The Rose Quilt

by Mark Pasquini

  Mr. Martin looked between Francis and Steve, hesitated, and answered, “I will look into it first thing in the morning. First thing. I think you have actionable reason, Francis, but wait until the morning. In the meantime, I advise you not to say anything more in his presence.”

  The attorney turned to Steve and said, “Inspector, I must insist that you terminate this session immediately. And please remove any constables who are not invited to the events of the evening.

  “Buck, I think it would be advisable if you and your department, invited or not, leave until I can look into this.”

  Francis rose with a superior smile directed at Steve and reached for the door handle. Before he could open the door vacated by Buck’s back, Steve said quietly, “Will you let me answer your question before you go, Mr. Chandler?”

  Turning, Francis gave him a puzzled look.

  “Your question of proof,” explained Steve.

  Francis took his hand from the door, turned, and drew on his cigar. He slowly blew out a stream of smoke and gave a condescending tilt of his head in assent.

  “As to putting you in the room at the time and place, you did that. You told me yourself when you described the room. Do you remember that you gave Buck and me—oh, and Constable Brook through the crack in the door—a word picture of the quilt wall?” He opened his notebook. “You described the quilt on the cork wall. You said that there were four pieces of light and dark cloth on the top of the quilt and there were two pieces of cloth next to the turned-back portion on the bottom left? Mr. Chandler, those strips were not on the wall until Mrs. Chandler pinned them and the quilt there after the committee adjourned for the night. The loop material and quilt had been left on the table. That is what she was studying that night. She was trying to decide whether she wanted the light or dark as the loop material. Mrs. Black confirmed it when she and the rest of the committee were allowed back in the room to finish the quilt for tonight’s presentation. She confirmed again, tonight, that the quilt had not been on the wall for two weeks, including the night you interrupted with your question. It was on the table being sewn together and hand quilted.

  “Since the murder, it has been sealed in the room, with a constable stationed at the door, thanks to Buck. You couldn’t have described the quilt wall unless you were there that night after the meeting. You crept in. You took the shears. You viciously stabbed you mother. You left her to die on the floor. But she didn’t die immediately. I think she lay there, thinking, in pain, gathering her strength. She was a tough, strong woman. Your mother must have known that your plan was nearly foolproof and that the only way to prove you were the murderer was to point out the only item in the room that was moved after the committee left. It must have seemed like a long shot, but she did the only thing she could: She struggled to the wall and stuck the pin into the quilt. Your mother brought the quilt itself to our attention—not the color, not the pattern, but the tea rose and the quilt itself. Maybe she knew that your own contempt for others would hang you. Maybe she knew that the flower would get us on the right trail. Whatever her thoughts, she pointed to you. Your mother identified you, and you fell into whatever trap she intended to set.

  “Francis Chandler, you are under arrest for the murder of Mrs. Alice Chandler,” he finished, motioning for Buck to take him. The accused murderer paled and collapsed in the chair with Buck’s hand on his arm. Francis, a stunned look on his face, dropped his cigar on the rug, where it smoldered until Buck snatched it up.

  Catherine began to weep and fell into Paul’s arms. She covered her face with her hands, and her husband held her protectively, his arm around her shoulders.

  Silene rose slowly, a stricken look on her face. “No, no, Francis. You didn’t.” She took two steps around the desk and stopped. She supported herself on the desk with her palms. Steve barely made it to her before she collapsed. He helped her back to her chair and bellowed, “Jeremy!” The butler pushed through the door, nudging Buck out of the way and sticking his head into the room. “Is there a doctor out there?” Steve asked, and the butler disappeared.

  “Brook,” said Buck through the door. When the deputy entered, the captain ordered, “Take Mr. Chandler out the side way and take him to a cell. No one is to talk to him with the exception of Inspector Walsh or myself.” Buck snapped a handcuff bracelet to Francis’s left wrist and Red’s right. On the way out, Buck nodded to another constable who was in the gathering crowd and jerked his head in the direction the other two had gone. “They need a driver, Correy.”

  The doctor arrived. He was a tall, rotund man in a black suit. He reminded Steve of a clergyman. He stopped in surprise, stared around the room for a moment, and moved rapidly to Silene. He pulled smelling salts from his bag and waved the bottle under her nose. She coughed and looked up. Her eyes locked on Steve, who was bending over her, and she blinked in surprise. She smiled, then remembered what had occurred and sat up so suddenly that her forehead smacked into his nose. Steve yelped in pain and grabbed his handkerchief to clamp on his face. Silene bent over and began to weep into her hands. Steve awkwardly patted her bare shoulder.

  The doctor pushed Steve away and ordered, “Everybody out.” Jeremy escorted Annette in to help, if needed, and informed Steve that he had made excuses and shown the guests out. “Mrs. Black, of course, was the last to depart,” he reported in a flat voice, but Steve detected a smile in it.

  “Mr. Martin, would you like to accompany us to the constable’s office? Captain Daniels and I would like to interview Mr. Chandler in a more normal venue, and I am sure that you are anxious to speak with him yourself,” Steve said.

  The lawyer said, “Of course. Let me see to my parents, and I will be right with you.”

  No sooner had the officers stepped out the front door than they were confronted by Julie. A very angry Julie, Steve noticed.

  “I’ll see you at the station,” he said to Buck and turned back to the reporter. “Julie, I would love to let you have an interview, but it isn’t over yet. Give me a chance to wrap it up, will you?”

  “By the time you have it all wrapped up, the rest of the press world will be here, getting the story, and I WILL BE LEFT OUT. YOU PROMISED, YOU ... ”

  Steve, desperate, grabbed her shoulders and smothered her mouth with a hard kiss, stopping the flow of words. Then, like a thief in the night, he ran for Buck’s car.

  Chapter 17

  Two days later the town was inundated with reporters, as Julie had predicted. It was like a pack of sharks in a feeding frenzy. They had descended on Chandler since the word had gotten out that the spectacular crime had been solved. All of them demanded to speak with the accused, with the officers, with the family. They pestered everyone in town. A few gave them interviews out of frustration or a desire to get their names in the papers or on newsreels.

  Steve expected the newshounds to break out pitchforks and torches when they were refused the interviews they demanded. There were several newsreel cameras set up in the street, forcing traffic to be rerouted. One reporter had managed to get his hands on a uniform and pretended to be an officer to get into the cells in the basement of the building. And, to make matters worse, Julie was mad enough to chew nails.

  Francis had held out during the first day of grilling. By the time he had gotten to the constable’s office, he had regained his aplomb. He sat in his chair in the close, gray-walled interview room, looking calm and trying to stare them down. Steve, playing the bad cop, had snarled out questions and threats. Buck, because he knew the man, played the good cop. Whenever Francis looked like he might be on the point of anger and sullen silence, the captain would pull Steve away and offer the prisoner a cigar or a drink or give him a moment’s respite. He spoke gently to him, with sympathy and friendship.

  Once or twice, Buck lashed out at Steve. He would push the inspector out of the room, seeming to defend Francis. When the murderer calmed down and let down his guard, Steve would come storming in again, barking questions and accusations.

&n
bsp; Though he hated the job, Steve kept it up. He suppressed his distaste, knowing they were interrogating a man who had viciously slaughtered his mother. He knew that even with what they knew, a good attorney might be able to convince a jury that the case was circumstantial and bring in a decision that would free Francis. He was frustrated that the prisoner seemed to bend but never break.

  Francis was allowed only three or four hours of sleep. When they woke him up out of a sound sleep and started peppering him with questions, he tried to gather his previous arrogance around him.

  There was a break when the shift changed and Ruth Beckstrom replaced the officer who had been taking notes. She brought in coffee and rolls from the Chandler bakery. Steve noticed that Francis was showing cracks in his self-assurance. He hesitated when answering their questions, and his voice had lost its sharp edge. By ten o’clock in the morning, he was sitting forward in his chair, and his hands were trembling when he held his cigar. When another hour had passed, his coffee mug was rattling gently against the wood surface of the table as he lifted it. Steve had had no more sleep and was on the verge of losing his temper for real.

  Francis’s personal attorney was a senior partner in the firm of Bucklin, Bucklin, and Sawyer in Hartford. He had taken the morning train down and constantly tried to end the interview, saying, “Can’t we do this another time? The poor man is distraught. I need to speak with my client immediately.” The florid-faced man was dressed impeccably in a dark suit and raspberry red tie. His silver hair was perfectly coiffed, and his shave had been so close that his round red cheeks were shiny. He had a commanding voice, and even Steve was impressed by his presence. He noted the contrast between Mr. Martin and the Hartford powerhouse and knew that even a short interview between the client and his attorney might stiffen Francis’s spine.

  “My client has a right to speak with his attorney,” he demanded. “I insist that you desist with this brutality and remove yourself from the room.”

  Steve lit a cigarette with forced calm. He looked at Bucklin Senior and waved out the match with quick flicks of his wrist. “As soon as we are finished. Until then, sit down.” He would be happy to give him a copy of Francis’s statement as soon as Francis had signed it. He returned to the interview after dropping his half-smoked cigarette on the floor and smashing it with a twist of his foot.

  As the clock edged toward noon, Francis buried his head in his hands and began sobbing. Bucklin jumped to his feet and tried to raise his objections again. Steve realized the attorney was aware that Francis had reached the point of surrender. When threatened with ejection, Bucklin angrily sat.

  Ruth straightened and took down his confession.

  “It, it was like you said, Inspector,” he said in a tone that begged for understanding. “I tried the week before, but the old man, Huskins, was wandering around, and I had to call it off. He came out of the dark when, uh, after I had parked the bicycle near the carriage house. The next week it was clear, and God help me, I must have been mad.” He buried his head on his arms, which were crossed on the table. Buck held up his hand to forestall any more questions from Steve, who took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry, Francis,” Buck said gently, a sympathetic hand on the weeping man’s shoulder. “Take it slowly. Get it off your chest. You’ll feel better.”

  Bucklin, who had been sitting in the corner, fidgeting with his briefcase, suddenly rose to his feet and snapped at his client, “Mr. Chandler, do not say another word.” He turned to Steve. “Inspector, I demand you stop this.” The turn this was taking was clearly worrying him.

  Francis looked up. He seemed to get a grip on his emotions. “No, Sam, I want to get this off my chest.” He had to hold his cup with both hands before he could take a gulp of coffee. Francis said, almost to himself, “I’ve got to clear my conscience.” He stopped and stared sightlessly at the far wall. Steve wondered what he saw there.

  Buck leaned over and whispered kindly. “Mr. Chandler—Francis—we are almost done. Please, just tell us what happened. Believe me, your mother can rest peacefully if you unburden yourself. I know that it is tearing you apart.”

  Francis took a deep, shaky breath and said in a dead voice, “That night, I climbed out the window, got my bicycle, and rode to the house. I parked the bicycle in the carriage house. I made sure that Huskins was not around. Once there, I snuck into the house and stabbed Mother. After, I ran. I thought I heard someone coming. I retraced my way to the mill, climbed back to the office, changed, and waited until someone brought me the news. That was the worst of it. Just waiting. She was looking at me when I was leaving; her eyes were wide open. I could see her face, accusing me, condemning me. God forgive me.” His head dropped back to his arms.

  Bucklin sank into his chair in resignation. Steve knew that he was already calculating his next move. The investigator reviewed the interrogation but could not find any openings they could have given Bucklin.

  Buck continued, gently, “Was there any coercion by the Chandler Constabulary or the Connecticut State Police representative?”

  Francis covered his face with his hands and shook his head, but Buck insisted, “You have to say it, Francis. Just tell everyone. You are doing the right thing.”

  There was a muffled “No” from the murderer. A collective sigh of relief went up from Steve and the other officers in the room. Bucklin was writing furiously on a notepad.

  As Ruth started to rise, Steve waved her back down. “Francis,” he said, not quite as kindly as Buck, “why?”

  Francis lowered his hands. With a confused look he asked, “Why?”

  “Why did you do it?” Steve expanded. “Why did you kill your mother?”

  The sorry figure seemed to tense and, finally, sat up straight. He met Steve’s eyes and replied, “Gambling debts. I owed a syndicate in Havana over $50 thousand, and they were pressing me. I knew that they would ruin me. My social position. I was seeing Miss—uh, a girl. We were talking marriage. Her family was on the verge of merging their company with Chandler Shipping on the weight of that. If they had found out about my gambling, they would have ended the deal. They were from an old Puritanical family. They thought drinking and gambling were unforgivable. For months, I had been managing to scrape enough money together to pay their ruinous interest, but recently they were insisting that I pay it all.

  “I went to Mother, but she said that it was my problem. She wouldn’t give me a loan. There was another time when Father paid my debts, when I was much younger. When I was at the university, I stole a few dollars from my fraternity. Mother was livid. She said that I must pay for my mistakes, take responsibility for my actions. Even if it meant prison. ‘Be a man,’ she said. She refused to let me liquidate part of the trust fund that my grandfather left me. She had control until I was forty. FORTY. Did they think I was a child? If she died, the three of us would receive the money immediately. Don’t you see? I had to do it!” His words exploded from him in an indignant flood.

  Ruth rose and started to close her notebook. Francis suddenly spoke again, his voice tinged with anger: “All the money she wasted. Always giving money to other people. Not her family. Oh, no, we didn’t deserve anything from her. Those old fools who couldn’t work anymore. Sitting around, everything paid for. Dad’s stupid plaque, ‘People are not a disposable commodity’—what rubbish. That was the first thing to go. The Children’s Home. A bunch of snotty kids abandoned by their parents. She gave them my—our—money. Wasted it on ignorant brats who weren’t worth it. She should have let the state take care of them. And the flower show. Every year a memorial to Father. Like he could enjoy it. Or the idiots who showed up. They didn’t know a rose from stinkweed.

  “I know how much it cost. Special printing. The setup costs alone were hundreds. The disruptions were costing the family thousands. The show itself, more thousands. The cost of the committee. And to what purpose?” By this time, tears of self-pity were streaming down his cheeks. “A damned quilt! Pieces of rags sewn together so some dirt
grubber could hang it on the wall.” He laughed bitterly. “It even betrayed me. I was building the company!” His voice rose in anger. “I was making this family the money she wasted on her causes, especially the flower show and quilt!”

  He dropped his head to his clasped hands, drained. “I needed that money more than she did. She was such a greedy, miserable ... ” His shoulders drooped, and he raised his head and appealed to the room: “You understand, don’t you? Don’t you? You must! She forced me to do it. Even the quilt hated me. That rag turned on me!” His voice cracked. “I wish I could burn it.”

  Ruth nodded when Steve whispered, “Did you get it all?”

  Steve followed the recorder out of the room and turned to Buck. “I’m tired. I’m going to get some sleep.” He paused for a moment, then crossed to Bucklin’s chair and lifted him from his seat and led him, protesting, to the door. Steve did not want him to get another chance to sway Francis before the confession was signed.

  Buck nodded. “I’ll stay here until he signs his statement and then do the same. Poor Francis. Poor, miserable Francis.”

  “Poor Alice Chandler,” Steve retorted. He escorted the lawyer to a chair in the waiting area outside the front desk. After telling the sergeant on duty to make sure Bucklin stayed put until Buck sent for him, he squared his shoulders and watched Ruth sit down at a desk. He stood there wearily as she assembled carbon paper between three sheets of paper and started typing the confession. Steve shook himself and turned toward the front door.

  He ran a gauntlet of reporters who surged toward him as soon as he stepped out of the building. As he shoved through them, they shouted questions and tried to cajole him into giving them some answers. He did not even give them “No comment”; he just shouldered through.

  He started the car and slowly edged through the crowd in front of the constabulary building. It gave way, and he continued on to the hotel. Looking in the rearview mirror, he was relieved to see that no one was following.