A Quilt in Time (A Harriet Turman/Loose Threads Mystery)

by Arlene Sachitano

  “Unfortunately, before the kids were born, when I was working fulltime, I represented more than one victim of domestic violence, so, yes, I’ve been to shelters before,” Robin said. “Not here, though. It was back in my Seattle days.”

  “What should we expect?” Harriet asked.

  Robin leaned back in her chair and pressed her lips firmly together in thought.

  “They’re all different, depending on what sort of building they’re in. Some were made to be a group facility from the get-go, others have been adapted. But they also have some things in common. To function, the house has to be very organized, and they’re security-conscious to a degree that will probably feel paranoid to you. Believe me, it’s necessary.”

  Harriet sipped her chocolate.

  “Our tour guide will tell us how many people are staying there, right?”

  “She’ll give us some general information and will let us see a representative room or two. The resident who occupies it will have removed any identifying pictures or other information that would let you know who they are. I don’t know if they do that here in Foggy Point, but in Seattle they took no chances. Anyone who came past a semipublic visiting room had to have a criminal background check and references. And, Lauren, no wise cracks. They’ll throw us out at the slightest hint that we’re there for other than our stated purpose.”

  “Okay, Mom, I’ll behave.” Lauren rolled her eyes upward then looked to Harriet for support. Harriet gave a small shrug but didn’t say anything.

  “Everyone done?” she asked a few minutes later. She took the three mugs and returned them to the collection tub near the counter.

  “Where to now?” Lauren asked Robin.

  “We meet the assistant director downtown, and she’ll take us to the shelter. As we suspected, they don’t let people drive up and park by the front door.”

  “Okay, in all our scenarios, I never imagined we’d be going to a large apartment building,” Lauren whispered to Harriet as their host, Georgia Hecht, drove into the below-ground parking lot under the blocky beige sixties-era apartment building. She used a passkey to open an iron gate across the entrance. “Where will they keep the pets?”

  “Don’t worry,” Georgia answered. “This isn’t the shelter. This is the smoke and mirrors. We rent parking spots from the landlord, who also allows us to use a rather obscured entrance to our property.”

  They followed Georgia into the building’s laundry room, which was through a door at the back of the garage and on the same level. When they were all inside, Georgia looked carefully around before pulling a keychain from her pocket and selecting a key, which she then slipped into the lock on a door that appeared to lead into a utility closet.

  “Close the door behind you,” she ordered when they were all inside the small space. “It’s a tight fit for four people, but we don’t open the exit door before closing the entrance—ever.”

  Harriet shut the door as directed, and Georgia pulled a shelf full of cleaning supplies toward her. It was hinged on one side and swung open to revealed a short passageway with another door at its end. Georgia peered through a peephole in the second door before using a different key on the same keyring to open it. She stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture with her arm, indicated they should precede her.

  The quilters found themselves in a room dominated by a garden workbench. The air smelled of earth and plants and the sort of oil used to lubricate yard tools.

  “You can go on out into the yard,” Georgia directed. “Once the door out of the laundry room is locked, we’re safe.”

  Robin led the way out into a forested back yard.

  “Follow the path into the back yard and wait for me on the deck,” Georgia called after them as she turned to lock the door.

  “I like it,” Lauren said with a smile.

  Harriet looked around the property, trying to imagine how it would look in satellite view on a map as they made their way toward the house. The house was well obscured by large, old-growth trees; someone had put a good deal of thought into this location. Sticks and flags marked the perimeter of what must be the new animal addition, and there was freshly turned earth at one corner.

  “The house is on what was once a flag lot,” Georgia explained when she’d rejoined them. “We planted an arborvitae hedge behind the front house, which we also own. The hedge goes across the old driveway, so from the front you’d never know a second house was back here.”

  “Like that guy in California who kidnapped the girl and held her in his back yard for eighteen years?” Lauren asked.

  “That was unfortunate, but, yes, even parole officers couldn’t find her, and they visited on a regular basis that whole time. Our situation is one hundred and eighty degrees from that one, but with luck, our house will never be discovered by anyone who isn’t welcome.”

  “Thank you for letting us come tour. Hopefully, the new animal facility will help ease the journey for your residents with pets,” Robin said.

  “We appreciate the generous donation from Dr. Jalbert and the foundation. It will mean the world to the woman who live here.”

  “Our group is hoping to make a few bed quilts for you, also. If that’s appropriate,” Harriet added.

  “Let’s go inside,” Georgia said and headed for the back door. “Dr. Jalbert has vouched for you, so you’re free to tour the entire house. I’ll show you around, and you can get an idea of what our needs are.”

  “That will help,” Robin told her.

  They waited while she unlocked the door and led them across a screened porch. She stopped to unlock the door into the house, and Harriet noticed the porch’s screening was more heavy-duty than normal—another security measure, she assumed.

  Georgia split them up for the tour, sending Harriet and Robin with residents and showing Lauren around herself. When they’d finished looking at the facility, she escorted them back out through the apartment building and drove them back to the downtown office.

  Robin had suggested they not talk about what they’d seen until they got to Pins and Needles. Even Lauren was sufficiently sobered by what she’d seen to not argue.

  “Did somebody die?” Marjory Swain asked from her post behind the cash register when Harriet, Robin and Lauren entered the quilt store.

  Lauren only stared at her, her pale face whiter than usual.

  “We just got back from a tour of the women’s shelter,” Harriet said as she slid out of her coat. “Come back and listen if you have a minute. I don’t know about the others, but I’m not sure I can give my report twice.”

  The Loose Threads were sitting around the table in the larger of the two classrooms at the back of the store; hot drinks, bits of fabric, threads and pincushions littered the surface in front of them.

  “The coffee and water pots are hot in the kitchen,” Beth told them.

  “Carla brought apple and cherry turnovers,” Connie added proudly. “She made them herself.”

  “Connie showed me how.” Carla’s cheeks pinked at the compliment.

  Robin, Lauren and Harriet fixed cups of tea and settled in vacant chairs at one end of the table. They looked at each other and then at the expectant faces of their friends.

  Finally, Harriet began.

  “I’m not sure what Robin and Lauren expected, but I was unprepared for what we saw.”

  She picked up a scrap of fabric from the table and twisted it in her fingers. Mavis took her plastic rain hat from the top of her quilting bag and began absently folding it into increasingly smaller triangles. Connie rhythmically stirred her tea, although Harriet knew she was drinking an orange-spice blend and had added neither cream nor sugar.

  “Before you ask, the facility is well hidden and probably meets all the city codes for form, fit and function. That said—by necessity, according to our host—most of their funds went into providing security for the residents. The interior is colorless, industrial and bare-bones. The individual rooms have wood-frame beds and dressers like they have i
n college dorms, army surplus blankets, and white towels and bedding from a hotel seconds store.”

  “Diós mio,” Connie said as she dropped her spoon with a clatter and put her hands to either side of her face. “Those poor babies.”

  “It’s hard to imagine how they build much hope in the women and their children,” Robin agreed in a grim tone.

  “Even their computer is an antique,” Lauren lamented. “How are they supposed to find jobs and start new lives with that sort of equipment?” She shook her head. “I expected the facility to be grim, but the part I wasn’t ready for was the condition of the women themselves. Two of them had just arrived and were covered in bruises. One woman had a split lip that was so swollen she couldn’t talk clearly, and another had a cast on her left arm up to the elbow.” She shivered.

  Harriet picked up the story.

  “All of them had visible scars. My tour guide said the emotional scars are even worse. A lot of them are conflicted about being there. They’re so used to being controlled by their abuser, and they’ve been isolated from their friends for so long, it’s hard for them to help themselves, much less each other.”

  “Someone is doing art therapy with the children, so the kids have decorated their rooms with their drawings, but that’s just about the only color in the place,” Robin added. “And it ends up being more sad than uplifting.”

  “Sounds like we’ve got lots of opportunities, ladies.” Mavis dropped her crumpled rain hat into her bag. “What do you think?”

  “We can make the dog blankets Aiden asked for, but I’m thinking those bland rooms do need some quilts,” DeAnn said.

  “The children definitely need quilts,” Connie said. “And probably matching pillows.”

  “Do the bedrooms have windows?” DeAnn asked.

  “Yes, each room has a window,” Robin answered. “But the house was made to be a shelter home, so the windows are clerestory style—above eye level. Their main purpose is to let light in, so curtains wouldn’t work. The kitchen and bathrooms could use them, though, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “I can give you gals a good discount on fabric and batting,” Marjory said, leaning against the doorjamb where she had a view of the cash register. “If you can use anything from the sale shelf, I’ll give it to you at my cost.”

  “Thank you,” Aunt Beth said. “That’s very generous of you.”

  “I’d like to make a quilt, too. When you decide on a plan, let me know what I can do.”

  She straightened as the front door bell jangled, summoning her to the shop floor.

  “I’ll check with Pastor Hafer and see if he’d be willing to ask the congregation if anyone has any spare bedroom furniture in good condition they’d be willing to donate,” Beth said.

  “So, what is the actual breakdown?” DeAnn asked. “Do we know how many rooms they have and how many are occupied?”

  “They gave us a summary sheet,” Harriet answered. She scanned the paper she’d been given. “Looks like they have six resident rooms plus an attic loft they’d like to put two more beds in. There are five women and four children in residence right now. Two woman have one school-age child each and another has two younger children.”

  “I’d like to make children’s quilts,” Carla volunteered.

  “Mavis and I can handle the pet quilts,” Beth looked at her friend. “Like we said the other day, between us, we have a piece of every dog-print fabric ever made.”

  “I’ve got a couple of cat prints, too,” Mavis added. “So, we’re good to go on that. Beth and I could make some simple curtains for the bathrooms, too. We could do muslin with colored trim that would coordinate with the bed quilts.”

  “We can make lap quilts for the…what did Aiden call it? The socialization room?” Beth asked. “Animal prints should be fine for that.”

  “That sounds good,” Connie said. “I can start a bed quilt when I finish making the adult bibs for the senior home. They’re having an open house in two weeks, and I wanted to have one for each of the residents who uses one. I found a cute pattern that looks like a shirt or blouse front and completely covers the person’s real shirt. Unless you look close, you can’t tell they’re wearing anything other than their regular clothes.”

  “Aren’t there a lot of people who need them?” Lauren asked. “That’s going to be a big job.”

  “I was going to talk about this when we were finished discussing the quilts for the shelter.” Connie reached into the canvas bag sitting by her feet. “I brought copies of the pattern in case anyone wants to help.” She set a stack of printed pages on the table in front of her. “I just found out about it at church yesterday. Diana was talking to Sarah’s mother about how ratty the bibs they have look. I guess her mom lives there. Sarah’s mom, Elaine, said they spent a lot of money building the new wing and that the stained bibs are functional. One thing led to another and…”

  “…and you volunteered to replace all the bibs?” Lauren asked. “Seriously?”

  Connie looked around at her friends.

  “What could I do? Would you want your loved one to be sitting there with a stained rag around their neck when the whole community troops past their room during the open house?”

  “Still.” DeAnn joined the discussion. “That’s a lot of work to take on at such short notice.”

  “Isn’t the senior center where Rod’s aunt lived before she died?” Robin asked. “I thought Rod said you were unhappy with how they handled things.”

  “Is that why you volunteered?” Lauren asked, her eyes bright with excitement. “Are you going undercover?”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Robin cautioned. “If you have some reason to believe there was anything suspicious about the way Rod’s aunt was treated, you need to hire an attorney or go to the authorities, depending on what you’re thinking happened.”

  “I like it,” Lauren said. “Count me in. Harriet?” She looked at her friend.

  “I’m not playing private eye, but I’d be happy to make some bibs.”

  “Me, too,” DeAnn offered.

  “If they’re not too hard to make, I can try,” Carla said.

  “You can work with me,” Connie told her. “I’m sure you’d be fine on your own. They’re pretty simple. But it will go faster if we work together, and Rod can keep Wendy busy.”

  In the end, everyone took a bib pattern and committed to making a few.

  “Now that the bibs are taken care of, let’s get back to the shelter quilts,” Harriet said. “Carla is going to make baby quilts, Aunt Beth and Mavis are going to make the pet covers and lap quilts for the new room. Connie will make a bed-sized quilt. I can make another bed quilt. Anyone else?”

  “I’ll do a bed quilt, too,” Robin volunteered.

  Lauren raised her hand without saying anything.

  “I’ll make one, too,” Marjory said from the doorway, where she was sweeping threads from the floor. “If that’s okay with you all.”

  “Of course,” Harriet said.

  “Put me down for one,” said DeAnn.

  “Maybe we can get Detective Morse and some of our other friends who sew to make pillow cases to coordinate with the quilts,” Beth suggested.

  “We better get busy,” Harriet stood up. “Did you get any information about what sort of fabric we should use for the bibs?” she asked Connie.

  “Let me show you.”

  Connie pulled Harriet’s copy of the pattern out of its plastic sleeve. The rest of the quilters gathered around.

  Chapter 3

  Harriet stopped the long-arm quilting machine when she heard a knock on her studio door. Aiden came in as she grabbed the knob to open it. He brushed past her and stormed into her work space.

  “Come on in.”

  “Something’s wrong,” he blurted. He spun around to face her.

  “You want to tell me about it? Sit down.” She pointed to one of the wing back chairs and then went to sit in the other one.

  “It’s R
achel,” he said, crossing his legs and bouncing his foot then uncrossing them again.

  “Rachel?”

  “Sarah’s cat.”

  Harriet let her breath out, having briefly feared he was about to confess some previously unknown transgression that had come out in his weekly therapy session.

  “What about her cat?” She got up and poured a cup of coffee from the thermal carafe on the library table then pressed it into his hands.

  “Drink this,” she said.

  He sipped it and began again.

  “I think Rachel is being abused.”

  “Oh, Aiden, I can’t believe that. Sarah may be many things, but she loves that cat.”

  “I know that. I don’t think it’s her. That’s why I’m here. I think Sarah herself is a victim of violence.”

  Harriet leaned toward him.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “She brought Rachel in this morning with a broken leg and a story about the cat trying to jump on the counter and slipping. She said she fell wrong when she hit the floor.”

  “Cats don’t fall wrong, do they?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, but a young healthy cat like Rachel? Not likely. And falling from the height of a kitchen counter it’s really not likely. Fortunately, it was a clean break and should heal without complication. When I told Sarah that, she asked if Rachel could stay at the clinic until her leg healed. I told her it wasn’t necessary and that I couldn’t just keep her there. Then she started crying and asked if I knew of anyone who could take her into foster care.”

  “Wow.”

  “Her tears washed some of her makeup off, and she was covering up a black eye. I took a good look at her then and realized she didn’t look like herself. She was wearing baggy clothes—she’s lost a lot of weight. I asked about it, but she denied it.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That everything was fine. I asked if I could help her, suggested she call the domestic violence hotline. I asked if I could call anyone for her. I told her I could get your aunt or Mavis to come pick her up.”

  “She wouldn’t go for any of it?”