Monkey Wrench (2 page)

She closed the door firmly. Wow, that was abrupt. I felt like a fool.

I dialed Vangie as I pulled away. “Vangie, what’s the deal? Pearl looks awful. And she wouldn’t let me in the house.”

Vangie’s voice sounded muffled. I could picture the pose. I’d seen her stuff her phone under her chin many times in order to multitask. “Can hardly hear you,” she said. “I’m in the parking garage.”

Wyatt must have gone straight to QP and picked up Vangie if she was at school already.

“Fine? She’s not talking, she looks like she’s wearing Hiro’s clothes and she’s moving like a hundred-year-old. Talk to me.”

Vangie came through clearer. “Sorry, you know how she is about her privacy. She’ll be okay. I’ll go there after school and check on her.”

If Pearl didn’t want my help, I had to respect that. Vangie would look after her.

“All right, keep me updated.”

“Will do.” Her voice faded.

_____

When I got back to QP, Ursula greeted me with the news that there was a man in the bathroom asking for me.

Ursula had come to work for me after our Asilomar adventure last fall. Her mature calmness centered me.

Now she looked a little frazzled and cut her eyes to a customer whose quilt top was laid out over the cutting table. I didn’t recognize the frowning woman. Six or seven spools of thread were laid out. The woman had pulled a long strand from each. She sighed, and tried another color.

Ursula had outlived an abusive husband, but a demanding perfectionist could bring her to her knees.

“I’ve got to check on the bathroom,” I said, dropping my keys in my purse.

She nodded but her eyes begged me to stay. I gave her a half-smile of encouragement and kept going.

The bathroom door was open and a light was on. I didn’t hear any banging so it wasn’t one of Kevin’s workers. It had to be my inspector.

It was.

“Uncle Joe!” I threw my arms around the tall guy on his knees near the stack pipe. “You came!”

I nearly knocked him over but he had good balance for an old guy.

“Anything for my almost-goddaughter,” Joe said, standing and kissing my hair. Our private joke. It had always been his contention that my parents should have named him my godfather instead of my real Uncle Joe, who’d moved to Europe soon after my baptism.

Joe McCarty, despite humble beginnings in East San Jose, had a patrician air. His hair, now white, was combed as always, straight back from his face, giving his wide brow plenty of play. He was dressed in a pinstriped suit and red tie. His shiny shoes were a far cry from the work boots he’d worn as a plumber. As a kid, I used to love to visit my father’s job sites. Uncle Joe was always there with a stick of Juicy Fruit.

I squeezed his upper arm. “Oh man, you can’t believe how good it is to see you. Kevin started remodeling my bathroom and it’s been nothing but excuses. I need a working toilet, Uncle Joe.”

“Don’t we all, sweetheart. Don’t we all.”

“Do you see any problems?” I asked. I crossed my fingers. No more delays.

“Looks like typical Pellicano Construction work. Very well done,” he said, consulting a pad on his clipboard and making notes.

“I’m glad to hear that. Kevin’s in charge now and I was afraid he would cut corners.”

“So your dad’s completely retired now?” Joe asked, his eyes casting over the installation. He squatted and ran his hand down a stack pipe.

“Yup,” I said. “He’s fishing full-time.”

“That’s great. No one deserves a break more than Nick Pellicano.”

“Dewey, peaches,” Ursula called from the store. “Pee-aches.”

Uncle Joe cocked a trimmed eyebrow at me inquisitively.

“It’s code, Uncle Joe,” I whispered. “Means a customer is giving my staff a hard time. We don’t like to use negative descriptors around here, so we call the tough ones ‘Peaches.’”

Joe laughed. “Well, I’ve had my share of those.”

“Let me know when you’re done,” I said.

“You bet.”

_____

I was about to convince Ursula’s Peach that she was getting the best possible quilting thread for her son’s-girlfriend’s-baby-who-was-not-her-granddaughter-and-he-better-be-happy-she’s-getting-a-quilt-at-all quilt when Uncle Joe came to the front of the store. I smiled and let Ursula ring her up.

He said, “You’re all set. Tell Kevin he can have men on the job here tomorrow. In fact, tell him I said he’d better have men here tomorrow.”

I laughed and kissed his cheek. He smelled the same, as if the Brut he’d worn all those years ago had seeped into his bloodstream.

“Don’t be a stranger,” I said. “Dad has Sunday supper most weeks. Stop by.”

As Uncle Joe left, he held the door open for Peach to leave, and a pudgy woman bounced into the store. She saw Ursula and me standing by the register and loped over.

“Hi, I’m Lois Lane,” she said, smiling as if she knew her name would produce a giggle. Physically, she was the opposite of Superman’s girlfriend. Short, round, and blonde. No reporter would be caught dead in her outfit: an electric blue tracksuit with pink sneakers and pink sweatbands. Not exactly dress code for the
Daily Planet
.

“I was born right after the first Superman comic. My dad was a fan,” she said quickly. “If I had a nickel for every time I said that,” she laughed.

I looked to Ursula to see if she recognized this ball of energy. She answered me with a nod of her head and a laugh. This woman was the perfect antidote to a Peach. Ursula’s shoulders came down a notch.

Ursula said, “Lois was in here last week getting fabric for a …” she paused, trying to recall.

“A purse,” Lois filled in. She produced a handbag made of quilted patchwork. I recognized the pattern and the latest Joel Dewberry line as ones I carried.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Matches my outfit,” Lois said, holding it against her chest. Indeed, the rose-colored top under her tracksuit matched the floral print. “And it has plenty of pockets inside so I don’t lose things. I love that. Screwy thing is that I had enough fabric to make two.”

Ursula said, her voice filled with concern, “Oh, no. I’m sorry. We followed the directions on the pattern, right? Did you buy extra?”

“A little,” Lois admitted. “It’s really okay. I made two! But I wanted you to know so you can tell your customers that those requirements are a little off.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I do appreciate the feedback.”

“Well, my neighbor will
love
having the same purse as me. She’s always copying me anyhow.” Lois smiled as she bounced from foot to foot. Maybe that was the secret to staying youthful. Perpetual motion. “While I’m here, I want one of those Quilters Crawl thingamajigs.”

I looked on the counter where we kept the colorful Quilters Crawl maps. The space was empty.

“Ursula? Are we out?”

Ursula had returned to the cutting table and was winding a bolt of fabric. She looked up. “I must have given away the last one.”

“I’m sorry,” I said to Lois. “Can you go online? There’s a great interactive map on the website.”

Lois frowned. “I guess I could ask my grandson. He knows all that Internet stuff.”

Her eyes strayed past me. I was used to being ignored in my store. In fact I relished it. If my customers were distracted by the quilt displays, the fabric, the class samples, I was doing my job.

“This place looks so different. You know when I came in last week, I wasn’t sure I was in the right place.”

“Oh, you’ve been in before?”

“Not in forever, honey. Maybe ten years ago. There was a different owner.”

I felt the tiny pang I always felt when my mother’s presence was invoked. It happened less and less as time went on and I wasn’t sure if I was happy or sad about that.

“That was my mother,” I said.

“Why, bless your heart. You do look like her. I have time to quilt now that I finally quit working. At seventy-five,” she crowed. “Can you believe that? I’ve worked for sixty years.”

I laughed. “I can’t believe that you’re seventy five,” I said.

“Going on seventy-six. Will you get more brochures? I like to hold a map in my hand,”
Lois said. Her round face wrinkled up in worry.

“Of course,” I said. “Leave me your phone number and I’ll call you when they’re here.”

Lois beamed. “I sure don’t want to miss the Crawl. I think it’s going to be the best one yet!”

Two

“I wouldn’t make too
much coffee,” Freddy Roman said, settling into a chair in the store kitchen as I filled the old twenty-cup urn. “You don’t want folks getting themselves killed in your very rustic
salon de bain
.”

“Make yourself useful.” I tossed a bread knife and a bag of bagels his way. “Cut those into quarters.”

It was Friday morning, the day of the Quilters Crawl meeting. Freddy had just returned from washing his hands in my still work-in-progress bathroom. Kevin had not been able to finish. The toilet and sink were in, but the tile guys had not been here yet so the concrete board subfloor was showing. The mirror over the sink wasn’t installed and the entire room needed to be painted. The bathroom functioned fine but it looked butt ugly.

Freddy hung his aviator sunglasses off the neck of his T-shirt and
pushed up the sleeves of his cardigan. Freddy dressed differently now that he’d moved his sewing machine store to the Bay Area. Gone were the Hawaiian-style shirts made of prints that featured voluptuous, half-dressed women. No more dashikis or gauzy wedding tunics. He’d adopted an urban, hip vibe that suited him much better. Today he was wearing a gray cardigan and black T-shirt with expensive jeans. He’d cut his hair too, and he looked far more handsome without the scraggly ponytail. His sharp features looked less feral.

He still haunted the tanning booths though.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’ll get sued if someone trips over that uneven floor in there.”

I waved away his concern. “The bathroom will have to do. I couldn’t very well change the meeting. If Barb V had her way, we’d meet at her place every time. I wanted the committee to come here.”

The Quilters Crawl was made up of twelve shops, and the owners got together once a month to go over plans. As the newest member of the Crawl, I had been assigned the last meeting. Freddy got a bye as we only met eleven times, taking off the month of December.

“I thought you and Mr. Wonderful were going to paint the walls last night.”

A stab of loneliness developed in my chest. “Buster had to work.”

“Oh, is he out there making the streets safe for us mere mortals?” Freddy asked.

Freddy’s jabs at my lonely nights stung.

“Buster’s on the Joint Task Force for Drug Elimination,” I defended, wishing I could take back the words as soon as they came out. Buster’s work was confidential. He’d told me little else than what I’d blurted to Freddy. “You can’t tell anyone,” I said hurriedly.

“Who am I going to tell? I don’t know any drug dealers. I do know a few drug takers, however,” he said with a lupine grin. “Ecstasy, a little Oxy for the pain, some Prozac to smooth out the rough spots. I could use a little something right about now. Did you bake any funny brownies?”

“Freddy …” I warned. He was so full of baloney. I was sure the only pill he took was a little blue one when he was with one of his ladies. “I need you on your best behavior today.”

He held a bagel aloft and took a deep bow, one that ended with a face plant into the table. “At your service,” he intoned into the wood. I giggled at his welcome silliness.

We carried refreshments into the classroom. I set out cups, milk, and sweeteners. Freddy put his basket of bagels on the center of the table.

“Yoo Hoo!”

Freddy caught my eye. “Vampira in the house,” he whispered.

Barb V’s last name was a constant source of amusement for Freddy. She wasn’t forthcoming about her surname. No one seemed to know what it was. She owned a quilt shop called Barb V’s Quilting Emporium. No one cared as much as Freddy. He liked to fill in the blanks.

He was sure she was a Voldemort.

Barb V entered the room, pulling behind her a file box on wheels. Inside I knew were color-coordinated folders on each of the participating Crawl shops. QP’s was a bright magenta. Not my color at all.

Also on file were summaries of the past fifteen Crawls, names and addresses of every winner from each year and other viscera that Barb V felt necessary to haul out at every meeting.

She was as coordinated as her filing system. Her tight curls were
growing in gray. The top was cropped close to her head, but the back was long. She was tall and thin, never touching the goodies, often homemade and decadent, that were served at these meetings. Today she was in layers of navy blue and white. Supportive shoes squeaked across the linoleum.

She stopped and surveyed the tables Freddy and I had pushed together. “Is there enough room for everyone?” she asked.

“I think …” I stopped to count the number of chairs I’d put out.

Freddy spoke up. “Of course there is, Barb. Twelve of us, twelve spots at the table. Just like the Apostles.” He folded his hands and bowed his head. I hid my giggle.

She pursed her unadorned lips. “You know sometimes Cookie likes to bring her assistant. She has to drive all the way from Aptos, and she doesn’t like to do it alone.”

“If her assistant comes, I’ve got plenty of extra chairs,” I said.

Barb V set her file box at the end of the table, where I’d been planning to sit, and began unpacking. She looked up, surprised to see Freddy and I watching her.

“I smell coffee. Is it ready?”

Freddy and I scurried to the kitchen. “How does she do that?” I asked. “I go from quilt shop owner extraordinaire to blithering idiot in sixty seconds.”

“Don’t let her,” Freddy said. “Do what I do.”

I remembered the advice of my college speech teacher. “Picture her in her underwear?”

“Oh god, no. Yuk, what a thought.”

Freddy banged on his temple with an open palm. He crossed his eyes and shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of the image. I laughed, forgetting Barb V’s officiousness. I was so glad Freddy had moved up here. He always made me laugh.

“So what do you do?” I asked.

“Turn off my hearing aid.”

Freddy had perfect hearing. I shoved him toward the refrigerator. “Get out the creamer.”

Twenty-five minutes later, all the participants were present and ready to go. Two of the storeowners had used the bathroom without incident and without comment.

We all knew that the meeting would start exactly on time. Barb V didn’t believe in tardiness.

She enjoyed her space at the head of the table. She sat up straight enough to make the fussiest mom happy and projected so that her voice was easily heard by everyone in the room. At times, her tone was her best weapon, quelling unasked questions and squashing objections before they were aired.

“I want to thank our hostess for this meeting, Dewey Pellicano.”

There was a smattering of polite applause. We’d taken turns hosting the Crawl meetings. It was no big deal.

Barb V wasn’t finished. “It’s lovely to be back at Quilter Paradiso.”

No one called it that anymore. I’d changed its identity to QP two years ago.

“Back at the very place where Audra Pellicano and I conceived of the very first Quilters Crawl, fifteen years ago,” she continued.

I looked up, surprised. My mother? I didn’t remember that she’d started the Crawl. I knew she’d taken part in them, but had it been her idea? Fifteen years ago, I’d been sixteen. My mother’s doings at her quilt shop had not been my priority.

I looked over at the picture of my mother that hung on the classroom wall. It had been taken during her tenth anniversary sale and she looked exhausted, but happy. I gave her a mental thumbs up.

“Of course,” Barb V said, casting a critical eye around the room. “So much has changed since then.”

My face flushed hot. QP was my store now, and it was very different.

Freddy pushed a scribbled note in front of me. “Hey, Barb Vicious. The eighties called. They want their mullet back.”

I covered the note with my hand and hid a smile.

“We have many items on our agenda to cover, so let’s get started.”

I raised my hand, feeling silly but knowing there was no other way to get her attention.

“Before we begin, I’m out of Quilters Crawl maps,” I said.

“We have no more,” she said, her eyes never leaving the page in front of her. I could see highlighted lines of text, some bright yellow, others green.

“Let’s get some then,” Freddy said.

“I don’t see why,” Barb V said. “Just because you’ve given all of yours away …”

She made it sound like handing out promotional material was a bad idea.

“I’m almost out, too,” said Cookie. Several other shop owners nodded.

Barbara D’Angelo, Barb V’s co-chair frowned. “Those maps are quite expensive to print.”

Freddy had nicknamed her Barbara the Damp because she sweated profusely no matter the outer temperature. A rivulet of sweat was tunneling through her makeup now.

“I thought that the San Jose State art department designed them for free and gave us a break on the printing,” I said.

“I keep those maps on my front counter year-round,” said Cookie. “They’re a wonderful reference, with all of our shop information right there. My customers hang on to theirs.”

“We need more,” Freddy said.

Barb V’s eyes narrowed at her mutineers. “Fine. But I’m much too busy to contact our person at the college.”

“I’ll do it,” I said. Maybe Vangie could stop by on her way to class. “Give me the number.”

Barb V reached into her file box and drew out a folder. “Her name is Sonya Salazar. Return that to me as soon as you write down what you need to know.”

“Let’s move on to our agenda items, please,” she said, pulling down eyeglasses that were perched on her forehead.

“Varmint,” Freddy whispered. He was doodling V words. He’d written Vixen, then circled it in red and drew a line through it.

Barb V slapped down a baggie with fabric in it. “The Monkey Wrench blocks, people. I want to show you the proper way to distribute the free block.

“All of you have received the block pattern and printed it out. Include one of these.” Barb V waved the instructions. She folded it crisply, into thirds, and then in half.

I rolled my eyes at Freddy.

Barb V said, “Everything will fit nicely if you do it my way.” She could scold without even looking up. She must have been a grade school teacher in another life.

“Each shop has chosen their fabrics, staying within our theme of blue and orange. Mostly. Cut one strip of each of three fabrics, five inches by twenty-two. That will give your customer enough to make the block. If the customer goes to all the shops, she’ll have twelve blocks.”

Barbara the Damp put in, “The customer will need to purchase several yards of fabric for sashings and border fabric so that could be a good sale for you.”

“I have one finished,” I said.

I held up the quilt that Ursula had made for our display. She used all the blocks and set them on point. A large floral served as setting triangles and unified the disparate fabrics of the blocks. I loved the look and was satisfied by the murmurs of pleasure that came from most of the group.

Barb V was eager to move on. She slapped a shrink-wrapped bundle in front of her. “Next, the Crawl passports, people. This year they are numbered. I have assigned your store one hundred passports. Mark your store’s initials in the top right-hand corner. That way when the customer turns in her completed one, we will know where she began her quest. Also, we will be able to tell which shop had the most customers finish the race.”

In order to be eligible for the prizes, including a new top-of-the-line sewing machine and a weeklong quilting seminar, quilters had to go to all the shops within the allotted time frame, and get their passport stamped. Most made a game of it, rushing from shop to shop. Many traveled in packs. Quilters came from out of town.

For some, it would be the first time they’d visited QP.

QP hadn’t participated since my mother died, four years ago. I wanted back in so I could reintroduce the new and improved shop to customers.

Barbara the Damp distributed the bundles to each of us. I resisted
the urge to wipe her wet fingerprints from the plastic. Freddy was not as restrained. He used his napkin to swipe at it. Crumbs from his earlier bagel went everywhere.

I tuned out Barb V and thought about my own presentation. Vangie had worked my idea of a special Twitter promotion into a lovely series of slides with illustrations and graphs explaining everything. I only wished I’d had this idea two months ago. We didn’t have much time to implement it.

A discussion about the amount of money allotted for food dragged on. I kept watching the clock. Barb V not only started
meetings on time, she ended them as well, sometimes in mid-
sentence.

At least no one had complained about the bathroom or stubbed their toe on the dresser in the hall. Yet.

Finally, Barb V pointed at me.

“Dewey, you have something to discuss?” Barb V put a tick mark next to my name on her agenda. “You’ll have to be quick. We only have six minutes left.”

I stood and pushed in my chair. Freddy flashed me two fingers in a victory sign. I smiled at him and the group, hoping the act of smiling would quash the butterflies in my stomach.

“I have an idea I’d like to run by you. How many of you know what Twitter is?”

Most heads nodded. The shop owners varied in age, although I was by far the youngest. If I had to guess, I’d say Freddy was the next in line and he was in his late forties. These women represented long-established quilt shops that had withstood the battering of the last couple of years. Several shops had closed their doors and nothing new had opened in the valley, except for Freddy, in at least three years. Only the strongest shops survived the economic downturn, and these were the last standing. Collectively, they represented hundreds of years of experience.

“I’m on Twitter,” Summer said, waving her arm burdened with dozens of silver bracelets. Her shop was in Santa Cruz. “I mean, the shop is. I have no clue. My granddaughter does all that stuff for me.”

“Me, too,” said Roberta of Quilting Pals. “Except it’s my husband who does it all.”

“Well,” I said. “It’s not as difficult as it might sound. I’ll explain it the best I can. Feel free to interrupt me with questions.”