Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (33 page)

His friends scoffed, and jeered him when the first key didn’t work, but their laughter ended when the second turned in the lock. “What are you doing?” demanded Greg, looking frantically over his shoulder.

“Nothing.” Brent slipped inside; they followed without prompting. “Let’s just look around.”

“Don’t turn on the lights,” hissed Will.

Greg yanked his hand away from the switch as if it burned. “I can’t see a thing in here,” he complained, stumbling into a display of fabric and knocking it on the floor.

For a long moment they smothered their laughter, shushed each other, and listened with hearts pounding for the police or an alarm. When nothing happened, Brent said, “Be careful, you guys,” and shoved over a magazine rack.

Greg laughed and with one sweep of his arm cleared a whole counter of pins and other stuff that went pinging to the floor.

Brent laughed and said, “I hope you have your gloves on.”

Greg held up his gloved hands and grinned, but Will said, “Wait. How’d you get that key?”

“Todd Sonnenberg’s mom works here.”

“Her? Say no more.” Will strode over to a bolt of fabric, seized the edge of the cloth in both hands, and flung it so it unrolled in the air. Brent and Greg cheered quietly and grabbed bolts of their own. It became a contest: whose fabric streamer went the highest, the farthest, which cardboard roller knocked over the most stuff when it fell.

Then Greg thought to look for a cash register; they rang up a no sale and cleaned it out without worrying about dividing up the money evenly. “Hey, look at this,” exclaimed Will, brandishing a large rotary cutter. “You could do some serious damage with this.”

So they each pocketed several and some scissors, since they were on the same rack, then shoved the rack itself until it toppled over.

Brent left the others to ransack the store and wandered into the back office. He gave the ancient computer a shove of disgust and tore the place apart looking for better equipment, but not even the scanner was new enough to be compatible with his system. Annoyed, he flung open file drawers and threw their contents on the floor just for the pleasure of watching the paper fly, but then he spotted a bag with the logo of a bank printed on it, took one look inside, and stuffed it into his shirt. What kind of idiot kept that much cash in an unlocked filing cabinet? Unbelievable.

“Brent, come here,” called Greg.

He returned to the main room and found his friends studying something in the dim light. “What?” he asked, picking his way across the littered floor.

“It’s a fake ID,” gloated Will, “and you’ll never guess who’s on it.”

He held it out of reach and tried to make Brent guess, but Brent wrestled it away from him and gaped at the photo. “Michael Sonnenberg,” he read. “Man, this gets better and better.”

“Maybe we should think about getting out of here,” said Greg uneasily. “The bars are gonna close soon. Someone could walk by.”

Brent nodded. “In a minute.” He looked around, thinking, until with a sudden flash, he remembered something his mother had said. He stumbled over slippery paperback quilting books on his way to the cutting table, then cleared the shelves until he found the largest carton. One glance inside confirmed it. “Here,” he said, shoving the box into Will’s arms. “You take this.”

“Why? What is it?” Will peered inside. “It’s just some pieces of fabric. Why don’t you carry it if you want it so bad?”

Brent had already gone to the far wall, where he scanned the shelves of sewing machines for the one with the most gadgets and highest price. “Because I’m carrying this,” he said, hefting a carton.

“Are we done shopping yet?” asked Greg, peeved and anxious.

Brent looked around. They were done. “There might be a back door,” he said, as the urgency not to be caught sank in.

They found it and raced outside to the back alley, muffling their laughter as they stumbled into a run, slowed by the weight of their prizes.

B
onnie resumed her duties at Elm Creek Quilt Camp on the Friday after the break-in. Grandma’s Attic was nowhere near ready for business and would not be until she could repair the shelving units, but the broken glass and debris had been cleared away and the salvageable inventory culled from the waste. Once she accepted that she would not be able to reopen right away, her conscience would no longer allow her to ignore her camp duties, no matter how many excuses her friends made on her behalf.

On Friday morning she walked from Agnes’s house to the shop just to check on things, too anxious to trust in the lock anymore. After making sure there had not been another burglary, she switched off the lights and left the sign in the window turned to
CLOSED
.

Then she went around back, climbed into the family car, and drove to Elm Creek Manor.

Her friends greeted her with hugs and words of comfort, taking care, as Bonnie had asked, to keep the news of her misfortune away from the campers. Once she reopened, she would not want them to stay away out of fear that the shop was in a dangerous location or that she was peddling damaged goods.

At lunch, her friends showed her the schedule they had arranged so that she would have ample help restoring the quilt shop to order. Bonnie’s eyes filled with tears when she saw how many late nights they were willing to endure, at a time of year when their workloads were already daunting enough to weaken the wills of lesser women.

“Do you think Craig could get some of his friends from the physical plant to help?” asked Judy. “It might bend a few department rules, but with more hands and the college’s tools, we might be able to finish in time to open next week.”

“I don’t think Craig’s coworkers are necessarily his friends,” said Bonnie, nonetheless thanking Judy for the suggestion with a smile. “But I wouldn’t ask him anyway.”

“Why not?” asked Diane.

Bonnie saw Agnes straighten in her chair, alert and waiting.

“Because Craig and I are getting a divorce.”

After the Farewell Breakfast on Saturday, Summer headed straight to Grandma’s Attic accompanied by the other Elm Creek Quilters. Only Sylvia and Agnes had remained behind, waiting for the last quilt campers to depart.

All that day they cleaned and repaired and did what they could to raise Bonnie’s spirits, but Summer didn’t see that they were having much impact. How could they hope to, when Bonnie had lost both her marriage and her life’s dream? Channeling her rage into her work, Summer labored in silent fury, repairing shelves, cutting damaged fabric into saleable quantities, and wondering if anyone had thought to question Craig before assuming it was an inside job. The police had questioned Summer thoroughly and with complete skepticism until Jeremy swore she had been with him that night, and she assumed they had given Diane an equally hard time. Had anyone bothered to check Craig’s alibi after they grilled Bonnie and her employees? Summer had considered him the most likely suspect even before learning of the impending divorce, which only strengthened her suspicions.

Summer was teaching a Kaleidoscope-Piecing workshop at Elm Creek Manor when the insurance claims adjuster came to inspect Grandma’s Attic the following Monday. After classes, Summer hurried to the shop to help with the ongoing repairs and to find out how the meeting had gone.

Not well, Bonnie’s expression told her, although she said it went fine. “I won’t know anything for certain until I receive his official statement,” she said. “Maybe I should have waited until after his visit to clean up.”

Summer glanced around the shop; despite all their work, Grandma’s Attic was still a disaster. “They have the pictures we took the next morning, and those from last fall for comparison,” she said. “They also have the police report.”

Bonnie gritted her teeth as she tightened a bolt on a bookshelf. “The police report is part of the problem. If they decide it was an inside job, the agent says there’s a clause in my policy that absolves them from the need to pay.”

“They can’t do that,” said Diane, who had been listening in nearby.

“I’m afraid they can. It’s my own fault for signing the policy without considering all the consequences. I never thought it would matter.” Bonnie sat back on her heels, bleak. “But what choice do I have?”

Diane looked away, white-faced.

“You can tell them about Craig,” said Summer, glancing at Diane and hoping she would second her. But Diane said nothing. “Bonnie, I know you don’t want to accuse him—”

“He didn’t do it.”

“How do you know? Does he have an alibi?”

“Yes.” Bonnie set down the wrench and met her gaze evenly. “He was in his office on the computer, logged on to the internet. Campus mainframe records confirm it. The police informed me yesterday.”

“But—” Summer’s fury vanished like an extinguished flame. “Then who? If they think it was an inside job, that leaves you, me, and Diane.”

“And we all have alibis.” Bonnie took up the wrench again and moved to another bolt, tightening it furiously.

“What, then?” Summer looked from Bonnie to Diane and back, perplexed. “Do they think our alibis are fake? Do they think we hired someone to trash the place?”

“I don’t know what they think,” said Bonnie. “But I want you both to understand that whatever the police believe, I know in my heart that you two had nothing to do with it.”

Her vehemence surprised Summer. Until that moment, it had never occurred to her that Bonnie might have even fleetingly considered either of her employees to be suspects.

Summer returned home late that evening, as she had every day since the burglary. Jeremy had kept supper waiting for her. It was supposed to have been her night to cook. She had completely forgotten.

She told him the latest developments as they ate. Loyal customers had stopped by to express their condolences as if they were attending a wake; the best of them brought food and positive attitudes to sustain the Elm Creek Quilters while they worked or, better yet, rolled up their sleeves and asked Bonnie how they could assist. Even with the unexpected generosity, it appeared that they would not be able to reopen the shop until mid-April at the earliest. Fortunately, a second look revealed that the burglars had ignored the storage room, so Bonnie would have something to put on the shelves, though not much.

“I still think Craig is involved somehow,” Summer said, brooding. “If I could just figure out how.”

“I thought Bonnie said he had an alibi.”

“She did, but I’m not convinced it’s airtight. Maybe he logged on to the internet before leaving his office, then went back and logged out after trashing Grandma’s Attic.” She poked at the food on her plate, then set down her fork. She had no appetite but had gone through the motions of the meal for Jeremy’s sake. “He’s resented Bonnie’s success for as long as I can remember. He even seemed to resent her failures, because they at least proved she was willing to take risks he lacked the courage to take.”

Jeremy leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “You’re right to say he lacks courage, so would he really be brave enough to break into the shop just to get some revenge? Wasn’t locking her out of their home enough to make that point?”

“You think what he did was an act of courage?”

“That’s not what I mean. I was just pointing out that he didn’t really need to do it, that he lacks a motive. Whereas this Gregory Krolich guy—”

“Why are you so eager to defend Craig?”

“I’m not,” said Jeremy, surprised. “I barely know him. I’ve only spoken to him once or twice at Elm Creek Quilts functions.”

“Bonnie was living out her dream, and Craig couldn’t stand it,” said Summer vehemently. “It’s a typical male response to a woman’s success. It’s obvious to anyone who doesn’t ignore the facts.”

Jeremy sat back and studied her. Summer could not meet his gaze. She studied her plate, picked up her fork, and set it down again.

Finally Jeremy asked, “What’s this really about?”

“Nothing.”

“No, it’s something. We should talk about it.” His eyes were watchful, his voice steady. “Do you think I don’t want you to succeed?”

“I wasn’t talking about us.”

“I think you were.”

“Well …” Summer hesitated. “Fine. Let’s talk about us. What exactly do you expect to happen when you finish your degree?”

He shrugged. “I’ll find a tenure-track assistant position somewhere, and a post-doc if none are available. I’ve already sent out dozens of CVs. You know that. We’ve talked about this before.”

“We’ve talked about your job, but not about us.” Summer took a deep breath. “I am not trying to drag any kind of commitment out of you—”

“Don’t worry,” he said, frowning. “I know that would be the last thing on your mind.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We both know I’m much more committed to this relationship than you are.”

“How can you say that? You’re the one who’s planning to graduate and leave.”

“You’ve known that from our first date.”

“When we were just dating it didn’t matter.”

“I want you to come with me,” he said. “That’s the truth, and I say it knowing it will scare you off. When I graduate, I want us to leave Waterford together. I want to get married, if your mother hasn’t so poisoned you against men that you’re afraid to.”

Summer pushed back her chair and rose. “How dare you.”

“I’m sorry.” He followed her into the living room. “That was unfair. I love you, Summer. I want to be with you. But we both know that won’t be in Waterford.”

“So you do expect me to sacrifice my career to yours,” said Summer. He reached for her, but she pulled away. “You’re just like Craig.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed, but his voice remained steady. “I am nothing like Craig and you know it. I can’t believe you’re saying these things.”

“What’s different? You wouldn’t destroy a quilt shop, but you would expect me to abandon my dream to yours.”

“Is this your dream?” Jeremy countered. “Or is it Bonnie’s dream? Sarah’s? You’re always saying you want to travel. I’ve seen the look on your face when you talk about your undergraduate research projects. I’ve heard you debating theories of historical scholarship with the best students in my department. When I tell you about my research you look—I don’t know. Almost envious.”

“I’m very happy doing what I’m doing.”

“That doesn’t mean you want to do it forever.”

“I had my chance to go to graduate school. A full ride at Penn. I passed it up for Elm Creek Quilts and Grandma’s Attic. I think that shows what my dream is clearly enough.”

“Maybe the timing was wrong. Lots of people take time off to work between college and graduate school. You weren’t ready then, but maybe you are now.”

“Maybe.” Then Summer turned and waved him away. “But you’re saying I wasted a good portion of my life here. You’re just saying this to convince me to leave Waterford.”

“I’m not saying that at all, and no one could convince you to do anything you don’t want to do.” He reached for her again; she stepped back. “You’re just afraid to accept what you really want to do because it means admitting your earlier decision might have been motivated by something other than the pursuit of your dream.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Fear? Uncertainty?”

Summer couldn’t bear to hear any more. “I am not afraid to admit my mistakes,” she retorted, voice shaking. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

She stormed off to her room and took down her duffel bag from the top shelf of her closet. She threw it onto her bed and began emptying dresser drawers into it.

“Summer—” Jeremy froze in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

She couldn’t look at him. “What does it look like?”

“Summer, don’t go.” He came to her and put his hands on her shoulders, but she ducked away and continued packing. “This doesn’t make any sense. Please don’t leave over a stupid argument.”

Summer returned to the closet and began taking clothes down from hangers. “What was stupid was moving in here in the first place.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” Summer threw the last of her winter clothes into the bag and zipped it shut. “And don’t presume to tell me what my dream is or how to spend my life. Ever.”

She tried to avoid his eye as she left, but he blocked the doorway. “Summer.” He hesitated, visibly struggling for the right words. “Please don’t go.”

She could barely breathe as she shoved past him and fled the apartment.

The Callahan family sat at the breakfast table, each engrossed in a section of the newspaper. Mary Beth insisted they eat together every morning, but cajoling them into a conversation had proven impossible.

“Here’s something you’ll enjoy,” said Roger, folding his section in half and sliding it across the table.

“What is it?” asked Mary Beth, dubious. She rarely read more of the news pages than the headlines; the national stories were always so depressing and the world news inscrutable. Sometimes she delved into the local news if someone she knew was mentioned, or read the opinion pages if someone had written in about one of her pet causes, but usually she stuck to the features.