Deadly Thanksgiving Sampler: a Danger Cove Quilting Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 21)

by Gin Jones

  Had Dee and Emma told everyone in town—or at least everyone in the quilt guild, which amounted to much the same thing once the other quilters passed the story along—that I was going to solve Brooke's murder? I needed to have a serious talk with Dee and Emma about the trouble I could get into if Detective Ohlsen heard what they were saying and took offense at the implication that he couldn't do his job. I didn't want to ruin their holiday, so it could wait until tomorrow, but then I'd have to make it clear to them that there were limits to what I could do during an active criminal investigation.

  In other circumstances, I would have ignored him, letting silence be my response. Despite his belligerence, I didn't think he was a danger to me at the moment. He'd probably fall over if he tried to take a swing at me. He was more likely to hit the sign for the trolley stop than to land a blow on a person. Perhaps talking with him would keep him calm until the police arrived and saved him from hurting himself.

  I acknowledged him with a nod. "Why would anyone think you killed Brooke?"

  "She ruined my son's life. Lied about him. Nevin's not stupid. She was mean to him."

  Ryan's words were clear, but it was obvious from how slowly he spoke that he had to concentrate even to say such short sentences. He paused, seeming to have forgotten his train of thought, or perhaps trying to think of something more to say about Brooke's behavior.

  "I understand how upset you must have been about your son's problems at school," I said. "But the solution isn't murder."

  "She had to die." Ryan reached out to hold on to the sign for the trolley stop and missed it, stumbling a bit in the direction away from the street, narrowly missing pedestrians, who scurried to avoid him. Then he came back to bump into the sign and hold on to it with a knuckle-whitening grip. "I've been dreaming about getting rid of her since the first parent-teacher conference I had with her last year. Someone had to do it. For my son. And other kids. The greater good. Take one for the team."

  He turned to place his back against the sign's pole, and he slid down its length until he was seated on the sidewalk, his legs sprawled out in front of him, creating a tripping hazard for pedestrians. His head sagged forward, and almost instantaneously he began snoring.

  I was too stunned to say anything. I'd read somewhere that guilty criminals tended to fall asleep once they'd been caught, apparently because they were resigned to what would happen next, unlike people who were agitated with the outrage of being falsely accused.

  Had Ryan just confessed to killing Brooke? Or was he simply sharing some drunken fantasies? He'd certainly been feuding with her long enough to have inspired her sampler quilt. But why had he chosen to act this week rather than months ago when Brooke had given his son a failing grade?

  I debated whether I could find out anything by peeking under his shirtsleeve to see what it and the bandage Matt had told me about earlier was covering. More likely, I'd just wake him up and risk him leaving before the police arrived.

  A few minutes later Officer Fred Fields jogged up to us, his sides heaving as if he'd run all the way from the far end of Town Square Park.

  "Couldn't get a cruiser through the traffic, so they sent me on foot." Fields glanced down at Ryan. "They said someone was making threats of violence. He doesn't look dangerous to me."

  "Depends on what you mean by 'dangerous,'" I said. "He's been talking about how Brooke had to be gotten rid of to protect children. I'm not entirely sure it was a confession or just a fantasy. I think Detective Ohlsen will want to talk to him, in any event. Ryan had a reason to want Brooke dead. He knew where she lived since he'd been seen outside her house, and he had ready access to guns like the one that was used to kill her."

  Fields gently nudged Ryan's foot, and the man on the ground mumbled something incomprehensible without opening his eyes or raising his head.

  "He's not in any condition to talk to anyone right now. I can take him down to the station on a charge of public intoxication. Bud's there now, but it'll be tomorrow before Ryan will be sober enough for questioning." Fields grinned. "In the morning, we'll make sure Ryan gets a nice interrogation to go along with his hangover."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Fields cuffed Ryan to the trolley sign just long enough to stop traffic so Matt and I could cross the street to deliver the miniature quilts to the museum. As we walked, Matt was on his phone, talking to his editor.

  Ryan's arrest was going to be the talk of our Thanksgiving dinner, taking some pressure off me to help with the murder investigation. I still wanted to finish decoding Brooke's quilt, but it could wait until the holiday was over. My interpretation of the quilt wasn't the sort of evidence that might be presented to a jury, but it might provide some leads that Detective Ohlsen could follow up on to gather admissible evidence.

  Of course, it was possible that the evidence in Brooke's quilt wouldn't support charges against Ryan Murchison but would instead raise reasonable doubt about his guilt. I wished I'd had more time to learn about what had happened back in Kansas that had given her such a distaste for credit cards and what had inspired the Kansas Troubles block. She'd clearly gone through some difficult experiences back then, so it was possible that Brooke, like Tricia, had some secrets she didn't want exposed. Possibly even secrets that could have led to murder. Ryan hadn't had any reason to know her back then, and if he'd known a blackmail-worthy secret, he would have been more likely to use it to get his son's grade changed than to kill her. If her past was connected to her death, then Lawrence was a much more likely suspect.

  I considered not telling Dee and Emma about the arrest, but they would have heard about it already from the quilt guild's grapevine. I'd have my work cut out for me during dinner, keeping them from celebrating before I was absolutely sure the police had the right suspect.

  Gil Torres was waiting at the entrance to the museum. As soon as the door closed behind us, she said, "I'm sorry, but one of the board members called and needed me to take care of something right away, so I'm not as ready for the quilts as I meant to be. If you don't mind waiting here, I need to go up to my office for a minute to get the release of liability form for you to sign. I'll be right back."

  She took off for the stairs, leaving Matt and me alone in the deserted lobby.

  Matt parked the handcart with the bin of quilts near the ticket desk. "Will you be okay walking home alone? I'd like to go pick up my truck, do about half an hour of work to finish my parade story, and get it filed with the Cove Chronicles before dinner. I'll still be at your place before the guests arrived. Or I can get the truck and come back to give you a ride home and file the story later, but I'd rather get it in right away."

  I was going to shoo him out the door, but then I remembered Lindsay insisting that I needed to tell Matt about my syncope before I fainted in front of him while we were getting ready for Thanksgiving dinner. There wasn't much time left before then, and as I'd told Lindsay, there wasn't any future in a relationship that couldn't stand up to open discussion of sensitive subjects. I'd hoped to do it on the trip home from the museum, but if we weren't going to be traveling together, this was my only opportunity before dinner.

  Despite being in a public building, we had as much privacy right now as we were likely to have for the rest of the day. Gil had locked the main door behind us, and despite her promise to be back in a minute, she hadn't meant it literally. We probably had a good five minutes to talk. Plenty of time to do what I'd put off for far too long.

  "Just one thing before you leave," I said. "There's something I need to tell you."

  "Uh-oh," he said, although he didn't appear worried. "Is this when you tell me you really only love me for my body, not my mind?"

  "I thought you already knew that," I said lightly. "But this isn't about you. It's about why I don't drive. And why I quit my legal practice."

  He shrugged. "Because you like to walk and you wanted a change of careers."

  "Well, yes, but that's not the whole story. I didn't have a choice about practicing law
. Not really. I was forced to quit being a trial lawyer, and I didn't want to do any other type of legal work." I took a deep breath to calm the nausea I expected to fill my stomach as I shared my secret. What if Matt's feelings for me were as shallow as what he'd teasingly charged me with feeling? What if he wasn't prepared to live with someone who had limitations on what she could do, limitations that were likely to get worse rather than better over the years?

  "I'm not sure we have time for a long story," Matt said, nodding in the direction of the stairs. "Could you give me the short version?"

  I nodded. "It's not that long actually. I quit my job for health reasons. I had a few blackouts and was eventually diagnosed with syncope, which just means unexplained fainting generally caused by stress. I couldn't risk passing out in the middle of a trial. It wouldn't have been fair to my clients."

  "Interesting." Matt nodded thoughtfully. "I can see why that would be a problem for a lawyer. Are you worried about passing out during dinner preparations tonight? If it would make things easier on you, I could tell my cousin and his friend not to come."

  "His friend?" I asked, distracted for a moment. "I thought it was just your cousin."

  Matt grinned sheepishly. "I guess I forgot to tell you. Mom texted me today to let me know that there's another friend coming. But don't worry about it. I'll just tell her that it's the final straw, so none of them are invited, and I'll treat them to dinner at the Smugglers' Tavern instead."

  "That won't be necessary." He'd taken the news so calmly that I had to wonder if he'd fully understood the implications of it. "I just wanted you to be prepared in case I pass out sometime during a stressful situation. Lindsay already knows what to do. But don't listen to her if she says you need to call an ambulance and take me to the hospital. She gets a little carried away sometimes."

  "Okay," Matt said. "So now I can go get my truck and file my parade story?"

  I stared at him, trying to decide if he was joking. "That's it? You're just going to leave? Don't you need to ask me anything else about the syncope? About whether it affects my daily activities or whether I take any medications for it or whether it could get worse?"

  "Not really," he said. "You seem to have all of that under control. We do need to talk about why it took you so long to tell me about it and come to some sort of agreement that you won't delay the next time there's something I should know, but I think I just heard Gil starting down the stairs, and I'd rather discuss those issues somewhere more private."

  "Okay." Relief replaced the anxiety I'd been feeling, although it dawned on me that my subconscious must have known Matt would react positively, because I hadn't developed the nausea I'd expected. "You can go now. I don't mind walking home from here. But if you get to the house before I do, there's something else you should know."

  That seemed to worry him more than anything else I'd said so far. "Something worse than you not sharing your health issues with me?"

  "Depends on how you look at it," I said. "You know how you forgot to tell me about your cousin's friend coming to dinner? I didn't get a chance to tell you that I invited Sunny and Stefan too. And Lawrence. So if you get to the house first, you can help by figuring out where four more people will sit."

  "Sure," he said, his expression lightening again. "Why not? In fact, if Ryan weren't already in jail and looking good for a murder charge, I'd suggest we invite all the suspects in Brooke's death. Then you could go around the table, pointing at each one in turn and explaining why each of them could have done it until you get to the very last one, where you'd announce that he or she was the actual murderer."

  "I don't think I'd be any good at that," I said. "More likely I'd get to the last one and announce, 'but none of the rest of you did it because the real killer is…' And then I'd pass out from the stress, and the culprit would escape while I was unconscious and everyone was distracted by trying to help me."

  Matt nodded. "That would definitely be a story worth writing about. I can see the headline now: Fainting Detective Lets Killer Escape."

  "Fortunately, it's not up to me to catch Brooke's killer," I said. "All I'm planning to do is to finish decoding Brooke's quilt in case it's got any clues that might be useful for Detective Ohlsen to investigate."

  "It's settled then," Matt said. "I'll see you back at the house in an hour or so, and everyone will have a great time, so there won't be any reason for you to feel stressed."

  No reason, I thought as Matt headed for the door, except that I couldn't help thinking that Brooke wouldn't have needed to tell her whole life's story in the quilt if the killer was someone who'd only been bothering her for the last year. She could have laid out the clues to Ryan in a single block or a small wall hanging. She didn't need to go back to events before she moved to Danger Cove.

  The only reason to go through all of her life's ups and downs was if her killer had some connection to both her life in Danger Cove and her life before then. Most of her past life had appeared to be pleasant, except for when she lived in Kansas. If I could just figure out the connection between then and now, it would shed light on who had killed her and why.

  Something about her life in Kansas had been repeated here in Danger Cove, and she'd known that it would end with her death.

  Something or someone.

  The only person in town who'd known Brooke when she'd lived in Kansas was Lawrence. Who was one of my dinner guests.

  Maybe I would have an opportunity to point a finger at the real killer during Thanksgiving dinner after all.

  * * *

  "I'm sorry you got stuck doing this," Gil said as we began unpacking the miniature quilts and checking them off the list to confirm they were all there and undamaged. "You're probably anxious to get home before your dinner guests arrive. My guy and I can show up fashionably late if you want."

  "That's not necessary," I said. "But I do wish someone else had volunteered for this."

  "Sherman probably offered, but Dee and Emma wouldn't trust him to know enough about quilts," Gil said. "He just likes hanging around the museum."

  "Who's Sherman?"

  "You know," Gil said. "The art teacher. He was helping with the quilt guild's float earlier today."

  "Manny? The guy who paints murals?"

  Gil nodded.

  "I assumed his name was Manuel."

  "Nope. Sherman. I forgot you wouldn't have had any reason to know his legal name. He applied to have a show here at the museum shortly after he was offered the two-year stint as artist in residence at the high school. His art is good, but I couldn't really consider him local, not with him only being here temporarily. I might have bent the rules a bit if he was making art that featured the town somehow, but he wasn't, so I had to turn him down for an exhibit. Our mission requires everything to have a strong local connection."

  "How did he take the rejection?"

  Gil shrugged and sang a bit of the Beatles' "Hello, Goodbye," about one person saying yes and another saying no. "Artists are used to rejection. I told him that if he did any paintings that featured life in Danger Cove more prominently, he could apply again. He seemed fine with the decision."

  I checked off three more of the miniature quilts. "Sherman's an odd first name."

  "Probably why he doesn't use it anywhere he doesn't have to," Gil said as she compared the label on another miniature quilt to the items on her list.

  "It makes me think of the Civil War and Sherman's march to the sea."

  Gil hummed something, probably a Civil War–era song, but it didn't fully register, as I had a sudden distracting thought. Sherman's March had been used as the name of several traditional quilt blocks, including a variation of the Monkey Wrench. Was it possible that the Monkey Wrench blocks in Brooke's quilt hadn't been referring to her husband's abilities as a mechanic, but to someone named Sherman? Except then she would have had to have known two people named Sherman, one when she lived in Kansas and then the artist here in Danger Cove. That seemed highly unlikely given how uncommon the n
ame Sherman was. Unless it was the last name of the earlier person, instead of a first name.

  No, I didn't think Brooke would have used the same block design to refer to different people or events. She would have chosen unique designs for each important piece of her history, especially if she was trying to tell a story that someone else would understand. It seemed pretty clear that the various Schoolhouse blocks had all referred to one thing—her career—with the details changed to reflect different locations. The two Wedding Ring blocks had undoubtedly both referred to her marriage, with the details showing how she'd felt at different times. In the same way, I thought the two Monkey Wrench blocks had to refer to the same person, with the differences between them reflecting how her experience with him had changed over time.

  If I was right and the recent Monkey Wrench block referred to Manny, then the earlier one had to as well. In which case there were two people here in Danger Cove who had known Brooke when she lived in Kansas: her husband and Manny.

  "What's Manny's last name?" I asked, aware that I was rudely interrupting Gil, who'd stopped singing and begun talking again, but if I was right, I needed to tell Detective Ohlsen right away.

  "Salomon," Gil said and then spelled it out for me. "What's that got to do with the menu for Thanksgiving dinner?"

  "Nothing. Sorry." I'd been so distracted by the possibility of Manny's possible connections to Brooke that I hadn't paid attention to whatever Gil had been saying before I interrupted. Normally I'd ask her to repeat herself, but I was convinced that I was finally on the right track for deciphering Brooke's quilt, and I needed to follow my train of thought before I lost it. Manny's last name might be the final piece of the puzzle. I knew there was a block known as Solomon's Puzzle, but I couldn't remember what it looked like. "I need a moment to check something." I closed the app I'd been using to view the list of miniature quilts and did a quick online search.

  The image of Solomon's Puzzle appeared on my screen. It was a variation on the Drunkard's Path. Brooke had embroidered little jigsaw puzzle pieces to the background, but I hadn't understood that it was a clue to the name of the block, not to some other incident in her life. And if I remembered correctly, the combination of Monkey Wrench—aka Sherman's March—followed by Drunkard's Path—aka Solomon's Puzzle—appeared together and in the same order in both the Kansas Troubles row and the one that reflected the end of Brooke's life. Together they translated to Sherman Salomon. Spelled differently but as close as Brooke could have gotten by using quilt block names to identify the person she was afraid of. Not her husband, but the art teacher.