by Terri Thayer
I hung up the phone, wondering what to do next. It was too early for breakfast. From the other side of the building, I could hear the surf. The morning darkness was beginning to let up. I walked through the Administration building. One person was on duty at the desk and nodded at me. Otherwise, the place was deserted.
I came out the other side, taking in a deep breath, letting the sea air in.
The sun had risen further, giving the air a sparkly quality. The sky overhead was cloudless. It was going to be a beautiful day.
Ursula’s fake death and Mercedes’ real one had to be linked. I would start in one place—the last place Ursula had been seen alive. I headed for the beach.
I followed the path toward the north dunes, rather than going back toward the dining hall. It would meet up with the main boardwalk.
I started toward the beach. Ursula had been last seen at the water’s edge. She would never go back there, but still the ocean seemed to hold her secrets. Buster had asked me what my theory of the crime was. I had to think it out.
___
Mercedes had known Ursula wasn’t dead. Paul could have killed Mercedes because he thought she’d led his wife to her watery death. If he’d come back and confronted Mercedes, chances are she’d have pulled her gun out again. This time he’d overpowered her and shot her. And Mercedes had kept Ursula’s secret.
But what about the Rose Box? It was gone. Why would he take it? Was he the intended buyer? I hadn’t found the connection between Paul and the Rose Box, but I would. And where was the German Cross Box?
The sun was coming up over the mountains behind me, casting an eerie glow over the windows of the chapel.
There was a couple near the door. I ducked behind a tree, not wanting to be seen. Who was going in there so early in the morning? The chapel was were the sewing kits had been displayed.
They disappeared. I covered the distance quickly. I tried the door, expecting it to be locked. Instead, it swung open. I opened it just enough to get my body through.
I moved into the shadows, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The space looked much bigger today, empty of people. From this side, I could see across the room, the wooden chairs in auditorium style rows facing the front. Above me, the elegant rafters soared. Several sconces were lit, casting a dim glow, and the room remained murky, bathed in the morning’s early glow.
The room had a musty odor. This close to the ocean, mold must be a constant battle.
I saw movement in the anteroom along the northern side. The sewing boxes had been in there. The tables were still up, although the display was gone. I moved next to the farthest table. We’d been standing right about here, looking at the Rose Box, when Harriet had discovered the German Cross. Two tables were between them, so the boxes had been at least twelve feet apart. Mercedes took the most valuable and the most controversial.
I heard voices outside and my heart stopped. Would someone else come in and find us in here? I caught my breath and listened. The voices grew louder, more contentious and then faded. At least two people had walked by on early morning excursions.
They were gone. I breathed out.
The couple I’d seen outside appeared on the other side of a wooden column. They were talking quietly and I couldn’t hear. It looked like a man and a woman, although the man was slight. I’d be really embarrassed if this meeting was of a private nature. Buster and I had had encounters in some strange places.
The woman moved into the light from the window.
Harriet.
No, the hair was not frizzy enough. In this early morning fog, Harriet’s hair would be a bundle of wiry split ends.
I moved closer, finding the light switch halfway down on the short back wall. I turned on the lights.
They flickered at first, then bright light shone in the space. The two people in the alcove were clearly illuminated. My breath caught.
Lucy. And her Asilomar friend, Carlos—the fellow who checked our meal tickets.
“Dewey,” she said, startled.
“What are you doing?”
I saw the box lid in her hand. It was filled with the stylized swastikas that Harriet had found so offensive. Lucy had taken the German Cross box. Not Mercedes.
Carlos looked sheepish. He rattled his large circle of keys.
Lucy said quietly, “I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble. I just couldn’t stand Harriet being so upset. I thought I could just move the thing out of the display so she wouldn’t have to look at it.”
“So you hid it?”
She nodded, her eyes going to the fireplace and the wood box that held kindling. I swung open the lid. The German Cross sewing kit was lying on its side, seemingly unharmed.
I sighed. Had Mercedes been killed because of a hidden box?
Lucy explained herself. “I was going to return it to Nan. It’s just so offensive, I can hardly bear to touch it,” she said, shuddering. She pulled forward her rolling sewing machine bag. I was sort of surprised she wasn’t wearing gloves.
“That’s true,” Carlos said. “I unlocked the door so she could return it to its rightful owner.”
“Was Mercedes in here when you hid it?”
Lucy turned her head and reached in without looking. “She was here. When Nan left, I lingered. Mercedes was locking up. I wasn’t thinking clearly, I just grabbed it and put the box out of sight.”
She lifted the box carefully. Carlos held open her wheeled bag.
I left her to her task. She’d have to explain to Nan what she’d done. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes. It was hard to believe an inanimate object could cause so much pain.
I hurried outside, feeling better once I hit the fresh air. I blinked and rubbed my arms, which had gotten gooseflesh in the dank chapel. Mercedes took the rose box. How surprised she must have been when she and Nan discovered two of the boxes were missing.
I’d barely gotten onto the path when I was forced to a stop. A white wooden sawhorse with orange stripes and ASB stamped on it blocked my way. Two hazard cones sat on either side. A knot of rangers stood a few feet beyond, near the deck of the pool. Two golf carts were parked haphazardly and a crew of maintenance workers stood next to them. The whole group was looking at something at their feet.
They broke apart. I saw Tony and waved him over.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“A mountain lion killed a deer right on the pool deck.”
“Last night?” I asked.
“Yeah. Did you hear anything?”
I shook my head. “Should I be worried?”
“Well, we’re trying to decide what needs to be done. We disagree,” he said, nodding his head at his colleagues.
I could tell by the frown on his face that his point of view was not being valued in their discussion.
“What do you want to do?” I asked.
“I want the lion contained. This is too close for comfort. These people believe that only a sick or injured animal would harm a human. That’s not been my experience,” he said with a scowl.
“Contained?” Did that mean killed? I hoped not.
“Pellicano!”
We both looked up at the sound of our name. “I guess that means you,” I said.
“Yes,” he said tersely. He gave me a peck on the cheek. “You’ll have to go back and go around the other way if you’re heading to the beach,” he said.
I went back the way he was pointing. Coming up on the chapel, I could see Lucy trudging uphill, pulling her bag. Carlos was locking the door. That kit couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds, but she looked as though she was carrying the weight of the world. I felt sorry for her.
My head was clearing, and the murkiness of the morning was being replaced by the sunshine.
On the side of the road, it was the usual scene of rough cars and bed-head surfers. I looked south to see if I could spot Paul. He wasn’t at the sand bar, the place where Ursula’s body was supposed to wash up. That is, if she wasn’t still alive.
I wasn’t going to tell him I’d seen his wife last night. Not because I owed her anything. Not after the bump on the head. But because I couldn’t put her further at risk. What if Paul had killed Mercedes to get to Ursula? What if she had given her life protecting Ursula’s secret?
I walked down the beach, back to the spot where I thought Ursula had gone in.
I could see now how she’d done it. The rocks curved sharply here, the far side of them out of sight. I had been looking for her straight ahead, in the water. All she had to do was stay out of sight for a few minutes, then walk out of the water. And out of her life.
I followed her steps and saw where’d she’d gotten in her car. An old pickup with a camper top covered with Day-Glo peace signs was parked where her VW bus had been parked. Tune in, turn on, drop out was scrawled on the side next to a Keep Tahoe Blue bumper sticker. A woman with long braids was seated in a lawn chair nursing a rather large toddler, whose feet beat a regular rhythm on the aluminum frame. She smiled at me. Her wares for sale, earrings and beaded bracelets, were spread on a blanket in front of her.
Having made eye contact, I felt trapped into looking at her stuff. She was just trying to make a living for herself and her son, based on the tiny little penis the tot presented to me when he rolled off his mother’s nipple to stare up at me.
“How are you this fine morning?” she asked me, her voice dreamy. I didn’t know if it was the earliness of the hour or a chronic condition that kept her eyes half-lidded.
I wished I’d kept moving. I had no interest in hippie jewelry. “Not great. Trying to process a few things.” Maybe she’d leave me alone.
“I feel your aura, and you are very stressed. Do you want me to do your cards?” she asked. A deck of Tarot sat nearby.
“No need, thanks.” I tried to move away, but the little boy, now squatting in the sandy dirt, had untied my shoelace.
I bent down to retie it and searched for something to buy to get me out of this.
Next to her chair, on the tail end of the truck, were several waxy yellowish lumps. A hand-lettered sign proclaimed her handmade soap was a cure-all. I picked up one of the misshapen pieces. It was marked $5. It would be worth five dollars to get out of here.
I grabbed one. “I’ll take this.”
I pulled a five from my jacket. She handed me the soap, taking her time to wrap it carefully in rice paper and tie it artfully with twine. I forced myself to wait as she prettified the package. When she was done twisting the twine into the best possible bow, I grabbed it and turned, nearly tripping over the poor baby.
She called after me, “I made that from the cyaniphyta plant I found in the bog at Asilomar. Cured my pregnancy mask. Completely.”
That gave me an idea. I put the soap in my pocket and headed back toward Asilomar.
Around a bend, I came face to face with Paul Wiggins. I gasped. I didn’t want to see him. I knew his wife hadn’t thrown herself in the ocean, but she was dead to him. I wasn’t going to give her away.
I stepped back and turned to walk away. He scared me. I moved quickly, crossing the street. He followed me. I didn’t look at him.
“Listen to me,” he said, shouting. “I didn’t kill Mercedes.”
I kept walking, eyes down. Soon his shoes came into view as he caught up with me, matching my pace.
He spoke quickly. “I bet the same person that killed Ursula killed Mercedes. Those two were thick as thieves. You didn’t believe Mercedes, did you when she said Ursula wasn’t here? I know she was here. I put her on the plane. I wrote the check for the conference.”
“Paul, step away from me, please.” His presence was threatening. “Or I will call the rangers.” I knew the rangers were busy. He didn’t.
“Check it out, Dewey. Ursula was killed and not by me. Someone was hounding her. Things were different around our house. I haven’t hit my wife in three years.”
Oh yeah, right. Like I’d believe that one.
“Were you the reason I was pulled in for questioning in Mercedes’ death?” Paul asked, abruptly.
That was news to me. “Are they questioning you?”
“I’ve been in the office for the past ten hours,” he said, his face reddening even more. He scrubbed at his hair. I could see the bags under his eyes and wondered when he had last slept.
“Ten hours,” he whined, when I didn’t react. “And the result is the same. My wife is still missing.”
“Did the police ask you what you thought happened to her?”
“I told those bastards. Someone was after her. And someone got to her.”
This was a guy who knew every move his wife made. He kept track of her comings and goings. He kept track of her phone calls.
I kept quiet, moving back toward the gate. The feeling of being next to this man was creeping me out.
He kept talking, his anger with the local police the only thing on his mind. “The police aren’t interested in Ursula. I gave them all of her e-mails for the last two months. She’d been corresponding with a new contact.”
The casualness of his admitting to having a file on his wife was chilling. I rubbed my upper arms to release the goose bumps that had popped up there.
“Do you remember the name of the person?”
He looked off in the distance, as if trying to remember. “It was not a person’s name. More like one of those silly handles that people come up with to disguise themselves.”
I wondered what aliases Paul had used to track his wife. He was probably the king of covering his tracks so his wife wouldn’t know what he was doing.
I felt a pang of sympathy for Ursula. She never really stood a chance. Getting together with a guy like Paul meant her fate was sealed a long time ago. He’d probably graduated from opening her mail, and checking the mileage on her car, to downloading her e-mails and tracking her movements with a GPS. She had no chance at a private life, at an independent life, at a life wholly her own.
I tucked away my sadness. I needed Paul to help me find out what happened to her.
“I remember it as something to do with quilting.”
Great. That narrowed the field to twenty million or so.
Her e-mails might help me find her. “Can I see them?”
He looked at me suspiciously. “I guess. I’ll get them to you later.”
I hurried through the gate, hunching my shoulders, hoping Paul wouldn’t follow me. There was no Mercedes to make sure he stayed away.
After the first bend in the boardwalk, I looked back. I couldn’t see him. I quickened my step, breaking into a jog.
I flashed my meal ticket and disappeared into the dining hall. Sanctuary.
Kym was standing just inside, her usually pretty face creased with worry. The rash seemed to be spreading down her neck. She caught me looking and tightened her head scarf.
“Hey, Kym.” I looked past her and saw Paul pacing in front of the dining hall. I was beginning to understand Ursula’s predicament a little more. Was he stalking me now?
“I’m looking for someone named Renate,” Kym said. “She ordered a kosher breakfast, but hasn’t claimed it. Do you know her?” She rubbed at a boil.
I had the miracle soap in my pocket. Maybe it would help. Anything was better than watching Kym tearing up her skin with her long fingernails.
I offered it to her. A peace offering—better late than never.
Her eyebrow shot up. “What’s this?” she said suspiciously. She lifted the package to her nose and sniffed. She shot me a withering look as though I’d laid a turd in her hand.
“It’s
an herbal soap,” I said. “So it doesn’t smell great. The flower it came from is supposed to have healing properties.”
“Why do you care if I itch or not?” she said, rubbing the inside of her wrist on the table edge.
Good question. I decided not to answer it. I was fast losing my appetite watching Kym scratch. I grabbed a coffee and yogurt to go.
Carlos was in position at the kitchen window. He owed me.
“Can you get me out through the kitchen?” I said. “There’s someone out front who’s bugging me.”
He nodded and quietly led me through the kitchen. The door came out just down the hill from Merrill Hall, out of sight of the front where Paul was pacing. I hurried away, heading back to my room to fetch my laptop.
___
I had a theory that needed testing. Paul had told me that they lived in Lowell, Massachusetts. That was home to the New England Quilt Museum. I wondered if the museum fit in. Nan had mentioned buying kits from museums. Was that Ursula’s connection?
I sat down in the living room and called Vangie from my keyboard. Thankfully, she was at work early and answered my ping.
Her face appeared, her pigtails pixilated. “The store has burned to a crisp, the bank accounts have been emptied, and yes, we miss you very much,” she said.
“You have a funny way of telling me everything’s okay,” I said.
“You overestimate your presence here. We are doing fine without you,” she pouted.
“I’m not calling to check up on you. I need you to make a call for me. Call the head of acquisitions at the Lowell Quilt Museum.”
“Why?” Vangie asked.
“Because I need information.” I filled her in on the missing sewing box.
“Oh boy, we’re playing detective?” she said. “Who am I?”
“You’re a young woman who knows nothing about quilting.”
“So far, so good,” Vangie cracked.
I spun a tale. “You’ve inherited your mother’s house and in the attic was an old trunk. It was full of fabrics, laces, and sewing tools. It hadn’t been opened for years.”
“Achoo. Don’t forget I’m allergic to dust.”