Stitches in Time, page 6
“I’ll take it,” she said lightly, avoiding Tony’s eyes. “On time, of course. Five bucks a week for the rest of my natural life.”
By the time the guests began to arrive, things were more or less under control. The family room had been cleaned and swept, the animals banished to an upstairs room, and the buffet table covered with a lavish spread, turkey and ham and roast beef and all the accoutrements, salads and sauces and rolls. And cookies.
Cheryl hadn’t forgotten a single cliché, not even the sprigs of mistletoe hung in strategic places. If any of the guests were inclined toward cynicism—and Rachel suspected at least one of them was—they kept their feelings to themselves. Everyone entered into the Dickensian spirit of the festivities, delivering and receiving brightly wrapped gifts, bellowing out carols, helping to decorate the tree, stuffing themselves with food, exchanging hugs and kisses and compliments.
While the others were gathered around the piano singing, Rachel retreated to a quiet corner to catch her breath. It had been a long time since she had been part of such a large, boisterous group and her brain was overflowing with names she would never remember—or have cause to remember. Only two of the people she had met had made a permanent impression: one was a stocky young man with steady brown eyes, whom Tony had introduced as one of his subordinates. “He’ll keep an eye on you and the shop while I’m gone, Rachel.”
Tom’s expression indicated that the assignment was not unwelcome. “Sorry to say I’ve drawn a blank so far. But we’ll track him down, don’t worry. Call if anything at all happens.”
The other man was sitting by himself on a sofa by the fire. If he was alone it was by choice; she had never seen anyone look so at ease, so comfortable with himself and his surroundings. He was a big man, heavily built and unbowed by age, though only a few streaks of the original carrot-red remained in his thick gray hair. Like most of the others he was casually dressed, in jeans and a wool shirt, and his face was as weathered as that of a farmer. The lines were deeply incised, and not all of them were lines of affability. He must scowl quite a lot, Rachel thought.
She had only exchanged a few words with him. Most of the time he had been the center of an animated group, whose conversation was dominated by his booming voice.
Catching her eye, he smiled, displaying a set of imposing teeth, and beckoned her to join him. “Not singing?” he asked.
“I can’t,” Rachel admitted.
“I can,” said Patrick A. MacDougal, professor emeritus and former president of the American Anthropological Association. “But they won’t let me. Spite and jealousy, that’s the reason.”
“You drown everybody else out, that’s the reason,” said his wife, leaving the group gathered around the piano. “And you sing flat.”
“Spite and jealousy,” MacDougal repeated. “So, Rachel, I understand you and I are in the same business.”
“Hardly.” Rachel let out a gasp of embarrassed laughter. “I’ve read your books, Dr. MacDougal—”
“Pat.”
“Um…Thank you. They’ve been very helpful, especially the one on superstition, psychology, and folk medicine. But what I’m doing—hoping to do—is far less impressive.”
“Tell me about it.”
If she had met him in his professional capacity she might not have had the courage to talk at such length. His was one of the biggest names in the field, with a reputation that already equaled that of such icons as Malinowski and Fraser, and he was clearly not the kind of man who suffered fools gladly—or in any other way. He looked less formidable sprawled across the sofa with one long arm draped over the slim shoulders of his wife and a beer can in his other hand.
“Interesting idea,” he said finally. “Female subcultures haven’t received their proper attention—”
“That’s because until a generation ago anthropologists were all men,” Rachel said.
“Lay off me, kid,” MacDougal said. “I’m already surrounded by hard-nosed feminists, including my own wife. Meade and Benedict, to name only two, were of your grandparents’ generation, and there were others before them. Snubbed and ignored, most of them, but not by me.”
“I’m sorry,” Rachel began.
“Don’t apologize,” Ruth said. “He’ll only despise you. He loves an argument. You’re right, and he knows it.”
MacDougal blandly ignored this put-down. “Interesting idea,” he repeated. “I don’t know that anyone’s ever tackled it from quite that perspective. Sewing was employed in the most important and magical aspects of life—shrouds for the dead, clothing for newborn babies, wedding garments. What—” He broke off with a grunt as a small body toppled over the back of the couch and landed on his stomach. “Goddammit!”
“Don’t swear in front of the child,” Ruth said, removing Jerry’s left foot from her lap.
“Swear, hell, I’m going to give him a good hiding.” Pat righted the child. “You ought to be in bed, you little monster.”
Jerry grinned at the face that scowled hideously at him. “I’m not going to bed for a long time,” he announced. “A long, long, long time.”
By nine o’clock everyone had left except the family, and the younger children had been carried up to bed. Jerry went tucked under Pat’s arm like a bundle of old clothes. He let out a few howls as a matter of principle, but he clearly enjoyed the process. Megan, looking like a Christmas fairy in a ruffled pinafore and a silver coronet, eluded capture for a full ten minutes before she was discovered in the coat closet sitting on a pile of boots and eating cookies. Once caught she went without protest, smiling angelically at the exasperated adults over her mother’s shoulder.
His own friends having departed, Joe politely excused himself and went upstairs, though probably not to bed. Television was more interesting than adult conversation. The adults lounged in various stages of collapse. Rachel had started collecting glasses, plates, and crumpled napkins, but was driven back to her chair by a unanimous outcry.
“Don’t do that or I’ll feel as if I have to help,” Ruth said. “And I don’t feel like it.”
“We’ll all pitch in later,” Mark added lazily. He had returned from Europe that evening and come straight to the house; now his suitcoat hung over the back of a chair and the head cat, a huge tabby named Figgin, was chewing on his discarded tie. “This is the best part, after everybody’s gone home except us.”
He smiled at his wife. Instead of responding, she said brusquely, “It was a great party, but I still think it was a stupid idea. Cheryl has that long drive ahead of her tomorrow, and I’ll bet she hasn’t finished packing yet.”
“It’s only a five—” An ear-splitting yawn interrupted Cheryl. “Hour drive. And I have too finished packing. Almost.”
“And that’s another thing,” Kara said. “Where’s that no-good friend of yours, Pat? If he doesn’t show up, Rachel will be alone here.”
The reminder was like a dash of cold water, spoiling the warm relaxed mood. The only calm face was that of Pat MacDougal. “He’ll be here.”
“If he isn’t, Rachel can come to us,” Mark said, frowning.
“And leave the animals alone?” Kara demanded.
“He’ll be here, dammit!” Pat shouted. “But while we’re on the subject, maybe one of you will explain to me precisely what has been going on. All I’ve heard so far is a lot of garbled gossip from various emotional females.” He pointed a long finger, quelling the babble of indignant voices. “Tony.”
Tony obliged, as methodically as if he were giving an official report. “So far nothing has turned up,” he finished. “There have been the usual number of burglaries, but nobody’s reported losing a bunch of old quilts.”
“I can see,” said Pat, “that it is high time someone of intelligence considered this business. Your Alleged must be a local boy—”
“Not necessarily,” Tony began.
“Otherwise,” Pat went on, raising his voice, “he wouldn’t know about the shop. I assume you haven’t had any parallel cases—burglars specializing in antique fabrics? I thought not. Nor, from your description of him, is he the sort of aesthete who would appreciate antiques of that esoteric variety. So the logical conclusion is that he knew in advance the stuff was worth stealing because he had a personal connection with the owner. Either he worked at a shop where such things are sold, or he swiped them from a friend or relative who had told him of their value.”
“Even so,” Tony argued, “the, theft would have been reported.”
“Not if the owner doesn’t know the stuff is missing.” Pat’s teeth gleamed weirdly in the firelight. “Let’s have a look at it.”
He jumped briskly to his feet. The others stared at him with a conspicuous absence of enthusiasm.
“Not now,” Mark said, with a groan. “Dammit, Pat, I want to sit and relax. Why’d you have to bring up the subject?”
“Pat’s right,” Tony said. “Much as I hate to inflate his ego by admitting it. Where’d you stow the loot, babe?”
“One of the cupboards in the shop.” Cheryl rose stiffly. “I’ve been feeling bad about leaving Rachel here; if we can find out something that might help locate the man…”
The others followed her and she switched on the overhead lights before dragging the box out of the cupboard. Rachel helped her spread the contents over chairs and tables. Pat didn’t even wait to see the collection before commenting, “As I thought. Five will get you ten that lot has been packed in a trunk or box for years. Smell the mothballs.”
“Of course,” Cheryl said.
“What do you mean, ‘of course?’” Tony demanded. “You never bothered to mention—”
“A perfect example of the fact that men and women don’t share the same cultural traditions,” Pat said, grinning. “She didn’t mention it because to her—and to you other ladies—the fact was self-evident.”
“These things certainly didn’t come from a commercial establishment,” Kara agreed. “Nobody would put them out for sale in this condition.” She leaned over to examine the white quilt more closely. “And I certainly wouldn’t keep something as good as this in mothballs, I’d have it cleaned and on the shelf as soon as possible. Are the others as fine?”
“Even better. Show her the album quilt, Rachel.”
Rachel realized that she was standing in front of the chair, blocking the view of the quilt—almost as if she were standing guard over it. Slowly she stepped back.
“Just look at the quilting,” Cheryl urged. “And the designs. It’s unique, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Kara studied the quilt from a safe distance, her nose crinkling. “It’s filthy. Much dirtier than the others. And it stinks.”
“Mothballs,” Cheryl said.
“Mothballs and…something else.”
“Rachel thinks she can clean it.”
“Rather her than me,” Kara said decisively. She moved away. “The white work is stunning. I’ll bet we could get twelve thousand—”
“They’re at it again,” Tony shouted, his face reddening. “Look, girls, you don’t own this stuff.”
Mark burst out laughing. “Don’t bother, buddy. This is another case of what Pat would call miscommunication between the sexes.”
“But they’re acting as if this was a fashion show! The condition of the merchandise is irrelevant and immaterial. What I want to know is where it came from.”
“Somebody’s attic,” Cheryl said calmly. “Some little old lady, who has kept her family heirlooms all these years.”
“That is an unsubstantiated theory,” Tony insisted. “And you’d better hope it’s false. We’ll never catch this guy if—”
“Washing-up time,” Mark said. “Come on, Tony. I’ll clear, you stick the dishes in the dishwasher.”
“Not the Haviland,” Cheryl exclaimed. She followed them out of the room, expostulating.
“Leave them,” Kara said, as Rachel started to fold the album quilt. “They’ll be all right here tonight, and they could certainly do with an airing.” She went after the others.
Pat, who obviously had no intention of participating in menial chores, was slow to follow them. “Was I right or was I right?” he demanded of Rachel, the only audience left. “I’ll bet granny doesn’t even know she’s been ripped off. We never discussed the most interesting aspect of this business. If the theft hasn’t been reported, or even noticed, why is this guy so desperate to get the things back?”
three
The setting moon shone straight into her eyes, its light undimmed by leafless branches and thin lace curtains. For the tenth time Rachel shifted position. She couldn’t sleep. Overfatigue, too much to eat and drink…and the question Pat MacDougal had tossed off so nonchalantly.
The question must have occurred to Tony. Asking questions like that was part of his job. He hadn’t mentioned it to her because he hadn’t wanted to worry her, for there was only one logical answer.
Why was the man so anxious to retrieve the quilts? Because they were evidence of a crime more serious than theft.
Her weary brain went over the same path it had traced a dozen times before. She and Tony could identify the Alleged, but they had not actually seen him with the trash bag in his hands, so evidence even of theft would be circumstantial. If he could retrieve it there would be no physical proof to connect him with a case of…aggravated assault? Rape?
The other crime, the one that carried the heaviest penalty, was one she shrank from naming even in thought.
So serious a case would surely have been reported. But Pat—damn him for having such a logical mind!—had accounted for that too. The theft of the quilts might not have been discovered. Even the owner might not realize something was missing from a seldom-visited storage area in an unused room. A police officer investigating another, more serious kind of crime wouldn’t be likely to notice that a chest or box of linens was only half-filled. Especially a male police officer.
Rachel turned onto her back and glared at the ceiling. Such speculation was a waste of time and nervous energy. She had to get some sleep. It had been a tiring day, and tomorrow would be just as rushed; by now she was familiar enough with Cheryl’s habits to anticipate the frantic scramble ahead, the last-minute packing, the forgotten tasks, the inevitable delays. Tony would be in a bad mood, fuming silently because he wasn’t able to pitch in or help with the driving.
At first the voice was indistinguishable from the normal sounds of night, breathy as the movement of air in the branches, wordless as the wind. Then she heard, or thought she heard, words. Relaxing muscles tightened, propelling her out of bed. Without stopping to put on slippers or robe she headed for the stairs. Tony was down there, alone in his room, handicapped by the cast on his leg…
The night lights in the shop left the room in semidarkness. The garments hanging from hooks glimmered, ghost shapes in the shadows; the mannequins in their trailing skirts and big hats looked unnervingly lifelike. A lifted hand seemed to beckon, a parasol tilted at a coquettish angle hid sly, peering eyes. Rachel stopped in the doorway, every sense alert. Not a breath of air stirred. A good thing, too, she thought, trying to keep her composure. If a drapery had fluttered or a sleeve had moved, she would have dropped in her tracks.
She heard no sound, from within the house or outside it. She told herself she must have been dreaming. She was wide awake now, shivering in the night-cool air; but the sense of imminent intrusion, of something demanding entry, did not diminish. She pressed the switch and the track lights overhead shone out, lighting the room like a stage set.
She went from one window to another, shading her eyes, looking out, seeing only the normality of nighttime. But her skin was prickling and her mind denied the evidence of her eyes; she could feel it there, waiting, wanting—demanding—to come in.
The sound came, not from without, but from behind her. She whirled around, lips parting in a cry she was too breathless with terror to utter.
“What’s wrong?” His black hair was disheveled and his eyes were heavy with sleep, but he stood erect, steadying himself with the crutches instead of leaning on them. One hand rested on the pocket of his robe.
Rachel collapsed into the nearest chair. She was too short of breath to speak clearly; the words emerged in a whisper. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” He swung himself toward her and stood by the chair looking down at her. “I’m the one who should apologize; I keep scaring you half to death, don’t I? What are you doing down here?”
“I thought I heard something. A voice calling…I must have been dreaming.”
Tilting her head back to meet his eyes, she was acutely aware of his nearness, and of the ragged condition of the old summer nightgown that left her arms and shoulders bare. She had a long-sleeved flannel nightshirt in one of her suitcases, but she had been too tired to look for it.
“You’re shivering,” Tony said. “It’s freezing in here. Put this around you.”
Balancing on one crutch he reached out for the nearest thing at hand and threw it clumsily over her shoulders.
Rachel rose to meet it, feeling the time-softened fabric settle around her like an embrace. The movement brought her so close to him that his face became a patchwork of isolated elements—the dark eyes, wide with surprise or some other, stronger emotion; a lock of black hair, lightly frosted with silver, curving over his temple; the thin, sensitive lips framed by his mustache. Her hand moved of its own volition, fingertips gliding lightly over the sharp outlines of cheekbone and temple till they reached his hair.
The crutch clattered to the floor as he pulled her roughly against him, pressing the folds of cloth tight across her back and hips. His mouth fumbled across her closed eyes and along her cheek before it found hers with a violence that would have snapped her head back if she had not met it with matching violence.
