Stitches in Time (18 page)

“Yes. Cheryl rearranges the furniture and displays from time to time, but it's been like this for several weeks.”

“Except for the night of the Christmas party.”

It wasn't a question. After a moment Ruth said, “What do you mean?”

“The doodads—quilts, whatever they were—were draped over various pieces of furniture. They were still there when we went back to the family room. Somebody—Kara, wasn't it?—said to leave them, they needed airing.”

“That's right,” Ruth said.

“It was late before we left,” Pat went on. “Everybody was tired. I doubt Cheryl would have bothered putting them away that night.”

Adam began, “Why don't you ask…” and then stopped with a gulp. “Oops.”

“Oops is right,” Pat said. “I'm walking a tightrope here, one I can't even see. Don't throw rotten eggs at the performer. You okay, kid?”

Rachel nodded dumbly. Pat was perspiring, despite the cool temperature, and Ruth's face was drawn and anxious. Their concern touched her, but it also puzzled her. What were they afraid of?
They aren't kin, they don't care about you, this is a game he's playing. Like that children's game, hot and cold. He's warm, getting warmer
.

“Rachel,” Pat said.

“Yes?”

“I can do this without you. For a number of reasons I'd prefer that you were present, but if you start to feel uncomfortable let me know. I'll back off.”

He's clever, oh, so clever. He's trying to make you think he cares. We can't stop him. But we don't have to help
.

Rachel nodded.

“Okay,” Pat said. “We can't set” the scene, since the quilts are now in police custody. I can't even remember what the damned things looked like, much less where they were that night. Ruth?”

“There were three quilts,” Ruth said. “But if you're asking for their exact location I can't say for sure.”

“Try.”

“Well…One of them, the white one, was on that table. I remember Cheryl moved the vase before she unfolded the quilt. The others were spread over the chairs—not those little straight chairs, the armchairs.”

“This one?” Pat indicated the chair nearest the desk.

“I think so.”

“Good.” Pat rubbed his hands together like Sherlock Holmes. “Next witness. Adam, go out onto the porch.”

“It's cold out there,” Adam protested.

“You're wearing at least five sweaters,” Pat said. “Move it.”

Muttering, Adam shuffled toward the door, and Pat went on, “I'll be Tony, Ruth had better stand in for Rachel. Come here, honey. Leave the door open, Adam. Which window were you looking through?”

“The left one.”

“Get into position then, don't stand there gaping like a fish. Can you see us?”

He put an arm around Ruth and led her behind the desk.

“No. Where are you?”

“How about now?”

He tried several different positions before he got the answer he wanted. “That's about right,” Adam called. He came back to the doorway. “The field of vision is quite limited, in fact. The window is only a foot wide.”

“That's what I thought,” Pat said with visible satisfaction. “So they were standing here. In front of this chair. Describe what you saw.”

“Damned if I will.”

“This is no time for gentlemanly reticence. I want details. Where were Tony's crutches?”

“He was leaning on one of them. I don't know where the other…” Adam groaned. “Can I close the door? I'm frozen stiff.”

“Yes, come in.” He was still holding Ruth. She pulled away from him and went to Rachel.

“You don't have to listen to this. Let's go back to the family room.”

“It's all right.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

Pat went on with the interrogation. “He had one arm around her, right? Or both?”

“One.”

“So he had dropped one crutch or laid it aside. What was he wearing?”

“A bathrobe, I guess. It was a dark color.”

“Pajamas?”

Adam's nose turned pink. “Uh—I think so.”

“What color?”

“How the hell should…Blue.”

“What did Rachel have on?”

“Clothes!” Adam shouted.

“Bathrobe? Negligee?”

“I don't remember!”

“You mean you don't want to remember. Close your eyes. See it. See her. Where were her arms?”

“Around…” He swallowed. “Around his neck.”

“Long sleeves? Short sleeves? No sleeves?”

Adam's nose, even his eyelids, were crimson. The words came out in a rush. “No sleeves. Bare arms. Slender, white…” His eyes popped open. “What am I saying? Did you hypnotize me? Damn you, Pat—”

“What—was—she—wearing?”

“Something. Don't hassle me, Pat, I can see it—visualize it—but I can't identify it. White or pale gray background, with some kind of colored print. It covered her from just below her shoulders clear down to the floor, even her feet.”

“Could you see the pattern?”

“I was not in the mood to linger over artistic details,” Adam said bitterly. “I jumped back from the window as soon as I realized what was going on. When I first looked in, I thought it was Cheryl he was holding, and then I saw the dark brown hair, streaming down her back, caught under his…Do you want me to go on? I can spare a few more layers of skin.”

“That's enough,” Pat said mildly. “That's what I
expected. What you saw wrapped around her was one of the quilts. There's nothing else it could have been—no shawls, no afghans lying on the chair now. It was on the chair that night. He reached for it when he saw she was cold, and put it around her, and—”

“Stop,” Ruth said firmly. “You've got what you wanted. Don't push it.”

“All right. We'll adjourn. I could use a cup of coffee.”

Adam hung back when they left the room. He avoided Rachel's eyes, and she realized she wasn't the only one whose privacy had been invaded. She shouldn't have been pleased about it, but she was.

 

“Adam, you're a terrible cook,” Pat declared, studying with obvious disfavor the muffin from which he had taken a bite. “What's this supposed to be?”

“I didn't have any blueberries,” Adam explained. “So I used cranberries.”

“You're supposed to cook them before you add them to the mix,” Rachel said.

“Oh.”

“We'd better be getting home,” Ruth said.

Pat stared at her in surprise. “What are you talking about? I've barely begun.” He took a notebook and a pair of glasses from his pocket. Adjusting the latter on his nose, he opened the notebook and looked at Adam.

“You found nothing when you searched the house?”

“No.”

“Where did you look?”

“Basement, upstairs bedrooms, and kitchen…”

When he finished the list Pat asked, “Not Rachel's room?”

“You said
it
wouldn't…” Adam caught himself. “You said not to bother with the places where she normally goes.”

“So we've only got two confirmed attempts at—” Pat paused, and said delicately—“at causing harm. I'd like to have a look at that bed canopy.”

Several of the cats accompanied them upstairs. The heavy canopy still lay on the floor beside the bed.

“I didn't realize it was so massive,” Ruth murmured. Her voice was unsteady. “How could Cheryl stand to sleep under something so dangerous?”

“She must have had it repaired and braced quite recently,” Adam said. “There are four separate sets of screws, each six inches long, plus a heavy bolt and nut on either end. There's no way screws and bolts could have worked loose.”

Pat lowered himself to his hands and knees and squinted at the end of the canopy. “Some of the screws are still in place.”

“She only had to loosen the screws on one end. When that end fell, the weight pulled the others away from the bed frame.” He picked up an object from the table. “The nut had been removed. I found it under the bed. You can see the marks of the pliers.”

The traces of tampering were obvious. The pliers had scored and brightened the metal. The head of the screw Adam offered next had the same sort of marks.

“It would take a great deal of strength to do that,” Ruth protested. “Surely only a man—”

“With the proper tools, anyone could have done it,” Adam said. “Tony's got long-handled pliers and an electric screwdriver in his workshop downstairs.”

Pat got stiffly to his feet. “Damned arthritis…She didn't know you were going to sleep here?”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“So cheer up. She isn't out to get you. So far.”

“Your levity is disgusting,” Adam snarled. “In front of Rachel—”

“I wasn't talking about Rachel,” Pat said.

“Then who, or what, are you talking about? You're giving this—this thing—gender, and thus, by implication, identity. What are you basing that on?”

“Past experience,” Pat said. “I don't buy the idea of an abstract demonic intelligence. There must be some spiritual connection between the invading entity and the host it occupies. In the earlier situation Sara was susceptible because she was the same age and sex as the girl who spoke through her. I'm assuming that the same thing applies to Rachel. I admit it's only a hypothesis so far, but several things support it. First, the sexual attraction that moved a puritanical man like Tony to violate his moral code.”

“Oh, come on,” Adam said angrily.

“I said it was only a hypothesis,” Pat repeated. “The second point is stronger. The source of the contamination seems to be the quilt. Women make quilts.”

“That's a sexist—” Ruth began.

“You know any men who make them?” Pat demanded.

“Not personally. But now that it's become an accepted art form—”

“It wasn't an art form when this quilt was made. Sewing was woman's work. Still is, on the whole.”

They went on arguing, more for the fun of it than for any other reason; Pat's point was valid, and Ruth knew it.

Rachel didn't know whether to be relieved or sorry when Pat was finally persuaded to leave. It had been painful to see the evidence of her deadly intent, and to relive an experience from which memory shrank. His hand on her breast, hard, hurting, pushing her away…

Only you know about that. He doesn't know. And you won't tell him. Why should you? It only matters to you
.

“What?” She started. Pat was speaking to her.

“I said, what's the name of that friend of Tony's at the station?”

“Tom Hardesty. Why?”

“I want to have a look at those quilts.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Pat said patiently, “there's got to be a connection. And before you start sneering at my deductive abilities, Adam, let me point out the underlying logic. The theft—which is now a case of theft and murder—has several peculiar aspects. Why haven't the police been able to find the thief? From the description of his appearance and behavior he would seem to be an ordinary stupid crook, without intelligence or subtlety. You've got two out-of-the-ordinary situations here—the theft, and the anomalies of Rachel's behavior, which began the night Tony wrapped her in the quilt. We are justified in assuming that the two are somehow connected.”

“You always did reason like a Jesuit,” Adam said rudely. “And you never listen to counterarguments. Play your little games. What do you want me to do?”

“You promised me a report on the Wiccas.”

“Very funny,” Adam said.

“I mean it. There's nothing else you can do at the moment.”

“We really must get back, Pat,” Ruth said. “I have things to do.”

“What things? Oh, all right.” He removed a cat from his lap, stood up, and put the cat on the seat he had vacated. The cat promptly jumped down.

“What about me?” Rachel asked.

“What about you? Follow your normal routine. Keep busy.” He moved to the table that held Rachel's books and papers. “Work on your dissertation.”

“Fat chance,” Rachel said. “With Adam thumping around and cats sitting on the keyboard and my mental processes distracted by wondering what I'm going to do next.”

Pat picked up one of the books. “Maybe I should read something about quilts. The subject has never had much attraction for me. Mind if I borrow this?”

“Take anything you like,” Rachel said.

“Thanks.” He put the book in his pocket. “All right, Ruth, we're off. Just one more stop.”

“Pat!”

“It won't take long. I want to have a look at the front steps. Well go outside and around.”

Her lips a thin line, Ruth let him help her into her coat and preceded him out the door.

“You told him about the knife,” Rachel said. Her voice was neutral, but Adam reacted as if the speech had been an accusation.

“I told him everything. Any objections?”

Without answering, Rachel followed the others.

Adam joined Pat, who was peering at the gash in the step with absorbed concentration. Ruth waited at the bottom of the steps, foot tapping and arms folded. The bright sunlight brought out lines in her forehead and cheeks Rachel hadn't noticed before.

“He's really into this, isn't he?” she said.

“Yes.”

“You're both being very kind.”

Ruth shook her head, frowning, and Rachel said hesitantly, “Are you angry about something? Have I done something?”

A flush of ugly color darkened the older woman's cheeks. She took Rachel's arm and led her away from the steps.

“It's not your fault. I'm a little worried, that's all.”

“About me?”

“It happened to him once before.” Ruth might have been talking to herself. “He's been exposed. Does that make him more susceptible? I couldn't go through that
again. I couldn't stand it if he…” She looked at Rachel and said bluntly, “You're a nice girl, Rachel. I like you, and I'm very sorry for you, and I know you're not responsible for this. But I'd abandon you, this day, this moment, if I could persuade Pat to do the same. I'd hate myself for the rest of my life, but I'd do it.”