A Thread of Truth (12 page)

I
pushed the pile of ribbons off the counter and looked up, surprised to see a tall, hard and handsome man of about forty coming through the door—not a customer after all.

That's not to say that men never darkened the door of Cobbled Court Quilts. There are male quilters out there. Two or three are my customers. And of course it isn't unusual for our female customers to enter with men in tow, usually husbands who whistle to themselves or look at their watches while waiting for their wives to finish their shopping, or who make little jokes about how they are going to have to build an addition onto the house just to store all the fabric—good-humored men with open faces and relaxed gaits.

This fellow wasn't one of those.

He wore a hopsack blazer of navy blue, the standard-issue jacket of businessmen the world over, but he didn't quite look like a corporate type, either. His jaw was sharp and his arms and shoulders were heavily muscled inside his jacket, making the sleeves bulge. Whoever he was, I was sure he wasn't in search of fabric. Maybe he was looking for the gallery or the real estate office and had gotten lost.

He stood at the door, scanning the room but not spotting me yet.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He turned toward me and his face instantly split into a wide smile that almost reached his eyes.

“Why, yes. At least, I hope so,” he said in a deep, pleasant voice, a voice that was designed to charm. “I'm looking for someone…”

He didn't have to say more. I knew who he was and what he wanted. The easy smile and polite manner couldn't disguise it. He was the expected storm. If A.P. had been around, he'd have been pacing and yowling.

“Ivy Edelman. I understand she works here. Could you please tell her I'm here to see her?”

Edelman? As far as I knew, Ivy's last name was Peterman, but it wasn't too surprising to realize that Ivy had given us a false name. No, not false. Likely Peterman was her maiden name. That was the way it was listed on her Social Security card.

There was no way I was going to let this man know Ivy was in the building. I smiled slightly, trying to make my voice sound innocent and convincing.

“I'm sorry, we don't have anyone by that name working here.”

“This is Cobbled Court Quilts, isn't it? The place they keep talking about on that quilting show? The one with that lady and the retarded guy?”

I bristled. Retarded is such an ugly word, a word meant to slice through the value and merit of an entire population of human beings and label them as a lesser class of mortals.

“Down syndrome,” I said flatly. My pretense to politeness dropped. So did his. “Howard has Down syndrome. He's a very sweet and gifted man, a television star.”

“Whatever. I don't care who he is. All I know is that one of my neighbors spotted Ivy on that TV show and that they filmed the segment at Cobbled Court Quilts.” Keeping his eyes fixed on me, he reached down to the counter, pulled one of our store business cards out of the holder near the cash register, and held one out to me. I didn't move.

“Says on the card that this is the place. Now, where is she? Call Ivy and tell her I want to see her. Do it now.”

His voice was quiet, slow and steady, but with a sharp, razored edge that was more menacing than a scream, a sound like the rumbling, warning growl of a vicious dog, fury held in check but only just. I could see why Ivy was so frightened of him.

He was a frightening man, especially if you were a young and fragile woman, isolated, alone, and desperate to keep from saying or doing anything that might cause his hemmed-in anger from breaking loose.

I am none of those things.

“I won't be ordered around in my own shop, not by you or anyone. I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

He put both hands on the counter and leaned toward me, his arms flexed, straining beneath the sleeved confinement of his jacket.

“Maybe you didn't understand me the first time,” he said, lowering his voice until it was a whisper. “I'm not leaving without her.” He didn't blink. Neither did I.

“Ivy is my wife. Almost two years ago she disappeared with my children. She's a kidnapper and a thief. If you try to hide her, you're going to find yourself in a world of trouble.”

“I don't know who you think you are, but I've had just about enough of your threats. Get out of my shop or I'm going to call the police.”

He just kept staring at me, refusing to budge. I could tell he was trying to intimidate me with his immovable demeanor and, though on the inside I was shaking, on the outside I was unflinching.

The skin near the base of his shirt collar was beginning to turn red. He was angry, frustrated at his inability to bully me into doing what he wanted.

Well, isn't that too bad,
I thought, working to keep my lips from bowing into a smile.
It's a bit harder going toe-to-toe with an old broad who's been around the block a few times than it is pushing Ivy and your kids around, isn't it?

I waited one moment more, hoping he'd back down, then straightened my shoulders and reached for the phone.

He beat me to it, clamped his big paw over the receiver, and wouldn't let go.

“You need to make a call, Mister?” Charlie asked as he walked in through the open door holding a bunch of white daisies clutched in his fist. “You'll find a pay phone down at the gas station.”

Charlie isn't a short man. He works out three days a week and is in good shape, but Ivy's husband had six inches on him in height and Charlie had at least a decade on him in age. Yet, there Charlie was, glaring at this intruder with both his hands balled up into fists and, even though one of those fists was still clutching a nosegay of summer flowers, the pugnacious tilt of Charlie's chin made it clear that he was itching to throw a punch, the perfect illustration of the phrase “got his Irish up.” I do love that man.

Ivy's husband, Hodge, turned around to face Charlie. “Nice flowers.”

Charlie took a step forward.

“Hey, I'm not trying to cause any problems,” Hodge said calmly. He opened his hands and dropped his shoulders, deliberately taking a less provocative stance as if trying to develop a man-to-man rapport with Charlie. That seemed to be his modus operandi: First try charm and manipulation and, if that didn't work, go for threats and intimidation.

“All I want is to see my wife. I know she's here. Her car's parked outside. I'm not going to leave until I get to talk to her. She's my wife. I love her and I want to see her, that's all.”

Charlie spoke before I could stop him. “Yes. We've heard all about how you show your love for Ivy. Fists in place of flowers. Kicks instead of kisses. Quite the devoted husband, aren't you?”

“Is that what she told you? That I hit her?” He shook his head and sighed. “Listen, I love Ivy, I always have, but you don't know her like I do. She's had a hard life. Father died when she was a little girl, mother was killed in a car wreck a few years later. And then there was her stepfather,” he huffed. “He was a real prince of a guy, used Ivy for his personal punching bag. She ran away. Started living on the streets. That's when I found her.”

His eyes drifted up toward the ceiling, away from Charlie, as if having a conversation with himself, and rubbed his neck with his big right hand. “She was so beautiful. It took me about five minutes to fall in love with her. Less. How could I not? And I…well…I thought I could rescue her,” he said ruefully and then let out a short, self-mocking laugh.

“Love conquers all. That's what I thought at the time, but when a person is scarred like that, so badly and so young…”

He started a bit and looked at Charlie again, as if suddenly remembering he wasn't alone. He cleared his throat. “I love Ivy; I always will. She's my wife and I promised to love her and take care of her for better or worse. I know she can be very convincing, but Ivy has”—he hesitated as if looking for a word that would describe the poor, disturbed bride he was only trying to save from herself without sounding disloyal—“issues.”

What a guy. What a performance.

The thing is, I
did
know Ivy. I'd been working side by side with her for over a year and I knew she wasn't the pathetic, mental basket case he was making her out to be. It was everything I could do to keep myself from spitting on Hodge Edelman's shoes and then kicking him in the shins.

The problem was, he was a very good actor, a brilliant one. If I hadn't known Ivy as I did, I might have been convinced by his performance. Even worse, his story sounded almost true. Ivy hasn't told me everything about her past, but enough so that I knew that many of the details he was sharing were accurate. He'd added a few facts, left out some others. Almost true or not, it still added up to a lie, but someone who didn't know Ivy might be inclined to believe his version of the story. In a courtroom, wearing his solid-citizen blue blazer and making his polished delivery, he would make a believable witness. More believable, perhaps, than Ivy, with that hollow and hunted look in her eyes.

Much as I wanted him out of my shop, I needed to hear what he had to say. I needed to study his story and his demeanor because, clearly, this was the tact he was going to take, to paint Ivy as a lying, mentally unbalanced young woman and himself as the long-suffering but devoted husband who'd fallen in love too hard and married too quickly to realize what he was getting himself into, but who wasn't going to back away from his family obligations, no matter how burdensome they'd become.

I didn't believe him, but someone who didn't know Ivy like I did might. A judge might. I listened as long as I could, looking for the chinks in his armor. The best offense is a strong defense.

“The thing is,” he continued, turning to me now, trying to win me to his side, or at least cause me to consider the possibility that he was telling the truth, “Ivy sometimes has a hard time separating fact from fiction. It's not her fault. After all she's been through I guess it's understandable, but when she feels overwhelmed or upset about something, her first instinct is to run, you know? She doesn't like confrontation.” He sighed again, heavily.

“This whole thing was my fault. We had an argument about something stupid; now, I can't even remember what. I got mad. I didn't touch her—I'd never do that—but I raised my voice. I shouldn't have. I know how she gets. But I really didn't think it was that big a deal. I went to work, figured we'd talk it out when I got home, but by then, she was gone.”

He looked me in the eye, held out his hands palms out, a magician bent on convincing me he had nothing up his sleeves. “Ma'am, I'm sorry I was so gruff with you before. Really. It's just that I've been looking for my wife and my children for months on end. I'd almost given up hope of ever finding them…”

He sniffed. The same man who'd leaned across the counter and tried to bully me into giving up his abused wife actually sniffed and blinked as if now, suddenly overwhelmed by tenderness, it was all he could do to keep back the tears. Watching this farce,
I
was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to lose my lunch.

“I've been away on business,” he continued. “When I got home last night, one of my neighbors came over to the house and told me she'd seen Ivy on that quilting show. It was just for a second, but she wrote down the name of your shop. I got in my car and drove up here right away. Didn't even remember to call the office and tell them where I'd gone until I'd crossed the state line. I was so worried that I'd be too late. Like I said, whenever something upsets her, Ivy's first instinct is to run. And then, when I got here and saw her car parked on the street, I was so anxious to see her…Well, like I said, I shouldn't have been so gruff with you. I'm really sorry. Miss? Ms.?” He looked at me questioningly.

I'd found out what I'd needed to know.

“You don't need to know my name,” I said. “You won't be staying that long.”

He frowned and I could see his jaw clench as he struggled to maintain his kinder, gentler façade. “I told you. I can't leave. I won't. Not without Ivy and my kids.”

Still clasping the now-slightly-wilted daisies, Charlie took three steps to the right, moving solidly into Edelman's field of vision, a pugilist circling his opponent, eager for the bell to sound and the first round to begin. “Well you're going to have to. You're not welcome here. You are leaving. I'd advise you to do so under your own steam. It'll be less embarrassing.”

“Less embarrassing?” Edelman said wryly, dropping all pretense of affability. “Less embarrassing for you? Yeah, I can see how you'd be worried about that because, Mister, it's going to take ten guys twice the size of you to get me to leave here without taking what's mine with me.”

“Now there's an interesting picture. Not sure we can muster an army quite as big as that on short notice. Instead of ten guys, how about one lawyer?”

Franklin Spaulding, with Abigail close behind, came through the door right on time to pick me up for the zoning meeting. Franklin reached into his pocket and withdrew his weapon.

“My card. Franklin Spaulding.” He smiled cordially and extended his hand with his business card in it, as if introducing himself to a potential new client at a cocktail party. “Your wife's attorney, to be more exact. If I'm not mistaken, there are some officers at your home and office right now, trying to serve you with divorce papers.”

Edelman took the business card, read it, and scowled. Franklin smiled and inclined his head slightly. “Good-bye, Mr. Edelman. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again soon.”

“Count on it,” Edelman growled and shoved the card in his pocket before heading for the still open door. He slammed it behind him, making the bells ring so hard you'd have thought Christmas had come early.