Murder by Artifact (Five Star Mystery Series) (4 page)

The donation of the barn had inspired countless families to clean out the family attics and barns. While it would be unthinkable to throw away Granny’s old butter churn, it would be a public service to donate it to the museum. Because of a widespread school of thought, old items destined for display had begun to arrive long before the ladies were ready for them.

Gus and his crew had been busy. After cutting away a jungle of kudzu, they had razed all of the old guest cabins, leaving a trail of tracks and potholes all over the area. A bulldozer was busy pushing over the cinderblock building formerly used as the office.

Two temporary collection warehouses had been created on the site where a garden would eventually be planted. There was a metal shed containing a host of old harness parts, barn lanterns and farming tools. They had stopped counting rusty hoes. No one understood why donating a hoe seemed so popular. It’s not like the technology had changed a lot in the past fifty years.

A mobile home hauled in to be the temporary office became the storage area for smaller, more fragile items. As Tony pulled into the lot, he could see his wife’s minivan, his mom’s car and a beige Volvo. Queen Doreen drove a beige Volvo. He smiled. She was trapped.

He parked the Blazer behind the Volvo and walked toward the trailer. Gus intercepted him before he reached the door. Tony grinned at his older brother. Gus might have hair but Tony had the height. Tony’s six feet four inches was noticeably more than Gus’s mere six feet. He loved to stand toe-to-toe with Gus and irritate him. After all, what else are brothers supposed to do?

He was about to give Gus a ration of grief but the man’s expression stopped him. “Having a bad day?”

“Can I borrow your gun?” Gus asked. Desperation oozed from him.

“Maybe. Who are you planning to shoot?” Tony glanced around. Three men stood around a deep hole, inserting rebar into it, reinforcing something.

For just an instant, he visualized a grave. The idea of finding bones down in the pit chilled him. Knowing he would go crazy if his imagination ran wild, he forced a jovial expression onto his face. “The names have to be on the paperwork, you know.” He did laugh when Gus rolled his eyes because it made him look just like Tony’s six-year-old son, Jamie.

Gus didn’t answer the gun question directly. “Your mother is just plain nuts.”

“Mine is? Last I heard we share the same gene pool.”

“No way. She’s all yours.” Gus tipped his head toward the trailer. “I sent her into the trailer for her own safety. She wanted to climb down into the hole and measure something. For a little while, I thought I’d have to duct tape her into a chair.”

“Maybe we can give her to our sister,” said Tony, pushing aside a sense of impending doom.

“Callie didn’t move to Memphis by accident. Why do you think our sister lives in the other end of the state?” Gus looked amused and didn’t wait for Tony to answer. “It’s because she’s smarter than any of her brothers.”

Tony couldn’t dispute his statement.

Stepping up onto the tiny, temporary stoop, he turned the knob on the door and pulled it open. The sound made by five women with different opinions hit him like a brick. He took an involuntary step backwards and nearly fell. The knob came off in his hand as a heavy spring snapped the door shut in his face. Holding the useless knob, he turned to look at Gus.

Merriment erased some of the fatigue on Gus’s face. “It comes off all the time. The knob’s just on there for show anyway.”

Tony heard laughter in his brother’s voice. Without understanding what happened, he smiled in response. “How?”

Gus pointed to the additional hardware on the door frame. “They use the hasp and ring and close it with a padlock.”

Tony steeled himself and opened the door again. A large open room had been created by removing all of the furniture except two big tables. Floor-to-ceiling open shelves lined the walls, providing storage for numerous assorted items.

Five women stood around the tables, studying a pair of quilts. If expression meant anything, they looked like a group of surgeons performing a heart transplant. Those women were serious.

He could see his mother and her sister standing on one side of the table. They held their hands behind their backs, probably to keep from touching the quilt. Over the past ten years of living with Theo, he had learned a lot about quilts. He knew it was very bad form to touch antique quilts, or quilts in a show, with bare hands. Dirt and oils could damage them beyond repair.

He thought Jane looked quite good for her mysterious age of sixty-something. Her baby sister Martha was only fifty, closer to Tony’s age than Jane’s and looked even frumpier than ever. Her gray hair didn’t look like it had been combed this century. Martha held a notebook and pen.

At the far end of the table, Tony could see Theo’s wild golden curls. Her face was turned down as she examined the quilt. His wife’s best friend, Nina, stood near her and shielded her expression. Her copper-red hair gleamed like a beacon.

Nearest him, Queen Doreen gripped one of the quilts. White cotton gloves covered her hands. As usual, she was dressed like a fashion plate. Tony didn’t think he had ever seen her in jeans or a T-shirt. Her hair was rarely the same color or style. The hairstyle of the week was a white-blond, almost boyish cut. It looked good on her fragile features.

Doreen sounded like a museum docent. “This one is known in our family as the engagement quilt. The one on the table is the murder quilt.” She waited while Martha made the appropriate notes and Jane attached tags to them using special acid-free cardboard. “My grandmother Bathsheba Cochran gave them over to me. As the only female member of my family, I am responsible for their care. I won’t let you display them if there is any chance they’ll be ruined.”

Theo’s voice sounded muffled. “I can see some pulled threads, and a couple of the fabrics have completely deteriorated on the engagement quilt. This section looks like a cat used it for a bed. Do you want to display it as is or have someone try to restore it?”

“How can they restore it? It is priceless.” Disdain lifted one corner of her collagen-enhanced lips.

“I know.” Theo’s face turned toward Doreen. “Sometimes people will opt to cover the exposed batting with a swatch of the same or very similar antique fabric, especially if the quilt is heavily damaged in one area. This quilt has suffered from hard wear over the years.”

“I don’t want some amateur messing with it.”

The glint in Theo’s eyes was one Tony was familiar with. Doreen might not realize she was messing with dynamite. His dainty little wife was about to explode. He cleared his throat, bringing all eyes to him. “Could I possibly talk to you outside, Doreen?”

He wished he had a picture of the five women. It was probably the first time in history all five were silent at the same time. The sound of his voice rendered them speechless. They had been studying the quilt intently. None of them appeared to have heard the commotion with the door and the busted knob. They all jerked upright and swiveled to face him.

Doreen didn’t waste any of her pleasant public expression on him. Shooting him the royal glare reserved for the help, she stalked past him and down the steps.

Theo craned her neck. She couldn’t see anything of interest through the tiny window. Tony and Doreen had vanished. “What do you suppose is going on?”

Nina moved to a different window as if looking at the same view from a different angle would help. “Beats me.”

“Never mind what’s going on out there.” Martha pulled the younger women away from the window. “Before Doreen comes back in, tell us what you think we should do with these quilts?”

Theo spread the murder quilt out on the spotless table. Inspecting it in detail, she admired the beautiful workmanship. What looked like millions of tiny stitches held the patchwork together. Another million created an intricate pattern of quilting, holding the layers of front, back and cotton batting together so closely nothing could shift. She flinched at the sight of a large, dark blotch in the center. Clearly it was a very old bloodstain. A wave of nausea ran through her and was gone in a second. Most likely using hot water and lye soap, the launderer had set the stain instead of washing it out.

By sheer chance the quilt hadn’t been destroyed. She wondered when Doreen was going to explain how the quilt was named. If the stain was any indication, it would not be a pleasant story. “How good is your insurance?”

“Okay, I guess.” Martha squinted. “Why?”

“Get more if you are going to display her quilts and photograph everything carefully. Document everything and make sure she signs off on it. If there is one stain or loose thread not documented, she’s bound to sue, claiming you are the one who damaged it.” Theo peered over the top of her glasses. “It is a lovely piece, though. I wonder if I could reproduce the pattern as a mystery quilt. I haven’t designed one of those for a while, have I?”

Nina groaned. “And you’ll make me test it and I’ll end up with one more unfinished project.”

“Absolutely.” Theo set an elbow into Nina’s ribs. “At least three if I’m lucky. Think of all the fabric you’ll get to buy at my shop.”

Martha looked to her sister for a translation. “What is she talking about?”

“Are you sure we’re related?” Jane grinned. “A mystery quilt is constructed without a picture. You just follow the clues, cutting and sewing as directed.”

“Does it work?”

“Oh, yeah.” Nina laughed. “Some of those turn out prettier than ones where you think you know what you’re doing.”

Theo glanced up from the quilt when the door swung open again. Expecting Doreen or even Tony, she jumped, surprised, as Winifred Thornby, the editor, reporter and photographer for the
Silersville Gazette
charged inside. She reminded Theo of the pictures of her own namesake, Theodore Roosevelt, charging up San Juan Hill.

Following in her wake, Queen Doreen returned, wearing her haughtiest expression, and didn’t look at anyone. Tony ducked and entered. In the small space and surrounded by a gaggle of women, Theo thought her husband looked like he’d grown. Wearing his chocolate brown, short-sleeved uniform shirt and khaki pants, as well as his duty belt with its assorted weapons and tools—pistol, handcuffs, radio, pepper spray, and flashlight—he looked huge. The ball cap with the department insignia covered his bald head but not his expression. Tony stood in the corner, grinning like a pirate. Theo knew and loved that smile. She couldn’t wait to learn why he was using it.

Tony thought the combination of heat and limited floor space in the trailer created a claustrophobic’s nightmare. Not normally bothered by close places, he began feeling uneasy. To get a breath of air, he attempted to back away from the women and quilts and bumped into a wall.

Winifred began issuing instructions to the ladies about how she wanted the quilts held while she took her photographs. If she wrote the story the way Doreen obviously wanted, the news article threatened to become more of a publicity article for the Cashdollar family than for the new museum.

Peering at them through the camera’s viewfinder, Winifred obviously realized there wasn’t enough space in the trailer to allow her to take a suitable photograph of the murder quilt. “Everyone outside.” She pointed to the older women holding the quilt. “Don’t get that dirty.”

Tony stayed behind and watched as the flock of women climbed out of the trailer. In a rare moment of cooperation, they all worked together to keep the quilt from touching the ground as it was photographed outside.

Tony glared at Doreen through the tiny window. She might look like Peter Pan with her new haircut but she was no child. She just turned her back to him and walked away. Vastly irritated by Doreen’s dismissal, Tony wasn’t leaving or letting her leave, until he got an answer to his question about the lawn ornament.

The Blazer parked behind her Volvo might be the only thing guaranteed to ensure her cooperation. She’d talk to him just to get rid of him.

With nothing else to do for the moment, his mind returned to the mysterious note and newspaper clipping. He really didn’t like the image it conjured in his mind. More unidentified bodies in his county! If something turned up, he’d have to call in the TBI, because Park County did not have the necessary resources. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation would not be thrilled, either. The older the bones, the harder it would be to solve the case. If there was a case. He still hoped the note and newspaper clipping were part of a joke.

If so, it wasn’t a funny one.

To distract himself, he turned and began to examine some of the donated bits and pieces lining the open shelves. It was easy to recognize items like old tobacco tins and medicine bottles. A set of surgical tools lay open on the bare wood. Knowing how little regard earlier centuries had for sterilization processes, Tony felt queasy. The crude implements, saws and scalpels, resembled the ones in his brother’s toolbox. No, he reconsidered his thoughts. Gus kept his tools cleaner, and he’d bet his brother’s saw was sharper.

Tony couldn’t erase his memories of being shot and the medical aftermath. If the Chicago doctor who had removed the bullets from his stomach had used those old tools, Tony knew he would be dead, butchered like a hog.

He began to turn away when a stack of unfamiliar items captured his attention. Grateful for the distraction, he stared at them for a long time. What were they? They looked like oversized scrub brushes set with metal spikes instead of bristles. He leaned forward to better examine the spikes. Each one came through the wooden base as a square, approximately a quarter of an inch per side. From there it became tapered and rounded until it finished as a point. The spikes on each “thingy” were uniform length. Some four inches, the longest he saw had six-inch spikes. All appeared to be made of iron, not polished smooth, and the number of rows of the closely set spikes varied as well. The spiked board was attached to a second board, some of which had padded ends. For the life of him, he couldn’t decide what purpose they served.