Make Quilts Not War

by Arlene Sachitano

  “Doesn’t it seem like one coincidence too many?” Harriet asked.

  “Normally, I’d say yes, but in this case, the woman is so sick I’m not seeing it.”

  Wendy started moving around in her seat, and Carla opened the door then looked back at Harriet.

  “I think we need to go home,” Harriet said to Morse. “I’m supposed to be resting.”

  “Good idea. Go home and stay there until your arm is better.”

  “I was only out today to have my bandage changed.”

  “And yet, here you are,” Morse said with a shake of her head. “Convince your friend not to come back here. We told her, but that doesn’t seem to mean anything to you Loose Threads.”

  Harriet started to protest, but Carla came to stand beside her.

  “Let me help you get in the car,” she said and guided Harriet away from Detective Morse.

  Chapter 22

  Harriet woke from the nap Carla had insisted she take and found Carla gone and that Mavis had replaced her. Scooter was on his fleece mat beside the older woman; her own dog Curley was asleep in her lap.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake. I thought I was going to have to wake you, and I was afraid I’d hurt your arm.”

  “Are we late? Did I sleep too long?” Harriet asked as she rubbed her eyes with her good hand. She had agreed to go upstairs to her TV room and was propped up on the sofa with her arm resting on a pillow across her chest.

  “No, we’ve still got a few hours before we have to go. You were moaning in your sleep. Does your arm hurt?”

  “I was dreaming. There was a mountain lion on a narrow ledge looking over a sandstorm. And a scary-looking clown was climbing up the sheer cliff toward the cat.”

  “That’s a weird one.” Mavis said.

  “During the dream, I was terrified. My heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest.”

  “Your dreams are supposed to mean something if you know how to interpret them.”

  “Do you know what this one means?”

  Mavis made a derisive noise.

  “I don’t believe in that nonsense,” she said.

  Harriet laughed.

  “Why did you tell me they meant something, then?”

  “You young people seem to believe.”

  “I’m not sure I follow your logic, but maybe Lauren can look it up for me.”

  “Are you hungry? I made a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and heated some tomato soup.”

  “That sounds good,” Harriet said. “I can come down to the kit-chen.”

  “As long as you can get upstairs again—if you’re going to change into a sixties outfit, that is.”

  “We have to wear costumes to the kitchen?” Harriet asked with a smile.

  “To the concert, Miss Smarty Pants, but I suppose if it hurts your arm too much we could make excuses for you.”

  “My arm hurts, but it’s a burn, not an amputation or paralysis or something serious.”

  “I was just giving you an out,” Mavis said. “Excuse me for trying to take care of you.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be critical.”

  It was full dark when Harriet and Mavis met Carla and Lauren in front of the auditorium; this time of the year it usually happened around five-thirty and then only if it wasn’t cloudy.

  “Where’s Jenny?” Harriet asked.

  “Robin called and said Jenny didn’t want to come at the last minute, so she insisted she come to her house. Connie and Rod are babysitting Wendy so Carla can enjoy herself. Robin’s husband brought their passes to Connie’s so Carla could bring them to the concert in case anyone needed them.”

  Carla reached into her jacket pocket and pulled the passes out.

  “I was going to have a sitter come to Aiden’s, but with Michelle there, I didn’t want to risk it,” Carla said.

  “That’s a smart decision,” Harriet said. “Has anyone talked to Aunt Beth? Is she coming?”

  “I think she’s going to help Jorge with food,” Mavis said. “They’ve set up tables in the lobby and are going to sell light snacks and drinks during the intermission. Beth figures they’ll be able to hear the concert from there.”

  “Has anyone heard from DeAnn?” Harriet asked.

  “She called when you were resting and said she needed to spend some time with her kids.”

  The door to the auditorium opened, and Colm Byrne’s assistant came out.

  “You ladies ready for your tour?” Skeeter asked. “Do we need to wait for more people?”

  “No,” Harriet said. “Jenny decided not to come, and our friend Robin is staying with her. And another lady had to be with her kids tonight.”

  “Jenny not a Colm Byrne fan?” he asked. It was clear he couldn’t believe that could be true of anyone.

  “It’s not that,” Harriet answered. “She just had something else to do.”

  “Well, they’re going to miss a good show,” Skeeter said. “Shall we go in?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just went to the nearest set of doors and held one open.

  Burly black-T-shirted men were in evidence inside the door and outside of each doorway they passed. As promised, Colm Byrne had increased the security.

  Harriet was wearing bell-bottom jeans and a Mexican peasant blouse. She’d discovered that, after her visit to the doctor, her bandage was too big to comfortably wear a long-sleeved shirt over it. She layered two tank tops under the short-sleeved blouse and put on a knitted poncho Mavis had brought along when she’d come to sit with her. Harriet wasn’t quite sure if Mavis had gotten it at a secondhand store last week or if she’d had it in her closet since the nineteen-sixties, but she was thankful.

  Skeeter instructed the women to put the lanyards around their necks and turn the passes so the front was visible. He checked to see that everyone had complied.

  “We have strict security procedures in place because of what’s going on here,” he said and, turning, led them to a door beside the stage. “You need to stay together at all times, and don’t wander off into any area I’ve not taken you to.

  “We have a green room where performers hang out when they’re not performing—we usually have a local band from whatever city we’re in to open for us. They play before Colm and then midway between sets.” He made a noise that Harriet guessed was supposed to be a chuckle. “He’s not as young as he once was. He doesn’t perform two hours straight anymore like he used to.

  “For this event we ran open auditions for folk artists and other types of tribute bands. We have a Peter, Paul and Mary tribute band, a Four Tops band, a trio that plays Simon and Garfunkle music and a really good Stevie Wonder impersonator.”

  True to his word, the room was green, and it was full of people dressed to look like the singer or band they were supposed to be.

  “Are you one of the Tops or Stevie Wonder?” Harriet asked a man with coffee-colored skin and shoulder-length dreadlocks.

  “Both,” he said with a laugh. “I come out first with the Four Tops and then again two sets later in a different outfit as Stevie Wonder.”

  “Are there a lot of sixties festivals?”

  “No. We do a few, but mostly we do cruise ships. But never with a big name like Colm Byrne.”

  “Cruising all the time must be fun,” Mavis said.

  “It’s a living,” the man said with a smile.

  The Threads spoke to the other performers, and then Skeeter ushered them to the backstage dining room. Comfy chairs were placed around small tables throughout the space, with a loaded buffet table along the back wall. Two men in white aprons stood behind the buffet, ready to carve meat for the guests. They were both covered in tattoos, including, Harriet noticed, a stylized peace symbol.

  One man had a full head of shoulder-length white hair pulled into a low ponytail. He was big, with biceps that strained the rolled up sleeves of his denim work shirt. The second man also sported a tail, but in his case the top of his head was nearly bald and his hair was a dirty gray color. He
was thin but muscular.

  “Don’t look like your typical food service people, do they?” Lauren muttered as she headed toward their table.

  Harriet had to hurry to catch up.

  “Do you cook the food yourselves?” she asked white-hair.

  “Do I look like Julia Child?” he shot back.

  “My friend meant to say, no, we don’t,” said the gray-haired man. “Can we cut some meat for you?”

  The big man gave his partner a dirty look but didn’t say anything.

  Lauren asked for roast beef and then moved on down the table. Harriet chose pork roast, which the white-haired man was serving.

  “Which one of you was wearing the Afro wig yesterday?” he asked as he sliced her meat.

  “None of us, actually,” Harriet replied. “Why?”

  White Hair narrowed his eyes and glared at her.

  “I thought I recognized her. We went to high school together.”

  Harriet added fruit to her plate and joined Lauren at one of the small tables.

  “That was weird,” she said. “The big guy just asked me where Jenny was. He said they went to high school together.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, those are prison tattoos on their arms. And those teardrops by their eyes represent people they’ve murdered.”

  Mavis filled her plate and pulled a chair up to Lauren and Harriet’s table.

  “What are you two whispering about?” she asked.

  “The big guy that’s slicing pork asked me where Jenny was. He said he went to high school with her.”

  “Well, that sounds fishy, given she was schooled in the commune.”

  “He asked me about Jenny, too,” Carla said. She’d just joined them. “He asked me if I knew the lady who had been wearing the afro.”

  “What did you say?” Harriet asked.

  “I told him I didn’t know who he was talking about, and that lots of people were wearing afro wigs at this event.”

  “Good girl,” Harriet said.

  Several of the singers brought their plates to the next table and sat down, ending the conversation.

  Twenty minutes passed before Skeeter came back to escort them to their next backstage activity.

  “You ladies ready to meet the man?” he asked.

  “I have a question,” Harriet said. “Who are those two guys carving the meat? They don’t seem like your usual food service workers.”

  “And they were asking a lot of questions,” Mavis added.

  Skeeter glared at the two men then turned back to Harriet.

  “Since Colm’s made it big he’s tried to hire people who couldn’t get a job otherwise. I’m sure you wouldn’t be surprised to find out these two have done time. They usually do more physical labor, but our regular cook got hurt, so the kitchen helpers had to step in, and we had to move those two up. I thought they could handle it, but I guess not.”

  He glanced at his watch.

  “We better move. Colm will meet you in his dressing room. But we’ve got to swing back by the front entrance to gather up some folks who won backstage visits in a radio contest.”

  The newcomers wore red passes with the radio station’s call letters around their necks, apparently denoting their lesser status. When they returned backstage, Colm Byrne and his band members sat at a table in the main passageway. The radio station bunch was ushered to the table while Skeeter sent the Threads into what turned out to be Colm’s dressing room.

  A large bowl of fresh fruit sat in the middle of a table on one wall. To the left of the fruit, bottles of water stuck out of a large tin wash bucket that was half-full of crushed ice. To the right, a ceramic bowl was filled with dark chocolate truffles.

  “Make yourself at home,” Skeeter said and shut the door as he left.

  Harriet immediately made a move toward the truffle bowl.

  “You don’t have to ask me twice when it comes to chocolate.”

  She selected a truffle with a pink dot of hard frosting on its top. Mavis joined her and selected one with a sprinkle of large salt crystals.

  “Somehow I thought they’d have beer and chips for snacks,” she said.

  “When they were younger, they probably did eat like that,” Lauren said. “I read an article on the Internet that said the groups that survived the sixties and still are active have learned to live a healthier life. Ozzy Osbourne travels with a personal trainer!”

  “Wow,” Carla said.

  “Are you ladies enjoying your tour?” Colm Byrne asked as he joined them

  “We definitely like the chocolates,” Harriet said.

  Colm went to the bowl and selected a truffle.

  “Our nutritionist only lets us have them on performance days.”

  “We were just talking about how healthy your snacks are,” Lauren said.

  “We’ve been in the game a long time,” he said with a smile. “We have to use every trick in the book to keep up with the younger guns.” He stepped over to an electric kettle sitting on his dressing table and began preparing a cup of peppermint tea laced with honey. “I hope I can trust you ladies not to let out my secret weapon.” He held up his teacup.

  “Our lips are sealed,” Mavis said.

  “When I met you ladies the other day, I thought there were more of you. Are some of your group not fans?” Colm asked.

  “Some people had better things to do,” Lauren said.

  “Ouch,” he said with a smile.

  “What my friend meant to say is that some of our group had obligations in other areas of the festival,” Harriet said. “My aunt, for one, will be helping serve food during your intermission.”

  “How did the festival end up landing a big act like yours for our little event?” Lauren asked sweetly.

  “We like to get back to our roots once in a while. We used to play small festivals in Ireland when we were starting out. We had some time off a couple of months ago and saw the notice that you were looking for a band. It sounded fun, so I called my buddy Jerry to see if we could get in.”

  “Did you meet Jerry in Ireland?” Harriet asked.

  “That I did,” Colm said. “That I did.”

  “Everyone is happy to have a big name like you. We’ll probably get a lot of out-of-town people tonight,” Mavis said.

  “I had them save front-row seats for you for the performance. The radio people will be behind you. Skeeter will come get you in a few minutes. We’ll have a couple of sets by the local bands before I come out. I hope you enjoy the show.”

  “Thank you so much,” Carla said, blushing furiously.

  “Are you the young lady who’s never been to a show before?”

  Carla was so starstruck all she could do was nod her head. Colm opened a drawer in his dressing table and pulled out a colorful scarf.

  “These are my trademark,” he said and handed it to Carla.

  “Thank you so much,” she stammered and carefully took the scarf from his hands.

  Mavis wound it around Carla’s neck, crossing it into a loose knot at her throat. Carla thanked Colm again, and then Skeeter came into the room and led them to the front row of the auditorium. The seats were roped off, including the ones that would have been Robin’s and Jenny’s.

  “I’m going to the restroom one last time,” Harriet said.

  “Take Lauren with you, and when you get back, Carla and I will go,” Mavis instructed.

  Harriet was standing outside the restroom door waiting for Lauren when Tom approached her.

  “Hey,” he said. “You here for the concert?”

  “Not only am I here, I have front-row seats.”

  “Did the organizers feel sorry for you?” he asked with a smile.

  “No, we actually had these tickets before I got hurt.”

  “Did you charm Mister Byrne out of them?”

  “Actually, we performed a service for him—and not the one you’re thinking of. His stage manager asked us to sit and listen while they adjusted the sound and lights for the smaller
venue.”

  “That’s lucky. I paid twenty-five dollars for my ticket at the vendor’s rate, and I’m halfway back.”

  “Come sit with us,” Harriet said.

  “How can I do that? I heard it’s a sellout.”

  “Jenny and Robin decided to stay home at the last minute. We have their passes.”

  “In that case, I’d be happy to join you,” Tom said and smiled at her.

  They waited for Lauren then went back to their seats, guarding purses while Mavis and Carla had their turn powdering their noses. Then the show began.

  The first act was the Simon and Garfunkle tribute trio, consisting of two men and a woman. The men were deft guitarists, and with the woman to cover the higher ranges, they were able to sing credible versions of “Sounds of Silence,” “Scarborough Fair,” and “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” The Four Tops send-up group sang “I Can’t Help Myself,” which was the song most people knew of as “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch,” and finished with “Reach Out, I’ll be There.”

  The background band played a musical interlude while the stage was reset, and then the man himself walked out on stage, guitar in hand.

  Colm played a medley of songs, starting with the ballad “Roses are Red (My Love),” an old Bobby Vinton song, and several others from the early sixties. Harriet couldn’t have told anyone what else he played. Mavis and Carla were clapping and, in Mavis’s case, singing along. Lauren had her smartphone concealed by her leg and was looking something up. Tom seemed to be listening, but Harriet was mentally reviewing what had been going on for the last few days.

  The police were treating the shooting, the tire-slashing, her acid attack and Bobby’s killing as if they were four coincidental but separate incidents, but it didn’t seem likely to Harriet. Their festival was too small to have so many unless they were related. And Jenny seemed to be at the center of it all.

  Before she realized it, Tom had taken her hand and was urging her to her feet.

  “It’s intermission,” he whispered into her ear. “You were a million miles away—want to tell me where?”

  “Not here,” she murmured.

  “We’re going to the restrooms and then maybe check out the food,” Harriet told Carla and Mavis.