Stitches In Time (27 page)

She couldn't remember what book it was. Yes, Auntie
had a copy of it, but it was still back at the house, and there was no use asking the damned cops to let her have it; they said nothing could be taken away till they got through investigating.

Kara cut short a diatribe on the damned cops. She was beginning to lose patience and Mrs. Wilson, more sensitive to nuances than one might have supposed, took offense at her blunt questions. Her answers became brusque and even less informative. She didn't have the faintest notion who had made the quilts. They had come down from mother to daughter over many generations; Auntie was the last of the direct line. No, she didn't have any family albums. Maybe Auntie had some but there was no use asking the damned cops . . .

Rachel got up and went to the fireplace. "What a handsome little boy," she said, indicating one of the photos on the mantel. "Is this your son, Mrs. Wilson?"

The question distracted Mrs. Wilson from the iniquities of the cops. A smile of maternal pride spread over her face. "Yes, that's my Rocky. Six years old he was when that was made. That one at the end is the latest, he's seventeen now."

Several of the others showed the same face, at various ages. The features were clean-cut and not unattractive, though "handsome" had been a deliberate exaggeration on Rachel's part. The thing that struck her most forcefully was the self-satisfied expression. Not surprising, perhaps, in an only son who was obviously the apple of mummy's eye.

"He looks like you," Rachel lied. "And this gentleman— is he your father?"

Mrs. Wilson beamed. They examined the photographs one by one and Mrs. Wilson told her all about the subjects. Rachel saw that Kara had retrieved the abandoned notebook and was scribbling busily.

Mrs. Wilson was rambling happily on about her granddaddy (he had been mayor of a town Rachel had never heard of) when the front door opened and slammed, and a man appeared in the doorway. Rachel knew that face well by now, though its expression was more surprised than smug.

"Why, darlin',
I
didn't expect you back so soon," Mrs. Wilson exclaimed. "Didn't you have practice today? He's the star of the basketball team," she added, face aglow.

He was tall enough, at any rate—six five or six. Thick brown hair was brushed back from his face. He was wearing an expensive leather jacket and the regulation overpriced sneakers.

"I didn't feel like it," Rocky said. "Excuse me, Mam. I didn't know you had company."

"Come in and be introduced, honey. You don't know these ladies. This is Miz Brinckley—her husband is the congressman, and she's gonna buy those old quilts of Auntie's. And this..."

She had obviously forgotten not only her manners but Rachel's name. Rachel supplied it. Rocky murmured something but did not look directly at her. The photographs had done him an injustice, Rachel thought; he appeared to be rather shy.

Rocky declined an invitation to join them, shuffled his feet, directed a muttered, "Nice to meet you," at the air between Rachel and Kara, and withdrew. His mother sighed.

"He's such a good boy. A mother couldn't ask for a better son."

"He has nice manners," Kara said, trying to reestablish friendly relations.

She failed. "That's because he comes from a God-fearing nuc-lear family, with a daddy that works day and night to support his family and a mama that stays home like a woman should."

It was the first time Mrs. Wilson had referred to her husband. There was no photograph of him on the mantel. Looking from the spotless, sterile room to Mrs. Wilson's face, Rachel understood why Daddy put in a lot of overtime. If that was what he was doing.

Kara didn't respond to the veiled insult but she had had enough. Rising with scarcely a wince, she said, "You probably have things to do, Mrs. Wilson. I didn't intend to keep you so long."

They parted with expressions of goodwill that were insincere on all sides, and Mrs. Wilson promised to let them know when the quilts would be available. "I'll see if
I
can dig up those old albums of Auntie's, too. You say the quilts are worth more if you can put a name to 'em?"

As soon as they were in the car Kara kicked off her shoes. "God, what a relief. Pride goeth before a blister on the toe. It was wasted effort, too. I pissed the old girl off. She wouldn't have given us any information if you hadn't buttered her up."

"It was a case of good cop, bad cop."

Kara shook her head. "No, I let my dislike get the better of me and I didn't bother hiding it. Overcompensation, I suppose. I used to be so meek and mealy-mouthed and wimpy—"

"You?" Rachel braced herself as Kara cut in ahead of another car.

Kara grinned. "Hard to believe, isn't it? I'll show you a picture sometime. I look the same in all of the ones from that time in my life—slumped and sloppy, with an expression like that of a worried hound. I threw most of them away, especially the ones of me and my ex—I was always behind him, sort of huddled, if you know what I mean—but
I
kept one to remind me of what I was, and hope never to be again. Maybe I've gone too far in the
opposite direction. I didn't have to be so overbearing with Pat."

"I don't think he minded." Rachel studied the elegant figure beside her unbelievingly. "Sloppy?"

"Fat and sloppy. I'm still overweight," Kara added cheerfully. "The difference is I don't give a damn."

"You don't look overweight."

"That's because I don't give a damn. Wearing the right clothes helps. I had to learn how to do that too. It's not just vanity; knowing you look good makes you more confident. And being confident makes you look good. Sorry. I didn't mean to lecture."

She didn't speak again except to mutter curses at the other drivers who got in her way. The early winter dusk had fallen and traffic was thickening. When they reached the house they found only Adam.

"Pat had to go," he explained. "Any luck?"

"Some. Rachel will tell you, I have to leave too." She had obviously worked out her plans as she drove; her sentences were quick and decided, offering no opening for discussion. "I'll be back in the morning, and I'll plan to stay for a few days. You can spend the evening looking through Cheryl's quilt books, Rachel."

"She's got a date," Adam said.

"Oh, lord," Rachel exclaimed. "I'd forgotten about him."

"Who's him?" Kara asked.

"Tom. Tony's friend. It's not really a date, he's just being conscientious. I could call him and cancel."

"No, don't do that. It's always useful to have a cop for a friend." Kara studied her thoughtfully. "I don't know whether Cheryl mentioned it, Rachel, but you're welcome to borrow clothes from stock. So long as it's not one of the designer models."

Rachel felt herself stiffen. "That's very kind, but I'd rather not. I do have a few decent outfits, believe it or not."

"Then put one of them on." Kara's smile softened the blunt words. "I don't think Tom's motives are purely professional. Work your wiles and see what you can get out of him. They must have some ideas about the murder and theft, they just aren't talking to civilians."

"I could look at the books," Adam offered.

"You don't know what you're looking for. Come on, Rachel, I'll go up with you. If I walk one more step in these shoes I'll be crippled for life."

Rachel half expected Kara to stay and inspect her ensemble, like a critical big sister, but Kara put her head in the door only long enough to say good night before her sneakered feet proceeded on down the stairs. It had taken her only a few minutes to change. Rachel was still looking through her scanty wardrobe trying to decide what to wear.

There wasn't as much choice as she had claimed. In fact, the only thing she owned that would have met Kara's standards was the cashmere sweater her mother had sent for Christmas. It ought to be cleaned before being worn again, and the skirt that went with it had unpleasantly suggestive stains at the hem. The cranberry sauce had splashed.

Irritably Rachel tossed both garments onto a chair and pulled out a Viyella plaid shirt—another of her mother's contributions. Tom would have to put up with pants, she didn't have another decent skirt.

There was just time to shower and change before Tom arrived, if she hurried. It was too late to cancel now. She wished she had remembered the appointment earlier, in time to back out. She was so tired she could hardly move, so tired the very idea of bright conversation, much less womanly wiles, brought a groan to her lips. It had been quite a day. Just being around Kara was enough to wear a person out. All that energy—and the astonishing, unexpected, wholehearted acceptance. Kara might not like her, but for reasons Rachel could not fathom Kara was backing her one hundred percent.

The long mirror in the bathroom reflected a depressing image. It looked just the way she felt—slumped, sloppy, and morose. Maybe that was why Kara was taking her part—pity, laced with contempt, for a woman as wimpish and helpless as she had once been.

It was not a pleasant thought. But Kara had tried to be nice. In her way . . .

Tom had already arrived when Rachel came downstairs. Seated in the rocking chair with a cat on his lap, he was trying to fend off Adam's enthusiastic hospitality. "Coffee? Wine? How about a drink? Bourbon, scotch, vodka, cola, mineral water—"

"No, thanks." Tom got to his feet, one hand supporting the cat, which had attached itself, purring hysterically, to his shoulder. "Hi, Rachel. Do we take the cat with us? It seems to be stuck; I don't know how to get it off."

"That's why we call her Krazy Glue," Adam explained. "She's very affectionate."

Rachel detached the cat, claw by claw, and, with malicious intent, handed her to Adam. The fickle animal transferred the claws to Adam's sweater and purred even louder.

As the evening progressed, it dawned on Rachel that Tom wasn't just being conscientious, and that so far as he was concerned, this was a date. He didn't mention the case, and he kept apologizing for the restaurant. "It's not very fancy, but the food is good. I come here a lot and they know me, and ... Is this table all right? That one over there might be better."

She suspected he had picked the restaurant because he was well known there. The hostess greeted him by name and the proprietor took their order himself. Men enjoy
things like that, she thought, smothering a smile, and then realized she was being sexist. She was enjoying herself too, and for the same reasons—personal attention, a little flattery.

The conversation ranged from personal confidences to personal tastes and interests—the subjects people talk about when they want to know one another better. Tom's face lit up when she said she liked jazz and poetry, and fell when she admitted she considered baseball the most boring sport ever invented. "If you knew more about it you wouldn't feel that way. Tell you what; come with me to watch the Orioles play sometime, and I'll explain it to you."

"I thought baseball season didn't start till spring."

"That's not so far away. 'If winter comes, can spring be far behind?'"

He looked so childishly pleased with himself at having found an appropriate quotation that Rachel laughed, and then apologized.

"That's okay." His hand closed over hers. "I'd make a fool of myself any day to see you look like that."

Rachel's eyes fell, and he released her hand. "I know there's something bothering you, something that's made you wary and defensive. If you ever want to tell me—if I can do anything ..."

Help me exorcise my ghost.

Rachel bit her lip. She could imagine how sensible, practical Tom would react to that statement. She didn't doubt he meant the offer though. It was the second such offer she had received in the past two days. Was it pure coincidence that she had met two men who talked like heroes of old-fashioned romances, or was there something about her?

"What did that guy do to you?"

Rachel stared at him. He looked down at his plate.

"Damn. I didn't mean to say that.
I
didn't intend to talk about the case.
I
wanted to forget about it—let you forget about it for a while. But maybe ... Is that what's bothering you?"

"Partly." She remembered what Kara had said. It was better than the truth, anyhow. "I don't mind talking about it, Tom. It doesn't bother me as much as you think, honestly, but I'd certainly be relieved to know you had located him."

"We will. We're following several promising leads." He hesitated, torn between professional discretion and personal feelings. "Rachel, I'm ninety percent certain he's out of the picture. Out of state, out of your life. On the run."

"You've identified him?"

"Well . . . Not absolutely. But we've got a suspect who fits the criteria and there's an APB out on him. Some cop somewhere will pick him up sooner or later, and then we can get a positive ID. Tony agrees with me—"

"You've talked with Tony about this?"

"Sure. He calls at least once a day. So you can stop worrying. The guy is miles away by this time."

"That's good news."

"Keep it confidential, will you?"

"Of course," Rachel said.

Tom beckoned the hovering waiter. "How about dessert? They make a great tiramisu."

He was determined, so she accepted. The tiramisu was excellent; Tom was glad to finish hers. They were drinking coffee when the waiter sidled up to the table and informed Tom he was wanted on the phone.

"I thought you were off duty," Rachel said, drawing the obvious and inevitable conclusion, not only from the interruption but from the change in his expression.

"Back in a minute."