Mrs. Chandler’s shoulders slumped. She stood for a little while before straightening and slowly turning back to the table. While she was absently fingering the swatches, she heard the front door. Mrs. Chandler quickly crossed the room and stepped out into the hall.
“Silene!” she called at the slim figure rushing up the stairs.
“I’m tired, Mother,” her daughter called over her shoulder. “You can lecture me in the morning.” The exasperation was plain in her voice.
Mrs. Chandler caught the sound of a high-powered car driving away. She wondered who it had been tonight. Probably Dean, but it could have been any of Silene’s rich, spoiled friends. Suddenly feeling her 69 years, she paused and sighed, listening as the sounds of her daughter’s passage faded.
Slowly, she walked back to the sewing room. After closing the door, Mrs. Chandler leaned her lined forehead against the dark wood. She thought briefly about Catherine, the meek daughter she had sent to South Carolina, hoping the experience running the cotton farms would put some steel in her spine. Catherine looked more like a Chandler than the other two adopted children but had none of the fire of A. J. or herself. Her thoughts drifted to Paul Sullivan, who had gone along as her manager and to make sure Catherine did not make any egregious mistakes. Mrs. Chandler realized that the capable young man undoubtedly resented the demotion from manager at the mill.
Suddenly losing interest in the quilt and feeling tired, she murmured, “Oh, Andy, why did you have to leave me? I do not understand our children, and I am weary of fighting them.”
Chapter 1
An arm stretched out from the tangle of blankets and backhanded the jangling alarm clock. It clattered from the battered mahogany record cabinet that served as a bedside stand and onto the floor, where it wheezed to a stop. A groan issued from the bed as the blankets were thrown back. Steve Walsh, lead investigator for the Connecticut State Police, slid his pajama-clad legs over the side of the mattress, and his feet searched the floor for his slippers. He raised himself upright and stood with his eyes closed for a few seconds. His right lid slowly opened before immediately squinting closed again against the shaft of early morning June sun. Another groan and stretch completed his morning exercise.
He fumbled for his flannel robe as he jammed his feet into the slippers. Tying the belt, he sighed. “Two more reports and I can sleep in a quiet cabin in the pines. Come on, Steve. Snap to.” He headed toward the bathroom, scratching his tousled hair and yawning from deep down.
The mirror on the slide-in metal cabinet did not give him much encouragement. Wide-set green-flecked hazel eyes stared back from a triangular face. Below his auburn hair was a broad forehead with thin brows. The high cheekbones were smooth and framed a thin Roman nose over a thin-lipped mouth. Stooping his lean six-foot frame to bring his head into full view in the mirror, he raked his hand through his hair. He brushed his teeth to get rid of the coating of sleep. While he was trying to one-hand the lid on the tooth powder at the same time, the tin slipped off the porcelain sink and dumped its contents on the worn floor. Wiping the dusting of polish off the tile floor, he muttered through the foam in his mouth, “I really hope this is not a sign of what this day is going to be like.”
Having splashed cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth, he felt that he might survive the day. He made his way to the kitchen, where open-faced cabinets with a clutter of dishes and various-sized pots stared at him. He stared back. The small covered tin garbage can lined with newspaper next to the sink was overflowing and ready to be emptied. He was glad he took most of his meals in restaurants and did not have to worry about smells and other unpleasant residue. Most of his trash was paper and rinsed tin cans. Boxes and packages of food sat behind the door of the base of the Hoosier cabinet. Most of these provisions had been purchased to impress Susan with his domesticity. At the thought of her, he felt like a knife had been twisted in his stomach, even after all the years since she had left.
With almost religious reverence, he crossed to the stove and picked up the battered and blackened coffee pot. Moving to the sink, he dumped yesterday’s sludge into the cluttered sink and rinsed the enameled pot and basket. He worked the top off the container of grounds and spooned several heaps into the basket, tapping each one to the proper level. With the water level at the exact mark, he lit a burner on the small Chambers stove and set the pot on. Steve now considered the most important task of the day complete.
While the coffee transformed itself from water into ambrosia, he looked with distaste toward the job at hand on the claw-footed round oak kitchen table. A squared collection of completed reports, neatly labeled in manila folders, stood at the left end. Steve reluctantly slid his eyes to the right edge, where a precariously stacked heap of unfinished reports, in the form of notebooks and loose papers, threatened to avalanche onto the cracked linoleum below. He wondered what a skull doctor would think regarding the contrast. The disordered material on the right would probably be an example of his own disorder, while the left side represented the neat possessions of some other entity. Good luck, Freud, he mused.
“Go away,” he almost snarled to the right-hand pile. He should get a dog, he reasoned. Then he could pretend he was talking to something besides himself. Then he could gauge whether he had really gone around the bend based on when he began to expect an answer.
Steve had never been a morning person, and he hated paperwork. Even in the military, chasing spies and saboteurs, he was a field man who preferred pursuit and danger to sitting at a desk scribbling. His military file contained several dings regarding his failure to submit timely paperwork. This reminded him of the major he had served under in the Great War, who brayed with laughter when he observed, “The army may march on its stomach, but the intelligence service marches on its paperwork.” Steve sighed and swore, for the millionth time, that he would keep up with it in the future to avoid marathon sessions like this. Steve suspected that Bob Crowder, chief of the Connecticut State Police, expected him to forgo his anticipated vacation rather than finish the hated task before he left. Steve admitted he was tempted but swore he would not give his boss the satisfaction. The vacation was not as important as actually taking it. Bob had a habit of finding a big case whenever Steve planned a vacation. The value of putting on a show of independence overrode the loneliness of idling around by himself.
Stalling, he lit another burner and set the toaster frame over the low flames. He unwrapped the loaf of bread from the bread box; a trace of mold dusted the bottom. He paused and shrugged before slicing off two pieces. A quick flick of the knife and the offending lightly fuzzed crust was gone. He carefully laid the bread on the toaster and was satisfied with the look of the dark brew he saw through the observation bulb of the coffee pot. The debate about getting a clean cup was settled when he realized that all his cups were in the sink. He emptied the dregs from the one he had used the prior night and rinsed it. I read somewhere that hot coffee is a great disinfectant, he lied to himself. As he took his first satisfying sip, the smell of burning toast overpowered the odor of the coffee. He quickly turned the slices over and swore as he burned his fingers.
Luckily there was a clean plate in the cupboard. He slathered the toast with strawberry jam of uncertain age that he found in the icebox. He emptied the drip pan while it was on his mind so it wouldn’t overflow. When he sloshed water onto himself, he vowed that he would get an electric refrigerator the moment he returned. Staying away from the table, as if he were afraid the paperwork would attack him, he ate his breakfast leaning against the counter. He considered washing up but realized that the passing thought was only another delaying tactic. Anyway, the cleaning lady, Mrs. Colletti, was due for her weekly dusting and polishing session. I would hate to disabuse her of her conviction that no man can take proper care of himself, he justified.
Then he thought about getting dressed, but he knew that this was just one more excuse. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, he drifted back to the years he had spent in Engla
nd working as a military liaison for the United States. He had been recruited and given a leave from the state police. Because of his knowledge of languages—Steve spoke German and Dutch and knew enough French, Italian, and Spanish to get by—he was approached by one of his law school classmates who had joined the intelligence service. He had laid out the military’s need for agents in the European theater. The Great War was just starting, and the Germans had spy cells in England. Steve had been sent to Great Britain as part of a team to work with British and other Allied agents. Their job was to uncover German plots related to their own countries. His English counterparts treated espionage as a game, but they had been able to shut down many cells of the German spy service.
He had infiltrated multiple groups and interviewed members of others. His efforts had uncovered several plots and plans, including the Kaiser’s belief that if he landed a division of troops in New York, an uprising of German-Americans would conquer the United States and bring it to the side of the Central Powers. Steve wondered how they would have fared in the Five Points section of New York City. Kaiser Wilhelm would have had to be careful about stirring up the boys there. A regiment of the toughs from the slums of New York could probably have been in Berlin in a week without raising a sweat.
His eyes fell back on the precariously stacked files, and he grabbed one before he could find another excuse for delay. For several hours, he worked furiously to finish his reports on the last and most intricate cases and add them to the neat stack.
Steve turned the burner off under the pot, which perfumed the air with the sharp odor of boiled-away coffee. He went through a new coffee maker every few months, it seemed. He showered and spent a few minutes packing his large leather suitcase, towel wrapped around his lean hips. Steve was glad he had remembered to pick up his laundry the day before. He carefully placed a linen suit, shirts, ties, handkerchiefs, socks, and underwear in the bag. He added a pair of deck shoes in a storage bag and, finally, a casual shirt and a pair of denims, perfect for the Poconos in June. After scraping the beard off his face with his straight razor and brushing his teeth again, he added his toilet kit to the bag and dressed carefully in a light gray summer suit with a tan shirt and brown tie.
He picked up the suitcase and looked around the apartment to make sure that nothing had been left running that would burn the place down or flood it out. Satisfied, he packed the files in a scuffed briefcase. He paused as he stepped into the living room and gave the room an approving look. It was a homey, lived-in space, with the surrounding walls lined with the books he had collected over the years. Leather-bound sets of the classics, a set of encyclopedias, textbooks, law books, and miscellaneous novels. The furniture had been there when he bought the flat, and he had found it surprisingly comfortable. The overstuffed chairs facing the fireplace; the large chesterfield, which sat like a dowager under the window; and a floor lamp positioned for easy reading had become old and familiar friends. He idly wondered if he had kept the furnishings because Susan hated them.
After parking the suitcase by the door, ready for a quick grab on the way to the train station, he checked his billfold, stepped outside, and started to lock the door behind him. Stooping, he picked up the paper lying on the doorstep. A quick glance at the headlines showed that the murder of Mrs. Chandler was still top news. I pity the poor sucker that gets this one, he mused. But it would be interesting—a house full of suspects and a high-profile victim. The thing smells of politics, though. Good thing I’m on vacation. He folded the newspaper and dropped it into his briefcase and locked the door.
He started down the stairs but reversed after going down two steps. He let himself back in the apartment and wrote a quick note to the housekeeper, informing her that he would be gone for two weeks. After looking around again, he stepped out and descended to the street. He took a deep breath of city air. He took in the faint smell of smoke, the perfume of the bright flowers from the building’s planting beds, and the homey scent of the local bakery. Steve stepped to the curb, where he flagged down a passing hack to take him to the office.
Chapter 2
The edifice that housed the Connecticut State Police was old and slightly decrepit. The bricks were soiled with years of dirt and soot. A tarnished brass plate by the door notified the public that the building housed the official offices of various governmental departments, including those of the Connecticut State Police. The double doors opened onto a large lobby with polished marble floors and two rows of pillars. The seal of the state of Connecticut was inlaid in the floor, and a massive reception desk stood at its center. The security officer, large and sloppy in his uniform, nodded a greeting as Steve headed toward the elevator. Charlie, the ancient elevator operator, sported a gray beard that reminded Steve of a merry-faced Santa. The moment the inspector entered the car Charlie began talking. Steve ignored him. The old man never expected any reply; he just loved to talk, and Steve tuned him out. Going over the list of tasks to be completed before he took off for the Poconos, he ignored the chatter and exited the car at the Connecticut State Police floor. He walked through the office, accompanied by the usual din of jangling telephones, voices, and chattering typewriters.
Halfway across the floor, Steve saw Jerry McQuarry and James Morgan approaching. He nodded and received an antagonistic glare from McQuarry and an answering nod from Morgan. Morgan slowed to give McQuarry room to move, but Steve remained in the center of the aisle. Stubbornly, both refused to give an inch; their shoulders collided. Before either could react, Morgan stepped between them.
“I will meet you at the car, Jerry,” he said mildly.
When the big, craggy-faced man hesitated, his partner continued forcefully, “Jerry. Don’t push it. Just bring the car around.”
Hard brown eyes looked from Steve to Morgan and back. McQuarry shifted the unlit cigar clamped in his teeth. “Watch yourself, college boy,” he muttered. “Ain’t nothin’ special about you.” He stalked off.
“Sheesh, Steve. Give a little. You know he’s busted up because you got the promotion he thinks he deserved. Back off until he cools down.”
Steve looked at the older investigator. “He won’t ever cool down. And he’s about as far up the ladder as he will ever get. He’s too free with his fists and the word is out. I’m tired of walking on eggshells around him, and his last little stunt is going to get him booted if he tries it again.”
Steve watched Morgan as he walked out the door. McQuarry resented not only Steve’s promotion but also his education. McQuarry was an old-fashioned cop who had no scruples about how he got information, and it had hurt his reputation with the brass. Lawyers knew his temperament and played him when they had him on the stand. He had a vindictive streak a mile wide. Steve had recently arrested a small-time hood and was playing him for bigger fish. Evidence disappeared, and they had to let the informant go free. Steve had reason to believe that McQuarry was responsible, but there was no incontrovertible proof. He turned and continued across the office.
He smiled and greeted Mrs. Ida Clark, Bob Crowder’s Cerberus. She had been a fixture in the office for as long as anyone could remember. Her brittle personality and biting tongue could reduce even the most hardened investigator to a trembling mass. However, she looked at the officers as her family and protected them like a mother wolf. Steve knew that no word of the incident with McQuarry would get to their boss. She gave him a crisp nod and snapped, “Chief Crowder has been waiting for you.” For her, that was a friendly greeting. One of these days, Steve thought, she is actually going to say, “Good morning.”
He ambled into the chief’s office and dumped the stack of folders he had retrieved from the briefcase onto the worn old oak desk. The lanky inspector sank gingerly into the ancient wooden guest chair, which protested at any burden. He adjusted the four-in-hand knot on his tie and said cheerfully, “There you are, Chief. Paperwork is done and I am off to the Poconos this afternoon.” He patted his breast over the pocket containing the tickets. “Two weeks with nothi
ng to do and all day to do it.”
His boss carefully laid down his cigar in the overflowing ashtray, ignoring another drift of ash that avalanched onto his stained blotter. His square face was lined with worry—a common sight. Steve wondered whether he was born with that expression or if it came with the job. Bob was overweight, and his black wool suit was rumpled. His shirt collar was unbuttoned under his spotted tie. He rarely fastened his vest, which was kept together by the watch chain that stretched across his swelling stomach. Chief of the Connecticut State Police was a political position, and he was under constant pressure from the governor and legislators from both parties. Steve thought this could be the reason for his appearance and his need for the stomach powders that were never far from his hand. The only time Steve had seen him in a pressed suit was when he was headed to the legislature to fight for funds.
Bob leaned back in his cracked leather chair, causing it to creak and groan. “The Poconos? Too crowded this time of year. Elbow-to-elbow people, shrieking kids, noise all day long and half the night. You would hate it,” he growled, running thick fingers through his thin hair. Bob leaned forward and twined his sausage fingers together. “I have a much better place for you to go. Not many people, quiet town, great fishing, friendly folks. You’ll love it,” he continued with a faint wheedle in his voice, trying to sound cheerful. He had no idea what the fishing was like in Chandler, but it was all he could think of as an attraction.
Steve sat up straight, immediately suspicious. Bob often reminded him of a troll trying to convince the villagers that they would be happier after they had been eaten. “I hate fishing. You know I hate fishing. What are you up to?”
“Oh, come on. Chandler is a great little town. And you should get a pole. Fishing is relaxing, and you know you need to relax. You are wound tighter than a watch spring,” Bob said innocently. “You have been working too hard. That’s not good for your health.”
The Rose Quilt Page 2