Four-Patch of Trouble (27 page)

I took a deep breath, and my head cleared slightly, just enough to realize that no one actually knew I was at the museum. The woman at the ticket counter did, but I'd promised to be gone by closing time, and she was busy enough to not notice whether I'd left. I hadn't told anyone else that I was coming here since I hadn't wanted to create any more unrealistic expectations about what I could do to help Gil.

No, wait. There was one person who knew I was here: Stefan. Unfortunately, he wouldn't notice I was missing until the quilt show luncheon tomorrow.

Nancy waved her gun again.

I needed more time. "Just give me a minute, and then we can leave."

She gave a huff of frustration but didn't make any more threatening moves.

I focused on my breathing until my head cleared enough to consider my options. Even if I were at full capacity, I couldn't outrun a bullet. I couldn't even risk trying to overpower her. The woman was small, but she had to be strong if she'd killed Tremain with nothing but a quilt.

I cast about for something to distract Nancy. "I'm surprised Tremain didn't just give you your money back. He had more to lose than you did. You could have gotten him cut off from the political circles where he liked to mingle."

"I'm not stupid. I tried that. I told him I was taking the real antique in exchange for the fake and if he said one word about what had happened, I'd make sure no one at the statehouse ever took his calls. I could have done it too. If I asked my husband's friends' staff members to lose someone's messages, they'd make sure the calls never got through to their bosses."

That would have hurt Tremain badly. "You didn't need to kill him."

"He deserved it." Nancy's voice revealed only contempt without a shred of remorse. "When I threatened to cut him off from his idols, he started screaming. No one treats me like that. I only threw the quilt on top of him to shut him up, but it didn't work. He screamed right through it, saying he'd have me arrested if I so much as looked at the real quilt."

"And that's when you killed him?"

"It was his own fault. I pushed him out of my way so I could leave to get my quilt, the one I was supposed to have, but he came after me. I finally gathered the ends of the worthless quilt and used it as leverage to knock his head against the wall paneling. I was just trying to shut him up. It worked too. He finally stopped yelling at me and slid to the floor."

The reproduction quilt had been Tremain's undoing in more ways than one. If it had been a real antique, the fibers would have been too fragile for Nancy to use as a weapon. It would have torn, rather than giving Nancy the leverage to kill Tremain.

"Why didn't you take the real quilt then?"

"I was going to, but then I heard someone at the back door, and I figured Alyse was returning from her cigarette break, so I ran out the front before she came in."

Too bad Stefan had been hiding from Matt instead of being his usual nosy self, watching out his window. It would have saved everyone so much trouble if he'd seen Nancy leaving Monograms then.

"How'd you get back into the shop to steal the real antique?"

"A key was still in the front door when I left," Nancy said. "I grabbed it on my way out. I knew I'd have to come back for the real quilt, and I wasn't letting a stupid lock get in my way. I'd paid good money for that quilt, and I wasn't going to let it go, even if I couldn't get any real political mileage out of it. It is a beautiful work of art, after all, and no one would ever need to know where it came from. Lots of old quilts are missing their provenance, so all I had to do was wait until everyone forgot about Tremain's frauds, and then I could sell it for a nice profit. After everything I did to get that quilt, I deserved it."

I finally had the confession Wolfe had challenged me to get, but I had no way to let him know.

"It's time to go now," Nancy said. "I've got commitments. If you don't want to do this the easy way, we'll just have to do it here. It's my office now, and I get to say who comes in and out. I'll just tell everyone I'd rather work elsewhere because it breaks my heart to work in an office that should have been occupied by Gil, and I'm going to have the place completely gutted and redecorated for our new director. I'll have plenty of time to come back another day and clean up the blood enough that the demolition crew won't notice it. They wouldn't have any reason to inspect the stains as closely as a forensics team would."

So much for counting on Nancy's unwillingness to leave evidence of a murder here in the museum. Time for a new plan. My phone was out of reach on Gil's desk, and the desk phone was even farther away. Nancy could kill me before I could grab either one and dial the three necessary digits.

What about fire alarms? I couldn't recall seeing any in the corridor outside the office, but I was certain the rest of the museum had them, along with regular security stations.

Security. That was the answer.

All I had to do was trigger one of the panic buttons Gil had mentioned. There was probably one in here behind the desk, but I didn't know where exactly. The only ones I knew about for sure were in the archive room and at the ticket desk. I couldn't think of a reason to go to the archives, but we had to go through the lobby and past the ticket desk to leave the museum. The lobby would also be a good place to stall again. It would be harder for Nancy to hide any bloodstains there, so she might at least hesitate before pulling the trigger, giving me a chance to escape.

"I think I can walk now." I didn't have to fake my shakiness as I stood and headed out into the corridor. To cover my search for fire alarms or security boxes as we walked, I said, "The woman at the ticket desk knows I was in your office. When I go missing, she'll tell the police, and they'll question you."

"She won't be a problem," Nancy said curtly. "I can take care of her."

"The way you took care of Tremain?"

Nancy didn't answer, her silence serving as an admission. There was a growing darkness around the edges of my vision, threatening an imminent loss of consciousness. I took a deep breath, determined not to pass out now, not with the ticket taker's life on the line too. I had to fight the adrenaline-fueled urge to hyperventilate, and as we went down the stairs, I concentrated on the slow, deep breathing I'd been practicing since my diagnosis. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

I panted.

No, no, not like that. Slow and deep.

I tried again, slowing my breathing, even though my lungs were screaming that they needed more air, more air, more air. Now, now, now.

At the bottom of the stairs, I kept my walking pace steady, trying not to signal my intent as we approached the ticket desk. The woman was gone, so at least I didn't have to worry about her getting caught in the cross fire.

Where would the button be? Back where the ticket seller sat, no doubt. I pretended to stumble and flopped across the desktop as if I'd passed out on it, the way I feared I might do for real. Trying not to be obvious about it, I desperately ran my fingers beneath the edge of the desktop. I hit something, but it was just some sort of structural support. I remained slumped there, my visible body still, but my hidden fingers racing as fast as my pulse.

"Cut it out," Nancy said. "I know you're faking it."

Sirens shrieked, and for a moment, my foggy brain thought I'd pressed the panic button without realizing it.

No, the sounds were outside and were coming toward the museum. Police sirens? Had I hit a silent alarm somewhere along the way?

"Don't move." Nancy snapped. "Just stay there and don't say anything. One sound and I'll shoot." Her heels clicked across the lobby.

I continued my frantic search for the panic button. Finally, my fingers hit something plastic and ergonomically shaped to match the pad of a finger.

Footsteps raced up the exterior steps to the main entrance, and there was a pounding on the front doors. "Police. Open up."

Nancy kept the gun trained on me as she continued to the security guard's desk, presumably to check the monitor for the cameras trained on the entrance. "I mean it," she whispered. "Don't make a sound."

The police probably wouldn't use force and come inside just because no one answered the door after hours. If I screamed, they might have reasonable cause to break down the door, but probably not before Nancy killed me.

The voice outside repeated its demand for entrance.

I figured I only had a couple of seconds more before the officer left. I took one last deep breath, gathered what energy I could find, and pressed what I hoped was the panic button. An unholy wailing siren pierced the air, and I launched myself under the dubious protection of the desk.

A moment later, the front doors were forced open. Fred Fields ran inside with his gun drawn and tackled the frozen Nancy Grant.

I knew I should slide out from under the desk and say something, but it all seemed too complicated. Instead, I simply curled up on my side, pillowing my head on my arm before I gave in to the demands of my nervous system and passed out.

The rest of my evening was spent at the emergency room being fussed over by Dee and Lindsay, then being questioned by Detective Bud Ohlsen and Richie Faria. I didn't have time to write out my speech then or even the next morning before leaving for The Clip and Sip, where I'd lucked into a last-minute appointment for help in making myself presentable for the quilt show.

Some of my nervousness over the prospect of ad-libbing the speech dissipated with the warm welcome at the quilt show. Everyone complimented me on my quilted messenger bag and my new upswept hairdo, and no one seemed to notice my dull navy pants suit, more suitable for a courtroom than this colorful community.

I was seated at the head table with Dee and Emma and half a dozen other members of the local quilt guild. Dessert had just been served, and Emma, looking a little tired but otherwise recovered from her ordeal in custody, leaned over to whisper something to Dee, who got up and headed for the podium at the center of the stage. Emma glared at the audience, willing them into silence. By the time Dee was ready to introduce me, the room was quiet except for the occasional clink of dishes being removed by the servers.

Public speaking had never made me nervous, but I was a little intimidated by the fact that it looked like at least half the residents of Danger Cove, as well as dozens of quilters visiting from out of town, were waiting to hear what I had to say. Even the famous local author, Elizabeth Ashby, had come to the luncheon, sitting dead center in the front row of tables. Beside her was a woman I'd been told was the new owner of the independent bookstore here in Danger Cove.

I did a final scan of the audience, like I'd always done with a jury before the closing statement to see who was open to hearing from me and who would need extra cajoling. After all the preparation, it always came down to the emotional connection between the speaker and the audience. I had to hope that would be enough today. My speech was nothing more than an outline, but I knew what I wanted to say, and I thought the audience would want to hear it.

Matt was at a table a little to my right, wearing what was apparently his "formal" pair of cargo pants. They were black, worn with a white sports shirt and a gray blazer that, now that I knew about his wealth and background, I was fairly sure had cost more than I used to earn in an average month as a trial lawyer. He caught me looking at him and used hand gestures to let me know he planned to call me after the show.

I owed Matt more than just a tour of the bank vault in my home now. I'd found out from Fred Fields last night that Matt was the one who'd sent the police to the museum. He'd been looking through some files on his smartphone and found the picture he'd taken of a woman coming out of Monograms when we were on our way into the meeting with Tremain. We'd all forgotten about her, since she'd been gone well before Tremain was killed. But Matt had recognized her, and it made him curious about why she'd lied about not knowing Tremain and about having been halfway across the district at the time of the murder.

Matt had followed up with Lindsay, who'd double-checked the original notes for the list of Tremain's clients. Lindsay had been shocked to find that she'd missed three names that should have been on the list, including Nancy's. Matt had immediately realized Nancy had to be the politically connected person he'd been seeking, the one who'd been scammed by Tremain and therefore had a motive to kill him. When I didn't answer Matt's call, he'd gone to Stefan's gallery, where he'd learned that I'd gone to the museum to question Nancy. Matt had then called the police, arriving at the museum himself just in time to hear that I'd passed out but was otherwise unharmed.

Lindsay was seated at the same table with Matt, wearing a pair of eyeglasses at least three years out of style. She looked through the lenses defiantly though. She'd come to my house this morning to apologize profusely for the mistake she'd made. She'd confessed that the vast majority of her mistakes the last two years at the law office, and then again this week while compiling Tremain's list, came from her refusal to wear glasses. She hadn't realized until my life was endangered just how serious the consequences could be for her mistakes.

I couldn't blame Lindsay for being in denial. It had taken several syncope episodes before I'd been willing to seek treatment, and even after the diagnosis, I'd been reluctant to admit I needed to make certain lifestyle changes.

Lindsay appeared to have embraced her glasses more fully than I'd embraced my own diagnosis. It wouldn't take much to convince Veronica that Lindsay was finally ready to commit to her work at the law office, with a new pair of glasses and a better understanding of the consequences of her actions both firmly in place.

On the other side of the room, also at a front table, were Gil and all of the nonhomicidal members of the museum's board of directors. In my statement to the police and in an exclusive phone interview with Matt, I'd managed to make it clear that Gil and the board—other than Nancy, of course—had been instrumental in uncovering Tremain's frauds and then identifying his killer. The board members had pushed each other out of the way in their rush to be the first to let me know they'd always respected Gil and were thrilled to reinstate her. They were all looking forward to working with me in the future as we went forward with Gil's quilt acquisition program, starting with Stefan's four-patch.