The Alpine Quilt (14 page)

“If you wanted to show it off, you should have had it put on your face,” Roseanna snapped. “Go home, change clothes, and get back here in fifteen minutes so I don’t have to charge you a cancellation fee.”

I couldn’t catch Stacie’s dwindling protests, but she was obviously giving in.

“Sorry about that, Emma,” Roseanna apologized. “God, these kids. The girls come in here half-naked, and the boys look like they got their clothes at a rummage sale.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “But you ought to know that Gen still has quilts out there that aren’t sold. The attorney should know, too. The profits are part of the estate.”

After giving Roseanna the name and number of the Seattle store’s manager, I decided to call Edmund J. Dreizle myself.

Mr. Dreizle sounded as self-satisfied as his employees. “Ah. The Bayard works. You say you knew Genevieve?” He pronounced her name the French way, Jahn-vee-ev.

I told him I knew her family quite well.

“We had an exclusive contract with Genevieve,” Dreizle said, a note of regret in his voice. “Alas, I’m very saddened by her passing. Such nimble fingers. It required months for her to make a quilt—terribly painstaking work—but they fetched a marvelous price.”

“Who told you she died?” I asked.

There was a pause. “Let me think—I believe it was her son.”

“Buddy?” I said in an incredulous voice.

“Buddy?” He made the name sound distasteful. No doubt he was used to clients who were known as Travis or Stanford or something that ended with III.

“Yes, he’s the only Bayard son I know.”

“No, not anyone called
Buddy.
” I could hear Dreizle sigh. “I don’t recall the name, to be honest. I was so shocked when he told me that Genevieve was gone. And not that old, either. Her heart, wasn’t it?”

I ignored the question. “Did Gen sell them on consignment?”

“No, no, no,” Dreizle responded. “We bought them directly from her. We’ve carried her items for almost ten years.”

“I liked that green and brown and white one,” I fibbed. “How much is it?”

“I’m afraid we marked it up a bit this morning,” Dreizle hedged. “With her demise—you understand, of course. The well has gone dry, so to speak. But since you were in the store yesterday, I could let you have it for the original price. Fifteen hundred dollars. Believe me, that’s quite a bargain.”

Not for Emma. I wondered what Dreizle and Company had paid Gen. Four, maybe five hundred. I knew better than to ask. Either he wouldn’t tell me or he’d lie.

It was my turn to hedge. “You say it’s an original pattern?”

“Yes. All of Genevieve’s quilts were original. She was not only a marvelous craftswoman, but a creative genius.”

Don’t say that to Vida,
I thought. “I don’t suppose you have pictures. That is, of her earlier work. I’m sure the needlework group she belonged to in Alpine would love to see what those quilts looked like.”

“Why . . . certainly. We take photos of all our inventory, for insurance purposes,” Dreizle explained. “I don’t know that I’d have all the quilts, though. Once they’re sold, we tend to dispose of the pictures after a while. Would you like me to send you some? Perhaps you could run them in your newspaper.”

“That would be very nice,” I said. Naturally, Dreizle would expect a free plug for the store, though I doubted that many Alpiners would race into Seattle to buy his pricey homewares.

“It may take a few days,” Dreizle cautioned. “Our records aren’t organized as efficiently as they might be. Michele says we should put everything on a computer, but that seems so . . .
cold
, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not clever with computers myself,” I confessed, before giving Edmund J. Dreizle the
Advocate
’s address. I thanked him and hung up.

My next call was to Ben. I got his voice messaging, so I asked if he wanted me to pick up lunch for him and Annie Jeanne. I felt as if I’d been neglecting my brother.

But I couldn’t wait for him to return my call. I had an appointment to interview the new college president, May Hashimoto. She’d barely been in place when fall quarter had started, and couldn’t take time out for the
Advocate.
I’d considered assigning the story to Scott, but since May and I hadn’t yet met, I deemed it a courtesy to do the interview myself.

My route took me onto Burl Creek Road. I was halfway to the college when I saw two women hailing me some fifty yards ahead. Charlene Vickers and Darlene Adcock were standing by the new Jeep Liberty that Cal had bought for his wife.

“Emma,” Charlene said, as I pulled onto the dirt verge, “have a look at what Dar and I’ve done. You can put it in Vida’s ‘Scene’ column.”

I suppressed a smile. Both women were self-effacing—except when it came to promoting the family businesses. Harvey’s Hardware and Cal’s Texaco would benefit from a front-page mention.

“What have you been doing?” I asked, gazing out the window at the modest frame house set back from the road. Neither Char nor Dar, as they were known to intimates, lived there.

“It’s Pikes’ place,” Darlene said, and giggled. “At least that’s what we call it. We’ve just finished cleaning up after the break-in.”

“I thought you did that earlier in the week,” I said.

“We did,” Charlene chimed in. “That is, we got rid of most of the mess and clutter, but the Pikes aren’t the greatest when it comes to housekeeping or gardening. He has a triple hernia, you know, and Ethel isn’t in good health, either.”

“The diabetes,” I murmured.

Charlene put a finger to her lips. “Ssshhh. You know Ethel doesn’t like people to know that.”

I hesitated, not knowing how much information Milo had leaked about the poisoned cookies. Or maybe I should say the poisoned crust. We’d phrased it in the paper so that it was a simple poisoning. If there was such a thing.

“Come look at the yard,” Darlene urged. “We cut back a lot of the berry vines and holly and forsythia. The place was really junglelike.”

I checked my watch. It was a quarter of eleven. I’d allowed myself plenty of time to get to the college and had fifteen minutes to drive not quite a mile.

“Okay.” They were nice women, and their husbands were faithful advertisers. I turned off the engine and got out. For the first time, I noticed a half-dozen large refuse bags on the edge of the weed-choked lawn. “Did you do all this today?” I asked.

Both women nodded. “We’ve been at it since eight o’clock,” Darlene said. “Come look out back. We’ve got bags we haven’t brought up to the road.”

I complied. The Pikes’ backyard wasn’t as big as the front, but just as neglected. However, I could tell that it had been much worse before Char and Dar arrived on the scene. There were yellow patches of grass around the edges where shrubbery had taken over, and by the side of the house I could see the scorched area where the quilts and templates had been set afire.

“I don’t know if the Pikes pick the berries on those vines we cut back,” Charlene remarked. “There are several kinds—blackberries, thimbleberries, salmonberries, maybe even some boysenberries. It’s a jelly and jam maker’s paradise.”

Darlene was pointing to a gnarled old apple tree. “They should cut that down. We raked up all the leaves and the rotting apples. Most of the apples were deformed and wormy. The tree’s way past its prime.”

“Caterpillars,” Charlene said. “If they’d get rid of the caterpillars, the tree might do well.” She fished into the pocket of her windbreaker. “I found this under one of the apples. It’s some kind of religious medal.”

I peered into Charlene’s open hand. She held a Miraculous Medal that was etched with the image of the Blessed Virgin. “There’s an inscription on the back, but it can’t belong to the Pikes,” Charlene went on, turning the medal over. “They aren’t Catholic.”

I picked up the medal to examine the inscription more closely. It read, “To MAR—First Communion, May 14, 1978.”

“Last name beginning with
R,
” I murmured. “The only parishioners I can think of are the Raffertys and the new couple—he works for the highway department—Romanelli, that’s the name. Of course, it could belong to a woman whose maiden name started with an
R.
Do you mind if I take it to St. Mildred’s and see if anyone claims it?”

Char and Dar shook their heads in unison. “Go ahead,” said Darlene. “I suppose there’d be some sentimental value?”

“Probably.” I slipped the medal into my handbag. “I’d better get going. I’m due at the college in five minutes.”

Navigating the curves on Burl Creek Road, I thought about the Miraculous Medal. Charlene and Darlene had more in common than their rhyming names. They were both good-natured, kindhearted—and somewhat naive. To them, the discovery of the medal was simply somebody’s bad luck or carelessness.

To me, it sent a different message: Had the Pikes’ burglar dropped it when he ransacked the house?

It might take a miracle to find out.

THIRTEEN

May Hashimoto was a brisk middle-aged woman whose mother had served in the army during the occupation of Japan. Dorothy Brooks had fallen in love with a Japanese translator and married him. Turning the tables on the norm of postwar unions, May’s mother had brought a Japanese peace-groom home to San Jose.

The interview lasted almost half an hour. May had another appointment at eleven-thirty. She outlined her background, her philosophy of education, and her reasons for accepting the post at Skykomish Community College instead of remaining as chancellor of a small private four-year school in Colorado.

“I grew up near the ocean. I felt landlocked,” May asserted. “I may not be able to watch the waves, but there’s a river within walking distance of the campus, and lakes and streams all over the place. Furthermore, I believe in public education. I got tired of sucking up to alums for donations and endowments.”

Those were valid reasons from my point of view. Besides, I liked the white streak of hair that ran from her forehead to the back of her neck. May told me her colleagues in Colorado nicknamed her “Skunk.” I assured her that wouldn’t happen in Alpine. We already had Skunk Nordby, and one Skunk was enough.

I called Ben from my cell phone before I started the car in the college parking lot. He answered, but informed me that Mary Jane Bourgette was still on duty.

“She’s a saint,” he declared.

“It’s hard to believe that her mother was Thyra Rasmussen,” I replied. “Can I bring dessert?”

“Sure,” Ben said. “Bring lots of it.”

At the Upper Crust Bakery, Vicki Crowe waited on me. She didn’t seem to be in a very good mood. Maybe it was because she was waiting on the Dithers sisters when I showed up. They were buying apple strudel—more apple strudel than two people could possibly eat before it went stale. I suspected that it wasn’t for them, but for their horses.

“What’s with those two?” Vicki demanded after the Dithers sisters left. “They hardly ever talk. They just point and sort of grunt.”

“Did they whinny?” I inquired. “They own horses, you know.”

Vicki looked flabbergasted. “Do you mean they’re going to feed those apple strudels that I baked at three o’clock this morning to a bunch of dumb animals?”

“Consider some of your other customers,” I said. “You know, the kind who stand on only two legs.”

“Hunh,” Vicki snorted. “There’s some truth in that.” Then, even though there were no other customers in the store, she lowered her voice. “Speaking of nitwits, Gordon and I are damned upset. There seems to be a rumor going around town that we bake poisoned goods.”

I was startled, even though I knew what Vicki was talking about. “You mean, the poison that killed Genevieve Bayard? What have you heard?”

“That Gen bought some cookies here—which she did—and was poisoned by them,” Vicki whispered. “That’s a rotten thing for anybody to say, especially when we’re just starting out in this town.”

I wondered how the rumor had started, but I didn’t dare reveal too much. “It doesn’t make sense,” I finally said. “If the cookies were poisoned here, why didn’t somebody else die or at least get sick?”

“Good point,” Vicki responded. “Lord knows, Mrs. Bayard bought a bunch of them, and different kinds, too. Oatmeal, sugar, snickerdoodles, gingerbread, peanut butter, chocolate, and chocolate chip. Nine, ten dozen. We almost ran out. Of course,” she added after a pause, “that Dupré woman did get sick. Gen must have taken some of the leftover cookies to her the next day.”

I didn’t enlighten Vicki. I couldn’t in any event, because Edith Bartleby was coming into the store.

The Episcopal vicar’s wife was a tall, rangy woman with gray hair that was always a bit untidy. It was the kind of hair that I associated with affluence, not unkempt, but more “I don’t care, I don’t have to.” I knew that Edith had come from a wealthy family, though she was no lavish spender. She couldn’t be, in her role as vicar’s wife. Like Calpurnia, she had to be above reproach.

“Emma,” she said in her pleasant manner, “how nice to see you. How is your brother? He and Regis are having dinner this weekend. Or did you know?”

I didn’t. But that wasn’t surprising. I couldn’t keep up with Ben’s hectic schedule.

“Tell me,” Edith said in a confidential tone, “when is Genevieve’s funeral going to be held? Even though I scarcely knew her, Regis and I would like to attend.”

I didn’t know that, either. “I think they’re waiting to find out if she left instructions concerning her burial,” I said.

“Really.” Edith was too well bred to let her disapproval show. “You would have thought . . . But of course Genevieve appeared to be in excellent health.”

“And good spirits, I understand. I mean,” I added, “at the party in her honor Sunday night.”

“Very much so,” Edith agreed with a faint smile. “And so delighted to see her old friends, especially Annie Jeanne Dupré. They giggled like schoolgirls. Mary Lou Blatt told them she was going to have to get out her ruler to calm them down. Mary Lou taught grade school for years, you know.” Edith paused, again quite serious. “It’s comforting to think that Genevieve enjoyed her last hours in this world.”

A young couple I didn’t know entered the store. Vicki Crowe was drumming her nails on the counter.

“Excuse me,” I said to Edith, “I think we’re holding up progress.”

I turned to Vicki and asked for half of a devil’s food cake. I paid for my purchase and continued on my way to St. Mildred’s. Annie Jeanne was sitting up in the parlor, visiting with Mary Jane Bourgette. Apparently Ben was tucked away in his study.

“Oh, Emma, how nice of you to come!” Annie Jeanne gushed. “I haven’t seen very many friendly faces lately.”

“Now, Annie Jeanne,” Mary Jane admonished, “don’t be so hard on people—or on yourself. You haven’t been well enough to have visitors until now.”

Annie Jeanne sighed heavily. “That’s so. I must admit, I still feel a bit weak.”

“That’s natural,” Mary Jane said before excusing herself to bring lunch from the kitchen.

I perched on the sofa’s arm. “Annie Jeanne, may I pester you with a couple of questions?”

Annie Jeanne’s eyes widened with alarm. “What kind of questions?”

I shrugged. “Mainly some details about the thimble club’s party. Were there many cookies left over? Besides the ones Ethel Pike gave you, I mean.”

She looked relieved. “Oh, yes. Everyone ate quite a few. Except Ethel, of course. I believe she ate an oatmeal cookie, probably to be polite. I suppose that might not bother her too much.”

“What did Ethel do after Gen gave her the cookies to take on the trip?”

Annie Jeanne looked puzzled. “Do?”

“Where did Ethel put them?”

“Oh.” Annie Jeanne stopped to think. “She took them into the hall closet and put them with the coats and things. Then, as we were leaving, Ethel gave me the bag on the sly. Not to hurt Gen’s feelings, you see. Ethel seems brusque, but she’s very good-hearted.”

Thus, the cookies had been left unattended, but surely they wouldn’t have been poisoned during the party. The insulin had to be put into the crust, which could have occurred only at the rectory. There was opportunity, with Annie Jeanne going to the store and Ben at work in his study.

“Had you started making the crust before you went to the Grocery Basket?” I inquired.

“It was Safeway, actually. Yes. That’s when I realized I was out of white vanilla. Not for the crust, of course, but for the cheesecake itself.” Annie Jeanne bit her lower lip. “Imagine! But I haven’t done much baking recently. Father Kelly was always watching his weight.”

I tried another route. “Did you know Gen was selling her quilts to a store in Seattle?”

“No!” Annie Jeanne smiled sadly. “How clever of her. I often wondered how she filled up her time after she retired when she had no family nearby. She didn’t join clubs, either, not even a quilt or a needlework group. Yet she never complained of being bored. Or lonely.” The sadness had overcome her thin face. I felt it was not so much for Gen, but for Annie Jeanne herself.

Ben entered the parlor, looking unusually tense. “Hello, ladies. How’s everybody?”

“Better, I think,” Annie Jeanne replied. “Thank you for asking, Father. You’re so kind.”

“No, he’s not,” I put in. “He’s really a pill. Hi, Ben.” I got up from the sofa’s arm and went over to kiss his cheek.

“How was the big city?” my brother inquired. “Did you get chased by white slavers?”

“It was . . . nice,” I said. “Naturally, Vida couldn’t wait to get back.”

“Naturally.” He looked amused, but I still sensed that something was wrong.

Mary Jane arrived with our food—tuna sandwiches, potato chips, and a fruit salad. She’d taken the cake with her when she’d returned to the kitchen. The next half hour was devoted mainly to my experiences in Seattle. Or most of them. I mentioned Rolf Fisher only in passing, and avoided my brother’s gaze during the brief account.

But Ben was very shrewd. As he saw me out, he asked what I should have guessed was the inevitable question.

“So you met a guy you like. Is he eligible or are you still in your Impossible Man phase?”

“He’s a widower,” I snapped. “And I hardly know him. It’s just that he’s not at all what I thought he was from talking to him on the phone.”

“Were you hoping he’d look like a toad?”

“I wasn’t hoping anything,” I said. “I hadn’t given it a thought. Come on, Ben, I had no idea he’d be at the memorial. I’ll probably never see him again. Why should I? He’s a big talker, which means he’s not a big doer. You know—a guy with some snappy patter. He’s probably been doing that for years.”

“Go on.”

I realized that I was overreacting. “Damn.”

Ben shrugged. “Hey, it’d be great if he really was someone you could see occasionally. I sense that you’re getting bored with Milo, or is it just because there’s no baseball this time of year and the two of you have nothing to talk about?”

“You can talk baseball any time of year,” I asserted. “The Hot Stove League, for instance.”

“It sounds like you’re more interested in the Hot Rolf League,” Ben said dryly.

“You’re being mean.” Before he could respond, I poked a finger in his chest. “What about you? Something’s up, I can tell.”

Ben grunted. “Just part of the pastoral perils, Sluggly.”

I surveyed him closely. “In other words, you can’t talk about it.”

My brother inclined his head. “Go back to work. Your readers need you.”

“Wait.” I took the Miraculous Medal out of my purse. “This was found outside of the Pikes’ house this morning. Someone may be looking for it.”

Ben took the medal and read the inscription. “MAR? Do those initials mean anything to you?”

I shook my head. “The date is 1978. The recipient might have been someone who lived here and then moved away shortly before I arrived.”

“It’s too late to get it in this week’s bulletin,” Ben said, “as you well know, since you print it. But I’ll make an announcement from the altar Saturday and Sunday.”

I hesitated. “I wonder.”

“What?”

I grimaced. “Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but maybe the medal was dropped by the person who broke into the Pikes’ house. It was found not far from where the bonfire was set off.”

Looking thoughtful, Ben fingered the tarnished gold. “Unlike a lot of other religious items, this one comes with a perpetual enrollment in the Association of the Miraculous Medal. If you really think this is some sort of clue to the break-ins, you might be able to contact the association and see if someone with these initials was enrolled in seventy-eight.”

“Good thinking,” I murmured, realizing that if I gave the medal to Milo, a tiresome explanation would be required. Or maybe the sheriff would simply look at me with a blank—possibly even skeptical—stare. For now, I decided, I’d hold on to the medal. Ben could advertise its discovery from the pulpit. If some innocent soul claimed it, no harm would be done.

Half an hour after I returned to the office, I received a phone call from Terri Bourgette.

“Emma,” she said in a frazzled voice, “I have to apologize for being such a dimwit yesterday morning. We had a tour group coming in from Wenatchee for brunch, and my head was full of all the details I still had to work out. Then, on top of the lunch regulars, it was a zoo around here. I didn’t remember to call you until now.” Terri stopped for breath; I waited. “Anyway,” she went on, “I realized after you left that a man I didn’t recognize got here around seven-fifteen. He sat in a booth near the front, had coffee, and took off just before you arrived.” She laughed weakly. “He wasn’t carrying a copy of the
Advocate
when he came in. In fact, he asked Erin, one of our waitresses, if she could get him a paper. I guess the box was all out.”

“Did Erin find one for him?” I asked.

“Yes, we had this week’s edition in the office,” Terri replied. “He certainly didn’t take time to read much of it, though. He must have left five minutes later.”

I was silent for a moment. By Thursday morning, most of the newspaper boxes were empty. I didn’t believe in overruns, and held back just enough copies each week for subscribers who wanted to mail articles outside of the area and for our archives. “What did this guy look like?” I finally asked.

Terri sighed. “Ohhh . . . ordinary. That is, average height, light brown hair, no beard or anything like that. Thirty, thirty-five, I’d guess. The only unusual thing for Alpine was that he was wearing a black leather jacket.”

“Like a biker?”

“No. It was more of a coat. But not real long.” Terri paused. “He had on a baseball cap when he first came in.”

“You mean the kind with a team logo?”

“A logo?” Terri still sounded tired. “Like for the Mariners?”

“Like that,” I said.

“It
could
have been,” she allowed. “I’m not a big sports fan except for tennis. The cap was green with an
A
on it, sort of in script.”

Oakland green,
A
for Athletics. “If you think of anything else,” I said, “call me. I assume he paid cash.”

“Yes. He never ordered breakfast, although he’d asked for a menu when he first sat down.” Her tone turned apologetic again. “I feel so stupid for not thinking about him being here, but I was all wrapped up in that tour group.”