Buried in Quilts

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  “Worth checking out, don’t you think?” Now he was asking Fred. Joan was completely lost.

  “Is there something I ought to know? My daughter’s planning to ride home with this character.”

  Catch Me If You Can

  Kyle Pruitt’s round face lost its smugness.

  “Call it off,” he urged.

  Fred drew a blank.

  “You going to clue me in?” he asked. And then it hit him. “You think….?”

  “I sure do,” Pruitt said. “Last week, when the lady was describing her stolen quilt, I thought something sounded familiar. So I took a look at those scraps in the evidence bag—the ones they picked off the fence after the guy got away that night. Sure enough, one good-sized brown hunk had black lines near the edge, a lot like what she was telling me about. For a minute there, I thought maybe it wasn’t a guy, after all—maybe they took her for a man. She’s plenty tall. But they wouldn’t miss those boobs.” He blushed. “Pardon me, ma’am.”

  Joan rolled her eyes. Fred suspected she’d heard worse.

  “Just give me a phone book.” Her words came out shaky.

  Fred pulled rank on the information operator instead, but didn’t find so much as an unlisted number for Carolyn Ryrie. We’ll have to head him off, he thought.

  “What’s this Ralph driving?” he asked Joan.

  “An old Ford pickup.”

  “Color?”

  “Red, but I think he’s painted it. It’s too dull to be original.”

  He gave her time to see it again. “What else?”

  “He’s got one of those scenes on the back window of the cab. A lake, with mountains.” She gulped and avoided his eyes. “The sun was behind me. I couldn’t see through it.” To the gun rack, he thought. She was hanging tough.

  “What about the truck bed? Could you see what he was carrying?”

  “There was stuff back there. A couple of tires. Ladders. I think maybe some gravel. No tailgate.”

  “Did you see the plate?” Not likely.

  “Not really. I wasn’t trying. It didn’t look like Indiana, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was plain white, and there wasn’t any letter after the first two numbers.” Just a truck license.

  Her control slipped then, and she grabbed his arm. “Fred, don’t let him hurt her!” He covered her hand with his and turned to Pruitt.

  “Kyle, have someone pick up Carolyn Ryrie and bring her here with that shirt. You won’t need a warrant—she’ll cooperate. First, though, put out a call to locate Ralph.” It was too much to hope that Joan would know Ralph’s last name, but he asked.

  She didn’t. “But you could ask Snarr’s. Ralph’s the man they sent over to the inn with the chairs. You’ve seen him, Fred. Remember?”

  He nodded. “Check with Snarr’s, Sergeant. You’ve got his description. Be sure you put the word out that if he’s spotted on the way back to town, he’ll have Rebecca Spencer with him.”

  He had to ask Joan. “What does she look like?”

  “Like Andrew, only my height and a girl. Short hair and all. She’s wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt.” She had herself back under control now.

  “White female, age twenty, five-five, slender build, fair complexion, short dark curly hair.”

  Joan nodded.

  “Add the clothes and what you heard about the vehicle. He’s wanted for questioning, could be armed. Just have him followed—no confrontation as long as she’s in there—we don’t want this to turn into a hostage situation. He might be headed for Snarr’s, but it’s a good guess he’ll drop her off at Chestnut and Prospect.”

  “Let’s hope we get to him before he picks her up in the first place.”

  “Don’t spook him trying. We don’t have a thing on him—yet.”

  Pruitt took off and Fred turned to Joan.

  “I’m afraid your job will be harder.”

  She sat very still.

  “He’s seen your car?”

  A nod.

  “So you’d better look normal. Go home, go to work, whatever. And try not to worry. If we’re wrong about this guy, there’s no problem. Even if we’re right, she’s probably safe enough as long as nothing tips him off. Last time, he ran. He might not know what a good description we got of him that night.”

  “What did he do?”

  “If we’re right? He stole the hard drives out of half the computers at Oliver College, and some extra chips and cards besides.”

  “Computers?” Some of the tension left her voice and face.

  That’s right, Fred thought, reading her. Just things.

  “It’s turned the campus upside down, and the businesses are getting nervous. People all over town are carrying their micros home at night.”

  “Why do you think it’s Ralph?” she asked.

  “You heard Sergeant Pruitt. Your description fits the man we almost caught in the act. Mostly he blends into the woodwork, but that night he snagged his clothes on a fence. If the pieces in our evidence bag match Ralph’s shirt, we’ll know he’s our man. And this time we’ve got surprise on our side.”

  She was leaning forward now, the spark back in her eyes.

  “Fred, Ralph said it had a hole in it!”

  Better and better. Then the spark died, and her forehead creased.

  “Oh, Fred. Oh, no. How could I forget?”

  “What?”

  “Ralph was at the inn before Mary Sue died. He was looking around and kind of joking about what a firetrap it was and how they were probably insured against loss.”

  “Uh-huh.” Probably considering a hit.

  “Then he got to talking about Mary Sue.”

  Now Fred leaned forward.

  “And?”

  “She owed him money. He was mad about it. And he embalmed her mother at Snarr’s. Fred, maybe Ralph killed Mary Sue. It would be natural as breathing for him to lay her out like that. And now Rebecca’s riding with him.” She shuddered.

  He looked her over. Her color was all right.

  “We’ll get him. You going to be okay?”

  “I’ll fake it. I’m going home. No one’s expecting me back at work yet anyhow, and I’ll do better alone.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m tougher than I look.” The shakiness was gone. “But you take care of Rebecca.”

  He walked her to the door. She didn’t look back.

  With hours of paperwork piled in front of him, Fred was doodling trucks on his blotter. Nothing yet from Snarr’s—the answering service had said they were all at an interment in a little country cemetery near Gnaw Bone, but did he need a body picked up? Finally, Kyle Pruitt stuck his head in.

  “A sheriff’s deputy spotted them coming into town. The girl’s with him. She looked okay, and he wasn’t acting nervous or anything.”

  “Where?”

  “Turning right off Bottom Road onto Fox Hollow. They’ll be on Main in another couple of minutes.”

  Fred stood up and reached for his jacket.

  “Let’s go.”

  Kyle wanted to use the siren; Fred could see it in his eyes. But he had more sense. Instead, they took back streets and occasional alleys, listening to the radio dispatcher track the pickup.

  Near campus they passed under power lines hung with pairs of sneakers dangling by their strings. No matter when the electric company plucked them, a new crop of the strange fruit always sprouted within days. Fred had sometimes suspected ritual significance. A before-exam safety ritual? A before-sex safety ritual? Or maybe just celebrations, as people said—an enterprising student could always think of something to celebrate.

  Today he hardly noticed them.

  The radio spoke.

  “Now entering S-curve; downtown units stand by.”

  “Let’s pick him up at Main.”

  Kyle obliged with a sharp swerve. “There he is.”

  “Yeah, I see him.” Or would, if I could see through the back window of the cab. “Hang back until he dr
ops her off.”

  Sedately, they followed the dull red pickup through downtown, separated now by one car, now by two. So far, so good. The truck was less than a block north of Prospect when some fool in a unit coming up behind them hit his siren.

  “What the—!” Fred grabbed the radio, but it was already too late. The pickup made a screeching U-turn, giving him a look at its occupants—the grim-faced driver spinning the steering wheel, and the girl, her mouth open wide and her hand clutching the roof.

  Kyle’s foot hit the brakes. His eyes begged Fred.

  “Go ahead. It can’t hurt now.” Sliding down into the seat, Fred braced his feet against the floorboards. Kyle slapped the flasher onto the roof, cut loose with the siren, and followed on two wheels. The pickup led them back through town toward the campus. Fred filled the dispatcher in as they went.

  The sneakers flew by overhead. Then they were careening around the Oliver College admissions office into the arboretum on a road marked “Service Drive Only.” Between trees, Fred caught glimpses of red.

  “We’ve got him!” Kyle exulted. “This one dead-ends at the library.”

  “Don’t count on it. He’s not about to sit there and wait for us.”

  Running wasn’t one of Kyle Pruitt’s strong points, and the officers who had lost this guy before could outrun either of them. But Fred had planned ahead.

  “Campus backup needed at the library—he’s coming in at the loading dock,” he told the dispatcher.

  “Ten-four.”

  The library loomed ahead.

  To Kyle’s credit, he pulled up when the driver’s side door of the pickup swung open. Rolling out and landing on his feet, Fred shouted, “Police! Freeze! Hold it right there!” But Ralph, crouching, had already put the truck between them and was dodging through the trees behind the library. Fred couldn’t see a weapon.

  Kyle gave chase; Fred looked into the cab of the pickup. Pale, but apparently uninjured, Rebecca looked so much like her brother that he thought he would have recognized her cold. At a glance he took in the torn upholstery, the overflowing ashtray, the soiled floor littered with cans and flip-top tabs, and the decrepit gray blanket covering who knew what in the space behind the seat.

  The gun rack was empty.

  “Police,” he said, showing Rebecca his badge through the open window on the driver’s side. “You all right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Is he armed?”

  “Armed! With what?” Good. She couldn’t have missed much of anything under Ralph’s jeans. Fred relaxed a little.

  A police car pulled up behind them. Glad to see two speedy young officers, he pointed them in the general direction of Ralph’s flight.

  “What’s going on?” Rebecca had slid down out of the pickup and was staring at him warily from the passenger side.

  “Did this man just take a brown shirt out to Carolyn Ryrie’s?”

  “How did you—?” He watched her face work its way from startle through curiosity and around to indignation. “What is this, anyway? What business is it of the police?”

  “He’s suspected of grand larceny.” No point in worrying her with more than that.

  “You think he stole Carolyn’s quilt!” There was a thought.

  “No,” he said. “We’re chasing down some missing equipment.”

  “Chase him, then—all I did was bum a ride.” Now she was on the defensive.

  Unlikely as Joan’s daughter in cahoots with a local thief seemed, caution died hard.

  “I leave chasing to faster people. And I don’t want him to circle back and drive this heap off again.” Or you, he added silently.

  “Don’t worry.” He saw Joan in her dancing eyes. “He can’t.”

  “How’s that?”

  “That was some ride, once he heard the siren. He left his keys in the ignition when he took off. I threw them over there in the bushes.”

  “And to think that your mother worried about you.”

  She looked blank for just a moment, and then her face lit up.

  “You’re Mom’s cop!”

  He could hear Andrew saying it.

  She stuck out her hand. “Rebecca Spencer—but you already know that, don’t you?”

  “Fred Lundquist.” They shook hands across the hood. Hers was firm and warm—she’d already recovered.

  “She told you about Ralph.”

  He nodded. “A little. What’s his last name?”

  “I never did hear. Carolyn must know. She wrote him a check when he arrived with the shirt. And she made him sign a note.”

  Joan hadn’t mentioned money.

  “He was strapped?” You’d think he’d have cashed in some of his chips, so to speak. Maybe Ralph wasn’t the computer thief, after all.

  “I guess. He said he needed money for a trip. He promised Carolyn he’d pay her as soon as he got back.”

  That figured. All the publicity would make it next to impossible to sell stolen computer chips anywhere near Oliver. Time to check Ralph’s ID and notify the banks.

  A second car arrived. He sent one man after Ralph and asked the other, a lanky recruit named Wampler, to stay—both in case the fox doubled back and to witness his search for the truck’s registration.

  With Rebecca watching too—another witness, Fred thought comfortably—he climbed into the cab and started with the glove compartment. After pencil stubs, cigarettes, small change, matchbooks, old lottery tickets, and a penlight, he came to a grubby owner’s manual held together by rubber bands. A likely place for the registration. He pulled it out—and rejoiced.

  “Will you look at that,” said Wampler, who was tall enough to stare over Fred’s shoulder into the glove box at the clear plastic bags the manual had concealed. “Drugs?”

  “Computers. Probably hard drives.” Compact and ready to drive to market. For all his own mess, Ralph apparently knew enough to keep them clean. “We’re going to make some people very happy today.” Starting with me, Fred thought. “Let’s find out who he is.”

  Leaving the bags where they were, he climbed out of the pickup, pulled the registration out of the rubber bands, and laid it on the hood. The truck was registered to a Ralph Lloyd Wampler. Oliver had about as many Wamplers as Deckards.

  “Ralph Lloyd?” The recruit was standing almost at attention. “I’ve never heard of him, sir.”

  “We won’t hold him against you, Wampler.” Fred laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Go call it in—if he gets away, he might try to cash that check locally. And get us a warrant to search the rest of this truck.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wampler loped back to his unit. Rebecca seemed to have disappeared. Fred scanned the woods. No Rebecca. Oh, God. I can’t lose her now.

  “Look!” He whirled at her triumphant shout. “See what I found!” She had dragged the old blanket down onto last year’s leaves. Now she nudged it with her toe. Unrolling before their eyes, it revealed a puffy brown lining, with intricate designs of ferns, stalks, leaves, and fungi printed in black against a subtly pieced background, shaded from dark walnut at the bottom to a few pale inches at the top. Vertical strips and closely spaced lines of quilting effectively suggested tree trunks.

  Carolyn Ryrie’s quilt, without a doubt. Fred had no idea whether it had a shot at the prize, but he could see why she might expect it to.

  They were going to make a few more people happy, he thought. Not only had Ms. Ryrie’s missing property been found, but finding it in Ralph’s truck pretty much wiped out any connection to the quilt show. From what Joan had said, it might be part of a lovers’ quarrel. He looked forward to giving Captain Altschuler the good news. Too bad he couldn’t tell Mary Sue.

  “Congratulations,” he told Rebecca instead. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “When Ralph peeled rubber back on Main Street, something that felt like a sleeping bag saved me from whiplash. It made sense—he was leaving town. I didn’t tumble to it until the door was open and I was standing
on the ground here, looking in behind you. That’s when I saw brown in the end of his blanket roll.” Her eyes sparkled. “I had to be sure.”

  “We would have found it, you know. I can’t say I’m sorry that you did, but I have to ask you not to touch anything else. I’ve sent Officer Wampler for a search warrant.” He didn’t want her to plunge into the truck again, this time under what might be construed as his influence. There was no hurry now, and it would be a shame to lose old Ralph Lloyd and whatever else might have been hidden under that blanket over some nitpicker’s interpretation of legal search. But Rebecca seemed to have lost interest in the pickup. She was staring past him.

  “We got him, Lieutenant.” The voice in his ear startled Fred. Officer Root had pulled up soundlessly on one of the new police bicycles, her radio antenna sticking up above her shoulder.

  “It worked?”

  “Like a charm. He ran from the guys crashing through the brush, and we surprised him on the sidewalk. They’re bringing him back now.”

  So they were. Fred watched the awkward parade down the little slope toward them. Held firmly by each arm and handcuffed behind his back, Ralph stumbled occasionally over the rough spots. Two more bicycle cops brought up the rear.

  “Peter and the Wolf,” Rebecca said.

  Best of All

  Trying not to watch at the window, Joan missed seeing Fred’s Chevy pull up. But she heard Andrew whoop and raced him to the door.

  Now there was no need to hold back. Rebecca ran straight into her embrace, and Joan’s eyes met Fred’s beyond her daughter’s curly head.

  “How can I ever thank you?”

  “Rebecca’s already taken care of that.” He beamed at both of them. “First she immobilized his vehicle and then she found the missing quilt.”

  Rebecca needed no urging to tell the whole story. When she finally ran down, Joan asked, “Where’s Ralph now?”

  “Over at the station being booked,” Fred answered. “What we found in the glove compartment was the tip of the iceberg. Most of the rest of the missing computer parts were hidden under the quilt. I’ve sent a man out to bring Ms. Ryrie back with the shirt.”

  Relieved as she was, Joan found herself feeling almost sorry for Ralph. To him, Carolyn’s creation was probably just a bedcover, she thought, and said so.