Killer Closet Case: a Danger Cove B&B Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 6) (20 page)

Just as I was about to call over the first person for her appraisal, a tall, willowy blonde in her early twenties, and wearing a pink twinset and heathery purple jeans came trotting over from the white board. "I'm Trudy Kline," she said. "Emma sent me over to help you."

I handed her the appraisal forms and pencils, so she could distribute them to the women seated in the line of chairs along the wall. While they waited, they could fill out the top portion of the forms with their names and addresses and any other background information they had about their quilts.

I called the first client over to the desk and soon lost myself in the work. The first quilt was a faded green-and-white version of a traditional applique design known as Oak Leaf. It wasn't terribly old, maybe fifty years, but the workmanship was excellent, as close to perfection as any human being could get, so I quickly checked the box to suggest that the owner get a full appraisal and insurance. The quilt's owner left with one of my business cards, promising to call for an appointment.

Over the next hour, Trudy kept the line supplied with forms and pencils, while a wide variety of holiday quilts passed through my cotton-gloved hands. They ranged from contemporary quilts using fabrics printed with obvious holiday motifs, to vintage quilts that, like the first Oak Leaf, were red and green, but didn't otherwise have any holiday references in either the fabrics or the patterns. There were simple nine-patches, more complicated star designs, and even a vintage Sunbonnet Sue variation in which Santa and his elves all wore sunbonnets.

It had been easy enough to identify the various quilt patterns this morning, but there were other challenges with a holiday quilt, especially the ones that weren't brand new. They were likely to have become something more than an object and instead were a symbol of family memories, including lost loved ones who could no longer join in holiday festivities. Oftentimes these sentimental quilts were unremarkable from any objective viewpoint, so while it was simple enough to come up with a dollar amount, it was far more difficult to explain to the owner why the number was so low. Anything less than an astronomical price tag was often considered a slur against the memories that the quilt represented.

I hadn't encountered that type of reaction so far this morning, but it was probably just a matter of time before the pleasant perfection of the morning turned a little rocky. I just hoped that when the inevitable emotional scene arose, I'd be able to handle it without passing out. The local ambulances might be red and white, but they definitely lacked the Christmas spirit.

*   *   *

As my latest client prepared to leave, I looked up to see who was next in line. It was a man in his early twenties, dressed in a light T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals.

Trudy glanced at him, her eyes narrowing in obvious recognition. She froze for a moment before blocking him from approaching the desk, keeping her back to him. "Emma said you need to take a break now."

I'd been too wrapped up in the appraisals to notice until then that my stomach was growling. Ever since I'd been diagnosed with syncope, I'd tried to pay better attention to my body's various warning signs. The general medical consensus was that stress was the major culprit in the condition, but no one knew the exact cause. To be on the safe side, I'd been warned not to risk dehydration or hunger, either of which might trigger a stress response and then the loss of consciousness.

I could definitely use a break, but I could also feel trouble brewing, and I was the most likely candidate to diffuse it. Behind Trudy and the appraisal client, the male quilter I hadn't been introduced to yet was closing in on our corner of the room. He was an inch or two over six feet tall, solidly built, with faded brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard that was equal parts gray and brown. Tiny snippets of red-and-green threads clung to his denim work shirt and jeans, giving them a festive appearance at odds with his facial expression, which promised the complete opposite of goodwill toward men. Close behind him was the rust-colored Labradoodle wearing a blue vest that identified it as a Diabetes Alert Dog. He had a matching blue collar, and hanging from it was a stuffed blue nylon tube the size of a chew toy.

The newcomer walked up to the young man behind Trudy, invading his space and glaring down at him. "What are
you
doing here?"

"It's a free country," the younger man said sulkily and then sniffled. "You've got no authority here. No authority anywhere any more. So butt out, or I'll call the cops on you. That'd be pretty funny, actually. Don't you think?"

"Not really." The older man pulled back a few inches, just to the very edge of an appropriate conversational distance. "I'll be watching you. Don't touch anything that doesn't belong to you. I've still got friends on the force."

"Whatever." The young man peered at me over Trudy's shoulder.

The older man retreated a few feet to lean against the end of the nearest sewing table where Dee and Emma were seated. He made an
I'm watching you
gesture at the younger man, adjusted the water bottle clipped to his belt, and settled in for what he obviously considered to be a one-man stakeout.

TREE OF LIFE AND DEATH

coming November 17, 2015!