Buried in Quilts

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  The paper’s lead story boosted the quilt show, but with only one small photo, and that was of Mary Sue.

  Bet I bumped a quilt off the front page, Joan thought.

  “So who got it this time, Mom? What did you know about her?”

  “Andrew, don’t be such a ghoul.”

  “It’s all right, Rebecca. I’d better get used to it.” Joan knew it was true. “I’m amazed the phone hasn’t been ringing off the hook.”

  “It can’t.” Rebecca grinned. “After it woke me at six, I turned off the bell.”

  “So?” Andrew drowned another bite of waffle in an outrageous pool of syrup. Joan took a deep breath.

  “She was in charge of the quilt show and a member of the orchestra board. She meant well enough, and she really did a lot of good, but she tended to bulldoze people.”

  “This is a victim? Pass the butter, Bec.”

  Rebecca passed it. “Maybe someone who’d had it with her lay in wait and stabbed her when the orchestra would cover her screams.”

  “And you call me a ghoul.” He slathered butter on another waffle.

  “Stop it!”

  Their banter was suddenly too much to bear. So was the prospect of going to work. The only difference there would be the tone of the questions—and her relation to the questioners.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” Andrew gave her a sticky hug. “I keep forgetting that it’s real. And that you were really there.”

  “Me, too.” Rebecca reached across the table to place a hand on hers.

  “Thanks. I didn’t mean to yell. Guess I’m not as tough as I thought I was.”

  “Tell me about the show, Mom.” Rebecca patted her hand and changed the subject with studied casualness. “Did you see any of the quilts?”

  “Rebecca! How could I forget? Yours is great!”

  “You saw it?” Nothing casual about that. “Where?”

  “In the big room where the orchestra’s going to play—right by the violas, would you believe that? My stand partner couldn’t keep his hands off her bottom.”

  “You didn’t let him!”

  “I didn’t know it was yours. Besides, I don’t know what I could have done to stop him—he didn’t exactly ask. I don’t think he hurt her any.”

  Andrew was staring at her. Rebecca grinned.

  “Let him wonder, Mom.”

  “He’ll love it,” Joan said. “Only I don’t know when anyone will be allowed back in that building.”

  “Because of the murder?” Andrew asked.

  “Yes.” She sat quietly for a moment, willing it not to have happened, but reality pushed back into her mind. It wasn’t real, though, she thought. She could see the face waiting under its transparent cover—almost like the fairy tale, she thought suddenly. But someone’s twisted it into Sleeping Ugly. She shivered.

  And then she knew what she had to tell Fred.

  She pushed back her chair, mumbled an apology through her last spoonful of granola, and bolted for the upstairs phone. Behind her, she could hear Andrew.

  “I don’t know, Rebecca. I just live here.”

  With her bedroom door closed, Joan dialed the police. No, she couldn’t speak to Lieutenant Lundquist—would she like to leave a message? She wouldn’t, but she did, torn between not wanting to have to deal with a stranger and knowing that waiting to speak to Fred himself would only decrease the likelihood that anything she might say would help.

  To her astonishment, her name was an open sesame.

  “Could you hang on just a minute, ma’am? Let me check.”

  Maybe I should hit the news more often, she thought—but there have to be easier ways.

  “Lundquist.” His fatigue came through in only one word. No wonder they were screening his calls.

  “Fred, it’s Joan.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Bless you, she thought. Not did I think of something to solve your murder. Just am I all right. I do like this man.

  “A lot better than last night. But you sound worn out.”

  “I’ll survive. What’s up?”

  For a moment, she’d blocked it out.

  “Just a thought, but you said to call if I thought of anything.”

  “Sure.”

  “Last night, we had it all figured out. Someone came in to steal quilts and got caught. In a panic, he attacked Mary Sue and took off.”

  “Mmm.”

  “So who laid her out?”

  “Yeah. And why?” Of course he’d thought of it. She felt silly. But why stop now?

  “For that matter, why was the room so different?”

  “Different?” He came alive. “What was different?”

  “You probably know that, too,” she backpedaled. “There was the stuff on the floor, of course. Some of the other quilts had been moved. And those big ladders were gone—I’m sure I told you that. The whole place was colder and emptier.”

  “Mmm.” His voice sounded bored, but she could hear his pencil scratching faintly.

  She risked a question.

  “Did you see the Elletts? Is it all public knowledge now?”

  “I told them—but not everything.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The less information people have about the murder scene, the easier it will be for the murderer to give himself away by saying something most folks wouldn’t know. So don’t talk about it. Not to anybody.”

  “Sure. Fred, how were they?”

  “Hard to tell. They didn’t fall apart.”

  “I wouldn’t expect them to. You should have heard them in the funeral parlor after their mother died.”

  “Oh?” Those eyebrows, she thought, wishing she could see them in person. “They raise a ruckus?”

  “Not that bad. Or maybe it was. They kept getting in subtle digs all around. A real fight would have been easier to take. I’ll tell you, Fred, I was glad to get out of there—the open casket was the least of it.”

  “Uh-huh.” He sounded tired again. “Anything else?”

  “No. Fred, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bother you—”

  He stopped her.

  “All I don’t need is to miss something because you don’t want to bother me with it.” She felt better. “Call me anytime. Just don’t spread it around.”

  “I won’t.”

  It had sounded easy. But by the time the orchestra president called at noon to ask her to visit the Elletts with sympathy gifts of flowers and food, she thought almost anything would be easier than staying at work. The office phone, which she couldn’t ignore, and the senior citizens themselves had worn her down. Still, she hesitated.

  “It just doesn’t feel right for me to be the one.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll do it beautifully, and I’m sure the family will appreciate the chance to talk to you.”

  That’s what I’m worried about, Joan thought. They’re going to want to hear the stuff I’ve been trying all day not to tell anybody.

  But she already knew she’d go.

  It’s only being neighborly, she thought on the way to Edna’s house. After all, Mary Sue had her good points, and I can’t help liking Leon some of the time. Kitty, bless her, took care of Edna. As for Alice—who knows what she’ll be like when Mary Sue isn’t breathing down her neck?

  Standing on the porch with the orchestra’s baked ham in one hand and spring flowers in the other (by not telling the Flower Basket they were for a death in the family she had succeeded in coming away with irises and tulips instead of gladiolus and carnations), she could hear them shouting.

  I don’t need this, she thought.

  Neither did Mary Sue, a tougher part of her answered. Go in there and listen. Maybe you’ll learn something.

  Battleground

  She had to ring the bell a second time. Then the silence was abrupt.

  Kitty opened the door, looking appropriately somber. A thirties-style cotton apron covered most of her black turtle-neck and gray slacks.

  “Won’t you com
e in?” she said. “The family’s in the living room.”

  Like the apron, old photographs in the hallway reminded Joan of Edna. Could that one be her wedding portrait? she wondered. And who is this baby—Mary Sue? Leon? I wish I’d visited when she could have told me.

  “You’ve got company,” Kitty was saying. She waved Joan into the living room ahead of her.

  Wearing calling-hour clothes and smooth faces that Joan didn’t believe in for a moment, Alice and Leon rose to greet her.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said, sure that she was. “The symphony board asked me to express their sympathy. What a terrible, terrible thing!”

  She held out the orchestra’s gifts. Kitty came forward, and Joan loaded her down with the ham and spring flowers.

  Leon crushed her hand in his big paw.

  “It’s good to see you, again, little Joan.” He beamed down at her. “Thank you for coming.” She was suddenly glad she had agreed to go, if it meant something to him.

  She got only a perfunctory handshake from his sister, though. Skipping the niceties, Alice went right to the point.

  “The paper said you found her. Is that true?”

  Dear God.

  “Well, yes and no.”

  Alice’s eyes flashed. “Mary Sue was my sister!”

  “Another member of the orchestra saw her first,” Joan said carefully. “But I was there, and I was the person on the scene when the police arrived.”

  “What happened? They won’t say a word!”

  “I don’t know. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t.” Because I promised, she thought. But when it came right down to it, it was true—she couldn’t. She didn’t even know for sure what had killed Mary Sue, much less who.

  I could probably make a stab at when, though, she thought, remembering the cold, rigid flesh under her fingers. I’ll bet anything nobody saw her all day yesterday. Question is, did she come in early, or was she killed the night before?

  “You at least know what she looked like!” Now tears glistened. Was it possible that Alice really cared? “Nobody will tell me anything!”

  “Alice, her face wasn’t touched,” Leon said. “I saw her, remember? Why won’t you believe me?”

  If Leon had seen the body, what harm could could there be in confirming the comfort he was handing out?

  “That’s true,” Joan said. She supposed they could even have another open-casket funeral.

  “Was she—attacked?”

  Murdered isn’t attacked? Just in time, Joan resisted blurting it out. And the red rising to Alice’s cheeks made plain what she couldn’t bring herself to say.

  “Goodness, Alice, I don’t think so.” Not with those skintight pants still on, anyhow. “Not that I’d know,” she added quickly.

  With every evasion, she was becoming more uncomfortable. I never should have said yes to this, she thought. I knew better. She turned to Kitty, who was still holding the flowers in one hand and the supermarket’s aluminum platter of baked ham in the other.

  “Could I help you with those?” The ham weighed a good five pounds, she knew.

  “I can do it,” said Kitty, her hands steady. “I did for Edna.”

  “Be careful with the vase!” Alice warned. “I know her,” she said to Joan, as if Kitty had already left the room. “She’ll put those irises into Mother’s antique Chinese vase—and who knows how much it’s worth by now?”

  The knuckles whitened on the fist that held the irises.

  “Flags,” Kitty said. “Edna called them flags. And she trusted me with her things. Who do you think’s always dusted that vase you’re all of a sudden so worried about?” Without waiting for an answer, she marched out, flags waving.

  Alice whirled on her brother.

  “Did you hear that, Leon? She’s staking her claim. You knew she wanted the house—now she’s making her move on Mother’s beautiful things.”

  “Calm down, Alice.” The high tenor voice came from behind Joan. Turning, she saw Alice’s husband holding a pencil over an honest-to-goodness clipboard. “Nobody’s getting anything until it’s all been appraised.”

  “Oh, Harold, you don’t understand!” Alice wailed.

  “I understand that you’re upset. But there’s no need to get hysterical. The court is going to want to see your mother’s things divided fairly—or sold, and the proceeds distributed to you and Leon. Kitty won’t get a thing. I’ve explained all that to you.”

  “I’m losing my whole family, and all you can think about is money. This isn’t about money!” Her voice shook, and her eyes, though dry, were wild.

  “Speak for yourself, Alice,” Leon said. “But you don’t need to, do you? You can mouth all that family bull because you know old money-grubbing Harold will never let you miss out on a penny that’s coming to you.”

  “I resent that!” Harold laid the clipboard on the mantel and looked ready to square off. “Especially from you. You know that what’s good for Alice is in your interest, too.”

  Joan wished she were invisible. No such luck. Leon reached for her hand and pulled her over. She felt like a human shield.

  “Joan, meet Harold Franklin—Alice’s husband. Harold, this is Joan Spencer. She brought flowers from one of Mary Sue’s good works.”

  “And she knew Mother,” Alice put in. Regaining her composure now, she smiled at her husband. “Harold’s a CPA, Joan. He’s really a great help. It’s all so complicated, what with Mary Sue going before we knew what was hers.”

  “We met the other night,” Joan said. They shook hands. Trying to remember what Leon had told her about slow lawyers, and hoping she wasn’t plunging into the fight, she asked Alice, “Why don’t you know?”

  “Because we haven’t found Mother’s will yet.”

  “For the last time, Alice—there wasn’t any will!”

  “Leon, you don’t have to shout. We all heard you.” She was again the controlled woman Joan remembered from Snarr’s. “And Kitty says there was.”

  “Good God! Now you’re going to believe Kitty! A minute ago you didn’t trust her to put flowers in a vase.”

  “Excuse me,” Joan said quietly. “I’m going to see how she’s doing.”

  Nobody seemed to notice. The sounds of renewed quarreling followed her all the way down the hall. Guided by blue and white stenciling visible through a half-open door at the end of the hall, she found Kitty chopping onions at an old-fashioned kitchen table. Near the sink, the tulips and irises looked homey in a crock with a blue band.

  “Can I help you with this?”

  “No.” Kitty scooped a mound from the chopping block into a bowl that matched the crock. “I better earn my keep.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and reached for another onion.

  Joan took her at her word and pulled a chair up to the big old table. Not quite out of range of the onion fumes, but close enough to talk.

  “Kitty, how long have you lived here?”

  “Five years next month. Some days it feels like my whole life. But I’m glad. Mary Sue was the only other one who could’ve pulled up stakes and moved in like that, and she would’ve driven Edna crazy. I packed up my paints and came—there’s an upstairs room with good north light.”

  “You were painting for a living?”

  “That’s what I told people. Actually, I was pretty desperate.”

  “Do you mind my asking—did Edna pay you?”

  Kitty stopped chopping and shook her head. “She wouldn’t have known how—never balanced a budget or a checkbook before her husband died. She was still in pretty good shape then, but not up to learning anything complicated. Later … well, you know about later. I had to stop painting then. There weren’t enough hours in the day.”

  She lifted the hem of her apron to her eyes. Probably more than just onions. Joan felt a rush of sympathy.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Mary Sue wrote the checks, such as they were. Edna never even knew. It wasn’t much, but I had my room a
nd board here, too.”

  “You took care of her—nursed her through to the end.”

  “She didn’t need a nurse, not till the end. I just lived with her. I cooked for us both—her special diet and all—did the sugar tests, gave her the insulin, and did for this house what I’d do for my own.” She looked around the big, comfortable room and her eyes filled up again.

  “I did what I could—took her places, wrote letters for her while she still cared about hearing from people, shopped for her, stuff like that. Until she got so sick, she appreciated it—made me feel like family. Not like those two in there.” She jerked her head in the direction of the living room and attacked another onion.

  Not like Mary Sue, either, Joan thought, remembering the visiting hours at Snarr’s. She stood, but hesitated to reach a hand in the direction of that blade.

  “Edna was lucky to have you,” she said. “So were her children. I hope they remember that.”

  When she returned to tell the others good-bye, the subject had changed and the mood had lightened. Alice and Leon were holding forth to Harold on family history. Joan wondered how long he’d been part of the family.

  “We had brothers on both sides of the Civil War, you know,” Alice said. “When Grandma was a little girl, Rachel Berry used to tell her stories.”

  “Like when she heard that Abner had been shot, only a few weeks after he married her,” said Leon. “She took off to find him.”

  “That’s right,” said Alice. “She scoured the field hospital, but got nowhere. She was about to give up when they pointed her to the carts full of dead soldiers on their way to be buried.”

  “Young as she was, she was tough,” Leon said. “She walked down the line of carts, looking at all those feet. She was looking for Abner’s fine, handmade boots—she wasn’t about to let them bury him with all the others.”

  He waited for Harold to respond.

  “Why not?” Harold obliged.

  “In those days the Berry name cut considerable ice in Kentucky. Grandma said Rachel considered herself lucky to have landed such a catch. She always called Abner ‘Mr. Berry.’”