A Quilt in Time (A Harriet Turman/Loose Threads Mystery) (25 page)

“As a matter of fact, I did. I went to the library and the newspaper and read a ton of old documents, all of which were on microfiche.”

“I would have thought that would all be on computer by now,” Mavis commented.

“That’s what I thought, and I said as much to the librarian, but she just sighed and said the library would be happy to update its system and if I wanted to bestow a large grant on them, they’d get right on it.”

Lauren leaned into the space between the front seats.

“That’s all very interesting, but could we get to the point before we arrive? What did you learn?”

Beth looked at Mavis and then cleared her throat.

“To start with, there was absolutely nothing in the paper or anywhere else about Josephine. I checked the old phone books, church registries, every community organization that had filed their annual directory with the library and came up with a big zero.”

“I suppose that makes sense if she really is ex-CIA,” Harriet said.

“Mickey, on the other hand,” Beth continued. “He was all over the legal section of the paper. He was also all over the charitable page and in their newsletters. Several generations of district attorneys attempted to make their career by busting Mickey Brown, none successfully. At the same time, numerous defense attorneys owe their expensive educations to his scholarship fund.”

“That’s interesting,” Harriet said. “Not sure how it helps, but good to know.”

“There’s more,” Aunt Beth said. “The most interesting information I found was about Janice.”

“Do tell,” Lauren encouraged.

“She was not alone when she had her car accident. She was a passenger in a car driven by none other than Howard Pratt.”

“Whoa, that was worth the price of admission,” Harriet said.

“Or a day spent in the musty basement of the library,” Beth said with a grin. “It seems like it was quite the scandal.”

“Which was when?” Lauren interrupted.

“September fifteenth, nineteen ninety-seven.”

“So, how old is she?” Harriet asked.

“It says she was twenty-one at the time of the accident, so she’s not forty yet,” Beth told them.

Lauren leaned back in her seat.

“Wow, I wouldn’t have guessed that. I’d have put her at least ten years older.”

“So, what was she doing with Howard?” Harriet asked. She did a quick calculation in her head. “He was at least twice her age but probably older than that, judging by Seth and Sarah’s ages. I wonder what their relationship was.”

She pulled to a stop in the senior center parking lot and undid her seatbelt.

“Wait,” Beth said, “there’s more. Nineteen ninety-seven was a busy year for Mr. Howard Pratt.” She paused for effect. “His wife Jill died under mysterious circumstances earlier that same year.”

“Wow,” Harriet said and looked at Lauren. “That is a bombshell.”

Beth gathered her purse and quilting bag and opened her car door.

“We’ll have to mull over what this all means later.”

Sabrina was waiting for them in the lobby. Her hair was piled on top of her head and held in place with a clip. She blew at a strand that had fallen over her eye then swept it back with her hand.

“I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve changed the order of things. We’re going to have you working with the memory care folks first. Mr. Pratt has reporters from AARP coming to tour in an hour and a half.

“I thought you could work there for forty-five minutes or so, and then we can clean up the quilting supplies and get the residents back to their rooms so the aides can get them ready for prime time.” She laughed. Harriet wasn’t sure what was supposed to be funny, but she smiled.

Violet met Harriet at the junction of the memory care hallway and the main lobby forty minutes later. The rest of the Threads were helping the nurse’s aides clean up the quilting debris and load the sewing machine and supplies onto a wheeled cart to take them to the other side of the building.

The dementia quilters had been surprisingly proficient at cutting the required hexagons from the flowered fabric once the Threads got them started, and the time had passed quickly.

Violet glanced left and then right.

“Hurry,” she whispered. No one was in sight, so she grabbed Harriet’s arm and hustled her across the dining room and then the lobby and back to the independent living common room. “We don’t have time to wait for the others.” The thick soles of her flesh-colored oxfords made a squeaking noise as she hurried across the linoleum. “We need to talk before the others get here.”

Mickey and Jo stood on either side of Janice’s wheelchair in the middle of the room as Harriet and Violet approached.

“We need you to search Howard’s office,” Mickey said.

“Mickey,” Janice scolded, “we agreed we were going to lay out our facts in a logical fashion.”

Jo held her hand up.

“We don’t have time for argument. We have a key to Howard’s office, and we have reason to believe he’s doing something to the drugs that are being given to the patients in the other wings. We think Seth suspected the drugs weren’t right and confronted his dad. You need to go into his office and find proof.”

Harriet held her hands up in front of her.

“I’m not a detective, and I don’t know if you heard, but my friends’ cars were all blown up in my driveway a few days ago. Someone was sending me and my group a message. I received it loud and clear.”

“I don’t believe it,” Jo said.

“It was in the paper,” Harriet protested.

“Not that. I don’t believe you could be frightened off that easily. The fact that someone is trying to put you off just means they think you’re the person who is most likely to find them out. Now is the time to press your advantage, even if you can’t see what it is yet.”

Mickey leaned toward Harriet.

“Unless you’re chicken, that is.”

“I can’t go wheeling in there, or I would,” Janice said in a low voice. “Seth’s death is related to something that’s going on here. We know it, and you know it. We aren’t physically capable of doing a proper investigation. We thought we could count on you.”

“Janice was an investigative reporter in Seattle,” Violet added, ever the proud mother figure. “She was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.”

Jo’s shoulders drooped.

“Forget it, guys. We can’t ask a civilian to take a risk she doesn’t want to take. She’s right. What we’re asking her to do is dangerous; the car bombings prove that.”

Harriet took a deep breath.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Do you know how to pick locks?” Mickey asked her.

“I thought you said you had a key.” Harriet wiped her palms on the back of her jeans.

“We do,” Jo said in a hushed tone. “We have a door key, but if there are records of what he’s doing, they’re likely to be in a locked file.”

“And his office has a private conference room and bath attached,” Violet added.

Mickey led the way to the hall.

“I’ll stroll over to the memory care unit and keep an eye on Howard. He’ll stay over there until the reporters arrive—I heard Hannah say he was meeting them there. But he may decide to bring them to his office, maybe even before they tour.

“If he finishes early or heads to his office before the tour, I’ll signal Janice in the dining area, and she can create a distraction. Violet will keep eyes on Janice and will signal Jo so she can warn you.

“I got a guy in the assisted living area who’s going to get Hannah off the front desk—they have video monitors up there. We can count on Syd, though, he’ll keep her busy. He worked forty years on the carnival circuit; he can con anyone.”

Harriet took another deep breath and let it out slowly.

“You guys have thought of everything.”

Mickey stopped and looked back to her.

“Get going. You only have fifteen minutes for certain.”

Lauren joined Violet and Janice as Harriet went with Jo toward Howard’s office and Mickey went to his post as lookout.

“What’s going on?” Harriet heard her ask. A moment later, she appeared at her side.

Harriet slid the stolen key into the lock on Howard’s office door.

“It appears we’re going to search Howard’s office after all.”

Howard had spared no expense when it came to his surroundings. Harriet imagined Donald Trump’s must look something like this—with a million-dollar view added, of course.

The two women stepped into a lush leather-and-brass living room setup. A sofa, love seat and two side chairs surrounded a black glass coffee table. Behind this reception area was a heavy wood desk with a top-line leather chair. A smaller secretary’s desk and chair sat to one side. Doors opened off either side of the area—the aforementioned bathroom and conference room, no doubt.

Harriet crossed to the desk, but there were no papers on its surface and a quick check showed the drawers were locked. A credenza behind the desk revealed a row of unlocked horizontal file drawers.

“Take a quick look at these,” she said and gestured to the files. “I’m going to check out the conference room, or whatever is behind this door.” She stepped toward the door to the right of the desk.

Lauren stood in front of the files.

“You can pretty well guess that if he leaves these unlocked, there isn’t going to be anything worth finding.”

“Let’s look anyway,” Harriet said and disappeared into Howard’s private conference room. She closed the door behind her.

A large conference table dominated the space. The usual oversized commercial art offerings adorned the walls—pastel squares on an off-white background and a yacht-racing scene done in pale blues. But something was missing. More than one something.

For starters, there were only three chairs, and they were all on one side of the table. And the buffet didn’t hold a pitcher and glasses. There were no tablets of paper, no teleconferencing equipment. Instead, the buffet held a precision scale and a bowl of empty capsules. Did they have it wrong? Was
Howard
dealing illegal drugs?

Before she could ponder the answer, the door was flung open.

“Someone’s on their way in,” Lauren said. “I don’t know who, but their key was in the lock.” She held her hand to her beating heart. “I thought you had a lookout.”