The Rose Quilt

by Mark Pasquini

  At the end of his analysis, he managed to amputate the third hand. Steve was left with Julie’s and Silene’s lists and a surprisingly lighter heart. There was only one more question to face: Would either one have him? He might have to resurrect list three after all. In the wee hours of the morning, he went to bed.

  Chapter 22

  Steve was half awake when the knock sounded. He had spent a rough night drifting up slowly through the thick mud of his restless sleep to toss and turn until he slid into oblivion again. He wearily climbed out of bed and tried to ignore the headache brought about by the lack of sleep. He called through the door, “Okay, I’m up. I’m up.” In the welcome silence that followed, he struggled back across the room.

  He took a headache powder and tried to pretend he did not look as bad as the mirror reported. After a shower that was almost too hot to stand, he scraped the fuzz out of his mouth. Some of the fog dispelled as he dressed and threw his clothes in his suitcase, with no regard for mixing clean with dirty or folding. His suitcase was closed before he noticed his mismatched socks.

  Steve dropped his key off and left a tip for the staff. Looking regretfully at the restaurant, he let the doorman signal for a cab, not wanting to drive himself to the station. Steve handed the key to Buck’s car to Sam and asked him to drive it down to the constabulary office.

  The taxicab ride to the station seemed like riding a rocking boat on rough seas. Steve realized that one headache powder would not be enough. The train whistle blasted as he picked up his ticket and hurried, painfully, across the platform to scramble up the metal stairs. He found an empty cabin and collapsed onto the seat. After a couple of deep breaths, he heaved himself in the direction of the dining car. If I have to, I’ll show my badge and arrest whoever has failed to make coffee, he pledged as he rocked down the corridor.

  After breakfast and enough coffee to jump-start his thoughts, he returned to his seat. He lit a cigarette and stared at the passing countryside. His thoughts drifted back to the conundrum of the previous evening. Steve assumed that both women were interested, ignoring the seeming arrogance that that implied. Julie had signaled her interest by wearing the earrings at the quilt unveiling and by her obvious irritation at seeing him constantly in Silene’s company. Silene’s actions could not be misinterpreted. Her picking him up at the station. The visits to his room for comfort or sanctuary. Her attitude when she left him at the wake.

  Steve realized he had to make a decision about whether he felt more for the fiery Julie or the calmer Silene. These thoughts occupied him during the hours to Hartford. The exercise exacerbated his headache.

  Steve jumped to the platform and hurried to the cabstand. He hopped into the first available vehicle. He ordered the cabbie, “Courthouse. Step on it.”

  The driver looked over his shoulder at his fare. “Look, buddy. The city has a little rule about turning the streets into racecourses. They feel that pedestrians should have a chance to get where they are going. It looks bad in the newsreels when they show bodies littering the streets. They frown on it so bad, I could lose my license. Now, you want to go to the courthouse in this cab or not?”

  Steve reached into his pocket, the movement showing the cabbie his shoulder holster. Before his surprised expression could change to panic, Steve flipped open his identification and badge. “Does this help?” he asked. “There is a murder trial, and I need to get there fast.”

  The driver gulped and pulled out into the street. He stamped on the accelerator, and they roared down the street. After his first hesitation, he grinned and gunned the cab. As they weaved in and out of traffic, horns and shouts followed them.

  Steve sat back and tried to relax. He upbraided himself for not leaving the previous evening. If he had enjoyed himself last night, he would at least have something pleasant to think of. Instead, he had a headache and was going to be late. He tried to enumerate everyone who would be unhappy with him but quickly lost count.

  A city cop picked them up two blocks from the courthouse, but a quick word and a flash of his badge got him enough professional courtesy to keep the cabbie out of trouble when they stopped in front of the justice building. He paid off the driver, who said, “Any time you need a cab, just ask for Buddy Reilly. I could do this all day.” He gave Steve a salute and drove sedately off.

  The inspector raced up the stairs and shoved through the doors. At the information desk he asked where the Chandler trial was taking place and dropped off his baggage. He walked hurriedly to the courtroom and pushed open the door, straightening his tie and removing his hat.

  The courtroom was empty except for a bailiff. He looked at Steve. “Bucklin asked the court for an adjournment. Franklin and his team are in Meeting Room 3, waiting for you. Oh, and Steve, Judge Towers said something about witnesses not being available. Keep your head down. He’s in a foul mood. He hates to have his time wasted like this.”

  Steve thanked him and headed to Meeting Room 3.

  He found Franklin waiting impatiently. “Where have you been? Towers was looking for you.”

  Steve answered, “I was in Chandler for the funeral. Didn’t get out until this morning.”

  There was a chuckle from one of the assistant state attorneys, and Steve flushed. Franklin snorted and continued, “Bucklin came in this morning and asked for a delay. Said he was in conference with his client. Judge Towers was less than amused that one of his flunkies delivered the message. At one o’clock the judge wants everyone in court, quote, ‘even if you have to get there on a gurney,’ end quote.”

  “What’s the story?” Steve asked.

  Franklin scratched his chin. “Anything from a change of plea to an incapacity defense. I’ve got two of my attorneys trying to find out, but no go. Be back at one. And, Steve, be here,” he warned.

  A runner knocked on the door with a message for Steve: “Get back here. Bob Crowder.” Usually, the shorter the note, the angrier Bob was. Steve excused himself, picked up his suitcase, and headed for the street.

  When he entered the office, the first person he saw was McQuarry. He had a sneering smile on his face. McQuarry raised one hand with his index finger extended and his thumb cocked. He brought the thumb down. Steve knew that anything that made McQuarry playful meant ill for Steve. He continued toward Bob’s office, rubbing his forehead.

  Mrs. Clark watched him cross the room. She pointed to the water cooler and slapped a headache powder she retrieved from a desk drawer onto the corner of her desk. Surprised, Steve halted. He stared at her and, hesitantly, drew a paper cup of water. He did not question her instinct that he had a headache, but her action. His eyes still on her, he crossed the space to her desk and added the powder. With a small smile creasing her mouth, she handed a letter opener to him. Steve expected her face to crumble from the mouth twitch; he refused to even consider that Cerberus could smile. He used the opener to stir and handed it back. Steve drank the mixture down and sighed.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Clark. You are an angel.”

  She snorted and said acerbically, “The condemned man has a hearty last meal.” Steve stared at her as he crumpled the cup and dropped it in the trash. Mrs. Clark making a joke—this was more disconcerting than McQuarry’s mime.

  The magic moment passed and the world swung back into its normal orbit. She nodded her head toward Bob’s door. “He’s been waiting.”

  Steve walked into the office and closed the door. He started toward the rickety wooden chair that served visitors to the office. He was stopped by Bob’s angry voice.

  “I didn’t ask you to sit, Inspector,” he snapped.

  As Steve turned slowly toward his boss, a section of a newspaper flew at him and spread, scattering. It was followed by another and another until the floor was adrift in newsprint. He sighed and picked up a sheet before he sat. Steve read the headline circled in red pencil: “Mystery Man at the Chandler Funeral.” Another read, “CSP Sends Mourner to Comfort Family.” The Hartford Morning Post heralded “Impartial CSP?” with the
subheading of “Inspector Walsh Courts Heiress.” It carried Julie’s byline. He sat wearily and waited for the eruption, willing to take his medicine.

  “What in the Sam Hill did you think you were doing?” Bob bellowed, rising and leaning over his desk, supported by his fists. “Turning this office into a laughingstock? You go off gallivanting with that girl. The state of Connecticut is not your private bank! Your vacation is not going to be two weeks but twenty years! You and that little ... ”

  “That’s enough, Bob,” Steve warned. His voice was soft, but there was no doubting the steel that edged his words. He had been quiet and humble when his boss’s anger had been directed at him, but when Bob started attacking Silene, he had stepped over a line, and both men realized it. Steve rose from his chair and stood rigidly, his hands clenched into fists.

  The two men stared at each other for a full minute. Bob looked away first, though he disguised it as a search for his chair. He sat angrily and waved at Steve. “Sit down. Sit down. I got a little carried away. Sorry,” he finished gruffly.

  Steve slowly lowered himself back into his chair, but he did not relax. His hands gripped the arms, and his knuckles were white. “I’ve got to get back by one o’clock,” he said tightly.

  Bob rubbed his bald head. “Pick up the papers, will you?”

  “No,” answered Steve through his teeth. He realized how childish this was and straightened the mess and set the badly folded press reports on the corner of the desk.

  Bob sighed. “Okay, okay. You’re upset. I understand. I am not too happy myself. I don’t need one of my investigators to bring the organization into disrepute. There are going to be calls for your resignation.” His voice started to turn hoarse, and he brought himself under control with an effort. “We have to work together to fix this.” Bob had made his point and was ready to be reasonable.

  Steve relaxed a little. He extracted a cigarette and lit it. “I messed up. I won’t try to make excuses. You have to fire me, suspend me, take me off the case? Okay, I understand and won’t fight it. Just concentrate on me when you blame someone. Please. Now. Fix what and how?” he asked.

  The chief snorted. “Bucklin is going to use this to cast doubt on the case. He’s going to say that you were so busy having an affair with Miss Chandler that you failed in your duty as an investigator. He’ll say that the two of you colluded to frame her brother so you could ... whatever ... with her.” The last came out lamely.

  “Okay, Bob. First, I am not having an affair or ‘whatever’ with Silene Chandler. You keep that up, and I’m going to bust you in the nose,” he said lightly, trying to ease the tension.

  “See? Right there. A woman-hater like you getting so upset like that over a rich skirt. I don’t just sit around with my head stuck in the sand, you know. She’s been up to your hotel room, you squire her around like a—a—a lovesick hound dog.”

  Steve was stunned. He could see Julie’s fine Italian hand in this. She must really be mad to have torpedoed him like this. In keeping with his thoughts of the last couple of days, he wondered if she would be this angry if she were not interested. Julie could have mentioned his name as the source for her earlier story if revenge had been her motive.

  He leaned forward and supported himself with his elbows on his knees. His anger had evaporated. “Yeah, I see your point. How much damage has it done?”

  Bob’s face lost its choleric hue. “I guess we can ride it out. There might be some embarrassing questions during the next budget cycle, but that’s months away. The important thing is the trial. Get together with Franklin before the court convenes. Work out some plan. Tell him I’ll back him up, whatever he decides. You may have to eat crow over this. Be contrite. Grovel, if you have to.”

  Steve glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get back. I’ll talk to Paulie.” He looked up at Bob. “There is nothing to this. She needed a tree to hold onto. There is nothing between us.”

  Steve rose and turned to the door. He said forcefully, “There is nothing to this.”

  As he closed the door, he heard Bob say, “Who are you trying to convince, Stevie boy?”

  Chapter 23

  Steve’s fingers tapped his knee on the ride back to the courthouse. He was mulling over the situation. He wondered if the party organization would take Silene’s side. Would it still keep its head down if a Chandler were being attacked? Steve sighed. He knew they would not want to antagonize Francis only to find him exonerated and in a mood for revenge. Especially if Silene were involved in a frame and they defended her honor.

  Steve found the state attorney general in the same conference room. “I need to talk to you, Paulie,” he said.

  Franklin tapped the paper resting on the desk. It had been turned to the society page and the story circled. “You bet you do. This could be big trouble.”

  The state attorney general read Steve the riot act. He outlined the problems that they would face during the trial. Steve endured the lecture silently, knowing he deserved every word.

  “Listen, Paulie. I talked with Bob. He said to throw me to the wolves if you have to. I’ll admit I acted unprofessionally and will resign. I know Francis did this, and anything that can be done to damp this down—go for it.”

  “It is not as easy as you make it sound, Steve.” Franklin’s voice rose in irritation. “The whole confession may be thrown out. Without that, this case unravels and—”

  In the middle of the tirade, a knock sounded on the door. One of the junior attorneys answered it and had a short conversation with the visitor. Several times they heard him ask, “Are you sure?” The attorney shut the door and stood with his back to the panel.

  “What is it, Craig?” snapped Franklin.

  “Oh. Judge Towers wants you to return immediately. Chandler wants to change his plea to guilty. Bucklin brought him the news.”

  They hurried back to the courtroom and arrived as Towers entered. While the members of the press rushed in and hastily took their seats, he gaveled for order.

  Attorney Bucklin announced his client’s change of plea and affirmed it when the judge asked him to reiterate. “Your honor,” Bucklin said, “against my advice, Mr. Francis Chandler desires to save himself and his family the pain of a trial. He wishes to throw himself on the mercy of the court.”

  Judge Towers gaveled loudly to quiet the sudden buzz.

  “Mr. Chandler?” he queried. Francis raised his head, face pale. “Mr. Chandler, is this your wish?”

  Francis got shakily to his feet. “Yes, your honor,” he answered in a gravelly voice. He took a drink of water.

  Before he could continue, Towers interrupted. “It has come to my attention that there may have been some irregularity in the investigation that may cast doubt on the State’s case. I think you should consult with your attorney before you make this decision.”

  The defendant stubbornly shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, your honor. Nothing changes what I did. The confession is true.” Francis dropped into his chair as if his legs could no longer support him. “I want to change my plea to ‘guilty.’ I—I murdered my mother.” He covered his face with his hands.

  After some further questions and the scheduling of the sentencing, the press made a rush for the door before Judge Towers could gavel the proceedings closed.

  “Three weeks is a long time, Steve. Look. Take a week and come back. You would be completely bored moping around for that long.”

  Steve was sitting in the chief’s office. With the trial over, he was due his vacation. Bob Crowder was not letting him go quietly.

  “Anyway, there is a case I need you to handle. It came up while you were working down in Chandler. There is another outbreak of ‘murder whiskey’ like in 1919. More wood alcohol–laced booze. A dozen people were brought to the hospital, and three more died. I need my best man to take this over. We have to shut this down. You would be saving lives,” he said, looking over his glasses, trying to gauge the impact.

  He pulled another folder from the
pile scattered on his desk. “These are reports of cross burnings in the immigrant ghettos. The governor is running on law and order again and wants the KKK shut down. We had a couple of Poles beat up pretty badly.”

  Another folder slapped on the other two. “Illegal liquor. They are making it by the bathtub load in New Haven and shipping it here. Bad stuff. Blindness.”

  Bob spread his hands. “There is a new freighter loaded with booze offshore in the international zone. The Feds are demanding our help to stop them smuggling it in. Who else can I trust?”

  Steve sat patiently in his chair, legs stretched out. The standing ashtray next to him was nearly full, and a haze clouded the room. He had been sitting in the uncomfortable chair for over an hour while Bob harangued him, browbeat him, cajoled him, and begged him.

  He looked at Bob and said, “No. You promised me three weeks. If I come back after a week, I will never see another day. What is it with you needing me every time some little thing goes wrong? Doesn’t anybody else work around here? McQuarry is champing at the bit to prove how smart he is. Why don’t you strap a box of dynamite to his back and have him blow up the freighter? No. Three. Weeks. Vacation.”

  Bob dropped his head and folded his hands on his desk. Before he could start the process of making Steve feel guilty, the subject jumped out of his chair and grabbed his hat from the rack. “Don’t even start, Bob. You already cost me my reservation in the Poconos with the Chandler case. I had to find somewhere else to go. Plans are made, my laundry is done, and my suitcase is packed. Sayonara. Adios. Ciao. Au revoir. Auf Wiedersehen. I’m going, going, gone.”