Quilt As Desired (11 page)

He pulled off the road at a wide spot and got out of the car. She followed, and after she shut her door, it was completely dark. Aiden pulled a mini-Maglite from his pocket; it cast a small circle of light.

"Here, give me your hand,” he said and grabbed it in his free one. “Be careful,” he added.

Good advice, she thought, and once again wondered what she was doing walking on an isolated beach with a man she'd only met two days ago, and who was at least ten years her junior.

He led her to a large flat rock that stuck out toward the water.

"Here, put your foot up here.” He pointed the light onto a step-like flat area on the rock. He lit the next one and the next—the rock had three natural steps leading to a broad flat ledge. She sat on the ledge and scooted to her left to make room for him. In two strides, he was beside her, sitting close enough she could feel the heat of his body in sharp contrast to the cool rock.

He turned the light off. Her eyes adjusted, and in the moonlight, she could see the expanse of the Strait of Juan de Fuca in front of her.

"This is amazing,” she said.

"I've always come here when I needed to think, or to get away from everyone."

"I've never been here. I didn't even know this rock existed."

"My dad used to bring me here when I was little. It's a good spot to sit and fish. And then, later, I would ride my bike here.” He was silent for a long moment. “I just can't believe she's gone now, too,” he said. His voice sounded small and far away.

Harriet patted his arm. She wasn't good at this sort of thing. He leaned forward, elbows on knees. She was pretty sure he was crying, but his long hair concealed his face. She rubbed her hand in slow circles across the hard muscles of his back. They sat like that until he had control of his emotions again.

"Come on,” he said, and stood up. He stepped down in the dark then guided her. He took her hand and led her back to the car.

They drove in silence until he turned away from the coastline and started up an incline.

"Bertrand said the police think my mom was killed during a robbery,” he said at last.

"Is that what you think?"

"I don't know what to think. No one wants to believe their mother was killed because she got in the way of some petty criminal for a few hundred dollars. But I don't have a better answer. Face it. I missed the last three years of my mother's life."

"Don't even go there. Believe me, I've gone down that road, and there's nothing there."

Aiden turned his head to glance at her but didn't ask.

"I don't believe it was a simple robbery,” Harriet said. “Something was bothering your mom for several days before...” She trailed off.

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure, but my aunt noticed and asked me to check on her. And she did look like something was going on. I went to lunch with her on Monday, and one of her employees came and got her just when we finished. It was something about a girl getting fired for stealing vitamins. Nothing that seemed like something anyone would get killed over."

He sighed.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could tell you more."

They fell into silence again.

The road rose steeply.

"Do you recognize where we are?” Aiden asked.

"We have to be on my hill. It's the only place this steep on the strait side of the peninsula. But I don't think I've ever been up this side before."

"This road might not have been here when you lived here before. Some developer in Portland had the idea he was going to build a group of McMansions up at the top of the hill."

"Why didn't he?"

"Same reason no one else has ever built there. If that hilltop were build-on-able, you can bet some of the old Foggy Point pirates would have done it. It's too steep."

"Can you get to Aunt Beth's house from here?"

"That's what we're going to find out. I went to your house just after six last night. I read your note, and then I decided that while I was waiting for you to get back, I'd go door to door and see if I could find out who owned the dog I'd carried off. I finally found the family in that pink-and-blue gingerbread house down the street. I talked to them for over an hour, assuring them their dog was fine and talking about aftercare. As I was going back to my car, I saw a buddy of mine from high school. I talked to him for about forty-five minutes. I saw you and your friend drive up your hill, and then saw him come back down, so I went up.

"The point is, no one else went up your hill in all that time. And obviously, no one parked at the bottom and walked in, either, or I would have seen them. I'm guessing trashing your studio took more than the few minutes that must have elapsed between your leaving and me arriving."

"So, they had to have come from the back side of the hill,” Harriet deduced. “There are four houses besides Aunt Beth's on our street. After the last house, the street terminates with a guard rail, with a wooded area beyond it."

"Well, let's see how far we can get from this side."

The road narrowed as they climbed the hill. The pavement was riddled with potholes and, eventually, gave way to gravel. They bounced on until the road ended in a small rocky parking area. A trail marker announced an overlook in one-tenth of a mile.

Aiden picked up his MagLite and got out of the car. “You coming?"

Harriet had seen too many slasher films in her youth to be willing to sit in a car alone in a dark, wooded parking lot. She followed him up the path.

The woods opened onto a clearing at the top of the hill. Under other circumstances, she might have stopped to take in the panoramic view of Smugglers Cove and downtown Foggy Point beyond it. Tonight she was more interested in the clearing itself, and what other paths might lead from it.

"Look,” she said. “Over there.” She pointed to a shadowy area on the opposite side. A gust of wind rattled the old fir trees overhead. Harriet shivered. When she was young she had believed the trees were fighting when they rattled together like that. It still seemed sinister.

Aiden joined her at what appeared to be a path leading down the hill. He shined the light into the dark tunnel in the trees.

"Come on,” he said. When Harriet hesitated, he took her hand in his firm grasp and led her down the path.

"Oh, my gosh,” she said when a short time later they popped out of the woods at the end of her street. Aiden had pushed a large, low-hanging tree branch out of the way to create the final opening. “So anyone could come and go freely from this street, and the people living here would be none the wiser."

"I'm not sure this helps much. We still don't know who came and went this way, but at least we know how they did it."

"And we know it wasn't a spontaneous act. Someone planned it."

He looked at her. “You didn't really think it was a random act, did you?"

"No, I guess not. That one policeman had suggested it was drug users looking for something they could turn for a quick profit. But they probably would have taken the computer and television if that was the case. I wanted to believe him, because I don't want to think about someone coming back if they didn't get what they were looking for the first time."

"Have you had any ideas about what that might be?"

"Not a clue."

They stood together looking down the street, each lost in their own thoughts.

Aiden snapped the flashlight back on. “We should get back. As much as I don't want to, I've got to face the family."

Harriet wished she could tell him things would be okay but she knew better than anyone the damage lies could do.

Harriet spent the following day cleaning and organizing her studio. In the morning hours, she folded fabric and quilts and matched them up with their work orders. The afternoon went slower. Thread, pins, chalk pencils and other small notions had been scattered all over the room, as if the thief had thrown a temper tantrum and hurled the containers against the walls. The big spools of thread for the long-arm machine were hopelessly tangled. She cut out the tangles where she could, but in the end several spools had to be thrown out.

She'd spoken to Aunt Beth's insurance man, Bill Young, and he'd asked her to do an inventory of what was missing and damaged, so she dutifully wrote down each lost item.

For his part, Fred chased bobbins around the floor, rolling on his back and tangling his legs in the thread. The third time she had to stop and cut him loose, she picked him up and shut him on the other side of the kitchen door.

She was about to give up and join him when the phone rang.

"How is the clean-up coming?” Mavis asked.

"I've got the big stuff organized, but now it's going a lot slower. I'm down to picking up pins and untangling thread."

"Do you feel like a change of pace?"

"Yes, please, anything."

"Well, if you're up to it, Michelle asked if the Loose Threads could come over and deal with Avanell's stash."

An important part of the quilting process is the collection of a stash. Every serious quilter will make a practice of gathering pieces of fabric for undefined future use. Stash building can be a regular part of their weekly trip to the local quilt store, or can be done scavenger hunt-style by taking tours to various other communities in groups or alone. It's also a critical part of any vacation trip, usually to the dismay of husbands, children or other non-quilting companions. People vary in their approach. Some people collect in half-yard quantities, some in multiple-yard cuts, just to keep their options open. Harriet could only imagine how large a stash someone who had been quilting as long as Avanell would have.

"It's kind of soon, isn't it?"

"Honey, Avanell is dead. Michelle needs to take care of things while she's here. In Loose Threads, we joke about taking care of each other's stash if something happens, but it really isn't a joke. Avanell told her daughter if anything ever happened to her we were to take care of hers. Michelle called me an hour ago and asked if we could come tomorrow. If this is too much for you, just say so and I'll understand."

"No, I'll be there,” Harriet said, and tried to make her voice sound like she meant it. “What time should I be there?"

"I told her we'd be there at nine."

"Do I need to bring anything?"

"If you can find any of those cotton project bags your aunt has, you can bring them. When someone passes, we usually finish up any UFO's.” Harriet knew that this meant
unfinished objects
in quilter's parlance. “Usually, we know who they were for. If not, we just give them back to the family if they want them, or donate them if they don't."

"Are there really people who don't want their loved one's handwork?” Harriet asked.

"We've only lost two or three people who were still active in the group when they went, and in at least one case, the woman was ninety-three, and she had given her family so many quilts over the years they really had all the keepsakes they needed."

"Is there any word on the memorial service yet?"

"Yes. There will be a viewing on Monday night and then a service at the Unitarian Church Tuesday morning and then the interment following that. Are you going to attend?"

"She was one of my aunt's oldest friends. Since Aunt Beth can't be there, I feel like I should go to represent her."

"Honey, I think people would understand if it was too hard for you."

"No, Aunt Beth is right. I have to start living again, and attending a friend's funeral is an unfortunate part of life."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. Would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?"

The two women agreed on a plan and ended the call.

Harriet knew her aunt was trying to help her move forward with her life, but even Aunt Beth couldn't have envisioned how her plan was going to play out.

She was contemplating dinner when the phone rang again. She answered, and heard an unfamiliar man's voice.

"Harriet,” he said, “it's Harold."

"Harold, how nice to hear from you again,” she responded, and wondered if it was true.

"I couldn't help but notice how much you enjoyed the Chamber dinner the other night."

Was the man insane?

"Well, not the event,” he went on. “But you did seem to enjoy the food."

That much was true.

"I heard about a new restaurant that opened last week down on Smuggler's Cove. The owner used to be the head chef at the Hilton in Portland. I thought I'd give it a try tonight and, as you appear to be a connoisseur of fine food, wondered if you'd care to join me."

It wasn't the most romantic invitation she had ever received, but since she wasn't interested in romance that suited her.

"Shall I meet you there?"

"I'll be coming from the factory, so I could swing by at seven and pick you up, if that works."

"That will be fine. I'll be ready."

She hung up and went back into the kitchen.

"Come on, Fred,” she said, and the cat got up and followed her upstairs. “We have to put together an outfit for our dinner date."

The choices hadn't gotten any better in the last two days. She still had the basic black dress and Aunt Beth's scarves. Aunt Beth had a decidedly different shape than she did, making most of her wardrobe improbable; but Harriet was desperate enough to give it a try.

The floral jersey dresses Aunt Beth favored were a definite no even if they did fit. She passed them by and moved on to the skirts and blouses. She tried a skirt, but it was about three inches short and was too wide in any case.

The blouses showed more promise. She pulled out an off-white silk with a tie collar. She tried it on, twisting the two scarf-like ends of the collar into a bow. She looked at her image in the mirror. The blouse could be worn tunic-style over her sleeveless black shift. She found a soft leather belt on a closet door hook. She wrapped it around her waist and tied it instead of buckling. She twirled in front of the mirror. Her outfit made her look like an executive secretary. Or at least what she imagined an executive secretary would look like. It would be the perfect counterpoint to Harold's business togs.