Stitches in Time (7 page)

“What plate of cookies?” Kara, stopped, halfway to the door.

“Didn't I…Oh, darn, I forgot. Wait a minute.” She tried to free herself from the affectionate grip of the tree.

“I'll do it,” Rachel said quickly. Rolling her eyes, Kara hurried out, and Rachel got a plate from the shelf. It took some time to arrange the cookies to Cheryl's satisfaction—a paper doily underneath, sprigs of pine artistically arranged around the edges. She left Cheryl scolding one of the cats, a huge tabby with a perverse and perilous taste for chocolate, who had taken advantage of her distraction to steal a brownie.

Unruffled, her voice smooth as cream, Kara was entertaining a customer. Mrs. Baxter didn't buy for herself but she had a granddaughter on whom she doted and who was “into” vintage. She had been in twice before looking for a present for the girl, and she was still in the process of making up her mind. Accepting a cookie, she studied the garment Kara was holding.

“It's beautiful. But I don't know that green is her color. She's blonde, you know, with lovely blue eyes. Maybe the black would be better.” She waved the cookie at the black dress, which had crystal and jet beads covering the bodice and hanging in festoons down the skirt. Kara moved discreetly back, avoiding the scattering of crumbs, and Mrs. Baxter went blithely on. “That twenties' style suits her, she has such a pretty slender figure. That one might be too big, though. She has such a slender—”

The door opened and a man entered. He was young, casually dressed in jeans and a down jacket, brown hair brushed back from a high forehead, horn-rimmed glasses riding low on his nose. Could this be the mysterious Adam, Rachel wondered? Apparently not. With a nod at Kara he sauntered toward the display case that contained jewelry.

Rachel hesitated, wondering whether she should withdraw or attend to the new customer. Mrs. Baxter obviously wasn't about to conclude her business in a hurry.

“I'll be with you in a minute, Mr. Dupuis,” Kara said. “Mrs. Baxter, would you like Rachel to model the black dress? She's just Marian's size. What about another glass of punch?”

It was very smoothly done. By the time Rachel had changed, Mr. Dupuis had selected a garnet bracelet for his wife and Kara had boxed and wrapped it.

Mrs. Baxter loved the fashion show. Feeling like a fool, Rachel also modeled the green dress and the peignoir. After asking the price of the last, Mrs. Baxter decided on the black dress and Rachel was able to escape. Kara soon followed her into the kitchen.

“Sorry about that, Rachel,” she said. “I didn't mean to put you on the spot, but I had to do something to force that woman to a decision. She'd sit all afternoon if I let her.”

“What did she pick?” Cheryl asked. “Not the peignoir, I hope.”

“No, the black flapper dress. We'd be a thousand bucks richer if she'd bought the peignoir.”

“I don't care. I love that garment. It's Callot Soeurs—the only one we've ever had.”

“If you like it so much why don't you keep it?” Tony asked.

Cheryl leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. “Too
expensive. And too impractical. Besides, that pale pink is the wrong color for me.”

“The wrong color for mousy Marian too,” Kara said cattily. “With those washed-out blue eyes and wispy hair she'd be practically invisible. It looked fantastic on Rachel.”

The compliment was too casual to be anything except genuine. The others studied Rachel with friendly interest and she felt herself blushing, not at Cheryl's additional compliments about her dark hair and eyes and “that pretty fresh complexion,” or even at Tony's smiling agreement, but at the memory of how she had looked in the fabulous creation. She had had to take the pins and fasteners out of her hair so they wouldn't catch on the delicate fabric, and the image she had seen reflected in the long mirror was one she hardly recognized as herself. Like all inspired designers, the turn-of-the-century sisters had created not just a dress but a mood, a fantasy. Loosened hair tumbling over her shoulders, cheeks pink and eyes wide, her reflection in the mirror had suggested the cover of a particularly sloppy regency romance.

“I'll take it,” she said lightly, avoiding Tony's eyes. “On time, of course. Five bucks a week for the rest of my natural life.”

 

By the time the guests began to arrive, things were more or less under control. The family room had been cleaned and swept, the animals banished to an upstairs room, and the buffet table covered with a lavish spread, turkey and ham and roast beef and all the accoutrements, salads and sauces and rolls. And cookies.

Cheryl hadn't forgotten a single cliché, not even the sprigs of mistletoe hung in strategic places. If any of the guests were inclined toward cynicism—and Rachel sus
pected at least one of them was—they kept their feelings to themselves. Everyone entered into the Dickensian spirit of the festivities, delivering and receiving brightly wrapped gifts, bellowing out carols, helping to decorate the tree, stuffing themselves with food, exchanging hugs and kisses and compliments.

While the others were gathered around the piano singing, Rachel retreated to a quiet corner to catch her breath. It had been a long time since she had been part of such a large, boisterous group and her brain was overflowing with names she would never remember—or have cause to remember. Only two of the people she had met had made a permanent impression: one was a stocky young man with steady brown eyes, whom Tony had introduced as one of his subordinates. “He'll keep an eye on you and the shop while I'm gone, Rachel.”

Tom's expression indicated that the assignment was not unwelcome. “Sorry to say I've drawn a blank so far. But we'll track him down, don't worry. Call if anything at all happens.”

The other man was sitting by himself on a sofa by the fire. If he was alone it was by choice; she had never seen anyone look so at ease, so comfortable with himself and his surroundings. He was a big man, heavily built and unbowed by age, though only a few streaks of the original carrot-red remained in his thick gray hair. Like most of the others he was casually dressed, in jeans and a wool shirt, and his face was as weathered as that of a farmer. The lines were deeply incised, and not all of them were lines of affability. He must scowl quite a lot, Rachel thought.

She had only exchanged a few words with him. Most of the time he had been the center of an animated group, whose conversation was dominated by his booming voice.

Catching her eye, he smiled, displaying a set of impos
ing teeth, and beckoned her to join him. “Not singing?” he asked.

“I can't,” Rachel admitted.

“I can,” said Patrick A. MacDougal, professor emeritus and former president of the American Anthropological Association. “But they won't let me. Spite and jealousy, that's the reason.”

“You drown everybody else out, that's the reason,” said his wife, leaving the group gathered around the piano. “And you sing flat.”

“Spite and jealousy,” MacDougal repeated. “So, Rachel, I understand you and I are in the same business.”

“Hardly.” Rachel let out a gasp of embarrassed laughter. “I've read your books, Dr. MacDougal—”

“Pat.”

“Um…Thank you. They've been very helpful, especially the one on superstition, psychology, and folk medicine. But what I'm doing—hoping to do—is far less impressive.”

“Tell me about it.”

If she had met him in his professional capacity she might not have had the courage to talk at such length. His was one of the biggest names in the field, with a reputation that already equaled that of such icons as Malinowski and Fraser, and he was clearly not the kind of man who suffered fools gladly—or in any other way. He looked less formidable sprawled across the sofa with one long arm draped over the slim shoulders of his wife and a beer can in his other hand.

“Interesting idea,” he said finally. “Female subcultures haven't received their proper attention—”

“That's because until a generation ago anthropologists were all men,” Rachel said.

“Lay off me, kid,” MacDougal said. “I'm already surrounded by hard-nosed feminists, including my own wife.
Meade and Benedict, to name only two, were of your grandparents' generation, and there were others before them. Snubbed and ignored, most of them, but not by me.”

“I'm sorry,” Rachel began.

“Don't apologize,” Ruth said. “He'll only despise you. He loves an argument. You're right, and he knows it.”

MacDougal blandly ignored this put-down. “Interesting idea,” he repeated. “I don't know that anyone's ever tackled it from quite that perspective. Sewing was employed in the most important and magical aspects of life—shrouds for the dead, clothing for newborn babies, wedding garments. What—” He broke off with a grunt as a small body toppled over the back of the couch and landed on his stomach. “Goddammit!”

“Don't swear in front of the child,” Ruth said, removing Jerry's left foot from her lap.

“Swear, hell, I'm going to give him a good hiding.” Pat righted the child. “You ought to be in bed, you little monster.”

Jerry grinned at the face that scowled hideously at him. “I'm not going to bed for a long time,” he announced. “A long, long, long time.”

By nine o'clock everyone had left except the family, and the younger children had been carried up to bed. Jerry went tucked under Pat's arm like a bundle of old clothes. He let out a few howls as a matter of principle, but he clearly enjoyed the process. Megan, looking like a Christmas fairy in a ruffled pinafore and a silver coronet, eluded capture for a full ten minutes before she was discovered in the coat closet sitting on a pile of boots and eating cookies. Once caught she went without protest, smiling angelically at the exasperated adults over her mother's shoulder.

His own friends having departed, Joe politely excused
himself and went upstairs, though probably not to bed. Television was more interesting than adult conversation. The adults lounged in various stages of collapse. Rachel had started collecting glasses, plates, and crumpled napkins, but was driven back to her chair by a unanimous outcry.

“Don't do that or I'll feel as if I have to help,” Ruth said. “And I don't feel like it.”

“We'll all pitch in later,” Mark added lazily. He had returned from Europe that evening and come straight to the house; now his suitcoat hung over the back of a chair and the head cat, a huge tabby named Figgin, was chewing on his discarded tie. “This is the best part, after everybody's gone home except us.”

He smiled at his wife. Instead of responding, she said brusquely, “It was a great party, but I still think it was a stupid idea. Cheryl has that long drive ahead of her tomorrow, and I'll bet she hasn't finished packing yet.”

“It's only a five—” An ear-splitting yawn interrupted Cheryl. “Hour drive. And I have too finished packing. Almost.”

“And that's another thing,” Kara said. “Where's that no-good friend of yours, Pat? If he doesn't show up, Rachel will be alone here.”

The reminder was like a dash of cold water, spoiling the warm relaxed mood. The only calm face was that of Pat MacDougal. “He'll be here.”

“If he isn't, Rachel can come to us,” Mark said, frowning.

“And leave the animals alone?” Kara demanded.

“He'll be here, dammit!” Pat shouted. “But while we're on the subject, maybe one of you will explain to me precisely what has been going on. All I've heard so far is a lot of garbled gossip from various emotional females.” He pointed a long finger, quelling the babble of indignant voices. “Tony.”

Tony obliged, as methodically as if he were giving an official report. “So far nothing has turned up,” he finished. “There have been the usual number of burglaries, but nobody's reported losing a bunch of old quilts.”

“I can see,” said Pat, “that it is high time someone of intelligence considered this business. Your Alleged must be a local boy—”

“Not necessarily,” Tony began.

“Otherwise,” Pat went on, raising his voice, “he wouldn't know about the shop. I assume you haven't had any parallel cases—burglars specializing in antique fabrics? I thought not. Nor, from your description of him, is he the sort of aesthete who would appreciate antiques of that esoteric variety. So the logical conclusion is that he knew in advance the stuff was worth stealing because he had a personal connection with the owner. Either he worked at a shop where such things are sold, or he swiped them from a friend or relative who had told him of their value.”

“Even so,” Tony argued, “the, theft would have been reported.”

“Not if the owner doesn't know the stuff is missing.” Pat's teeth gleamed weirdly in the firelight. “Let's have a look at it.”

He jumped briskly to his feet. The others stared at him with a conspicuous absence of enthusiasm.

“Not now,” Mark said, with a groan. “Dammit, Pat, I want to sit and relax. Why'd you have to bring up the subject?”

“Pat's right,” Tony said. “Much as I hate to inflate his ego by admitting it. Where'd you stow the loot, babe?”

“One of the cupboards in the shop.” Cheryl rose stiffly. “I've been feeling bad about leaving Rachel here; if we can find out something that might help locate the man…”

The others followed her and she switched on the overhead lights before dragging the box out of the cupboard.
Rachel helped her spread the contents over chairs and tables. Pat didn't even wait to see the collection before commenting, “As I thought. Five will get you ten that lot has been packed in a trunk or box for years. Smell the mothballs.”

“Of course,” Cheryl said.

“What do you mean, ‘of course?'” Tony demanded. “You never bothered to mention—”

“A perfect example of the fact that men and women don't share the same cultural traditions,” Pat said, grinning. “She didn't mention it because to her—and to you other ladies—the fact was self-evident.”