Stitches In Time (37 page)

"Not necessarily," Rachel said. "One of the perils of
black magic is that a curse can bounce back and affect the person who sent it. If she made the quilt for someone else, and it was returned to her ..."

"That's all we need, an unknown second party. The chance of locating her, if she existed at all, are slim to zero." Pat tossed his notebook aside. "This is beginning to look less and less relevant. Dammit, what's keeping Kara?
I
want to have a look at that quilt. Go get the key from her, Adam, tell her Rachel will make sure I don't misbehave."

As soon as Adam had left the room Pat reached for Adam's bags of magical paraphernalia and began unloading the contents. "The lad does have an inquiring mind, doesn't he?" he said, grinning wolfishly. "Black candles, little packets of mystic herbs, staurolite—yeah, right, that's supposed to protect the wearer against black magic . . . Aha. What have we here?"

"You shouldn't do that," Rachel exclaimed. "Adam won't like it."

"He certainly wouldn't like my finding this." Pat sat the fat pink candle down in the center of the table with a decisive plonk. "If I remember the procedure correctly, he'll scratch your name on the wax, maybe wrap a strand of your hair around it, and bum it as he chants something maudlin like, 'Aphrodite, goddess of love, consume this maiden's heart with love of me as this candle is consumed

His voice rose to a saccharine falsetto. "Stop it," Rachel gasped. "That is so cruel!"

"I'm not the one who is cruel. What have you done to the kid?"

"What do you mean, what have I done?" Rachel grabbed the pink candle and put it back in the sack, piling the other objects in helter-skelter. Among them was a packet of dried rose petals. It didn't require much imagination to understand their purpose, if not their precise function, in the ritual.

"I guess you aren't obliged to fall for him just because he's gone goofy over you," Pat conceded with magnificent tolerance. "But I've never seen him like this. He's been hiding behind that beard for years. Did you complain about it scratching you?"

"You're disgusting. I didn't complain about..."

She
had
expressed disapproval of the beard, though. Pat's complacent smile infuriated her and made her feel obscurely guilty. "I didn't lead him on or encourage him, and he isn't goofy over me. He's a little goofy, period. According to Cheryl and Kara—"

"Women," Pat said in disgust. "What do they know about him?"

"More than you suppose."

"Ah. Who told you, Kara?"

"Yes. I can understand why he's afraid of taking chances, he's been hurt too often—"

Pat brought his fist down on the table. "Women! You've got it bass-ackwards, girl. He's afraid of hurting other people. That's why he keeps himself under such tight control. He almost killed his father one time, after the old swine had taken a broom handle to Adam's mother. She expressed her appreciation by beating on him with her fists and telling him it was all his fault that the old man was violent."

Rachel's eyes fell. "I knew about that. But not about..."

"So now you do. Don't look so stricken. And for God's sake don't offer to go to bed with him out of pity."

The comment had the effect he intended. The color rushed back into Rachel's face. "Damn you!"

"Under the present circumstances," said Pat, "it might be better if you refrained from suggestions like that. Paste a smile on, kid, here they come. This is just between us."

Kara had put up the "Closed
" sign in order to grab a quick
l
unch, as she explained, but it was
obviously
Alexander's needs that concerned her most. She was carrying him when she came in. He and Pat bared their teeth— or in Alexander's case, his gums—at one another.

"I'm sorry we were so long," Rachel said. "I'll walk Alexander or take over in the shop, whatever you want."

"It's been busy," Kara admitted. She looked tired, her eyes shadowed and her mouth drooping. "I'd appreciate your help in the shop, but first you'd better show Pat the evidence. He won't leave until after he's examined it."

"Sit down." Adam took Alexander from her with such an air of authority that Kara obeyed and even Alexander realized protest would be futile. They weren't gone long. When they returned Adam's hair stood up in wild disarray and Alexander looked like a dirty mop.

"It's blowing a gale," Adam announced, putting the dog down. "Maybe you had better get on home, Pat."

"Not till I've seen the quilt." Pat's lips set stubbornly.

Kara looked at Alexander, who was tottering around looking for something to terrorize. The dogs had retreated into a corner and the cats had dematerialized. With a sigh she took the key from her pocket and handed it to Rachel. "I'll be along in a minute. Don't let him—"

"Take your time," Rachel said. "I can handle him."

"Ha," said Pat.

However, he accepted without argument the plastic gloves Rachel insisted he wear. You've come a long way, baby, she thought; who would have believed a few weeks ago you'd be ordering the great Patrick MacDougal around and swearing at him?

The quilt was dry now. After Rachel had shown Pat the dark inner layer, he asked her to turn it over. When she saw the appliqued surface Rachel felt less guilty about finishing the destruction of the quilt. The stains were set and permanent, not dust but a deeper darkness, ingrained into the fabric. The gentle cleaning methods she had used
would be ineffective now. Was there some mineral in the earth, iron or copper or lead, that had reacted with hot water to produce an indelible stain? Ordinary garden soil should simply wash out.

But this wasn't ordinary garden soil.

Delicately, almost shrinkingly, Pat ran his fingers over the fabric. "Nasty," he muttered. "Very nasty. The gloves help, though. Don't know why they should, but they do ... Is this where you found the hair?"

Adam got out his specimens and indicated their original location. His disgust overcome by growing interest, Pat nodded. "She didn't miss much, did she? Let's get the rest of them out."

"You think there are more?" Adam asked.

"Sure to be. The lady knew her stuff. Scissors." He held out his hand, palm up, like a surgeon.

"This works better." Rachel gave him the ripping tool. "Do you want me to do it?"

Pat glanced at her from under furrowed brows. "I think not. Show me how this gizmo works."

Kara didn't join them. Vaguely Rachel was aware of the constant ringing of the shop bell. She felt she ought to join her beleaguered employer, but she couldn't bring herself to leave. Pat's big, clumsy-looking hands moved with a surgeon's skill and he found things the others might have missed. One was a fragment of rotting silk that had been used, instead of the usual cotton, to stuff the petal of a rose. The greenish-black worm coiled in the heart of the flower had not been visible until Pat removed the overlapping petals.

"She didn't miss a trick," he said again, and there was something close to admiration coloring his voice. "I'd guess the silk came from some intimate garment, a nightgown or underwear. Worn next to the skin, it absorbed the owner's perspiration and personality."

"That's unusual," Rachel said. "
I
think Cheryl told me respectable women didn't wear silk underclothes at that period."

"Is that right?" Pat looked up. "Maybe she wasn't a respectable woman. Maybe she was—"

"Get on with it," Adam said shortly.

The deadly collection mounted up—bits of linen cloth that might have been clipped from handkerchiefs dampened with tears or sweat, more fingernail clippings and hair, and a length of knotted string that brought a crow of recognition from Pat.

"The witches' ladder. Oh, very nice. One, two, three . . . Seven knots. The number varies, but seven has magical properties."

"A curse with each knot, I suppose." Adam eyed the harmless-looking object askance.

"Or a prayer. To whatever gods or demons the witch worshiped." Pat squinted nearsightedly at the string. "One method of removing the curse is to untie the knots, but these are so tight and the string is so rotted I doubt it could be done. I think that's everything, but we'd have to remove every piece of—what do you call it? Applique?—to be certain."

"What would be the point?" Rachel demanded. Watching, she had felt as if she were witnessing the deliberate mutilation of a living thing. Evil, no doubt, but so beautiful . . . And oddly pathetic, in its ruined state.

"No point," Pat agreed. He weighed the envelope with its bizarre contents in his hand. It was very light. "The fabric is permeated; whatever we do has to be done to the entire quilt, not just the bits and pieces. Oh, hell. It's getting late, I'd better head for home before Ruth comes gunning for me. Have you got any inert plastic?"

"Why, yes," Rachel said. "Cheryl uses it for old textiles; regular plastic contains chemicals that may react with the cloth. What—"

"Do I have in mind? Very little," Pat said wryly. "But it can't do any harm. Wrap it and seal it tight. We'll start working on it tomorrow. Talk to Rachel," he added, anticipating Adam's question. "She knows as much about it as I do, and she has a pretty good collection of books on magic and superstition. Check the indexes under 'curses, how to cancel them.'"

"What if there isn't—" Adam began.

"I was joking! Use your imagination and your common sense." Pat looked thoughtful. "I wonder where I can lay my hands on some holy water. Me, that hasn't been to mass in fifty years."

After the quilt had been sealed in plastic and the workroom locked, Rachel went to the shop, where she found Kara trying to cope with a pair of her regulars, middle-aged women who had nothing else to do that afternoon and had settled down for a comfortable chat.

"Sorry to interrupt," Rachel said, "but there's a phone call for you, Kara. On the other line."

Kara was quick to pick up the cue. "It must be Aunt Ruth. Oh, dear,
I
hope she's not worse. Excuse me."

She went no farther than the hall, where she lurked until the customers, foiled of their prey, had departed. Returning, she dropped limply into a chair.

"It's been like that all day. No, don't apologize, that's taboo, remember? Where are Pat and Adam?"

"Pat's gone home." Rachel's lips twisted. "He found more—more things in the quilt. It's a total wreck."

"It already was. Did he have any sensible suggestions?"

"Most people wouldn't call them sensible. The standard procedures involve fighting black magic with white, countering curses with prayer and religious symbols."

"Crosses, holy water, exorcism?"

"Among others. Adam brought home two bags of magical doodads. He's probably planning his experiments right now."

"You don't think those methods will be effective?"

Rachel shrugged. "I don't see how we can tell whether they are effective or not. It would be handy if squirting the quilt with holy water produced a cloud of evil-smelling black smoke or a demonic voice screaming 'Okay, okay, I give up,' but I doubt anything that dramatic will occur."

"It certainly hasn't produced any impressive special effects so far," Kara agreed. "The only manifestations have been ..."

The advent of another customer stopped her, but she looked as if she had already regretted what she had started to say. The only manifestations had been in Rachel's behavior. Rachel wondered whether the obvious corollary had occurred to Kara, as it had to her. How would she be affected by the countermeasures Pat proposed to use? And how would the others be affected—the disembodied minds, the wandering spirits, of the intended victims and the sorceress?

I don't care, Rachel thought. I should care, but I don't. I'm too tired.
It's
been so long. I want to rest, I want it so bad, but I can't rest till I finish what I set out to do.

"Thank God that's over," Kara said, locking the front door. "Don't bother straightening up, Rachel, we'll do it later."

"I'll just finish this first. They certainly left things in a mess." Rachel continued to fold lengths of lace and ribbon.

"Our customers aren't as bad as some. And they took a lot of things off our hands." With weary satisfaction Kara studied the depleted sale racks. "I'm supposed to be good at spotting salable merchandise, but every now and then I goof. Every buyer does, I suppose. I thought this dress was charming, but even on sale nobody wanted it. Too demure, do you think?"