Death by Scones (32 page)

Dee said, "This is Matt Viera," as if she were introducing a major celebrity whose name I should have recognized immediately.

"A friend of yours?"

"Freelance reporter," Emma explained. "Mostly writes about the arts scene."

I resisted the "no comment" that was my automatic response to meeting a reporter. Things were different now. I didn't have clients' secrets to protect, and I needed the publicity for my new business.

"You're going to love Matt."

There was no chance of that. I didn't trust reporters, so the best I could ever feel for him was a bit of tolerance and maybe respect for his journalistic skills.

Dee turned to him and said, "This is our new friend Keely Fairchild."

"Trying to set me up with a quilter again?" he said.

"You're too finicky," Dee said. "I've given up on finding you a girlfriend. Although you wouldn't have to worry about Keely scattering pins and needles around your home. She's not a quilter."

I knew what was going to come next, and I preferred not to advertise my legal degree now. It tended to elicit bad lawyer jokes, requests for free legal advice, or uncomfortable silence. "I'm a quilt appraiser, and I used to work with Dee's granddaughter Lindsay."

Matt said, "I met her once, I think. She works at a law firm, right?"

"Keely's a lawyer," Emma explained, clearly trying to be helpful. "She's going to get Monograms shut down for us."

"Really?" Matt patted the various pockets in his pants, every single one of which did, in fact, contain at least some little thing, until he found what he was looking for: a notepad and the stub of a pencil, rather than the smartphone every other reported I'd dealt with carried. "I'd like to help, but so far I haven't been able to interest anyone in the story. Maybe if they knew there was a lawyer involved it would be different."

"I'm just here as an appraiser. Nothing official."

"Too bad." Matt searched his pockets again until he found a crumpled business card. He scribbled a phone number on it and handed it to me. "I'm still interested in the story if you uncover anything I can use."

The only printed text on the card was an email address. No name, no address, no job title. Just "matteo" at a popular online mail service address. Not that it mattered. I wasn't going to be contacting him. Reporters and lawyers, even retired lawyers, didn't mix.

"If I find out anything, I'll pass it along to the local prosecutor. This is really more his expertise than mine."

"You mean Frank Wolfe?" Matt returned his pad and pencil to separate pockets. "I've already talked to him. He won't do anything unless it'll get his name in the
Cove Chronicles
or, even better, a major news outlet. He's planning to launch a political career from the platform of his criminal prosecution victories."

"I know the type, and I'd rather not give him a chance to use the quilters as a stepping stone in his career." I might not trust any reporter, but some were better than others. It sounded like Matt was at least competent at his job. For the moment, we could be allies. With clear boundaries between us. "We need to disband the protest, at least until after we've asked Tremain nicely if he'll withdraw from the quilt show."

Dee shook her head. "Emma has the protestors organized in shifts so we can camp out here 24/7 until the quilt show starts. After that, we'll need to take more drastic steps. I'd rather see the show cancelled than have Tremain in it. I'd hate to do that, though. We've had a show here in Danger Cove for thirty-two years now, without missing a single year."

Dee and Emma and most of the other quilters were of a generation that made an arrest for civil disobedience more of an honor than a humiliation. Still, I doubted the older women would appreciate the realities of handcuffs, mugshots, and holding cells. "Getting arrested isn't going to help your case."

"Keely may be right," Matt said. "From what I know of Tremain, he isn't the sort to give in to pressure, but you might be able to blindside him if you let him win a small skirmish. He'll think you're weak, and you can get some concessions from him before he realizes his mistake."

"That sounds reasonable." Emma looked to Dee for the final decision.

"I
hate
being reasonable," Dee said irritably before turning to Keely. "Do you think we have any chance of getting Tremain to do the right thing?"

"Not as long as the protestors are outside. Matt's right that a good-faith gesture can open up communication."

"All right," Dee said. "Everyone's probably getting anxious to go pick up their kids or grandkids from school anyway."

Emma opened the door for Dee to go out and dismiss her protestors. Matt pointed past them at a slight-bodied man in the crosswalk at the end the end of the block, near the alley where I'd met Alyse. "Here comes more trouble," he said. "I'll take care of Stefan while the protestors are disbanding.”

CHAPTER THREE

I trailed after Matt, wondering what kind of trouble the unimposing Stefan could possibly offer. He wasn't much taller than Dee and looked just as frail, despite appearing in his thirties. He wore baggy clothes that were even less fashionable than Matt's, if less faded and worn out. The cuffs of his pale blue shirt were buttoned but still managed to float down near his fingertips, and the hems of his navy slacks dragged on the sidewalk. Add in a little red bow tie, and it was hard to see him as a troublemaker.

Stefan eluded Matt's attempts to divert him and scurried over to air-kiss Dee. "It's so good to see you, Darling Dee. Have you finally convinced the police to shut down Monograms?"

"Not yet," Dee said. "But we will. One way or another."

Emma opened her mouth, presumably to tell the little man I was an avenging angel
cum
lawyer, when Dee silenced her with a pat on the arm. "Keely, this is Stefan Anderson. He owns the folk art gallery across the street.
His
quilts are legit."

I recognized the last name. Stefan was the dealer whose quilt I would be appraising for the museum.

"Of course my quilts are legitimate.
I
have scruples." Stefan peered at Matt. "And good taste. You, sir, are a disgrace, squandering all your potential."

Matt shrugged. "All in the eye of the beholder."

"Some eyes are more skilled than others," Stefan said. "As a connoisseur of all things beautiful, I have the credentials to tell you you're a mess today. Just like the last dozen times I've seen you."

"Credentials are easy to come by," Matt said. "Your buddy Tremain claims to be an expert too."

"He's hardly my buddy." Stefan raised his hands to waist level and shook them so the cuffs fell back to his wrists. "He prefers to hang around with people who have no soul. Politicians and businessmen. He gets his so-called credentials with their influence, not from actual knowledge and experience."

The two men continued to bicker as Matt maneuvered Stefan to one side, allowing Dee and Emma to send the picketers home. I might have intervened, except I was curious why Stefan was so critical of Matt, and my asking would give the impression that I cared about the answer more than I was prepared to admit. Besides, the bickering didn't have any real heat to it, as if it were more a habit than anything else. Or maybe a game. Matt did seem mildly amused, while Stefan was getting more and more incensed about the purported evils of Tremain and his associates.

If Tremain really did have influential friends, it would explain why the ambitious prosecutor, Frank Wolfe, was reportedly only going through the motions of responding to Dee's allegations. No one, least of all someone with political aspirations, liked to go up against people with political connections.

Dee and Emma said some final farewells while Matt herded Stefan back to his own shop across the street and jogged back to stand beside me.

I tapped Emma on the shoulder to get her and Dee to follow me into the shop.

Matt patted down his pockets and pulled out a camera. "Wait." He turned the camera on us. "I want to document this."

Just then, the front door to Monograms swung open, forming a barrier between me and Matt's camera. I caught only a glimpse of a short woman barging out the door with a light-colored raincoat draped over her head like a criminal defendant trying to retain her privacy while walking past photographers on the way into court. She breezed past Matt and his camera without acknowledging him or anyone in their group.

Matt caught the door and held it for the others to go inside. He caught sight of Tremain waiting for us near a cupboard packed with quilts, and said, "Who was the woman who just left? I didn't get a good look at her, but she seemed familiar."

"She's a valued client," Tremain said smugly. "One who knows you and your co-conspirators are just spouting lies about me. She values her privacy, and I'm sure she isn't interested in talking to muckrakers."

"That's unusual," Matt said. "Most people
like
talking to us muckrakers."

I forced myself not to smile. That would have been the last straw for Tremain. As it was, I thought he was going to turn red and stomp his feet again, but he simply gave a huff of irritation. "Let's get this meeting over with. I'm due in Seattle this evening to meet with…let's just say they're friends of mine. Close, influential friends."

I could feel Matt preparing to deflate Tremain again, something I would have dearly enjoyed watching, but it would only make the meeting more confrontational. I resorted to the age-old trick for subtly managing a client: I stomped on Matt's foot. As I passed him to go into the shop, I lowered my voice to whisper, "Do
not
make my job any more difficult than it has to be. I reached my recommended daily allowance for irritation hours ago."

Matt swallowed whatever he was going to say and started to follow me through the doorway, but he was cut off by a beefy man wearing a carpenter's toolbelt.

"Coming through, coming through." The man pulled a handcart behind him, overloaded with a toolbox and assorted lengths and diameters of PVC piping. He continued across the shop to a propped-open door halfway down the left side wall and then disappeared through the opening into a hallway with stairs and the sign for a rest room.

"That's my landlord." Tremain ushered everyone past the back wall where the interesting four-patch quilt was displayed, down a short corridor, and into a small conference room. "It's taken me months to convince him to fix the second floor apartment's plumbing. I don't have to tell you ladies what a disaster it would be if there was a leak that dripped on my textiles. He was supposed to use the entrance from the alley, instead of traipsing through my shop, but at least he's finally shown up."

His partner, Alyse, was already in the conference room, tapping her ornately monogrammed silver cigarette case on the table in front of her. The room was tiny, and the conference table barely left enough room for the six chairs. The cheap table seemed oddly out of place in a shop for vintage and antique items, even if it was hidden away from shoppers. A hand-stitched tumbling blocks quilt hanging on the wall only served to emphasize the cheap, mass-produced nature of the table.

Tremain took the seat at what he apparently considered the head of the table at the far end of the room. The habit was too ingrained from years of negotiation sessions for me to sit anywhere other than at the
other
head of the table, opposite him and nearest the door, so we were both in positions of power. Alyse perched on the edge of the chair to Tremain's right, and Matt slouched into the seat on his left. Dee sat between me and Matt, with Emma across from her.

"Is this everyone you could find with complaints against me?" Tremain asked Dee with a forced smile. "From the way you'd been talking, I thought we'd need an auditorium to fit them all."

I intervened before anyone rose to the bait. "Dee and Emma are representing the local quilting community. They believe you and your merchandise present a risk to the quilt show's reputation. I'd like to hear your side of the story."

"Your friends—" He stabbed a pudgy finger first in Dee's direction and then in Emma's. "—are jealous of my success. That's why they want to keep me out of their quilt show. It has nothing to do with my merchandise."

I'd once been so used to the irritation and stress of negotiations I hadn't even noticed it. Now I had to be more careful so I could disengage before I passed out. I kept my voice calm, even as my pulse sped up. "So it's not true you've been misrepresenting the age, and therefore the value, of the quilts you sell? I'm willing to believe mistakes might have happened, without any blame being assigned, but we need to take steps to prevent future issues."

"There's nothing to prevent," he said. "I haven't made any mistakes. It's defamation to suggest otherwise. I'm going to sue everyone in the guild for everything they've got unless I get an apology right this minute."

I hated it when people played lawyer without having the license to back them up, but I just took a calming breath and fought the urge to explain all the technical ways he was wrong about defamation law.

Tremain didn't have any such limits on his irritation. He pointed at Matt. "And I expect this so-called reporter to retract everything he's ever said about me."

"I once called you a successful businessman," Matt said. "I'd be glad to retract that statement."

Tremain glared at me. "Why did you bring him anyway? He's not part of the quilt guild."

I hadn't brought him, but I was starting to be glad he was here. His gleeful provocation of Tremain was just the dose of humor I needed to keep the lightheadedness I was starting to feel from getting any worse. "Mr. Viera is here now, and we'll all have to make the most of it. Unless, of course, there's something you don't want the public to know."

"He's a lying freak." Tremain's face flushed, and he somehow managed to find the space under the table to stamp his foot. "I shouldn't have to put up with people like him."

"You mean, people who tell you the truth?" Matt said.

Tremain looked like he was going to have a heart attack on the spot. He kept making gasping sounds while his lips moved as if he were testing out snarky come-backs. I couldn't decide whether to slap him or call 9-1-1.