Stitches In Time (14 page)

"She's been busy," Adam said. "Want a cup of coffee?"

Kara turned her inimical stare on him. The look and the tapping foot would have cowed most people, but Adam, amiably unperturbed, went on, "I was going to get cookies, but Rachel said there wasn't time. How about cinnamon toast?"

Kara's lips relaxed into an unwilling smile. "For God's sake, Adam, this isn't a tea party. I should be yelling at you, too. Why didn't you . . . Oh, hell, what's the use? Put the damn coat down, Rachel, and relax. How much time have we got before Tom arrives?"

"None," Adam said calmly as the dogs hurled themselves, howling, at the side door. Opening the door to the porch, he urged them out.

"Let me do the talking," Kara said. Tucking a strand of hair back in place, she sat down in the rocking chair, crossed her legs, smoothed her skirt, and leaned back.

It was a calculated pose, designed to display not only cool self-possession but her well-cut skirt and raw silk blouse and understated jewelry—gold chains and bracelet, no rings except the wide gold band on her left hand. The contrast between her appearance and that of the woman who entered couldn't have been more emphatic if Kara had planned it. Maybe she had, Rachel thought in reluctant admiration.

Mrs. Wilson, like all women, knew that fine feathers increase confidence. Unfortunately her taste didn't match her instincts. She was short, only an inch or two taller than five feet, but the word
petite
didn't describe any of her measurements except her height. She had made the common error of buying clothes that were a size too small; the tight skirt hugged her thighs and the extravagantly ruffled red blouse clashed with her orange hair. She was wearing
too much jewelry—dangling earrings, a pearl choker, several gaudy rings.

Tom's face was particularly impassive. His dour expression brightened momentarily as he greeted Rachel but settled back into a frozen mask when he introduced Mrs. Wilson. It wasn't hard to deduce that she had been giving him a hard time.

Mrs. Wilson sat down, her skirt folding into horizontal pleats across her stomach, and looked at Kara. "You're the one who wants to buy—"

Smoothly Kara cut her off. "I'm so sorry about your aunt, Mrs. Wilson. Please accept my condolences."

Thus reminded of her bereavement, Mrs. Wilson took out a handkerchief and raised it cautiously to her eyes. "It was a terrible shock. Poor Auntie Ora. If she'd been in a nursing home like she should of been this wouldn't have happened.
I
told her over and over she should sell that big old house. My boy Rocky would of helped her get moved, though it would of been a terrible job getting rid of all that junk she'd collected over the years. We could have had a real nice auction." She glared at Tom. "Now he tells me we can't have her things back. That's not right. What kind of country is this when the police can take a person's property?"

"I've explained that, Mrs. Wilson," Tom said wearily. "You—if you are the heir—will get the quilts back as soon as possible. They are evidence."

"Yeah, and what about the TV and the other things? You never found those."

Kara had been listening with a faint smile. Now she said, "What else was taken?"

"Not much," Tom answered. "The television set was the only modern appliance. She didn't have a stereo or CD player, just a radio, and her jewelry was in a safe deposit box. A few pieces of furniture and bric-a-brac appear to be
missing. We haven't located them yet, but we've put out a description."

"They was valuable antiques," Mrs. Wilson interrupted. "That old radio cabinet—"

"We're working on that, Mrs. Wilson." Tom looked at his watch. "I don't want to take up any more of your time or Mrs. Brinckley's. If you'll make a formal identification of the quilts I'll take them with me."

"Certainly." Kara responded as if the speech had been addressed to her. "They're in the workshop. This way."

She led the way to the door, her heels clicking decisively. The others trailed after her, including Adam, who brought up the rear. Rachel started to close the door and heard Kara say sharply, "Grab him, Adam, and put him back in the kitchen."

"Him" was Figgin, of course. Cursing and squirming, he was reimprisoned, and after making certain the kitchen door was shut tight, Rachel followed Adam to the workroom.

Tom had taken the carton from the cupboard. Rachel stared blankly at it. She couldn't remember folding and repacking the quilts after she had showed them to Adam. She must have done so; the table and racks were bare.

"Let me do that," she said, as Kara reached for the first neatly wrapped bundle. "You'll get dirty."

The tissue came away to display the Carolina Rose quilt. Rachel spread it out across the table and Mrs. Wilson pounced. "That's hers. That's Auntie's." Her long, scarlet nail picked at one of the patches. "It's tore. It was perfect before."

"Before what?" Kara inquired coldly. "I noticed that rent when
I
first examined the quilt. The fabric must have caught on something—a pin or a nail—during the robbery."

Mrs. Wilson gave her a shrewd glance and realized that
the trick wasn't going to work. "I'm sure you took good care of it," she said in a syrupy voice.

Tom had taken out a list and a pencil. "Okay, that's one. Next, please."

Mrs. Wilson identified the white quilt as another of Auntie's treasures. The album quilt was the last. Rachel didn't stop to wonder why it was at the bottom of the box. She was anticipating a reprimand, or at least a question; if Mrs. Wilson didn't notice that the quilt had been cleaned, Kara certainly would. I'll say Cheryl told me to, Rachel thought. Cheryl had authorized it. Not in so many words, maybe, but. . .

Pencil poised, Tom said, "Well, Mrs. Wilson?"

The woman was slow to answer, and Rachel held her breath. Finally Mrs. Wilson muttered, "That has to be one of hers. It looks different...."

"Yes or no?" Tom demanded.

"Yes." Mrs. Wilson smiled like a shark at Kara. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Even Rachel recognized the gambit. Kara, who had been hardened by innumerable encounters with prospective sellers, braced herself for combat.

"Badly faded," she drawled. "A pity; it would be worth money if it were in good condition. She must have stored it in a hot attic or a damp basement. Look at the mold."

"That's not mold, just dust," Mrs. Wilson retorted.

Whatever it was, it was there—not as heavy as the film Rachel had removed only a few hours earlier, but the same dulling gray.

"You can wrap them up again," Tom said, tucking the list into his pocket. "Rachel?"

"What? Oh. Yes, of course." She waved aside Adam's offer of help and began folding the album quilt. How strange and how infuriating, the return of the dulling film. It must be seeping out to the surface from the filling, cotton batting permeated with decades of dust. Obviously more intensive cleaning than simple brushing would be required. The hand vacuum, or ...

The mercantile duel between Kara and Mrs. Wilson was interrupted by Tom. "You ladies can make any arrangements you want, but you'll have to do it on your own time. I suggest you consult your lawyer, Mrs. Wilson; he can tell you how long it will be before you can dispose of your aunt's property."

"Quite right," Kara said.

"But you are interested?"

"I might be. At the proper time and under the proper conditions."

"I'll bet other people would be interested, too," Mrs. Wilson said. "Those quilts are famous. One of them was in a book. A lady came around to see them one time, and she put one of them in a book."

"Really." Kara's polite indifference parried that thrust. "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Wilson. Let me know what you decide."

After Tom had removed Mrs. Wilson and the quilts, Kara dropped into the rocking chair and kicked off her shoes. "You did a nice job on the album quilt, Rachel."

"I just brushed it."

"So I assumed. You didn't get all the dirt out, but you were wise not to tackle anything more extensive. It will require careful handling. It is gorgeous, though."

"Are you going to buy it?" Rachel asked.

"I think so." Kara accepted a triangle of toast, thickly spread with melted butter and cinnamon sugar, from Adam. "She'll try to hold me up for an outlandish price, but
I
can deal with her.
I
know the type."

"She isn't a very nice woman," Rachel said.

"She's a greedy, crude, selfish woman," Kara corrected. "Who won't shed a tear over poor old Auntie. She's probably had her eye on those quilts ever since Miss Ora told her about the lady and the book and how valuable they were.
I
won't get any bargains." She dusted off her hands and reached for another piece of toast. "But we can make a reasonable profit on the deal, I think. That album quilt is really quite remarkable. I wish I'd had a chance to examine it more closely. Cheryl should have photographed it."

The roll of film in Rachel's pocket weighed like lead. She concentrated on eating cinnamon toast.

"I'll make some more toast," Adam said, pleased at how well his offering had been received.

"Not for me, I've got to be on my way." Kara slid her feet into her shoes. "That hit the spot, Adam; I can't remember when I last had cinnamon toast. Where'd you put my coat, Rachel?"

Rachel retrieved the coat and helped Kara into it. It was almost ankle-length and very full, with a deep shawl collar that could open up into a hood. "You got this at an auction?"

"Three hundred bucks," Kara said. "The lining was shot; I made a new one. And don't give me any grief about animal rights, I get enough of that from Joe." A fond, reminiscent smile transformed her face. "He's a slick debater, that kid. He's got me so brainwashed I'd never buy a new fur coat even if
I
wanted to spend the money. But these unfortunate minks passed on thirty years ago. I told Joe I was honoring their memory by wearing the coat."

"What did he say?" Rachel asked.

Kara laughed. "That my arguments were specious and my attitude hypocritical. In those precise words! I've been arguing with Little Joe—I used to call him that before he informed me he was too old for pet names—since he was four. I keep telling him vintage is very P.C. We're the ultimate recyclers. I haven't bought a new dress for ten years; everything I own is second-hand."

"Including that blouse?" Rachel asked. "It looks brand-new."

"Estate sale," Kara said. "The woman was a compulsive clothes buyer; she had closets full of things she'd never worn. Want to make the rounds with me sometime? 1 can show you some of the tricks of the trade."

Rachel realized Kara was making an effort to be friendly, to compensate for her scolding. "Thanks. That would be fun."

"It's hard work. But the triumph of the occasional bargain makes it all worthwhile." She drew on her gloves. "Call Cheryl, will you please? You know what a worrier she is."

"I will."

"Good. Well, I'd better be going. We're having our usual Christmas Eve open house tomorrow night and 1 haven't even finished decorating the tree. If either of you is free, join the crowd. Six to whenever."

"We're busy," Adam said quickly.

"Never mind inventing appointments, I knew you wouldn't come.
I
don't blame you for refusing to mingle with a bunch of politicians. I'd get out of it myself if
I
could. Rachel ..." Her face became serious. "You're more than welcome if you want to bring a guest. But don't come alone."

"I wouldn't want—"

"You know what I mean." Kara lingered at the door, smoothing her gloves. "Tom thinks the danger to you is over, but I'm not entirely convinced. This guy has done some peculiar things, even for a dim-witted criminal. Need I point out what they could imply?"

"No," Rachel said shortly.

"So be careful. Continue to take precautions. And Adam—"

"Fear not, kind lady,
I
will watch over all the helpless
females that wander onto my turf. Wait till I get my coat and I'll walk you to your car."

"I was about to ask you to. I picked up your mail, Rachel; there are a couple of big boxes." She waved Rachel's thanks aside. "It was one of Mark's aides who played mailman, actually, he lives in Hyattsville. I'll see you Christmas Day."

Adam went out with her. The early twilight had closed in, and their forms were hidden by darkness before they had gone ten feet. Rachel wondered how Kara liked being included in a list of helpless females. The words had been meant as a joke, but the offer had been genuine, and serious. Rachel had no objection to being protected, by anyone or anything—the more the merrier, in fact—but she could have wished her protector were someone other than Adam. He was big enough and willing enough, but he was so damned absentminded!

He hadn't even thought to turn on the outside lights. Typical of Adam, gallantly insisting on escorting a lady to her car and letting her stumble through the dark. Rachel pressed the switch and watched the lights spring up, illuminating bare branches and yellowed grass. They had been strategically placed to bathe the entire perimeter of the house in their glow—an effective deterrent to potential thieves. Rachel had asked why there was no security system, particularly for the shop, and Cheryl, laughing at her own inadequacies as she usually did, had admitted Tony made her shut it down after she had turned in three false alarms in a week. The lights and the dogs worked as well or better, he claimed, and he was certainly in a position to know.