Authors: Arlene Sachitano
She crossed the room, backed out of the office and pulled the door partially closed with her toe.
The left-hand door out of the reception area had to be Avanell's office. Harriet looked around one more time then stepped in. Avanell's desk had stacks of papers lined up along the front edge. Gold frames holding an assortment of photos of three children in various stages of growth were scattered over the bookcases, desktop and hung on the wall. There were wedding pictures and baby pictures featuring the older two children, and one of Aiden standing in front of a small cement building, surrounded by smiling black children. Harriet picked it up. It must have been taken where he worked in Uganda. She held it closer. His eyes were different. She couldn't be sure, but in the picture they looked brown.
At the back of the office another door stood open. She could see her elusive target sitting on a vanity table in what must be an executive restroom. She helped herself to a tissue from a shell-covered box.
The bathroom was larger than the one in Aunt Beth's master suite. In addition to the vanity, Avanell had a tub, shower and commode, a clothes closet and all the supplies a person could ever need to freshen up. A loveseat-sized sofa in soft peach velvet sat in a niche between the closet and the shower wall. A hand mirror lay broken on the surface of the vanity. A pink plastic hairbrush lay beside it, crumbs of glass imbedded in its rubber coated handle.
Harriet stepped to the toilet to flush her tissue. The bottom of the bowl held an assortment of pills. She recognized the characteristic rusty brown of ibuprofen tablets. Small white pills that might have been aspirin were dissolving into the water. She looked in the waste basket beside the toilet. Several empty bottles were inside. She took a second, more critical look around the room. Nothing major was out of place, but clearly someone had rifled through Avanell's things.
On the floor, a pincushion shaped like a woman's summer hat held glass-headed pins and several pre-threaded needles. Harriet picked it up and set it on the table next to a ceramic mug that advertised a Las Vegas casino she'd never heard of.
Scraps of red backing fabric and a piece of print binding were scattered on the floor—Avanell had probably sat in here to finish stitching it on her quilt.
The quilts! she screamed in her head. She had until two this afternoon to deliver them. She instantly felt guilty for thinking of the show when Avanell lay dead in the warehouse. She had to think.
She heard the muffled sound of a door.
Harriet had just returned to her plastic chair when the patrolman returned to the reception area.
"Darcy said I should get your name and number so you can leave."
"Yes, I'd appreciate being able to wait somewhere other than here."
He handed her a pad to write her name and number on.
"So, what's happening in the back?” she asked.
"Nothing, really. Darcy and Ed will be taking pictures for a while. They'll gather all the evidence they need before the body is moved. Then the paramedics will move the body to the medical examiner's office. Until they finish, we all just wait."
"Who's notifying her family?"
"Well, Bertie's in the back. He's her brother. He's been in the next room on his cell phone. I assume he's calling everyone who needs to be notified."
Harriet turned to leave but was blocked by the bulky form of Mavis Willis.
"Come here, honey,” she said and pulled Harriet into another of her bear hugs. “Darcy called and told me what happened. You want to sit down? You look a little pale."
"I'm fine,” she said, but knew she'd never be fine again. “I need to get the show quilts to Tacoma."
"I figured as much. That's really why I came. You shouldn't be driving alone after a shock like this. I'll come with you."
"Thank you,” she said, grateful for the unexpected company.
They left the building; Mavis got her purse from her car and climbed into the passenger seat of Harriet's. She picked up the stack of entry forms.
"Oh, no!” Harriet said as she got in. “What do we do about Avanell's entry?"
"What's to do?” Mavis said. “She entered it in the show. In her mind, her quilt was there as soon as she handed it off. She deserves one last win."
"There's one tiny problem,” Harriet said. “Aiden brought the quilt, but he didn't give me the form."
"Well, we'll just have to go get it."
"But his mother just died."
"That boy knows how important his mama's quilting was to her. He's going to want her to have this win. You just drive over there."
Harriet didn't have the energy to argue. She drove to his apartment over the vet clinic. Mavis pounded on the door until a sleepy Aiden appeared. It was clear from his demeanor his uncle hadn't called him yet.
Mavis spoke for a minute and then followed him to his car. He leaned into the backseat and rummaged around, waving a sheet of paper when he stood back up.
"Here it is,” he said.
He came to Harriet's car and handed it to her through her open window. “I guess I forgot this last night,” he said. He gazed intently into her eyes. “What's wrong?” he asked and put his hand on her shoulder. She could feel it burn through the fabric of her T-shirt. She fought the tears that were building. Breathe, she told herself.
"We better get going,” Mavis said as she clicked her seatbelt into place.
Harriet backed out of the driveway onto Main Street and pointed her car toward the highway.
"I feel terrible just leaving him like that."
"It isn't your place to tell him about his mom. Bertrand will call Michelle, Aiden's sister, and she'll come take care of Aiden. She lives in Seattle. The news will keep until then."
"Why won't Bertrand tell him?"
"Bertrand and Aiden don't really get on well. Avanell tried, but Aiden resented anyone trying to take his father's place. Michelle and Marcel were older when their dad died. I wouldn't say it was easier on them, but they were old enough to be naturally separating from their parents. Besides, George had been so thrilled when Aiden was born. It was like a second chance for him. He'd been so busy building the business when the other two were born he made it all up with Aiden. He didn't miss a minute of that boy's childhood."
"I just feel so bad for him."
"Yeah, but what can you do? His mama's dead and you can't bring her back. Waiting a few more hours to hear the news isn't going to change anything."
Harriet fell silent. Mavis pulled out a small bag of hand-stitching from the pocket of her coat and busied herself sewing small pre-cut pink squares to green fabric triangles.
She broke the silence when she finished the block. “Did you have a chance to look at the other entries?"
"No, I didn't. By the time we got everything repaired and cleaned up, there wasn't time to do anything but put them in their carry bags and pack them in boxes."
"Your aunt and I usually hang the Loose Thread quilts once they check them in. They have people available, but they don't mind having the help. One year your aunt's quilt was hung upside down, and Betty Swearingen's ended up with a permanent hole in the corner another time. We just took to hanging them ourselves. We should be in the back by the concession stand this year. This show has a popular vote award along with the judged categories, so, to be fair, they try to rotate who gets the front spot among the group entries."
Quilt shows could vary quite a bit. Some were held in actual exhibit halls that had some level of accommodation for the display of goods. Others were held in churches, libraries, granges and other less than ideal locales. Bigger shows had business entities that managed all aspects of the event, from judging to food service. The Tacoma show, like most regional shows, was run by the local guild, which meant the administration and the judging panel varied from year to year, making it a much debated event both before and after the ribbons were awarded.
Harriet followed the hand-drawn map Aunt Beth had left her to the X that marked the exhibit hall. It was a large cement block building painted pale green. She pulled into a spot by a side door marked “deliveries only."
Mavis pulled a collapsed wire cart from the back of the car and popped its sides into the open and locked position. Harriet loaded the first group of quilts and wheeled them into the exhibit hall. Mavis brought the paperwork.
A tall blond woman in a blue denim jumper over a pale yellow T-shirt greeted them. An embroidered name patch claimed her name was Jeri, and Harriet had no reason to doubt it.
Jeri looked at the entry forms Mavis handed her.
"Okay, let me see.” She ran her finger down a list of names on the clipboard she was holding. “You have eight entries in The Loose Threads group exhibit and four in the individual category."
"Wait a minute,” Harriet said. “That should be nine in the group and three individual entries."
"No, one of your group called this morning and asked to have her quilt hung at the front of the hall. I told her we couldn't shuffle the group entry positions. She told me her entry was going to be a contender for best of show and asked what she had to do to get it hung at the front entrance, and I told her that if she entered it in the individual category she could have the spot at the side of the front entry. She asked to have that change made.” She shrugged. “She seemed pretty determined."
"Let me guess who,” Harriet said.
"Lauren Sawyer?” Mavis suggested.
"I believe that's right,” Jeri said, and found the name on her list. “Yes, Lauren Sawyer.” She handed Mavis a printed list with the locations for each of the individual entries and the area for the group exhibit.
"Let's put the group quilts up first. Then we can deal with the award winner,” Mavis said.
Harriet agreed, and they spent the next two hours arranging the Loose Threads exhibit so that each person's work complemented the one next to it. Avanell's distinctive piece was at the center of the display.
"Why don't we put up these last four and then come back to the group display and see if we still like it?” Harriet said.
"Good idea.” Mavis picked up two of the bagged quilts and handed her the other two. “Let's do Lauren's last."
The first three displays were straightforward, and finally, they had only Lauren's left. Mavis pulled it out of its pillowcase and handed two corners to Harriet. She took the other two corners, and they opened the quilt.
"Oh, my gosh,” Harriet said. “Is she delusional?"
The quilt top featured cats in various poses. The problem was, other than color, they bore the distinctive look of Kathy the Kurious Kitty. Kathy was the signature character in a children's book series by Su Kim.
"Does she really think changing the color makes the design hers?"
"Apparently,” Mavis said. “We tried to tell her, but all she did was change the eye shape slightly. I'm surprised her publisher is willing to print them."
"Kathy the Kurious Kitty isn't as well known as Mickey Mouse or Snoopy, but jeez, she's in, like, fourteen books. That's got to count for something."
"Even if the cats
were
her original design, I have a hard time believing the judges would choose this quilt for best in show or, for that matter, would make it a winner in any category. It's sort of like how the Oscars never go to a comedy or children's movie.” Mavis shook her head. “She just doesn't get it. Are you up for some lunch before we go back?"
"That sounds good,” Harriet said. “I heard two women from the Seattle Stitchers talking about a place called The Tea Leaf. They seemed to think it has the best Chinese food in Tacoma."
"Well, let's go find it."
It was after three when Harriet pulled into the parking lot of the Vitamin Factory. Yellow crime scene tape flapped in the late-afternoon breeze. A lone Foggy Point police car sat in the visitor's parking lot.
"You go home, curl up with a good book and a cup of tea,” Mavis said. “And try not to think about this."
Harriet waited until Mavis was in her own car and had started it before pulling out of the parking lot.
Fred was waiting in the kitchen when she came into the house and put her keys and purse on the counter.
"Anyone call while I was gone?” she asked him.
He walked to his dish and sat. She picked up the phone and dialed in the retrieval code then cradled the handset between her ear and shoulder so she could fill his food dish as she listened.
There were two messages that began, “This is not a solicitation.” Anything that began with that disclaimer was sure to be a sales call. Harriet double-clicked the three button to skip to the end then erased them, unheard.
The third message was Aunt Beth.
"Just wanted to let you know I made it to England and spent two glorious days with your cousin Heather, and now she is about to drive me to the ship to begin the cruise. I know things are going well for you. I'll call again when we are under way. Love you, baby."
Why did Aunt Beth have to be so far away? Harriet wanted to scream into the phone. Things weren't going well at all. She'd let someone break into the studio, and then found Aunt Beth's best friend dead.
She was still thinking about Aunt Beth and was halfway through a message from Marjory Swain before she realized it. She replayed the message. According to Marjory, a group of women met at Pins and Needles once a month to stitch quilts for charity. Fabric suppliers donated bolts of fabric for local women to make into baby quilts that were then distributed to several agencies that worked with teen mothers. Over time, the project had evolved into a quilting group for unwed mothers. Apparently, Aunt Beth did the machine stitching for the young women and, in fact, had a collection of their work that was supposed to have been delivered to Marjory for tonight's meeting.
"I know you've had a rough time, what with the break-in and Avanell and all,” she said, “but these girls are coming tonight to bind their baby blankets, and they are all so fragile. I hate to postpone it."
Harriet groaned. Last night everyone was concentrating on getting the show pieces ready for delivery. No attempt was made to sort out the rest.