The Quilt Before the Storm (13 page)

“At least it will be quicker on the way home,” Tom said as he got back into the driver’s seat after they had stopped for the umpteenth time to drag a large tree limb to the side of the road. The entrance to the park was visible in the distance.

“I’m just glad we didn’t have to saw that one,” Harriet replied. “My arms are getting tired.”

“I’m glad Mr. R had the foresight to pack that little chainsaw in the cargo box.”

Tom reached over and gently wiped her cheek with his thumb. She started to reach up to stop him, but he halted her hand.

“I’m not putting the moves on you. You’ve got mud on your cheek.”

“Oh, of course. Sorry.” She ducked her head to hide her embarrassment.

“Would it be that bad if I
was
touching your cheek for other reasons?” he asked softly and cupped her face in his hand, tilting it up until she couldn’t avoid looking at him.

He leaned in until their lips were nearly touching. Harriet closed her eyes, but Tom pulled back.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t pressure you, and I won’t—but you are so beautiful,” he said with a sigh. “It’s taking every bit of restraint I posses.” He turned away from her and steered their vehicle back onto the road.

Beautiful?
she thought. Covered in mud and sweaty from the hard work, and he thought she was beautiful. She tried to remember the last time Aiden had called her beautiful—or even anything.

“Oh, thank heaven you’ve come,” Joyce said as she rushed to Harriet before she could even untangle herself from the MUV’s seatbelt and get out. Tom had just pulled into the parking space closest to the restroom building.

“What’s wrong?” Harriet asked. She put her arm around the older woman to steady her.

“It’s just awful,” Joyce said as tears began streaming down her deathly white face.

“Here, sit down.” Harriet eased her into the seat she’d just vacated. Tom opened a bottle of water and handed it to her without saying anything. Joyce took a small sip, paused then took a longer drink.

“Can you tell us what's upset you?” Harriet asked in a calm voice. She put her hand on Joyce’s shoulder.

“Dead,” she stammered. She looked from Harriet to Tom and back to Harriet again. “Dead,” she repeated.

“Joyce,” Harriet said. “Look at me.” Joyce complied. “Who is dead?”

Joyce started to cry again but then stopped and took a deep breath.

“Duane,” she said. “Duane Cunningham.”

“Where is he?” Tom asked.

Joyce pointed to the building. Tom and Harriet both looked just in time to see Ronald stagger out of the men’s side and lean up against the outside wall, his red Gore-Tex jacket a stark contrast to the pitted gray cement. Tom sprinted to his side and eased him into a sitting position, loosening his jacket and then his shirt collar as he did so.

Harriet joined Tom, quickly followed by Joyce.

“Ronald, what is it?” Joyce asked. Ronald’s face was pale and clammy and his breath rapid.

“Medicine,” Ronald croaked.

Harriet immediately started patting his pockets, finding an amber plastic pill bottle in his right pants pocket on her third try. She glanced at the label then popped the cap and shook out a small white pill. She pressed it to Ronald’s lips, and he quickly sucked the pill into his mouth and under his tongue. Slowly, the color returned to his face, and his breathing became slow and regular.

“Okay,” Harriet said. “Can one of you tell us what’s going on?”

“It’s Duane,” Joyce said again and gestured toward the men’s room door.

“He’s dead,” Ronald finished for her.

“I’m so sorry,” Harriet said.

“You don’t understand.” Ronald leaned forward, holding his head in his hands. “He’s…
dead
.”

“What Ronald is trying to say,” Joyce said, “is someone has killed Duane.”

“Are you sure he didn’t have a heart attack or something?” Tom asked.

Ronald looked up and tried to speak and then dropped his head again.

“We’re sure,” Joyce said. “Several of our group slept in the bathrooms last night. Brandy was up wandering around. She was out of it so I stayed out here with her. I finally got her to sleep it off, but the storm was over by then.

“I figured everyone would need coffee, so I built a fire and made a pot. Slowly, people came out and joined me. No one got much sleep last night. We talked, and people drifted back to their own spaces. I checked on Brandy, and when it started to rain I went back to my bed and fell asleep.

“When I woke up again, I fixed breakfast.” She sighed. “I tried to find Duane to see if he wanted some and…well.” She paused, searching for words. “No one had seen him since last night. Ronald went into the men’s room to see if he was in there, and he found him.”

“He was in his sleeping bag,” Ronald said. “I thought he was asleep.”

“Weren’t there other people in there with him?” Harriet asked.

“We were spread out,” Ronald said. “Some were in the women’s room, some the men’s and everyone staked out their own space. Duane was in the handicapped stall.”

“Was anyone else in there with him?” asked Tom.

“No.” Ronald wiped his face with his hand. “It was so much quieter in there—I fell asleep as soon as I got my sleeping bag settled. When I woke up again, I smelled Joyce’s coffee so I got up and went out. It seemed like everyone else was still asleep.”

“So, who else was in there?” Harriet asked.

“Well, me, of course, and the truck drivers. And some other big guy I’d never seen before, and his lady friend. They left at first light.”

“Someone needs to call the police,” Joyce said. “Does one of you have a cell phone?”

“Unfortunately, our phones don’t work when the electricity is out over a wide area,” Harriet told her.

“We can drive back by the police station if the bridge isn’t out,” Tom offered.

“Do you have any duct tape in the vehicle?” Harriet asked him. “We need to seal off the area to preserve the crime scene as best we can.”

“Sure,” he said and went to retrieve it. “Here.” He handed Harriet the roll when he returned. “I’m coming in with you. It’s probably not reasonable under the conditions to block people from the whole restroom. If he’s in the handicapped stall, maybe we can just tape it shut.”

Harriet agreed and led the way into the small building. The area smelled faintly of bleach and pine cleaner. She supposed either the park or the homeless people kept it cleaner than a usual public facility because of their daily use of the space. The outside temperature was running only a few degrees above freezing, so they wouldn’t have to worry about Duane’s decomposition for a while.

“We can tape the door shut without looking, you know,” Tom suggested.

“I’m sorry, but I need to have a look,” Harriet said with a weak smile.

She pulled her gloves from her pocket and put them on before carefully opening the stall door and leaning her head in. At first glance, you couldn’t tell anyone was under the pile of blankets next to the toilet. She recognized one of the Loose Threads’ flannel quilts on top. She stepped in and gently pulled the corner of the quilt away from the top end of the pile, revealing the remains of Duane.

In what she now realized was a bout of magical thinking, she had hoped Ronald had been so overcome he had exaggerated the situation, and that Duane was either asleep or perhaps had hit his head or had some other less fatal misadventure. One look at the cord wrapped around Duane’s neck beneath his blue face, and she knew there had been no mistake. Duane was very definitely dead.

“Come on,” Tom said and gently pulled her back out of the stall. “We’ve seen enough. He’s gone.”

He shut the door, took his gloves off and began sealing the door with the duct tape.

“Why on earth would anyone want to kill such a sweet old man?” Harriet asked.

“Why does anyone kill anyone? Besides, maybe he
wasn’t
a nice old man. You’ve only known him, what? A few days?”

“I guess. It’s still sad, though. At least he had a nice flannel shroud.”

“That’s something, anyway. My mother would have thought so,” he said.

“We probably should unload the food and get on to the police station.”

“If we
can
get there,” he cautioned.

Tom pulled the red MUV to a stop on the approach to the bridge over the Muckleshoot River, facing downtown Foggy Point on the opposite side. Harriet took a deep breath. The air smelled of pine from all the broken trees and the associated debris.

The drive from the homeless camp had been more exciting than she had anticipated. Downed power lines lay across roadways, still tangled in the trees that had pulled them down. They’d passed workers from the Foggy Point PUD at one point, chainsaws in hand, trying to restore order to the mess. After cautioning Tom to give any downed wires a wide berth, they’d reported that, in reality, there wasn’t much danger until someone was able to locate the break in the main feeder line that provided electricity to the whole peninsula, which could take days.

“We can still turn back,” he offered as they watched the Muckleshoot River rush by, lapping at the edge of the bridge on both sides. “If we go across, there’s no guarantee we can get back.”

“I guess we better hurry, then,” Harriet said.

Without a word, he released the brake and crossed the bridge.

Driving in the downtown area was slightly easier, since there were fewer trees to drop broken limbs, but there was still plenty of debris on the ground. A few shopkeepers were out surveying the damage and clearing the sidewalks around their businesses. Tom quickly guided their small vehicle to the Foggy Point Police Department.

Harriet hopped out and went to the door as soon as Tom had stopped. Officer Hue Nguyen met her at the door. He was obviously leaving.

“I hope you’ve come to volunteer,” he said with a glance at the all-terrain vehicle they had arrived in.

“I’m afraid not,” Harriet told him. She had met the young Asian officer earlier in the year when she’d been assaulted.

His jaw tightened in preparation for what was probably going to be bad news of some sort.

“We’ve come to report a murder,” Harriet went on. “At the homeless camp.”

“Oh, geez. Who was killed? Do you know what happened? Was it a fight?”

“We don’t really know anything,” Tom said. He’d joined them after securing the MUV. “We went there to deliver supplies from my hosts, and the residents had just discovered one of their group dead.”

“You said murder,” Nguyen said. “Are you sure?”

“The guy has a wire wrapped around his throat, so, yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s murder,” Harriet told him. “We looked, just to be sure, and then we taped the bathroom stall he’s in closed and came here.”

Nguyen ran his hand through his short black hair.

“No one’s here but me. The detectives all went to what was supposed to be a daylong task force meeting about the killings along the interstate, and then the slide happened, and the last time we were able to speak, they were stuck there. I talked to them on the satellite phone, but they don’t have power yet either. No one is willing to pay for a helicopter to fly them back, so I guess we’re on our own for now.”

“Where are all the other
officers
?” Harriet asked.

“Stuck at home, I guess. No one has a satellite phone at home, and our cell phones aren’t working, so I came down here, hoping someone would show up.”

“Do you want me to run you up to the homeless camp?” Tom asked. “After I take Harriet home.”

“Thanks, but I rode my off-road bike down here,” he said and pointed to a muddy blue motorcycle parked near the door to the station. “I’ll go by the camp on my way to check on my mother. You should probably get back across the bridge before it floods out.”

“I want to go check the fabric store for Marjory before we leave,” Harriet said.

“Be quick about it,” Nguyen ordered. “I think most people have already left for higher ground. I wouldn’t want to see you get stuck here.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Tom said as he and Harriet turned to go back to their vehicle. “Might be fun,” he mumbled.

“What did you say?” Harriet said.

“You heard me. I said it might be fun being trapped alone with you.”

“You’re crazy.” She climbed back into her seat and strapped on her seatbelt.

It took less than five minutes to drive to the quilt store. Tom kept glancing nervously back toward the river, but he didn’t suggest turning around. As they turned the last corner, Harriet could see two figures huddled at the door to Pins and Needles.

“What are those people doing?” she wondered.

“Let’s find out.” Tom slid out of the driver’s seat. “Hey, what are you doing?” he shouted as he approached the pair.

They turned, and Harriet saw it was Marjory’s sister and brother-in-law.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

Pat’s hair hung in limp curls on her neck. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on the day before, now considerably more wrinkled.

“We wanted to make sure Marjory’s shop survived the storm,” Richard answered. A screwdriver dangled from his left hand. He belatedly looked for someplace to conceal it with no luck.