Stitches in Time (28 page)

The dogs hurled themselves at the door. Kara had to yell to be heard over the barking. “There will be a quiz on Friday.”

Adam came in. “You look cozy,” he said approvingly. “Can a mere male join the circle?”

“Where's Pat?” Kara asked.

“Gone home. Ruth threatened him with violence if he didn't get there in time for dinner. He'll be back later, though.” He shivered and rubbed his mittened hands together. “It's bitter cold tonight.”

“I suppose you're starved,” Rachel said, starting to rise.

“I'm always starved. Don't get up, dinner is already under way. A nice filling stew. I started it earlier; all I have to do is add the vegetables.”

“You'll make some woman a great wife,” Kara said. “Where did you learn to cook?”

It was a casual, friendly question, but Adam's face closed up and he didn't answer directly. “I've always known how to cook. Do you like turnips in your stew?”

“No, but I won't be eating it.” Kara reached for the phone. “I need to make a few calls, then I'll be on my way. Chop as quietly as possible, please.”

She dealt with the customers, most of whom seemed to be in search of conversation rather than information, with
her usual efficiency, and then dialed Mrs. Wilson. Adam had not known she had called; when he heard what Kara was saying he let out an exclamation and turned. Blood spurted from his thumb.

Rachel dived at him with a handful of paper towels. “You're dripping on the potatoes!”

“I cut myself,” Adam explained unnecessarily. “Has she got the quilt? Why didn't you tell me? Is Kara going to—”

“Ssssh. She's trying.”

Kara's first tentative offer must have been rejected, with indignation. She listened for some time, rolling her eyes and tapping her foot, and then cut into the tirade. “I'll have to have another look before I can make a definite offer, Mrs. Wilson. Shall we say the end of the week—or next week? Oh. I don't think so, I have a lot to do tomorrow…Very well, then, as a favor to you. If you can make it early. Nine o'clock?”

“You're a smooth operator, I must say,” Adam remarked admiringly.

“I'm going to lose money on this,” Kara muttered.

“Whatever it takes,” Adam said quietly.

Kara gave him a long, measuring look. “That's what I meant, Sir Galahad. We'll have it tomorrow. Whatever it takes. Where's that carton of Miss Ora's stuff?”

Adam blinked. “Pat's got it.”

“I should have known. What's he up to? What did you do this afternoon?”

“Pat made me promise not to tell.”

“What is this, a game?”

“He had a few more things to work out and he—uh—he wanted to explain it himself. He'll be here later.”

“I can't wait for him, I've got too much to do.” Kara's lips compressed. “He's just trying to get back at me.”

“He wouldn't do that,” Adam said earnestly.

“Yes, he would.” Kara stood up. “If I'm going to stay
here for a few days I have to get things organized at home. I'll be here early—probably around seven. Leave the door unbolted so I can get in if you aren't awake.” Her tone strongly suggested that they had damned well better be awake. She went on, clipping the words off like staples. “Mrs. Wilson will be here at nine. I'll have the bloody woman out of here and the quilts in my hands by ten o'clock or know the reason why. The sale starts at eleven. If Patrick A. MacDougal cares to let me in on what he's doing, he can come at ten. On the dot. Got that?”

Adam snapped to attention. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Good.” She shrugged into her coat. “No, don't walk me to the car. I don't need protection. If anybody gets in my way, he'll be the one who needs protection.”

The glass in the door rattled when she slammed it.

“I wouldn't want to be in Pat's shoes tomorrow,” Adam murmured.

“Maybe she'll have cooled off by then.”

“I'd have told her if she'd asked.”

“I thought you promised Pat you wouldn't.”

“Oh, yeah, but I can never hold out against women who try to worm secrets out of me.”

“How's your thumb?”

“Agonizing.” Adam groaned. “You're on the right track. A little more sympathy and I'll spill my guts.”

While she applied sympathy and antiseptic, he spilled them. “The stuff in the carton wasn't much help. You know the sort of thing people accumulate over a lifetime—clippings, snapshots, letters—they always mean to put them in albums, but they never get around to it. So Pat got the idea of going to the county courthouse to look for deeds and birth and death certificates. He thinks he can work out a rough genealogy.”

“What good will that do?” Rachel wound a Band-Aid around the afflicted member and went to the stove to stir
the stew. The aroma, redolent of herbs and red wine, roused the appetite that had been dormant all day.

“You never know,” Adam said. Rachel looked at him suspiciously. He shifted his weight, avoiding her eyes. “He's got a couple of ideas. He'll explain them later.”

However, Pat called as they were sitting down to dinner, to explain that he couldn't make it. Ruth wasn't feeling well. No, nothing serious, but he didn't want to leave her alone. He'd see them in the morning. Seven
A.M
., and don't argue with me, you young whippersnapper, if Kara is going to be there at seven, I'll be there at seven.

“I hope Ruth is all right,” Adam said, returning to the table.

Rachel felt no concern. She thought she knew why Ruth had managed to keep Pat at home that evening.

When she suggested they finish checking the children's rooms Adam refused with unexpected firmness. “I didn't try to stop you last night because you were upset, but it was a waste of time. Do you think Kara would overlook such an elementary precaution, or take the slightest chance of harm coming to the people she loves? They won't be back till Monday or Tuesday, and if I know Kara, she'll wait till the last minute before she strips those rooms down to the bare walls and floor. Whatever else happens.”

He meant to reassure her. What he had said made perfect sense, but it made Rachel realize how little time they had, and how futile their activities had been. None of the things they had discovered brought them any closer to a solution. What was the point of pursuing meaningless research like Pat's stupid genealogy? What was the point of anything?

You can't always change things, but sitting in a helpless huddle won't change anything.

The words hadn't come from the recesses of her own
mind. They were Kara's. Rachel took one of the books from her table and started to read.

Abnormally sensitive to her moods, Adam took this one for annoyance with him. He didn't venture to address her again, or even to turn on the television. The book he selected didn't seem to interest him very much.

Anticipating the predawn arrival of two very angry people, Rachel went upstairs early, with only a brief “good night.” She wasn't annoyed with Adam, but she did wish he would stop being so apologetic. She kept feeling she ought to pat him on the head.

It must have been some sound that woke her a few hours later, but it was thirst that prevented her from dropping off again. The room was like an oven. She had neglected to open the window, and Adam must not have turned down the thermostat before going to bed. Cursing the climate of Saudi Arabia, she got out of bed and stumbled toward the door.

The light in the hall dazzled her eyes after the darkness of her bedroom, and her temporarily impaired vision gave her a blurred, misleading impression of the figure that stood looking out the front window. At first she assumed it was Adam; it was certainly large enough. Then she saw it was bare to the waist, its only covering a pair of light, loose pants. She had never known Adam to venture forth without at least three sweaters, and there was a distinct draft blowing along the hall.

“Adam?” she said uncertainly.

The figure turned. The face was one she had never seen before.

“This makes twice,” Adam said indistinctly. “Do you think
the third time will be the—”

“Put your head back.”

“It's almost stopped.” He pushed away the towel she held pressed against his face and raised a hand gingerly to his nose.

Rachel located an unstained section of the towel and wiped a trickle of blood from his upper lip. “Why the hell didn't you tell me you were going to shave off your beard? Strolling around half-naked in the middle of the night—how was I suppposed to recognize you? Why didn't you speak up, instead of coming at me that way? If I'd had a gun I probably would have shot you!”

They were in her room where she had led him, dripping blood from his nose and clutching at the drawstring of his pajama pants.

Adam glanced down, decided the pajamas were safely anchored, and leaned back in the chair. “It was a sudden impulse—the beard, I mean. I saw no reason why I should discuss it with you, particularly in view of the fact that you had indicated total disinterest in the subject. It is custom
ary to remove one's upper garments when performing such an operation; the hair gets under them and itches. It is customary to remove all one's clothing when taking a shower. Except in the female religious communities of the Middle Ages, where, I have been told—”

“Do you have to lecture about everything?”

His nose had bled copiously all down his front. Rachel started to wipe the stains off his chest. The broad bands of muscle stretched and tensed as he drew in his breath. She scrambled to her feet and backed away, flushing. “I'll get a clean towel.”

“What did you hit me with?” Adam asked curiously when she came back from the bathroom.

Rachel handed him the damp washcloth. “A glass. I hope it didn't break, it was an old one. Pressed glass.”

She expected a sarcastic reply—he would have been justified in making one—but he only nodded and went on scrubbing at his chest. The basic structure wasn't as impressive as all those layers of sweaters might have led one to expect, but it was worth looking at—deeply tanned, laced with fading scratches like his back and, somewhat to her surprise, devoid of hair. Unless he'd shaved it too?

“I'm sorry,” she said.

Adam looked up. The lower part of his face, white as that of a Southern belle, looked strange between his tanned forehead and throat. His features were refined to the point of delicacy—a narrow pointed chin, hollow cheeks, and a thin, flexible mouth. So much for stereotypes, Rachel thought, watching the last-named organ curve in a way that made her retreat another step or two.

Adam saw the movement. His lips tightened, but when he spoke his voice was determinedly casual. “It was my fault. Next time I'll announce my identity loud and clear. You don't need a gun, you have a good throwing arm for
a…Oops. I'd better clear out before I get myself deeper in trouble.”

He went out, taking the bloody towels with him, and leaving Rachel with her mouth open. She knew why he had retreated so precipitately and she knew the answer to the question he had not answered. She couldn't blame him for an involuntary movement; there was nothing wrong with his male hormones, and her sudden appearance, hair unbound and shoulders bare, had caught him off guard. He would have stopped, though, even if she hadn't pitched the glass at him. She felt certain of that. When he had told her she would have to make the first move he had meant it—and the move would have to be intentional and unmistakable.

Rachel got into bed and turned out the light. I'll have to watch it, she told herself. That wasn't fair.

Anything is fair where they're concerned. When are they ever fair
?

He's been rather sweet.

They talk sweet to get what they want. They all want the same thing
.

 

By the time Rachel came downstairs the next morning, the rest of the committee had arrived. She could hear Pat's roar through the closed door. She assumed he was arguing with Kara, probably trying to denigrate her activities in favor of his own; but when she entered the room she realized the debate was about something quite different.

Swathed in mink, her cheeks crimson and her mouth so compressed her lips were almost invisible, Kara held in her arms a bundle of pale pink knitted fabric. Neither she nor Pat so much as glanced at Rachel.

“I had to bring him!” Her voice wasn't as loud as Pat's, but it was shrill enough to override his. “Mark is out of
town—as usual—and I don't trust the maid to look after him.”

The back door opened, admitting Adam, whose arms were filled with miscellaneous objects, including a wicker basket. Rachel had already identified the misshaped object protruding from the bundle of pink fabric. Presumably it was Alexander's head, since it was covered with hair, which his hindquarters were not. The sound issuing from him was probably a growl. It sounded like chalk scraping across a blackboard.

“I hate that goddamn animal,” Pat snarled. “I always did hate him.”

“He doesn't like you either,” Kara said. “It's none of your business, Pat. I'll keep him in my room.”

“He won't be any trouble,” Adam added. Juggling Alexander's luggage, he freed one hand and patted the shaggy mop of orange and black hair. “Poor old guy…Hey!”

Nearsighted people have excellent close-range vision. The same must have been true of-dogs; Alexander struck hard and fast at Adam's hand, gumming it furiously.

“He hasn't got any teeth,” Kara said, as Adam wiped his wet fingers on his sweater. “Bring his things, Adam.”

They went out together. “Morning, Rachel,” Pat said.

“Good morning.”

He didn't rise or offer his hand. Rachel moved away from him, toward the counter and the coffeemaker. “How is Ruth?” she asked, reaching for a cup.

“Fine.”

“Did you tell her?” She turned to face him, leaning against the counter.

Craggy was a trite adjective, but it was an accurate description of Pat's face. Some of the angles smoothed out when she spoke; he seemed to be relieved that she had introduced the subject. “About what happened yesterday?
No, I didn't. I couldn't think of any objective way of describing it without recalling a memory that still haunts her. Small wonder. If someone hadn't interrupted us, I would have…” He took a long breath. “It haunts me too. I can never completely forgive myself, even though I know I wasn't responsible. Feeling the way I did about her, I should have been able to fight it off, control it somehow…Well, never mind that. You've got to believe me, Rachel—what happened yesterday was completely different. Grabbing you was stupid and rude, but all I meant to do was give you a friendly little shake. When you reacted so violently I dropped you like a hot potato and backed off. You scared the bejesus out of me. I'd rather you didn't mention it to Ruth, but if you—”

He broke off as the door opened and Kara came in, followed by Adam. She had taken off her coat—Rachel wouldn't have been surprised to learn that Alexander was now sleeping in a nest of mink—and looked every inch the upper-crust businesswoman, in a navy tweed suit and soft white blouse. Settling herself at the table, she opened her briefcase and took out a notebook.

“I've been trying to arrive at a price for those quilts,” she explained, handing the notebook to Rachel. “These are records of prices we have paid for comparable items, plus notes of auction prices over the past few years.”

“Never mind that,” Pat said. “We'll pay whatever is necessary. I'll buy the damned things myself.”

“Then I'd have to cut you in on the profit,” Kara said. Her smile was affectionate. “Leave it to me, Pat. I'll get them. What did you find out about Mary Elizabeth?”

“I thought you'd never ask.” Pat pulled a sheaf of crumpled papers from the pocket of his jacket.

Kara gave the papers a quick glance and tossed them aside. “This is all fairly recent material. Nothing earlier than 1890.”

“That's as far back as the memorabilia in the carton went. There was one of those fancy plush albums with photographs of—”

“No one we'd be interested in,” Kara said with a sniff.

“Miss Ora's grandparents,” Pat continued doggedly. “Granddad did build the house. His name was Gerhardt. One photograph showed him in front of—”

“Who cares about Miss Ora's grandfather?”

“Will you quit interrupting me? This sort of thing takes time, dammit, and you have to start with known facts and work your way back. I only had a few—”

“Work your way back, hell. You had Mary Elizabeth's name. Why didn't you—”

“Because the older records aren't there!” The glass in the door vibrated, and the dogs rushed at him, barking. Pat lowered his voice slightly. “Not at the courthouse. There are other sources, which I fully intend to consult, but I just started this yesterday afternoon.”

Kara handed the paper to Rachel. “I see what you mean. Sorry, Pat, I shouldn't have criticized.”

“Feel her forehead,” Pat said. “She must be sick. You, apologizing?”

“I'll un-apologize if you don't cut it out.”

Pat's grin faded. “This isn't going to be easy, you know. Many records are missing—destroyed during the Wo-ah, as Mrs. Wilson calls it, or in the normal course of time. Counties have been divided and renamed—Loudon County used to be part of Fairfax. One thing we have going for us is that Mary Elizabeth was the common ancestress of several branches of the family. Her descendants could be scattered from New England to California.”

“That's good?” Kara abandoned her attempt to be conciliatory. “Heavens, Pat, it could take years to track them down.”

“But some of them—one of them—might be more
interested in family history than Mrs. Wilson. The quilts survived; other portable property may have been inherited by other branches of the family. I'm going to Charlottesville this afternoon. The library at the university has—used to have, anyhow—a sizable collection of materials on Virginia genealogy, including microfilm copies of some county records. If I don't find what I want there, I may get a clue as to where to look next.”

“Lots of luck,” Kara said politely. It was clear that she had no great hopes of success from this approach. The dogs heralded a new arrival, and she went on, “That must be Mrs. Wilson. I might have known she'd be early.”

Mrs. Wilson had not come alone. Rocky carried the carton containing the quilts, but he was probably there to lend moral support as well. He eyed the other men warily, responding to Adam's friendly greeting with a shy nod.

“We'll take them into the shop,” Kara said, as Figgin headed purposefully for the carton Rocky had placed on the floor. “This way.”

It took even longer than usual to keep the cats from following; Figgin struggled furiously when Rachel picked him up, and she had to shut him in the pantry before they could leave the room. “I don't know why you put up with those animals,” Mrs. Wilson grumbled. “Dirty things, shedding all over.”

She was in a bad temper, even for her. The reason for her ill humor became apparent after Kara had taken two of the quilts out of the box. The album quilt was on the bottom. At least…It had to be the album quilt, but the crumpled, wadded object bore little resemblance to the one Rachel had seen.

“My God!” Kara sounded as if she had been stabbed to the heart. “What…You didn't…You washed it?”

“It was filthy.” Mrs. Wilson's face had turned bright red.

“It's ruined.” Kara collapsed into the nearest chair.

Adam was bending over the quilt, trying to smooth out the wrinkles with his hands. Washing had not removed the gray film, it had set into a solid coating, like dried mud or thin plaster. The stitches had puckered and drawn so that the once-smooth surface was a mass of lumps.

Like any teenager embarrassed by the behavior of a parent, Rocky turned his back and pretended to examine the quilts hanging on the back wall. Rachel couldn't blame him; Mrs. Wilson continued to protest and complain and excuse herself. “You could of warned me,” she shouted at Kara, who responded with a silent snarl.

“Maybe you can fix it,” Adam said.

“It's beyond repair,” Kara said flatly. “I wouldn't give you ten bucks for it.”

From a commercial point of view the destruction of the album quilt served Kara well. A subdued Mrs. Wilson sold her the others without haggling, and accepted the ten dollars Kara had offered for the album quilt. As soon as the front door closed, they heard her voice raised in pained protestation. “How was I supposed to know? I'm so mad I could spit. It wasn't my fault!”

Rocky's reply was only audible as a soothing murmur.

“Is it as bad as you implied, or were you just trying to save a buck?” Pat inquired.

“It's that bad.” Kara bundled the other quilts neatly but unceremoniously into the carton and turned to examine the album quilt. Her face was screwed up like that of a squeamish maiden lady forcing herself to deal with a dead and mangled mouse. Rachel realized her distress had nothing to do with the loss of potential profit.

After a closer look Kara groaned. “I'd like to kill her. If she'd deliberately set out to wreck it she couldn't have done a better job. I'll bet she used hot water and ordinary detergent—in the washing machine!—and then heaved it into the dryer.” Delicately she scraped at the stained sur
face and curiosity overcame her wrath. “What is this? Looks like dried mud. But washing would have removed that.”

“It kept coming back,” Rachel said.

The others turned to stare at her. “I had it clean,” Rachel went on. “The dust, or whatever it was, brushed right off. You saw the photographs. When you saw it a few days later, Pat, you said it was dirty again. Could the dirt be inside, permeating the wadding?”

“That's an idea.” A section flaked off under Kara's nail. “But why weren't the other quilts affected?” She gathered the crumpled mass into her arms. “I'm going to try something. It can't do any harm, the damage has already been done. Come on, Rachel, we've got about twenty minutes before the thundering hordes descend.”