Four-Patch of Trouble (7 page)

"I'd feel better if you'd keep it closer to hand, in a pocket."

My suit, with all of its pockets, was in an evidence bag. I spread my arms, demonstrating the lack of anywhere to tuck the phone. "Later. As soon as I get home. For now, though, let's go spring Dee and Emma from the detectives' clutches."

The ambulance was gone, but Fred was still there, barking at the crowd. I handed over the takeout cup and little brown-and-pink bag. He peered inside as if he suspected I was trying to poison him, but then he got a whiff of the cinnamon and let out a deep sigh of satisfaction. "I was afraid you'd gotten the chocolate kind. Or something full of antioxidants, like my wife would insist on."

I was glad I remembered. I might need whatever brownie points—or in this case, cinnamon points—I could get if Tremain's murder wasn't solved quickly. Fred would never tell me anything truly confidential, but there might be some tidbits he could share. He'd probably at least give me a heads-up if Wolfe persisted with his pet theory of the case.

"If it's okay with you, I'm taking Lindsay inside to be with her grandmother."

Fred was already downing his coffee and gestured with the cupcake for us to go on in. There were dissatisfied murmurs from the curious crowd of people who hadn't been allowed inside the taped-off area.

The gurney where Alyse had been recuperating was gone. Wolfe came out from the back, so I asked, "How's Alyse doing?"

"She's fine. The lead detective is questioning her now."

"Where are Dee and Emma?"

"In the conference room, talking about their stupid quilts with the reporter. You'd think a guy like him would have better things to do."

It wasn't worth rising to the bait. "The best reporters are brilliant at finding a fascinating angle for even the dullest subjects."

"Whatever." Wolfe nodded at Lindsay. "What's she doing here? The cops were supposed to keep the public out."

"This is Dee's granddaughter. She's here to take Dee and Emma home."

"The grandmother can leave but not the other one. She hasn't given her statement yet. The detective wanted to talk to Alyse first. She still isn't looking good, so he didn't want to keep her waiting."

"Then Lindsay will be staying until both Dee and Emma are ready to leave."

When Wolfe didn't object, Lindsay raced past me and into the conference room, where she gave first Dee and then Emma enthusiastic hugs.

Even with Matt and Lindsay keeping an eye on the elderly women, I was reluctant to leave while Wolfe was still on the scene. I really couldn't stay any longer though. I had a quilt to appraise for the museum and a speech to write for the quilt show.

"Don't even think of badgering Dee or Emma after I'm gone. You're on notice that they've been advised not to talk to you, and I will report you if you harass them."

"I know the rules, Counselor." Wolfe's tone was light, and, if anything, he seemed more impressed by my warning than insulted by it.

I poked my head inside the conference room. "Call me when you get home, Lindsay, so I know everyone's okay."

Matt stood. "Do you need a ride, Keely? Emma said you don't drive."

Always helpful, that Emma. "Thanks, but I live nearby."

"I'll walk out with you then." As soon as we stepped outside, he said, "So, what do you think happened to Tremain?"

He might be charming and obviously concerned about Dee and Emma, but he was still a reporter. Give him a one-word answer, and he'd turn it into something unrecognizable.

"No comment."

"Hey, no need to go all attorney-faced on me," he said. "I'm concerned about the prosecutor thinking Dee and Emma are psychos straight out of
Arsenic and Old Lace
."

Despite everything, I had to laugh. "I suppose Wolfe sees himself as Cary Grant."

"He's too pretty for the part but just as clueless. Do you think Wolfe might actually get charges filed against Dee and Emma?"

"I don't know. Criminal law never was my field."

"If there's anything I can do to help them, you've got my number."

Just then, I heard my name being called, and I turned to see Stefan arguing with Fred Fields, who was clearly not impressed by whatever reasons Stefan had given for wanting to cross the police line.

I went over to join them with Matt trailing behind me.

Fred glanced guiltily down at the coffee cup I'd given him. "Sorry, Keely, but I can't let him inside the police line, even if he is a friend of yours."

"That's okay. We can talk across the street at his gallery." I pointed at it. "I was heading over there anyway to make an appointment." 

Stefan cast a final curious glance at the front door of Monograms before straightening his bow tie and saying, "Of course. I thought I recognized your name. You're the appraiser Gil mentioned. I can show you the quilt now, if you'd like."

Stefan led the way across the street, chattering about how the quilt was a rare find and in excellent condition for its age. I only heard about half of what he said. For once, I wasn't in the right frame of mind to appreciate the details of a quilt. Matt followed a few steps behind us.

Stefan stopped beneath the awning with
Anderson Gallery
written across it. "So, what happened over there? Did the police finally raid Monograms? What did they find?"

"It wasn't a raid." I glanced at Matt for some indication of whether we needed to be gentle in breaking the news, but he didn't say anything. "Randall Tremain is dead. Murdered."

Stefan looked shocked for a moment and then recovered. "I guess that's one way to make sure he never cheats anyone again. Probably the
only
way to make sure of it. Who did the world a favor?"

"You should ask Matt. He's the reporter."

"Imagine that, Stefan," Matt said from behind me. "Someone finally came up with a reason for you to appreciate who I am and what I do."

Stefan started, seeming more surprised by Matt's continued presence than he'd been by Tremain's death. Stefan gave Matt a brief once-over and then shook his head at the new outfit.

"Matt is wasting his talent." Stefan returned his gaze to me. "He's not a bad reporter, but he's let himself go in every other way."

"I do okay," Matt said. "At least no one's tried to sue, indict, or kill me recently. Of course, I may be more at risk now, since Tremain isn't around to be a target."

"Suing Tremain was a waste of time." Stefan pointedly refused to look at Matt. "The man was a cheat and a liar, which only helped him whenever he went to court. Trust me. I know."

"He does," Matt said to me. "Stefan tried to get a restraining order against Tremain to keep him out of the gallery, on the theory that Tremain was copying the real antiques over here. Tremain thought he knew all about the law, thanks to a couple of classes he took in business school, so he represented himself and dragged the whole process out until Stefan caved."

"I didn't cave. I simply let go of my anger and moved on," Stefan said, even as his gaze slid across the street to where Fred was still managing the curious onlookers.

If Stefan believed he'd gotten over his past with Tremain, he was in the sort of deep denial that I'd experienced a year and a half ago when I had my first syncope event. It was hardly surprising Stefan was hanging on to that anger. Stefan hadn't just had his quilts copied, but he'd spent what must have been a substantial amount of money trying to stop Tremain.

Exactly how much money had Stefan spent on the lawsuit before throwing in the towel? Paying a decent lawyer to sue Tremain had to have hit his budget hard. Hard enough that his professional antagonism could have escalated all the way to violence and murder?

Stefan unlocked the gallery's front door. "Tremain was an abomination within the antique-quilt market, but fortunately the true connoisseurs, like Gil at the museum, know enough to come to me for the real thing. Come on in, and you'll see what I mean."

I'd planned to do just that, but that was before I'd spent two hours at Monograms. Right now, I needed to talk to Gil before she heard about the murder on the news. "I'd really love to see your inventory, but I'm way behind schedule. How about if I come back tomorrow?"

"It would be an honor," Stefan said. "You're going to love the four-patch. Circa mid-1800s. Mint condition, given the age."

"Any idea of where it was made?"

"There's a name embroidered on it, and it matches one of the early residents of Danger Cove. I can't be sure without more research, but I believe it was made locally."

Just what Gil wanted for her first acquisition. But only if it was the real thing. "I'm looking forward to seeing it."

"You won't find anything comparable in any other shop." Stefan glared across the street at his competition.

I turned to look too, belatedly remembering I'd meant to get a closer look at another four-patch quilt, the one on the back wall of Monograms. I'd been so intent on getting away from Wolfe that I'd forgotten about it. Maybe once things settled down and the shop reopened, I'd go have a look. It might be interesting to compare it to Stefan's.

"I have a few errands to run first thing tomorrow morning, but I can be here at eleven if that's okay with you."

"I'll be here."

Matt said, "Me too. I'd like to see the quilt appraisal process. Might be something I could write about."

Stefan still refused to look at Matt. "It's okay with me, if it's okay with you, Ms. Fairchild."

Apparently the prospect of some free publicity outweighed Stefan's dislike of Matt. I could use the publicity too, and Gil might appreciate a newspaper piece showing that she was careful to get her planned acquisitions properly appraised.

"It's fine with me," I said finally. "I'll see you both here tomorrow morning."

"It's a date," Matt said. "Unless, of course, one of us is arrested in the meantime for killing Tremain."

*   *   *

The museum had reduced hours on Mondays, and I missed the closing by fifteen minutes.

I lived less than a mile from the museum, so I worked off my frustration with a brisk walk home. I was jogging by the time I reached my driveway. My home used to be an underused branch of a local bank until a larger institution had acquired the smaller one and then closed the branch and put the property on the market.

The one-story brick building was in a perfect location for me, on a corner lot a block from Main Street. It was a comfortable walking distance to the museum, the library, and my new hairdresser at The Clip and Sip, where I'd developed a fondness for the homemade aperitifs offered with the beauty services. I could even hop the vintage trolley to the pier if I wanted to enjoy the ocean view.

My broker had introduced me to Alex Jordan at Finials and Facades Renovation and Restoration Services, who'd converted the former bank into a combination residence and small law office, in case I ever decided to return to the practice of law. I knew that wasn't likely in the near future, but at least for now the old ATM lobby, with its large north-facing arched windows to let in indirect light, was a perfect place to meet with my new clientele—the ones who brought quilts, not legal problems, for assessment. The remainder of the building was divided into an invitingly open living and kitchen area, plus a bedroom and a storage area for all my files. Alex had done an amazing job with preserving the simple lines and open feeling of the interior.

I'd only moved in a month ago, but it definitely felt like home, and I relaxed as soon as I stepped inside. I changed into my own clothes—a pair of jeans and a less flimsy T-shirt—and found the leftovers from a couple of days ago when I'd eaten at the Smugglers' Tavern. I really needed to get back to cooking my own meals now that I had a working kitchen, but I never seemed to remember to go to the grocery store. It was too easy to forget when there were so many good places to eat within a short walk or trolley ride.

With the leftovers close at hand, I set up my laptop on the peninsula that served as the kitchen table and stared at my notes for Friday's speech.

Two hours later, I hadn't added a single word. I knew what I wanted to say, and I had all of the necessary facts, but I couldn't seem to get the story right. The more I tried, the tenser I became. At this rate, I was going to trigger another syncope event and end up with a second bruised lump on my head.

 A brief meditation session might refresh me enough to take another stab at the speech. I moved over to the sofa, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes. I tried to empty my mind, to think of nothing, but new worries kept popping up. Hardly surprising after finding a dead body. Of course, I'd barely known him, and I wasn't a likely suspect in the murder. The events of the afternoon must have taken a greater toll on Dee and Emma, partly because of their age and partly because of Wolfe insisting they were the prime suspects.

My eyes flew open. I hadn't heard from Lindsay. She was supposed to call me as soon as she got Dee and Emma home.

I'd stuffed my cell phone into my back pocket to keep it close at hand as I'd promised Lindsay. I called her, and she answered on the first ring with a tentative "Hello?"

"It's Keely. Are Dee and Emma all right?"

"They're sort of fine. We left about half an hour after you did, but then they insisted on going to the school to work on the quilt show preparations."

I really didn't need this kind of stress. "Why didn't you let me know everything was okay?"

"I've been sort of busy," Lindsay said. "I copied my files on Tremain for you, and I collected a bunch of information on his partner and silver collecting. I'll drop copies off for you first thing tomorrow."

"You're not getting much of a break from your usual work during your days off."

"I don't mind. I haven't been doing much research at the office lately. I could use more practice. Even if I didn't like research, I'd do anything to keep Grandma out of jail. I'd even give up bell ringing if it would keep her safe."

Lindsay had been a dedicated big-bell ringer for as long as I'd known her. I'd once asked her what the appeal was, and she'd said that at first she'd been attracted to the challenge of moving something in a precise pattern when it weighed as much as a car. And then after a lot of practice, when everything went well and the bells were rung in the right order at the right time, the end result was a special kind of music, and she was right in the middle of it. The way Lindsay explained it, bell ringing wasn't all that different from more-common hobbies like quilting or dancing or even video games, where it took a lot of practice to succeed with the performance. Her hobby just happened to take place in a bell tower instead of in a sewing room, dance club, or gaming station.