Wild Goose Chase (22 page)

Buster was talking quietly to Myra. She seemed shook, but okay. The room emptied quickly, people seeking to distance themselves from Myra’s self-involved view of the world.

Lark crossed in front of me, not seeing me, talking into the air. “Get here now.”

I tried to move past her, but she grabbed my arm. Glancing up, I saw the phone receiver in her ear, looking like a strange insect that had landed there. “My crew’s coming right over,” she said to me. “This is big news. I’ll do a show on Myra and Claire.”

She was in full-on TV hostess mode. Lark let go of me to drop her cell into the QP tote. “Looks like I don’t need you after all,” she said. I saw confusion on her face as she opened the bag wider.

“Hey,” she said. She motioned me closer. “Look at this.” Her voice cracked. She had the look of someone who was not believing what she saw.

She held the bag open.

I couldn’t make anything out. “What is it?” I asked.

“Cash. A lot of cash.”

“What?” I grabbed the mouth of the bag and opened it farther. I could see a dozen stacks, each wrapped with a colored bank strap I knew denoted one-thousand dollars. At least twelve-thousand dollars. “Not yours?”

She shook her head.

“Where’d it come from?” I asked.

“That’s what I want to know. It’s in the QP bag. Is it money that belongs to your shop?”

“I doubt it.” Even on our best day, that amount of cash was not something we dealt in. Most of our customers used debit or credit cards.

This was the kind of money, however, that Justine had stolen from JustEve.

“If it was QP money, we would have stamped our logo on the paper strap holding the bundle together.” I looked closer. “Lark, look. JustEve is the name on here. Justine. The bank deposit that never got to the bank.”

That Justine gave to Claire. There was only one way the money got from Claire’s room to this bag. The killer. I took a step back from Lark.

Lark’s voice rose rapidly. “What’s it doing in my bag? You’ve got to help me. You know that detective, right? Call him over here, make him take fingerprints or something. This is not my money. I want it out of my bag now.”

Lark set the bag on the chair, picked it up, then put it down again as though it contained a ticking bomb. She was coming apart. I’d have thought she was unflappable, but finding this money in her purse had frightened her. Maybe her tenure as host of
Wonderful World of Quilts
was more fragile than I thought. Or maybe she had killed Claire and Justine. I tried to remember if her name was in the notebook. She would be a good one to take over Claire’s lending. She had a very high profile, knew everyone in the business, and no one would suspect her.

I took another step back. “I’ll get Detective Healy.”

She followed my eyes and saw Buster at the podium talking to Myra. “Do that. Get him over here.”

I waved at Buster. He held up a hang-on-a-minute finger.

I looked at the QP tote. It was just like the one I’d been carrying around yesterday. A realization chilled me.

“Lark, when we were looking at the quilts,” I said, “the bag was just sitting back there. Anyone could have dropped the money in.”

“But why? Why would someone do that?”

A feeling of dread crept through my belly. Her bag had a Quilter Paradiso logo on it. Anyone who didn’t know better might think that bag belonged to me.

First the notebook, now the money. Someone was trying to set me up. For murder.

Lark twisted her fancy
rings on her fingers, eyes over my head. “Oh no. Here comes my crew. They’re ready to film Myra. I don’t want them to see this.”

The same camera-toting man and young woman I’d seen approach Claire Thursday morning were headed our way. Lark grabbed my arm, squeezing my bicep uncomfortably. I swallowed a yelp.

“Dewey, if my production company gets wind of this, I’ll be fired. I need this job. I need to be on air. I’ll never find another gig unless I’m on the air. I need to be seen.”

She started toward the door, the QP tote on her arm. I stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Just wait. Buster’ll be done in a minute. He can get the money tested for fingerprints or something. That would prove you didn’t touch it.”

Or that you did.

I couldn’t let her leave. If someone was trying to set me up, I needed that money tested. There was no way my fingerprints were on it. I made a grab for the tote, but Lark pulled it out of my range.
I grabbed again. The contents spilled onto the floor, and she gave me a horrified look.

Neither of us moved, just stared at the pile of fabric now covering the money. Buster looked up from talking to Myra and questioned me with a raise of his eyebrows. I shrugged and looked down. His eyes followed mine, and I saw him excuse himself and start over.

“Drop something, ladies?” he asked.

Buster had moved silently and quickly; Lark and I were still staring at the floor. “May I?” Buster squatted down and reached for the pile. I couldn’t let him destroy evidence that I needed to prove my innocence.

“Don’t touch the money!” I said, ignoring the baleful glance Lark shot me. She stomped her foot in frustration. Buster looked up in surprise, drawing his hand back. Her high heel had come down too close for comfort.

“Money?” He moved aside enough fabric so the money was visible. “Explain,” he said.

“The money doesn’t belong to Lark. It might be part of the stolen bank deposit,” I said, stuttering. “JustEve’s.”

Buster sat back on his haunches, his eyes moving from Lark to me and back again. “Go on?”

I waited for Lark to speak. After all, this was her deal. Lark remained silent, her lips a thin line.

“Lark …” I invited.

She shook her head.

I took over again. “She found the money in her tote bag after Myra’s lecture. We don’t know how it got in there, but it’s probably what Justine stole.”

“You think?” Buster asked.

“Hey, no need for sarcasm,” I said.

“You find a pile of money, quite possibly the motive for murder, you neglect to tell the police, and you bust me for being too sarcastic. Come on, Dewey, what part of dumb don’t you understand?”

I felt my face redden. “I didn’t find it, she did. Yell at her.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Buster said to me, his face a wall of implacable copness. He called a uniformed police officer and asked her to stand guard over the money.

“Please come with me, Miss Gordon.”

Buster led Lark to the other side of the room, away from the doorway. Several of Eve’s people were tearing down the exhibit under Eve’s watchful eye. She had gone to a lot of trouble for nothing and didn’t look happy about it.

Myra crossed over to where I stood, leaning against the door jamb. “I can’t believe that stand fell apart like that,” she said without preamble. “Eve’s boys are pretty useless. I should sue her. Look at my head.”

She leaned forward, and I could see a bump rising. I made what I hoped was a sympathetic noise. Over her shoulder, I watched Buster and Lark.

Myra straightened. “You know, our latest book,
Quilts from Claire’s Clipboard
, sold over fifty thousand copies. I think people will continue to buy my books and patterns, don’t you?”

Given the muttering I’d heard in the room, I doubted that. “You may have to give people time to adjust.”

“You’re probably right. That’s exactly what I will do. By this time next year, my goal is to have an award-winning quilt at the Quilt Extravaganza. Under my own name.”

Was she kidding? I took my eyes off Buster and Lark and looked at her. She was sincere. Myra’s bravado was touching. It took a certain kind of character to pick yourself up and start all over again, especially so soon after the death of her mentor. I patted her hand.

“I’m sure you’ll succeed,” I said.

Lark’s raised voice drifted across the room to us. Buster was leaning in, attentive as she explained. Her hands moved rapidly and gracefully. She was almost as tall as he was, and I felt a stab of jealousy at her easy beauty.

Jealousy that I had no right to. Buster and I were over, and there was no going back.

Lark’s crew entered. Myra’s eyes followed the guy carrying the camera.

“That’s my cue. Does my hair look all right? How great that Lark wants to interview me. I’ll be able to get myself on TV and tell everyone about ‘Myra Creates.’”

I watched her go. I wasn’t sure if she was naïve, dumb, or very smart. Her ability to stay focused on her task in the middle of this chaos was amazing. Lark’s entourage surrounded her. Lark joined them.

Buster crossed over to me. “You okay?” Buster said, his face grim.

Did he really care, or was this just the cop talking?

I nodded. “What’s up with the money?”

“I don’t know, Dewey. That’s why we investigate. Tell me why that bag has your logo on it.”

“It’s a promotional item,” I explained our policy.

“Where’d the money come from?”

“I don’t know.” He was silent, waiting for me to say more. “Claire was running a side business, loaning money to quilters. Justine …”

“How do you know?” he asked.

I handed him the notebook. “It’s all in there once you know the code. I figured it out. I told you Justine owed Claire money. What if the money we just found came from Claire’s room? The murderer—”

“Dewey, stop.” He slapped the notebook on his thigh. “Back off. We will find out who did this and bring that person to justice, just like we will find the hit-and-run driver who killed your mother.”

My temper flared. “Are you on that again, Buster?” I felt betrayed by him. My voice grew cutting. “You know you might be right. I went crazy and killed Claire, slicing her open with a rotary cutter, and then shot Justine. And next I’m going to kill Lark. Oh, and Myra.”

My sarcasm was lost on him. Buster wasn’t looking at me any more; his eyes had gone unfocused, his expression grim.

“I had the bastard that night,” he said quietly. “I should have cuffed him when I arrived on scene; he was in no shape to drive. Then I recognized your mother’s car. I stayed with her until the ambulance came, but by then he’d disappeared.”

He was talking about the drunk driver who ran into my mother’s car, but all I could comprehend was that he had been with my mother when she died. Suddenly I could hear nothing. I saw Buster’s mouth moving, but I couldn’t take in what he was saying. I leaned in closer, cupping my hand to my ear like one of my elderly customers.

“Say that again,” I demanded.

Buster drew back, his ears turned pink with surprise.

“I was there. Six months ago, I was still a patrol officer. The guy that killed your mother, I should have taken him into custody first.”

“Not that part. My mother …”

“Dewey, I was the first one on the scene,” Buster stammered. “She died in my arms.”

His expression was a combination of pain and pride. Then his face fell as he realized this was new information to me.

“You didn’t know?” His words were soft as though he was trying to gauge the impact he was having. I struggled to keep the hurt from showing in my face. I wanted to hear what he had to say. I knew he would stop if he thought he was causing me too much pain.

“Tell me,” I said, giving him an impatient gesture, resisting the urge to grab his lapels.

He saw my need to know the truth and nodded. “She was in rough shape, but she knew me, I saw the recognition. I told your dad and Kevin. Sean and Jamie knew. I just assumed you and your family had talked about it.”

The pain grew deeper and wider. All my brothers knew. And for sure Kevin would have told Kym. The idea that Kym knew this, when I did not, crushed me.

I opened my mouth, but no words could express how I felt. For the last six months, I’d thought my mother died alone. Before today, when I’d pictured my mother’s death, it had been in the form of sensation—a crash, followed by a white light. A light too bright to look at—like a solar eclipse. Just a noise, light, and my mother’s life was over.

Buster had laid that lie to rest. My mother was conscious, aware of what was going on. Aware enough to know she was being held by Buster. Could I bear to know that my mother had been awake, had suffered?

“I tried to tell you myself,” Buster said quietly. “But I couldn’t say that to your voice mail.”

I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse about my mother’s death, but I did, my stomach turning sickeningly. The messages—that’s what the messages were about. God, I was stupid. He’d been extending a hand in friendship—in family—and I’d misinterpreted it as an invitation to date. I felt my face flame with embarrassment.

Buster touched my arm gently, like a rider would a shying horse. I pulled away and tucked my hands over my chest, letting my arms swaddle me.

I took several steps away. “I’m okay.” I didn’t want him to touch me. I couldn’t bear for him to console me. I needed to process this information by myself.

His cell rang. He glanced at the readout. I could see by his expression that the call was important. He caught up to me, flipping his phone open at the same time.

“Wait,” he said to me. “Healy,” he said into the phone.

I walked faster, eager to get away from him. I fought to assimilate what he’d said. He dropped back, murmuring, then clicked his phone shut.

He reached for my shoulders. I twisted away, and he dropped his hands. His eyes searched mine. I blinked to keep them tear-free.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “We’re not finished talking about this. I’ll get with you later, I promise. Be careful.”

He took off at a run, leaving me wondering about everything I had accepted as truth. What had my mother gone through in her last minutes? Pain and despair, even recognition that she was going to die. I couldn’t bear to think about her slipping away slowly.

I knew I should be grateful that my mother had died in the company of someone she cared about, but all I could think about was the fact that I’d been robbed of that knowledge these past six months. All because my father and my brothers thought they should protect me from the facts. My father and the boys not knowing what was important to me. Again.