Stitches In Time (29 page)

Adam must have lain awake too. He had been even more disturbed than she by what she had said, and he was too intelligent and too honest to deny the possibility that
she had been right. His breathing was deep and even, but he looked uncomfortable, probably because there was a cat on either side of him and a third on his chest. The effect of this, in the shadowy light of early morning, was to make it appear that his beard had grown a foot longer overnight. Rachel had developed a violent antagonism toward that beard; it was almost impossible to know what Adam was thinking when every feature except his nose was covered with hair. That was probably why he had grown the damned thing, so he could hide behind it.

She stepped over him and headed for the bathroom, followed by the cats. They were vocally annoyed when she refused to be herded toward the stairs. Their complaints woke Adam; when she came out of the bathroom he and the sleeping bag were gone.

But when she stopped on her way downstairs to try the door of Megan's room, she heard his door open.

"You locked it," she said.

"I thought you wanted me to."

"I did. Thanks."

Sunshine warmed the family room, brightening the cheerful yellow print of the curtains and setting the copper bottoms of the saucepans ablaze with reflected light. When Adam came back from letting the dogs out, he said, "It's going to be a nice day. Freezing cold but bright and sunny."

"I'm delighted to hear it." Hands braced on the counter, Rachel stared at the coffeemaker, willing it to drip faster.

"I wouldn't be surprised if—"

"Adam, will you please shut up?"

Rachel managed to get one cup of coffee before Kara arrived, which was just as well; the other woman's bright-eyed, firm-lipped efficiency was hard to take even with the artificial assistance of caffeine. Not that she didn't appreciate the support. But Kara's interest was impersonal and
detached. She doesn't care about me, Rachel thought; in the last extremity, if there is no other way, she'll rid herself, and the ones she really cares about, of me. As she should.

After she had deposited an armload of books and papers on the table and removed her coat, Kara studied them critically. "You both look like hell," she remarked. "What did you do last night, if it's any of my business?"

Rachel let Adam tell her about Phil. He made a long dramatic story of it, but Kara's only reaction was amusement. "That's the trouble with life. It's so untidy. The characters in novels hardly ever seem to worry about eating and sleeping and earning a living—much less putting the investigation on hold while they wait for the plumber to come and unstop the toilet, or cope with rejected lovers."

"He has a gun," Rachel said. She was on her second cup of coffee, but it hadn't made her any less resentful of Kara's attitude.

Her announcement had the desired effect. The sober faces of her companions made her regret her childish attempt to shock them.

"At least he used to own one," she amended. "When we were—when he was living at the house in College Park."

"He wasn't carrying it on him," Adam said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

His voice was mild, but Rachel flinched, as if he had shouted at her. "I didn't think he'd come here. It never occurred to me that you might ... It was only for self-defense, in case someone broke into the house. He wouldn't. . . I'm sorry, Adam. I never thought—"

"I wasn't criticizing you, I was just asking," Adam said cheerfully.

"You should have told him." Kara's tone was decidedly critical. "Is this character likely to come gunning for you,
Rachel? We don't need this! How unstable is he? What did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything to him. Unless you consider telling him I never wanted to see him again legitimate grounds for assault. Some judges and juries still do."

Kara's face froze and a wave of color rose from the open collar of her shirt to the roots of her hair. After a moment she let out her breath. "If you want to kick me, I'll bend over. Blame the victim, right? And from me of all people .. . I didn't mean it that way. What I meant—"

"I overreacted," Rachel admitted. "But I get so tired of hearing people say 'She asked for it.'
I
know what you meant, and the answer is no, I don't think he'll be back. Not after the way Adam humiliated him. An anonymous phone call or two, maybe."

"If he tries that, sic Tom onto him," Kara advised. "Okay, I'll take your word for it. Get your coat, Rachel. We're supposed to meet Mrs. Wilson in half an hour."

The abrupt change of subject left Rachel staring. "Where? What happened?"

"She called me last night." Kara's smile would have made Mrs. Wilson extremely uneasy. "I thought she would. We're meeting at Auntie's house. The police have finished there and told her she's free to enter. She's going to look for the quilt book and search for photos and family records. And try to sell me Auntie's old furniture, worn-out clothes, and tacky costume jewelry. I just hope to hell I can get out of this without buying any."

"Can I come?" Adam asked.

"No reason why not, I guess. If you hurry."

Rachel had never formed a clear mental image of the house, but the reality was quite different from anything she might have imagined, and when she saw it she understood why it might have taken even friendly neighbors several days to realize that something had happened to the
occupant. As anomalous on that street of modest, modern split-levels as a peacock in a flock of geese, it was a well-proportioned brick house surrounded by trees and shrubbery of impressive age and proportions. The peacock was molting, however. The lawn had been abandoned to weeds, the porch steps sagged, only a few flaking sections of paint remained on the shutters and trim, and several windows had been boarded up. Overgrown untrimmed lilac bushes and evergreens hid the house from its neighbor on the south side; the lot on the north side was presumably empty, since it was surrounded by a rough wooden fence bearing the sign of a local construction company. The rooms inside must always be dark, even on a sunny day. Rachel's skin felt as if it were tightening over her bones, and she wished she hadn't eaten a hearty breakfast.

No such morbid thoughts troubled Kara. Eyes narrowed speculatively, she murmured, "It's an old house— late nineteenth century, probably. If some of the contents are as old ..."

A car pulled up behind them and Mrs. Wilson got out. She was all smiles, and although she obviously hadn't expected Adam, she greeted him affably. Probably thinks Kara brought him along to haul away the furniture, Rachel thought cynically.

Adam was even more affable. "Wonderful old house," he said, with more enthusiasm than accuracy. "I suppose the land on which the subdivision was built was part of the original property."

"Yes." Mrs. Wilson was brusque. "Auntie sold it off bit by bit over the years. That lot next door was the last.
I
told her and told her she ought to hang onto it, property values was going up and up. And what did she need the money for?"

The reminder of lost profit had annoyed her. She
stamped off toward the house without waiting for an answer.

If the house in College Park had smelled musty and disused, this was ten times worse. Some of it, Rachel knew, was the product of her unbridled imagination, but not all. It was not surprising. An old woman couldn't keep up with the necessary cleaning and obviously none of her kin had bothered to help her. Mrs. Wilson, who had expected to inherit, could have brought her vacuum cleaner over once a month.

"Sorry I can't offer you tea or coffee," Mrs. Wilson said, switching on lights. "The kitchen's in a terrible state and I haven't had a chance to clean."

"That's quite all right," Kara said. "We haven't much time and I expect you are busy too."

"Yeah. Meeting my lawyer at the police station at one. You sure the cops'll give me those quilts back?"

"If your lawyer is any good they will.
I
told you what to say: they haven't the proper facilities for safeguarding items of that sort and if the quilts are damaged while they are in police custody they will be responsible. So long as you promise to produce them if they are needed in court there shouldn't be any problem." Kara sounded impatient. She must have explained all that before, and her quick comprehensive survey of the contents of the hall and parlor had obviously disappointed her. The furniture was Depression era—solid, well-built pieces, but not of the caliber she and Cheryl would choose.

"I sure hope you're right," Mrs. Wilson said. "Lord knows how long all this legal business is going to take, and if— when—Rocky gets accepted at the university, he'll need a new car and lots of other things besides tuition. Soon as the will's cleared I'll put this house on the market. Now where was it she kept them books?"

The answer should have been obvious. Like any miserly
old woman with a (legitimate) fear of burglars, the old lady had kept all her treasures close at hand. Her bedroom resembled a storeroom, with piled-up boxes, cartons, and trunks filling all the space except for narrow paths from the door to the bed and the bed to the closet. Rachel wondered how much of the mess had been endemic and how much had been created by the thieves and/or the police. The cartons piled haphazardly on the bed certainly hadn't been placed there by the old lady. Fighting the malaise that had seized her at the first sight of the house, Rachel reminded herself that the old lady hadn't died in this room. But the bed hadn't been made or stripped; under the cartons she could see crumpled sheets and a pillow flattened and hollowed by the pressure of the head that had rested on it. Catching Adam's eye, she saw that his face mirrored her discomfort.

Mrs. Wilson did not share it. "Damn cops. You'd think they could at least pick up after themselves."

"They asked you to check to see if anything else was missing?" Kara's voice was cool and businesslike.

"Yeah. But how the hell could anybody tell? She did keep her jewelry and legal papers in a safe deposit," Mrs. Wilson admitted grudgingly. "The rest of this is junk. 1 mean—"

She looked hopefully at Kara, who said briskly, "Well, let's have a look."

She kept up a running commentary as she investigated the closet and the boxes containing linens. "No use to us, I'm afraid. She must have thrown out or worn out any clothing she wore before she was married. Nothing here earlier than the sixties, and it's in poor condition. Damask tablecloths . . . mass produced, nobody uses them anymore. Crocheted doilies . . . someone might give you a few bucks for them, but it won't be me, they're a glut on the market. Is that where she had the quilts?"

Mrs. Wilson had lifted the lid of a brassbound trunk. A strong smell of mothballs filled the room. "Uh-huh. There was only the three. You sure there's nothing else you want?"

"I'm sure. In fact ..." Kara hesitated, weighing her words. "I don't mean to sound disparaging, Mrs. Wilson, but I don't understand the discrepancy between those quilts and the quality of her other things. The quilts are quite unusual. This stuff. . . isn't."

Typically, Mrs. Wilson reacted as if Kara had questioned her or her aunt's honesty. "They was hers, if that's what you mean."

"I didn't—"

"Come down to her from her great-granny. They were gentry, the Janneys; had lots of fine things. That was before the Wo-ah." Indignation deepened Mrs. Wilson's voice and thickened her accent. She hurried on, ignoring Kara's apologetic murmurs. "The damyankees burned the house and stole everything they could lay their thieving hands on. The silver and some other things was hid but they was divided among the children and grandchildren. Auntie only had that silver candlestick thing I showed you. And the quilts."

"And the house?" Adam asked.

"The plantation house was burned down, like I said. This one wasn't built till later." Mrs. Wilson had lost interest. She glanced at her watch. "So all you want is the quilts?"

"Yes." The flat-out admission cost Kara quite a struggle. She added, "Of course the price will depend on the documentation you can supply."

They found the quilt book without difficulty—the old lady's library was no more extensive than her grand-niece's— and Mrs. Wilson located a carton filled with scrapbooks, photos, and clippings, for which Kara gave her a written
receipt. She made one last attempt to interest Kara in the parlor furnishings, including a framed wreath made of human hair. Kara declined this last with a visible shudder.

Adam had preceded them with the box of photographs. When they came out of the house they saw him standing on tiptoe, looking over the construction fence next door. Kara had to call him twice before he joined them.

"What's the hurry?" he asked, folding himself into the backseat.

Kara barely waited until he had closed the door before slamming the car into gear and pulling away from the curb. "Rachel," she said. "She's so pale she's turning green. The place really got to you, didn't it?"

"It was horrible," Rachel muttered. "Living like that. . . Dying like that..."

Adam put a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Don't think about it. Was that what bothered you, or was there.. . something else?"

"I don't know. I felt sick as soon as I set eyes on the place and it got steadily worse." She moved slightly, dislodging his hand. "I'm all right now."

"We got what we wanted, anyhow," Kara said. "Have a look at the quilt book, Rachel. I can't wait till we get back, I'm dying of curiosity."

With Adam breathing heavily onto the back of her neck, Rachel reached for the book. She didn't have to look through it; several sheets of folded paper marked the desired page.

"It's not the album quilt," she said. "It's the other. The white one."

Kara didn't take her eyes off the road. "Read the description. Read it aloud."

Rachel had to clear her throat before she complied. The answer they had sought and scarcely hoped to find was there. It seemed too easy.

"'Exquisite quilting and a remarkable sense of design characterize this white work quilt. The trapunto was inserted between the threads of the backing, so that the material was uncut. It was made by Mary Elizabeth Janney of Virginia in 1859 and is still in the possession of a descendant. The quality of the workmanship is typical of quilts made by antebellum plantation mistresses.' That's all. But this isn't the one—"

"The others must have been made by the same woman," Kara said. "They all date from approximately the same period and the author of the book is wrong about the quality of the workmanship; it isn't typical, it's extraordinary."

"You're right." Adam had taken the folded papers and was reading them. "It's all here, in the old lady's own hand. Mary Elizabeth Janney was her great-grandmother. She left the quilts to her daughter, who left them to her daughter, who was Miss Ora's mother."

"Mary Elizabeth," Rachel repeated. She was conscious of an odd feeling of anticlimax. The name should have struck a chord, shouldn't it? Recognition, empathy, acknowledgment? "Does Miss Ora say anything about her?"

"Quite a bit."

"Well?"

"Well. Um. It would make a good opening paragraph for a sentimental Southern novel. Want to hear it?"

"Of course," Kara said impatiently.

"'She was exquisitely beautiful, with silver-gilt hair and eyes as blue as the Virginia heavens, and as talented as she was lovely. Her mother having died when she was twelve years of age, she assumed the manifold duties of a plantation mistress, supervising the food, clothing, and medical needs of family and servants. Yet she found the time to become a skilled performer on harp and piano and a fine needlewoman—'"

"All the womanly arts," said Kara. "I wonder if she ever read a book?"

"She probably didn't have time," Adam said fairly. "'Unfortunately the only examples of her skill that have come down to me are the three quilts. Her other descendants did not appreciate them as I do.' Shall I go on? There's a pretty description of Mary Elizabeth sitting and sewing with her maids—a polite euphemism for the female slaves, 1 assume."

"Spare me." Kara's foot was heavy on the gas.

When they reached the house there was another vehicle parked in front. "Pat's truck," Adam said unnecessarily.

They found Pat comfortably ensconced in the family room, studying the quilt photographs, which he had laid out on the coffee table like a pack of cards. Two cats, unable to find room on his lap, crouched at his feet waiting for him to lean back.

"Where've you been?" he demanded. "You could at least leave a note."

"You could at least tell someone you're coming," Kara retorted. "Have you found anything interesting?"

"Oh, definitely." Pat leaned back. "Somebody really had it in for the recipient of this quilt. Take a look."

"With luck we'll have the quilt itself tonight or tomorrow." Kara slung her jacket onto a chair.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"What have you been up to? And what's that?" He indicated the carton Adam was carrying.

Kara gave him a concise summary of their recent activities while Adam investigated the refrigerator. "Turkey sandwiches?" he offered.