Cathedral Windows (6 page)

Read
on for the first chapter to Clare O'Donohue's novel
The Devil's Puzzle: A Someday Quilts Mystery
, also available from Plume.

 

Chapter 1

In any room full of people there are saints and sinners. There are those who would get out of bed at three in the morning to help a neighbor with a stalled car, and those who get out of bed at three in the morning, kiss a secret lover, and head home to their families with excuses about stalled cars. There are those who would die to save the life of a stranger, and those who would betray a loved one on a whim.

I looked around this room of esteemed citizens and wondered who fit into the first category and who fit into the second. They all seemed innocent enough, gathered together in the Archers Rest library, shifting on metal folding chairs, checking their watches and iPhones. Every one of them could easily be in the first group, the group of do-gooders. Perhaps they were here to help their neighbors, to help the town. But what if there was more to it? What if some people were harboring secret motivations for wanting to be in this room on this day? Maybe using this meeting as an alibi. Or a chance to spy on a neighbor.

Or maybe I was just bored.

* * *

I glanced toward the door. If I planned it just right I might be able to make my escape without too much trouble. There were two dozen people in the library's reading room. They wouldn't be the problem. It was the woman sitting next to me. Every time I moved in my chair or even looked toward the door, she glared at me. But she didn't understand. I
had
to get out of there.

I checked my watch. 11:35
A.M.
I was already late. I crouched a little and got ready to make my move. But just as I was about to bolt, her hand reached out and grabbed my arm.

“Nell Fitzgerald,” my grandmother whispered at me, “if you don't sit still I'm going to nail you to that chair.”

I settled back. This was ridiculous. I could have left anyway. I could have argued that as a grown woman I'm pretty much past the listening-to-my-grandmother stage. But there was no point. I'm stubborn; at least that's what everyone tells me. But my grandmother, Eleanor Cassidy, is immovable.

I rolled my eyes at her, but there was nothing to be done. Now seventy-four, with short gray hair framing her face, making her blue eyes all the more piercing, she was going to have her way. She was up to something; that much I could tell. But that was okay. So was I. I turned my attention back to the front of the room where Gladys Warren, known to everyone as Glad, was going over the history of Archers Rest.

“As town historian,” Glad said, “I've had the great privilege of spending hours digging into our town's past.” At this she laughed slightly. I looked around. No one—including me—got the joke. “We have quite a history. As you all know I'm sure, we were founded by John Archer in 1661 or thereabouts. Unfortunately Mr. Archer died the first winter of our founding, along with most of the people who had ventured up the Hudson River with him. But despite this setback, a town was born. And as others came after him, they recognized the sacrifices of John Archer and named this town for the place where Mr. Archer was laid to rest.”

She paused and looked around. The audience nodded. We knew the story, knew the macabre reason for our town's name—it was named to commemorate a man's grave—and knew that Glad didn't care that we knew. She was going to tell us anyway.

As Glad launched into the story of John Archer's heroic deeds, his high moral character, and his ultimate sacrifice, she edited out what I considered the most interesting part about our founding father. He and his original group of followers were supposed to have come to Archers Rest seeking a quiet place to practice witchcraft. It was nothing more than legend, of course, as there were very few actual facts available about the man. Even most of Glad's version was fiction, or bits of truth heavily embellished by centuries of retelling. Either way, like everyone in the room, I'd heard it all before. “I have to go,” I whispered to my grandmother.

“Not yet.”

I sighed heavily and dramatically. I couldn't tell her the reason I was needed at her house, but it was a good reason. I couldn't make up some story because she'd gotten very good at figuring out when I was up to something. And I couldn't just get up and leave because, well, because I'd never hear the end of it if I embarrassed her in front of what appeared to be the who's who of Archers Rest. Instead I sat back and waited for a good moment to break away.

From the podium Glad announced that the town would be hosting a special Fourth of July celebration to commemorate the 350th anniversary of the town's founding. If it had been 350 years. No one was quite sure. But that wasn't going to stop a celebration, especially one that might boost tourism.

There was a lot of talk in the town about that recently. The feeling was that we were being bypassed for other Hudson Valley towns that had more to offer the tourists. Local businesses apparently were missing out on cash-heavy New Yorkers coming up from the city and New Englanders coming south. A normal Fourth of July wouldn't cut it this year. We needed something that put Archers Rest in the newspapers. Glad asked for volunteers to demonstrate, as she put it, “the kind of community spirit that would show nonlocals what a special place we live in, and give them a reason to return time and again.” Several shop owners and restaurant owners offered to host parties or have special sales during the anniversary celebration. Carrie Brown, a fellow quilter and owner of Jitters, the local coffee shop, suggested a coupon booklet that would highlight town businesses and be handed out to visitors. That met with approval from everyone, and when she looked back to Eleanor and me, we clapped loudly as a show of support.

It was all going well, even if it was a little dull. I was just about to make a run for it when Glad announced that she wanted to introduce those who were chairing committees, and I could see Eleanor sit up straight. Mayor Larry Williams, who also ran half a dozen local businesses, told everyone he would handle the media and the fireworks display.

“I'll be posting updates of the anniversary celebration on my blog,” the mayor said. “For anyone not familiar with it, it's a great way to keep up with all the exciting events in our little town. I'm not a writer, but I think I capture the flavor of life in Archers Rest.” He then took out a half-dozen sheets of paper and read several recent postings. For nearly ten minutes.

After the mayor finally sat down, Ed Bryant, owner of the local movie theater, agreed to be in charge of the parade and carnival. And Maggie Sweeney, the town's former librarian and my grandmother's closest friend, took charge of the church bazaar.

Then Eleanor stood up.

“I thought it would be a lovely nod to our past to combine quilts, which as you all know is a tradition that predates the nation's founding, with the celebration of our town's history,” she said. “I propose doing a quilt show.”

Everyone applauded enthusiastically. If Eleanor was going to help, it wasn't entirely unexpected she'd help by offering quilts. She was, after all, the owner of Someday Quilts, which had been drawing folks to town for more than thirty years.

While the small crowd was applauding, Eleanor leaned down to me and whispered, “How badly do you want to get out of here?”

“Badly.”

She nodded and stood up straight. “My granddaughter Nell is extremely busy with art school and working at Someday Quilts, so unfortunately she has to leave. But she has offered to take time from her schedule to organize the quilt show.”

I stood up and was about to protest.

“You can go now if you need to.” Eleanor took a deep and triumphant breath.

“This is why you dragged me here?” I asked her.

“I thought you might like to help your town.”

As others applauded my willingness to help, I whispered to my grandmother, “This isn't over.”

Eleanor smiled. It was over and she knew it.