Stitches in Time (22 page)

“I thought it was a man too,” Rachel admitted. “I didn't examine the details closely. But I think you're right, Pat. That's a long skirt—a riding habit. The hat is a woman's too. They wore those jaunty top hats at one period. Yes, of course it's a woman. The sewer has even created the impression of a veil. What incredible workmanship! The thread is as fine as a single hair. The features are…”

Her voice caught. Pat said sharply, “What?”

“She's blind,” Rachel whispered. “Look. Mouth, nose…and the crossed threads of the veil, with not even a French knot to indicate an eye.”

Pat snatched the photo from her. “Damned if you aren't right.”

Adam shifted protestingly. “I don't know anything about sewing, but it must be hard to show details as small as that. The whole face isn't as big as my fingernail.”

“A valid point,” Pat muttered, squinting closely at the tiny face. “But I don't believe it. What caught my eye was something else. Look at the dog—the shape and placement of its head. Either it's about to take a bite out of the horse's shank or your seamstress is less skilled than she has shown herself to be elsewhere.”

“That's really far out,” Adam exclaimed.

“I don't think so. It was just a hunch at first, but these photographs confirm it. There's something wrong in almost every scene.” He selected another picture, slapped it down on the table, and jabbed at it with a peremptory finger. “That's a snake—a cute little green snake coiled around the stems of the flowers. And this. It's a charming depiction of a columned summer house or gazebo, surrounded by flowering shrubs—but what's this thing peering out between the leaves? It's got eyes. Red eyes.”

“They're flowers.” But Adam's voice lacked conviction.

They were not flowers. The difference in shading and shape was so subtle Rachel would not have seen it if Pat had not pointed it out.

“I'll be willing to bet there are more little surprises,” Pat said. “We need enlargements. I'll have them made, Rachel, if you'll give me the negatives.”

Rachel was staring in horrified disgust at the demonic red eyes. She heard the dogs bark, but didn't react until Adam said, “That must be Kara.”

“Good,” Pat said. “I want to talk to her.”

Rachel jumped up. “You musn't tell her, Pat. Swear to me you won't tell her.”

“About these?” He indicated the photographs. “Why should she object? It was a smart idea, to photograph the
quilt. I don't understand how you got such clear shots, with that dirty gray film—”

“I cleaned it. It came right off, no problem. Pat—”

“It's come back then,” Pat said thoughtfully. “Interesting. I wonder what—”

“Listen to me!” Frantic, expecting at any second to hear a knock at the door, she caught at his arm. “I don't care if she knows about the photographs, but you musn't tell her what I—what I tried to do, the canopy and the ground glass and…She'll never believe your hypothesis; she's the most rational, skeptical person I've ever met and she doesn't like me anyhow; she'll think I did it deliberately and—oh, God, there she is! Promise me, Pat.”

“What makes you think she doesn't like you? Oh, all right, calm down. I promise. I'll concoct some story to explain why I'm interested in the origin of the quilt. Follow my lead and back me up. Okay, Adam, let her in before she kicks the door down. Patience is not one of her virtues.”

Kara didn't kick the door, but her knocking was loud and peremptory, and she wasted no time in telling them why she was so impatient.

“There are a couple of big cardboard boxes on the front porch,” she announced. “Another sales pitch from your burglar?”

Adam charged toward the door
.

“Go through the shop,” Kara ordered. “I have to open it anyway. Rachel, try to keep the damned cats from following us.”

Rachel had almost forgotten about the Alleged; a possibly homicidal thief was small potatoes compared to her most recent difficulty. Corralling cats, she was slow to follow the others; she found them on the porch, standing in a wary circle around the cartons. Joe would have approved of the person who had left them, for they had obviously been reused several times. The sagging boxes would have given way at the seams if they had not been wound with rope.

“Get back,” Adam ordered in a heroic baritone. Taking out a pocketknife, he edged cautiously up to the nearest box and started to cut the cord. Then he said in surprise, “There's a note. Addressed to you, Kara.”

Kara accepted the folded sheet of lined paper. After reading the message she began to sputter. “Oh, for God's sake! I should have known. It's just Mrs. Grossmuller.”

“Who?” Adam's face fell. Heroics were obviously not required.

In her worn jeans and sneakers, with a scarf covering her hair and laughter softening her face, Kara looked younger and less formidable. “She's a crazy old lady we met when we started the business. We bought a few things from her and now we can't get her off our backs; she considers herself one of our pickers, though we never made a formal arrangement with her. Cherry is terrified of her but I rather like the old lunatic. She did me a big favor once…And she does turn up good stuff upon occasion. When was she here?”

Adam shrugged. “We were away from the house yesterday afternoon. Didn't get back till after dark. I didn't look to see if there was anything on the porch. Sorry; I hope the merchandise hasn't been damaged by being out all night.”

“It would take more than a night in the cold to damage Mrs. Grossmuller's contributions,” Kara said. “But you should check for packages daily; the UPS and FedEx people won't deliver at the back because of the dogs. Well, let's take the boxes inside. What a nuisance! We're trying to get rid of things, not acquire more, and Mrs. Grossmuller's stuff always needs drastic cleaning. That reminds me, Rachel; I've notified some of our select customers that we're having a private clearance sale, just for them, on Thursday and Friday. I'll be here. In fact, I'll probably stay over Thursday night.”

Hands in his pockets, Pat allowed Adam to carry the boxes into the shop. Kara began to unpack them, giving each item a quick, measuring glance before she tossed it aside. “Worse than usual,” she muttered. “Well…This piece of lace isn't bad. Maybe I can recycle this petticoat. And this, and this…” When she finished there were two piles. “Rags and possibles,” Kara said, nudging each heap with her foot. “Help me get the possibles into the workroom, Rachel; we'll put the whites to soak, see if the stains
will come out. We may be able to get rid of some of these things during the sale.”

Pat cleared his throat. “Can I say something?”

“What's stopping you?”

“Your formidable energy and flapping tongue. You can spare ten minutes. Sit down, I want to show you something.”

He took the photographs from his pocket.

As he had predicted, Kara was approving instead of annoyed. “Good thinking, Rachel. I've been kicking myself for not suggesting that someone take photos. If I had realized what a fantastic piece of work it was, I'd have kicked myself harder. I'm amazed at how well these came out. What did you do, vacuum it?”

“Brushed it.”

“Oh, lovely,” Kara murmured. “We've got to have it. Unfortunately that awful woman seems to know the quilts are worth money. She said one of them was in a book—”

“What?” The word came out of Pat like an explosion. He turned a formidable glare on Rachel, who cringed. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I forgot,” Rachel said feebly.

“What book?”

“I don't know.”

“Stop picking on her, Pat,” Kara ordered. “Since when have you become so passionate about quilts?”

Pat caught himself. “It was Rachel's idea,” he said, so glibly that Rachel would have believed him if she hadn't known he was lying. “For her dissertation. She has a theory that friendship quilts, especially the ones made for brides, might have incorporated various good luck charms and motifs. This quilt has—she informs me—some unusual designs. So I suggested that she try to trace the original owner, learn something about her and her circle of friends, her life history…”

He ran out of breath and ideas at about the same time. Much of what he had said was nonsense, but Rachel was relieved to see that Kara didn't realize that. Her interest in the quilt was pragmatic; vague academic theories didn't concern her.

“Sounds interesting,” Kara said politely. “I don't think you'll have much luck, but you could try.”

“I—we—she thought she might interview Mrs. Wilson,” Pat explained. “You have her address, don't you?”

“Not with me.”

“But you can find it?”

“Yes, of course. The police have it too,” she added. “Why don't you ask that nice friend of Tony's, Rachel?”

“I didn't think of that,” Pat muttered.

Kara stacked the photos and put them in the desk drawer. “I'll look them over again later. Right now I have to get to work. Can you give me a hand, Rachel?”

It was courteous of her to ask, Rachel thought wryly. What else could she say but yes?

Kara threw the discards back into one of the cartons and scooped up an armful of clothes. Adam opened the door for her and followed her out. Rachel gathered the remaining linens and was about to go after them when Pat took her by the shoulders and lifted her till she was standing on tiptoe and his face, flushed with temper, was only inches from hers.

“Dammit, girl, has your brain shut down? Don't you realize how important that book could be? It might give us the name of the woman who made the quilt. You've got to find it.”

“I'll try. Let go, you're hurting me.”

“Don't talk so loud. Do you want Kara to hear?”

He was taller and heavier than she, stronger than she had realized, his hands as hard as those of a younger man. Violent, unreasoning panic swamped her and she twisted,
trying to free herself. “
Don't hurt me. I'll do anything you want. Please…
”

Had she spoken the words aloud, or only heard them in her mind? When the room came back into focus Pat was several feet away, his face lined and pale.

“Holy Mother of God,” he said softly. “Sorry, kid. I didn't expect that.”

But Ruth did, Rachel thought. This is what she was afraid of.

“What are you guys doing?”

Adam was standing in the doorway. Rachel dropped to her knees and began picking up the clothes that had fallen from her grasp. Pat's control was better than hers; when he answered, his voice sounded normal.

“Plotting, what do you suppose? I'm going to the station and extract that woman's address from Tom. Rachel will look for the book Kara mentioned.”

“Well, she'd better get herself into the workroom,” Adam said. “Kara is making peremptory noises about wanting help.”

Face averted, Rachel slipped past him.

“Put them on the table,” Kara ordered. The armload she had brought was already soaking in the sink. One of the cupboard doors stood open and Kara was wrestling with a quart-sized plastic bottle. “The damned top is stuck,” she said, grunting with effort. “How are you at…Never mind, I've got it.”

Rachel didn't realize she had moved until she heard Kara cry out and saw her reel back against the sink. The bottle hit the floor and bounced.

Kara's scream brought both men to the door. “What happened?” Adam asked.

Kara rubbed her arm. Outrage and incredulity raised her voice a good half octave. “She hit me. Knocked the bottle out of my hand. I was going to bleach—”

“That's not bleach,” Pat said.

Liquid continued to gurgle from the bottle, which had lost its cap as it fell. The liquid was certainly not bleach. Viscous, reddish brown, it had a sharp pungent odor quite unlike the unmistakable if equally pungent smell of bleach.

“Don't touch it,” Pat ordered, as Adam reached for the bottle. “Not with your bare hands. Use this.”

He snatched a cloth from the pile Rachel had dropped and gave it to Adam. It was one of the petticoats Kara had hoped to salvage, but Kara was too dumbfounded to object. After Adam had righted the bottle and screwed the cap on, he put it gingerly on the counter and studied the stained cloth.

“What is it?” Kara's voice was still soprano with disbelief.

Involuntarily, as one man, Pat and Adam turned to look at Rachel.

“I don't know!” She backed away, hands raised as if to fend off a physical attack. “I don't know what it is.”

“But you knew there was something wrong with it.” Kara would not accept that feeble denial, not when all the evidence, including Rachel's guilty expression, contradicted it. “You couldn't have smelled it or seen it, I hadn't even removed the cap. The label says it's bleach. How could you have known unless…” Her eyes moved from Rachel's face to Pat's. “What the hell is going on?”

“She didn't mean to,” Adam said. He went to Rachel and stood beside her, solid as a rock, but he didn't touch her.

Kara transferred her accusing stare to him. “You're in on this too? You're all in on it. Okay, I give up. What's the joke? Was it supposed to turn my hands a bright indelible orange or make me break out in warts?”

“I think we'd better tell her, Rachel,” Pat said. “I gave you my promise. Do I have your permission to break it?”

“I'll tell her,” Rachel said. Confession, she had heard, was good for the soul. There must be some truth in that. The only emotion she felt was depression so vast it amounted to utter physical exhaustion. Unburdening herself would be a relief. “I'd rather she thought I was crazy than—than vicious and crazy. I honestly don't know what that vile stuff is, Kara, but it was I who put it in the bleach bottle, and it was intended to do harm—not to you, but to Cheryl. I didn't mean to do it. I didn't even know I had done it. I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't accept Pat's theory, though I wish to God I could. He thinks it's…” She couldn't bring herself to say the word—any of the specific, unbelievable words.

Pat, never one to mince words or avoid confrontation, said them. “Overshadowing. Mental invasion. Spiritual intrusion. Possession.”

Kara's jaw dropped. “Oh, for God's sake. Not again!”

 

“I'm sorry,” Rachel mumbled. “I hate swooning heroines! I don't know why I keep doing this.”

She pushed the afghan away and sat up. Kara, seated in the rocking chair with a mug in her hand and a cat on her lap, said pleasantly, “In this case it was probably anticlimax. You had braced yourself for howls of disbelief and outrage.”

“So Sara told you.” Pat ran his hand through his hair, which stood out around his face like a rusty halo.

Kara nodded. “At one of those late-night bull sessions, when she was visiting me and Mark was out of town. Sara is my older sister, Rachel. She and her husband both had experiences like yours some years ago. She's the most normal, well-adjusted person I know. I couldn't doubt her, especially when Bruce confirmed the story.”

“My testimony would not, of course, have impressed you,” Pat said with heavy sarcasm.

“That was the same case you mentioned the other night?” Adam asked. He had caught Rachel when her knees buckled and carried her into the family room. His breathing was still uneven.

“Uh-huh. Such things don't happen as frequently as Kara's nonchalance might lead you to believe. I didn't feel I had the right to gossip about it to outsiders, even Sara's family, but I'll be damned if I can understand why Kara was so close-mouthed with me. I've been running all around Robin Hood's barn trying to be tactful and thoughtful and considerate.”

He scowled horribly at Kara, who said, “You're just mad because you were hoping for a big loud argument, and I didn't give you the opportunity. I'll make it up to you by letting you tell me what has happened. Try not to be as long-winded as you usually are, please.”

His summary was concise and well organized, and delivered with a panache that made Rachel realize what a superb lecturer he must have been. No wonder his courses had been so popular. Though none of what he said was new to her, she found it as fascinating as if she were hearing it for the first time. He omitted only one incident—that traumatic moment when she had fought to free herself from his hard, possessive grasp.

Kara was less impressed. “So,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

“Do?” Pat repeated.

“Do. You've put together a plausible and entertaining story, but as you have often informed me, plausible isn't proven. If I understand you correctly, you think the woman who made that quilt was moved by malice against the woman who was to receive it—malice so intense that the emotion survived, undying, until it found a receptive vehicle.”

Rachel's clasped hands tightened. “I didn't intend—”

“Never mind that now,” Kara said. “We're discussing Pat's intriguing but unproven hypothesis. I see one serious objection to it right off the bat. The quilt is almost a hundred and fifty years old. What's it been doing all those years, lurking and biding its time, lying in wait for Rachel? Is there something about her that makes her uniquely receptive?”

Rachel started to protest, but Pat cut her off. “How the flaming hell should I know? Maybe it was packed away all those years, in harmless obscurity. Maybe it has to be in direct physical contact with a suitable individual. Or maybe…”