Monkey Wrench (12 page)

“When I got there, Wyatt was already in my car. I guess I’d left it unlocked, I don’t know, but he was sitting in the passenger seat. He was exhausted and wanted a ride home.”

Vangie pulled her fingers through her hair, catching a large knot. I untangled her fingers gently. “To tell you the truth, I was kind of excited. I never knew where he lived. His student ID still had his first dorm address on it. He was very private.”

The house was starting to smell sweet as the chips in Pearl’s cookies began to melt. Her teakettle was whistling, and it shut off abruptly. I wanted to get to the truth before she came back in.

I interjected, keeping my voice low. “Did he seem high?”

“No, he seemed like Wyatt. Really, he was stoked. He kept talking about how cool the response to his call on Twitter was. Then he kind of wound down, stopped talking. I thought he was tired. He told me where to turn and stuff. When I parked, he started choking. He couldn’t catch his breath. I didn’t know what to do.”

Vangie’s tears spilled over. “It happened so fast. I went around to the passenger side to help him. I stopped at the trunk to get my quilt, figured he might be cold.”

Her gaze came up to me, then drifted. The worried look returned. “A gym bag was in the trunk, the zipper open. Inside were pill bottles, lots of them. I could see prescription labels.”

She picked at her face. “There were maybe thirty bottles of pills inside. I grabbed the blanket and went back to Wyatt, but he was so still. Drool dripped from the side of his mouth and his eyes were empty. Empty. He was gone.”

“Dewey,” she began. Her chest caved in and she slunk back against
the couch. “I—”

I squeezed her hand. “It’s okay, Vangie. Whatever happened. It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

She rubbed her temples. Her voice got louder.

“I had to get rid of the bag. We were right by Wyatt’s house. So I went through the gate. There was this garden bench thing with a lid. I dropped the bag in there.”

“That’s when you called me about Wyatt? And you didn’t tell anyone about the drugs?”

She shook her head. “Who was going to believe me that they weren’t my prescriptions?”

We sat quietly. I held her hand. So Wyatt was into dealing drugs. What other explanation was there? Poor Vangie. Clearly she had really liked him.

She sighed heavily. “I went back for them yesterday. I figured I would give them to Buster. That’s when someone hit me over the head.”

My head snapped around. “The drugs were in your backpack when you got mugged?”

“No, that’s the thing. I didn’t find the drugs, they weren’t there.”

“Where are they?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t know any of Wyatt’s friends. I swear to you I didn’t know he was dealing drugs until that night. Whenever I saw him, he was sober, and sweet.”

“What about the pills you gave me for Pearl?”

Vangie looked up. “Oh no, that was legit. Pearl had given Wyatt her prescription earlier that day from the doctor, and he’d filled it for her.”

Pearl came in when she heard her name.

“What’s the dealio?” she said. “Why are you crying, sweetums?”

Vangie shook her head.

“It’s a long story,” I said. “Right now, Vangie needs to rest.”

“After tea and cookies,” Pearl said. “There’s nothing tea and cookies can’t fix.”

I stared at Pearl. This was not a side of Pearl I’d seen before.

At least Vangie would be safe here.

Eleven

The first morning of
the Quilters Crawl, I got to the shop early and walked through the front door. I used my mother’s old trick, pretending to be a brand-new customer, coming in for the first time. I closed my eyes and opened them again.

Thank goodness Jenn and Ursula had stayed late last night, dressing the place. The first thing I noticed was Jenn’s latest QP Original, a Christmas block of the month hung under the loft. It was a good choice. The odd colors, not your usual red and green but lime green and pink, drew my eye right into the middle of the store.

I checked out the walls. All the current samples were hanging. The projects were colorful and enticing. Most importantly, the name, dates, and times of the class were prominently displayed. Getting butts in our chairs was a high priority. Classes added to our bottom line.

The Quilters Crawl was an opportunity to market QP to new people. I expected some locals who had never been to the store, but from what I’d heard, quilters from southern California, Oregon, and Washington State came, too. Rumor was that one large family from Massachusetts with several generations of quilters had made it a family tradition to vacation during the Crawl.

Vangie was at Pearl’s. They could keep an eye on each other until the Crawl was over and I could figure out a more permanent solution. No harm would come to Pearl while Vangie was there, and Vangie was hidden from Zorn.

I could concentrate on the Crawl and not wonder why thirty bottles of pills had disappeared.

The store was clean. No pins on the floor. Threads were notoriously hard to pick up with the vacuum but I didn’t see any. Every bolt of fabric had been pulled tight, no loose ends flapping. The shelves had all been dusted, and the countertops shone. Rotary cutters were lined up for use. Fingerprints on the monitor had been vanquished.

I walked to the back of the store to where the books and patterns were. Our QP Original patterns had their own easy-to-reach display with plenty of extra inventory. Jenn had made several signs that let the customer know these patterns were only available here. Unique to the store, get ’em while you can.

Signs had always been Vangie’s favorite chore. Jenn’s were okay but were missing Vangie’s special touch. I’d called Vangie before when I came in. Pearl had picked up. She was taking her nursing duties to heart. She said Vangie was still sleeping and admonished me to leave her be.

Ursula called for me from the kitchen.

“Be right there,” I hollered. I had one more thing to check out.

In the hall, the welcome station had been set up. On the advice of the other shop owners, we’d situated the card table in the back so that the customers had to walk through the shop to get their stamp.

The QP yardsticks had arrived and were standing behind the table, the box top ripped open for easy access.

I straightened the passports, our special palm tree stamp and inkpad. Each customer who began at QP would get a pre-stamped passport. Others would have their passports already and just need a QP stamp. In order to be in the running for prizes, the hoppers had to get their entire book stamped.

My father would be our greeter. All he had to do was sit at the table, welcome the customers and stamp their book and hand out yardsticks. He’d done it many times before when Mom was alive. He’d be a welcome sight for many of my older customers. His energy was always upbeat, even—to my dismay—flirty.

Ursula was making punch. She poured the contents of three different kinds of juices into a fluted crystal bowl. My mother had bought it at a garage sale for these occasions. Generally it resided in the cabinet above the fridge.

“Can you get out the fruit?” she asked.

My Costco trip had paid off. The cookies looked homemade. We had trays of veggies. I pulled out the cut-up fruit and plated it, fanning out pieces of pineapple.

The classroom would serve as a break room. Ursula and Jenn had set out paper plates, cups, and napkins last night. The customers could get a drink and a snack before moving on. Later, we’d be putting out cheese and crackers, hummus and veggies. And cookies. Lots of cookies.

The hope was that if we fed them, the participants would get renewed energy and head back into the store to spend some cash. I was balancing the options. Didn’t want to overload anyone with too much sugar. That meant a nap in the car, not a foraging trip down our aisles.

Ursula dug bagels out of the Panera bag and cut them into quarters. We had cream cheese for the early birds. I speared pineapple with toothpicks.

“You and Jenn did an amazing job on the store,” I said. “The place looks wonderful.”

She nodded. Praise was not easy for her to take. She took refuge in small talk. “Perfect weather,” Ursula said. “Not too hot, not too cold. No rain in the forecast for three days.”

“Just right,” I agreed. “I’m getting excited. There’s been so much going on, I haven’t been able to concentrate on the Crawl. Now that it’s here, I’m beyond.”

“We’re going to have a great one.”

She put up her fist for me to bump. I obliged and laughed.

“It’s you and me for the first hour,” I said. “After that, Jenn and Claudia and Florence will be in. My father will be manning the greeting table.”

My phone alarm went off. Nine o’clock. Time to open the doors.

“Ready?” I asked Ursula, smiling at her. I was surprised to feel butterflies.

“Ready, boss,” Ursula said, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She put on a clean QP apron and tied up the back.

I opened the front door and flipped on the open sign. I’d barely turned my back when our first Crawlers arrived. Ursula stamped their books and they scooted out, eager to get to the next shop. The early birds were not the kind to linger. They felt it was their duty to get to as many shops as they could in the first day. A few
would even push themselves and hit all twelve shops, driving
hundreds of miles in ten hours. After yesterday, I knew what a grind that was.

There was no prize for finishing early. Customers could use all four days to get to complete the circuit of shops. But for some it was a badge of honor to be first.

My hope was that the Twitter prize basket would lure them back to the store. I gave them each a sticker with the Quilter Crawl’s Twitter address.

“Be sure to sign up,” I said cheerily, waylaying them at the door, ignoring their obvious need to move on. “Special prizes will be given out each day only at the Twitter shop.”

For ten minutes, we were busy greeting and stamping the early birds. After that first flurry, the traffic died.

As in no customers. Not one. We were used to slow times at the shop, and generally had plenty of work to do to fill up the empty time. But we were so ready for the Crawl that there was nothing to do. The shop was clean. The remodeled bathroom was sparkling. All the new fabric was displayed.

When Florence and Claudia came in, I didn’t know what to do with them. I went back into my office so I didn’t have to watch them standing around.

Ursula was in the kitchen. I poked my head in.

“You’re not cutting up more bagels are you?”

She smiled. “Actually, I thought I’d put some in the freezer. No sense in them going stale.”

“Because no one is here to eat them.”

Ursula pointed at me. “Don’t go all doom and gloom on me. Business will pick up. Besides, the Quilters Crawl is not about one day, remember?”

“Okay,” I said, pinching one of the crumbs she was making between my fingers and eating it. I didn’t even have the energy to fight with her. All of the fun seemed to have gone out the door.

“Besides, we’re the special secret Twitter shop this afternoon, aren’t we? That’s going to cause a ruckus. Here,” she said, handing me half of a cinnamon raisin bagel. She knew those were my favorite. “Cheer up.”

When my father arrived at eleven, we hadn’t had a single customer since the last early bird. He took his spot at the greeting table, rearranging the stamp pad and the pile of passports. He liked to do things his way.

“Hi, Dad,” I said.

“I can’t be here tomorrow,” he said without preamble.

“Dad! You have to,” I said. “I don’t have anyone else. I’m short handed.”

He held up a hand. “Don’t worry, I found a replacement for myself. She’ll be able to work all day.”

She. The back of my neck tingled with anxiety. There was only one “she” that my dad talked to regularly. Kym, my brother Kevin’s wife.

I’d have thought rescuing her from certain death would have changed Kym’s attitude toward me. She’d changed all right, but not for the better.

Kym had given up the idea of taking over Mercedes’ retreat business at Asilomar when she realized that would mean being away from Kevin for twelve weeks out of the year. And that she might have to face another mountain lion.

She’d tried selling dishware and online advertising. For one dreadful month, she’d answered the phones at Pellicano Construction.

She’d given up quilting completely. She couldn’t get away from associating quilting with the dangers of being held hostage.

Much as I didn’t like Kym, I didn’t want that for her. I wanted her to enjoy her life. But I’d fired her from QP and I didn’t want her back. Even for a weekend.

“Dad, not Kym. Please say it’s not Kym.”

“It’s not Kym.”

I could tell by the look on his face that he thought he was being funny.

“Seriously?” I whined. “You asked Kym?”

Dad frowned. He didn’t have a lot of patience for whiny me. “Of course, it’s Kym. Do you think I have a Rolodex full of available women to call?”

My mind was flipping through possible replacements. There was no one. I’d called in all my markers to staff up.

“Step aside, Dewey.”

The door had opened while we were talking and several women were lined up behind me to get their passports stamped. He beckoned them forward. I stepped aside.

A woman with a prominent jaw bumped the redhead who’d cut
in front of her with her hip. “I was here first,” she said.

I glanced up. Uh-oh. Now that we had a few customers, were they going to fight with each other?

The redhead straightened up and frowned.

My heart sank.

Then she grinned. “Are you following us?” she said. “I swear we just saw you at the Emporium.”

“What took you so long?” the leader of the other pack said. “We’ve been here for at least ten minutes.”

Two groups, who’d clearly met up at a different shop. Strangers before today, now friends. Or at least friendly enough to tease.

“You have not,” the redhead exclaimed. They all laughed.

Dad stamped their passports. The leader of the pack said, “See you at Roman’s.”

“Not us,” Blondie said. “We’re heading south now.”

I asked, “How many of you have smart phones?”

All eight nodded their heads except for one quilter who looked to be about my age, thirty. She reached in her bag and pulled out an iPad.

I grinned. “Even better. Follow the Quilters Crawl on Twitter. We’re going to announce special prizes.”

The women gathered around each other, entering info into their phones and checking their Facebook accounts. Two decided to become friends on the spot.

Jenn came rushing through the back door. She had a large bag slung over her shoulder. Jenn was the queen of homemade bags.

“Sorry to be late,” she said. “My son broke his arm after school yesterday. Fell off his skateboard. Last night, he insisted he didn’t need the Vicodin the doctor had prescribed. This morning he changed his mind. I had to get to Walgreen’s before coming here.”

“Is he okay?” I asked.

“He’ll be fine. This is not his first. He broke his leg last year. I wish he’d take up skiing or extreme snowboarding. Something with less probability of breaking every bone in his body.”

She dropped her bag in the office and pulled on her apron. She went up front, calling out to Ursula as she did that the cavalry had arrived.

I wished we needed the cavalry. The two groups went out the back door without buying a thing.

I went back into my office. Why wasn’t this working? I checked the Crawl’s Facebook account. Summer had posted a picture of her display of quilts based on Roman architecture. Customers liked her note, giving her thumbs up. Maybe I should take a picture of the shop, and put it up.

I went over to the Twitter account. @Quilters Crawl had gained some more followers.

I surfed over to Wyatt’s account. After hearing Vangie’s account of the night he died, I was sure there was more to him than I’d thought. Someone was probably looking for those drugs. That person might even have been the one who killed him.

He must have stashed the drugs in Vangie’s car earlier. She had an assigned spot in the parking garage. Her car was always in the same spot. The drug bust probably had many of the drug dealers on the run, doing things that they wouldn’t have considered. Like hiding drugs in Vangie’s car. Or killing other dealers.

I read through the tweets that had come up after he died. I didn’t see anything as blatant as the kid looking for Provigil.

_____

Dad left his post about twelve-thirty and wandered into my office for the fifteenth time. He wanted to grouse about how different this Quilters Crawl was than the last one he worked, nearly six years ago.

“Still not much action?” I said, not quite succeeding at keeping the exasperation out of my voice.

“Nobody’s coming. Did you guys advertise this thing or what? You gotta advertise,” he badgered. “Take an ad in the paper. I used to do that all the time. What about the Yellow Pages? You in the Yellow Pages?”

I sighed. There was no point in arguing with him. I could never explain Twitter to him.

He needed something constructive to do. I handed him a stack of sandwich request forms. “How about going to Zanutto’s and getting lunch for everyone?”

That could get rid of him for a good hour. Florence alone could spend twenty minutes with the menu making up her mind between Jack and American.

I checked the boxes that would get me a turkey sandwich on whole wheat with cranberry sauce and mustard and handed my form to my father. “We’ve got plenty of snacks and drinks here, so we only need sandwiches. Take my credit card.”