The Double Cross (26 page)

Susanne looked at me with confidence. “Leave it to me.”

“That leaves Rita and Joi,” Eleanor said. “We can hardly ask them to work on the quilt.”

Under normal circumstances she was right. But these weren’t normal circumstances. We were desperate. “Why not?” I asked. But I didn’t wait for an answer.

I took the steps up to the third floor two at a time. I was determined to come up with a reason why Rita should join us by the time I reached her door. But I didn’t have to. Just as I was about to knock, Joi surprised me by opening the door to Rita’s suite.

As soon as she did, my determination left me and I felt, suddenly, that my suggestion was out of line. “I’m coming to see if you want any breakfast,” I said instead.

“My mother’s not hungry right now, but I guess I should come down and get something.”

“I also wanted to let you know that we’re asking the students to help us make a memorial quilt for the funeral. The class and this inn were George’s dream, and we thought . . .” I was scrambling.

I felt bad that my words made Joi cry, not just because I’d made her cry—I assumed that, given the situation, she was crying a lot these days—but because my words were insincere. We weren’t honoring her dad. We were trying to reveal the killer, even if that person was her mother.

Joi finally composed herself. “I can’t think of anything nicer. It’s really one of the reasons I quilt. It’s such a caring community, you know? And to think after all the neighbors have done for my mother, to do something so personal . . .” She couldn’t continue.

An hour later the students were back in the classroom, ready to help with this latest project. On the first day they’d held back, having been pushed or persuaded or forced to take a class they didn’t want to take. Now they were excited. Pete and the twins were helping one another pick out fabrics. Frank was telling stories about George, to help those of us who didn’t know him well. Even Helen, who had been so against continuing the class after George’s death, was enthusiastic about our latest endeavor. But this, as she pointed out, wasn’t for entertainment. It was to help others. And that made it okay. Though neither Joi nor Rita had joined us yet, we were all anxious to get started.

“So this is a tradition?” Pete asked “I think that’s nice.”

“It’s a lovely one,” one of the twins said. “We were going to suggest it but didn’t think it was our place.”

Susanne nodded. “Jesse and Eleanor are joining us. We’re lucky to have Eleanor since she’s so experienced. And Jesse . . .”

“Has no idea what he’s doing,” Jesse finished for her.

Frank laughed. “You’ve been sucked in like the rest of us. But you’ll like it.”

Helen sighed at her husband’s words in a manner that was nearly impossible to ignore, but Frank seemed to manage it.

“What do we do, boss?” Pete asked.

I could see that Susanne was thinking. “We’ll each make a block,” she said finally. “Sort of a journal quilt. We’ll each draw or piece or embellish a swatch of fabric in a way that reminds us of George. When we’re done, we’ll sew the blocks together.”

The students needed no further explanation. They each picked up a square of black flannel and began sorting through fabrics. I watched as Jesse positioned himself near Pete, my grandmother stood between Frank and Helen, and I took the twins.

“I’m not sure what to do,” I said honestly. “I barely knew him.” One of the twins was sketching the inn onto a piece of muslin. She looked up at me, wrinkling her nose. Her hair covered her earrings, so I couldn’t use Susanne’s method of identification. Instead I guessed.

“Alysse, you must have the same problem.”

She nodded. I’d guessed right. “It is hard to think of what represents him. I’m going to do the inn. I understand this place was his dream.”

“That’s an amazing idea.” I glanced at her sketch again and marveled at her accuracy. “You’re quite an artist,” I said. “I don’t think I could do as good a job of getting the inn right even if I were looking at it while I sketched.”

She blushed. “I have a good memory, I suppose.”

“That might come in handy. Especially if you remember anything that happened on the day of the murder. Maybe you were in the woods . . .”

“I wasn’t.” Her response was quick. “I stayed near the classroom. So did my sister.”

Alice leaned in. She had been paying close attention to my conversation with Alysse.

“That’s true,” she said. “We spent the whole afternoon together. We spend most of our time together.”

“So you might have both seen something.”

They looked at each other and then at me, but neither of them said anything.

“So you don’t remember anything? Anything that might help the police?”

“You’re worried about your friend, Bernie,” Alice said. “I heard McIntyre arrested her.”

“Not arrested. Questioned. He asked her to go to the station for questioning.”

“Of course.” Alysse glared at her sister. “We don’t like to gossip, as it causes pain. We’re very good at keeping confidences.”

“But if those confidences could lead to the killer.”

“They couldn’t.”

“So you saw nothing?” I tried again. I was going around in circles.

Alysse and Alice exchanged glances; then Alysse nodded. Alice whispered to me, “We saw Helen go into the woods.”

“It was either the day of the murder or the day after. We can’t remember. There was so much going on.”

“She said she couldn’t walk into the woods,” I said. “She said she had bad knees.”

Alysse shrugged an “I don’t care if you believe me” shrug. “She was a little slow. Maybe she was in pain. But she walked into those woods. I’d swear to it.”

“Did you tell McIntyre?”

The sisters shook their heads in unison. “We don’t like to gossip and we don’t know if it means anything,” Alysse said.

I let them get back to their quilts and looked around the room. Jesse nodded to me as if he had learned something. Then Eleanor did the same thing. I looked toward Susanne and she looked back at me, smiling.

I wondered if it was possible that we had found the killer that easily.

CHAPTER 40

We hadn’t.

When we broke for lunch, we walked together to the inn. Everyone was feeling excited about their small part in George’s memorial quilt, and the creativity of it had boosted everyone’s mood. But when we walked in, Joi and Rita were waiting in the dining room.

“I didn’t think I had much to offer, sewing-wise,” Rita said. “But I have this.”

She pulled a deep blue men’s shirt out of a bag and handed it to Susanne. “This was George’s favorite shirt. I bought it for him in London, and he wore it out but he never wanted to get rid of it. Joi tells me that memorial quilts often contain the clothing of the person, the deceased. Maybe you can use this.”

Susanne was holding back tears, as we all were. I could see that I wasn’t the only one who felt guilty, at least for the moment, for thinking that Rita had murdered George.

“It’s very kind of you to offer it,” Susanne said. “I hope we’re not upsetting you or your daughter by making this quilt.”

Rita waved off the suggestion. “George would have been surprised to see so many people interested in honoring him. He didn’t have much faith in people.”

Joi put her arm around her mother. Looking at the two of them, it seemed as if the reunion had succeeded. Whatever rancor had existed between them seemed to have completely disappeared, and there was nothing but love there now.

“I should put together some lunch,” Helen said, and headed toward the kitchen, with the twins following closely behind.

I saw one of the sisters nudge the other one, but her twin shook it off. Frank and Pete went outside to see if they could assess what work might be needed on the exterior of the house, while my group made a not-too-subtle run for my bedroom. Only Susanne had the good sense, and manners, to stay talking with Rita and Joi. I squeezed Susanne’s hand, and she nodded in understanding. But then she glared at me, making clear that if any discussion about our suspects started without her, there would be another murder on the property.

When I got up to the room, I realized that no one else was willing to wait.

“I suspect all of them,” Eleanor announced as I walked in the door.

“They didn’t all do it,” Jesse pointed out. “We have to find the right one.”

“Let’s take them one at a time. Or in my case, two.” I told everyone about my conversation with the twins.

“They could be lying,” Eleanor suggested. “Trying to set Helen up.”

“But what would be their motive?” Jesse asked.

“I don’t know, but they’ve lied about how they know Rita and George,” I said.

“Has anyone asked Rita how she knows them?” Susanne asked as she walked in.

It was so obvious, so simple, that it hadn’t occurred to me. “I will, right after lunch,” I said. I turned to Eleanor. “Why don’t you like any of them?”

“You can tell a lot about a person by the way they express themselves in their art,” she said. “Helen’s quilt was careful, well-thought out, very structured.”

“A little controlling,” Susanne offered.

“Exactly. If she’s our killer, it was planned. Her husband, on the other hand . . .”

“Is too hot tempered to plan a killing,” Jesse finished the thought, “which means that if he killed George, it was probably a spontaneous act.”

“Everything about that mess of a quilt he is making seems to suggest spontaneity to the point of recklessness,” Eleanor agreed.

“He seems very fond of Rita,” I pointed out.

“She seems fond of him.” Susanne waited for a moment before she continued. “When I was chatting with Rita and Joi, Frank came into the room with a cup of tea for her. He didn’t say anything in particular, just asked how she was. But there was a look between them.”

“I wonder where she was when George was killed,” Eleanor said. “I just don’t see how we can reasonably ask her.”

“We’ll have to find a way,” I said. I turned to Jesse. “What about Pete? You were standing next to him.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t get much from him. He’s always very nice. Maybe too nice.”

Considering the source, I had to laugh.