Forget Me Knot: A Quilting Mystery Part 6

Lucy peered at me through narrowed eyes. "You know, he's a good-looking man, and I didn't see a ring on his finger."

"I didn't notice," I lied. If Lucy knew I was the tiniest bit attracted to a man, she'd go out of her way to push us together. Lucy and Birdie worried about my being single, but I was perfectly happy living alone. Besides, I hadn't been particularly successful with romantic relationships in the past. My daughter, my uncle, my quilting, and my friends were my life. Why would I want more?

I picked up the pillowcases and walked over to the dining room table situated at the end of the living room near the kitchen. "So, let's open these up and make a list of what we've got."

All of these quilts were meant to be used as wall hangings and none were larger than four feet by four feet. I showed them Mother's Asleep and pointed out the silver seeds in the clouds and the water drop beads below. "Doesn't this remind you of rainmaking?"

Lucy bent over the table to get a closer look. "Yes, but I don't recall seeing this quilt. Did Claire ever show it?"

Birdie picked up a corner of the quilt. "I don't think so. I'm pretty sure we'd remember a quilt as odd as this one."

I reached in a pillowcase and pulled out the quilt I removed from Claire's living room wall. "Here's Secret Garden."

Lucy reached out and gently touched it. "Ooh, I remember this from the show two years ago. Wasn't it featured in Pieces magazine?"

"Yeah. Can you make anything out of the design?"

Birdie shook her head. "Just looks like a painting of a tranquil garden."

Lucy nodded in agreement.

"Let's look at the next one then."

We looked at the label on the back of a quilt measuring about three feet by four feet. We didn't feel any notes sewn inside, and the only writing was on the label: Jamey I Hardly Knew Ye. The traditional pieced blocks on the front were composed of squares and triangles within triangles. The whole thing was also embellished with French knots.

"I remember this quilt." Birdie smiled. "Jamey was in our show a few years ago. This block design looks like something I once did called Cat's Cradle."

"Well, let's look in BlockBase to make sure of the name." I booted up my laptop and opened the software program containing a database for thousands of traditional block designs. I typed in Cat's Cradle in the search box, and up popped a picture of Claire's block.

"Look how many names this block has. Cat's Cradle, Double Pyramids, Dove at the Window, Flying Birds, and Wandering Lover."

Lucy pointed her finger. "You know, the t.i.tle of this quilt contains a man's name-Jamey. What if he was Claire's 'wandering lover'?"

Birdie patted Lucy on the back. "Brilliant! Do we know if she had a lover?"

"Well, when I searched for the key to Claire's quilt cupboard, I discovered a half-full box of condoms in her panty drawer."

Lucy nodded. "There you go. Now, if the condoms were in her sewing room, I'd say she could have been using them as grips to pull a stuck needle out of a quilt. Since they were in with her panties, we have to a.s.sume they were being used as G.o.d intended."

"That's pretty funny coming from a Catholic girl, but you're right. Aside from those little rubber circles you can buy in the quilt store, I've seen quilters use finger cots and even pieces of balloons to grip on to a stubborn needle-but never a condom."

"What kind of panties?" asked Lucy. "You can sometimes tell a lot about a person by their underwear."

"Black lacy thongs, about the size of the palm of my hand."

"Bingo. Those are 'do me' panties." She wiggled her fingers in air quotes. "Claire could've been having an affair with someone named Jamey. Maybe he was the wandering lover. They could have fought and he killed her."

"So why steal her new quilt and not this one?"

Lucy shrugged. "You said this quilt was in a locked cupboard, right? Maybe he didn't know about this one."

Birdie smoothed her hand over the quilt. "Just look at all these French knots. They remind me of an odd kind of painting they did. What was it called?"

"Pointillism?"

"Yes, that's it."

"You know what else they remind me of?" asked Lucy. "The funny pictures in old-timey newspapers. Do you remember when you were a kid looking really close at the Sunday funnies and discovering the colors weren't solid but made out of hundreds of tiny dots of ink?"

"Well, if there's a picture in these knots I don't see it."

The next quilt was an applique Claire named Night Flower. Stunningly detailed red roses were appliqued over a field of navy blue. Each flower was created by layering the petals one at a time. The petals of the roses were attached with great skill, using invisible st.i.tches around the edges. Claire arranged the roses in the middle of the quilt in the shape of a T.

Small four-leaf clovers nestled randomly around the edges of the quilt created a border of green. Claire had used a great deal of skill to applique those small inside curves without visible st.i.tches. Did she use silk thread? Silk was thin and slinky and tended to sink into the weave of the fabric where it couldn't be seen. Sewn in among the clovers were the same clear beads in Claire's other quilts and, of course, the ubiquitous French knots in the background.

"I don't remember Claire ever entering this in a show. Do you?"

Both Birdie and Lucy shook their heads.

"Look at this. Here are those beads again. They must mean something if she has them sewn in so many quilts."

Birdie fingered one of the beads. "Well, look at the pear shape. Maybe they don't just symbolize water drops. Maybe they're tears."

Lucy reached out to finger the beads. "If they represent tears, she must've lived one really sad life. Many of her quilts seem to have those beads. Whoa . . . Look! Do you see this? The quilting st.i.tches are so close to the roses, I almost missed them."

I adjusted my gla.s.ses to get a closer look.

Lucy pointed to the visible, even quilting st.i.tches. Unlike applique st.i.tches, quilting st.i.tches are meant to be seen. They're the things holding the three layers of a quilt together. They're usually sewn in a regular pattern yielding a secondary geometric design of intersecting straight lines, regular curves, or stippling. These st.i.tches were different.

I could hardly believe my eyes. "There's an outline of a woman who appears to be lying behind the roses. She's almost hidden under the flowers. See? There's just an outline, but her legs are slightly spread to either side and her arms outstretched. You can see her head peeking out from behind the top of the T and sort of hanging down on the side. Like a crucifixion, only the body is under the cross, not on top of it."

Birdie's eyes widened. "This is just like finding an image of the Virgin Mary in a grilled cheese sandwich."

"Better. I'm going to write this all down in my notepad."

I looked at what I had so far. Rainmaking. Crucifixion. Tears. Lovers. I was convinced we were on to something but couldn't quite figure out how to find the story. Clearly no paper notes lurked in any of Claire's quilts. Siobhan said Claire kept a list of all her quilts. I needed more data to connect the dots. I needed to see Claire's other quilts, and that meant going back to the house to look for the list.

"I'm starved." Lucy put her hand on her stomach.

"I'll fix us something to eat. What do you feel like?"

"How about grilled cheese sandwiches?"

CHAPTER 11.

I took out my black cast iron skillet. I preferred cast iron over any other kind of cookware. A well-seasoned pan had a natural nonstick quality and cast iron distributed the heat evenly. My bubbie was the best cook I'd ever known, and she always used cast iron pans, one set for meat and one for dairy. The weight of those pans made the wooden shelves in the pantry sag over time. My uncle Isaac still lived in our old house, still cooked with those pans, and the shelves still sagged. I totally got why he didn't fix them; doing so would be like erasing decades of family history.

I put slices of sharp cheddar cheese on pieces of challah and sprinkled each with a hint of powdered garlic. I slapped a second piece of bread on top of each one and b.u.t.tered the outside of the sandwiches. When the pan was hot enough, I cooked the sandwiches a couple minutes on each side. The bread turned a golden brown and the yellow cheese dripped luxuriously down the crust of the bread. I garnished each plate with a handful of baby carrots and fresh apple quarters. You had to draw the calorie line somewhere.

Since the dining table was covered with quilts, we sat at the kitchen island. The island served as a divider between the cooking area and the living area and also served as an informal eating surface. We climbed on the high stools, and Lucy's were the only feet resting on the floor. Birdie and I dangled like children at the grown-ups' table. Birdie picked up her sandwich and turned it over. "Does anybody see an image in their grilled cheese?"

I munched on an apple quarter and studied my plate. "I think I see a picture of Elvis Presley."

Lucy perked up and reached for my plate. "For real? His image could bring hundreds on eBay. Let me see."

Birdie started to giggle.

"Dang it, Martha." Lucy handed my plate back.

When we finished eating, we washed the grease off our hands and examined Claire's quilts again.

Finally Lucy stepped away from the table and looked at me. "I'm not seeing anything new."

Birdie shook her head. "Me neither."

I took several photos of each quilt with my digital camera and then folded them back up. "We need more data. I'm going back to Claire's house and search for the list of quilts Siobhan mentioned."

"We'd offer to go, but both Birdie and I need to get back home."

"Tomorrow's Quilty Tuesday anyway. Let's meet here at the usual time, if that's okay with you. I should have the list by then."

Birdie picked up the empty pink bakery box and put it in the recycle bin next to my sink. "Don't worry about getting goodies. I'll bake something tonight."

"Great. Thanks." I hoped Birdie would either make her coconut ginger cookies or my very favorite, her applesauce cake. She was very liberal with the sugar and the b.u.t.ter, just the way I liked it. I hugged each one before they walked out the door. "See you manana at the usual time."

After they left, I put the quilts back in the pillowcases. I was afraid if the thief ever figured out the quilts were in my house, he wouldn't hesitate to come after them, so I put them at the bottom of the laundry hamper under some dirty clothes. I was pretty sure he wouldn't go through my dirty laundry. Another chess move. What I didn't realize at the time was although thieves can come when you're not at home, they can also come when you're there.

I arrived at Claire's around two and let myself in with the key. The cat ran up to greet me. "Come on, kitty. Let's check on your food." I entered Claire's sewing room five minutes later and immediately saw something was very wrong. The quilt cupboard I emptied yesterday and relocked had been jimmied open. Siobhan was right about the thief coming back for Claire's quilts. I looked inside the empty cupboard but didn't touch anything. If my plan worked, the thief's prints would be all over it.

If I got the heck out of the house and called Detective Beavers about the open cupboard, he'd make this a crime scene again, and I'd never get to finish my search. The quilts were due to go back to the Terrys in two days, but first I wanted to make sure I was alone. I picked up a pair of eight-inch sewing shears to defend myself and tiptoed through the house, my heart pounding in my throat. The cat padded right beside me. "Why couldn't you be a Rottweiler?" I whispered.

There was a broken window in the guest room, with gla.s.s all over the floor. The window faced the front of the house and was hidden behind a tall, dense hibiscus-the perfect secluded entry point. The thief broke the stationary side of the window in order to reach in and unlock it. Then he removed the screen and slid aside the moving half of the window, creating a smooth entryway. A five-minute search of the house confirmed the thief was long gone. I definitely ought to call Beavers. Just not yet.

I headed back to the sewing room to look for a quilter's diary. Many quilters kept a sort of journal with photos and histories of each of their quilts-like when it was made and who it was made for.

A journal might also contain small samples of the fabrics used or anecdotal comments such as This quilt took me three years to complete, or The floral fabrics came from my daughter's little dresses and my grandmother's feed sacks. I kept thick loose leaf binders with separate pages of photos and text about every quilt I made. I was on my fifth binder.

I searched the wall of books first but didn't find anything. I opened the drawers and cupboards one by one. Nothing. Where could Claire's journals be?

The cat and I walked back through the bedroom to Claire's office, pa.s.sing again the luxurious silks and Mary Ca.s.satt painting. Funny the thief didn't take the painting. Maybe he didn't know what it was worth. A four-drawer metal file cabinet stood against the office wall.

I hesitated to touch Claire's personal files. I reminded myself I was only after the list of her quilts, so I shouldn't snoop into anything else. Right. Like I was really going to listen to myself.

The files were color coded and neatly labeled. I went to the green Income section first, thinking that since she had sold many of her quilts, she would have filed the list there. Wrong.

Well heck, since I was already there, I might as well take a teensy little peek at her financials. I knew from watching lots of crime shows that money was one of the main motives for murder. So, who might benefit from her death?

Claire kept a huge investment portfolio managed by J.P. Morgan and had a half-million-dollar annual income from something called the Terry Family Trust. I could have lived on the income from her CDs alone and still had enough left over to buy a new Corolla every year.

Claire had been very wealthy but she hadn't flaunted it. She seemed so shy at the guild meetings and liked talking to Birdie. From her modest behavior, I would never have guessed she was worth so much. If the rumors about her messy divorce were true, I could see why. A lot of money had been at stake.

In the purple tax section, there was a folder with some check registers going back a couple of years. She made out checks to a Jerry Bell on a monthly basis, ranging from one thousand dollars to ten thousand dollars, as far back as the record went. Who was Jerry Bell, anyway? Her lover? If so, did he manage to con a small income out of her? Or maybe he was a blackmailer. What could he have blackmailed her about? I made copies of the registers on Claire's copier and put the originals back in their folder.

Then I found a folder labeled Jerry Bell. Inside was his name, phone number, and address, which I copied into my notepad. Strange. Why such a dearth of information? Claire was an obsessively detailed person. Why wouldn't there also be a record in his file of the payments she made to him? This was beginning to smell more and more like blackmail.

I noticed she paid for appointments at a well-known spa located near Little Armenia in Hollywood. Los Angeles was known to have natural hot springs made possible by the unique geology of the area; something having to do with the subducting of the Pacific tectonic plate beneath the North American plate. Back in the 1920s and '30s, a number of Turkish bathhouses around the city tapped into the various hot springs and capitalized on the natural steam and mineral water.

As the city grew and developed, the pipes were eventually capped off and the bathhouses disappeared under high-rises. To my knowledge, this spa was the only one of its kind remaining in LA. A person could soak in the hot bubbling water or get a ma.s.sage, body scrub, acupuncture, mud wrap, or facial. Judging from the weekly checks, Claire liked her little luxuries on a regular basis.

On spa days, Claire also wrote a check to Mai's Nail Palace. What a life. Go to the spa, get a ma.s.sage and a facial, and then go get a mani-pedi. Must be nice.

There were also weekly checks in her check registers made out to a Dr. Alexander G.o.dwin, but they stopped about eight months ago. What kind of doctor did someone see on a weekly basis? A chiropractor? Acupuncturist? Psychiatrist?

I pulled out a folder with his name. Dr. G.o.dwin was a shrink. Why was Claire in therapy? Knowing why might lead straight to the killer. G.o.dwin could be a gold mine of information, but I doubted he'd divulge anything to me. I wrote down his name, address, and phone number anyway. I could always give him a shot.

I looked through the folders in the yellow section marked Charitable Contributions and found one for the Blind Children's a.s.sociation. There were several receipts for thousands of dollars she donated on a regular basis.

At the back of the file was a letter on the a.s.sociation's stationery thanking Claire for including them in her "long-term giving" plan. Claire named BCA as a beneficiary of her will. Some nonprofits were relentless in their pursuit of bequests. Looked like BCA managed to snag a big fish with Claire. Did someone in the organization get tired of waiting for her to grow old and die?

In the left-hand margin of the BCA letterhead was a list of board members. At the top of the list was the name of the chairman: Alexander G.o.dwin, MD. Well, well . . .

I went on to search the orange section marked Miscellaneous. Bingo! A folder labeled Quilts. My heart sped up a little as I opened it.

Empty.

Darn! The thief must have taken the list of quilts. How did he know the list existed? He might have known Claire or known about the custom of keeping a quilt journal, like another quilter would. Carlotta Hudson's sour face popped into my head.

Was Lucy right? Did Carlotta Hudson kill Claire in a fit of jealousy? Carlotta couldn't have stolen the quilts from the show, but an accomplice could have. Was she the one trying to get her hands on the rest of Claire's quilts?

I hoped Claire kept a backup copy of the missing list somewhere on her computer. I booted up the laptop on her desk. Pa.s.sword protected. Darn again.

Then I realized-whatever the thief touched in the filing cabinet I also touched. If he left any fingerprints, I just screwed them up. Detective Beavers was going to be really, really mad. The only thing I hadn't touched was the sewing room cabinet, so maybe they could still get fingerprints from that.

I looked at my watch; nearly six. I closed the file drawers and stuffed the copies of the check registers and the notepad in my purse. I took the laptop out to my car and put it in my trunk. If only I could find the pa.s.sword, I could look at her doc.u.ment files. There was sure to be a copy of the list there.

I sat on the bench outside the front door. The card Detective Beavers gave me at the quilt show was still in my purse. I called him on my cell phone.

"Arlo Beavers."

"This is Martha Rose. I'm afraid someone has broken in to Claire Terry's house."

"How do you know?"