Quilter's Knot (14 page)

"Yeah, only they're not topo lines. They're the ridge lines of a fingerprint. A thumbprint, to be exact."

"I could have told you that,” Lauren said. Everyone turned as she joined the group. Robin and Carla went upstairs without saying anything. Harriet didn't blame them; they'd probably had their fill of Lauren.

"Why didn't you tell us that to begin with?” Harriet demanded.

"What difference would it make? I told you I made my quilt from scratch. What else do you need to know?"

"Now, honey,” Mavis said. “If you want Harriet here to restore your reputation and help you find your lost quilt, you're going to need to cooperate just a little."

"What else does she need to know?” Lauren asked. Harriet could see she was truly perplexed. She really did live in another world.

"I'm not sure what else you can tell us, but let me take your fingerprint, and we can get the lady in the office to make an enlargement of it. Then we'll sort-of have proof that your quilt is the original. I mean, if this were a real criminal case, they would say Lauren's fingerprint could have been captured off any number of public surfaces and then used. But that would be bizarre."

"So, let's assume you take the print, we make a copy, we all swear that Lauren's print matches the shape on her quilt, and it's more detailed than what could be accounted for by random chance.” Harriet paced as she spoke then turned to face the group. “What difference does it make?"

The cords in Lauren's neck tightened, and Harriet could see her chest rise in preparation for an outburst. She held her hand up, and Mavis put a hand on Lauren's arm.

"Let her finish,” she urged in a hushed tone.

"What I'm saying is, as a student of Selestina's it wouldn't be unheard-of for Lauren's work to look like her teacher's. The real question is
why
Selestina would copy Lauren's work. Think about it. She's an acknowledged expert in her field. She's been making art quilts for years. She makes class samples; she's won awards.” She looked at Lauren. “I'm not saying your quilt isn't great. It is. But why would an established artist copy the work of a second-year student?"

Lauren's mouth moved, but no words came out. Her anger deflated like a balloon.

"Come on, let's sit and have another cup of tea and think about that,” Connie suggested.

"If I drink anymore tea I'm going to be up all night,” Mavis announced. “But we do need to talk about this."

Lauren sat down on the couch. She opened her quilted shoulder bag and pulled out a foil-wrapped package.

"Here,” she said, and began opening the foil. “My brother made us some brownies."

"Now you're talking,” Mavis said. “Bring that pot back, Connie. Maybe I could choke down another dribble of tea with my brownie."

The women sat in near-silence, the only sound the munching of possibly the best brownies ever created.

"These are incredible,” Harriet said, and reached for another one. “He's hit just the right balance of chewiness and cakeness."

"Yeah, well, he fancies himself a chef,” Lauren said. “I keep telling him he's never going to get anywhere if he won't leave this backwater place. But he says he's learning a lot from that witch in the dining hall."

Carla and Robin rejoined the group, and the quilters brought them up to date on their discovery about Lauren's fingerprint. They all discussed the situation, but no matter how they looked at it, it just didn't make sense. Lauren's piece was nice, but her work still lacked the maturity of a trained artist, so why would a woman whose work sold for thousands of dollars copy it?

Eventually, one by one, they drifted upstairs to their rooms, the problem unsolved.

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"Is Lauren Sawyer here?” asked the police officer Mavis found on the front step of the Tree House when she answered the door the next morning. He was a stout, dark-haired man with florid cheeks and a yellow-plastic-handled gun.

Mavis glanced at her watch. “It's a quarter before seven, young man. She's either in bed or taking her shower."

"I need to speak to her. May I come in?"

Connie came up behind Mavis.

"Is there a problem?"

"This officer wants to speak to Lauren."

"
Dios mio!
” Connie put her left hand to her mouth. The officer looked exasperated.

"I guess you better come in, then,” Mavis said and stepped back.

"I'll go get Lauren.” Connie headed up the staircase.

"I don't care who it is,” Lauren could be heard saying from the second-floor landing a moment later. “I'm drying my hair."

Connie returned. “Lauren will be down when she finishes drying her hair."

"Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Mavis offered.

The officer accepted, and was sitting at the dining table with the two older women when Lauren finally came downstairs almost twenty minutes later.

"Lauren Sawyer? I'm Officer Weber. I need to ask you some questions, and I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me to the police station."

"Are you arresting me?” she demanded.

"We can play it however you want to,” Weber answered, his voice no longer that of Officer Friendly. “I'd like you to come with me voluntarily to answer some questions. If you don't want to do that, I can arrest you and then you can answer our questions. It's your choice."

"Whatever,” Lauren said. “Can I at least get my purse and coat?"

"Yeah, but don't try anything cute,” Weber said.

Lauren glared at him and went back upstairs, returning moments later wearing a denim jacket and with a leather messenger bag slung crosswise on her body.

"Would you mind opening your bag so I can have a quick look?"

"What's going on?” Harriet said as she came down the stairs and joined the group now standing by the front door.

"What's it look like? Officer Weber here is hauling me to jail."

Weber looked at Harriet. “I'm taking Ms. Sawyer to the station to ask her a few questions, that's all."

"Harriet, come with me,” Lauren said in a tone that was somewhere between a plea and a command.

Harriet looked an inquiry at the cop. He looked at Lauren.

"If it means you'll come quietly, sure,” he told her

"Take notes in class,” Harriet said to Carla, who had now joined the party. She grabbed her coat and wallet and was out the door before Carla could respond.

Weber opened the passenger doors of his Jeep Cherokee, and both women got in. Lauren had climbed into the back seat, so Harriet had no choice but to ride shotgun.

"Can you catch me up, here, Officer Weber? Why are you taking Lauren in for questioning? What is she supposed to have done?"

"She'll be informed when we get to the station."

"Can you at least give us a ball park here? Did she run a red light? Forget to pay her taxes?"

Weber gave Harriet a “you've got to be kidding” look. “She's being questioned by the homicide detectives."

Lauren was so quiet, Harriet had to turn in her seat to look and see if she was okay. Her face was as white as alabaster, and for once she was dead silent.

The threesome rode the rest of the way with no further conversation. Officer Weber pulled to a stop in front of a low brick building then ushered them into a beige-painted lobby trimmed with orange circles inside brown triangles that screamed 1970.

"You can wait here,” he said to Harriet, and indicated a row of orange vinyl chairs. Before she could take a full step toward them, Lauren snaked out a cold hand and gripped her arm like a vise.

"I'm not talking to anyone unless Harriet comes along."

Ordinarily, Harriet would welcome the chance to avoid spending time with Lauren, but her curiosity overrode her aversion this time.

"Instead of me,” she said, and looked Officer Weber in the eye, “I think I should get Lauren's lawyer to meet us here."

"That won't be necessary. Just let me ask the detective. Wait here."

"Lauren, I wasn't kidding,” Harriet said as soon as Weber had gone through a door to the inner office. “You should call a lawyer right now. You don't have to answer any questions without a lawyer present."

"I don't need a lawyer, Harriet.” The edge had returned to Lauren's voice. She was nothing if not adaptable. “I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't done anything anyone needs to ask questions about. I'm the victim here. That crone at the school stole my design, and then one of her cohorts stole my quilt. I'm sure that's what they want to ask about."

"They don't use a homicide detective to ask questions about a stolen quilt. Besides, have you even reported it missing? Even if you have, the police don't spend time and money investigating petty theft. When my bike got stolen in Oakland, all I did was file a report."

"He just said that to scare me, and I'll admit, for a minute there, it worked. Do you think they have a homicide department in this backwater town? They probably only have one detective."

"You're wrong there, ma'am,” a well-built Hispanic man in a navy suit and red tie said. “Ms. Sawyer, I presume.” He held his hand out, but Lauren ignored it. “And you must be her friend Harriet.” Harriet took the proffered hand. “I'm Detective Ruiz."

"Lauren and I are in the same quilt group back in Foggy Point. We're staying in the same lodging at the Folk Art School. She asked me to come with her."

Lauren rolled her eyes skyward.

Harriet wasn't sure why the detective made her so nervous, besides the fact he was incredibly good-looking. She wasn't the one who was being questioned.

"Since this is an informal interview, I don't see any reason you can't join us. Why don't you two follow me back here."

He led them down a short hallway into a windowless beige room with a linoleum-topped steel table that had two chairs on each side of it.

"Have a seat.” He pointed to the ones on the far side of the table. “Can I get you some coffee or water?"

They declined, so he sat down opposite them.

"If you don't mind, I'll record our discussion.” He pulled a small recorder from his pocket and clicked it on. Harriet was pretty sure it wouldn't have mattered if they had minded.

Ruiz spoke a well-practiced identification into the recorder, noting who was present and what the date and time were.

"Ms. Sawyer—may I call you Lauren?” She nodded once, and he continued. “How long have you known Selestina Bainbridge?"

"Uh...” She stopped and cleared her throat. “I've been taking classes at the center for about a year."

Ruiz made a note on a pad he'd pulled from his pocket.

"Umm.” Lauren cleared her throat again. “Selestina became my advisor two months ago. Before that, I was taking prerequisites with other people. She gave the introductory talk before each class session, but I didn't speak to her then."

You're talking too much, Harriet thought. She stared at Lauren, but the other woman had her eyes firmly locked on the tabletop as she babbled on.

"It seems you've been quite vocal about Selestina Bainbridge recently,” Detective Ruiz commented.

Lauren blushed. Harriet shifted in her seat and kicked her under the table, hoping Ruiz didn't notice. Lauren scowled at her but, for once, she kept her mouth shut. Her compliance could only be an indication of how worried she was.

Detective Ruiz slipped a pair of black plastic-rimmed half-glasses out of his pocket and perched them on his ample nose. He looked over the lenses at Lauren.

"Selestina was my advisor,” she went on, “so of course I talked about her to my classmates. We all compared notes about our teachers."

"According to the other students, it was quite a bit more contentious than that."

"We may have expressed our creative differences in front of other people, but that's all there was to it.” Lauren looked so sincere Harriet almost believed her.

"Tom Bainbridge has reported to us that someone has been in his mother's office without permission and that many of her files are missing. Can you tell me anything about that?"

Lauren shook her head.

"Perhaps you would like to explain, then, how your fingerprints came to be all over the office of Selestina Bainbridge."

A young blond woman with a mouth full of metal braces opened the door and gestured to Detective Ruiz. He clicked the recorder off and pocketed it before following her out the door.

"
Did
you take the files from Selestina's office?” Harriet demanded as soon as the door was firmly shut.

"Technically, no.” Harriet glared at her. “I wasn't in her office when they were taken. That's the truth—I've only been in her office once, and that was when I first signed up for classes. You have to be interviewed by Selestina when you sign up for the two-year program. I had both hands firmly on my notebook the whole two hours while that windbag rattled on."

Harriet pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. “I'm calling Mavis.” She dialed the folk art school office and was transferred to the Tree House. “Mavis, thank heaven you're there,” she said when the older woman picked up. “Lauren needs an attorney.” She glared at Lauren. “They claim they found her fingerprints in Selestina's office, and that there are files missing ... Lauren says it's impossible."

Mavis said for her to hold on a minute while she got Robin. She was gone before Harriet could ask why.

"Harriet?” Robin said when she picked up the phone. “I'm coming right over. Tell Lauren to keep her mouth shut. And I mean
shut
. You can tell them she's retained an attorney and that's all."

Robin was known in the Loose Threads for her talent at hand quilting, and anyone who talked to her for more than five minutes knew of her fervent belief that yoga was the answer to most problems one encountered in life. Clearly, she'd had another career before she'd become a yoga teacher and stay-at-home mom.

Harriet wondered briefly what other talents lay hidden within the Loose Threads.

Detective Ruiz returned some time later and sat down again. “Now, Lauren, I believe you were about to explain how your fingerprints ended up in Selestina's office."

"Lauren has been advised by her attorney that she should not answer any more questions at this time."