Four-Patch of Trouble (3 page)

Tremain turned to open the door for me, apparently mistaking me for a customer, but he was unable to maneuver in the tight space. "Move back, ladies. You're trespassing."

None of the protestors moved except to shake their signs even harder. Apparently everyone had chosen her own individual slogan, and now they were all trying to out-shout each other. They couldn't hear Tremain, probably wouldn't even hear the police siren when the cruiser arrived. If it arrived. I had to hope the dispatcher would make it a low priority, but there weren't many high-priority calls in Danger Cove, so there might not be anything more important for officers to respond to.

"Move," Tremain shouted and was ignored once again.

"You can't do this to me." He stomped one foot, and his face turned red, like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum in a short but massive fifty-year-old body.

I caught Emma's attention and gestured for her to move back slightly with Dee. They did, taking the other protestors with them far enough that Tremain was able to open the door and invite me inside with an exaggeratedly polite flourish of his pudgy hand.

Once we were both inside, he turned a key in the deadlock on the glass front door to keep out the protestors, although it did little to muffle the sound of their shouts.

"I'm Keely Fairchild. I believe you're expecting me and the leaders of the local quilt guild."

"The woman who called to set up the meeting didn't say anything about a picket line," Tremain said in a whiney tone. At least the redness of his face was fading. "I thought we were going to have a nice, civil conversation among people who share a common interest in quilts."

"There does seem to have been a bit of a miscommunication. If you'll give me a minute with Dee and Emma, I think I can straighten everything out. While I do that, perhaps you'd like to let the police know the situation is under control. You wouldn't want to waste their time and have them ignore you when you really need help."

"No one ignores Randall J. Tremain." He turned the key to unlock the front door. "But I'm a reasonable man. I'll call off the cops if you'll call off the protestors."

I nodded, and Tremain headed toward the back of the shop, presumably to make good on his promise. I pushed the front door open and called for Dee and Emma to join me inside. While I waited for them to untangle themselves from their posse, I took a peek at the shop's merchandise.

As the name suggested, the offerings were limited to items that could be monogrammed. Most were textiles of some sort: towels, pillowcases, bathrobes, and finally my area of expertise—quilts. In addition, there were some lovely handcrafted wooden and glass display cases filled with pieces of antique silver. Neatly printed cards described the history of silver mining in the Pacific Northwest and its importance in the days of the Spokane Stock Exchange.

Most of the quilts were draped over the backs of chairs or stacked in open cupboards, but there was one hanging on the back wall in a dimly lit corner. The poor lighting wasn't good for drawing in customers, but as an appraiser who'd seen the damage sunlight could do to a quilt, I had to respect the decision to keep what looked like a potentially valuable quilt out of direct sunshine.

I didn't have time to take a close look at it now, but I wanted to check it out after the meeting. At least at first glance it had a great deal in common with the description of the quilt the museum wanted me to appraise: a simple four-patch design, old, and in remarkably good condition.

At the sound of the door closing behind me, I turned to face Dee and Emma.

"Sorry we took so long," Emma said. "Janiece Jordan didn't want to leave, and you know how stubborn she can be."

I didn't, of course. Most of the residents of Danger Cove had lived here all their lives, so they couldn't fathom that anyone might not know all their friends. I knew an Alex Jordan, who'd done the renovation work on my home, and I knew she had a grandmother named Janiece, since it had been impressed on me that I should never call her
Janice
, but I'd never had the opportunity to call her anything or to observe her level of stubbornness, since we'd never met.

I didn't bother to explain, though, because I had a more pressing concern. Dee and Emma had brought another person inside with them. I'd seen him earlier, on the outskirts of the picket line, not quite a part of the group but observing it. He was over six feet tall, maybe five years younger than I was, with shaggy dark hair and a face that was hard to look away from, even for me, and I'd never been impressed by good looks. He didn't seem to care about his appearance either. I had no aspirations whatsoever to becoming a fashionista, but even I knew his sport shirt's shade of yellow was not a flattering color for anyone, and there were about twice the usual number of pockets on his cargo pants, almost as if in parody of the style, and both pieces had been worn dozens if not hundreds of times. And yet, despite everything wrong with the outfit, he looked surprisingly good in it. Some people really could wear anything and make it look like high fashion. I could wear high fashion, but despite my long legs, I made it look like the cheapest rags.

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 reporter 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 e-mail 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. I turned to Dee to say, "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 canceled 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, mug shots, 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."

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 was 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 not much interested in 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 the quilting 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 coconspirators are just spouting lies about me. She values her privacy, and I'm sure she isn't interested in talking to muckrakers."