“How was your day?” I asked casually.
“Amazing.” Her face lit up. “I went through the fabric catalogs for spring. There are some really beautiful collections coming out. I nearly bought everything.”
“That’s wonderful,” Kennette jumped in. “Isn’t looking at fabric fun?”
Despite my best efforts I rolled my eyes. Eleanor caught me and the smile temporarily left her face.
“What is with you these days?” she said to me.
“I thought you were working today,” I said.
Eleanor looked at me as if she were confused. “I was working. I was buying fabric.”
I nodded. My grandmother was lying to me. I knew it. I just couldn’t prove it. And I knew there was no point in fighting about it.
“Well, it was slow today anyway,” I said, “so if you did take the day off . . .”
The smile returned. “Maybe I will sometime,” she said, “now that I have two great workers in you girls.”
She giggled and went toward the classroom to set up for a trapunto class she was teaching that night.
Kennette walked over to me. “She’s in a good mood.”
“She said something about buying fabric,” I told her.
“But you don’t believe her?” Now Kennette had a smile across her face to match my grandmother’s.
I shook my head. “My grandmother has been quilting my entire life, but I’ve never seen her giggle over it.”
Kennette nodded her approval. For once I kept my opinion to myself.
CHAPTER 23
“She was late for work. Hours late,” I heard Carrie say on the phone to Maggie, relating word for word what I told her about Eleanor’s entrance into the shop.
After a few minutes of discussion, they seemed to reach an agreement. Carrie hung up the phone and came over to the wall where I was laying out my paints.
“Maggie already has plans to meet with Eleanor tonight, so we’ll get to the bottom of this,” she said solemnly.
“I don’t think she’s ever been late to work. I know it has something to do with Oliver,” I said, the fear and anger evident in my voice.
“Which is okay as long as he’s not involved in the murders,” Carrie reminded me.
“Right,” I said.
I wasn’t sure I felt that way but I knew I was supposed to feel that way. After all, my grandmother deserved happiness more than anyone I knew. She had spent her whole life being there for everyone. Wasn’t it time she had a little fun? Still, something in my stomach turned at the thought.
“The mural is coming along,” Carrie said, changing the subject.
I nodded. The buildings were all sketched in and now I was focusing on the large coffeepot that would be at the top right of the mural, “pouring” the buildings into existence.
“I kind of like it,” I said. “But it’s nowhere near finished.”
“Well, you have two weeks.”
“I can’t finish until you come up with a name for this place.”
Carrie grunted and walked away. The shop was really shaping up. Carrie was getting the fixtures put in place. Her espresso machine was coming in the next few days, and she was in the middle of hanging a collection of mirrors and weird little paintings behind the counter. My favorite thing, though, was that Carrie was looking for a baker to make the muffins, cakes, and cookies she planned to sell. While she looked, I sampled. And when I took a break from painting, I rewarded myself with a slice of lime cheesecake.
“Coffee Corner,” Carrie suggested as she munched on a brownie.
“Caffeine Fix,” I offered.
“Java Hut,” she countered.
“That’s the worst,” I laughed. “How about Caffeine and Calories.”
“Great. How about just calling it Get Fat and Jumpy.”
We were both laughing hard. The kind of laughing where it isn’t even that funny but tears are rolling down your eyes and you can barely speak. It was the first time since the murders that I’d been that relaxed. If Carrie didn’t have to pick up her kids, I probably would have stayed in the shop all day, safe from murders and suspects and my grandmother’s romance.
But that wouldn’t happen. Just as we were about to walk out of the shop, I saw Greg pacing outside Someday Quilts.
“What’s he doing?” Carrie whispered to me.
We were still in her shop, staring out the window and well out of Greg’s earshot, but I whispered back, “I’m not going anywhere until I find out.”
“I have to get the kids. I’ll go out the back so he doesn’t get spooked.” Carrie stood looking at Greg for another few seconds, then disappeared out the back of her shop.
It was funny to me how we had all become expert investigators so quickly. Or at least felt like we had.
I wasn’t sure what to do. If Greg looked up, he would see me peering out at him from across the street, but he didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t seem to be looking anywhere but at his feet. Was he contemplating taking up quilting but too nervous to walk into the shop? That would make him the talk of the quilt group. Did he have some news for my grandmother about the investigation? If there was news, I knew that Jesse would deliver it, not Greg. Maybe he was branching out, doing some investigating on his own. I stayed glued to my spot and waited for something—anything—to happen.
It took only a minute for Kennette to walk out of the shop. She was wearing the big teal coat my grandmother had given her and she looked happy and relaxed. I couldn’t tell if she was surprised to see Greg but she quickly engaged him in what looked like a friendly conversation.
After a few minutes of chatting, Greg looked around and I instinctively ducked out of sight. Crouched on the floor and peering through a corner of a window, I saw Greg and Kennette move closer. Kennette reached into her coat and pulled out a large piece of what looked like rolled-up paper. Greg unrolled it and looked, nodding seriously. Then he rerolled the paper and tucked it into his coat.
They chatted for just a moment more, then Kennette whispered something in Greg’s ear. Greg nodded, looked around once more, and darted down the street toward the police station.
Had I just witnessed a budding romance? Or was it something else? As soon as Greg was out of sight, I left the coffee shop and hurried across the street.
The class was starting when I walked in, so I found myself standing at the back, listening to Eleanor teach trapunto to the dozen or so women who had signed up, Maggie and Kennette among them. Trapunto is one of those advanced quilting techniques that actually looks harder than it is, at least that’s the way Eleanor explained it.
“Trapunto,” Eleanor said to the class, “creates raised areas in your quilt by using cording or small amounts of batting pushed in from the back.”
She held up a small whole-cloth quilt with a pattern of grapes, leaves, and vines. As Eleanor explained it, the quilt is layered with batting sandwiched between the top and bottom, just like a regular quilt. Then the shapes, like the grapes and leaves, are outlined with quilting. So far it seemed doable. A soft yarn is pulled through the vines from the back of the quilt, raising them slightly in front. For the grapes and leaves, a slit is cut into the back and a tiny amount of batting is stuffed in, making the grapes rounded and seemingly soft to the touch. Then a second backing fabric is added to cover the slits at the back. Finally the quilt is tightly stippled, a quilting technique of random-looking loops. The effect is three-dimensional and very dramatic.
While the rest of the class started working on sample twelve-inch blocks, I slipped into the main shop. Barney was sleeping with his head on a bolt of fabric. He lifted his head as I walked past, but once he saw it was me, he went back to dreaming.
I went toward the office and quickly checked Kennette’s coat. There was nothing in the pockets, not that I expected there would be. I went back to the front of the shop, flipped through the latest copy of Quilters Newsletter, and waited. Finally I got my chance when the class went on a break.
Kenne
tte walked out of the classroom and toward the threads, then stopped, startled. “I thought you went home,” she said.
“I went over to Carrie’s to work on the mural.”
Her face lit up. “How’s it going? Can I see it?’
I nodded. “Soon. Anything happening around here?”
“Eleanor’s class is really cool. I’m thinking of using variegated thread for my quilting. You should sit in.”
“Not tonight,” I said. “How was the afternoon? Did anyone stop by?”
“Customers.” Kennette looked at me, confused. “Who were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. I saw Greg hanging out by the entrance and I wondered what he was doing. I thought maybe he had come to see you.”
Kennette’s face went white. “Yeah. He stopped by to say hello. He’s a nice guy, don’t you think?”
“Yes. Very nice. And single, as far as I know.”
Kennette smiled. “Oh, don’t be silly.”
“Why not? Two nice single people. I’m surprised no one thought of it before. He’d probably be interested in seeing your artwork, you know, and getting to know you. Did you invite him into the shop?”
“When?”
“When he came by today.”
“No. I went out for some fresh air and ran into him.”
“So it wasn’t planned?” I asked.
“Why would it be planned?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe he wanted to see your artwork and so you showed him. Have you ever shown him any?”
I knew I was sounding a little nutty, but showing Greg her artwork was the only innocent explanation I could come up with for why she had handed him that rolled-up document.
“No,” she said quickly. “Why would I show him something I’ve drawn?” She tilted her head the way a puppy does when he’s confused.
I shrugged. I didn’t want to push too far. “I just think you guys would be cute together.”
“You’re acting very strange tonight,” she said, and walked to the back of the shop where she straightened out a few bolts of fabric until the break was over and class began again.
It was the sort of avoidance behavior that I knew well.
CHAPTER 24
As Barney and I were walking up the driveway of my grandmother’s house, I saw a delivery truck at the front door. When I got closer I realized a delivery man was standing at the front door, holding a vase of flowers so large it seemed to overwhelm him. For a second I got lost in the possibilities of a future full of romantic gestures from Jesse, but the deliveryman quickly brought me back to reality.
“Eleanor Cassidy?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, but I can sign for her.”
I brought the flowers into the house, put them on the kitchen table, and removed the cellophane that covered them. They were stunning. Two dozen plum-colored roses, just on the verge of blooming.
I didn’t want to, but I found myself staring at the envelope that was addressed to Eleanor Cassidy. I knew who they were from. I knew that their arrival coupled with my grandmother’s good mood meant she had spent the day with Oliver. I also knew that it was none of my business. For whatever reason she had chosen not to share this with me. Maybe she thought I would see her as too old for love. But I didn’t. I’d be thrilled for Eleanor to be with someone who is as wonderful as she is—if such a man exists. It’s just that I had my doubts that Oliver even came close.
I got up from the table and put on the kettle, but my eyes kept returning to the flowers. I sat down and stared at them. I tapped my fingers on the kitchen table while I watched the graceful way they bent their stems to fill the vase. I knew it was only a matter of time before nosiness, wrapped in concern, got the better of me.
I reached up and took the envelope out of its plastic holder. I held it in my hands. The envelope wasn’t sealed so, after only a moment’s hesitation, I opened it.
It read: “I can’t stop smiling. Love, Oliver.”
I sank down in a chair. I wanted to call the group, set off alarms, get everyone fired up and outraged, but I couldn’t. It was the most romantic note I’d ever read.
It began to dawn on me that the sinking feeling in my stomach, the one that made me sick whenever I thought of Oliver and my grandmother, wasn’t just fear. At least a part of it was jealousy.
When Maggie called, later that night, I knew what she would say.
“They spent the day together. At the house. If you understand me” was how she put it.
“I understand you.”
“She’s like a schoolgirl. She said she was nervous but once they—”
“I don’t need the details,” I interrupted. “She is my grandmother.”
“Right. Well, even at our age we still enjoy intimacy.”
“But she hasn’t enjoyed it for almost fifty years,” I said.
Silence.
“Has she?” I asked. “No. Forget I asked.”
“She’s in love with him. She didn’t say it but I could hear it in her voice.”
“I think he’s in love with her too.”
“What do we do?” Maggie asked.
“We keep doing what we’ve been doing. But we have to be very careful. If Oliver is the killer, then Grandma is going to get hurt, and if he isn’t—”
“But she finds out we’ve been snooping . . . ,” Maggie interrupted.
“There’ll be hell to pay.”
Maggie sighed. “Well, hopefully it will work out. I’ll keep looking through the newspaper files and maybe we’ll come up with something. One way or the other.”
The next morning I went into the kitchen early. Eleanor had come home after I was already in bed, so I didn’t see her reaction to the flowers. They were still on the kitchen table, but I noticed that the card was gone. I was still a little hurt that she hadn’t wanted to share her happiness with me, but maybe grandmothers and granddaughters can’t be girlfriends. Still, I couldn’t help but smile. Dinner dates, secret trysts, roses, and romantic notes. Murderer or not, Jesse could learn a thing or two from Oliver White.
I was thinking of calling Jesse to mention the gesture when I caught sight of a police uniform outside on the porch. Maybe I wouldn’t have to call him, I thought. I opened the door.
“Good morning.” Chief Powell smiled at me from the porch.
“Good morning. What are you doing there?”
“Making sure we haven’t left anything behind.”
“Any leads?”
Powell shook his head. “Nothing yet. I’m starting to wonder if it wasn’t a serial killer on his way through town. I’m checking with the other departments in the state to see if they’ve found any girls in the river.”
“I suppose it could be a serial killer, but that still wouldn’t explain why someone from my art class ended up dead a few feet from my house.”
“You’re quite the detective,” he said. “What’s your theory?”
It was tempting but anything I said would get back to Jesse. “I don’t have one.”
He looked at me for what seemed a long time, then nodded. “I hope you don’t mind me in your backyard. It’s just that the snow is melting a little and I figured the killer might have left something. Technically, I guess I should have asked first.”
“I don’t mind.” But I did, a little. Not that we had anything to hide. It’s just that if the killer had left something, I wanted to find it. “I’m making coffee. When you’re ready, you should come in.”
“Will do,” he said and went back to his work.
I closed the kitchen door and made the coffee as promised. I watched him out the window. He seemed to be looking at the ground around the pole where Sandra had likely hit her head. He walked from the pole toward the river and disappeared behind trees. I knew he was walking the path the killer must have walked while carrying or dragging the unconscious Sandra. But while the killer’s footsteps were covered by falling snow, I could see where Powell was walking. He was definitely thorough, even
if he was out of his jurisdiction. I could hardly argue with someone so intent on solving a case that they would break a few rules, even if Powell didn’t seem the type.
I turned away from the window and sipped my coffee. Within a few minutes Powell was knocking at the window so I poured him a cup. I put a few muffins on a plate and set them on the table.
He sat, all friendly smiles and polite conversation—a huge difference from the military man who’d been in the kitchen on the night of Sandra’s murder.
“Beautiful roses,” he said. “From Jesse?”
“No. From . . .” I hesitated but I wasn’t sure why. “Oliver. For my grandmother.”
“Beautiful.” He reached out his hand and rubbed his finger against one of the petals.
“You don’t think Oliver’s involved, do you?” I asked.
“I couldn’t say.”
“Couldn’t because you don’t know, or couldn’t because you have evidence he is involved and can’t reveal it?”
He laughed. “Jesse told me about you.”
“He has?” It seemed a bit disloyal for Jesse to do such a thing. Especially since it made me the object of some kind of joke.
“In a good way,” Powell clarified as he sipped his coffee.
“It’s just that if Oliver is involved, well . . .” I pointed to the flowers. “He’s getting pretty close to my grandmother. If it were your grandmother, I’m sure you would want to know.”
“I suppose I would.”
“Would you be happy if someone you loved was dating someone with Oliver’s reputation? Someone who could be involved in the deaths of young women?”
Powell cleared his throat. “So you are anxious to get Oliver out of your grandmother’s life.”
A Drunkard's Path Page 13