“Are you making fun of me?”
“Only a little.” I lay down and starting petting Barney’s belly. “I don’t have your strength.”
“After your grandfather died, I moved in here to look after Grace. You know about that,” she said.
“Sort of.”
“Well, Grace was an old woman and she needed a companion. I think a widow with two small children was more than she bargained for, but she was a wonderful person and she made us feel welcome.” My grandmother shifted slightly, and continued. “I know you think I was strong and just kept going after your grandfather died, but the truth is I was scared and lonely. Once a week I used to get on the train and go to another town—Cold Spring, Beacon, anywhere. Once I even went into New York City and I spent the whole day walking around dreaming about living there.”
“Then you came back.”
My grandmother looked at me, as I was slightly addled. “Obviously.”
I put my head on her shoulder. “The moral of your story is that you think I’m running away from dealing with Ryan.”
“I think you had your whole life planned out, just like I once did, and now you’re faced with the idea that your life might be very different. If I’m pushing you, I’m sorry, but I think it’s time you dealt with that. Running away is not the answer.”
“No,” I said quietly, then shifted the subject to one I had the strength to discuss. “But quilting is, I suppose.”
She smiled. “It was for me,” she said, and went back to her sewing. I just sat next to her on the bed and watched her sew a little yellow duck onto a pink fabric background.
“Who are you making that for?” I asked.
“No one in particular.” She held the block out for inspection. “I like to keep a few quilts handy. The quilt club gives them to the premature babies at the hospital.”
“It’s nice . . . that you do that.” I took the fabric from her hand and she handed me the needle and thread. “Show me how.”
“You catch a little bit of the duck with your needle and a little bit of the background,” she explained as I took a large stitch.
I kept going until I had finished sewing the duck onto the background fabric. It was obvious this quilt had two sewers— one an expert, and the other someone who could be confused with a high-functioning monkey. But I didn’t care how bad my stitches looked. I was proud of my work. I showed it to my grandmother.
“Not bad,” she said, lying.
“Let’s do another one.”
She chose a square for herself and handed me a pink square of fabric and a small blue teddy bear, and I set to work.
“You are now part of a long tradition,” Eleanor said as we worked.
“Yes, I know. Quilting goes back to the beginning of this country, to Europe before that and possibly to ancient Egypt,” I recited. I had heard this speech before.
“Well, yes,” she said. “But I was thinking that you are joining the great quilting tradition of using fabric and thread to calm your nerves and get you through a difficult time.”
I had to admit that touching the soft flannel fabric had the same effect as petting Barney. I found myself completely engrossed in each stitch, moving at a slow but steady pace around the pattern, almost as if I were meditating.
“My first quilt—” My grandmother leaned in. “God it was awful. It was the fifties, and quilting was a dying art. Everyone wanted modern, sleek stuff. We were all caught up in gadgets, cooking TV dinners,” she laughed. “The idea of doing something as old-fashioned as cutting up a perfectly good piece of fabric just to sew it back together again seemed, well, crazy.”
“So why did you do it?” I asked as I finished my second square and moved on to the third.
“At first I was being polite. Grace quilted, and she was so kind to me and your mom and Uncle Henry. When she asked me if I’d like to learn, I said yes. I thought I wouldn’t like it.” She patted the fabric in her hands, smoothing the square. “But I realized,” she continued, “a quilt could be whatever I wanted. It could be straight and square. It could be colorful and wild. I was in complete control of the process.” She looked toward me. “There are certainly rules. In everything there are always rules. But it was the first time I realized I could follow the rules or I could break them, and neither choice was wrong.”
“Sounds pretty rebellious.”
“Anything you do that is truly yours is rebellious.” She watched my stitches for a moment. “Now we’re starting our own tradition. I’m the elderly woman being taken care of . . .”
“And now you’re teaching me,” I said, and showed her my teddy bear block. “What do you think, in fifty years will I quilt as well as you?”
She fingered the uneven stitches that held the teddy bear to the pink fabric. “Maybe not in fifty years,” she said, and smiled.
After an hour of sewing small animals onto blocks, my fingers were starting to hurt. I stretched and wondered about what was in the kitchen.
I was almost out of the bed when Eleanor looked up. “Whatever his reason for calling things off, it was because of him, not you. Once you know that, you won’t need to look for reassurance in whatever man comes along.”
“Is that what you think I was doing with Marc?”
“Yes.”
“There was more to it than that,” I said, a little defensive. “That’s just what you saw.”
She sighed.
“What does that sigh mean?” I was now turning red. My grandmother said nothing, but I knew. “Did all the woman in the quilt club sit around discussing my relationship with Marc?” She said nothing. “You must have all thought I was very stupid.”
“Nancy’s husband has a gambling problem that means she probably won’t be able to afford to keep paying for her boys’ education. Carrie’s husband prefers to be at work than at home with her and the kids. One of Bernie’s husbands had a heart attack and left her for the nurse.” She took a breath. “And Natalie’s husband wanted time off from the marriage, whatever that means, about a year and a half ago, and poor Natalie got herself involved in a rather painful affair.”
“Well, you’re certainly up on the local gossip.”
“My point is, no one judges you or pities you or thinks you were foolish. We all have our problems, and we all love the men in our lives, even when they disappoint us.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I said.
“Whatever you want.” She smiled, and raised the volume on the television. “Let’s see what nonsense the world has gotten itself into today.”
I decided against a trip to the kitchen and settled back on the bed. Instead I listened to the newscaster tell a story about a rising terror alert in Washington, followed by a report on a killer tornado sweeping the Midwest.
I felt very safe in this bed, in this little town on the Hudson. I closed my eyes, finally feeling a little peace, until I realized I wasn’t safe, not even here. The image of Marc’s lifeless body filled my mind. Then I saw picture after picture of Ryan standing over Marc, angry and jealous, just hours before Marc was killed.
Even more disturbing was the realization that not only did I probably know the killer, my grandmother may have just invited him to stay.
CHAPTER 28
When night came, I stayed downstairs and shared the bed with my grandmother and Barney. It felt comfortable and warm there, and I didn’t want to risk another midnight visit from Ryan, not while I was feeling so unsure about everything. I got up early and walked Barney for longer than he wanted to be walked, then came back to the house and looked for something to do.
I stared at the contents of the refrigerator for several minutes, as if ingredients were going to jump up and make themselves into something delicious. I saw some strawberries and box of blueberries and was ready to have a simple, healthy breakfast of fruit salad when I got a better idea. After searching through my grandmother’s recipe cards, I found one for blueberry muffins.
Following it exactly, I mixed the dry in
gredients in a bowl that was too small and mixed the milk and eggs in a very large bowl. Then, after carefully checking the recipe to make absolutely sure I was doing it right, I mixed the two together, folded in the fresh blueberries, and had a taste. To my relief, it tasted like muffin batter. I had forgotten to preheat the oven, but by the time I found the muffin tin and poured the batter into the cups, I figured the oven was hot enough. Fifteen minutes later—much to my surprise—I took perfectly baked, moist muffins from the oven and set them down on the table with a pot of coffee. I hesitated, then tore one in half. Steam rose from the middle. It was a creamy beige, with small dots of a purplish blue throughout—just how a blueberry muffin should look. I pinched off a bit and put it in my mouth. A light cake surrounded a pop of blueberry flavor.
“My compliments to the chef,” I said out loud to myself.
Ryan staggered sleepily into the kitchen and watched the domestic scene with clear surprise.
“I didn’t know you could bake,” he said.
“Apparently I can.” I smiled, still impressed by my accomplishment. “Have one.”
He cautiously took a bite, then greedily ate it all. “These are really good,” he praised me with his mouth full of muffin.
I nodded and made a tray of coffee and muffins to take to my grandmother.
Eleanor was up and hobbling around when I walked into the living room.
“I brought you breakfast,” I said, and put the tray down on the bed.
She eyed the tray, then picked up a muffin. “It’s still warm.”
“I followed your recipe.”
She took a nibble. “I could not have done a better job myself,” she said, paying me her highest compliment. After eating the rest of the muffin, she turned to business. “I’ve called Jesse’s brother-in-law. He’ll meet us at the shop at noon.”
“Are the police letting us back in?”
“Briefly. But Jesse called me to say the place will be all ours tomorrow.”
“So they’ve found as much as they will find?” I asked.
“I assume, dear. Put some milk in the coffee, will you?”
I did as she asked. “Did Jesse say if he found anything?”
“No.” She stopped. “He asked me about a hole in the wall.”
“Marc was knocking it down.”
“Yes, but there was a deposit bag stuffed in the wall from my bank.” She sipped her coffee. “It was empty, but he wanted to know if I knew anything about it.”
“Do you?”
“When are you taking your detective’s exam?” She peered at me. “No, I don’t know anything about it. Most likely it dropped behind the shelves lining that wall.”
“And got stuffed into the wall? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe a very smart mouse wanted a comfortable bed,” she said. “I can’t see that it has anything to do with Marc, poor boy.” She got up and steadied herself on a crutch. “It’s after nine. At my speed, it will take the next three hours to get ready.”
Her plan was to be bathed and dressed and ready to leave for the shop by eleven-thirty. She had declined any help, other than asking Ryan to put a kitchen chair in the downstairs shower. Whether it took her longer or not, my grandmother was determined not to be, in her words, “a fussy old woman about it.”
“I may not be able to do a lot of things,” she said, “but I can take care of myself.”
“Then you’ve got me beat by a mile,” I sighed.
“Not true. You can sew a nice quilt square and can follow a recipe that makes a darn fine muffin.”
“And in 1952, that would be all I needed.”
“Yes,” she replied, her sarcasm at full volume. “No woman had problems in 1952.”
“Take your shower,” I said, another battle of wits lost.
She grunted. “Close the door behind you.”
Ryan and I waited awkwardly in the kitchen, talking about the tornado in the Midwest, and how, thankfully, it had done little damage and cost no lives. How quickly a relationship goes from intimate chatter to banal chitchat.
When Eleanor was ready, I packed up the car with her crutches and an oversized sewing bag, then settled Barney in the backseat while Ryan helped her to the car.
“I’m going to walk to the shop,” Ryan said suddenly as he closed my grandmother’s car door.
“You don’t need to be there,” I said.
“Why not?” interrupted Eleanor. “It will be quite the party. I talked to Nancy this morning and she and the quilt club are heading over for a peek.” She was interfering again, but I knew there was no point in making an issue of it.
“I’ll bet Jesse will be thrilled,” I said as I pulled out of the driveway.
“I think we all need to understand what happened,” she said quietly.
“It feels like they all need to gawk. No one is exactly grieving, if you haven’t noticed.”
She nodded. “I suppose we owe Marc that. I do, especially.”
“Why you?”
“He was in my shop, working for me. If I hadn’t hired him . . .”
“He would have been killed somewhere else.”
Eleanor turned her head away from me and looked out the window. “Maybe.”
CHAPTER 29
As Eleanor predicted, the shop—or at least the street outside it—was getting to be quite a party when we arrived. Susanne and Natalie were looking in the window. Maggie, Bernie and Nancy were exchanging theories on the crime, and Carrie, an ever-present coffee in her hand, was watching Jesse talk to another man.
“Jesse says only the two of you and his brother-in-law are allowed in the shop,” Nancy complained as we arrived. “I really think you should insist I be allowed in. I do work there. I am affected by the design.”
“I agree,” said my grandmother reassuringly, though I doubted she felt she needed Nancy’s—or my—presence in the shop.
Jesse nodded at both of us, but, as always, turned his attentions first to Barney. By the time the two were done with their greeting, Ryan was walking to meet us.
“Came by to help?” Jesse asked him.
“Observe, really,” Ryan started to say, then looked around to see that all eyes were on him.
“You are Nell’s . . . friend,” Maggie said crisply, pausing just enough between “Nell” and “friend” to make it clear to Ryan that everyone present was aware of the entire history of our relationship.
“I am,” said Ryan gamely, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Ryan met her suspicious eyes, and I could see she was quickly charmed by him. Then each of the quilt club in turn shook his hand, exchanged pleasantries and was won over by his easy smile. It was a sad, sick commentary on my feelings that I was both annoyed by the women’s reactions and proud that Ryan could easily captivate such a difficult audience.
I decided not to pay attention to Ryan’s growing fan club, and instead pretended to listen to the discussion between my grandmother and Jesse’s brother-in-law, Tom. Tom was a solid man of about thirty, slightly balding, and with the easy smile that Jesse lacked. His hands were large and covered with nicks and calluses. I could see Eleanor noticing his hands at the same time I did, and nodding approvingly. This was a man unafraid of hard work, she seemed to be thinking.
When they headed over to the old diner site, Nancy, Jesse, and I followed. Eleanor pointed to where the office and the bathroom should be, where shelves should be hung, and showed him the napkin that had been our original plan. Tom nodded, took notes and walked the space, hitting beams and saying how solid they were.
I looked over at Nancy, who for all her insistence on being included, seemed as distracted as I was.
“I hope he can do this quickly,” I whispered to her.
“I’d love to get this over with myself,” she whispered back.
Eleanor shot us a look as if we’d been caught passing notes in an exam. We immediately shut up.
“Let’s look at the other side,” Tom said.
“I’m fine,” she shot back, even as she leaned on his arm to get down the one step to the street.
Outside the women completely lost interest in Ryan as they saw us head toward the quilt shop door. This was what they had come to see, and each of them wanted a good look.
“I thought only the killer was supposed to return to the scene of the crime,” I said to Jesse as we walked into the quilt shop.
“Maybe they all did it.” He smiled as he closed the door on everyone but Tom, Nancy, Eleanor and myself.
Inside the shop seemed cold and full of secrets. Outside I could see the women were openly staring through the large display window, but there wasn’t really anything to see. Marc’s body was gone, though traces of his blood remained on the floor. Nancy and I stared at them, but Tom merely stepped past as if they weren’t even there.
“Is this where you want the cash register?” he asked as he moved in front of the picture window.
“I hadn’t thought of moving it there, but I like that idea.” Eleanor nodded.
“With the bigger space you can move it. It makes for a better flow of customers,” he said.
“I can see that.” She smiled brightly at him.
Tom lit up at her response. In only ten minutes of knowing my grandmother, he already sought her approval as much as the rest of us did. He started making other suggestions, changes in the plan on the napkin. He talked about adding whimsical touches, like a crib to hold the baby fabrics. He suggested a stronger wood for the shelves, crown molding at the ceiling and a revarnish of the wood floors.
“I was thinking of replacing this floor,” Eleanor said.
“People don’t look down when they shop,” Tom said. “All you need to do is freshen it up and cover up the . . . stain.” He pointed to Marc’s blood. “There are better places to spend your money than on a floor.”
Eleanor nodded. “Marc was going to do this for very little money. As you can imagine, a quilt shop in a small-town operates on a thin margin of profit. And I’m an old woman. I’m not likely to reap the benefits of a complete overhaul for more than a few years.” She was playing him, but he seemed not to notice. “With the added expense of your labor, which is, I’m sure, well worth the cost, I’m don’t know that I can afford all these fancy extras.”
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