Art's Blood

by Vicki Lane

  “Now this here is my pride and joy.” Aunt Omie lifted a flannel-wrapped object from the bottom of the chest. “This here is the Fanchon quilt.”

  She laid the bundle on the bed and began to pull aside the flannel as reverently as a priest unveiling a holy relic. “You’ll not never see one to equal hit.”

  * * *

  “Phillip, I don’t know why I didn’t bring my camera. Anyway, I’ve got to go back and get a picture of that quilt. It’s just incredible.”

  “Are you talking about the one with all the animals on it? Aunt Omie used to let me have it on my bed when I stayed with her. I’d make up stories about the different squares.”

  “That’s the one. Do you realize that quilt is probably worth thousands of dollars? It’s a folk art masterpiece! Your aunt said it was originally commissioned as a gift for President Roosevelt but then it was stolen and hidden away before it could be taken to Washington.”

  They were on their way back to Full Circle Farm, driving past fields of ripening tobacco, deep greens shading to bright yellow in the rich bottoms by the creeks. Snowy-white Queen Anne’s lace drifted along the roadsides, and waves of blue chicory washed over abandoned fields. In one late-planted field two Mexican workers were topping the very last row of tobacco. Bees, butterflies, and even hummingbirds swarmed frantically around the few remaining clusters of fragrant pink blossoms on the untopped plants.

  Elizabeth watched the scene with a little pang of nostalgia; topping had been her favorite job back when she and Sam had raised tobacco. The smell of the flowers had been sweet and strong and the work relatively easy. But “’baccer’s over,” as Miss Birdie had told her in the early summer when Elizabeth had marveled that so few of her neighbors were planting their usual acre or two of the traditional cash crop. The government support system for tobacco, which had once assured farmers of a minimum price, had ended, and only a few big growers were willing to take a chance and invest in a crop with no guaranteed return. All across the county, little fields had been turned to pasture or left to grow up. A way of life was ending.

  “I remember now.” Phillip’s voice brought her back to the present. “There was an odd story connected with that quilt…someone named, what was it, something weird—?”

  “Fanchon— she’s the one who made the quilt. Aunt Omie told me all about it. Fanchon and Tildy lived on a neighboring farm back in the thirties, when your aunt was just a little girl. She evidently just worshiped Fanchon, who was older. Your aunt got all misty-eyed talking about her— said that Fanchon was the prettiest, smartest girl around. She could play drop-thumb banjo and sing all the old ballads and tell stories and buck dance— but I guess you know all this—”

  Phillip smiled, his eyes on the road. “It’s been a long time; you go on and refresh my memory.”

  “Well, it sounds almost like a fairy tale. Fanchon was an orphan who was taken in by Tildy’s family when both girls were toddlers. According to your aunt, Tildy was homely and sullen, as different from Fanchon as night and day.”

  Aunt Omie had been explicit. “Jode and Marthy laid out to make no difference ’twixt the two girls when first they took in little Fanchon. Their other children had died of the Spanish influenza, like so many did back then, and they thought Tildy would be happy for a sister. But that Tildy had been a colicky baby and her temper was just plumb sour from the beginning. From the earliest I can recollect, Tildy was just hateful to poor Fanchon.”

  “So where does the animal quilt come into this?” asked Phillip, slowing for the turn up the half mile of gravel road that was Full Circle Farm’s driveway.

  “I think Aunt Omie said a ‘Yankee woman’ commissioned a quilt to be presented to President and Mrs. Roosevelt. There was a lot of interest back then in reviving the traditional crafts and helping the mountaineers, as they were called, to market their stuff. So anyway, the quilt was months in the making. You know how each square has a family of animals on it— bull, cow, and calf, possum and babies—”

  “That was my favorite— the possum with her tail curved over her back and all the little possums hanging from it by their tails.”

  “Well, anyway, Fanchon must have put in hundreds of hours of work— I can’t even imagine. And she and the Yankee woman were going to the White House to give the quilt to the President and ‘all kindly of fancy goin’s on,’ as your aunt put it. But when the Yankee woman came to take Fanchon to the train station, the quilt couldn’t be found. They searched high and low but it had vanished.”

  “I remember now,” said Phillip. “The trip was called off; Fanchon married a local boy, and they moved to Detroit. Everyone suspected that Tildy had been the one to take the quilt because she was so jealous of Fanchon. But evidently Fanchon didn’t hold it against her, because when Tildy’s parents died, she went to Detroit to live with Fanchon and her husband.”

  “And then, almost twenty years later, Aunt Omie found the animal quilt in an old trunk in her own barn loft,” Elizabeth added. “But when she wrote to Fanchon about it, Fanchon wrote back to say that the quilt had bad memories for her and she didn’t want it.”

  Phillip parked the car beside Elizabeth’s waiting jeep. Elizabeth was a little surprised to see Kyra emerge from the barn that was the wreath-making workshop. She came toward them, smiling shyly. “Hi, Mrs.— I mean, Elizabeth. I was getting Ben to show me how to do the wreaths. I thought maybe I could help out some while I’m staying with you.”

  Ben came out of the barn with a big grin on his face. He carried a small wreath made of gray-green rosemary sprigs accented by a cluster of dark red dried roses. He held up the fragrant circle for Elizabeth’s inspection. “Real good for a first try, wouldn’t you say?” He patted Kyra’s arm. “Talented and good-looking.”

  Kyra murmured, “Ben, don’t,” then looked up at Phillip and held out her hand. “I’m Kyra Peterson. You must be the detective Laurel told me about. I really appreciate your coming out to help me.”

  Elizabeth was amazed to see Phillip’s darkly tanned face blush. He shook the outstretched hand briefly. “I’m Phillip Hawkins. I’m not a detective anymore; I want to make that clear. I’m just here as…as a friend of the family.” He shot an enigmatic glance at Elizabeth.

  Kyra continued to gaze up at him. “Laurel said that you had lots of friends in the Asheville Police Department. Maybe you can help me; I need answers to some questions.” Elizabeth noticed for the first time just how thick and long the eyelashes that framed Kyra’s green eyes were, how they lowered slowly, then fluttered upward.

  “Well, my buddy Hank is working the case,” Phillip admitted. “I talked to him last night and he told me a few things. What is it you want to know?”

  They all moved to the low stone wall by the barn and sat in the welcome shade of the big dogwood that stretched its limbs above them.

  Kyra looked at Phillip, her eyes wide and pleading. “I need to know about Boz. The police wouldn’t tell me anything except where they found him and that he was…that he was dead.” She hesitated, drew a soft breath, and went on. “They arrested Aidan, so I guess that means they believe Boz was murdered. But I’ve been thinking. You know, the plan was for Boz to go somewhere to hide out. Maybe he thought it would be funny to use one of Rafiq’s cars. Everyone knew that Rafiq wouldn’t be at the junkyard till Monday. Boz could have gotten in the car and…and maybe he passed out. He’d been drinking a lot at the performance. And then…I don’t know…some kind of weird accident…maybe the crusher just started on its own….” Her voice trailed off in confusion as Phillip slowly shook his head.

  “Kyra, didn’t the arresting officers mention that Boz had been shot?” His gravelly voice was unusually gentle as he spoke.

  “Shot? Shot? How?”

  “It was in the morning newspaper, but I guess you don’t—”

  “How was he shot?” Kyra’s tone was demanding, her eyes emerald ice. “Just tell me— how was Boz shot?”

  With a face full of pity, Phillip met her gaze.
“In the back of the head. What they call execution style.”

  FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL— SECOND ENTRY

  C called with the news before I was even downstairs. He has so many contacts and he loves gossip more than any woman. When he began, I cut him off, telling him that I knew all about it, K having warned me so that I could leave if I so chose, before the charade began. Charade, my dear Lily? he said, bursting with excitement. Over the phone, I could almost hear his eyebrows arching. Yes, charade, I said, annoyed at being kept from my tea, my toast and marmalade. Surely everyone has realized that by now.

  Then you haven’t heard, he exclaimed, with indecent delight. That very ugly young man, really too rough trade, well he’s turned up dead. And they say that the beautiful boy— Aidan, isn’t it?— will be arrested.

  By the time he had disburdened himself of all the ghastly details, I no longer wanted my breakfast. I rang for Reba and told her to send Buckley to me, but she said he had taken the car in for servicing and wouldn’t be back till after lunch. Sometimes Buckley acts too precipitously. I hope—

  No, surely not. I had only told him—

  Enough of these silly speculations. I lay back in bed to consider how this would affect K, still so fragile. The telephone rang again and it was her father, evidently with the same concern.

  I have been asked by some why I maintain a cordial relationship with M after his second marriage and the accompanying revelations. Generally I ignore such questions out of existence, but in this journal, I am forced to acknowledge that I don’t entirely know the answer.

  I have always had great respect for M as a self-made man. Furthermore, he has invariably given me excellent advice about my portfolio— I am many times wealthier today than I was when my husband died. In the matter of his second marriage— let me be plain for once— the matter of M’s mistress— I reserve judgment. There were circumstances unknown to everyone but R, M, and myself.

  Love— pure, deep love— can exist without carnality, though not nearly so easily as carnality without love. I believe that to be true but my mind flies back to my parting with F and I am no longer sure.

  I think that, here in these pages, I shall for the first and last time set down the story that I have carried, like a pearl within an oyster, an irritation in my heart, for so many years. Perhaps once I have done so and when these pages are nothing but black ashes, I can forget.

  Very well. It began in Boston in 1933. Although the Great Depression was under way, my life went on much as usual— Symphony, lunches with Mother at the Chilton Club, shopping at Stearns— but the sight of the many unemployed men on the streets and the lines at the soup kitchens turned my thoughts away from social frivolities and toward what my grandmother had always called Good Works. In spite of being a regular participant at Sewing Circle and being involved in various volunteer opportunities through the Junior League, I longed to do more. Indeed, had I been a Roman Catholic, as Dr. P facetiously suggested, I might well have entered a nursing order, such was my desire for sacrifice. I had offered my services at a soup kitchen run by our church, but my mother, unhappy at seeing me in such company, had contrived to find excuses to keep me with her almost every day.

  My twenty-first birthday had just passed when I attended a lecture at the Chilton Club and learned of the Appalachian missions. The women who spoke told of the rugged mountaineers, living amid great natural beauty, but in circumstances of appalling poverty and backwardness. I remember Miss Carolyn, her plain face shining with excitement as she threw wide her arms and called out in a voice that quivered with supplication, Please, Women of Boston, listen! Hear the mournful call of your sisters in the southern mountains! They are begging, crying for your help.

  The audience was generous with contributions but, though I gave to the extent that my dress allowance would permit, I was not satisfied. I was determined to take an active part in the efforts to lift these backward folk out of their squalor and misery. I was eager to be of service, to suffer hardship in order to do good, to expunge some of the guilt I felt at leading a comfortable life while all around me people went hungry. And— for I am being honest here— I was eager to leave home, eager for the adventure of meeting with the mountaineers of whom such a compelling picture was painted by Miss Carolyn Hedley and Miss Geneva Mills.

  These two inspiring ladies had spent the previous three years in western North Carolina, helping local women to develop and market their handicrafts. Miss Carolyn and Miss Geneva told thrilling stories of riding on muleback up lonesome hollows to ramshackle cabins peopled by a hardy folk who spoke a dialect that Shakespeare would have recognized. They told of discovering women who still spun wool from their own sheep, dyed it with decoctions of their own making, and wove it into intricately patterned coverlets on great rude looms handed down from their grandmothers.

  There are women and girls all over those mountains, said Miss Geneva, who work like slaves in the fields. They are barefoot; they are ragged; they are worn out before they are forty. If we can help these women to supplement the meager income of the farm with their handicrafts, we can bring them a step closer to the modern world.

  I was one of several who spoke with Miss Hedley after the talk and then and there I committed myself to their mission in Shut In, a tiny community in the mountains near Asheville.

  It was fortunate that my mother and father (typical insular Bostonians) had heard of Asheville. Indeed, Mother’s best friend’s son had attended The Asheville School after being asked to leave Groton under circumstances that were evidently so outré he was exiled from the usual acceptable schools and sent south. I’m sure that Eleonora told me that they have a Junior League there, Mother said, clutching at straws. You can transfer your membership and that way you’ll meet the right people.

  So I let them believe that I would be staying in Asheville. It made leaving so much easier. My parents had become weary of my idealism and my scorn for their (our!) way of life, and I think they put me on the train for North Carolina with something of relief. I overheard Father telling my mother that they might as well let me get this foolishness out of my system, that I would be home before six months was past, and that at least it wasn’t Bolshevism like the Lawrences’ daughter….

  CHAPTER 5

  THE NANNY

  (TUESDAY, AUGUST 30)

  AT THE WORDS “EXECUTION STYLE,” A SMALL, INVOLUNTARY sound escaped Kyra’s lips and she turned away, burying her face in her hands. Instantly Ben was at her side, his arms around her.

  “Aunt E, let’s go up to the house.” He helped the trembling Kyra into the backseat of the jeep and climbed in beside her.

  “Phillip, please, come with us.” Elizabeth took her place behind the wheel without waiting for an answer. Phillip hesitated a moment, then climbed into the passenger seat. All four were silent on the short bumpy ride up to Elizabeth’s house. In the rearview mirror, Elizabeth could see that Kyra’s head was on Ben’s shoulder, her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be shaking with silent sobs.

  Once inside the house, Kyra regained her composure and they all sat around the dining table with glasses of the inevitable iced tea. “I’m sorry that I acted so…so…” She fought back her tears and continued. “It was just that…” She shot a penetrating look at Phillip. “Do you know who my father is? And do you know how my mother died?”

  “I told Phillip a little about your family, Kyra,” Elizabeth admitted. “I thought he’d need to know in order to help you better.”

  “Did you tell him that my mother was shot in the back of the head?” Kyra’s words tumbled out in a relentless torrent. “That I was the one who found her? Did you tell him about my father’s second wife? Did you tell him—” There was an edge of frenzy to her voice now.

  Phillip broke in, his words calm and reassuring. “Elizabeth gave me the story as it was reported in the newspapers, Kyra. Now you need to tell me what you know about Boz.”

  Kyra buried her face in her hands and spoke in muffled tones. �
�I think it was my father. Maybe he didn’t pull the trigger but I think he made it happen. Just like my mother—” The fingers of her right hand sought the tattooed roses on her left hand and began to rub, as if to imprint them on the bone beneath the skin. “He hated Boz even more than Aidan. But this way they’d both be out of the way…” She looked pleadingly at Phillip. “I don’t know how I can prove it. He’s smart; he’s always gotten away with things.”

  “Have you ever told the police that you suspect him of being involved in your mother’s death?”

  A bitter laugh twisted Kyra’s lips. “My father plays golf every Saturday with the chief of police. So, no, I haven’t bothered with the authorities.” She pressed her hand to her mouth for a moment. “Right after it happened…after my mother died, when I went back to school, I did tell Miss Wingate. She was one of my teachers at Vassar and I really felt close to her. Anyway, she knew what had happened and went out of her way to make sure I was okay. She was someone I really trusted and eventually I told her that I thought my father had something to do with the murder. I told her how for as long as I could remember I’d been afraid of him. And I think my mother was too.”

  Kyra looked around the table. Her fingers caressed the tattooed roses, more slowly now, but still without a pause. “I told Miss Wingate all this and the next thing I knew, I was being sent to a private clinic in Massachusetts to recover from my so-called nervous breakdown. I was at the clinic for the whole semester. When I went back to school, Miss Wingate was gone and no one would tell me how to get in touch with her. Everyone was really nice to me, but if I wanted to talk about my mother’s murder, they would just ask if I’d taken my meds. That’s when I dropped out of school.”

  Kyra told them how she had often seen dark bruises on her mother’s arms. “She’d try to hide them and if I asked, she’d just laugh and say something about how clumsy she was. But I’m sure he had hurt her. She always slept in her own room but I remember, when I was little, sometimes I’d wake up at night and hear her crying and pleading with him— I think she was terrified of him. Reba, our housekeeper, told me things…. She didn’t mean to but she was my nurse back then and sometimes she let things slip. She’s always tried to protect me….”