Stitches In Time (13 page)

Rachel started to speak. Before she could get the first word out, Adam hurried on. "As for why I should do such an idiotic thing—that's what you were going to ask, wasn't it?—the police don't worry a lot about motive. They've seen too many people do too many bizarre things for inadequate or irrational reasons. Could be I resent your presence here, when I had expected to be alone—free to loot the place or throw wild parties or entertain the low-life of Leesburg. Could be I'm madly in love with Cheryl, and wildly jealous of Tony. Or vice versa."

"Could be you're crazy."

"That too. And don't forget the interesting fact that the dogs didn't bark till I showed up. I was here and so far there's no concrete evidence that anybody else was here. In short," Adam said, looking idiotically pleased, "I am a logical suspect."

"In short my foot," Rachel snapped. "Did Tom tell you all that?"

"Of course not. You don't tell suspects you suspect them."

"So he went off leaving me at the mercy of a demented witch?"

"Warlock," Adam said. "Although some nonsexist groups do use the word
witch
for male and female participants. He's just considering all the possibilities, as is his duly. He doesn't really believe it."

"Neither do I. And 1 don't believe the idea ever entered Tom's head! You're the one who has too much imagination. If you think you can scare me—"

"Scare you?" Adam's jaw dropped. "You're a sensible, adult female and a scholar; I assumed you'd see the flaws in that theory even if I hadn't pointed them out."

Rachel didn't know whether to be furious or flattered. He hadn't spared her tender female feelings, any more than he would have minced words with another man. How could she complain about that?

"Forget it," she said ungraciously. "Come out of the shop,
I
want to lock up. You don't see any of the cats, do you?"

"No." He followed her toward the rear door. "
I
suggest we keep it locked and use the side door from now on. Is there any reason why you have to go into the shop for the next few days?"

"I guess not. The things I should be working on are in the workroom."

"Which is where?"

"That door." Rachel pointed, adding, "The one Figgin is staring at.
I
swear, that damned animal has learned how to teleport himself. I thought
I
shut him in the kitchen."

"He materialized on my bed this morning." Adam picked up the cat, which had been sitting absolutely still except for its twitching tail, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on
the workroom door. As soon as he lifted it, it began to kick and complain. Adam tightened his grip. "Cut it out, you monster. What does he want in there?"

"In," Rachel said. "Just
in.
It's forbidden territory, like the shop. The animals could damage the garments, and there are some dangerous substances in the workroom."

Adam opened the door of the family room and propelled a protesting Figgin through it. "Is the stolen merchandise in the workroom?"

"Yes."

"Can I have a look?"

"Why?"

"Why not?"

There was no reason why he shouldn't. Rachel shrugged, opened the door, and turned on the light.

Adam stood in the doorway, his eyes moving around the room. "Quite an elaborate arrangement."

"What did you expect?"

"A rocking chair and a sewing basket,
I
guess." Adam grinned. "What's all this stuff for? And where are those dangerous chemicals you mentioned?"

Enjoying the opportunity to monopolize the conversation for once, Rachel unlocked the cupboard above the stainless steel sinks and gave him a brief lecture. "Even common household cleaning materials can be dangerous when taken internally or combined with other substances, and some of them, like dry-cleaning solvents, are highly flammable. There have been cases of fanatical housecleaners being knocked out by breathing a mixture of ammonia and bleach. The fumes are deadly."

"You've got an outside vent and exhaust, I see."

"Cheryl believes in being extra careful. That's why she keeps this cupboard locked, so the kids and the pets can't get into it. The vent also helps control the humidity. Mold and mildew can ruin a garment."

"Very professional." Adam picked up a can of insect spray. "Fleas?"

"No, moths and silverfish. Everything that comes in, especially from Kara's auctions and flea markets, is inspected and, if necessary, treated, before it's brought into the shop. The darned insects spread like crazy. Cheryl usually puts suspect garments into an airtight container with the insecticide, and leaves it for a couple of weeks. Don't touch that," she added sharply, as Adam leaned over to inspect the quilt she had left spread across the table.

"Evidence?"

"It's one of the stolen pieces, yes. The others are here."

She displayed them. Adam gave them only a cursory glance before returning to the table and the album quilt.

"I don't understand what all the fuss is about. They're just scraps of cloth. And this one is dirty. Except for ... You cleaned this part?"

"Just brushed it." She stood with hands tightly clasped, fighting the urge to pull him away.

"Just brushed it? I wish my laundry would respond so well to a simple brushing. Save me a bundle on laundromats and cleaning. It's kind of pretty, I guess—if you like pretty. But diamonds and rubies it ain't."

"It's quite valuable."

"I'll have to take your word for it. Well, how about lunch? I'll cook."

"I'm not hungry."

"Spaghetti? I make a mean marinara sauce."

She got him out of the room finally, and at once set to work. It was already after noon. She would have to hurry. Tom hadn't said when he expected to bring the murdered woman's niece to identify the quilts.

Later the phone rang. Rachel ignored it. A few minutes later Adam knocked at the door. "Cheryl wants to talk to you."

Rachel had locked the door. She went on working. "I'm in the middle of something,
I
can't stop now. Tell her I'll call back."

Adam went away. The phone rang again; with a murmured curse, Rachel unplugged it. She was working at top speed, with a recklessness Cheryl would have deplored, but without visible damage to the quilt. In her haste she didn't pause to examine the results of her labors, getting only hasty impressions of unusual and exquisite images— bluebirds nesting, a spray of roses, paired hearts pierced by an arrow feathered with stitches fine as hair . . .

Hair soft as
yellow silk slipped
through
the bristles of the brush as it moved in
rhythmic strokes
.
Her eyes were fixed on the mirror and on the other face it reflected.

"What else did you expect?" Her delicate, arched eyebrows rose in
mocking
inquiry
.
"Did you think I wouldn't put a stop to it?"

"A stop to... Then you knew."

"Of
course
I
did." She sounded surprised, as if the answer should have been
obvious.
"1 know
everything
that happens here. There was no reason for me to interfere then. After all, he wasn't the first, now was he?"

"You can't blame me for that! My Lord, I never wanted
—"

"Blame?" Her laughter was light and indifferent. "Men have different needs. It was his right. But you wanted this, didn't you? You got what you wanted. Now I want it, and 1 don't share with anyone. Especially the likes of you."

Rachel hung the quilt over a drying rack and got out the camera—not the Polaroid Cheryl sometimes used, but the expensive thirty-five millimeter. After taking close-ups of each square in turn, she finished the roll with several overall views. She took the film out and put it in her pocket before replacing it with an unused roll.

The feeling of frantic haste, as if some enemy were in hot pursuit and closing in, began to diminish, and her taut muscles relaxed, leaving her weak-kneed and exhausted. A wave of dizziness swept over her and her vision blurred. Blinking, she focused on the clock. Almost three o'clock! Where had the time gone?

Adam was in the family roam. "You look sort of green
around the gills," he remarked tactlessly. "Have something to eat before Kara and the fuzz get here."

The words made no impression at first; she was too outraged at what she saw. Seated in front of her word processor, Adam was pounding energetically at the keyboard, using the clumsy-looking but effective four-fingered method of an amateur typist.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

"Writing a letter.
I
have to get it off right away and I haven't unpacked my stuff yet.
I
didn't think you'd mind ..." His voice trailed off into silence as it dawned on him that she did mind. In a misguided attempt to improve matters he added, "
I
didn't look at any of your personal files, just your thesis notes.
I
think you may be onto something."

"Do you?"

His smile faded. "What's the matter?"

"Does the word
private
mean anything to you?"

"Well, sure.
I
said, I didn't look at anything except your
notes. Where'd you get that stuff about coded messages in quilts? I ran into a similar case in Guatemala."

"I thought you had been in ... Never mind, I don't care where you've been." Rachel looked over his shoulder. Adam obligingly leaned back so she could see the screen. "My dear Rosamund," the letter began. "How are you? I am fine. The weather is cold. Snow is predicted for ..."

"I haven't finished it," Adam explained.

"So I see." Yelling at him would have been as ineffectual as hitting a rock with a feather duster. Rosamund must be the girlfriend, question mark, Cheryl had mentioned. If that was the sort of letter he wrote the love of his life, it was no wonder he wasn't concerned about privacy.

"Did you say Kara is coming? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just did." Adam resumed typing.

"Before this. Why is she coming?"

"She wants to meet the grand-niece. Cheryl called her—Tom called her—everybody's been calling everybody," he added. "Including you. You told me you were busy, so I didn't interrupt you."

"Considerate of you."

"I made a pot of coffee."

"You didn't put the peanut butter away." It was on the counter, open, with a knife protruding from it.

"I thought you might prefer it to spaghetti," Adam said. "In view of the fact that there isn't time for a proper meal before our guests arrive."

Rachel wasn't in the mood for spaghetti or peanut butter, but she decided she had better eat something, so she spread some of the latter on a piece of bread, folded it over, and leaned against the counter while she ate. His tongue protruding with the effort of composition, Adam rattled off a few more sentences, let out a long "whew" and punched the print key.

"That's that. Maybe I should run to the store and get some cookies for our company."

"There's a bag of them in the cupboard."

"Not anymore. I ate 'em." He started to slip into his jacket.

"You said they'd be here any minute," Rachel pointed out. "Besides, this isn't a social occasion."

"Strictly speaking, that is correct, but even business meetings can be facilitated by a display of social—" The dogs began to bark and Adam said brightly, "Somebody's here."

The new arrival was Kara. Shedding her coat, she tossed it carelessly over a chair and fixed Rachel with a cold stare. One of the cats headed for the trailing folds of mink and was about to claw them into a comfortable nest when Rachel rescued the coat.

"I'll hang it up."

"It's not valuable," Kara said. "
I
picked it up at an auction. Don't try to distract me, Rachel, I'm going to bawl you out. Why didn't you tell me?"

Rachel didn't ask what she meant. She had had time to reflect on her mistake, and wonder why on earth she hadn't reported immediately to Kara. As an employee, she had assumed a responsibility she had no right to assume. As a guest—an unwanted guest at that—she had been guilty of a breach of basic good manners. Since there was no reasonable excuse for her behavior, she remained silent.

"After all, I am one of the owners of this establishment," Kara went on. "You ought to have contacted me and let me deal with the police. Your involvement in this very unpleasant situation is a direct consequence of your employment here, and although we may not be legally responsible for your safety, it is a matter of concern to us."

She sounded more angry than concerned, and resentment replaced Rachel's feeling of guilt. "I'm sorry," she said stiffly.