by Gin Jones
Tricia jogged into the crosswalk. I followed more slowly, wondering how Brooke had found out about Tricia's secret. And if Brooke had blackmail-worthy information on one person, maybe she knew things about other people too, and one of them had decided to silence her. The theft of the miniatures could have been a warning that she needed to keep quiet. And then he hadn't been satisfied with her reaction, so he'd decided to kill her. Before he did though, he could have found out about the sampler quilt and had probably planned to steal and destroy it at the same time, only to realize too late that it was gone. Afterward, he'd tracked it down to my house. It wouldn't have taken any great sleuthing skills to find out that I had it. Anyone in the quilt guild could have told him that much.
If I was right, then the killer must have had some connections to the quilt guild. And that meant it was probably someone I knew, at least casually.
It could even have been Tricia, now that I thought about it. She'd seemed only mildly irritated by Brooke's revelation of her secret, but maybe that was just an act. Best friends could become best enemies pretty quickly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Morning, ma'am."
I turned to see Lawrence wearing what I assumed was his going-to-church-or-funerals black suit instead of his mechanic's uniform.
"I heard that Brooke's quilt got stolen last night."
"It did," I said. "I'm so very sorry."
"I don't blame you, ma'am."
I wished I could assure him the police were taking the theft more seriously than they seemed to be. "The quilting world is pretty well connected. I'm hopeful someone will know who took it and will report it."
"It may be better if it's never found," Lawrence said gruffly. "I would like to know why she wanted you to have it though. Did you ever figure it out?"
"Not yet, but I will." I patted the pocket that held my phone. "I took very detailed pictures of it before it was stolen, so I can still study it. I'll let you know as soon as I have any solid information."
"I'd appreciate it." Lawrence's words and tone were gracious, but I thought he seemed a bit disappointed. He could just be upset because it was taking me so long to decode Brooke's message. Or there could be a less innocuous reason for his concern about my decoding the quilt. It was possible that Lawrence had killed his wife and then taken the quilt, thinking it was the only thing that might implicate him in her death. If he was her killer, he wouldn't consider the existence of the pictures to be good news, not when I could still study the design and find evidence against him.
"You might help me decode it." I could learn just as much from his willingness—or lack thereof—to help me understand Brooke's quilt as from whatever facts he could give me about his wife. "I have a few questions about what some of the blocks might mean, based on her life experiences."
Lawrence held up a hand as if he wanted to push me and my questions away. "She was always a very private person. Hated gossip."
"I'm good at keeping secrets," I said, determined not to let him get away too easily. "I was an attorney before I became a quilt appraiser."
He nodded thoughtfully. "I heard about that. Your past as a lawyer, I mean. No one seems to know why you changed careers. Seems to me you've got some secrets of your own, and you probably wouldn't want people talking about them after you died."
"I wouldn't care at that point." Except I didn't like the thought of Matt hearing my secrets from anyone except me. I really had to find time to talk to him about my syncope soon. That was the only important secret that I hadn't shared with him, and what had happened to Brooke was a reminder that life was uncertain. I continued, "But I understand what you're saying. Would you be willing to answer a few simple questions if they're not secrets that you think Brooke wouldn't want mentioned?"
He sighed. "I suppose."
It was pretty obvious he wasn't going to answer questions about possible marital troubles or alcoholism or gambling, so I needed to think of something that would be less emotional than that yet still might shed some indirect light on the state of their marriage over the years. Perhaps something related to Brooke's interest in quilting. I already knew she'd been a quilter for most of her adult life and that she'd developed her style while her husband was in the military. I also knew that Brooke had once had aspirations of becoming a shop owner. That wasn't a secret since Lawrence had told Sunny about it, so he shouldn't mind talking about it now, and the details of why she hadn't gone forward with it might shed some light on Brooke's life and marriage.
"I heard that Brooke once wanted to open a quilt shop, but apparently it never happened," I said. "It sounds important enough that it would be memorialized in her sampler, but I couldn't find it. Could you tell me a little about what that was and why she never did it?"
"I really should go join the guild to get ready for the parade," Lawrence said, gesturing across the street.
I looked where he'd pointed and saw the handyman packing away his brushes near the rear passenger-side tires of the truck that was hitched up to the float. Dee and Emma had abandoned him and were using the side mirror of the truck to primp, making sure their hair didn't reflect badly on the services of The Clip and Sip.
"I won't keep you more than a minute or two," I said. "Just tell me a bit about the quilt shop she'd planned."
"I suppose she wouldn't mind about that," he said. "Brooke did more than just plan her shop. She found a place for it, stocked it, even had a grand opening. She had a partner, a teacher from her school, who helped. They spent all their time together, day and night, for close to two years."
"Did that bother you?"
He shrugged. "I can't say I wasn't a bit jealous, but considering how much time I'd spent away from home on training assignments, I couldn't begrudge her the chance to pursue her own dream."
"Do you remember how old she was at the time?"
He stared down at the ground for a moment. "When she first started planning the shop, we were in Kansas, and she knew we'd be moving a couple of years later, but she thought she could make it work long-distance. So, I was thirty-six when we moved to Florida. That would put Brooke at thirty-two."
That timing fit, more or less, with the blocks that suggested she'd been unhappy in her marriage. Or maybe she'd been unhappy about the end of her quilt shop dreams. "Was it the long-distance partnership that made the business fail?"
"Not entirely," Lawrence said. "Apparently her partner had done something shady to finance the shop, and when that came to light shortly after we'd moved, everything fell apart, and we lost everything we'd invested in the shop."
"How did Brooke take the news?"
"She was always strong," he said. "Or maybe she didn't care about the shop by then. She never told me. All I know is that by the time we'd heard what had happened, she'd already distanced herself from the project. Hadn't talked to her partner in months. It was like Brooke just lost interest in it as soon as we moved."
"Was she upset about having to move? Perhaps blamed you just a little bit for being the reason she had to leave her dream behind?"
"She was used to the military routine by then. She had some trouble adjusting to our first couple of moves after we married. But that's normal, especially for someone who'd never left her home state in her entire life. By the time she started planning the quilt shop, she was a seasoned military spouse, and moves didn't faze her at all." He frowned. "Although she did seem a bit subdued for the first six months after we left Kansas. I thought it was just because it took longer than usual for her to find a teaching job in Florida. She did love teaching. Even more than quilting. But it could have been something else bothering her, like worry about her partner at the quilt shop. I was a bit distracted myself, getting used to the new base. They wanted me to do some slightly different work, so they sent me for some training, and I was gone for long stretches around then."
"That's very helpful." I hadn't gotten much information about what I really wanted to know—whether their marriage had been rocky when they lived
in Kansas—but at least now I was certain that each row of the quilt covered roughly a decade of Brooke's life.
"I really need to go now." Lawrence nodded at the float, where a banner had just been unfurled to hang down the side of the float. It announced that this year's parade entry was dedicated to the memory of Brooke Donnelly. "I've been invited to ride with the quilt guild, and it wouldn't be right for me to be late."
* * *
Lawrence took off at a jog, while I crossed the street more slowly. I wouldn't mind if the parade started before Dee and Emma got the chance to interrogate me, and judging by the commotion where the Danger Cove High School's marching band was preparing to lead the parade, it was almost time to start.
The guild's float was slightly to the left of the crosswalk, and ahead of it, directly in front of me was the pirate ship commissioned by the Smugglers' Tavern. The crew were members of the Dangerous Duelers, a local group of live-action role-playing gamers who particularly enjoyed dressing up as pirates. They were supervised by the tavern's bartender, Lilly Waters, although at the moment she was consulting with the handyman who had been touching up the paint on the guild's float a few minutes earlier. She was pointing to what I thought was some structural damage to the base of the pirate ship, although it was hard to be sure if it was real since the float had been designed to look like the ship had been in some death-defying battles, with the faux cannonball holes in the deck, scorch marks on the sides, and torn sails beneath a ragged skull and crossbones flag.
Gil Torres, the director of the historical museum, came around the far side of the truck hitched to the guild's float. She stopped between it and the pirate ship, gesturing for me to join her.
"I was hoping to see you today," she said. "I didn't think to mention it the other day, but I've got to make sure the miniature quilts from the guild's float are logged into the museum after the parade. Depending on how long it takes, I may be a little late for dinner."
"No problem," I said. "With Emma in charge of organizing the quilts' delivery, it should go smoothly."
Gil glanced over her shoulder. "Normally I'd agree with you, but she's got her hands full today, keeping Dee from confronting everyone she thinks might possibly have stolen the miniature quilts from Tricia's house."
"I'm guessing she suspects everyone in town."
"And everyone else who's ever visited here too," Gil said. "And she's been asking about Brooke's sampler quilt. I just heard that it was stolen from your house. Any chance the police will be able to get it back?"
"I hope so, but you never know. I'm really glad I took the time yesterday to photograph it, so at least we have a record of it. I almost skipped the pictures so I could get the house ready for today's guests. Promise me you won't look too closely at my dirty floors."
Gil agreed with a laugh.
Behind me, I heard the Smugglers' Tavern's bartender squeal and then announce in a high-pitched tone that there was a spider climbing up the side of the pirate ship. Everyone in town knew that Lilly had an extreme dislike of creepy-crawly things, but something about her voice sounded forced, not an instinctive reaction to something she feared. I turned to see her standing with her hands on her hips, glaring at the handyman, not at any supposed spider.
"Now that I've got your attention again," she said, "what can you do about that broken support?"
"You caught me fair and square watching the crowds instead of my work." He gave her a sheepish grin and unclipped a heavy-duty flashlight from a loop in his painter's overalls. "Let me get a good look at it."
Lilly stepped back to make room for him, and he lay down on the ground with his head beneath the float.
I turned back to Gil. "I should probably go see what Emma has planned for me to do during the parade. Besides finding Brooke's quilt and figuring out who killed her."
"Are you sure it was murder and not suicide?" Gil hummed a few bars of the theme from M*A*S*H. "Her sampler quilt certainly looked like the work of someone who was depressed. Maybe once she'd finished telling her life's story in fabric, she didn't see any reason to go on, and she killed herself."
"Detective Ohlsen said it was definitely murder, but that was before he'd even consulted with the forensics team. He's good, and he has a lot of experience, but no one's infallible. He'll probably turn out to be right, but he'll need some hard evidence to make the case in court."
"Assuming he even finds the culprit," Gil said. "Or you do. I gather that Dee and Emma are counting on you to do it."
I glanced toward where I'd last seen Dee and Emma. While I'd been talking to Gil, they'd climbed into the bed of the pickup truck hitched to the float. Three luxurious seats upholstered in velvet with faux gold trim had been installed near the tailgate, facing forward. The middle chair, more of a throne really, was slightly raised, and that was where Dee was installed. To her left was Emma, and to her right was Lawrence. The other representatives of the guild, about a dozen in all, gathered in clumps around the float, preparing to walk with it for the duration of the parade. Most of them carried signs that reminded me of the ones that had been used to picket the seller of fake antique quilts shortly after I moved to town, but at least these had a more positive message. They announced that after the parade the float's miniature quilts would be on display at the Danger Cove Historical Museum for the remainder of the year.
Gil reclaimed my attention. "I'd better go get my sign so I'm ready to walk with the float. I can't miss such a great opportunity to advertise our special exhibit of the miniature quilts." She hummed a bit of "So Long, Farewell," from the Sound of Music, as she headed for the back of the float.
I followed her, planning to pick up for myself one of the leftover signs piled haphazardly on the sidewalk. After all, helping the guild was my official reason for being in the parade, not questioning people about crimes. Talking to Dee and Emma was going to have to wait until the end of the parade, when we could discuss Brooke's murder investigation without being overheard by Lawrence.
I grabbed a sign and a stack of flyers about the museum's quilts and was on my way to join one of the clumps of other volunteers when I was distracted by the sight of the vintage red convertible immediately behind the guild's float. The car was in mint condition and had a magnetic banner on the side that advertised the Ocean View B&B.
In the back seat of the convertible was the glamorous Cristal, dressed in what I supposed was intended to represent a pilgrim's daily wear, but the "simple" black dress was sparkly and tight-fitting, the white apron was made of exquisite lace, and the fabric of the silver-trimmed cap was so sheer that it looked more like a crown than a demure head-covering. It was a Hollywood version of a pilgrim, which only made sense since Cristal was something of a refugee from the California acting scene. She'd been taken in by her best friend, Bree Milford, who ran the Ocean View B&B. Bree might be the boss, but for the duration of the parade, she was relegated to the role of driver. Her costume was considerably more sedate, nothing more than a simple black suit, white gloves, and a black chauffeur's hat that hid her lovely red hair.
"Great car." I wasn't much of a modern-car aficionado, which was fortunate since I'd had to give up driving, but I did appreciate older vehicles.
"My brother, Bradley, borrowed it from someone he met in law school," Bree said, while Cristal scooted herself up to sit on the upper back of the seat, where she'd be more visible, and practiced waving to her fans. "Have you met my brother yet? He's up near the front of the queue, helping George from Some Enchanted Florist get his donated arrangements properly secured to the high school's float. He should be back before the parade actually starts."
"I saw him at the B&B once," I said, "but we were never formally introduced."
Cristal slid back down to where she'd been sitting originally, crouched down low, and then leaned forward to whisper, "Look who just showed up." She nodded her head in the direction I'd just come from.
I looked behind me, thinking she might be referring to Bree's brother returning ear
ly, but he wasn't anywhere in sight. The only people I didn't recognize as having been there earlier were a short, scrawny man in khakis and a neon orange sweatshirt, and an early-teens boy in a matching outfit standing beside him. The adult was talking to one of the guild members while the teen was doing his best to ignore everything except the cell phone he was hunched over.
"Who are they?" I asked.
"Ryan Murchison and his son, Nevin."
I recognized the father's name. That was the man who'd been stalking Brooke Donnelly.
The woman he was talking to urged him around to the back of the float and gestured at the banner that dedicated the float to Brooke's memory.
Cristal added, "Ryan's a creep. A smug creep. I hate people who are smug."
"He's not so bad while his kid is with him," Bree said.
"Ha! You just think that because he doesn't hit on you. And you don't have to look at his smug face making googly eyes at you. If you did, you'd think he was always creepy." Cristal flopped over to lie down on the back seat where she couldn't be seen by admirers, wanted or otherwise. From her hiding spot she reached up to shake Bree's shoulder urgently. "Start the car. We need to get this show on the road before he notices me."
"We can't move until the rest of the parade does." Bree swatted her friend's hand away before explaining to me, "Men always hit on Cristal, and she's usually really good at handling the attention and deflecting it. She can convince them that they don't really want to do anything more than admire her from afar and that it was their own idea to stay away from her. But Ryan never gets the message."