The Rose Quilt

by Mark Pasquini

  Buck continued, “How soon after you spoke did she leave the dining room?”

  “Almost immediately. She said she wanted to have another look at the quilt itself. As I said, she always did. Sometimes she would suggest a change to us. That night, I am sure she wanted to consider the hanging strips.”

  Since she was starting to repeat herself, Steve tried a different tack and asked if she could remember anything else about people’s movements. He received a negative answer. She had not noticed the servants all evening, just that they were there and very attentive.

  Steve tapped his pencil on his teeth and looked at her before asking, “The hybrids. Didn’t Mrs. Chandler only follow your instructions? You are the one who actually created those hybrids. Weren’t you angry that she was taking credit for your work? I understand that you didn’t even get second mention or any credit at all.”

  Miss Carlyle gave a cheerful little laugh. “Inspector, I take pleasure in someone who enjoys the same things that I do. I have several hybrid plants to my credit. Alice worked hard, very hard, at running the mill, her charities, seeing to the welfare of her family. She shed a lot of that care when she was with her plants. She laughed, even told jokes. If you had known her, you would understand what a rarity that was. She showed a stern, matriarchal face to the world. Only when she was in the greenhouse or working on her projects was she truly happy. If you could have seen the day it was evident that her attempts had been successful, you would understand.

  “I was proud to be part of that. I hold no animosity about the hybrids. None at all.” There was finality in her tone, and Steve recognized that same tone from when his Mimi had laid down the law. It was almost a warning that this line of questioning was at an end. Since he could not find any crack in her story, he let it drop.

  Steve looked at Buck, who shrugged. “Thank you, Miss Carlyle. We appreciate your help. Will you send in Professor Poltovski, please?” She rose and opened the door.

  Jeremy was standing in the hall. He cleared his throat gently. “Sir, I will call the professor, as necessary. I thought refreshments would be in order,” he said in his rich, plummy voice. He pushed a cart into the room. It contained a pitcher of water, a full ice bucket, glassware, and napkins. On the lower level of the cart was the familiar coffee service.

  With a look of distaste, Steve said, “I think we can drink water and interview people at the same time, Jeremy. Just serve it and Miss Carlyle can fetch the professor.”

  Buck, looking at Jeremy, inserted, “Steve, I think we should let Jeremy have his way. We can talk about the interviews we have had so far.”

  Puzzled, Steve waved his agreement, and Miss Carlyle left with a nod. Jeremy closed the door and turned to the two men. Ceremonially, he extracted a large silver flask from his back pocket. He handed it to Steve with a little flourish. “With the compliments of Miss Silene, sir.”

  The flask was engraved. “Inspector Walsh, won’t you come out tonight and dance by the light of the moon? Love, Silene.” Buck and Steve laughed at the reference to the popular song. They admired the polished surface and elegant calligraphy. Steve took the flask from a smiling Jeremy and poured a drink into one of the glasses. He looked at Buck with an arched eyebrow.

  “No, thanks,” Buck said, raising a hand.

  “Come on. I’m on duty, too. I won’t tell, and one won’t hurt you,” pressed Steve.

  Buck laughed. “It’s not that. I took the pledge. I am an official teetotaler. Since after the war ended and I got back. For Margaret, I gave up fighting, smoking, and drinking. Her father was a drunk, and that was one of the requirements before she would marry me.” Embarrassed, he added, “Actually, I never liked the stuff anyway. It always seemed to have no effect on me until the last drink, and then I woke up with a raging headache and usually had to get bailed out of the brig. So giving it up was really no hardship for me.”

  Steve had known a few men who had taken the pledge, but they usually were henpecked husbands or religious folk.

  Jeremy had set up the coffee service and handed a cup to Buck. When Steve turned to him and arched a polite eyebrow, he smiled professionally and shook his head. “I will conform to Mrs. Chandler’s wishes, sir. If I imbibe, it will be somewhere else. Thank you anyway, sir. Also, that is bourbon; Scotch whisky is my poison.” He had been in America long enough not to be surprised at how they related to servants.

  Steve extracted a cigarette from the rosewood box and lit it. He took a sip and looked at the glass in admiration. “Silene certainly has good taste in liquor.” He respected Buck’s decision but was not going to let it interfere with his own pleasure.

  Buck brought his coffee and notebook over to the desk. “A few things we didn’t get to talk about on the way up here. Neither one of the two taxis in town picked anyone up at the hotel or the mill. No one saw any taxi from out of town, and in Chandler a fact like that is not going to be missed. Gordon, the hotel doorman, was off duty at eight o’clock, but no one had picked up the Sullivans, either one, by the time he left.

  “I found a guy in Harrotsville who said he saw Silene Chandler there, driving around in a black roadster. The time was a few minutes after nine, so she didn’t have time to drive up here and back.”

  “How did he remember the night, time, car, and person?” asked Steve. He had interviewed a lot of people who were positive about facts until they were proven wrong.

  Buck smiled. “He owns the premier jewelry store down there. He had just shut his store and was on his way to his anniversary celebration. When he stepped off the curb, the car almost hit him, and he recognized Silene because she was one of his best customers. Miss Chandler likes her baubles. She probably got your flask there. I talked to the police chief down there, and the gentleman had filed a complaint, which he withdrew the next day. I imagine he thought that future business trumped the indignity of having to dive for the curb. Anyway, I called the man and he swore he knew the driver and the time.”

  Steve sighed. “That rules her out.” He did not know if his relief was for the young woman or because they had eliminated a suspect. He fixed himself another short drink while he considered the question.

  “What about Haney? How trustworthy is he?” asked the inspector.

  “Don’t even think it,” answered Buck. “I told you that Ross Haney takes his job and duty very seriously. He doesn’t drink or sleep on the job. If Mr. Chandler had asked him to lie, Ross would have quit. His world is black and white, and I think he would rather die than fail his own sense of honor.

  “We test all the watchmen. Try to bribe them, get them to look the other way, or keep them from their duty. Haney, old as he is, punched our man and broke his nose. If Haney said he didn’t see Francis Chandler leave the building, he didn’t. I would stake my job on it.”

  Steve looked at his drink in disgust. He stubbed his cigarette out with savage stabs. “So, at this point, we have nothing. Not a suspect. Unless Poltovski or the Joneses confess, the closest we have is the Sullivans, who were miles away at the hotel at the time. And the case against them is weak or nearly nonexistent.” Steve screwed the measuring cap on the flask. He tucked it into his coat pocket and patted it before he asked Buck to ring for Jeremy.

  Chapter 11

  Professor Poltovski tapped lightly and with evident embarrassment on the doorjamb. He stood hesitantly, his coat over his arm and his fedora clutched nervously in his hands. He was stoop-shouldered, short, and thin. The suit he wore was slightly shabby and frayed at the cuffs. The leather patches at his elbows could have been professorial affectation or necessary to cover holes. His face was pinched, and a tic pulsed under his left eye. A prominent hawk nose overshadowed the rest of his face, and his thin lower lip was clenched between yellowed teeth. A green bow tie, slightly askew, circled his scrawny neck.

  The two officers rose. “Come in, Professor,” invited Steve. “Are you planning on going somewhere?” he asked, indicating the coat and hat.

  Poltovski looked at t
he garments as if he had never seen them before. “No. I had not planned on it,” he replied with an Eastern European accent. “Is it planned for me?” he asked nervously.

  “I was just wondering why you have your hat and coat.”

  He answered, puzzled, “They are mine. I take them with me. Is this not allowed?”

  Steve dropped the subject and invited him to sit. He reached across the desk to shake hands. The professor looked at the extended hand as if Steve wanted something. Hesitantly, he gave the proffered hand a quick shake and perched on the very edge of the chair before the desk. Steve sat down. The professor stared at him intently, which was slightly disconcerting. Steve did notice that the man clasped his hands together tightly but not enough to hide their faint tremor.

  He answered Steve’s question on his movements the night of the murder with pauses and hesitations. “I took a plate and some food. I eat—ate—it at the table. I had some tea that the kind Mrs. Chandler had imported for me from Hungary. After that, I went to the garden to sit and enjoy. I talk to Anna a few minutes before. Some went to leave, and then I hear a scream and went, too. Jeremy close door, and we wait for police.” He waved a hand over his shoulder toward Buck, who nodded.

  “I have answered these questions to the captain. Did I say something bad, wrong?” A nervous pressure seemed to be building within the tense man.

  Steve leaned back, thinking. “How did you come to know the Chandlers?”

  “Ah. I was a professor of languages in Budapest. Mr. Chandler came for business. I was asked to be translator, though my English was not so good. I teach old languages: Latin, Greek. I read ancient Egyptian, Aramaic, and Armenian. But my English is not so good as now.”

  Steve leaned forward. “So why did they ask you to translate? I mean, if your English was not so good. Did Mrs. Chandler have anything to do with it?”

  “No, no. Mrs. Chandler was not there. Mr. Chandler come alone. It was on business, for selling his cloth. I was ask because I knew the diplomat from United States. He was interest in old cultures and language. Much interest in Egypt. Wanted to dig there. He ask me to help.”

  Buck shifted in his chair and leaned forward. “Professor, how did you come to teach here in America?” he asked quietly.

  The professor twisted in his chair. “Mr. Chandler ask me. I am for freedom of Hungary. I am not loved and was to lose my position. I worry. What is a professor of languages to do? And I am Quaker. My father was in Pennsylvania to work in steel mill for some years and came to be Quaker. I am for peace, and war was close. Mr. Chandler fix for me to come to America and get job with school to teach. He was my good friend. I like gardens. We talk, and I show him my garden in my home. It was fine. I do not know why you are ask these questions.” He seemed on the edge of panic and his voice cracked. “The police in Austria-Hungary ask questions so. They are trying to trap one into being guilty. Why are you doing this? Are you trapping me?” He stood up, clutching his coat and hat fiercely to his breast.

  Steve leaned back and smiled to reassure the older gentleman. “Please, Professor, sit down. I am not trying to trap you. I am just trying to get to the bottom of the death of Mrs. Chandler. I am sorry if you had problems in the Old Country, but let me assure you, I only want the truth and I need your help finding it.”

  Poltovski stood a few more seconds before finally seeming to relax a little. He resumed his seat. “I am sorry, Inspector. I am afraid to be sent back. I want to be citizen of United States. I think Francis Chandler does not like me and will have me sent back. It would be bad. My father and mother are Jewish. They want to go to Eretz Yisrael even if they are Quaker. They may be of Jewish faith again, if they get there. Mrs. Chandler was talking to the new government to help.”

  Steve was confused. “Professor, how long have you been in the States?”

  “Oh, Mr. Chandler bring me here in 1914, in April. He pay for ship, and I came to your Ellis Island. I was met and come here. Got job at school. I work hard.”

  Steve interrupted, “You’ve been here long enough. Become a citizen.”

  Poltovski looked embarrassed. “I think that when Mr. Chandler die, I could not be a citizen. Francis say that I would be sent back when his father die. I was enemy to America, and the police would come.”

  More confused than ever, Steve asked, “What has Francis got to do with your becoming a citizen?” This was getting out of hand, but Steve knew he had to calm the professor down. “Are you worried about your parents or yourself?”

  The professor shook his head. “You are confuse, please. When America go to war, Francis say that I am alien from Austria-Hungary, and police will send me back. I was frightened. He say I need his father or a person to say I am good to be citizen.”

  “Look, Professor. You have been here long enough to be a citizen. They won’t send you back. All you have to do is apply. Nobody needs to vouch for you. Just bring your entry papers to the Immigration Office in Hartford.” Steve vaguely remembered a section on immigration law at the New York Law School.

  “Oh, yes. I know,” Poltovski said, nodding.

  Steve felt that he had just fallen down the rabbit hole. “Then what are you worried about?”

  “I do not worry, now. I speak with Mrs. Chandler and she says to do what you say. And I do it. Now I must worry about my parents.”

  To get back on track, Steve offered, “I will talk with Silene Chandler, Professor. She may know what to do about your parents’ problem.” Buck looked as confused as Steve felt.

  “What was your relationship with Mrs. Chandler, Professor Poltovski?” He slipped in the question before the professor got him off track again.

  Poltovski straightened immediately, as if he knew in which direction this line of questioning was bound to go. “We were friends, Inspector. When Mr. Chandler send for me, they were helping me with job, they find a house to live. When I say when I want be citizen, he help me. Mr. Chandler help with papers. Then he die and Francis talk to me. I am afraid. He talk of sending people back to Europe. I spoke to Mrs. Chandler. One who marries a citizen can be citizen. I like her much. I think she like me and would help. We talked and I ask if she would marry me. I tell her why I want this. She laugh ... ”

  “Did that make you angry? That she laughed at you?” pounced Steve.

  “She laugh and say to me I do not worry. Mrs. Chandler say that she would not let them send me away. She say that I have first paper and her lawyer will help with being citizen. I think how powerful she was in government, to make them make me citizen. So I go and will be citizen soon. But my parents, they want to go to Eretz Yisrael and be Jews. They have no money to go. Mrs. Chandler say she will help them.”

  Back to the parents, thought Steve. He made a mental note to ask Silene for help, even though he knew that he would have to endure her innuendos and flirtatious behavior. He grinned to himself and thought, Maybe I should call her bluff. A brief chill slid up his spine. He wondered what Julie would think if she heard about it. Even scarier, what would he do if Silene called his? He shivered again.

  Steve’s thoughts were interrupted when Buck cleared his throat. The professor was still sitting hunched in the chair. “Thank you, Professor,” Steve said. “That will be all.” When he hesitated, Steve continued, “I will be sure to talk with Miss Silene about your parents.”

  A smile almost crept to his lips as Poltovski rose and bobbed his head at the two officers. At the door, he gave a short bow and quickly disappeared as if afraid that he would be called back.

  Buck stretched out his legs and observed, “What a poor guy. For my money, I would bet that he has spent his whole life being afraid of something. No way could he have a reason to murder her. She was his only hope, to his mind, for getting his parents to Palestine or Eretz Yisrael or wherever. A little more insight into Francis. He apparently took pleasure in threatening the professor.”

  Steve shook his head disgustedly. “So, Mrs. Black strikes again. She is one twisted lady. I wish I knew something
we could grill her with. Serve her right to be on the hot seat because of some rumor. I tend to agree with you on the professor. And Francis.”

  Chapter 12

  Steve decided to interview the Joneses at the same time rather than try to separate them. He asked Jeremy to fetch another chair once the butler had escorted them into the room. Meanwhile, Buck offered his and stood by the door. His presence behind them seemed to make Wanda nervous, and she kept looking over her shoulder until the interview started. She had a thin, wiry frame. She was a few inches taller than her husband. Lusterless short brown hair topped her round skull. A broad forehead and large, pale eyes that had more focus than earlier dominated her browned, weather-beaten face. A button nose and tiny mouth above a narrow, pointed chin seemed out of proportion to the rest of her. She had wide, muscular shoulders and work-roughened hands, which she kept tightly folded in her lap. Her heavy work shirt, heavy denim pants, and work shoes seemed out of place in the elegantly appointed room.

  Her husband looked bulky. A round bullet head with a fringe of ginger hair topped a thick, almost nonexistent neck that spread into wide, muscular shoulders. Thick ginger eyebrows grew in a single line over his deep-set, dark eyes. A bulbous nose, which had met with something hard at one time or another, was a blob in the center of his face. He had thick lips and a round, hard-looking chin. His clothing was a match for his wife’s. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows, revealing powerful arms. Thick wrists held massive hands curled into fists. His whole demeanor betokened power and barely controlled anger tinged with fear.

  Wanda apologized that they had not had time to change. They had been moving plants to the pavilion all week and were setting up for the show.

  Mrs. Jones’s head snapped around when Steve asked, “Mr. and Mrs. Jones, the night of Mrs. Chandler’s murder, what can you tell us about your movements and the movements of the others on the committee and the staff?”