Quilt As Desired Read online

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  She finished her last quilt of the day at five-thirty. That only gave her a half-hour to get ready for her not-a-date, but that was more than enough. She dashed through the shower again, ran a comb through her short damp hair and got into her dress and scarf. She went down to the studio to wait. Since this wasn't a date, there was no reason to invite Harold—or anyone else, for that matter, into the private part of the house.

  Aiden had said he would bring Avanell's quilt by this evening, and six o'clock could barely be considered that. But she had still hoped he would arrive before she left. Besides Sarah's, which she assumed she would get at ten tomorrow morning, Avanell's was the only one she didn't have. She had called the cleaners this morning as she'd promised, and they hadn't anticipated any problems cleaning it, but you never knew. She couldn't call Avanell, and Aiden had said he would be on the road most of the day.

  In the end, she wrote a note and said she'd be back by nine. She admonished him to not leave the quilt on her doorstep, pinned the note to her door and hoped for the best. She really didn't want the quilt in his hands any longer than absolutely necessary, but it couldn't be helped.

  Harold arrived, wearing sharply creased navy blue flannel pants with a crisp white shirt and red bow tie. Harriet gave him points for having his hair cut short enough he didn't have to deal with the possibility of a comb-over. His face was fleshy enough it was hard to determine his age.

  He came to the front door in spite of her instructions to Avanell to the contrary. He took the purple pashmina shawl she had found in Aunt Beth's closet from her and draped it over her shoulders. It probably made her look old, but he didn't seem to notice. She glanced at his expectantly crooked elbow and brushed past him, leading the way down the steps to his car.

  She nearly fainted at the door to the meeting hall as she inhaled deeply the rich aroma of food—really good, clog-your-arteries, high-calorie food. The scents of beef and garlic and roasted vegetables filled the air; tendrils of fragrance following her as she moved into the room. It was every bit as good as she had hoped. There were mushroom caps filled with a bread crumb-and-cheese mixture with toasted Parmesan on top, and crostini with pork liver pate with tart cornichons. There was a whole table of cheese that featured a wheel of baked Brie covered with dried cranberries, and an unusual goat's milk feta with herbs. And both bread and crackers.

  And that was just the snacks. A succulent prime rib was the main course. It was served on warm plates with mashed garlic potatoes and a creamy horseradish sauce that was blended to perfection. The meal was topped off with a rich crème brûlée. It was a clever ploy—when the Chamber president asked for donations for the new playground equipment for North Park, donors were so satiated they opened their wallets wide in appreciation. Harold presented a check for a thousand dollars from the Vitamin Factory. For a non-date, it could have been a lot worse.

  Harold pulled his black Cadillac El Dorado into her driveway at precisely nine p.m. She didn't want to make any snap judgments, but based on how quickly he had hustled her out to the car after the last speech was done he either had a hot date or a curfew. He drove just over the speed limit all the way home and had backed out of the driveway before she had her key in the door.

  "Well, good night to you, too,” she said out loud.

  She had automatically gone to the studio entrance, since it was the nearest door to where he let her out on the circular driveway. She climbed the two steps to the small landing. She was still marveling about her evening as she reached for the doorknob with her key.

  If she hadn't been distracted, she probably would have noticed sooner that her door wasn't locked. In fact, the door itself wasn't all the way shut.

  She remembered locking it right after she turned the long-arm machine off.

  She backed up slowly. She stepped down the two risers backward, reaching into her purse at the same time.

  Damn, she thought. Aunt Beth had a collection of small decorative purses left over from an earlier attempt to combine her fiber arts projects with commerce. Harriet had helped herself to a purple-and-blue one. When she transferred the contents of her shapeless black everyday bag into it, her cell phone had made a bulge no matter how she positioned it. In the end she'd tossed the phone onto her dresser.

  The crunch of tires on gravel shocked her out of her paralysis. She looked over her shoulder but couldn't see anything in the glare of the headlights coming slowly toward her from the downhill end of her driveway. The robber must have come back.

  The small hairs rose on the back of her neck—she knew she couldn't run far in her black dress pumps.

  She looked up the other side of the driveway. It was dark. If she could get around the curve, she just might be able to push through the hedge into Mrs. Morse's yard. She turned and started up the drive.

  She heard a car door open then footsteps crunching in the gravel. The hedge was a few feet in front of her. The footsteps were getting closer. She reached the hedge and forced her way into the sharp branches. It was an old hedge; and once she was through, the leafless branches closed around her, giving the illusion of safety.

  The footsteps stopped then started again. She couldn't see through the wall of leaves. She could envision the robber searching the driveway to see where she went. If he looked closely at the hedge, he would surely see the broken branches where she'd plunged inside.

  He stopped again.

  Harriet moved the branch in front of her face. She could see his form right in front of her hiding spot. She had to think. She felt around her for something she could use as a weapon—a large branch would have been handy. She carefully bent down and patted the ground by her feet. Her left hand closed over a cold metal pipe. She slowly lifted it. It wasn't a pipe at all. It was an oscillating sprinkler. Probably not the best weapon; but if she swung it with both hands, it should give her enough time to dash back to the house.

  The man leaned toward Harriet's hiding place. He must be looking at her point of entrance. She raised the sprinkler as high as she could. Any minute now he would push the branches aside, and she'd have a clear shot.

  A hand appeared on her side of the branches, quickly followed by a dark head. Harriet sprang. She hit the man hard.

  "Ouch!” he yelled.

  Harriet ran for it. She might have gotten away, but he reached up and grabbed her wrist with his free hand. His other was pressed to his forehead, where blood was beginning to seep through his fingers.

  "Harriet, it's me—Aiden."

  "Aiden?"

  "Why did you hit me?"

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I brought my mother's quilt,” he said. “Like I said I would. Wednesday night. I came earlier, but there was a note on your door that said to come back at nine."

  "Aiden,” Harriet said, “I'm so sorry."

  "What were you doing running up the driveway like that and then jumping into the hedge? Did you forget to take your medication?"

  "No, I did not forget my medication,” she fairly shouted. “What am I saying—I don't have medication. And let go of me."

  He dropped his hold on her wrist.

  "Mom said you came here to recover,” he said. “Then I see you staggering up the driveway and hopping into a hedge—in a dress. What was I supposed to think?"

  "I wasn't staggering. You should try to walk in gravel with heels on. You'd stagger, too."

  He moved his hand from his forehead, and blood started trickling down his forehead and onto his nose.

  "Oh, my God,” Harriet said. “I've hurt you. Let me look."

  He took a step back, avoiding her touch.

  "I'm not going to hurt you,” she said.

  "I think I'll take my chances and drive home."

  "You can't go."

  "Is that why you hit me? To make me stay?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. I thought you were a robber."

  "Of course, you did,” he said, and turned to go.

  "Can I at least use your
cell phone before you go?"

  "Are you serious? Use your own phone. I'm out of here."

  She grabbed his arm. “Please,” she begged.

  "Fine,” he said and pulled a flip phone from his pocket. He opened it and handed it to her.

  She dialed 911.

  "What are you doing?” he asked and grabbed for the phone. She turned away from him as she identified herself and described her problem.

  "Yes, I came home from dinner a few minutes ago, and my door was open ... Yes, I'm sure it was locked when I left for dinner ... No, I didn't go inside. I wasn't sure if anyone was in there or not ... Okay, I'll wait across the street. Thanks."

  She flipped the phone shut and handed it back to Aiden.

  "Someone broke into your house?” he asked.

  "Yes, and I would have told you so if you hadn't been so busy accusing me of being mad."

  "Sorry, I was a little distracted by being clubbed in the head with an oscillating sprinkler. Did they take anything?"

  "How should I know? I found the lock had been forced and the door was slightly open. For all I know, the robber could still be in there."

  "So, your door was ajar? That's your evidence of robbery? Maybe your aunt gave her house keys to one of her friends. That group does that, you know. Mavis scared me out of a year's growth when I was seventeen and thought I was home alone. I went downstairs after my shower to get a can of soda without bothering to get dressed, and ... well, you can imagine. I haven't been able to find my mom tonight. Maybe she's in there using your aunt's big table or something."

  My big table, Harriet thought, but didn't say anything. She could hear the siren drawing closer.

  "Well, it's too late now,” she said. “The police are almost here, and I said I'd wait across the street."

  "Do you always do what you're told?"

  Harriet was spared from having to answer by the arrival of the police.

  Chapter Ten

  "Is anyone in there?” the police officer asked. He was young and Asian, and wore a black plastic tag that said Nguyen. Harriet took great comfort from the large gun strapped to his side.

  "We don't know,” she said. “This is my aunt's house. I live here now. But she's gone on a cruise. I got home and found the door unlocked and open."

  Another patrol car pulled up; two officers got out. The driver was a skinny blonde woman with leathery skin, her partner a chunky, red-faced guy. The Asian officer explained the situation to the two newcomers, and they drew their guns and headed for the house.

  "So, what did the guy look like?” the Asian police officer asked Harriet.

  "What guy?"

  "The one that popped him,” he said, and hooked a thumb toward Aiden, who now had blood dripping off his chin. “Which way did he go?” He took a closer look at Aiden. “You want me to call an ambulance for you?"

  Harriet and Aiden looked at each other.

  "We haven't seen anyone,” Aiden said. “And, ah, this is unrelated to the robbery. I got here just after Harriet discovered the door was open."

  The officer took a long look at each of them. Harriet blushed but didn't say anything.

  "You need to get that checked, it looks like you might need stitches,” he said.

  The three of them waited in silence until the other two came out of the house.

  "There's no one in there,” the woman said. Aiden gave Harriet an “I told you so” look.

  The red-faced guy joined the group.

  "Somebody's sure been here, though."

  Harriet bolted for the door.

  "Wait,” Aiden said, but she was already out of reach.

  She opened the door and stopped. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

  Aiden caught up to her. “Oh, my God,” he said.

  What was left of the quilts lay in pieces on every surface. Wisps of cotton batting hung in jagged ropes from torn edges. Thread spools were strewn over the floor and the cutting table top looked as if someone had picked up the thread rack and thrown it in anger. The piecrust table was on its side by the window, its tea cups in shattered pieces on the floor.

  "Don't touch anything,” the Asian officer said from behind them. “I've called the crime scene analysts. You'll need to stay out until they finish."

  Harriet shivered.

  "You can sit in the back of my car if you want. I can turn it on and run the heater."

  "That won't be necessary,” Aiden said. “If it's okay, we'll go back to my place so I can get a bandage on this cut. I'm living in the apartment over the Main Street Vet Clinic."

  "Vet clinic?” Harriet said, and then screamed. “Fred!"

  Aiden clamped his hands onto her shoulders. The policeman looked at him, but he had no clue as to who Fred was either.

  "My cat,” Harriet explained and started to cry.

  "Your cat is fine,” the female officer said as she walked over to the group. “He's a little freaked, but he's on the top shelf of the bookcase upstairs. He looked totally okay, and I don't think he's going anywhere. We'll make sure the crime scene people keep the doors shut."

  The criminalists arrived and got out of their car. Harriet was relieved Darcy Lewis was one of them. Darcy was a drop-in member of Loose Threads, a petite, thirty-year-old single mother. Her brown hair was cut in a short shag style that made her look like Peter Pan.

  "Aren't you the quilt depot for the Tacoma show?” she asked.

  Harriet nodded silently, the misery apparent on her face.

  "I'll start in your studio, and then we can let you in while we do the rest,” Darcy said and joined her partner, an older man who carried two boxes of equipment into Harriet's workspace.

  Foggy Point wasn't big enough to employ one criminalist full time, let alone the three they had, so they contracted their services to small communities all over western Washington. That meant Darcy got to do what she had always wanted to do without having to move to a big city, but in return she was on the road a lot. It was not unusual for her to get called out at night, which allowed her to use comp time and attend Loose Threads every now and then.

  "You should be able to go into your studio in about an hour, give or take,” she said. “Quilts can be repaired. Just be glad you weren't here when these clowns showed up."

  * * * *

  Harriet walked into the studio and flicked the overhead light on. She and Aiden had gone to his apartment, where she'd helped him clean up the cut on his head and then applied butterfly strips. He assured her he was a quick healer and that in a few days no one would even know he'd been beaten with a sprinkler.

  The workroom was a riot of color as they entered; but instead of a complementary arrangement of pattern and shape, the scene was harsh and discordant. Pastels fought with crayon colors and muddy browns and grays. Quilts were strewn everywhere, their bindings hanging like Spanish moss from the edges. The shelf cubicles were empty. The box of show quilts had been upended, and the remains were all over the floor. Carry bags of all types littered the space.

  She went to the show quilts first. She picked up Connie's bright sherbet-colored one and held it up. It had picked up a few thread clippings from the floor, but it seemed otherwise intact. She folded it and laid it on the seat of the wing chair. Jenny's purple quilt just needed its binding reapplied on one side. It, too, got folded and placed on the chair.

  DeAnn's hadn't fared as well. She had done a simple eight-pointed star block called Peaceful Hours. It had a second set of smaller points that surrounded a center octagon. Both sets of points were densely stitched, which allowed the octagon to puff up. Several of the octagons had been cut open. DeAnn could repair the tears and applique a motif in the octagons, but sewing small shaped fabric pieces over a background fabric with stitches that were essentially invisible was slow, painstaking work under ideal conditions. Performing the technique as a method of covering damaged fabric would be difficult, and it was unlikely it could be accomplished in time for the show.

  Two seams had been split ope
n on Robin McLeod's log cabin quilt, but again, it was damage that could be repaired.

  There didn't seem to be a rhyme or reason to the carnage. Some quilts were shredded beyond recognition while others were barely touched, as if the attacker had tired of ripping them up partway through.

  "I need to call the Loose Threads,” she said with grim determination.

  "You know it's almost eleven o'clock, right?” Aiden pointed out.

  "Trust me, they won't care. I'm supposed to take their quilts to the show tomorrow. They're going to want all the time available to fix the damage, if that's even possible."

  She looked around the floor, found the phone and then the phone book. She dialed Mavis Willis first. Mavis hadn't lost anything in the carnage, but besides Avanell she was the only group member Harriet had known for more than a couple of weeks. She was sure Mavis would know who should be called tonight and how to break the news of what had happened. Besides, with the contents of her desk in the mix on the floor, she'd need Mavis to fill in some last names and phone numbers.

  "Honey, you just hang on while I throw on some clothes and grab my stitching bag. I'll be right over,” Mavis said as soon as she heard the news.

  "She's on her way,” she told Aiden and hung up.

  "I tried to call my mom again while you were on the phone,” Aiden said and flipped his cell phone shut. “It's weird. She's not answering anywhere."

  "Maybe she's working late,” Harriet said. “The reason she didn't go to the Chamber dinner tonight was so she could work. Maybe she's still there."

  "I guess. She must be out in the factory and can't hear the phone. It's just weird. Mom has to look behind the shower curtain to make sure no one is in the house after dark when she's home alone. It's hard to imagine her in the factory by herself. And it's not like her to be out of touch."

  "Maybe she's not alone.” Harriet didn't want to point out that his mother might have found a boyfriend in the three years he was out of the country.