The Quilt Before the Storm

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  About the Artist

  ALSO BY ARLENE SACHITANO

  Copyright Information

  Cataloguing Information

  THE QUILT

  BEFORE

  THE STORM

  A Harriet Truman/Loose Threads Mystery

  ARLENE SACHITANO

  ZUMAYA ENIGMA

  AUSTIN TX

  2012

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing my stories is a long arduous process that would not be possible without the support of friends, family and a host of others. To those who listen, comfort, badger, buy hot chocolate, and all the other activities that make my writing possible—Thank you all.

  I’d like to say a special thanks to my family: Jack, Karen, Annie and Alex, David, Ken and Nikki. I am inspired on a daily basis by my grandchildren, Malakai, Amelia and Claire, as well as Kellen and Lucas. I learn things about innovative thinking every time I talk to them. Also, thanks to my sister Donna, a major influence on my early creativity.

  Thanks to my sister-in-law Beth and her family for her unending support of my marketing endeavors and her persistent encouragement to write every day. Thanks also to Kay and Sally.

  I’d like to acknowledge Susan and Susan for all the things they do, large and small, that make life flow more smoothly.

  Special gratitude goes to Betty and Vern Swearingen of StoryQuilts for their help, support, encouragement and the great dinner adventures at Quilt Market.

  Thanks also to Ruth Derksen for the fun times during the Northwest quilt shows.

  Lastly, thanks to Liz at Zumaya Publications for making all this possible.

  Chapter 1

  The wind threw rain laced with pine needles at the bow window, gusting and swirling before it moved on down her tree-lined driveway. Harriet Truman glanced out at the gathering storm.

  “You know, I could just cook something for us to eat here so we don’t have to go out in the weather,” she said.

  “About dinner.” Aiden Jalbert tipped his head downward and glanced up at her with his catlike white-blue eyes, a crooked half-smile on his lips. He was sitting in one of the two wing-backed chairs in the reception area of her long-arm quilting studio. Harriet sat opposite him in the other.

  She hated the term “boyfriend”—it sounded so high school—but she had yet to find a better word to describe the relationship status of a woman twenty years past high school and a man not long out of veterinary school. If the truth were to be told, boyfriend is exactly how she thought of Aiden, and she was okay with that.

  He reached out and took her hand, pulling her toward him. She stood and shifted over onto his lap.

  “Please don’t tell me you have to work,” she said, studying his face. As the new guy at the clinic, he often got stuck with after-hour duties when problems arose.

  “No, it’s not work.” He sighed.

  “But you’re ditching me,” she prompted as she stroked a stray strand of silky black hair from his eyes.

  “I’m not ditching you,” he protested. “Well, I am, I guess. But not because I want to. Believe me, I’d much rather be eating dinner with you than talking to my sister.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

  “Your sister? You’re ditching me for your sister?” she moaned into his fleece-covered shoulder. “You don’t even like your sister. She tried to sell your house out from under you, for crying out loud.”

  “I know.” He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “She said it was important.”

  “And you believed her?” Harriet sat up straight. “How can you believe anything that comes out of that woman’s mouth?”

  “I can’t. I don’t. But she’s my sister. I have to at least hear what she has to say.”

  “You can’t do that over a quick cup of coffee? She has to ruin our dinner plans?”

  Harriet knew she sounded like a spoiled child, but Michelle had made a bad situation much worse for Aiden when their mother was murdered earlier in the year. She had tried to steal his inheritance, and standing up to her, while necessary, had been very hard on Aiden.

  He pulled her back to his chest.

  “I think this is one of those times when being an only child has limited your perspective. No matter what Michelle has done in the past, or what else she’ll try in the future, she’s still my sister. I won’t let her get close enough to do any harm, but I at least have to hear her out.”

  “I might not know anything about siblings, but I know greed when I see it, and your sister has ‘what’s in it for me’ written all over her face.”

  “She can’t touch my money or property. The lawyers have made sure of that.”

  “It’s not your things I’m worried about. It’s you,” she said, and poked her finger into his chest.

  He leaned his face down and kissed her gently on her mouth.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I told her to meet me at Jorge’s place,” he said referring to Tico’s Tacos, a Mexican restaurant run by Jorge Perez. Jorge was the father of Aiden’s best friend Julio, and he had stepped in to fill the role when Aiden’s own father passed away while the boys were still in grade school. “That way, she can’t even start the discussion about what’s in the house and how Mom meant for her to have it.”

  “She’s done that in the past, I take it?”

  Aiden sighed. “Once or twice.”

  “Did you give her stuff?” Harriet asked, her voice louder than she’d intended.

  His pained silence answered her question.

  “What did you give her?” she pressed.

  “Not much. A necklace. A couple of teacups. Nothing I couldn’t spare. My mom had a lot of stuff, you know.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I know—you’re not the only one I’ve had this discussion with. Jorge told me the same thing. He says she’s toxic. And he said she’s probably selling whatever I give her online as soon as she gets home.”

  Harriet brushed at the errant lock of hair again. He took her hand in his when she’d finished and brought it to his lips before setting it back in her lap.

  “It’s just complicated,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “I know. Just be careful,” she said and pressed her lips gently to his. He tightened his arms around her and deepened the kiss.

  A loud whoosh of wind rattled the bow window again, causing them to separate as tree debris pinged against the window.

  “Hard to believe this isn’t the worst part of the storm yet,” Harriet said as rain fell in sheets outside.

  “I’ve got go,” Aiden said with a glance at his watch. “Michelle’s supposed to be here in an hour, and I have to go by the clinic to check on a dog.”

  “I have fabric to cut anyway. Mavis says we need six more charity quilts for the homeless camp, and she wants them done before the storm hits.”

  She stood up and waited while Aiden stood and put on his ou
ter jacket and a baseball cap with the Main Street Veterinary Clinic logo on the front.

  “Call me?” she said and gave him one last kiss.

  “If it’s not too late,” he said. “Michelle tends to drag our discussions out. She likes to bring up sentimental stories from when we were young to try to soften me up.”

  “Do they work?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” he said. “No one knows your life like the people who’ve lived it with you. Plus, there’s a part of me that really doesn’t care if she has all the stuff. I know it’s not what my mother wanted, and I know it only encourages her when I give in, but still—it’s just stuff.”

  “Okay, go.” She pushed him toward the door.

  She watched out the window until his car disappeared into the rainy gloom then turned back to her cutting table. She had cut four different colors of flannel before Aiden’s arrival and stacked them in piles; her gray cat Fred was batting at the stacks, trying out a new design.

  “I don’t think this is what Mavis has in mind,” she scolded him as she organized the squares by color again.

  “What didn’t Mavis have in mind?” the woman herself asked as she swept into the studio, her coat flapping in the breeze.

  “I was just talking to Fred—he decided to rearrange our fabric. I’ve got one more color to cut if you have time to wait. Aiden came by for a few minutes, so I’m a little behind schedule.”

  “I’ve got a few minutes,” Mavis said as she shrugged out of her coat. “I’m not due at Connie’s for another hour, so take your time. Did your aunt call you? And I could use a cup of tea.

  “No, was she going to?”

  “Well, after I give Connie her pieces, we’ll have three quilts left to go. Beth was thinking we could meet here, if it was okay with you.”

  “Of course it’s okay—it’s her studio.”

  “Was her studio,” Mavis corrected. “She gave it to you, and she’s trying to respect that.”

  “It’s not like she gave it to me and I turned it into a beauty parlor or moved to Mars or something. I am part of the Loose Threads. At least, I was last time I checked.”

  “Like I say, she’s trying to respect your autonomy.”

  “Okay, whatever. The studio is free, and so am I. Aiden’s having dinner with his sister.”

  “That sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

  “Everyone’s told him that, but he can’t say no to her. He says I’d understand if I wasn’t an only child.”

  “Well, sister or not, that girl’s poison, if you ask me.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” Harriet said as she folded a piece of brown plaid flannel and spread it carefully on her cutting mat.

  Mavis unplugged the electric kettle and carried it toward the kitchen.

  “I’m going to get some fresh water, if you don’t mind,” she said as she went through the connecting door to Harriet’s kitchen. She returned a few minutes later and plugged in the now-full kettle. “Connie has another idea for us.” She pulled a stool to the opposite side of the cutting table and eased herself carefully onto it.

  “You seem to be moving a little slow,” Harriet observed as she ran her rotary cutter along the long edge of her Plexiglas quilting ruler, slicing the edge off the piece of fabric.

  “It’s nothing. I banged my hip on the square edge at the top of my bedpost yesterday. Curly was running around while I was making my bed, and I was afraid I was going to step on him. I was looking at my feet instead of where I was going, and now I’m sporting a big purple bruise.”

  “You need to be careful. That little dog isn’t worth you breaking your hip.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Mavis said with a laugh. “You don’t look at his sweet little face staring up at you every morning when you wake up. If he could talk, I know he’d be saying how happy he is that Aiden rescued him and brought him to live at my house.”

  “Cute or not, he’s not worth breaking your hip, or worse, over.”

  Mavis sighed and rolled her eyes skyward.

  “You just wait until you get Scooter home,” she said, referring to the small, mostly hairless dog who was still living at the Main Street Veterinary Clinic, recovering from a series of skin grafts he’d needed after spending his short life living in squalor in the bottom cage of a tall stack in a dog-hoarding home.

  The Loose Threads had all participated in a socialization program, holding the neglected dogs and getting them used to human contact so they could become eligible for adoption. So far, as each dog had graduated from the program, it had been adopted by the Loose Thread who had socialized it. They were now working on a second group of animals, hoping to release them to the public when they were ready.

  “Who’s saying Scooter’s coming to live here?”

  “Don’t even go there. We all see how you look at that little fellow.”

  “Well, he’s still weeks away from being released medically. That urine burn on his back was so deep it has to heal more before they can get a permanent skin graft to take.”

  “So, back to the quilts,” Mavis said. “Connie came up with an idea to solve our problem.”

  “Our problem?” Harriet asked, looking up at her friend as she did.

  “It’s not our problem, exactly, but Connie and I have been talking about how we’re making all these warm quilts for the people at the homeless camp, but we’re not addressing the wetness issue. We’re getting tons of rain, and the ground is so saturated that even if they’ve got a tarp or tent overhead, their quilt is going to get wet and we’ve accomplished nothing.”

  “And the solution is?”

  “Connie saw an article in the Seattle paper about a young University of Oregon college student who did a workshop project that involved making portable shelters from discarded materials. She won the competition with her tarp made from plastic grocery bags, which she then sent to Haiti after the earthquake there.

  “They call them quilts because they look like patchwork when they’re finished. A group of quilters added some of that thin plastic drop cloth material, ironing it over the whole thing so they could layer in flowers or letters or other decorations cut from dark-colored plastic bags.

  “In both cases, you lay a piece of tracing paper or parchment over the layers and iron the whole thing. According to the people who’ve made them, it sticks together. The college students even slept outside using theirs to field test them, and they say they were quite comfortable.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “Well, let’s not be too amazed until we try it. Connie’s been collecting grocery bags from everyone she knows since she read the article, so she’s got enough for a couple of tarps, and if it works, we can probably get more. She said it takes about four hundred bags after you cut off the handles and bottoms to make a ten-by-twelve tarp.”

  “Why don’t you see if she wants to come here tonight? We can try the tarp idea, give her the flannel squares, and some of us can work on sewing quilt squares at the same time.”

  “I’ll call,” Mavis started to get up, but was interrupted when the door blew open and a cluster of wet brown leaves sailed in on a cold blast of wind, landing in a soggy mess on the reception area rug. She went to the door and shut it, locking it this time.

  An hour and a half later, Connie Escorcia, Mavis Willis, Harriet and Beth, Harriet’s aunt, were assembled in the quilt studio looking down at an array of plastic bags spread out on the large table and covered with thin clear plastic. Connie had cut three large daisy shapes from a green-and-yellow bag and now arranged them artfully between the bags and the plastic. She laid a large sheet of white tracing paper over the corner of the plastic sandwich and pressed a hot iron to the surface. The smell of melting plastic filled the air.

  Harriet found a box fan and set it up on a stool so it was at table level, facing away from the project.

  “I hate to open a window the way it’s storming out there, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped.” She went to one of the sm
all windows to one side of the bow window and opened it about an inch. The wind whistled, and cold air shot into the room.

  Aunt Beth pulled her sweater closed across her ample midriff.

  “I hope this is as bad as this storm is going to get,” she said and turned her back to the window.

  “The weatherman says this is nothing compared to what it will be,” Connie said and, after receiving a nod from Harriet, pressed the iron down on the next section.

  “What are you guys doing?” Lauren Sawyer said as she came in from the driveway, pushing the door closed with a bang. “I knocked, but nobody even looked up, so I let myself in with that key you gave me.”

  “Come on in and make yourself some tea,” Aunt Beth invited. “It’s so noisy in here with the trees scratching on the windows, we didn’t hear you.”

  “What are you doing with that iron? It smells horrible.”

  “We’re making tarps out of plastic grocery bags,” Harriet told her. “Want to help?”

  “Don’t you still have some quilts that need to be sewn?” she asked. “That’s why I came by. I turned in a design to a client, and I can’t do anything more until they test the first part, so I have a little free time.”

  “How nice of you to think of the project,” Connie said.

  “You say that like I don’t do my share,” Lauren shot back.

  “Now, honey, I meant nothing of the kind. Harriet, don’t you have some fabric that still needs cutting?”

  Harriet got Lauren set up at the cutting table with a ruler, rotary cutter and several yards of brown plaid flannel.

  “Where did you get so much of the brown flannel?” Lauren asked. “Didn’t we put this in every quilt, front and back?”