by Terri Thayer
“The lion roams an area of up to sixty miles,” he said.
Buster launched into a description of what they’d be looking for. Marks on the trees, dead deer. I stopped listening.
He was way too enthusiastic about this job. “I didn’t know you knew anything about mountain lions,” I said coolly.
“I’m learning. They’re fascinating.
“Is it dangerous?” I asked.
“Hey, you’re sitting on a homicide detective for the San Jose PD. Tracking a mountain lion can’t be more dangerous than that.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Would your big brother put me in danger?”
“Again, not an answer.”
“Babe …”
I gave him the evil eye. He knew how much I hated being called Babe.
“Don’t you trust Tony?”
I pouted. “I’m not so sure. He thinks he can talk to the animals or something.”
“The cougar whisperer.”
I moved Buster’s hand out of my lap, and stood up. “It’s not a joke. He’s got some kind of hotline to the wildlife psyche. But what if he’s wrong? What if you’re not safe?”
Buster gathered me in his arms, and pulled me in for a kiss, settling for the cheek I turned on him. Now I saw the backpack on the floor. It was stuffed, with three water bottles hanging from the side. He was really doing this.
“We won’t be gone long,” he said into my ear.
I stroked the skin on the inside of his wrist. He was wearing his leather thong. I caught my pinkie under it and tugged.
“Are you planning to spend the night out there?”
“No, we’ll just poke around the woods for a few hours.”
“Look at your face,” I said. “You’re all excited about the prospect of spending time with Tony.”
“It’s a very manly thing to do.”
“Camp with my brother?”
“Hunting for a mountain lion.”
“Don’t bring home any carcasses. Don’t go caveman on me.”
“Just think how virile I will be after the hunt.”
“Get out of my sight.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“Don’t give me that,” I said. “You’re blowing me off to spend time with my brother.”
“You’re busy.”
I was going to be. I was going to make the most of my time. I would track down Ursula and get her to tell me what she knew about the sewing kit.
Tony and Buster were meeting in the Administration building. I walked over with him. Buster was practically humming with excitement as he handed Tony the nylon bag that held Dad’s rifle.
Tony was equally revved up. It was kind of cute.” We’ve got to go get in position. I convinced the others to rope off the area and to leave the deer alone, so there’s a good chance the lion will come back to feed.”
“Where will you be?”
“Well hidden,” Tony said, pointing into the forest that surrounded Asilomar. “No one will be able to tell where we are.”
I indicated the bag. “Are you going to kill it?”
Tony looked affronted. “Of course not. We want to observe, that’s all.”
So the rifle was for protection. I pushed down the image of a mountain lion stalking my two favorite guys. That didn’t happen in real life.
I gave them both a quick kiss. “Go, hunt.”
They turned, chattering.
“Wait!” I said. I ran back to where they were. “Tony, what’s going on with Mercedes’ murder investigation?” I asked.
“The police are handling it. They’re finished with the crime scene and have released the room.”
His mind was clearly on the mountain lion. I waved him off and he and Buster disappeared, seeming to forget about me as soon as they turned their backs.
My stomach growled. I’d missed most of the dinner hour, but I still had time to grab something to eat.
The room was nearly empty, with dirty plates on most of the tables. The cleanup crew was in full swing. The noise of ceramic hitting ceramic filled the space. The servers talked in a group in back by the coffee station. I went into the hall and got a dinner from the kitchen window. I’d barely made the end of service.
I passed a ranger sitting at a table. She looked up as I approached.
“Did you have a cell phone in Ms. Madsen’s room?” she asked. “We’re returning them to their owners.”
“I did,” I said, feeling a frisson of excitement that my phone was going to be back in my backpack.
“Your number?” she consulted a list in front of her. The police had inventoried the phones. I had no doubt that they’d had a list of everyone’s phone calls.
I told her.
“Your ID, please,” she said. I showed her my license. She checked my name off the list, pulled my cell from a tote bag parked on the chair beside her, and handed it to me.
I smiled at her. I could see I had several new messages. I was connected again. Whoopee.
I took my phone and my chicken cutlet to an empty table. I listened to Vangie telling me about the faxes, and a message from Buster saying he’d be down tonight. Pearl and Ina had called several days ago, passing the phone back and forth and exhorting me to do well at my conference.
I was nearly finished when Freddy joined me, putting his domed dish next to mine, and grabbing a breadstick.
“I’m starved,” he said, taking the plastic cover off and digging in. I guessed his diet was about to be broken for good.
“Why are you so late?” I asked, clicking my phone closed and putting it in my pocket. I already felt better dressed.
He grimaced. “The neediest of all needy students. She’s single-handedly taken the fun out of dysfunction. She hasn’t done a lick of work all week, and today she couldn’t understand why everyone else was so far ahead. With one day left of class, she was trying to do four days of work. It was all I could do not to bop her on the head so I could get over here and get some sustenance before tonight.”
He sighed heavily as he took a bite of broccoli.
“Did you hear?” he said. “There’s a memorial service for Mercedes.”
“Really? Who put that together?” I could guarantee it wasn’t my sister-in-law.
“Quentin, mostly. He’s big on marking occasions. Being from New Orleans, he’s probably trying to line up a funeral jazz band right now. You think there are any in Monterey County?”
“Mariachi, maybe,” I said, laughing.
We ate quietly for a few minutes. As my stomach filled, my mind returned to trying to find Ursula and what it meant that she had the sewing bird. Would she go to the service? She could, incognito. Mercedes was the only one who really knew what she looked like. And Paul, of course.
What if he came?
Maybe Freddy could help. “Freddy, I saw Ursula Wiggins.”
“Who? I don’t know who that is.”
“The woman I thought threw herself in the ocean on Tuesday.”
He drew back. “And you saw her when?”
“Yesterday,” I said, rubbing my head where she’d hit me. It felt better, but was still sore to the touch.
Freddy pointed a fusilli at me. His eyebrows were arched like a kabuki actor. “So she faked her own death?”
I nodded.
“Whoa,” Freddy stopped chewing.
“Don’t tell anyone. Her abusive husband is wandering around here and I don’t want him to know she’s still here. He might try to kill her or something.”
“Boy, Pellicano, you sure fall in with a rough crowd.”
Freddy had been at the Quilt Extravaganza last year where two women had been murdered.
“You never met her?” I
said. “She used to come here.”
“Unless she was one of my students, I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think she ever took a class,” I said.
Freddy scooped up the last remaining bit of sauce off his plate with his finger and smacked his lips. He leaned back and rubbed his belly.
“That hit the spot. Have you figured out who killed Mercedes yet?”
“Me?” I said. “Why would you think that?”
Freddy looked at me askance. “Is that how you want to play it? Little Miss Innocence?”
“Mercedes was killed. The police are looking into it,” I said.
“I thought I saw your darling boy-toy earlier,” Freddy said. “I figured maybe you and him …”
“He’s not around right now,” I said, trying to shut down Freddy’s inquiring mind.
“Do I detect trouble in paradise?” he said, his nose for trouble twitching. I wasn’t going to discuss Buster’s defection with him.
I stood up. “Shall we go pay our respects?”
___
I followed him to the beautiful structure up the hill from the dining hall. The sun was low in the sky and the warm sandstone seemed to catch the rays and hold them, turning the facades orangey.
Merrill Hall was buzzing with activity. It looked like every student had turned out to honor Mercedes. There were pictures of her, blown up to poster size, on easels spread around the perimeter of the huge room. In the one closest to me she looked pretty, smiling broadly. I realized she’d never smiled at me. Not once. Too bad; she was much prettier that way.
Quentin and Kym were in the front of the room, standing on the stage. Quentin was fussing with a projector screen. Kym was swathed in black from head to toe, looking like a beekeeper. She was letting Quentin do the work.
I walked through the crowd, wondering if Mercedes’ murderer would show up. I wasn’t alone in that thought. In the back corner, nearly hidden by a support post that held up the loft was the Pacific Grove detective I’d met yesterday. He was standing in the shadows, his brown suit blending into the background of the wood-paneled walls. I knew the police would do this, but he seemed so out of place, his presence was jarring. Just to me. Most of the participants didn’t seem to notice him as they filed past and took their seats.
There was no sign of Ursula. She still needed to get money to get out of town. Would she try to sell the bird to someone else?
Kym might have taken the box from Mercedes’ closet. If she knew that Mercedes had been hiding Ursula here, she might have put two and two together. I didn’t think she had enough smarts for that, but it was possible.
I wanted to talk to Nan, to find out if she’d seen the box since it was stolen.
The group was subdued, the talk quiet and respectful. A row of votives was lighted near the picture, casting eerie shapes on the walls. Someone was playing the piano.
Of course, it was Nan. Harriet was alongside her, singing the Carole King song that Nan was playing. I was glad to see the two of them united—friends again.
But it was making it impossible for to me to talk to Nan.
I waited by the piano for them to finish, fanning myself with the small program I’d been handed. Quentin had included a brief history of Mercedes’ life.
Lucy joined me. “Nice work,” I said, nodding at the duo. “You got them talking?” I asked.
Lucy shrugged. “Nan’s promised never to display the German Cross box again until Harriet writes up an explanation. They’re talking about a multi-media show with the box, some slides from Harriet’s family, and a narrative about art and fear. They’re going to take the box to schools and talk about their differences.”
“Well, at least, some good came of it,” I said. I meant it. Hiding the box away didn’t solve anything. Educating made more sense.
On stage, Quentin and Kym fussed with folding chairs, setting up a few on either side of the easel. It looked like people were going to share their memories of Mercedes. I needed some fresh air.
I started down the stone steps and took a hit of ocean air. The sun was starting to set, and the sky was glowing.
I got only a few steps, when a figure stepped out from behind a tree. I screamed, but the noise was cut off by a hand over my mouth. My eyes felt like they would bug out of my head. I bit down. Hard. The hand left my face.
I wheeled around, and found Paul Wiggins, rubbing his palm. I’d gotten him right in the soft spot between his thumb and index finger.
“Jesus,” he said.
“What are you doing?” I said. I was too winded to move away. I leaned on my knees and took in several deep breaths.
“Why’d you bite me?” he asked, managing to sound wounded.
“You scared the bejesus out of me. What have you been doing, following me?”
As soon as I said it, I knew that it was true. I’d felt his presence a number of times.
“Me?” He had the nerve to sound offended.
“What? You only hit women, you don’t stalk them?” I said, angered by his nonchalance.
Paul took several steps back. “I’m going crazy, not knowing. The cops won’t tell me a thing. You seem to know what’s going on.”
I walked away, and he kept pace. I yelled over my shoulder. “You don’t want to follow me now. I’m going to meet my brother, the ranger, and my boyfriend. He’s a cop in San Jose. He wouldn’t want to know that you’ve been harassing me.”
“I have the e-mails you wanted,” he said.
I walked back reluctantly. I needed those e-mails. They could prove that Mercedes was after the Rose Box all along. And that Ursula was the key.
I held out my hand. “Is there evidence in there that your wife stole something?”
He pouted, clutching the pages in his fist. “You didn’t want to hear it. No one wants to hear it. Everyone thinks Ursula hangs the moon—that she’s the most wonderful person. Let me tell you. I’m not the only person in this relationship, you know. She’s not perfect. I don’t want to hit her, I really don’t, but she can be the most exasperating person.”
My teeth clenched. I wasn’t going to listen to this creep, this bully, justify hitting his wife, but he was the only connection I had to Ursula now. I couldn’t let his self-satisfied justifications get in my way. I steeled myself, smiling at him in a way that I hoped would stroke his pathetic ego.
“My wife, she has these terrible habits …”
He never called Ursula by name. It was always “my wife.” His property to do with whatever he chose to do. My stomach grew queasy as he continued.
“What did she steal, Paul?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me,” he whined.
“Stay away from me,” I said, grabbing the papers from his hand. “Next time I’ll call the police.”
I headed back for the memorial service, and sat in the back room, reading the e-mails. Ursula had used the screen name, LeftCoastWoman, to sign her correspondence. I recognized the recipient of several e-mails.
Nan, the sewing box lady. I found her sitting in a row with the rest of the morning crew. Sherry and Red looked up as I signaled for Nan to come out and join me. We walked to the back of the large room. There was no sign of the police detective I’d seen earlier.
“Nan, did you e-mail with Ursula Wiggins?” I asked without preamble.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I have a website, people ask me questions all the time.”
“Have you met Ursula here at Sewing-by-the-Sea?”
Her fingers worried the drawstring of her linen pants. “I don’t believe I have, no. Do you know what her question was about?”
I told her what little I knew about Ursula. She lived in Massachusetts, worked at a quilt museum there.
“Lowell?” Nan asked.<
br />
I felt a ray of hope. I’d piqued her interest.
“I sort of remember an e-mail about a shuttle from the people there. God, I wish my brain worked better.” Her forehead was creased with the effort to recall.
“Can you access your e-mail from here? Do you keep the files?”
Nan held up a hand. “Slow down, I don’t do anything with my e-mail except read it. I’ve got a son who handles all that.”
I gave up when it was obvious Nan didn’t remember any more about her discussion with Ursula, but I was on the right track. The sewing tool could have been at the quilt museum. Ursula had e-mailed the expert, questioning her about a sewing tool she’d found.
I left the service after another hour. Stories about Mercedes were just getting started. Each tale sparked another quilter’s memory and the line to get to the microphone had grown. It was going to be a long night. I was ready for bed. Tired, beyond tired. Exhausted. My head hurt.
I was no closer to finding Ursula. She hadn’t had the nerve to show up and tell her story about Mercedes.
I had just passed the street lamp by the Pirates’ Den when I realized someone was behind me. I whirled, and was relieved to see Quentin Rousseau scurrying behind me.
“Dewey,” he called. I waited for him to catch up. The night had turned cloudy without much ambient light. The trees were very dark.
“Man, am I glad it’s you,” I said, regulating my heart beat, slowing to normal. Thank goodness it wasn’t Paul.
“Nice job on the memorial,” I said. “You really pulled that together quickly.”
“I’m glad I found you,” he said. He was panting a little bit. “Kym asked me to tell you she needs you.”
That stopped me. “Why would she want me?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. She asked me to bring you to her.”
She had her nerve. She was the last person I wanted to see. She probably had a computer crisis. “I don’t have time right now.”
Quentin was not to be put off that easily. “You should make time for your family,” he said sternly.