Four-Patch of Trouble (11 page)

"How long do you think Wolfe will wait before he forces the issue?"

"I don't know. Bud's a good detective, but he's a bit handicapped by having young Richie Faria assigned to him until the department can hire a new detective. They weren't prepared for when Bud's old partner retired unexpectedly, and now it's just Bud and Lester Marshall handling all the serious crimes," he explained. "You're lucky Bud's got the case. He'd much rather arrest the right person for the murder, not someone who'll get the charges dismissed within 24 hours. He'll follow up all the leads, but if it really was a random burglary gone wrong, there may not be anything to follow up."

That depressing news called for yet another cupcake.

"I'm sure he's doing the best he can, just like you are."

Fred stared sadly at the remains of the next-to-last cupcake. "I just want it solved. I won't rest easy until it is."

"I know what you mean." Poor Fred. I really did know only too well how it felt to assume responsibility for every bad thing that happened and the frustration of not being able to make things right. "But you'd better not set your expectations too high. We're both such dedicated worriers that neither of us
ever
rests easy."

*   *   *

Fred offered to give me a ride to the school if I wait until he replenished the box of cupcakes so he'd have something to bring home. He dropped me off a few minutes later, and I headed for the main entrance.

A school security guard stopped me just inside the front door. I explained why I was there, and he used his walkie-talkie to check with someone above him. A few minutes later, Lindsay came trotting down the hall toward us.

"It's okay," Lindsay said. "I know her. She's a friend of my grandmother's."

I signed the visitors' log and followed Lindsay down the deserted hallway. Only a few classrooms were occupied with summer programs.

"My grandmother and Emma are in the auditorium," Lindsay said. "They can't actually set anything up until first thing on Thursday. They're just getting everything checked in and lined up so it's all ready for the last-minute rush. The summer students don't use the stage, so Dee and Emma have established a war room there, with the quilts and hanging poles and exhibit tables. It's sort of amazing to see how the auditorium goes from an empty space to a gallery of quilts in the matter of a couple hours."

"Maybe next year I'll volunteer to help so I can see it for myself."

Lindsay glanced over at me. "Is that safe for you? It's fairly strenuous work."

"Exercise doesn't make me pass out. Which is too bad, in a way. It would be a lot easier to give up working out than it was to give up working."

"I'd hate if it I had to give up bell ringing," Lindsay said. "I could still do the handbells, I suppose. They don't weigh much. But it's just not the same experience as the big bells."

"Giving up your career, though, that doesn't bother you?"

"I'm not giving up my day job. Not really. Just for this week."

"Then what's happening at the office? I know the managing partner, remember, and she doesn't hand out personal time lightly. I also know you use every available nanosecond of your vacation time for bell-ringing events, so you don't have a full week of paid leave available to help your grandmother with a quilt show. You never took time off for it before, and from what I've seen of Emma, she could probably set up everything herself, single handedly, without breaking a sweat. It's nice of you to help, but they wouldn't want you to get fired for helping them."

"I'm not going to be fired for helping at the quilt show," Lindsay said. "I'm sort of on suspension this week."

My heart sank. I'd been afraid of something like that happening after I left the firm. "Suspension?"

"I keep making stupid mistakes." Lindsay sighed. "Typos, missing words, stuff mailed to incorrect addresses. That sort of thing. The final straw was when I was working on an appellate brief, and I forgot to change the type size from the large one I use for drafts to the smaller, standard one the court requires. The court rejected it and gave us 24 hours to fix it."

"You were lucky." The firm's senior partner, Veronica White, wouldn't have had any choice but to fire Lindsay otherwise, and I wasn't in a position to prevent it. Much as I wanted to help, Lindsay was going to have to do this on her own. All I could do was coach her from the sidelines. She needed to understand how serious the mistake was so she didn't do it again. "They didn't have to give you a chance at a do-over. They could have simply ruled against the firm's client."

"That's sort of what Veronica said. She called me into her office Friday and gave me a week to decide whether I wanted to pay attention to my work or pay attention to the help-wanted ads. I'm supposed to come up with an action plan for improving my work product by next Monday."

That was encouraging. "You've had four days to think about it. What have you come up with so far?"

"Not much." Lindsay let out a huff of frustration. "Okay, I've got nothing. It's not like I'm trying to make the mistakes. They just sort of happen."

I could understand both Lindsay's and the managing partner's frustration. Lindsay was bright, she was good with clients, and she had a cheerful personality, at least when she wasn't out on suspension. All she was lacking was the confidence and the commitment that would keep her from making so many careless mistakes. I just wished I knew how to help her.

"You know Veronica is right, and you can do better than you've done in the past."

Lindsay shrugged. "Maybe."

"Does your grandmother know about this suspension? She'd want you to be working on your action plan, not running errands for her." I remembered guiltily that some of Lindsay's projects in the last 24 hours had been for me, not for Dee. "And you definitely shouldn't be doing research for me."

"I sort of thought if I could do something hard while I was on suspension, and do it really well, with no mistakes at all, then it would prove to Veronica I'm not a screwup." Lindsay looked at me beseechingly. "Just tell me what you need me to do to help keep Dee and Emma out of trouble over the Tremain murder, and I'll do it. No mistakes. Not one. Not even a comma out of place."

We'd had a few discussions about how important commas could be, with courts deciding cases based on the placement of a comma or the lack thereof in contracts and legislation, but I hadn't thought Lindsay had actually been listening. My skepticism must have shown on my face.

"I know. I know," Lindsay said. "I didn't mean to be snarky. I'll watch the commas extra carefully from now on. I promise. Just give me something to do. Dee and Emma don't really need my help with the quilt show. Believe it or not, I'm actually much better with office work than anything else. Except maybe for bell ringing."

It wasn't a bad plan, actually, and it was something I could help with. The managing partner had always put more stock in actions than in words. Lindsay could kill two birds with one research project: collect the information that might help the police figure out who really killed Tremain, and at the same time compile a work portfolio to prove she could do her paralegal job at an acceptable level of accuracy.

"I could use some help with a couple of things." It might be useful to know the extent of the animosity between Stefan and Tremain. "For starters, I'd like to see the court documents in the case filed against Tremain by his rival across the street, Stefan Anderson. Get me the pleadings and anything else that's public record."

"How will that help?"

Mostly, it would give her an opportunity to show what a good researcher she was, but I didn't want her to know it was mostly an academic exercise. She needed to believe she was helping her grandmother. "I won't know what I'm looking for until I see it."

"All right." Lindsay pointed at the door at the end of the hallway. "Everyone's in there. Would you ask my grandmother to call me when she needs a ride home? I'll let you know when I've got everything on…um, what was the name again?"

"Stefan Anderson." I held on to my patience but couldn't resist teasing her a little. "Maybe writing things down should be part of your action plan. You could start wearing cargo pants, like Matt, and keep notepads in all the pockets."

"Ugh. Cargo pants." Lindsay dug her phone out of her jacket pocket and brought it practically up to her nose while she typed. "Stefan Anderson, right. With an
o
or an
e
at the end?"

"An
o
."

"I'll call you when I've got everything," she said, jogging away.

"Take your time." I'd seen signs in quilt shops, proclaiming that finished was better than perfect. That might well be true when it came to quilt making, but not for investigating a legal case. "Remember, perfect is more important than fast."

On the stage, Dee was sitting on a golden throne, presumably left over from some student production. Somehow, instead of looking ridiculous in furniture more than a few sizes too large, she made the chair look like it had been custom-made for her.

A parade of numbered storage bins—three columns wide, with each of the lead bins already packed onto a handcart—was lined up at the far end of the stage directly in front of a ramp down to the auditorium floor. All they needed was a drum major—I pictured Emma in a band uniform—to lead them off the stage, and then Dee could follow the bins, carried on her throne by guild minions, like a small-town celebrity waving from a parade float.

Emma came up behind me. "Dee was worried about you. She was planning to kidnap a guild member who's a doctor and force her to make a house call if we didn't hear from you today. Lindsay said you've been working too hard."

"I'm fine. What about you and Dee? You both had a lot to deal with, even before Tremain's murder. How are you holding up?"

"Dee's still irritated that Tremain went and got himself killed before we could prove he was a cheat. Other than that, she's her usual self. The only one who's a wreck is Matt."

"Matt Viera? I saw him earlier, and he seemed fine."

"That man always looks fine," Emma said. "I'm not too old to notice that. But what I meant was he's worried about something. He got a message from one of his colleagues about the murder investigation and took off like a shopper at the front of the line when the doors open at Keepsake Quilting's annual sale."

I'd visited the popular quilt shop in New Hampshire to see some miniature quilts on display last summer. I wasn't there during the annual sale, but even so I'd noticed how purposeful many of the shoppers were, hunting down the perfect fabric. I could imagine how fast they'd have moved if their prey was not only beautiful but also on sale.

The only thing I couldn't quite imagine was Matt moving quickly for anything. Even when he'd raced out to check on Alyse after she'd screamed yesterday, he'd still given the impression of ambling down the hallway. Whatever had inspired him today to move fast enough that Emma noticed his speed, it had to have been serious.

"What did his colleague tell him?"

"Matt didn't say." Emma caught the upper arm of an uncertain-looking woman who seemed vaguely familiar, probably from yesterday's protest, and redirected her and the numbered bin she was carrying to the end of the parade. "He asked me to tell you he's following up on a lead, and he's counting on you to keep your friend from doing anything drastic. Who's your friend?"

Matt was probably referring to the prosecutor, being cryptic so as not to worry Dee or Emma. "He was kidding. No one's going to do anything drastic." At least, I hoped not, but against the backdrop of Matt deigning to sprint, it was worrisome that he felt the need to warn me about Wolfe. I still needed to go talk to the detective, and Wolfe's office was on the way. I ought to stop in and see him first, just to make sure he wasn't, as Matt had said, doing anything drastic.

The only other woman on the stage who was under the age of forty came over to announce, "Dee wants to talk to you."

Emma answered. "Please tell her I'll be right there."

"Not you." The young woman nodded at me. "Her. Although you can come too, if you're not busy. But Dee wants to see your friend now. I'm supposed to be getting drinks. Do you want anything?"

I declined, and Emma thumped her quilted fanny pack to demonstrate she had her own bottle of water inside, so the young woman raced off on her errand.

I approached the throne and dropped to one knee. "All hail, Queen Dee."

"Oh, do get up," Dee said. "You're no use to anyone with a sore knee."

I stood with a grateful smile. The stage floor was harder than it looked.

Emma gestured for one of the assorted minions to bring her a straight-backed chair and place it next to Dee's right arm. She offered it to me before moving to stand on the other side of Dee's throne, where she could lend her support and still keep an eye on the women working all around us.

"Are you here to help us set up?" Dee said.

I sank into my much-less grand seat. "I don't have time right now, but you can sign me up to help next year. I just came by to make sure you're both okay after the events of yesterday."

"We're fine," Dee said. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"Most people are traumatized by death."

"I'm too old to worry about dying," Dee said. "At least when it happens to other people."

"I also wanted to be sure you've made arrangements to talk to a criminal defense lawyer. This could get serious."

Dee glanced at Emma before saying, "We don't need no stinkin' lawyer. Except you, of course. We trust you to take care of us."

"I don't do criminal work."

"Just until after the quilt show," Emma pleaded. "We'll talk to whoever you recommend on Monday, but we don't have time until then."

It was as futile to argue with them as it would have been to argue with a real monarch on a solid-gold throne, back in the days when the king's—or queen's—word was viewed as the word of God.

"I'll do what I can." I wasn't optimistic. Not without a better suspect to offer Wolfe than the landlord. Maybe Lindsay would dig something up about Tremain's other victims. That might not impress Wolfe either, unless I could convince him just how much money was involved. "I was wondering about something. How much would it have cost Tremain to make his fake quilts?"