Mace can drawn like a revolver, nearly beaning me with it. I stopped, holding my hands out in front of me.
“Oh, man, am I glad to see you,” I said, gasping for air.
I was so happy to see his ferret face, I grabbed him and kissed him. He jumped back and raised his Mace can at me again. I ducked, trying not to laugh at his startled expression.
“Don’t shoot me. The murderer is back there, under a pile of quilt stands. Call the police.”
“What’s going on?” a deep voice rumbled from behind the security guard. The little guy whipped his Mace can around, pointing it directly at Buster. Buster held up his gun, and the guard backed down.
I was never happier to see him. “Myra,” I said, my chest hurting with each syllable. “She killed Claire and Justine, and she’s back there.”
Buster barked into his cell, then pointed at the security guard. “Let’s go.”
They ran toward the alcove.
I sat on the floor and cradled my aching skull in my hands. Time slowed. Paramedics rushed past me. Sanchez appeared at my elbow. From my vantage point on the floor, I could see his black silk socks. Was it just two days ago I’d looked up at Sanchez from this same angle? The crease in his pants was so sharp, I could have flossed my teeth with it. The thought made me smile.
“Crimesolver Pelligrino. We’ve been looking for you,” Sanchez said.
“I told you I didn’t kill anyone. And it’s Pellicano.”
“That notebook gave Ms. Banks’ motive, and the ME pinpointed Justine’s time of death as during the time you and my detective were cavorting.”
“We were having lunch,” I protested.
“Oh, is that what you young folks call it these days?”
He started to walk away, but the entrance was blocked by the paramedics rushing through with a stretcher. Buster came through the doors right behind the paramedics. Sanchez followed the stretcher, telling Buster to stay with me. Nice.
He took a step toward me and held out his arms. I sank into them, relishing the warmth of his strong forearms. I began to shake, felt the answering beat of his heart, steady and strong.
“Is she dead?” I asked into his chest, relishing the warmth there. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. How would I feel if I’d killed someone?
“No,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “But she’s out cold and won’t be coming to for a while. She caught one of those metal bars right on the noggin.”
“Is that police talk—noggin?”
He laughed. I wrapped my arms tighter around Buster’s back. If I could have climbed him like a tree, I would have. I didn’t want to leave the safety of his arms.
“She was going to kill me and make it look like a suicide,” I said into his shoulder, my voice cracking at the horror.
“Suicide?” Buster barked, his voice rough and low. “No way I’d have gone for that scenario.”
He pulled back, his eyes serious, belying the light tone in his voice.
“Shoot yourself?” he continued. “Now if you’d jumped off a bridge or gone under a train, that I could believe. But shooting yourself? Remember that time Kevin shot his foot with the BB gun? You fainted at the sight of his blood.”
“I didn’t faint,” I protested. “I sat down suddenly.”
“You were out cold.”
“Now you’re just lying,” I said, his silliness making me giddy.
He smiled, pleased that he’d made me laugh. “Look what I found. Does this belong to you?”
From behind my back he produced a QP bag. The Wild Goose Chase quilt. My eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t speak, but nodded, pulling the quilt out of the bag and burying my face in it.
“Come on, I’ll take you home,” Buster said.
Kevin whispered in Kym’s ear and kissed her hair. He glanced at me, and she gave him a small shrug. He gave her a little shove toward me before pushing the full dolly away from the QP booth. He gave me a quick smile. Always the baby brother, wanting everyone to be happy.
It was Sunday evening, and we were tearing down the booth. The Seventeenth Annual Northern California Quilt Extravaganza was over. Kevin was headed for the truck, the dolly loaded with the tables and shelves we’d been using in our booth. Dad had called this afternoon with tales of late spring snows, road closings, and chains. It was just as well he’d missed this weekend. I’d sworn Kevin to secrecy for now. I would tell Dad all about it when he got back. This was my story to tell.
I was taking my time undoing the computer wires, neatening the cords with tie wraps and stowing them in a plastic box at my elbow. Kym was unusually quiet, boxing up the unsold books. What had Kevin told her? I knew she was worried that I was going to look for another buyer for Quilter Paradiso.
Myra had been taken into custody last night, charged with both murders. Her injuries had put her in the hospital, but weren’t f
atal. She would live to stand trial for the murders of Claire and Justine. I had been in the emergency room for several hours getting my head checked out, and spent the rest of the night at the police station. Myra wasn’t talking and Sanchez had plenty of questions for me. He was genuinely interested in what I had to say. A new development, one I wasn’t sure I trusted.
Buster had dropped me at home at dawn. He wouldn’t come in the house, and made me promise to get some rest. I’d climbed into bed, under the Wild Goose Chase quilt, but sleep never came. I stroked the quilt and thought about my mother. By the time the weak morning sun had come through my window, I knew what I had to do.
I went to the quilt show to work in the booth. For the rest of the day, I enjoyed the simple pleasure of making customers happy.
To my delight, the POS program had worked smoothly. People flowed in and out of the booth. Kym spent several mostly successful hours on the computer. Quilter Paradiso had the best sales day of the weekend, and I was proud of what we’d done.
Now the booth was half-stripped, a shell of its former self. Kevin had already taken away the old-fashioned cooler. Piece by piece, the Dewey Mercantile booth was being dismantled.
Kym stopped, holding a book midway to a box, and cleared her throat. I looked at her. She was trying to say something.
“Dewey,” she began. I waited. “I’m sorry that I gave you a hard time about the computer.”
I choked back my surprise. Kym admitting she was wrong was not what I’d expected. Kevin must have insisted she apologize. I forced myself to be gracious.
“Thank you. I know if you let yourself, you might even learn to enjoy it,” I said.
She looked like she was going to protest, but thought better of it and returned to packing up the books instead.
If she was going to try to make amends, I would, too. I tried to keep the conciliatory spirit going. “Thanks to you we won first place for the Best Decorated Booth,” I offered. Eve had announced the results of the booth contest an hour ago when the show closed for the weekend.
She rolled her eyes and flicked her hair off her shoulder. “That was a pity vote.”