"Doc Lunt," I continued, "says he found nylon fibers on Grummond's body, and he claimed the fibers came from this quilt. But this is a very old Amish Sunshine and Shadows, and the Amish never use nylon in their quilts. In fact, NOBODY uses nylon in their quilts, which is what I'd have told you at the beginning of this case, IF YOU'D HAD THE GOOD SENSE TO ASK MY ADVICE!"
To his credit—after he recovered his powers of speech—Ted phoned Jay Allen right away, and Ramona, too, since she was the defense attorney. I went back to the jail cell to tell Anna this latest.
"I didn't do it," she said, stating the obvious.
"Of course not," I said, patting her shoulder. "In fact, you were with somebody else at the time, weren't you?"
"Yes," she said, too unhappy to look startled at my astute deduction. "He saw my eye and he—"
And then it dawned on her: while being with a boyfriend might provide her with an alibi, it might also suggest someone else could have been angry enough with Bruce Grummond to kill him. There might be two people with motives. Huge tears began running down her cheeks and dropping into her lap.
"I'm so worried," she said. "I don't know where—where—my friend is. I don't know where my husband was after 5:00, either. That's the last time I saw him."
I handed her a handkerchief and said, "Don't worry. We're going to get this all straightened out."
I can't honestly tell you I felt that confident about it. But sometimes (I'm sorry to say) the job of a nurse is to spread false hope.
"I'll bring you War and Peace," I added brightly. "That will cheer you up!"
I left her cell. Maisie was sitting at her desk, typing furiously and pointedly ignoring me. "Was there something you wanted to tell me?" I said, still thinking hard about the developing murder case.
"No, no," she said, not looking at me, but with a shrug of her shoulders and that kind of "I'm-sure-you're-not-interested" air that makes you intensely interested. "It's just about Janine and Jeff. That's all."
Janine Runyon, proud owner of Sew and Go, and Jeff Sesno, the only brain in the treasure hunt team that stood in Doris Nelson's yard and tried to deduce clues from her quilt???
"WHAT?" I yelled, not wanting to be trifled with.
"They're getting married."
"That's wonderful!" I said truthfully, "Janine is great! And Jeff is very, very nice and deserves a wonderful wife. While she's at it, maybe she could make him some better-fitting pants. . . ."
"And you've heard about Mei Li?" Maisie said, having won the floor and being determined to run with it, if you'll allow me to mix my metaphors.
"Let me guess," I said, not wishing to be outflanked in the information-purveying department. "She's expecting."
"Twins!" said Maisie, triumphant at this extraordinary news. (Okay, I fudged the title of this chapter. There was more than one christening.)
"Omigoodness," I said, thinking how pencil-slim Mei Li is—or was, at any rate—and everything she'd been through in her life, and how Alfred must be busting his buttons. And all these revelations made me think of Ramona, my dear friend Ramona, who'd been trying for days to get in touch with me, and whom I had so shamelessly ignored. . . .
I grabbed Maisie's phone—over her protests—and called Ramona's office. Her secretary told me Ramona had "just stepped out."
Sometimes time passes too slowly. That‘s how the next few days were for me. Jay Allen brought his henchmen in, and they went over Anna's house with the proverbial fine tooth comb.
And one of Jay's expert friends at the University of Michigan Medical School came down and re-autopsied the autopsy. (It sounds ghoulish, but it can be done.) And then there was an infuriating period of two days when we didn't hear anything. I even phoned and offered Jay and Betsy a homemade blueberry pie (which I know is his favorite), hoping to winkle my way into their house and his confidences, but he turned me down, saying he was "too busy." (Probably he also suspected—correctly—that I had planned to buy the pie from Graham's, since I can't make a blueberry pie to save my soul.)
And then it all came out. Doc Lunt and his pig-headed refusal to admit he was past his prime had nearly gotten the wrong person sent to prison for life. Because what Jay and his associates found was that the fibers in Bruce Grummond's nose, mouth, and etc. weren't nylon. They were wool, jute, and wood excelsior. Occasionally you'll find a quilt made with wool filling, but certainly not jute (that scratchy tan stuff they make rope out of) or excelsior (which you pack around breakables), either.
Yet tiny fibers of navy blue wool, jute, and excelsior were present in Bruce Grummond's body, and a sliver or two of jute and excelsior were found in the footsteps across the Grummonds' living room carpet and—I'm leaving out the long, boring part of the forensic report and several more days of investigation— eventually the jute and excelsior were traced back to the Jackson City Jute and Cordage Company, where jute rope and string are manufactured.
Bruce Grummond worked for a gang that staged some pretty big antique and art robberies in the Detroit area. The stolen goods were taken to the Jackson factory, where they were packed in excelsior or tied with jute rope, crated and sent by train to a fence (you know: slang for someone who sells stolen property) in New York.
But Bruce Grummond, it seems, got greedy. Jay once told me that the person who first opined there is "honor among thieves" was, as he put it, "out to lunch." Because Grummond's gang—the gang involved in the robberies—was as ruthless a crew as you might find in any city in America. It was Grummond's job to drive the truck containing the crated stolen goods to the Jackson train depot. When it became clear that Grummond wanted more than his agreed-upon share of the proceeds, it was an easy matter to send someone to his house one night to kill him. This the murderer did with a navy blue wool sweater which, in the course of his everyday work around the jute factory, had become impregnated with jute and wood excelsior fibers.
I confess this part of the tale confused me. "I don't get it," I said. "Jay, why, did the killer use a sweater, of all things? Why not just shoot Grummond, or kill him with the quilt?"
Jay was nice and didn't give me one of his withering looks. "Barb," he said patiently, "professional killers arrive with the tools of their trade. They don't waste time wondering what might be lying around their victims' houses that they could murder them with.
"But this killer was somebody from the gang," he continued, "someone Grummond knew and was pals with, a thief first, a gunman second. He arrived with a gun hidden under the baggy blue sweater he was wearing. It was cool that night."
True. It was one of the reasons I offered Anna a ride home.
"Grummond and the killer had a couple of drinks, and—no doubt to the killer's surprise—Grummond passed out cold. Dr. Lunt was right about one thing, by the way: Grummond's blood-alcohol level was way, way up there. He'd had a drink—or four—before his killer appeared at his house.
"And the murderer decided to use his own sweater to suffocate the unconscious Grummond. Who knows why? Maybe when Grummond passed out, he saw it as a golden opportunity: suffocating Grummond would certainly make less mess and noise than shooting him. The police might even construe it as a natural death."
That made sense.
"Obviously," Jay went on, "the killer couldn't leave the sweater there once the deed was done. From the footprints it looks like he poked around the house a bit, found the quilt, and tossed it over Grummond's body. I'm sure he thought it would throw us off the trail." And then he added, most generously, I thought, "And it did. Except that you figured out the quilt wasn't the murder weapon, Barb."
I felt so proud!
The next few days were a whirlwind. Anna was released from jail, and we were all thrilled. Bruce Grummond's funeral was held in the Baptist Church and a polite crowd of ten attended for Anna's sake. Anna announced she was going back to high school and on to college, and was thinking of becoming a HIGH SCHOOL ENGLISH TEACHER (surprise and congratulations all round). And Doc Lunt returned to work, professing not e
ven a smidgeon of embarrassment at his mistake in the autopsy results ("Well, well, well," he said. "That's interesting."). He refused to take the obvious hint that this was the ideal moment to quit, and that made me mad.
I know he had no intention of quitting because I asked him. Even I was astounded by my boldness. I bumped into him at Sawyer's Drug Store, where we were both pawing through bottles of aspirin, looking for the cheapest brand.
"Say, Dr. Lunt," I said point blank. "Did I hear that you're going to retire?"
"Certainly not," he said crisply.
And that gave me the idea for what is clearly the most meddlesome thing I've ever done in my life. I decided to start a rumor that Doc Lunt was quitting. Starting a rumor in a small town isn't difficult. After checking to make sure Doc Lunt had left, I dropped the first hint right there in the drug store. "Say!" I said to Jack Sawyer, loudly enough so my voice carried all the way to their soda fountain. "Doc Lunt says he's GOING TO RETIRE!"
It wasn't long—an hour at most—before everybody in town knew. (It helped that Jane Murphy, the hairdresser, was in the drug store at the time.) Then I called up Jim Brewster and suggested the Sons of Sasquatch host a retirement dinner honoring Doc Lunt for his almost fifty years of service to Spotsburg. After we went through the preliminaries ("Oh?" Jim said. "Is Doc Lunt retiring?"), he became wildly enthusiastic, and before anyone knew it, especially Dr. Lunt, he (Dr. Lunt) was eating Shirley's Mile High Tower of Ruby Jell-O in the Masonic Temple and receiving the keys to Spotsburg, a gold watch, a set of spiffy new highball glasses, AND a lifetime subscription to National Geographic, making out for all the world as if this retirement business was his brilliant idea.
(If you want more details about any of this, including the detailed account of Bruce Grummond's long criminal history, Bruce Grummond's murder and the subsequent trial, the break-up of the Jackson gang, or Dr. Lunt's life story—he wrote it himself, and it was so extensive it had to be printed in a special newspaper insert—consult the Spotsburg Sentinel. They were in journalistic heaven for more than a month with all our doings.)
And Ramona got engaged! That was her exciting news, the news I kept so rudely putting on the back burner, because I was so obsessed with my obsession. To everyone's astonishment—because they'd been so quiet about it—she and Dr. Robert Rasmussen (yes, Dr. Lunt's partner) announced their engagement, and within days, the further news that Ramona had been appointed District Court Judge by the Governor of Michigan!
That was REAL news. It's unusual enough in the Eisenhower era to find a woman lawyer. But a woman judge? And as always, Ramona wouldn't let us fuss over her, just smiled and smiled and smiled, and didn't say two words, which is a sign of high emotion in a lawyer, I think.
AND Mike and I were married. Because I'd been married before, I wasn't interested in anything very splashy, and it turned out he wasn't either. "I'd like to wear my kilt," he said happily.
"Anything else?" I asked, feeling high-spirited.
"Let's just have a party," he said.
And party we did.
Remember Florence Montgomery's house? Florence, sweet lady and mother of the appalling Gilbert, stealer of jewels and destroyer of quilts, who lived (before she died) in the amazing old Victorian home I described a few chapters back: three acres of parkland, emerald green and maroon clapboard, three stories (the third floor a ballroom), dark wood paneling and banisters, eight bedrooms, including one in the turret in the northern front corner, four bathrooms, two parlors, etc., etc.
Well, I had another terrific idea. Why not buy the old Montgomery place and turn it into an inn? Maureen Montgomery had put it up for sale, and it was so roomy and comfortable I realized instantly it would be perfect for guests.
I wrote out a blizzard of calculations to prove to Mike my scheme would work. The house was generally regarded by all and sundry in Spotsburg as a white elephant, so the price was lower than you'd expect for such a large piece of real estate. Mike would give up his apartment. I would sell my house. We would buy the Montgomery place and make up the difference between our old and our new house payments with paying guests. Assuming, of course, we ever had any.
"It would be so much fun!" I told Mike. "Goose down pillows and patchwork quilts on every bed, and I'll get up early every morning and bake fresh bread and muffins!"
"Quilts sound just great!" Mike said, thoughtfully failing to mention my recent cherry-nut muffins, which turned out like small red rocks.
Wally Ziegler voiced Spotsburg's general consensus about my plan when he said to me, "Barb, you're nice, but you're nuts. Buy that old rattletrap? Give me a moddurn bungalow with lotsa nice glass brick and lee-noleum in my kitchen any day!"
And SO, on a gorgeous, clear, not-at-all-humid September day, Ramona—who'd been sworn in as District Judge the week before—married us there on Florence's immense gingerbread-covered front porch, with the citizens of Spotsburg cheering us on. In a moment of total lunacy I had actually put mimeographed fliers in all Spotsburg's store windows and on all Spotsburg's telephone poles, so that everyone in town knew Mike and I were getting married, and everyone knew everyone was invited.
We borrowed supper tables and chairs from the Methodist Church and set them up in Florence's beautiful side yard, which was even more beautiful than usual that day. The unseasonably cool weather had given fall an early start, and Florence's maples were already turning glorious reds and golds and oranges.
Almost one thousand people showed up! Every family brought a dish to pass, their own table service, and blankets to spread out on the lawn in case there weren't enough chairs (there weren't). Ruth and Shirley made gallons and gallons of coffee and fruit punch.
Instead of greeting our guests after the ceremony, Mike and I greeted them as they arrived. Mike's mother and dad came—two lovely people who own a large feed store in Indianapolis. And my two darling sons, Eddie and Steve, arrived with hugs and kisses and a very touching surprise: each of them was wearing a necktie woven in the Mackenzie tartan! I must have looked startled, because Steve said, "We just wanted you to know we're with you all the way on this, Ma."
It was a little bit like a county fair, with people meeting and greeting and arranging their blankets and picnic baskets. Two of Jim Brewster's older children brought a baseball and bat, and were thoroughly dirty from sliding into third base before the wedding even started. Wally Ziegler arrived with a pony and cart. ("The little ones always like that," he said.) Two of the four State College boys who'd gotten tangled up in the Game of the Quilt Treasure Hunt appeared, with a small box. We'd told people not to bring gifts, but many people did anyway. The boys' present (which we opened later) was no doubt inspired by their evening raid on their rival dorm's bathroom hardware: a dozen rubber sink and bathtub plugs!
Danny Sawyer, who is seven, an adorable child and smart, smart, smart—reputed to be the world's next Einstein-in-waiting—kept popping over to me with his revised count of the goodies.
"Know what, Miz Hoxsie?" he said. "You got three hun'red and twenty-one watermelons here!" Later: "Hey, Miz Hoxsie, there's a hun'red and fifty-five plates of brownies, and ninety-two of them has NUTS!"
Eventually his mom intervened with an embarrassed "Danny, don't be bothering Barb—I mean Mrs. Hoxsie—with this silliness," but I told her it was fine—that I was delighted to know we had plenty of brownies—and when Danny later announced we had thirty-eight baked bean casseroles and no salt shakers, I was way too happy to fret about it.
We didn’t have attendants of any sort, but Jay Allen stood by, looking very proud of what he had accomplished in the matchmaking department, and (of course) excruciatingly good-looking and redheaded.
Ramona looked official (also very small and young) in her new black judge's robe, and Mike was extraordinarily handsome in his kilt and the rest of his Scottish garb.
And my wedding dress? After Mike proposed, I was back once again to the problem of what you wear when you're standing next a man wearing a skirt. The day I picked u
p Mike's kilt from the cleaners (and finally remembered to get the replacement overhead bulb for my Studebaker), I stopped by Sew and Go with the kilt and asked Janine her advice.
"Nothing white," I said. "I want something different."
We searched for different for quite a while. The Mackenzie tartan is dark blue with some touches of black and green. A dark blue or green dress, suggested Janine. A little handmade lace around the neck and sleeves. . . .
"Not splashy enough," I told her.
"Red?" she offered.
I thought about it for a minute. Mei Li's wedding dress had been red. "No," I said, "I don't want to look like I'm copying."
We took down bolts and bolts of fabric, silk and velveteen and even wool, laid them next to the kilt, and tried them with a touch of lace, and a black velvet bodice and silver buttons—to echo his black formal jacket. Boring.
We draped navy blue and forest green over a mannequin and pinned it into puffy sleeves, with fabric swags at the hem and flowers on the swags. Awful. It looked like a dress Little Bo Peep would wear to a funeral.
We tried BOLD and EXPERIMENTAL—in the spirit of the much-heralded Coming Conquest of Outer Space—and concocted a slim toga-like tube of fluorescent chartreuse silk with silver spangles. "Hmmph," I said. "Doesn't it need something more?"
Janine grimaced. "Yeah," she said, unpinning the silk and letting our latest attempt fall to the floor. "A three-foot high ostrich feather headdress. Or a silver football helmet." Scratch the chartreuse toga.
A number of people stopped into the store that day and offered their suggestions. By the end of it all, I was frustrated, still wedding dress-less, and the kilt was so wrinkled I had to take it back to the cleaners for another pressing.
"I want to be dramatic!" I cried. "I want to make an entrance!" And then I had a wonderful, a MARVELOUS idea.
On the appointed Saturday, that perfect, cloudless September Saturday on which Mike Mackenzie and I were married, he and I met our guests and engaged in the pleasantries I've described above. And then I slipped into the house to change into my dress, and Arden and Karen and our other friends organized everyone so they stood in two groups on the lawn in front of our house, leaving a grassy center aisle I could walk down. It took a while, with babies in baby carriages, rambunctious small children refusing to be shepherded into groups, a hunt for the Brewster children's lost baseball, and the sudden outbreak of a water pistol fight.
The Name of the Quilt: Tales of Patchwork, Mayhem, and Murder Page 14