The Rose Quilt

by Mark Pasquini

  Dropping his key off at the desk and informing the desk clerk that he had finished supper, he bought a fresh pack of cigarettes and left the hotel.

  His stroll to the car was occupied by looking around the square. He had seen only parts of the town during his drives and the short walk that morning, but he felt comfortable with the feel of the place. Quiet and friendly, similar to where he had grown up. Steve thought it would be a nice place to settle down.

  He was relaxed on his drive to the Chandler mansion. He stretched his right arm along the seat and cocked his left elbow on the open window while steering with his fingertips. A cigarette marred the slight smile on his lips. His mind drifted back to the idle thoughts of the girls that afternoon, but he fought them off. “Think of the case, Stevie boy. Only the case,” he muttered to himself.

  Old Huskins was at the booth, and Steve started to slow down but was waved through. “Go ahead, Inspector. You are almost one of the family by now,” the old man cackled.

  Steve smiled at the thought. He sped up the drive and surrendered Buck’s vehicle to a valet. He adjusted his hat as he walked up the stone steps, still preoccupied with his thoughts.

  He crossed the wide, stone-paved court toward the front door. Plants in large clay pots had been scattered along the way. As he passed a full evergreen by the front door, a figure lurched out and grabbed him by the lapels. Even as he reacted, the assailant shouted at him, “Leave my fiancée alone, or I’ll make you sorry.” Steve crossed the figure’s right arm with his left and grasped the figure’s left wrist. He twisted and slammed the heel of his right hand into his attacker’s left elbow and broke his hold. The inspector spun him around and slammed the assailant into the side of the mansion with a hard shove. The man’s face smacked into the sandstone wall, stunning him. Steve spun him around and saw it was the man who had glared at him in the restaurant, Dean Williams. He was a couple of inches taller than Steve, with narrow shoulders and disheveled dark hair. Steve only got a glance at his bleeding nose before his attacker slid, moaning, to a sitting position, with both hands clutching his damaged face.

  An older couple, accompanied by a younger man, slowed down and stared at the two men. The gray-haired woman, dressed in a black evening gown with a fur wrap and assorted sparkling jewelry, sounded her disapproval at the sight. “Here, my man,” said the young tuxedo-clad gentleman who accompanied them, waving a hand ineffectually.

  Steve showed his badge. “Police officer. Can I have your names, in case I need a statement later?”

  “My name is Nicholas Martin. I am the Chandler family attorney,” he said pointlessly. “These are my parents. What happened here?”

  Steve looked around at the slumped figure. “Little accident. You go on in, folks,” he said gently.

  The door swung open, and Steve forgot everything but the glorious figure in the opening. Silene stood in the light streaming from the interior in an emerald green gown that hugged her gentle curves. It left one tanned shoulder bare. There was a cloth strip of a matching color around her forehead, with a length brushing the uncovered shoulder. The strip was held in place by a brooch of diamonds and emeralds with a short jade-colored feather pointing skyward. An intricate dangle with an emerald stone at its center hung between her sculpted brows. Her mouth, spread wide in a welcoming smile, was made up in dark red matte lipstick. Around her slim throat was a diamond and emerald choker. Her arms, up to her elbows, were sheathed with green evening gloves, and emerald and diamond bracelets scintillated on her wrists. The dress was knee length on one side, while the other covered her delicate ankle. An ankle bracelet of diamonds and emeralds circled her bare ankle, and a pair of matching emerald slippers covered her dainty feet.

  Steve stood with his mouth hanging open.

  “Steve. I’ve been waiting for you,” she exclaimed, obviously pleased with her effect on him. Her smile faded at the look on the older couple’s faces. “What is the matter, Nicholas?” she asked the young man hesitantly. Her glance dropped to her outfit to see if there was a spot or something else out of order. She had spent most of the last two hours getting everything perfect for her guest.

  Silene turned to the right at the sound of the injured man calling her in a nasal voice. “Your fiancé doesn’t approve of me,” Steve finally managed to say in a neutral voice, after getting his scattered wits organized.

  She looked at him, puzzled. “I don’t have a fiancé. Dean told you that?”

  “When he grabbed me and threatened grievous bodily harm,” answered Steve, oddly pleased at the news.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  He chuckled. “Uh, no, but he had a run-in with the side of the house and lost the argument.”

  Dean had risen and was holding his hand to his nose, leaking large drops of blood on his shirt and tie. Steve took the neatly folded handkerchief from the injured man’s pocket and gave it to him after shaking it open.

  Dean’s lips formed a drunken, vacuous smile. He swayed dangerously and began smearing the mess on his clothing, still staring at Silene. Steve gently took the handkerchief, pulled Dean’s hand away from his nose, placed the cloth in the palm of that hand and gently pushed it back into place.

  By this time a small crowd had gathered, and Silene took charge. “Just a little accident here. Please, go into the ballroom. We are about to start.” She turned to Jeremy and asked, “Will you welcome our guests, Jeremy? Show them to the ballroom, please.”

  With sidelong stares and whispers, the guests allowed themselves to be herded into the house, leaving Dean, Steve, and Silene. “Will you get one of the valets to come here, Steve?” she asked.

  By the time he had returned, Jeremy was standing in the doorway again. Silene asked the valet to look after welcoming guests for a moment. “Jeremy, take Dean upstairs to one of the South guest rooms.”

  The wounded man tried to bow and said, “Thank you, Silene. Silene, I love you. Will you marry me, Silene?” Steve had to catch Dean before he lost his balance and sat down in the flower bed.

  She turned her head away at the stench of his whiskey-soaked breath and looked at Jeremy. “The South guest room near the bath, in case he ... ”

  “Yes, Miss. I will provide him with an appropriate receptacle for emergencies,” he answered. He grasped Dean’s elbow and led the staggering young man into the house with soothing noises.

  “My god,” Silene exclaimed. “I hope nothing else goes wrong. He isn’t seriously hurt, is he?” she asked with belated concern.

  “I don’t think there is any permanent damage. He seemed adequately anesthetized and will probably, um, go to sleep. I can always arrest him for slander—him saying in front of witnesses that you would marry a drunk like him,” Steve finished with a smile.

  Silene gave out a hearty laugh. Not Julie’s, Steve thought, but nothing wrong with it. He shoved that thought down. “So, you don’t plan on marrying Dean?” he asked casually.

  “Dean is a nice boy. He first told me he wanted to marry me when we were six and taking riding lessons at the pony club. In fact, he has proposed to me many times. I always took it as a joke between friends. No,” she said looking up into his eyes, “I am looking for someone else.” She was close and inviting, and Steve felt tempted to take her in his arms. He swayed slightly forward.

  The moment passed, and Silene wrapped her arms around his right arm in a hug and moved toward the front door. Steve saw her mouth curved in a self-satisfied smile in the hall-tree mirror. The valet took his hat, and, as he turned toward the hall leading to the ballroom, he saw Julie and momentarily froze.

  She was wearing a gray-and-black evening dress with a strand of pearls. He had given them to her for her last birthday. Dangling from her delicate ears, visible because her long hair was gathered at the back of her neck in a net strewn with small pearls, were gold earrings. They consisted of a “J” and “S,” with the curve of Steve’s initial hooked through the hook of Julie’s initial. At the intersection of the two was a delicate ampersan
d in silver. She gave him a straight, expressionless stare. Before she turned away, Steve saw a shimmer in her eye and guilt came crashing down.

  He tried to ease his arm from Silene’s suddenly tightened grasp, but short of being rough and rude, he was unable to do so. They entered the ballroom behind Julie, who hurriedly made a left just inside the door.

  Silene pressed Steve to the right. “Here is Francis,” she said. “You two can be bored together.” She gave a lighthearted little laugh with a tinge of uncertainty. She walked regally down the aisle of tables, greeting guests as she went, toward the stage set at the end of the large room. The double row of chandeliers caused flashes of light to sparkle from the gemstones she wore.

  Steve sighed and looked across the doorway to where Julie was seated, studiously ignoring him. She dabbed at her eyes with the fingers of her white gloves. He looked at his companion and noticed a champagne flute filled with a bubbly amber liquid in his hand. “Have they loosened the rules?” he asked hopefully.

  Francis chuckled. “I am afraid not,” he answered. “Sparkling apple juice. We produce it on the farms from our own orchards. It is very good. Try it.”

  Steve, looking disappointed, answered, “No, thanks. Too sweet for me.” He moved to the right and began circling toward the stage. Mrs. Black was standing on one end near a group of chairs, and he managed to edge next to her. They whispered together for several minutes. Silene tapped the microphone for attention. Steve nodded to Mrs. Black in thanks and returned to Francis’s side.

  Seated on one side of the stage behind Silene was the committee. On the other side was a frame with the quilt hanging between the uprights. The reverse side of the quilt was facing the crowd, a broad expanse of black, covered with a pattern of flowers in magenta. Below each flower was a small scroll with its Latin name, in yellow-green, Steve recalled. A large oblong of gold cloth adorned the lower left-hand corner. He could not read what was embroidered there.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the opening of the Regional Agricultural Fair and the A. J. Chandler Memorial Flower Show. I am to be your hostess tonight due to recent tragic events. My mother, I am sure, would have wanted us to carry on. This event, which was dear to her, will now be known as the A. J. and Alice Chandler Memorial Flower Show.” A robust round of applause followed this announcement.

  She continued with a smile, “Let us all remember that this is a time to celebrate the lives of these two generous and loving people.” Louder clapping followed. The crowd relaxed and a murmur of agreement rose.

  Silene held up her hands for quiet. “As you know, one of Mother’s favorite charities is the Chandler Home for Children. My family—Catherine, Francis, and I—hope you will be generous in your donations tonight.” She gestured to bright red boxes resting on tables scattered throughout the room. “We have furnished donation boxes for your convenience. I encourage you to be generous in support of the wonderful children at the home.”

  Francis leaned toward Steve and whispered, “Mother could support the whole operation herself but thought it would be better if the whole community could be included. Sort of a project that everyone could take part and pride in. A good thing, too. Less of a drain on the family treasury.”

  Steve nodded in agreement. He wondered if the many charitable projects Mrs. Chandler had engaged in could be the motive for which he was looking. Buck had told him that those works had been generously provided for from the Chandler coffers.

  Silene continued, “You all will notice that there is a potted rose on each table. These are cuttings from the new hybrids that Mother and Anna Carlyle had been working on for the past two years. I am happy to announce that they have been accepted and recognized. As a sign of the Chandler family’s appreciation of your generosity to our charities, we wish you to share in our mother’s greatest achievement. Now, under a chair at each of the tables is a silver dollar. Those lucky few who find them are free to take the rose from their table home as a prize.”

  There was a general shuffling as the audience members eagerly searched beneath their seats. Cries of happiness and good-natured groans of disappointment rang out as the coins were found and prizes claimed.

  “Now, let me present the chorus from the Chandler Home for your entertainment.” She moved to an empty chair by the quilt as the curtain parted to show a group of children, arranged by height, standing in the spotlights that snapped on. They were all dressed in white shirts and navy blue ties, with gray skirts or trousers, and all had patent leather shoes that shone in the bright lights.

  For the next half hour, the guests were regaled with the songs that Mrs. Chandler loved. Surprisingly, there were cowboy songs, Irish ballads, and early American tunes. Steve saw a wide, childlike grin on Silene’s face when they finished up with “Buffalo Gals,” though the words had been changed to “Chandler Gals,” much to the delight of the audience, which joined in on the chorus. Her eyes were locked on Steve’s. The presentation ended with ringing applause, and the children had broad grins on their faces as the curtain slid shut.

  “That was wonderful,” Silene’s voice rang out. “Please give them another well-deserved round of applause.” She gestured for a curtain call. The curtain was opened, and the children gave another bow. When the sounds of approbation had died down, Silene swept an arm to include the committee as the curtains closed for the final time.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she cried, “it is my pleasure to introduce—or, should I say, reintroduce—the A. J. and Alice Chandler Memorial Flower Show committee.” Steve thought that she would do Barnum and Bailey proud.

  “First, Wanda and Barry Jones. They provided, from their nursery, all the wonderful plants you see about you tonight and will see when you attend the show next week. Their generosity and time are greatly appreciated. Thank you, Wanda and Barry.” Loud clapping echoed in the room. Steve saw that Wanda was steady when she rose to take her bow. Barry looked uncomfortable in his suit and tie.

  “Next, Professor Lech Poltovski. He is invaluable in the design of the show itself. In past years he has brought to life gardens from the world over. Professor Poltovski.” More applause. Steve noticed a definite trembling in the man’s hands as he nervously gave a bobbing bow to the audience.

  “Miss Anna Carlyle. She is the botanist and artist of the committee. She will be the judge for our contest. After years of creating her own recognized hybrids, she helped and guided Mother on her own. We are pleased to include her on the committee and proud to have her as our judge.” Joining in the ovation, Steve idly wondered again if Anna Carlyle and his Mimi were related.

  “Next, we have Mrs. Mary Flowers. She is the financial master of the committee. Her able handling of the financial matters has kept the committee solvent and financially stable.” The applause was muted. Steve thought that the rumors had gotten out. Or maybe it was just Silene’s sense of irony.

  “Last, but by no means least, Mrs. Emma Black. The beloved head of the committee. Her hard work and dedication are major reasons why this show is so successful.” Applause was polite. Steve wondered if this was because of her propensity for malicious gossip.

  Silene finished with, “Let us give all the committee a well-deserved round of applause.” She led the effort and was answered with thunderous clapping. “After a word from Emma, I invite you to retire to the dining room, where you will find a buffet for your enjoyment. Please feel free to use the donation boxes. Thank you all and enjoy yourselves. Mrs. Black, please take the microphone.”

  Still dressed in her signature black, Mrs. Black rose, smiling. While Silene took her place beside the hanging quilt, the elder lady adjusted the microphone and cleared her throat. “Thank you for your warm welcome. Each year the committee creates a quilt to commemorate the show. The quilt will be presented to the winner of the show, judged ably by our own Miss Carlyle. Miss Chandler, will you unveil this year’s prize?”

  Silene gripped the frame and, her jewelry sparkling in the light, spun it on its
wheels to show the front of the quilt. Steve leaned forward as if to bring himself closer. Under the bright lights, the border looked darker than it had in the sewing room. The background colors seemed pale and washed out. The only colors that appeared vibrant were the varied reds of the nine roses. They almost glowed beneath the chandeliers.

  Steve decided the time had come to act.

  Chapter 16

  Steve looked around for Buck. He finally saw him at a table on the other side of the room. A woman at the next table, dressed in a bright blue formal gown with her dark brown hair in a fancy pile on top of her head, was looking his way, fortunately, and he caught her eye. He signaled to her, pointing to Buck. The woman questioningly indicated the man, and Steve nodded vigorously. She tapped him on the shoulder and pointed in Steve’s direction. Buck raised a hand and bent to the woman next to him. She shot Steve an angry look and turned back to Buck. Steve assumed this was his wife, Margaret. She turned back to the stage, her shoulders stiff with irritation. Buck stood and made his way toward the back wall, edging toward the door between the intervening tables.

  When he passed Julie, she clutched at him and whispered a question. He shrugged and pointed toward Steve. She began to rise from her chair but sank back down when Steve violently shook his head. The look she shot him boded him no good when they next met.

  Steve turned to Francis and excused himself. He met Buck and led him out of earshot into the hallway. Steve hurriedly explained his plan, and Buck walked back inside and tapped one of his constables on the arm. He bent down and said something, causing the young man to offer hasty explanations to the young blonde sitting at his side. She was dressed in a scarlet oriental sheath with a mandarin collar, hair piled atop her head and held with lacquered chopsticks. An elderly gray-haired matron in a black dress, who closely resembled the officer, asked a whispered question. He answered a query from the fourth member at the table, a tall gentleman in a dinner jacket. A brief argument ensued, and Buck said something and led the constable out.