Cathedral Windows

by Clare O'Donohue

  “He misses you guys,” I told her. “But he’ll be back soon, I hope.”

  “We’re coming after school, and we have a surprise that will make Mr. Lofton really happy.” She ran back to the bus, skipping. I hoped she was right.

  I went around to the back of Charlie’s house. I had no equipment and no way to determine if someone had left fingerprints or other evidence. I was just looking and hoping that something would leap out and give me the answer I needed.

  In daylight, it was easy to see what had happened. There were remnants of what Charlie had thrown out back: old furniture, drapes, a few boxes from the attic. Everything was burned, but the darkest spot was near the bottom of the pile and on the side farthest from the kitchen. It seemed a waste of time to start the fire there if the intention was to torch the house. Maybe Bill Davis had only meant to warn Charlie and it got out of hand. If that was the case, then perhaps if I talked to him he would admit his error.

  Starting a fire was bad enough, but letting an innocent man go to prison was something I hoped even someone as ill-tempered as Bill Davis wouldn’t do.

  * * *

  “You think I have something to do with what happened to Charlie’s house?” Davis looked about to explode when I’d stopped by his classroom at lunchtime.

  “I’m asking, since you obviously don’t like him.”

  Davis stood up from his chair and rolled up his shirtsleeves, making the task menacing with each movement. He was trying to intimidate me. And it was working. “You think I would do that?”

  “I think you want your wife to get Charlie’s job when the kindergarten class joins up with Morristown. I think you know she tried to frame Charlie with the stolen laptop and cell phone. Mr. Bell was about to make Charlie the new baseball coach . . .”

  “So I burn his house down?” Bill Davis took a step toward me. I took a step back. I was up against the whiteboard and feeling nervous, but I intended to stand my ground.

  “If you didn’t intend for it to go this far, then you tell Jesse. There’ll be consequences, but it’s better than living with the idea that Charlie’s life has been ruined. Isn’t it?’

  “It’s one thing to do your little quilt project, but to accuse a man of my standing.” He was red and growing redder with each second. “Charlie burned his own house down for the insurance money. The whole town knows that.”

  “No, he didn’t. And what the whole town knows is that Charlie is a good man who needs help. And that’s what a town like Archers Rest is supposed to do, help each other. It’s why Carrie and my grandmother let your wife quietly walk away after she shoplifted. It’s why Jesse kept the file in his desk instead of putting it in the cabinet where the other officers could see it. We help each other, Mr. Davis, and we forgive each other. We’ll forgive you if you started the fire as a warning and it got out of hand. Just tell the truth.”

  He didn’t blink, but it seemed tears were starting behind his eyes. “Get out of my classroom,” he said.

  I stood still for a minute, but it was clear I was wasting my time. I’d tried, and failed. I left the classroom with no other ideas. The town’s Christmas Eve fund-raiser, the party for Charlie, was in less than twenty-four hours and we would be without a guest of honor.

  Chapter 12

  Someday Quilts had become Santa’s workshop, with only one gift—a large, handmade quilt. Charlie’s class showed up with the students from the fourth and fifth grades. The Morristown woman from the night before brought her entire quilt group. The mayor, most of the Archers Rest Police Department, and at least a dozen strangers were sewing squares in every available space we had.

  By seven o’clock we were only nineteen squares short of the 441 we needed. Half of the quilt had been assembled, and there were enough coffee and donuts supplied by Jitters to keep us all awake until the last piece had been sewn. Natalie took photos of the whole thing, explaining that perhaps these new photographs would help Charlie feel less bad about the ones he had lost in the fire. That got the mayor and several others talking about other ways to help Charlie once the quilt was done. Everyone was excited about seeing his face when we presented him with his grandmother’s quilt, completed with the love of a whole town.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell them we might have to give it to him in jail.

  * * *

  Just when it seemed that all of Archers Rest was in the shop, the door opened and Bill and Julie Davis walked in.

  “I can only sew a straight stitch,” Mrs. Davis said.

  “And I can’t sew at all,” Bill Davis added. “But we’re here, and we’ll help. You’re wrong, Nell, what you said this afternoon. Completely wrong. But you were right about helping neighbors, and Charlie is that.” He stammered a little, then found his way again, “Maybe I was a little upset that there was talk of letting him coach, and maybe Julie did think that she was the better person to take over the third grade, but we didn’t hurt him. And we don’t want to see him ruined. So we’re here to help.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was afraid I might cry if I did. So I just nodded and let Eleanor bring them fabric and explain what needed to be done. When we were nearing the last of the squares, a gasp went up.

  “We’re out of colored pieces,” Carrie said, “and we need one more to finish it.”

  I looked at the kids working hard at their blocks; their parents who had come to pick them up had instead joined them.

  Eleanor laughed. “I think we can find something.”

  “It has to be special,” Jacob told her.

  I went to my purse and got the small blue square I’d taken away from Emily and Jacob on the day I’d taught them to quilt. “What if we use this?” I asked. “Would that be okay?’

  “Perfect,” Emily said.

  Jacob nodded his agreement, so I gave him the square to sew into block. “Do you think he’s okay?” Jacob asked.

  “I hope so.”

  “Why doesn’t he just bust out? He’s a superhero, that’s what you said.”

  “Not a superhero, a regular hero. Someone who does the right thing.”

  “Oh.” Jacob’s face fell.

  “What do you think Mr. Lofton can do, Jacob?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I thought, maybe he could just make everything okay.” Jacob reached deep into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a few coins, a blue glass ball, and a tissue, until he found a button with a Superman logo on it. “Maybe this will make him a superhero.”

  I took the button, wishing that at least for a while we could all live in the world of a nine-year-old, but as Jacob reached for the rest of his things, I stopped him. I took the small glass ball and held it up. It wasn’t a ball; it was a top, cobalt blue, a perfect match for the missing needle holder. I crouched down and gently asked him, “Jacob, where did you get this?”

  Jacob’s eyes widened. “I found it.”

  “I know blue is your favorite color, so when you saw this, you picked it up, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  The little boy burst into tears.

  * * *

  The next night, we opened the doors to the library at six, with most of the town, and some new friends—out-of-town shop hoppers turned square makers—crowding inside. At six-thirty, Jesse brought Charlie over from the police station. The men’s store in town had sent some new clothes to the jail, and Charlie’s shoes squeaked a little as he walked in. He was expecting a fund-raiser for the Morristown Fire Department, and as much as he didn’t want to be around a lot of people, he’d agreed to go to offer his thanks for the work they’d done trying to save his house.

  What he got was a giant surprise party.

  The Christmas tree was filled with prettily wrapped gifts, all with his name on them—there were clothes, household items, gently used furniture, even a television s
et donated by the police department. Bernie had offered the empty apartment above her shop, rent free, until he was back on his feet.

  The woman who had once been on Charlie’s paper route gave him a toaster. “I thought you had done it,” she confessed, “but I didn’t care because I knew you were a good man. I thought you were just confused.” Behind her the rest of the town nodded in agreement.

  Charlie didn’t seem to mind what people had thought. In fact, it was all the more touching to him that they stuck by him regardless. As the evening wore on, and more gifts were opened, I could see he was trying to hold back the tears, but he was the only one. Everyone was crying a little, including me. Folks who had known Charlie’s parents brought copies of photos they had from the years they’d spent as friends and neighbors, reassembling a lifetime of lost memories. Richard Bell, the school’s vice principal, not only offered Charlie his job back but promised to find the funds to expand his science club and recommended Charlie as Bill’s assistant coach. I wondered how Bill would take to that idea, but he shook Charlie’s hand and said he’d be grateful for the help, which seemed to mean as much to Charlie as the sheets and towels Bill and Judy brought as a gift.

  The third grade class presented their nine-patch quilt as their Christmas present. Jacob didn’t want to come, but when Charlie had heard what had happened the night of the fire, he’d insisted.

  Jacob, we’d learned through his sobs the night before, had started the fire with the lighter he’d pinched off Charlie’s desk when we weren’t looking. The pile of junk meant nothing to him, and he hoped that it would prove to the town that we needed our own fire department. He’d chosen Charlie’s house to set the fire instead of his own because Charlie was a superhero, and Jacob thought Charlie could put out the fire before any damage had been done. He had no idea the dry wood and old drapes would so quickly catch to the back of the house. He’d been waiting in vain for Charlie to don his uniform and make everything okay again.

  “Mistakes happen,” Charlie told the little boy. “And friends share the good times and the bad.”

  “And we share something else.” I took out one last box, quite large, with an envelope attached, reading, “To Charlie, from the people who love you.” Inside the envelope were Natalie’s photographs of the dozens of people who had sewn squares for Charlie.

  Puzzled by the photos, he opened the box and pulled out the cathedral windows quilt. He stared at it for a long time. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “I can see why my grandmother wanted to make a quilt like this.”

  Jacob pointed out the blue square. “This is my fabric, mine and Emily’s. We wanted you to have it.”

  Charlie stroked the small square. “It’s my favorite one.” As he spoke, tears began to stream from his eyes. “I feel like I just came home tonight.”

  “Home to stay, I hope,” my grandmother said.

  He nodded and hugged the quilt tight to him.

  I had to take a step back and catch my breath. As I did I felt Jesse’s arm around me.

  “You did a good thing,” he said.

  I wrapped my arms around his waist. “In all the excitement, I forgot to get you a Christmas present.”

  He looked back at Charlie, and at his whole town gathered in one place. “No, you didn’t.”

  Read on for the first chapter to Clare O’Donohue’s novel The Devil’s Puzzle: A Someday Quilts Mystery, also available from Plume.

  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 could 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.