Tree of Life and Death (7 page)

Matt didn't seem particularly upset about being sent away from the crime scene to wait with me and the other potential witnesses. His more hard-news colleagues would have been frantic, wanting to get the scoop, but he didn't even look back over his shoulder as he went inside.

We walked up the stairs in silence, the reality of what had happened settling on me. We'd been having a mostly pleasant holiday event filled with the generosity and cheer of the season, until it had suddenly been overshadowed by death and the reminder that "peace on earth and goodwill toward men" was as much of an unachievable goal as my own pursuit of perfection.

At the top of the stairs, Matt continued on to the boardroom to the right, while I turned left. I passed the restroom and the employees' break room on the way to Gil's office suite to check on Stefan and Sunny.

Gil was in the outer waiting room, with her back to me, staring thoughtfully at her own private office's closed door.

"How are they?" I asked her.

She started and turned around. "As well as can be expected, I suppose."

"How about you? You look…" I was used to Gil being essentially unfazeable, capable of handling any emergency the museum or, more often, its board of directors threw at her. I'd only seen her this upset once before, back when she'd been wrongfully ousted from her job here. And she wasn't singing. That was never good. "You look frazzled."

She smiled sadly. "That's exactly how I feel. I keep thinking I should be doing something to fix the situation, but
how to deal with a murder at your workplace
was never on the syllabus in business school."

"Not at law school either," I said. "And it definitely wasn't part of the curriculum in my quilt appraisal training."

"I don't suppose it was. Everyone thinks quilters are sweet, cheerful souls whose only quirk is a harmless obsession with fabric and thread. They've obviously never seen quilters arguing with a judge at a show. Professional wrestlers could learn a lot from listening to competing quilters' trash talk."

"I'm sure the police will get everything sorted out quickly," I said. "I know Detective Bud Ohlsen, and he's good at what he does. As soon as he gets a look at the museum's security tapes, he'll have the case closed within a few hours."

Gil hummed a bit of "Blue Christmas" and then sighed. "I'm afraid it won't be that easy. Apparently some local kids have been competing to see how many security cameras they can knock out. They hit the museum a few days ago, and because it's happened everywhere in town this week, our security company has a backlog of work. The first appointment I could get to fix the cameras is next week. It shouldn't have been a big deal. We've never ever had any problems in the parking lot. The directors have even been complaining that the cameras are a waste of money, considering how safe Danger Cove is, especially here on Main Street. I guess that's one good thing that will come out of today's terrible events. I won't get any more hassles about the cameras. Except, of course, for being blamed for not fixing the broken ones fast enough."

"You just can't win, can you?"

She shook her head. "I'll worry about that later, once the scene's been cleared. For now, I need to concentrate on keeping everyone calm."

"They'll probably send a patrol cop or two upstairs to keep an eye on everyone," I said. "If it's Fred Fields, he's good with people. Richie Faria, not so much."

"Good to know," Gil said, pasting a determined smile on her face. "I'll take care of Faria if he becomes a problem. He can't be any harder to manage than my board members."

"I'll take on the really tricky job," I told her. "I'll make sure Dee doesn't provoke the cops."

*   *   *

From the doorway of the boardroom, I looked for Dee and Emma. They were still at their sewing machines, not stitching, but surrounded by quilt guild members looking to them for guidance. That could be a problem if Dee got some wild idea in her head.

I was about to go over and make good on my promise to Gil when I heard someone approaching from behind me. I turned to see the rookie officer, Richie Faria, coming to an abrupt stop to stare at me in surprise. He must not have noticed me earlier during his race to the crime scene.

We had met during the investigation of Randall Tremain's murder. Faria had only been on the Danger Cove police force for a year or two, but he was eager for advancement to the role of major crime detective, so he volunteered for any assignment that might give him that sort of experience. He was in his midtwenties, blond, and clean cut. He was also a few inches shorter than average, but with the kind of athletic build that world-class tennis players might envy. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he resumed walking toward me.

"Not you again." He held up his head. "No, don't tell me. I'm guessing you've solved the murder for us already, and we're just wasting our time following standard police procedure."

Faria had been quick to discount me the last time I'd dealt with him too, and apparently the fact that his skepticism had almost gotten me killed hadn't changed his attitude.

"I'm not any happier to be a witness to another death than you are to see me," I said. "We're both stuck here for the time being though."

"Just don't get any ideas about doing our jobs for us."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I lied. I'd never been any good at sitting back and waiting for others to take care of a problem. Matt's irreverent attitude must have rubbed off on me, because I couldn't help goading Faria a little. "I'll be here though, if you need any help."

He snorted and then glanced around the room, something he probably should have done before confronting me, to make sure there wasn't any trouble brewing. His gaze settled on Carl Quincy, who was seated at the first sewing machine table about ten feet from the entrance. His machine was turned off, and there were no quilt pieces on the table, just a few pins and a pair of Sunny's yellow-handled scissors. Carl was turned sideways in the seat, patting his dog and telling him he was a good boy.

Faria called over to Carl. "Hey, what are you doing here? You got a girlfriend now, and she dragged you along for the day?"

I could see the wheels turning in Carl's head. He hadn't been all that happy about his quilting skills being the center of attention earlier, even among the sympathetic women in the room, and he definitely wasn't ready to admit he enjoyed a traditionally female activity to someone who was sure to spread the news among all the members of the Danger Cove Police Department. Presumably, Carl didn't have a girlfriend, and he was constitutionally incapable of lying, or he'd have jumped on that explanation. I almost took pity on him, claiming myself as his girlfriend. I thought better of it though, since we were witnesses to a homicide, after all, and even a little white lie might come back to haunt both of us.

"None of your business," Carl finally managed in a gruff tone. "I don't owe rookies any explanation for where I go or who I'm with."

Faria shrugged. "Whatever. No need to get all huffy."

"Just do your job, officer."

Faria had already dismissed Carl from his thoughts and was headed over to where the more senior uniformed officer, Fred Fields, was at the conference table, staring sadly at the empty plates that had held an assortment of Christmas cookies earlier.

Dee and Emma were a safe distance from both officers, so I could take a minute or two to introduce myself to Carl. I went over to where he sat with his dog. "We haven't met. I'm Keely Fairchild. Not a quilter, but an appraiser. Dee and Emma have told me about what amazing work you do."

"Thanks." He blushed until he was almost the color of the Labradoodle.

"If you ever decide to get your quilts insured, they'll need to be appraised. I hope you'll give me a call. I'll get you a business card from my bag later, or you can ask Dee and Emma. They know how to reach me."

"I will."

"How's your dog coping with the chaos today?"

Carl's color was returning to normal, and he ruffled the dog's fur. "He's fine. He's a lot tougher than I am these days."

I could tell from Carl's tone just how frustrated he was at not being part of the action. I certainly knew the feeling. It didn't help that Faria had essentially just rubbed Carl's nose in the fact that he wasn't the powerful person he'd once been.

"You did a great job of getting the gawkers up here and keeping everyone calm. You made the responding officers' job a lot easier."

"Old habits die hard."

"You must have worked a lot of crime scenes over the course of your career," I said. "Perhaps you could tell me what's going to happen next. Starting with how soon we're going to be rid of Richie Faria."

Carl wrinkled his nose. "Not for quite a while. There are an awful lot of people to take statements from. The detective will want to create a timeline for what happened, and that means getting everyone's recollection, comparing the stories, then possibly going back and requestioning some of the witnesses if there are any discrepancies."

"Especially the ones who don't have alibis and could be the killer?"

"Mmm." He opened a pocket on the dog's vest and retrieved a biscuit. "They can't be sure it isn't one of us, so, yeah, they'll probably keep us all holed up here until they have at least a basic theory of the case."

"Even you?" I said.

"Especially me." Carl used hand gestures to have his dog sit, shake hands, and then lie down before handing over the treat. "I must have just missed the altercation between the victim and his killer. I didn't see anyone or hear anything unusual when I was out back, but I'd just come inside from walking Rusty, when the screams started. Bud Ohlsen's a thorough detective, and he won't give me any special treatment. He has to consider me a potential suspect since I don't have an alibi, and there were quite a few witnesses to my confrontation with the Miller kid this morning, which suggests I could have a motive."

"You were arguing, not getting physical."

"I'm not saying I killed the kid, just that, viewed objectively, I've got to be considered a suspect. Some of us—retired cops, I mean—never adjust to leaving the force, especially when it's for health reasons. Everyone knows I didn't want to retire, but between the diabetes and a spinal injury, I didn't trust myself to be able to back up a partner. Anyway, the joke is that old cops don't die, they just become security guards. But the real worry is that they become vigilantes."

"Why would a vigilante go after a kid like Alan Miller?"

"No reason I can see," Carl said. "I wasn't happy to see him here, because I'd rousted him more than a few times in the past. No juvie record, but he started acting out as soon as he graduated from high school. He's pretty well known to us, but we couldn't make anything stick. Nothing that was worth prosecuting anyway. Little stuff, mostly. Shoplifting, minor scuffles outside bars, that sort of thing. It could have just been that he hung out with a bad crowd. A few of his friends did end up doing some serious time while he skated free. Still, seeing him here, I was worried that he might make off with some of the tools that Sunny donated or perhaps something from the museum's archives down the hall."

The archives were secure behind passkeyed and alarmed doors, but Sunny's tools had been scattered everywhere in the boardroom. If Alan had stolen any of Sunny's donations, she might have noticed and confronted him about it in the parking lot. "Do you think he did take anything?"

"Not that I saw." Carl patted the dog thoughtfully. "Not even any of the refreshments, now that I think of it. Maybe he really was here for legitimate reasons."

"It'll be interesting to hear what the police found on his body."

"Anything he could fit in a pocket certainly wasn't worth dying for," Carl said, shaking his head. "Probably wasn't what got him killed either. More likely he was double-crossed by one of the hooligans he hangs out with. I should have escorted him out to the front sidewalk as soon as I recognized him."

"If you're right and he was killed by his supposed friends, getting him out of here wouldn't have changed anything."

"It might have," Carl said. "The least little thing can derail a crime. At least that's what we have to believe on the job, that we can make a difference by making it a little bit harder for the criminals. Sort of like the butterfly effect, where a tiny event in one corner of the planet can have huge effects halfway across the globe. If I'd handled Alan better, he might still be alive."

"No one can anticipate every possible consequence to his actions. There are too many variables. In fact, if Alan was killed by anyone other than the person coming to give him a ride, I might have been able to prevent it by insisting that Alan wait inside for his friend." I called on the tone of voice I'd once used to reassure nervous clients worried about taking the witness stand. "It wasn't your fault. You can't blame yourself."

Carl didn't seem any more convinced that he was free of responsibility for Alan's death than I was about my own lack of responsibility for the situation. I couldn't bring Alan back to life, but I could do my best to make sure the police found the person who had actually killed him.

Officer Faria was trotting around the room, confiscating all of Sunny's yellow-handled scissors from the various workstations, understandably uncomfortable being surrounded by all those sharp instruments in the aftermath of a stabbing. He was missing the real threat though. Apparently he hadn't figured out yet that the rotary cutters were like pizza cutters on steroids, with what amounted to circular razor blades in them, or he'd have collected them first.

Still, I was grateful that Faria's work took him away from Officer Fred Fields, so I could quiz him on what was going on outside without having to deal with Faria's condescension.

I knew Fred from the stress support group we both attended at the county hospital. He was about average height, and his uniform seemed to be a little bit tighter around the middle every time I saw him, since his favorite coping tool for stress was to indulge in sugary treats. Fred was in his mid-thirties, a seasoned officer, with no particular aspirations to rise through the ranks. He liked being on patrol where he felt like he was making a difference, stopping to chat with the local citizens. He took crimes personally, as if he alone were to blame for not having anticipated and prevented them, which led to his need for the stress support group meetings.