Gone But Knot Forgotten (9 page)

C
HAPTER
13

When I got home from the funeral, I traded my suit for a comfortable pair of jeans and slippers, made a cup of apple cinnamon tea, and unwrapped some cookies. Then I phoned Dr. Naomi Hunter at the Smithsonian and introduced myself as the executor of Harriet's estate.

“Mrs. Oliver's dead? I wondered why she never contacted me about the quilt, especially since she seemed so keen on getting an appraisal.”

I swallowed some tea. “Your letter to Harriet really fascinated me. I'm an avid quilter myself and have studied quilt lore and history. But I've never heard of the Declaration Quilt. Can you tell me more about it?”

“Oh, the story of this quilt is fascinating. In June of 1776, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson met in Philadelphia to draft the Declaration of Independence. What most people don't realize is Abigail Adams and Martha Jefferson also traveled to Philadelphia with their husbands.”

The little devil on my left shoulder persuaded me to pick up a cookie. “Yeah, history often overlooks the women.”

“Exactly!” Dr. Hunter's voice became animated. “And these women did something extraordinary during the weeks their husbands worked on the document. Benjamin Franklin's daughter, Sarah Franklin Bache, also lived in Philadelphia. So, she played hostess to Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Jefferson. In the long hours of waiting, they created a quilt to commemorate the historic event.”

I dunked the cookie in my tea. “They were quilters?” In those days, women in the upper classes often turned to fine needlework as a creative and social outlet. Unlike their poorer sisters, however, women like Abigail Adams and Sarah Jefferson might have left the utilitarian sewing and quilting to their servants and slaves. “How did you find out about the quilt?”

“From subsequent correspondence between Abigail Adams and Sarah Bache. They mentioned the quilt in their letters.”

“Dr. Anne Smith suggested in her messages to Harriet this might be a friendship quilt.”

“Right. The ladies made six-inch snowball blocks out of white muslin with red triangles in the corners. Then they coaxed a page at the legislature to gather autographs of the various members of the Second Continental Congress on each block.”

“No kidding. All those important men signed blocks? Exactly how did the page accomplish that?” I couldn't imagine a modern-day legislator agreeing to sign a piece of cloth, especially if he knew someone on the other side of the aisle had signed a similar one.

“We don't know, but in one of her letters, Abigail refers to Robert Treat Paine, congressman from Massachusetts, who spilled two drops of India ink on his block. Anyway, they collected fifty signatures. The women reserved four more blocks for their own names, which they placed in the corners of the quilt.”

“Wait. I thought you said only the three of them met. Abigail Adams, Martha Jefferson, and the Franklin daughter, Sarah Bache.”

“The fourth quilter was a friend of Sarah's, who also lived in Philadelphia, the widow Elizabeth Griscom Ross.”

I gasped. “Do you mean
Betsy
Ross?”

“The same. Benjamin Franklin charged her with sewing the first American flag in secret, which she did while sitting every day with the other three ladies. Sarah convinced Betsy to reproduce the flag's design for the central medallion of the quilt. The eighteen-inch block depicted thirteen white stars appliquéd in a circle on a blue field.”

I smiled as I pictured the quilt. Those ladies sat together, just like my friends and me, sewing and chatting and eating cake. They wore long dresses; we chose jeans and overalls. They penned letters; we used the telephone or e-mail. Otherwise, the passage of centuries had changed nothing. Our quilting connected us through time. Lucy, Birdie, and I often helped each other with projects. Did Abigail, Martha, and Sarah help Betsy sew the flag? Did they, like their husbands and father, debate among themselves what should be written in the Declaration of Independence?

“How big was this quilt?”

“About the size of a modern-day throw. Four experienced needle women would've easily finished all the stitching.”

I took the last bite of my cookie. “Who got the quilt?”

“The ladies sewed it specifically to raise funds for the Continental Army led by George Washington. On the twelfth of July, a week after the congress voted to adopt the Declaration, the quilt was auctioned off at a gala dinner held in Philadelphia. Stephen Hawkins, representative from Rhode Island, prevailed on a member of ‘The Hebrew congregation Yeshuat Israel of Newport' to come up with the highest bid for the cause. Unfortunately, the trail ended there for historians. The buyer insisted on remaining anonymous.”

The Hebrew congregation she referred to worshipped at the Touro Synagogue. Did Nathan Oliver's ancestor make the winning bid? Had the Declaration Quilt always been in the Oliver family?

Dr. Hunter lowered her voice a notch. “The Smithsonian will need to authenticate the quilt, of course, but we've located a private donor prepared to pay Mrs. Oliver's estate two million dollars to hand over this American treasure to the National Archives.”

“My God, two million is a lot of money, but I can see why you'd pay so much. The Declaration Quilt is an important part of American history, ranking right up there with the signed copies of the Declaration of Independence. Only this national treasure was created in fabric by the founding mothers of this country.”

I dreaded breaking the news. “The only problem is, I haven't found the quilt among Harriet's things.”

She took a sharp breath. “The quilt is gone?”

“We're still looking. Several items have disappeared after Harriet's murder.”

Dr. Hunter paused for about five seconds. “Did you say
murdered
?”

“Yes. And I believe her killer came after the quilt, among other things.”

“This is devastating news. I so hoped . . . Please let me know if anything changes, Mrs. Rose.”

I promised to contact Dr. Hunter the moment I located the quilt.

I began to connect the dots. The items missing from Harriet's house suggested the killer wasn't interested in Native American baskets or folk crafts—no matter how valuable. He wanted certain Early Americana. The first-edition books by the Founding Fathers and the quilt with the signatures would be the crown of anyone's collection.

I still couldn't fit the missing jewelry into the whole puzzle. I needed to find out how Isabel got Harriet's ring and if she had any more of her things. I also needed to figure out how to examine the bracelet Paulina wore today. Was it Harriet's? Did one of those women kill Harriet and steal her property? Could the slender Isabel or the short Paulina have overpowered Harriet and strangled her?

The phone rang while I washed out my teacup. I turned off the faucet and dried my hands on a red-and-white-striped dish towel. The voice on the other end wheezed.

“This is Detective Farkas. We'll be through with the Oliver house by Wednesday.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. Listen, Detective, I need to check Harriet's financials. Can you recommend a good forensic accountant?”

“If you're thinking about investigating your friend's murder, forget it. Don't start going all
Rizzoli & Isles
on me.”

“No way, Detective.”
Rizzoli carries a gun.

He exhaled noisily. “Yeah, I know someone. A young guy used to work for the DA. He opened his own offices in Westwood, and I hear he's doing real well. He's testified in some big cases—the corruption scandal with the City of Bell and the federal beef with Morgan Stanley. Name's Julian Kessler. Tell him Gabe Farkas sent you.”

I wrote down Kessler's phone number and called his office.

He spoke rapidly. “Farkas referred you? Cool. Tomorrow at three. Don't be late. I don't like it when people are late.”

 

 

The next morning I drove to Birdie's house for quilty Tuesday and pushed open the front door. The aroma of cinnamon and cardamom circled in the air. “I smell applesauce cake.”

Birdie smiled and hugged me. “I figured you deserved a special treat after yesterday, so I baked your favorite.”

“How're you doing, girlfriend?” Lucy glanced up from her sewing. She dressed all girly today in her pink denim jeans and a pink angora sweater. Little flowers carved out of rose quartz decorated her earlobes.

I sat in the green chenille easy chair. “Yesterday was rough.” I stretched my Jacob's Ladder over my wooden hoop. I always started sewing in the middle of the quilt, working my way toward the edges and smoothing the fabric as I went. Stitching this way avoided sewing puckers into the backing and produced a perfectly square and flat quilt. I threaded a size eleven “between,” a one-inch-long needle perfect for making tiny stitches, and took a deep breath. “Don't know what I would've done without your help.”

Birdie, still in her trademark denim overalls, wore a blue hand-knit cardigan against the chill. She waved her hand in a circle. “All for one, and one for all.”

The three of us helped each other through some pretty rough times over the years, creating strong bonds of friendship. We could always count on each other.

“I spoke with Dr. Hunter at the Smithsonian yesterday.” I told them all about the Declaration Quilt.

“Heavens, how exciting!” Birdie clasped her hands. “I've never heard of it, have you?”

I shook my head. “No, but apparently certain historians knew about it. They assumed the quilt no longer existed—that is, until Harriet contacted the International Quilt Study Center.”

Lucy gathered two more pieces to join together. “A two-million-dollar historical quilt? Just think. We'll be national heroes when we find it.”

“Don't get your hopes up, Lucy.”

She held up her hand. “I've got one of my feelings. The quilt is definitely in Harriet's house.”

From long experience, I understood the futility of arguing with one of Lucy's
feelings.
“I hope you're right. Detective Farkas says we can go back inside tomorrow.”

“Paulina the psychic came across as quite a character in her purple cape yesterday,” Birdie chuckled. “Why did Harriet fire her?”

“Harriet stopped seeing her when Nathan showed up in the middle of their last session.”

“What do you mean ‘showed up'?” Lucy sat forward.

“Paulina channeled him during a séance. Harriet got so frightened she broke off all contact with the psychic.”

Birdie grabbed the end of her braid and frowned. “You can certainly understand her reaction, given the abuse she suffered during their marriage.”

“You're right. I suspect if Harriet thought Nathan could talk to her from the dead, he might still be able to hurt her. Of course I don't believe Harriet actually talked to any ghosts. I think Paulina decided to spice things up a bit by pretending to be a new so-called spirit.”

Lucy sat up a little straighter and stopped stitching. “Well, I for one believe there are things we can't explain by science or the rational mind. Many of my premonitions have come true, and you know it. Remember Claire Terry's murder last spring?”

Lucy referred to the time we discovered the body of a dead quilter. She warned me bad things were about to happen and they did. But did she really have ESP, or was she just expressing her own fears and apprehensions?

Lucy picked up her needle again and resumed stitching two triangles together. She didn't like to use the sewing machine to piece the tops of her quilts. Instead, she preferred to take her time and make the seams the old-fashioned way. “You've got to keep an open mind, Martha.” Without dropping her needle, she curled her fingers in an air quote. “Nathan Oliver certainly was a mean
ess oh bee.
How can you be so sure he didn't possess the power to come back from the dead?”

Is she kidding?
“Because Harriet struggled with someone strong enough to break her wrist and strangle her. No ghost could do that.”

Birdie handed us thick slices of spicy, warm applesauce cake with plenty of plump, sweet raisins. “Martha dear, to find poor Harriet's killer, you should examine his motive. What's your best guess?”

“Theft is at the top of my list. Someone wanted Harriet's priceless items of Early Americana.”

Birdie nodded. “Okay, who in her life knew what she owned?”

“Her attorney, Abernathy; Emmet Wish, her insurance agent; her friend Isabel; Paulina; Estella Oliver and her brother, Henry; people at the International Quilt Study Center; and people at the Smithsonian—even the philanthropist who's willing to pay two million dollars for the quilt. Maybe the fund-raiser from Children's Hospital and whoever else came into her house. Harriet didn't exactly hide her things.”

Lucy ended her thread with a knot and cut a new strand from the spool. “So, what you're saying is there's no shortage of people who could've stolen the books, the quilt, and the jewelry.”

“Pretty much.” I took a stitch, pulled the thread through the top layer of my quilt, and hid the knot in the batting. Then I started a new line of stitches. “I've seen some of Harriet's missing jewelry, though.”

Lucy spoke through a mouthful of cake. “Where, for heaven's sake?”

I told them about Harriet's ring sitting on Isabel's finger and possibly Harriet's bracelet on Paulina's wrist at the funeral.

“Oh dear,” said Birdie. “Do you think one of them is the murderer?”

I shrugged. “Who knows?”

“This doesn't get us any closer to identifying the killer.” Lucy began a new seam.