“And the kids?”
“I don’t think so. Seems to me they arrived after Mrs. Spencer took off, and she remembers seeing the blank wall where this quilt had been hanging. But you can check that.”
“I don’t need to. I brought them in here when they arrived, and I remember seeing her leave before then.”
“You knew her?”
“No, sir. But her picture was in the paper the next day, and—well, some of us recognized you, too.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said dryly, knowing the gossips in the department. “The people here at the inn know the quilt is missing. They’ll be very cooperative. We’re not trying to establish any certainties here. See how much you can get out of them. Ask to check their written records, but don’t assume that everyone in the building made it into the log.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“Maybe later. Report back to me.”
“Mind if I ask something?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why are you giving this to me instead of a detective?”
“They’re working on the murder, for one, and I like the way you think. What kind of cop do you want to be, Root?”
Her eyes shone. “A detective, sir.”
“Okay, then, go to it. Keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Thank you, sir.” She took off.
He wondered suddenly whether Catherine’s name would turn up on the list. According to Joan, Catherine had been catering at the inn on Tuesday, and they’d had some kind of run-in. Might she have been cleaning up Wednesday night? And if she’d seen the name “Spencer” on a quilt, might she have put two and two together and taken it out of spite? The caterer would have had no problem carrying out anything that would fit in a garbage bag—maybe even with garbage on top. He hated to think it of her, but at least it would mean there wasn’t a connection between the theft of Rebecca’s quilt and Mary Sue’s death.
Even considering the possibility reassured him that he was more than likely still on the right track in focusing on the family for the murder. The detectives on duty today were making the rounds of the law offices in town by phone, looking for the lawyer who had drawn up Edna Ellett’s will—if there was one—who knew how long ago? For a town no bigger than it was, Oliver had an amazing number of lawyers. He checked his watch. After one now, and not a word.
As if in response, his beeper called him back to the station. When he checked out at the front door, Officer Root was listening to an animated account from Saturday’s dragon.
Johnny Ketcham met him in the detective squad room.
“I think we’ve found it,” he said. “We’ll have to go over, but it sounds right.”
“What does?”
“Well, we ran out of active lawyers an hour ago. Then Terry had the bright idea of looking up retired attorneys. This was an old woman, after all.”
“Good thinking.” He nodded at Chuck Terry, tall, black, and in his early thirties, whose work was as steady as his demeanor ordinarily was cool. Today, though, he was smiling broadly.
“No luck at first,” Ketcham said. “But it put us on the right track. Our next step was to go after dead lawyers.”
“I wouldn’t touch that one—”
“Yeah. But we got the names from the bar association, and started calling widows. And I think we’ve found him.”
“Yeah?”
“A Mrs. Cox just told Chuck she read about the murder and remembered old Mrs. Ellett as one of her late husband’s clients.”
“How would she know?”
“She used to be his office secretary—says she’s still got files in her basement.”
“Get a warrant for the will.”
“We won’t need it, Lieutenant,” Terry said.
“Glad to hear it. But I want this squeaky clean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And call me when you’ve got it. I’d like to be in on this.”
The late Mr. Cox had lived in a neighborhood of old money and understated elegance. But the woman who opened the door wore diamonds on both hands and fine lines where her eyebrows should have been.
“Mrs. Cox?” Fred showed her his badge. “Detective Lieutenant Lundquist.”
“Come in, please.” They filed into a large hallway, with a cherry table along one wall and a walnut staircase rising along the other.
“You spoke to Detective Terry on the phone, and this is Sergeant Ketcham.”
“Yes.” They didn’t shake hands. Instead, turning to the table, she picked up a legal file folder. “After we hung up I went downstairs to see whether we still had the Ellett file, and we did. I say ‘we,’ but since Sterling’s death there’s been no one but me. He had a solo practice.”
“So you just kept the files?” Ketcham asked.
“No. I wrote to all his clients, asking where to send the documents we were keeping for them—to John Duke, the young man who bought Sterling’s practice, or wherever else they chose. Most people have responded by now. In a few more weeks I’ll notify the ones who haven’t that their files are being transferred to John’s office. I’ll be awfully glad to get them out of here.”
“I can imagine,” Fred said. He eyed the file with “Edna Ellett” neatly printed on the tab. Mrs. Cox reached inside it, slid out a few pages neatly bound in a black folder, and handed the folder to him. He looked inside just long enough to read the words “Last Will and Testament of Edna Ellett.” Pay dirt.
“I’ve prepared a receipt for your signature.” Whipping out a pen, she handed him a slip of paper with “Received from Susan Cox, conformed copy of Last Will and Testament of Edna Ellett, deceased,” typed on it, and the date. Fred leaned over the cherry table to sign it. She opened the file and laid the receipt on top of what appeared to be the letter she had described.
“Thanks. Now no one will ever look at it. But if I didn’t have it, sure as anything the family would squawk. You know how it goes.”
“Sure.”
She closed the file, preserving the confidentiality of a dead woman. They thanked her and left with what Fred fervently hoped would shed some light on the murder of Edna Ellett’s daughter.
In the car, with Terry at the wheel, he opened the folder and flipped to the last page to check the date. The will had been signed three years earlier. He didn’t recognize the name of one witness, but the other was Susan Cox.
“That’s convenient,” he said aloud.
“What’s that?” Ketcham and Terry asked simultaneously.
“Mrs. Cox witnessed the will. We won’t have to track people down if things get sticky.”
They nodded. Fred flipped back to the first pages. There was no mention of a husband—she must have written a new will after being widowed. After the usual paragraphs about outstanding bills and funeral expenses, she left her estate “to my three dear children, Alice Ellett Franklin, Mary Sue Ellett, and Leon Ellett, in equal shares; or to the survivor(s), in equal shares, should one or more of them predecease me, after the following specific bequests are paid.”
It was a short list. She left five thousand to her church and five hundred to the Senior Citizens’ Center—Joan would put that to good use. To Katherine (Kitty) Graf—aha—“my first cousin once removed, who is like a daughter to me, and who will have earned much more by her devoted care, I leave the sum of Ten Thousand Dollars ($10,000), my furnished house, and the lot on which it stands.” The rest of her personal effects she left to her children and Kitty, “who will, I am confident, have no difficulty arriving at an equitable distribution of the same.” Oh, murder.
Then came all the “ifs.” If all her children died before she did, their shares would go to Kitty. If Kitty died first, her bequest would go into the pot for the three children. If all four of them died first, Harold Franklin would benefit, “if he is married to my daughter Alice at the time of her death.” As a last resort, she had named a number of charities.
Having scanned the will quickly, Fred began reading aloud.
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When he came to the house, Ketcham gave a low whistle. “You think that’ll hold up in court?”
“As recent as it is, and if people can testify that she was in her right mind, it ought to.”
“I hear old Mrs. Ellett was out of it at the end,” Terry said. “My Auntie Ruth said it was a real shame.” In Oliver, Fred thought, everybody’s Auntie Ruth would know.
“I heard that, too,” Ketcham said. “But she was sharp when I was a boy running through that house. Question is, when did she lose it?”
“Yeah,” Fred said. “But who’s going to challenge this? They’ve all got plenty to lose.”
“Leon won’t see it that way,” Ketcham said. “He’s been counting on at least a third of the estate. With Mary Sue dying after her mother and Kitty inheriting too, he’ll come out short.”
“Leon will get his,” Fred told him. “Mary Sue left everything to him and Alice.”
“Not the old house. And I expect Alice will have a hard time seeing anyone else living in her mother’s house.”
“I wonder whether Kitty knew.”
“I asked Mrs. Cox if anyone else had been inquiring about Mrs. Ellett,” Terry put in, turning at the post office. “She said not.”
“Then she probably didn’t know,” Fred said. “She worried enough to ask a lawyer, but she didn’t find the right one.”
“What do we do with it now?” Ketcham asked. “The lawyer’s dead.”
“Notify her executor.”
“The will probably says ‘personal representative,’” Ketcham said. “Who’d she name?”
Fred flipped another page. Personal representative—Ketcham was right. “Mary Sue.” Who better? “Alice is next, and then Kitty. Leon’s not even an alternate.” The old lady—or her lawyer—didn’t trust her son any more than Joan did.
“So it’s Alice. Her husband will have a lot to say, if I read that marriage right.”
Fred had to agree. “Let’s swing by the house and see who’s there.”
Everyone was there, sitting in the living room. Kitty, acting more like a maid than a member of the family, showed them in and would have left them, but Fred asked her to stay.
“This concerns you.”
“Me?” She stood uncertainly on the Chinese rug.
“All of you, really.” He looked at the others.
“You’ve found who killed Mary Sue!” cried Alice, and Leon jumped up.
“No, not yet.”
“What, then?” Leon boomed.
“We’ve just spoken to Susan Cox.” No reaction from any of them. “The widow of Sterling Cox.”
“Yes?” said Alice.
“Do you know, had your mother heard from either of those people in the past several months?”
Alice shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Kitty?”
Kitty looked blank. “It’s possible. I’d been taking care of Edna’s mail for some time, but then she got so bad, even before the flu hit. I tried to catch anything that looked really urgent. The rest had to wait.” She pointed to an open rolltop desk at the far end of the room, piled high. “If you mean a letter, it could be in that stack.”
“Who is this Cox, anyway?” Leon demanded. “What’s this all about?”
“Was. He’s dead. Sterling Cox was your mother’s lawyer.”
“Oh my God,” Harold said almost reverently. “They’ve found the will.”
All Kinds
I still can’t believe your sleeping bag is gone. I loved it. And two thousand dollars—that’s a lot of money.” Joan was warming leftover vegetable soup while Rebecca set out plates and drinks for lunch.
“I haven’t actually sold one for that much yet. This is only the third one I’ve made. The other two sold so fast in New York that I decided I must have priced them too low.”
“You really expect to get two whole thousand for one quilt?” Joan found it hard to believe.
“There’s only one way to find out—after all, I can always come back down. They’re individually designed—no two alike. You could probably see that I don’t do a lot of detailed quilting. New York doesn’t care about that, and it makes a big difference in my labor. But I didn’t expect to sell this one here, or win anything for it—and I was right. The judges were awfully conservative.”
Then why did you come? Joan thought, hoping she knew. Still, Rebecca was taking her loss amazingly well.
“You seem awfully calm.”
“It’s a front. But I’m a fast worker. I’m not out a lot of time—mostly the materials. What I’m really marketing is the design, you know, and that’s safe in my head. At least you got to see it. I’m glad.”
Joan glowed. “Maybe Fred will find it.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.” Twirling a dark curl around her finger, Rebecca was silent for a few moments. Then she looked up as if nothing had ever gone wrong. “How about going with me this afternoon?”
“This afternoon?” Long years of motherhood had left Joan cautious about saying yes without at least checking the facts.
“There’s a panel discussion on historical quilts. I’m trying to learn all I can while I’m here.”
“Sure, I’ll come. The final proofs of the program ought to be back from the printer today—I wanted to check the orchestra part, though it’s too late to fix much of anything.”
“At least you’ll have something to read if the panel is deadly dull.” Rebecca grinned at her.
They made short work of lunch, arriving at the inn a few minutes early. A new poster near the door invited them to buy raffle tickets for the orchestra quilt and gave directions to the ballroom, where it could be seen.
“Let’s go check how it turned out,” Rebecca said. They found it hanging from the balcony behind the brass section, reaching almost to the floor. It would make a splendid backdrop for the orchestra, Joan had to admit to herself. In this setting she could see what Rebecca had meant about the colors and textures.
Rebecca located the border she had quilted near the trombones. “I’m kind of proud of this work, Mom,” she said. “It took some self-control not to quilt as well as I know how.”
“Not to—?” She wasn’t making sense.
“Look.” Rebecca pointed, careful not to touch the fabric. “Here’s where I connected to what the old lady had already done. I can make smaller stitches than hers. Not that these are bad—she was no slouch. They say she was terrific when she was younger. Anyhow, I held back because I wanted my stitches to blend in with hers, not stick out. See? Here, down by the edge, I worked down to my littlest ones, but I made the change gradually, over a couple of inches, so it wouldn’t detract from the overall effect.”
At first Joan didn’t see. All the lines of stitching looked the same. Then Rebecca pointed to a place where the stitches on the border suddenly were much longer than the others and the border lacked the puffy effect of the rest of the quilt.
“Here’s where Kitty couldn’t quilt well enough to match her stitches to the old lady’s,” Rebecca said, and Joan remembered watching Kitty make those long, flat stitches. “It’s too bad.”
Joan doubted that anyone but Rebecca would ever notice much beside the instruments and color, but she nodded. Then she remembered the large all-white quilt she’d passed on the stairs that morning, with nothing decorating it but the quilting stitches themselves. Rebecca would appreciate that one, she thought, and she started toward it. Two women coming down the stairs were arguing with enough heat that one of them bumped her and didn’t so much as look back.
“I still say they should never have let it in the front door.”
“Get down off your high horse, Edie. It’s just a joke.”
“A mighty poor one.” Edie’s indignation trailed off as she went into the next room.
Joan climbed the stairs wondering what could have provoked such an outburst.
“Come on up,” she called down to her daughter. “There’s something I want to show you.”
“Is that where—?”
>
“No. Come look at this.”
At first she could see only the familiar scalloped shape of a Double Wedding Ring quilt and what looked like the rings. Without any colored patches, they seemed somehow incomplete. Then she saw that the effect was intentional. The quilting stitches imitated the patchwork, but the interlocking symbols of eternal love were broken where they should have been linked. In the center, a tired-looking woman had thrown her apron into the air and an angry-looking man was being kissed by a young thing shaped like a Barbie doll. The man and woman were leaning hard away from each other, pulling on a strange, lumpy-looking rope. Looking closer, she realized that they were playing tug-of-war with a rope made of small children. In the four corners of the quilt were a cupid with no arrows, a broken heart, a judge wielding a gavel, and a house split in jagged halves.
Now Rebecca was beside her, reading the label. “It’s called Divorce. It’s a cartoon! As beautifully quilted as it is, it must have taken her months! Can you imagine spending all that time and effort on anger?”
Joan shook her head, rejoicing that Rebecca’s own bitterness seemed to have faded. “What a waste. But you know me—I wouldn’t have the patience for all those tiny stitches anyway.”
Rebecca laughed. “Not to mention the skill. This one’s more your speed.” She pointed to the machine-stitched blue-jeans quilt Joan had noticed before, on which every square featured a real hip pocket, some holding scaled-down bandannas. Joan laughed.
They made their way back downstairs to a lecture room crowded with more of Bud Snarr’s chairs. The fragile sofas and chairs that were its usual furnishings had been pushed against the walls to make room.
Now the panel members took their seats at a skirted table behind which even the most modest woman would be able to concentrate on what she was saying instead of having to worry whether her knees were together.
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