by Mary Daheim
“Ah . . . yes, we do. They’re quite popular. Clients tend to like the homespun accessories these days.” Michele led us to a green leather armchair. “Here’s one,” she said, indicating a green, brown, and white quilt resting on the chair’s back. “And there’s another, over on that fireplace settle. I believe that’s all we have in stock now. Each quilt took almost a year to make. I doubt that we’ll get any more since Ms. Bayard has passed away.”
I thought I heard Vida snort. But when she spoke, her tone was thoughtful. “The other two quilts look familiar, but I don’t believe my mother designed the patterns. Templates, I believe, is the proper term. How long have you been carrying the—the Bayard items?”
“Ever since I started working here three years ago,” Michele replied warily. I imagined she was thinking about lawsuits. “Mr. Dreizle—that’s the manager—would know.”
“Do you have his card?” Vida inquired.
“I can give you mine,” Michele said. “I’ll put his name on it. Can you tell me yours again?”
We had gone over to an oak desk by the back wall. Vida and Michele exchanged information. With a curt nod, Vida tromped out of the store. I trailed along like the stooge I was, realizing that I hadn’t uttered a word—other than to identify myself—since we’d entered.
“So,” I said as we started back up the hill, “that’s why you can’t stand Gen? She was a pattern thief?”
“She was,” Vida retorted. “I understand some quilters have their designs copyrighted. My mother never bothered. That’s not the point. Genevieve was a fraud, a cheat, a completely phony person.”
“But you must have known that for years,” I said. “Is that why you despised Gen?”
Vida, who I swore could climb Mount Baldy without taking a deep breath, was a few steps ahead of me on the steep incline. “Certainly,” she answered.
I couldn’t see her face. I wished that I could. For once, I believed that Vida was lying.
Or at least not telling the whole truth.
We arrived in the tower’s exclusive top-floor club a few minutes after seven. More than thirty attendees were already on hand, including Hank’s widow, Henrietta—or Hank-Too, as she was known. Vida immediately embraced her.
“Such an outstanding man!” Vida cried. “One of the finest journalists I’ve ever met! He taught me everything I know!”
That wasn’t quite true, either, although I did recall that Marius Vandeventer had sent Vida to a newspaper seminar conducted by Hank when she first came to work for the Advocate.
I’d met Hank-Too only once, at a Washington State Newspaper Association conference at Lake Chelan. Tom had also attended the gathering. It was where we’d made love for the first time in almost twenty years. I hardly remembered Hank-Too, or much of the conference, for that matter.
But I paid my respects, which Hank’s widow graciously accepted.
Vida seemed to know half of the mourners, although I couldn’t figure out how. I let her prowl the room while I secured a bourbon and water from the bar and stuffed my face with crackers covered in crab and avocado dip.
“I knew you’d come,” a low masculine voice said from behind me. “You want me, don’t you?”
Even before turning around, I recognized the Associated Press’s Rolf Fisher from our telephone conversations. He’d provided some important background on a murder case the previous winter. We’d exchanged business calls a couple of times since, though they were always peppered with Rolf’s lascivious remarks and boasts of his successful womanizing. I didn’t believe a word he said. I pictured the wretched lecher as about five foot two, shaped like a barrel, and with a bad comb-over.
He was none of those things. When I swiveled on my heel, I had to look up: If this was Rolf, I must be dreaming. He was six foot three, lean, sinewy, and wore a well-tailored black pinstripe suit. There was gray in his short dark beard and full head of wavy hair. He had chiseled features and black, black eyes. His expression was amused. I got the feeling he knew exactly what I was thinking. It was probably easy to discern: I’d just spilled dip on my black cashmere sweater.
“You certainly have trouble with hors d’oeuvres,” Rolf remarked, gesturing at my bosom. “The first time we met, you dropped your earring in the crab dip. Now you’re wearing it. How do you decorate your house, with mayonnaise and some garlic cloves?”
Luckily, I had a napkin in hand. “Drat,” I muttered, trying to clean myself and ignore his remarks at the same time. Did I have food stuck between my teeth? Was my lipstick smeared? Could I have gotten crab dip in my hair? I hadn’t been so self-conscious since I met Tom Cavanaugh.
“You don’t remember, do you?” Rolf said, still amused.
I didn’t. At least, I didn’t remember him from our earlier meeting. Those were the days when I had eyes only for Tom. Sean Connery could have made a pass at me and I wouldn’t have noticed.
But that was then and this was now.
“You’re blushing,” he said. “You blushed that other time, too. It’s cute.”
I was still wiping away at the crab dip. “I never blush,” I declared. “It must be the lighting. Besides,” I babbled, “we got stuck on the floating bridge.”
“ ‘We’?” Rolf frowned. “I thought you were single.”
“I am.” I gestured at Vida with my elbow. “See the tall woman in the sealskin hat?”
Rolf gazed across the room where Vida was talking to an older man I didn’t recognize. “You brought your duenna?”
I laughed. Actually, I giggled. God, I was making a fool of myself. “Yes. He’s my Souse & Some editor. I mean she’s—”
Maybe I could just jump out the window. The building was over seventy stories high. It would be better than dying of embarrassment.
Rolf was gazing at Vida. “I know who she is. Everybody knows Vida Runkel. She’s quite a character, isn’t she?”
Trying to be discreet, I took a backward step so I could dispose of my hors d’oeuvre remnants in an empty glass someone had left on a tray. I missed, and knocked the glass over, spilling the dregs, which included a lime slice.
“Oops.” I righted the glass. “Goodness, I seem to be—” I didn’t finish the sentence. A mess was what had popped into my mind.
“Let’s see,” Rolf said in a musing tone. “You’re either overcome with emotion at Hank Sails’s passing, or you’re the clumsiest woman I’ve ever met. If it’s the former, I don’t blame you. If it’s the latter, it’s really cute.”
“I don’t get out much,” I murmured.
“Vida is derelict in her duty,” Rolf said. “She shouldn’t let you out of her sight. On the other hand . . .” He shrugged.
“I’m allowed some time on my own,” I responded.
“Good.” Rolf’s gaze shifted from Vida to a barrel-chested older man who was coming through the door with a willowy blonde on each arm. “Excuse me, there’s Nick Anaconda. You know, the Snake. I worked for him on one of his small dailies thirty years ago in eastern Washington.”
I knew the Snake only by reputation, so I stayed put. I certainly wasn’t going to trot after Rolf Fisher like a bitch in heat. The shreds of dignity I still possessed must be guarded like gold.
I observed him from afar. He and the Snake exchanged hearty handshakes. He and the blondes hugged and kissed. Maybe everything Rolf had ever told me was true. Maybe he was a womanizer. His wife had died of cancer a few years ago. He had a right to pursue the ladies. Assuming he hadn’t remarried. Anyway, who was I to judge?
I finally ambled over to a couple of publishers I actually knew. For the next hour I engaged myself in chitchat flavored with a bit of gossip. It was not uninteresting, since I had something in common with virtually everybody in the room. Vida continued to roam among the crowd, now grown to perhaps two hundred people who had known, admired, and respected Hank Sails.
I was considering a third drink when Nick Anaconda called for our attention. What followed was a half-dozen tributes to Hank, all true, mostly
moving, and mercifully brief. Hank never did like overwriting.
It was just after nine, and time to hit the road. I didn’t really need another drink. I spotted Vida on the far side of the room regaling a clutch of older women—no doubt former society editors themselves.
Edging my way through the throng, I was halfway to Vida when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Have you seen the view?” Rolf Fisher asked.
“It’s hard to get near the windows in this crowd,” I replied.
“I don’t mean from here. The view’s spectacular, but you can’t really see it unless you look out of the full-length windows in the restrooms.”
I was trying to figure out if he was teasing. But for once, he looked serious.
“Come on,” he said, the hand still on my arm. “Go take a look. I’ll wait outside.” He paused a beat. “Of course.”
“Okay.” I needed to use the restroom before we left town anyway.
Rolf escorted me out through the foyer, then pointed to the door marked by the woman symbol. “Only members and invited guests can use these restrooms. Take your time.”
I had to admit, the view was everything that Rolf had promised. The tall floor-to-ceiling windows presented an unblemished panorama that I’d seen only from an airplane. I was looking east, far beyond the downtown area, practically into the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. The rain had stopped. I could almost believe we were above the clouds; on a foggy day, we would be. Maybe my head was already in the clouds. I certainly felt like a giddy teenager.
Rolf was waiting outside, standing by a table that held a huge arrangement of stargazer lilies, irises, freesias, asters, and alstroemerias. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Amazing,” I declared. “Thanks for the suggestion.”
He took a couple of steps toward me, lowering his voice as a couple of mourners headed for the elevator. “How often do you get to Seattle?”
“Not very often,” I said. “Being my own boss means I don’t get much time off.”
Rolf cocked his head to one side. “Okay. I’m not my own boss. What are you doing weekend after next? Doing in Alpine, that is?”
“Are you serious?”
He looked it. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“But . . . All those women . . . The blondes . . .”
Rolf looked affronted. “Hey, I’ve got time for everybody. Those blondes are yesterday’s news. You know—birdcage liners.”
I didn’t know what to think. Rolf was definitely attractive, but the last thing I needed in my life was to be part of a rake’s progress. “I’m pretty tied up these days. We’ve got a big story—”
He pressed a finger to my lips. “I’m irresistible. I’ll call you over the weekend.” He dropped his hand. “Gotta run now. It’s redhead night for old Rolf. See you in Alpine.” He strode off toward the elevator.
Flummoxed, I returned to the herd, now increasingly noisy and more than adequately celebrating Hank Sails’s life. After I managed to pry Vida away from a growing coterie, we said our farewells and departed.
“Honestly,” Vida said as we took the smooth ride down to the lobby, “I didn’t realize I knew so many people! Why, I met . . .”
She continued in that vein until we were passing through Monroe. I, however, barely heard her. All I could think of was the brazen Rolf Fisher. Or was he enigmatic? I couldn’t tell. But he wasn’t the least like Milo.
Or was he?
I didn’t think Vida had noticed my brief encounter with Rolf Fisher, but I was wrong. Shortly before we made the turn off Highway 2 for Alpine, she inquired about “the handsome man with the beard.” Keeping my tone neutral, I’d reminded her of how Rolf had helped us discover some highly pertinent information concerning the murder of a local college professor. She made only one comment.
“I don’t know him. Should I?”
I merely shrugged.
The next morning, I noticed that Vida was being very selective about returning the phone messages in her in-basket. She made two stacks, which stood about even. Then she tossed one pile into the wastebasket before starting to answer the calls in the other. I assumed she didn’t like critics, especially of her radio program.
Meanwhile, I made a call of my own, to Roseanna Bayard. I asked if she knew that her mother-in-law sold quilts commercially.
“She could have,” Roseanna allowed. “I keep telling you, we weren’t close. For all I know, she could have been in the black-market baby business.”
“Did she ever make a quilt for you and Buddy?”
“Actually, she did,” Roseanna replied. “It was our wedding present. We got it just before our second anniversary. Hang on, Emma, I’ve got another high school senior, and she’s violating the dress code six different ways.”
I could catch a few words of the conversation, which grew fairly heated when Roseanna informed “Stacie” that she couldn’t wear her newsboy’s cap, the plunging neckline was out, as was the belly button—even though it wouldn’t appear in the photo—and the bare arms were verboten.
“But I have to show off my tattoo,” Stacie wailed. “I got it just for my senior picture. See—it’s a picture of my boyfriend, Dex, and it says, ‘Forever Together.’ ”
“If you wanted to show it off, you should have had it put on your face,” Roseanna snapped. “Go home, change clothes, and get back here in fifteen minutes so I don’t have to charge you a cancellation fee.”
I couldn’t catch Stacie’s dwindling protests, but she was obviously giving in.
“Sorry about that, Emma,” Roseanna apologized. “God, these kids. The girls come in here half-naked, and the boys look like they got their clothes at a rummage sale.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “But you ought to know that Gen still has quilts out there that aren’t sold. The attorney should know, too. The profits are part of the estate.”
After giving Roseanna the name and number of the Seattle store’s manager, I decided to call Edmund J. Dreizle myself.
Mr. Dreizle sounded as self-satisfied as his employees. “Ah. The Bayard works. You say you knew Genevieve?” He pronounced her name the French way, Jahn-vee-ev.
I told him I knew her family quite well.
“We had an exclusive contract with Genevieve,” Dreizle said, a note of regret in his voice. “Alas, I’m very saddened by her passing. Such nimble fingers. It required months for her to make a quilt—terribly painstaking work—but they fetched a marvelous price.”
“Who told you she died?” I asked.
There was a pause. “Let me think—I believe it was her son.”
“Buddy?” I said in an incredulous voice.
“Buddy?” He made the name sound distasteful. No doubt he was used to clients who were known as Travis or Stanford or something that ended with III.
“Yes, he’s the only Bayard son I know.”
“No, not anyone called Buddy.” I could hear Dreizle sigh. “I don’t recall the name, to be honest. I was so shocked when he told me that Genevieve was gone. And not that old, either. Her heart, wasn’t it?”
I ignored the question. “Did Gen sell them on consignment?”
“No, no, no,” Dreizle responded. “We bought them directly from her. We’ve carried her items for almost ten years.”
“I liked that green and brown and white one,” I fibbed. “How much is it?”
“I’m afraid we marked it up a bit this morning,” Dreizle hedged. “With her demise—you understand, of course. The well has gone dry, so to speak. But since you were in the store yesterday, I could let you have it for the original price. Fifteen hundred dollars. Believe me, that’s quite a bargain.”
Not for Emma. I wondered what Dreizle and Company had paid Gen. Four, maybe five hundred. I knew better than to ask. Either he wouldn’t tell me or he’d lie.
It was my turn to hedge. “You say it’s an original pattern?”
“Yes. All of Genevieve’s quilts were original. She was not only a marvelous cra
ftswoman, but a creative genius.”
Don’t say that to Vida, I thought. “I don’t suppose you have pictures. That is, of her earlier work. I’m sure the needlework group she belonged to in Alpine would love to see what those quilts looked like.”
“Why . . . certainly. We take photos of all our inventory, for insurance purposes,” Dreizle explained. “I don’t know that I’d have all the quilts, though. Once they’re sold, we tend to dispose of the pictures after a while. Would you like me to send you some? Perhaps you could run them in your newspaper.”
“That would be very nice,” I said. Naturally, Dreizle would expect a free plug for the store, though I doubted that many Alpiners would race into Seattle to buy his pricey homewares.
“It may take a few days,” Dreizle cautioned. “Our records aren’t organized as efficiently as they might be. Michele says we should put everything on a computer, but that seems so . . . cold, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not clever with computers myself,” I confessed, before giving Edmund J. Dreizle the Advocate’s address. I thanked him and hung up.
My next call was to Ben. I got his voice messaging, so I asked if he wanted me to pick up lunch for him and Annie Jeanne. I felt as if I’d been neglecting my brother.
But I couldn’t wait for him to return my call. I had an appointment to interview the new college president, May Hashimoto. She’d barely been in place when fall quarter had started, and couldn’t take time out for the Advocate. I’d considered assigning the story to Scott, but since May and I hadn’t yet met, I deemed it a courtesy to do the interview myself.
My route took me onto Burl Creek Road. I was halfway to the college when I saw two women hailing me some fifty yards ahead. Charlene Vickers and Darlene Adcock were standing by the new Jeep Liberty that Cal had bought for his wife.
“Emma,” Charlene said, as I pulled onto the dirt verge, “have a look at what Dar and I’ve done. You can put it in Vida’s ‘Scene’ column.”
I suppressed a smile. Both women were self-effacing—except when it came to promoting the family businesses. Harvey’s Hardware and Cal’s Texaco would benefit from a front-page mention.