Stitches In Time (11 page)
Authors: KATHY
The dogs were delighted to see them and even happier
to share the food. Adam didn't cook; as he sat gnawing on a turkey drumstick, his hair in his eyes, and a green sweater (the third layer down) covering his torso, he reminded Rachel irresistibly of the "cavemen" she had studied in grade school.
"Where were you?" she asked, watching in awe as he reduced the drumstick to bare bones and dug into a bowl of salad. She knew she had no right to ask, but Adam answered promptly, if indistinctly, "At an Esbat."
"At a what?"
"Esbat. It's one of the Great Festivals of Witchcraft. They occur on May Eve, Hallowe'en, February first, and August first, plus the winter and summer solstices. Today is December twenty-first..."
His voice trailed away and he sat quite still, the fork poised in his hand. A piece of lettuce fell with a plop, spraying his front with oil and vinegar.
"I know what an Esbat is," Rachel said, still dumbfounded.
"Oh, yeah." Adam peered at her through his hair. His eyes were bright and narrowed, like those of a furtive animal looking through a hedge. "You're supposed to be studying folklore. Why did you—"
"And
I
thought you were supposed to be a teacher. Why are you hobnobbing with witches? Have you joined a coven?"
"
I
was researching for Pat," Adam answered. "Modern witches are a harmless crowd, bless their innocent little hearts—it's all white magic, or so they claim. But they don't enjoy being laughed at any more than the rest of us, and Pat has made fun of them in print too often. They wouldn't have admitted him to the ceremony."
"
I
can see why you'd blend right in," Rachel admitted.
Frowning, Adam changed the subject. "Did you hear anybody out there tonight?"
"Just you."
"Somebody was there who wasn't me. What about the dogs?"
"That is odd," Rachel said. "They barked when you came. Not before."
"If you were asleep you might not have heard them."
"I was asleep part of the time but it was on the couch—" She indicated that article of furniture with a gesture—"and they were in the same room. I couldn't have missed hearing them."
"Interesting."
"Maybe he arrived just before you did, and you scared him off. Where was the knife?"
He hesitated briefly before he said, "On the top step. Standing upright. It had been driven into the wood."
Rachel understood why he had been reluctant to tell her. The simple description presented a picture ugly with overtones. "A threat?" she said.
"That's one possibility."
"What other possibility is there? If he had meant to break in he wouldn't have abandoned a weapon. You should have left it where it was. There might have been fingerprints. You probably wiped them off."
"You're right," Adam admitted. "I should have left it in situ. I'm not very experienced at this sort of thing."
"Well, the damage is done. I'll call the police—that friend of Tony's—in the morning. No sense doing it now."
Adam pitched the turkey bones into the trash can, to the visible chagrin of dogs and cats, and opened the refrigerator. "Want a piece of pie?"
"No, I'm going to bed."
"Sleep tight."
"How can I not, with you on guard?"
And, somewhat to her surprise, she did.
I
Next morning she called the number Tony had given her and asked for Thomas. A bored voice informed her he was out of the office. It volunteered nothing more, so Rachel left a message and tried to settle down to work. It was no betrayal of her feminist principles to admit she felt better knowing there was a man in the house—particularly a man the size of Adam. Peculiar was certainly a mild word for him, but now that he had been reminded so emphatically of the danger, he might be more reliable. He might even bring himself to inform her of his plans instead of sneaking around with little notes. Curt little notes, at that; the one stuck on her door had read, "Going out. Back later."
Out to a witches' sabbath. In retrospect it struck her as rather funny, and not as surprising as others might have found it. She knew a number of anthropologists; though some were as conventional as bankers, the percentage of eccentrics among them was rather high.
At nine-thirty Adam still hadn't made his appearance. It was a bleak, cold morning; after a few tentative sorties the animals decided they preferred the warmth of the house. Rachel began to regret she had decided to work in the family room; the dogs snored and twitched, the cats walked across her keyboard and wanted to sit on her lap, and she kept expecting a huge form to appear in the doorway, looking for breakfast and/or conversation.
After another unproductive half hour Rachel gave up trying to concentrate. Making sure the animals were confined in the family room, she went to the workroom. Located behind the shop, it was Cheryl's pride and joy, equipped with every item needed for the sometimes painstaking work of restoration old fabrics might need. In addition to sinks and drying racks, an ironing board and sewing machine, it contained cupboards for storage and supplies, two long worktables, and several comfortable chairs.
Under Cheryl's tutelage Rachel had begun to tackle some of the simpler cleaning and mending tasks. The techniques required considerable skill—accurate matching of colors and fabric, precise, almost invisible stitches, selection of the proper thread. The cobwebby silks and chiffons needed silk thread and a needle so fine it was maddeningly hard to thread. The silk knotted easily, and a false stitch was difficult to remove without leaving holes in the delicate fabric.
Sewing repairs were easier than cleaning, though. Treating the white cotton of Victorian petticoats and nightgowns was comparatively safe; they could be washed and even bleached. Even on these garments spots and stains presented a problem, however. Some obediently disappeared with careful bleaching; others disappeared but left a large, depressing hole. Rachel knew better than to tackle silks or rayons or wool, or even colored cloth. Some of the old dyes weren't fast, and would run if they got wet. Cheryl always tested them first with a damp cloth or Q-tip, but even she had made mistakes. One of them hung on the wall of the workroom as a reminder and a warning—a once-valuable sampler, dated 1793, whose blues and greens had run devastatingly and irreparably.
A pile of "whites" awaited Rachel's attentions—"only if you're in the mood, there's no hurry," Cheryl had told her. After rummaging through them, Rachel decided she wasn't in the mood. She tossed the whites back into their box. She had promised Cheryl she would put the quilts away; might as well get it done now.
Ripping off a long sheet from the heavy roll of acid-free tissue, she carried it into the shop and spread it across the floor. She paused for a moment to admire the white quilt before folding it in the paper; it was as beautiful as Cheryl had claimed, museum quality without a doubt.
After wrapping the patchwork quilt with equal care she
carried both into the workroom. One more to go—the album quilt. It was still in her room. Rachel closed the workroom door and went along the corridor toward the stairs, her steps slow and reluctant. She didn't want to see the quilt, much less touch it, but she couldn't leave it where it was. Once it was put away, out of sight, it would no longer be a constant reminder of the incident that gnawed at her conscience like a worm in an apple.
Adam's room—Tony's former room—was on the same corridor, beyond the stairs. The door was closed.
She went on up the stairs, bundled the quilt into her arms, and carried it to the workshop. The paper in which it would be wrapped was ready, lying across one of the long worktables. She put the quilt down on top of the paper and spread it out.
Under the bright, shadowless fluorescents the pattern was clearer, though the strange gray film still dulled it. Her curiosity piqued, Rachel bent over the table, trying to make out details. Paired hearts, arrangements of flowers and leaves—other less conventional designs, oddly provocative. It couldn't do any harm to brush it, she thought, picking absently at the gray film with her fingernail. The stuff seems to come off easily enough.
Using the softest and finest brush she could find, she began on one corner, barely touching the fabric, alert for the slightest sign of damage. The gray didn't so much brush off as dissolve, leaving no residue on fabric or table. The underlying design took shape behind the slow sweep of the brush as if it were being freshly created instead of cleaned. The colors were soft, faded by time, but clear and pure.
Rachel finished one entire square before stepping back and examining the result.
This certainly was not a Baltimore album quilt. As was the case with all album quilts, each block had a different
pattern, but the Baltimore quilt designs were distinctive and unmistakable—formal, complex flower and fruit arrangements, wreaths and birds so detailed that a single flower might utilize twenty or thirty separate pieces of fabric. The colors were strong and vivid, and sometimes ink shading was used to give a more naturalistic effect. After the blocks were sewed together an equally complex and bright colored border was added and the whole thing was covered with quilting.
The stitches on this one were as fine as any she had seen, but the appliqued designs were nothing like the formal patterns of the Baltimore quilts. The block Rachel had cleaned—astonishingly, magically clean now, the creamy white background unsmirched—showed a flower arrangement, but the arranger had been Nature herself. Forget-me-nots, their petals shaped from pieces of fabric no larger than a baby's fingernail, and sprays of some pink flower she couldn't identify grew from a tuft of green grass. The flower petals had been appliqued, the stems and grass embroidered. And half concealed by the grass . . . What was it? The shape was hard to make out, since it was of a shade only slightly darker than that of the grass. A sinuous curve of apple-green, twining around and through the perpendicular stalks in a pattern that pleased the eye even as it frustrated the viewer's attempt to trace its outline . . .
She was squinting at it, deep in concentration, when the ringing of the telephone made her start. At first she ignored the sound. Why didn't Adam answer the damned thing? It was probably for him, she wasn't expecting a call. Then she remembered that she was.
The voice was that of Thomas, or as he requested she call him, Tom. "Tony's the only one who uses my full name. It's his idea of a joke, has something to do with Doubting Thomas in the Bible, I guess."
The apostle in question had been the only one to
demand proof of the identity of the resurrected Christ. An appropriate patron saint for a police officer, Rachel thought, but she hoped Tom wasn't too skeptical to believe her story. In the cold light of day it sounded like the sort of thing a nervous woman might have invented to get attention.
Tom listened without interrupting. The silence continued for several seconds after she finished. Then he said, "I intended to get in touch with you anyhow. Is it all right if I come by in, say, half an hour?"
"Has something happened?"
"I'll tell you about it when I get there." Before she could expostulate, he added, "I'll come to the side door. Don't open it until you're sure it's me."
He hung up. Rachel slammed the phone back into the cradle. Damn men anyhow, she thought unjustly. If he had deliberately set out to worry her, he couldn't have chosen a better way. A blunt statement, no matter how nasty, would have been easier to accept than vague hints and dire warnings.
Leaving the album quilt spread out on the table, she stormed out of the workroom and found herself nose to nose—or rather nose to sweater—with Adam.
"Oh, there you are," he said.
"Obviously." Rachel stepped back and rubbed her nose. The wool of the sweater was as stiff and harsh as burlap)— the result of age and careless laundering methods. "Were you looking for me?"
"I deduced that you were in the workroom since you weren't anywhere else in the house and your coat is in the closet. So I came here and waited in the hall till you came out."
"Why didn't you ..." Rachel stopped herself. It would have been a waste of time to ask why he hadn't knocked, or simply walked in. He never did the sensible thing. "What do you want?" she demanded.
"
I
want to talk to you. If the cops are coming, we should get our story straight before they arrive."
"What do you mean, straight? You tell your version,
I
tell mine. There's nothing to ..." Then it hit her, and she began sputtering. "How did you know that was . . . Were you eavesdropping?"
"Sure." Adam looked mildly surprised. Then it seemed to dawn on him that she was upset about something. "I picked up the phone and you were talking to the cop and so I figured—"
"That you could just listen in on a private conversation?"
"But it wasn't a personal conversation. I mean, you and he aren't. . . Are you?"
"None of your business."
Adam considered this. "Ordinarily that response means 'yes.' In this case, however, I am inclined to take it literally. You certainly didn't say anything to him, or him to you, that would indicate you have a close, much less intimate, relationship."
"How would you know?" Rachel demanded.
Anger prompted this piece of rudeness and she regretted the words as soon as they had been spoken; but Adam's face gave no indication that she had offended him. In a slightly less aggressive tone she said, "In the future please don't pick up the phone after I've answered it. Or apologize and get off the line."
"I was going to, but he hung up before—"
"Would you mind getting out of my way?"
"What?"
"You are standing in the doorway," Rachel pointed out. "You fill the doorway. I can't get past you."
"Oh. Were you leaving the room?"
"No, I just opened the door because ..." She took a deep breath. "Yes. I was leaving the room."
"Okay."
He followed her to the kitchen, so closely she could feel him, like a rock about to fall on her. She quickened her pace. Adam quickened his. "Have you had breakfast?" he asked.
"Hours ago."
I
will be damned, Rachel thought, if I offer to get his.
To judge by the evidence—crumbs on the table, an egg-stained plate in the sink—he had already prepared and eaten it. He had also made a fresh pot of coffee. Picking up a sponge, he swept the crumbs from the table onto the floor. "Want some coffee?"
Rachel was about to refuse when she realized she was being childish. With a muttered "Thanks," she helped herself and sat down at the table. Poiret was licking the floor. She nudged him with her foot. "Stop that."
"Don't discourage him," Adam said. "He's more effective than a mop or a vacuum cleaner. I don't understand why the human race is so reluctant to make use of a biodegradable, recyclable, natural resource like a dog. Think of all you'd save on—"
"What did you do with the knife?"
"It's in my room. I'll get it."
He put the dirty plate in the dishwasher, swabbed off the sink, and went out, leaving Rachel to deal with the cat that had jumped onto her lap and dipped its tail in her coffee.