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praise for terri thayer’s quilting mystery series “Superb, the perfect cozy to keep you company on a rainy afternoon.” —Mystery Scene Magazine “Extremely well written, the book not only kept me turning pages, but had me nodding delightedly at the dead-aim Terri takes on the contemporary quilting world.” —A Charmed Life, the blog of Quilting Arts Features editor, Cate Prato “As much as this is a murder mystery, [Old Maid’s Puzzle] is also a story of women, their crafts, and their lives and loves.” —Gumshoe Review “Enjoyable.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“A fun mystery with as many pieces as a complex quilt, Old Maid’s Puzzle has much to offer readers.” —Mystery Reader “Readers will eagerly await the next book in the series to see how things go after the surprising conclusion of this book.” —Fresh Fiction “Terri Thayer has once again created a true cozy mystery. The twists and turns are really well done and you truly don’t know who did it until the end.” —OnceUponARomance.net “A very refreshing approach ... one doesn’t have to be a quilting aficionado or even know the first thing about quilt patterns to appreciate the mystery crafted in Old Maid’s Puzzle.” —Mysterious Reviews “A near perfect cozy mystery with a great intergenerational cast.” —Cozy Library

other books by terri thayer Wild Goose Chase Old Maidâ€™s Puzzle Ocean Waves

a quilting mystery

M o n k ey Wrench Terri Thayer

Midnight Ink

woodbury, minnesota

Monkey Wrench: A Quilting Mystery © 2012 by Terri Thayer. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2012 Book design and format by Donna Burch Cover design by Lisa Novak Cover illustration © Cheryl Chalmers—The July Group Editing by Connie Hill Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Thayer, Terri. Monkey wrench : a quilting mystery / Terri Thayer. — 1st ed. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-7387-3126-1 1. Quilting—Fiction. I. Title. PS3620.H393M66 2012 813'.6—dc23 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America

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acknowledgments Thank you to my lovely critique goupâ€”Becky Levine, Beth Proudfoot, Cyndy Furze, and Jane McBurney-Lin. Your encouragement and great ideas make all the difference. Thank you to my steadfast pharmacist, Gene Togioka, for answering my silly questions with wonderful seriousness.

monkey wrench Monkey Wrench is only one name for this traditional block. Other variations include Churn Dash and Shoo Fly.

on e

“Kevin, you’re killing me.” My brother grunted. That was no answer. “I need that bathroom finished. We’re less than two weeks away from the Quilters Crawl. Do you know what that means?” I felt free to yell at my contractor. Pellicano Construction was my dad’s company. I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Those are the four days each year where hundreds of women visit multiple quilt shops to win prizes. Including my shop. Driving, Kevin. Long distances. That means potty breaks. Plenty of them.” My voice ticked up. I yelled. “I need a working toilet!” I was standing in what was supposed to be QP’s new bathroom. As we were on our cell phones, I had no idea where my brother was standing. But he wasn’t where he should have been— in the bathroom of my quilt shop.

Here, there was no sink, no toilet, no tile floor. My voice echoed in the emptiness. There were only open walls and pipes. This remodel was taking too long. “Not to mention the fact that Mom’s dresser is in the hall, taking up too much room. Someone trips over it once a day.” “Mom’s dresser with the hole in it?” Kevin sneered. “Get my bathroom finished already!” I hollered. He didn’t like the idea of changing the antique dresser piece into a vanity, but I didn’t care. “This is on you, Dewey,” his deep voice booming. “We can’t go further without the city inspector signing off. You knew that. And yet, no one was at the store yesterday when he came.” My younger brother’s tone was way too smug for me. I stopped in front of the empty hole where the commode would be placed. “What do you mean? Vangie was here. I left around five. She promised to stay and let the inspector in.” “Well, she didn’t. He got there around five-thirty. Said he banged on the door for at least five minutes. Back and front,” he said, preempting my last argument. My heart sank. Kevin continued, “No rough-in inspection means I can’t finish putting in the fixtures—” Which means I wouldn’t have a bathroom. A vision of dozens of quilters with their legs crossed flitted across my mind. “When can you get another inspector out here? Tomorrow?” I walked into my office to check my calendar. I’d have to make sure I’d be here when the inspector came. Kevin said, “I highly doubt that. I’d scheduled that one a week ago.” 2

A red circle reminded me. My throat tensed. Yikes. Never mind the actual Crawl. I had bigger troubles. I had twelve quilt shop owners gathering here on Friday for a Crawl powwow. “No, Kev, no. I don’t have another week. I have a very important meeting in four days.” The final Quilters Crawl planning meeting was being held here. I tried to picture the chairwoman, Barb V, peeing at the burrito place next door. She’d probably turn yellow first—and blame me when she got a bladder infection. “I don’t know what to tell you,” Kevin said. “Welcome to my world.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vangie heading in from the parking lot. Her steps were heavy as if she was carrying not just a lot of books but also the fate of the entire world on her hunched shoulders. I waved at her. She started to say something as she entered the office we shared but I held up my hand, showing her the phone. She nodded. Her backpack thudded as it hit her desk. “Call Uncle Joe,” I suggested to my brother. Our father’s best friend had risen through the ranks and was the city’s chief inspector now. I hadn’t seen him in years, not since Mom’s funeral, but certainly he’d be willing to help. Kevin’s voice rose in a squeak. “No way. I can’t call in a favor like that. I might need him on a big job later.” My job didn’t count. I got mad, just like when we were kids and Kevin would quit playing tag with me and run after our two older brothers. “Never mind, I’ll do it myself. Be sure your guys are ready to work Wednesday.”

I hung up the phone. Vangie looked up from booting up the store computer. Vangie had thick brown eyelashes framing her pretty eyes. Today though, the lashes only accented the brown circles under her eyes. “My brother,” I explained. “This bathroom is going to be the death of me.” Her hand went up to her mouth. I waited for her explanation but she shook her head. I said, “What happened last night? The inspector came but you were gone.” Vangie’s face turned red. “I’m sorry, Dewey. He was late. I couldn’t hang around. I had study group. I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.” It was my turn to flush. Buster had had a rare night off work and we’d gone device-free. Anything with a plug or an on/off switch was strictly forbidden. Well, most devices anyway. Vangie slumped in her chair, feet splayed beneath her. She was wearing black denim shorts and an SJSU hoodie. I could see her legs hadn’t been shaved in weeks. “It’s so much harder being at State full-time than I thought it would be. There’s so much reading, I’m barely keeping up,” she said. My anger faded. Vangie was the assistant manager at my quilt shop, QP, and I needed her here, but she was also a twenty-threeyear-old who was trying to secure her future by getting a degree. Neither of us had anticipated what the switch from community college to San Jose State would mean. It was only six weeks into the semester and already Vangie was struggling.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I know you’re trying. Don’t worry about it. I’m going to call a family friend. We’ll have a new bathroom before Friday.” Vangie smiled. Her usually wide grin was somewhat stunted by worry. “Was this the Wyatt study group?” I asked, teasing, trying to break up the gloom. She’d mentioned a guy named Wyatt more than a few times. I regretted my words almost immediately. Vangie didn’t answer, stared at the computer screen instead. At thirty, I was much too young to be turning into my father. Next, I’d be asking. “So what does this Wyatt character do for a living?” We worked in silence for a few minutes. This time together was rare. I missed Vangie when she wasn’t in the office. An item on my to-do list caught my attention. “I hate to ask,” I said. “What about the presentation for Friday’s Crawl meeting? You know, the one about the special Twitter prizes?” Vangie gathered her thick brown hair up in a ponytail and rubbed the back of her neck. She had blemishes on her cheeks. Stress-related I knew. Her eyebrows furrowed. “I’ll finish it, I promise.” She sounded so unsure I couldn’t resist emphasizing its importance. “Because this is my last chance to convince the committee to go along with our idea.” Vangie nodded. She knew how much I wanted to put my stamp on QP’s first foray into this annual event. “I’ll email it to you in plenty of time. All you’ll have to do is open up your laptop. The slides will be up and ready to go.”

“I wish you could be at the meeting.” She turned back to her screen and pulled the keyboard toward her. “I’ll try. Now let me just get these online orders filled. I only have about an hour before class.” I left her to it and went next door to Mrs. Unites’s burrito shop to use her restroom. I tried to only take advantage of her generosity once a day. This time, the price I paid was listening to her theory that a toxic cloud that came from the dry cleaners across the street added to the demise of the long-time pet store next door. At least she’d waited until after I used the facilities. When I came back, Vangie had her head on the desk. I could see the tension in her shoulders. “What’s up?” I asked, laying my hand on her back. She dragged her head up and looked at me. More pimples had appeared on her forehead. “Pearl,” she said, her phone in hand. “I was supposed to take her to the doctor but I wanted to come here and work so I asked a friend to take her. He did, but now she refuses to ride home with him. She wants me to come get her.” “So go,” I said. “He’s got my car.” Vangie’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t handle her right now.” I patted her between the shoulder blades. Pearl Nakamura was a Quilter Paradiso regular. Along with her friend, Ina, she’d been an original member of the Stitch ’n’ Bitch group that met here every week for years. I’d often done my homework between their sewing machines. Vangie and I both viewed Pearl as a grandmother, although Pearl preferred to be seen as an older sister.

Even when she was well past her seventieth birthday, Pearl would race through the classroom, ear buds dangling, wheels on her sneakers out, her short black hair highlighted with red or pink or blue, depending on her mood. Her hands glittered with six gold rings and her eyes sparkled with a joy that age couldn’t diminish. She was Pearl, one of a kind. Or she had been. That Pearl disappeared when her husband of fifty years died eight months ago. She and Hiro had met as kids in the Manzanar Internment camp. Their bond was so strong that without him, the unthinkable had happened. Our Pearl faded away. Vangie had spent a lot of her summer running Pearl’s errands and playing endless rounds of Blackjack with her. But now with school back in session, Vangie’s time was limited. Pearl’s needs were unlimited. Vangie was caving under the pressure. I glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes after eleven. Uncle Joe, the city inspector, said he’d be here at noon. “Tell me where she is,” I said. “Maybe I can go get her.” Vangie’s face shifted as relief flooded over her. I saw a ray of hope in her eyes. “Would you? The doctor’s right in Japantown. Practically around the corner from her house.” Japantown was a neighborhood in San Jose, close to downtown and not far from QP. It was the place to find homemade tofu, study Ikebana, or worship at the Buddhist temple. The surrounding streets were filled with neat bungalows and a lot of secondgeneration Japanese-Americans like Pearl. “I don’t have much time,” I said.

Vangie broke in quickly. “All you’ll have to do is get her and drop her off. She’ll be okay at home. These doctor visits wear her out. She’ll probably want to nap.” Vangie threw her arms around me. “Thanks, Dewey. I’ll get my life under control soon, I swear.” I drove right past Pearl the first time through the medical complex. I was searching out the right building, and barely registered the old woman seated at the bus stop whose feet didn’t reach the pavement. Instead, I recognized Vangie’s car. A tall young man was leaning on the trunk. Then I saw Pearl, wearing her favorite plaid capris. She didn’t usually pair them with a striped shirt. The orange Crocs dangling from her toes clashed with both and looked to be about two sizes too big. I slammed on the brakes and stopped my car in a red zone. “Pearl?” I called. She looked up slowly. I opened the car door and waved her in. “Ready to go home?” I asked. “Where have you been?” she said petulantly. Her face looked nearly as gray as the streaks in her hair. I hated seeing her like this. Vangie’s friend came over, trying to help Pearl into my car. She shook him off and climbed into the back seat on her own. He shut the door after she was in. I got out and approached him. “Thanks for bringing her. I’m sorry she’s being such a pill.” He laughed. “Oh, I’ve got a grandmother. I know how they can be.” “I’m Dewey Pellicano,” I said, offering my hand. “Vangie’s boss.” 8

“Wyatt Pederson,” he said. He shook my hand with a light touch. Wyatt was pale. And skinny. His blond hair fell in shoulderlength dreadlocks. Not what I’d have called Vangie’s type at all. Her frequent lament was that Buster didn’t have a younger brother or even better, a clone. There weren’t many six-foot-three, black haired, blue-eyed boys out there. Wyatt was the anti-Buster. At least in looks. Maybe he had Buster’s good heart. Pearl rapped on the window. “Let’s go,” she barked. I saluted her and smiled at Wyatt. “See ya,” I said. “How was the doctor?” I asked Pearl as I settled behind the wheel. I got no answer. In the old days, Pearl would have been the first one to yell, “Shotgun!” She always sat up front, usually with her head stuck out the window like a dog. She’d never wanted to miss a thing. It was only a few blocks to her house. I chattered to quell a tightness growing in my chest. “We’re so busy at the store, you know. QP is doing the Quilters Crawl next week. We haven’t participated in years.” No response. I looked over my shoulder. Pearl’s eyes were closed. “You used to work that with my mom, right?” I knew that she did. Nothing. I kept up the small talk until I pulled up in front of her house. Pearl’s cottage on Fourth Street was painted pale yellow. Ordinarily, only the purple trim and fuchsia door set it apart from the other bungalows on the street. Today Pearl’s house stood out for the wrong reasons. Her lawn had gotten spotty, with patches of brown larger than actual grass. 9

Landscaping had been Hiro’s domain. The evergreens in front of the bedroom windows were so overgrown, an intruder could get in without ever being seen from the street. Someone had mowed the remaining grass, but not for a few weeks. A black cat sat on the edge of the koi pond, staring through a layer of dead leaves. She must know something I didn’t. I’d have bet the beautiful speckled fish that had once flashed through the depths were long gone. “Did the doctor give you a prescription to fill?” I asked after throwing my car in park. I checked the time on the dash. I had ten minutes to get back to QP. I would need every minute of it, but if Pearl needed me, I wanted to help. I could come back later. She shook her head and pulled open the door and scooted out of her seat. I got out on my side, but she was already halfway up the walk. “I don’t need anything, Dewey,” she said over her shoulder. “Go on back to work.” I wanted to at least see that she was settled inside. I caught up to her on the porch. She went through the unlocked front door without a word. “Pearl?” I said. I’d always been welcome in her house. She closed the door firmly. Wow, that was abrupt. I felt like a fool. I dialed Vangie as I pulled away. “Vangie, what’s the deal? Pearl looks awful. And she wouldn’t let me in the house.” Vangie’s voice sounded muffled. I could picture the pose. I’d seen her stuff her phone under her chin many times in order to multitask. “Can hardly hear you,” she said. “I’m in the parking garage.” 10

Wyatt must have gone straight to QP and picked up Vangie if she was at school already. “Fine? She’s not talking, she looks like she’s wearing Hiro’s clothes and she’s moving like a hundred-year-old. Talk to me.” Vangie came through clearer. “Sorry, you know how she is about her privacy. She’ll be okay. I’ll go there after school and check on her.” If Pearl didn’t want my help, I had to respect that. Vangie would look after her. “All right, keep me updated.” “Will do.” Her voice faded. _____ When I got back to QP, Ursula greeted me with the news that there was a man in the bathroom asking for me. Ursula had come to work for me after our Asilomar adventure last fall. Her mature calmness centered me. Now she looked a little frazzled and cut her eyes to a customer whose quilt top was laid out over the cutting table. I didn’t recognize the frowning woman. Six or seven spools of thread were laid out. The woman had pulled a long strand from each. She sighed, and tried another color. Ursula had outlived an abusive husband, but a demanding perfectionist could bring her to her knees. “I’ve got to check on the bathroom,” I said, dropping my keys in my purse. She nodded but her eyes begged me to stay. I gave her a halfsmile of encouragement and kept going.

The bathroom door was open and a light was on. I didn’t hear any banging so it wasn’t one of Kevin’s workers. It had to be my inspector. It was. “Uncle Joe!” I threw my arms around the tall guy on his knees near the stack pipe. “You came!” I nearly knocked him over but he had good balance for an old guy. “Anything for my almost-goddaughter,” Joe said, standing and kissing my hair. Our private joke. It had always been his contention that my parents should have named him my godfather instead of my real Uncle Joe, who’d moved to Europe soon after my baptism. Joe McCarty, despite humble beginnings in East San Jose, had a patrician air. His hair, now white, was combed as always, straight back from his face, giving his wide brow plenty of play. He was dressed in a pinstriped suit and red tie. His shiny shoes were a far cry from the work boots he’d worn as a plumber. As a kid, I used to love to visit my father’s job sites. Uncle Joe was always there with a stick of Juicy Fruit. I squeezed his upper arm. “Oh man, you can’t believe how good it is to see you. Kevin started remodeling my bathroom and it’s been nothing but excuses. I need a working toilet, Uncle Joe.” “Don’t we all, sweetheart. Don’t we all.” “Do you see any problems?” I asked. I crossed my fingers. No more delays. “Looks like typical Pellicano Construction work. Very well done,” he said, consulting a pad on his clipboard and making notes.

“I’m glad to hear that. Kevin’s in charge now and I was afraid he would cut corners.” “So your dad’s completely retired now?” Joe asked, his eyes casting over the installation. He squatted and ran his hand down a stack pipe. “Yup,” I said. “He’s fishing full-time.” “That’s great. No one deserves a break more than Nick Pellicano.” “Dewey, peaches,” Ursula called from the store. “Pee-aches.” Uncle Joe cocked a trimmed eyebrow at me inquisitively. “It’s code, Uncle Joe,” I whispered. “Means a customer is giving my staff a hard time. We don’t like to use negative descriptors around here, so we call the tough ones ‘Peaches.’” Joe laughed. “Well, I’ve had my share of those.” “Let me know when you’re done,” I said. “You bet.” _____ I was about to convince Ursula’s Peach that she was getting the best possible quilting thread for her son’s-girlfriend’s-baby-who-wasnot-her-granddaughter-and-he-better-be-happy-she’s-getting-aquilt-at-all quilt when Uncle Joe came to the front of the store. I smiled and let Ursula ring her up. He said, “You’re all set. Tell Kevin he can have men on the job here tomorrow. In fact, tell him I said he’d better have men here tomorrow.”

I laughed and kissed his cheek. He smelled the same, as if the Brut he’d worn all those years ago had seeped into his bloodstream. “Don’t be a stranger,” I said. “Dad has Sunday supper most weeks. Stop by.” As Uncle Joe left, he held the door open for Peach to leave, and a pudgy woman bounced into the store. She saw Ursula and me standing by the register and loped over. “Hi, I’m Lois Lane,” she said, smiling as if she knew her name would produce a giggle. Physically, she was the opposite of Superman’s girlfriend. Short, round, and blonde. No reporter would be caught dead in her outfit: an electric blue tracksuit with pink sneakers and pink sweatbands. Not exactly dress code for the Daily Planet. “I was born right after the first Superman comic. My dad was a fan,” she said quickly. “If I had a nickel for every time I said that,” she laughed. I looked to Ursula to see if she recognized this ball of energy. She answered me with a nod of her head and a laugh. This woman was the perfect antidote to a Peach. Ursula’s shoulders came down a notch. Ursula said, “Lois was in here last week getting fabric for a …” she paused, trying to recall. “A purse,” Lois filled in. She produced a handbag made of quilted patchwork. I recognized the pattern and the latest Joel Dewberry line as ones I carried. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Matches my outfit,” Lois said, holding it against her chest. Indeed, the rose-colored top under her tracksuit matched the floral 14

print. “And it has plenty of pockets inside so I don’t lose things. I love that. Screwy thing is that I had enough fabric to make two.” Ursula said, her voice filled with concern, “Oh, no. I’m sorry. We followed the directions on the pattern, right? Did you buy extra?” “A little,” Lois admitted. “It’s really okay. I made two! But I wanted you to know so you can tell your customers that those requirements are a little off.” “Thanks,” I said. “I do appreciate the feedback.” “Well, my neighbor will love having the same purse as me. She’s always copying me anyhow.” Lois smiled as she bounced from foot to foot. Maybe that was the secret to staying youthful. Perpetual motion. “While I’m here, I want one of those Quilters Crawl thingamajigs.” I looked on the counter where we kept the colorful Quilters Crawl maps. The space was empty. “Ursula? Are we out?” Ursula had returned to the cutting table and was winding a bolt of fabric. She looked up. “I must have given away the last one.” “I’m sorry,” I said to Lois. “Can you go online? There’s a great interactive map on the website.” Lois frowned. “I guess I could ask my grandson. He knows all that Internet stuff.” Her eyes strayed past me. I was used to being ignored in my store. In fact I relished it. If my customers were distracted by the quilt displays, the fabric, the class samples, I was doing my job. “This place looks so different. You know when I came in last week, I wasn’t sure I was in the right place.” “Oh, you’ve been in before?” 15

“Not in forever, honey. Maybe ten years ago. There was a different owner.” I felt the tiny pang I always felt when my mother’s presence was invoked. It happened less and less as time went on and I wasn’t sure if I was happy or sad about that. “That was my mother,” I said. “Why, bless your heart. You do look like her. I have time to quilt now that I finally quit working. At seventy-five,” she crowed. “Can you believe that? I’ve worked for sixty years.” I laughed. “I can’t believe that you’re seventy five,” I said. “Going on seventy-six. Will you get more brochures? I like to hold a map in my hand,” Lois said. Her round face wrinkled up in worry. “Of course,” I said. “Leave me your phone number and I’ll call you when they’re here.” Lois beamed. “I sure don’t want to miss the Crawl. I think it’s going to be the best one yet!”

t wo

“I wouldn’t make too much coffee,” Freddy Roman said, settling into a chair in the store kitchen as I filled the old twenty-cup urn. “You don’t want folks getting themselves killed in your very rustic salon de bain.” “Make yourself useful.” I tossed a bread knife and a bag of bagels his way. “Cut those into quarters.” It was Friday morning, the day of the Quilters Crawl meeting. Freddy had just returned from washing his hands in my still workin-progress bathroom. Kevin had not been able to finish. The toilet and sink were in, but the tile guys had not been here yet so the concrete board subfloor was showing. The mirror over the sink wasn’t installed and the entire room needed to be painted. The bathroom functioned fine but it looked butt ugly. Freddy hung his aviator sunglasses off the neck of his T-shirt and pushed up the sleeves of his cardigan. Freddy dressed differently now that he’d moved his sewing machine store to the Bay Area. Gone were the Hawaiian-style shirts made of prints that featured 17

voluptuous, half-dressed women. No more dashikis or gauzy wedding tunics. He’d adopted an urban, hip vibe that suited him much better. Today he was wearing a gray cardigan and black T-shirt with expensive jeans. He’d cut his hair too, and he looked far more handsome without the scraggly ponytail. His sharp features looked less feral. He still haunted the tanning booths though. “I’m serious,” he said. “You’ll get sued if someone trips over that uneven floor in there.” I waved away his concern. “The bathroom will have to do. I couldn’t very well change the meeting. If Barb V had her way, we’d meet at her place every time. I wanted the committee to come here.” The Quilters Crawl was made up of twelve shops, and the owners got together once a month to go over plans. As the newest member of the Crawl, I had been assigned the last meeting. Freddy got a bye as we only met eleven times, taking off the month of December. “I thought you and Mr. Wonderful were going to paint the walls last night.” A stab of loneliness developed in my chest. “Buster had to work.” “Oh, is he out there making the streets safe for us mere mortals?” Freddy asked. Freddy’s jabs at my lonely nights stung. “Buster’s on the Joint Task Force for Drug Elimination,” I defended, wishing I could take back the words as soon as they came out. Buster’s work was confidential. He’d told me little else than what I’d blurted to Freddy. “You can’t tell anyone,” I said hurriedly. 18

“Who am I going to tell? I don’t know any drug dealers. I do know a few drug takers, however,” he said with a lupine grin. “Ecstasy, a little Oxy for the pain, some Prozac to smooth out the rough spots. I could use a little something right about now. Did you bake any funny brownies?” “Freddy …” I warned. He was so full of baloney. I was sure the only pill he took was a little blue one when he was with one of his ladies. “I need you on your best behavior today.” He held a bagel aloft and took a deep bow, one that ended with a face plant into the table. “At your service,” he intoned into the wood. I giggled at his welcome silliness. We carried refreshments into the classroom. I set out cups, milk, and sweeteners. Freddy put his basket of bagels on the center of the table. “Yoo Hoo!” Freddy caught my eye. “Vampira in the house,” he whispered. Barb V’s last name was a constant source of amusement for Freddy. She wasn’t forthcoming about her surname. No one seemed to know what it was. She owned a quilt shop called Barb V’s Quilting Emporium. No one cared as much as Freddy. He liked to fill in the blanks. He was sure she was a Voldemort. Barb V entered the room, pulling behind her a file box on wheels. Inside I knew were color-coordinated folders on each of the participating Crawl shops. QP’s was a bright magenta. Not my color at all. Also on file were summaries of the past fifteen Crawls, names and addresses of every winner from each year and other viscera that Barb V felt necessary to haul out at every meeting. 19

She was as coordinated as her filing system. Her tight curls were growing in gray. The top was cropped close to her head, but the back was long. She was tall and thin, never touching the goodies, often homemade and decadent, that were served at these meetings. Today she was in layers of navy blue and white. Supportive shoes squeaked across the linoleum. She stopped and surveyed the tables Freddy and I had pushed together. “Is there enough room for everyone?” she asked. “I think …” I stopped to count the number of chairs I’d put out. Freddy spoke up. “Of course there is, Barb. Twelve of us, twelve spots at the table. Just like the Apostles.” He folded his hands and bowed his head. I hid my giggle. She pursed her unadorned lips. “You know sometimes Cookie likes to bring her assistant. She has to drive all the way from Aptos, and she doesn’t like to do it alone.” “If her assistant comes, I’ve got plenty of extra chairs,” I said. Barb V set her file box at the end of the table, where I’d been planning to sit, and began unpacking. She looked up, surprised to see Freddy and I watching her. “I smell coffee. Is it ready?” Freddy and I scurried to the kitchen. “How does she do that?” I asked. “I go from quilt shop owner extraordinaire to blithering idiot in sixty seconds.” “Don’t let her,” Freddy said. “Do what I do.” I remembered the advice of my college speech teacher. “Picture her in her underwear?” “Oh god, no. Yuk, what a thought.”

Freddy banged on his temple with an open palm. He crossed his eyes and shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of the image. I laughed, forgetting Barb V’s officiousness. I was so glad Freddy had moved up here. He always made me laugh. “So what do you do?” I asked. “Turn off my hearing aid.” Freddy had perfect hearing. I shoved him toward the refrigerator. “Get out the creamer.” Twenty-five minutes later, all the participants were present and ready to go. Two of the storeowners had used the bathroom without incident and without comment. We all knew that the meeting would start exactly on time. Barb V didn’t believe in tardiness. She enjoyed her space at the head of the table. She sat up straight enough to make the fussiest mom happy and projected so that her voice was easily heard by everyone in the room. At times, her tone was her best weapon, quelling unasked questions and squashing objections before they were aired. “I want to thank our hostess for this meeting, Dewey Pellicano.” There was a smattering of polite applause. We’d taken turns hosting the Crawl meetings. It was no big deal. Barb V wasn’t finished. “It’s lovely to be back at Quilter Paradiso.” No one called it that anymore. I’d changed its identity to QP two years ago. “Back at the very place where Audra Pellicano and I conceived of the very first Quilters Crawl, fifteen years ago,” she continued.

I looked up, surprised. My mother? I didn’t remember that she’d started the Crawl. I knew she’d taken part in them, but had it been her idea? Fifteen years ago, I’d been sixteen. My mother’s doings at her quilt shop had not been my priority. I looked over at the picture of my mother that hung on the classroom wall. It had been taken during her tenth anniversary sale and she looked exhausted, but happy. I gave her a mental thumbs up. “Of course,” Barb V said, casting a critical eye around the room. “So much has changed since then.” My face flushed hot. QP was my store now, and it was very different. Freddy pushed a scribbled note in front of me. “Hey, Barb Vicious. The eighties called. They want their mullet back.” I covered the note with my hand and hid a smile. “We have many items on our agenda to cover, so let’s get started.” I raised my hand, feeling silly but knowing there was no other way to get her attention. “Before we begin, I’m out of Quilters Crawl maps,” I said. “We have no more,” she said, her eyes never leaving the page in front of her. I could see highlighted lines of text, some bright yellow, others green. “Let’s get some then,” Freddy said. “I don’t see why,” Barb V said. “Just because you’ve given all of yours away …” She made it sound like handing out promotional material was a bad idea.

“I’m almost out, too,” said Cookie. Several other shop owners nodded. Barbara D’Angelo, Barb V’s co-chair frowned. “Those maps are quite expensive to print.” Freddy had nicknamed her Barbara the Damp because she sweated profusely no matter the outer temperature. A rivulet of sweat was tunneling through her makeup now. “I thought that the San Jose State art department designed them for free and gave us a break on the printing,” I said. “I keep those maps on my front counter year-round,” said Cookie. “They’re a wonderful reference, with all of our shop information right there. My customers hang on to theirs.” “We need more,” Freddy said. Barb V’s eyes narrowed at her mutineers. “Fine. But I’m much too busy to contact our person at the college.” “I’ll do it,” I said. Maybe Vangie could stop by on her way to class. “Give me the number.” Barb V reached into her file box and drew out a folder. “Her name is Sonya Salazar. Return that to me as soon as you write down what you need to know.” “Let’s move on to our agenda items, please,” she said, pulling down eyeglasses that were perched on her forehead. “Varmint,” Freddy whispered. He was doodling V words. He’d written Vixen, then circled it in red and drew a line through it. Barb V slapped down a baggie with fabric in it. “The Monkey Wrench blocks, people. I want to show you the proper way to distribute the free block.

“All of you have received the block pattern and printed it out. Include one of these.” Barb V waved the instructions. She folded it crisply, into thirds, and then in half. I rolled my eyes at Freddy. Barb V said, “Everything will fit nicely if you do it my way.” She could scold without even looking up. She must have been a grade school teacher in another life. “Each shop has chosen their fabrics, staying within our theme of blue and orange. Mostly. Cut one strip of each of three fabrics, five inches by twenty-two. That will give your customer enough to make the block. If the customer goes to all the shops, she’ll have twelve blocks.” Barbara the Damp put in, “The customer will need to purchase several yards of fabric for sashings and border fabric so that could be a good sale for you.” “I have one finished,” I said. I held up the quilt that Ursula had made for our display. She used all the blocks and set them on point. A large floral served as setting triangles and unified the disparate fabrics of the blocks. I loved the look and was satisfied by the murmurs of pleasure that came from most of the group. Barb V was eager to move on. She slapped a shrink-wrapped bundle in front of her. “Next, the Crawl passports, people. This year they are numbered. I have assigned your store one hundred passports. Mark your store’s initials in the top right-hand corner. That way when the customer turns in her completed one, we will know where she began her quest. Also, we will be able to tell which shop had the most customers finish the race.”

In order to be eligible for the prizes, including a new top-ofthe-line sewing machine and a weeklong quilting seminar, quilters had to go to all the shops within the allotted time frame, and get their passport stamped. Most made a game of it, rushing from shop to shop. Many traveled in packs. Quilters came from out of town. For some, it would be the first time they’d visited QP. QP hadn’t participated since my mother died, four years ago. I wanted back in so I could reintroduce the new and improved shop to customers. Barbara the Damp distributed the bundles to each of us. I resisted the urge to wipe her wet fingerprints from the plastic. Freddy was not as restrained. He used his napkin to swipe at it. Crumbs from his earlier bagel went everywhere. I tuned out Barb V and thought about my own presentation. Vangie had worked my idea of a special Twitter promotion into a lovely series of slides with illustrations and graphs explaining everything. I only wished I’d had this idea two months ago. We didn’t have much time to implement it. A discussion about the amount of money allotted for food dragged on. I kept watching the clock. Barb V not only started meetings on time, she ended them as well, sometimes in midsentence. At least no one had complained about the bathroom or stubbed their toe on the dresser in the hall. Yet. Finally, Barb V pointed at me. “Dewey, you have something to discuss?” Barb V put a tick mark next to my name on her agenda. “You’ll have to be quick. We only have six minutes left.” 25

I stood and pushed in my chair. Freddy flashed me two fingers in a victory sign. I smiled at him and the group, hoping the act of smiling would quash the butterflies in my stomach. “I have an idea I’d like to run by you. How many of you know what Twitter is?” Most heads nodded. The shop owners varied in age, although I was by far the youngest. If I had to guess, I’d say Freddy was the next in line and he was in his late forties. These women represented long-established quilt shops that had withstood the battering of the last couple of years. Several shops had closed their doors and nothing new had opened in the valley, except for Freddy, in at least three years. Only the strongest shops survived the economic downturn, and these were the last standing. Collectively, they represented hundreds of years of experience. “I’m on Twitter,” Summer said, waving her arm burdened with dozens of silver bracelets. Her shop was in Santa Cruz. “I mean, the shop is. I have no clue. My granddaughter does all that stuff for me.” “Me, too,” said Roberta of Quilting Pals. “Except it’s my husband who does it all.” “Well,” I said. “It’s not as difficult as it might sound. I’ll explain it the best I can. Feel free to interrupt me with questions.” I opened my laptop. It was already connected to the screen. I clicked the mouse, but nothing happened. I checked the connections and clicked again. Still nothing. Several committee members looked at the blank screen, then back at me. Barb V cleared her throat significantly. I glanced at the wall clock. Five minutes.

I had to wing it. I closed the laptop and tried to remember Vangie’s highlights. “Twitter is a free service. A tweet is a short message that goes out to all your followers. We can get a lot of free advertising, tweeting ahead of time about the Crawl.” Summer said, “We’ve been doing that already.” I nodded. “Me, too. But—I’d like to do something very special the days of the Crawl.” I stopped, trying to gauge how much of this was getting across. Summer and Roberta were nodding, but the two Barbaras had their mouths in a straight line. Barb V had crossed her arms across her chest for good measure. The rest of the owners looked confused. “I’d like to target four shops each day during a special Twitter promotion. We would do one in the north and south, morning and afternoon. I would tweet the location of the shop and encourage the Crawlers to get over there within the hour.” Gwen, the quilt shop owner from Half Moon Bay, was a weathered woman in a red vest and orange T-shirt. The dirt under her fingernails never seemed to go away. At least I hoped it was dirt. Freddy said she had a sheep farm. She asked, “Why would we promote one particular shop? What would happen to the others?” Barbara the Damp chimed in, “I don’t want all my customers leaving and going somewhere else. That’s not the point of the Crawl. The object here is to give everyone an equal chance.” I nodded, feeling my mouth go dry. This had made sense when Vangie and I had hashed it out. Vangie’s presentation would explain all this. If only I could get it to work.

I pulled my eyes off the laptop, dragging myself away from the technology that wasn’t helping. “Umm … shop hops like this one have become pretty common. We need to give the quilters an extra reason to come out to ours.” Roberta said, “My granddaughter uses Twitter all the time to plan events. One moment she’s sitting at the kitchen table looking at her phone, the next minute, she’s off to a party.” Barbara V frowned. “Maybe you should keep better track of her.” Roberta flushed, her chubby cheeks turning bright red. She added, “Another time a bunch of her friends got together and cleaned out a neighbor’s basement and painted her kitchen. Planned it on the spot,” she said proudly. Her pigeon chest expanded. Cookie put in, “The Twitter alerts could add some excitement. Lots of people have smart phones these days. If the customers get online and tell their friends, we’ll attract even more participants. Isn’t that what we want to do?” Cookie ran a very popular quilt shop in Aptos. She was a businesswoman first, and quilter second. I had been hoping she would understand. Barbara the Damp wiped her hands on a crochet-trimmed handkerchief she pulled out of her sleeve. “We have been losing participants …” she began. Her voice faded out as she caught a glare from Barb V. I broke in. “You’ve been telling us that there are two kinds of Crawlers. Ones who shop and the others who rush in only to get their stamp. This would be a chance to get those customers to stay a bit longer. And spend money.” “What would happen at the tweeter shop?” Barb V asked. 28

I ignored her mangling of the word. “We would award a special prize basket to one of the customers who got there during the allotted hour,” I said. “You’d have to be present to win, so—” Half Moon Bay threw up her hands. “Where am I supposed to get the money for more prizes?” Others joined in. Barb V held up her pen for silence, and they ceased their chatter. She said, “Dewey, you know that we have strict budgets for giveaways. You remember how difficult it was to negotiate a figure that everyone could afford.” I looked behind me. I thought I’d heard the back door open. I was so hoping Vangie would appear and get me out of this mess. But it was only a customer who moved on through to the front. My heart sank. I had two minutes to convince this group that my Twitter idea would work. “It won’t cost you anything. I’ll get the prizes donated and put together a special basket for each shop. The days of the Crawl, I’ll handle the tweeting. All you will have to do is greet the extra customers who come to your shop.” “And take their money,” Freddy said. “Time is up,” Barb V said. “This meeting is over.” “I’ll take that as a yes,” I whispered to Freddy. “Vamonos,” he replied. _____ Freddy stayed behind to help me clean up. We cleared the table of used cups and plates. Most of the bagels were gone.

“I guess that was a success, even though now I have two major new tasks. I have to set up a Twitter account for the Quilters Crawl and track down free stuff to give away, I said.” I cracked my neck to the right and then to the left, in an effort to relieve some of the tension I was feeling. “Can you help?” “I’ll call Lark and get her to give us some of her books,” Freddy said. “That’s big of you,” I said, hitting the sarcasm hard. Freddy could take it. “That’s a no-brainer and will take you all of about three minutes.” We both talked regularly to Lark Gordon, star of a hit quilting cable show. She was an easy touch for door prizes. I continued, “I’m going to talk to my scissors guy in Brooklyn. He’ll be good for a dozen mini-snips. If he hasn’t already sent my order out, we’ll get them in time.” Freddy rubbed his neck. I could see a new tattoo peeking out of his collar. It looked like the head of a tiger. He refused to act his age. “I can get a hold of embroidery designs.” “Not everyone has a machine that can handle those,” I pointed out. I couldn’t let Freddy off the hook. He had to chip in with some help. I already had too much on my plate. He stacked the coffee mugs precariously in the cabinet over the sink. I took two off the top and set them on a different shelf. “Okay, some high-quality thread, then. The big spools. And some stabilizer. Even the regular sewers can use stabilizer. Can you get Vangie to set up the Twitter account?” I shook my head and filled the sink with soapy water. “I’ll do it. She’s got a full load at school. I want her available to work on the Crawl weekend.” “I haven’t seen her in weeks.” 30

Since opening a shop nearby, Freddy had become a bit of a fixture around my place. He sold sewing machines, so we weren’t in direct competition. I sent my customers who needed a machine to him, and he sent me those looking for fabric and quilt classes. It was a good business relationship. “Is she okay?” Freddy asked me. I stuck my hands in the water. It was too hot but I didn’t want to back away. I didn’t want Freddy to see my face. He could tell when I was lying. “She’s fine. Can you buy baskets for the prizes?” He nodded Buster came in the QP kitchen as Freddy was drying the knives. He was wearing his tightest SJPD black T-shirt and black jeans. I could tell he hadn’t stopped at home yet because he was still wearing his gun. It was as if he knew Freddy was going to be here. Intimidation was the name of the game. He said hello, and went straight to the refrigerator. His sixfoot-three frame filled the open space. He peered into the interior like he was sixteen and in his mother’s kitchen. I didn’t mind the rear view but couldn’t help but fret about the electricity being wasted. “Hi, babe,” I said. “Sorry, we’re out of Vitamin Water.” Buster grunted and took out a quart of milk. I have three brothers, I knew what came next. I held out a glass. Buster ignored it and twisted off the top. Freddy said, “Late night again?” Buster turned to me. “So what, now. You talking about me?” he asked. He had a dangerous glint in his eye. He took a long drink from the container.

I shook my head. My guilt about slipping about Buster being on the drug task force found its way into my voice. “Of course not.” Buster caught my hesitation. He tilted the milk and looked at Freddy. “She been complaining about my rotten moods? How I never have time to take her out anymore?” “It’s pretty evident that you’re busy. The bathroom …” Freddy said. He was trying to be diplomatic. I had to give him that. That was not Freddy’s usual modus operandi. Buster was relentless. “Since you’re over here all the time already, maybe you’d like to paint the bathroom.” Enough. I took the milk from Buster and poured the remainder into the glass. I rinsed the container. “Buster, Freddy and I have work to do. We’re working on the Quilters Crawl together, you know that. Knock it off. You’re out of line.” Freddy dried his hand on a paper towel. He gathered up his Quilters Crawl notebook. “We’re done for today,” he said. He walked to the doorway and turned back, stroking his beard. His eyes sought Buster’s and held them. “Your girl has not spilled your deep dark secrets, I guarantee that.” He managed to make it sound like just the opposite. I blushed. Buster glowered. Freddy disappeared. I turned on Buster, with the milk container in my hand. Buster took it from me and tossed it into the recycling bin. “Geez, Buster, that was unnecessary,” I said. “I know you’re tired and cranky, but come on.” “You do understand he moved up here to be near you, don’t you?” Buster said, washing his dirty glass. He could only push the caveman act so far before his natural need for order took over. 32

“Not at all. He wanted to be closer to his brother.” “That’s what he tells you, maybe, but I know the real reason. He fell for you when you two were at Asilomar last year.” I wiped down the countertop with vigor. Buster was pissing me off. “When do you get off that task force? You’re getting paranoid.” “Think what you want. I know a smitten man when I see one.” Buster helped himself to a stale bagel from the morning Crawl meeting. I rinsed off my sponge and took a breath, letting the running water soothe me. Buster was miserable at his job right now. He’d asked to get off Homicide because he was dissatisfied only doing computer work on cold cases, but working the drug scene was souring him. I had to cut him some slack. I faced him. “Freddy is not the problem. You need sleep, and lots of it.” He nodded reluctantly. “I’m sorry. I’m just upset at how long this is taking. If it was up to my superiors at SJPD, we’d have made arrests already. But they have to answer to the FBI and the DEA. Those guys are dragging their feet. Meanwhile, there are so many kids on campus becoming addicted to pills, it makes me sick.” “But it’s out of your hands.” “That doesn’t make it any easier when I know the amount of painkillers and Prozac that’s being ingested. Those kids need help. And those dealers need to be locked up.” I dried my hands on the towel he was holding and reached for Buster. He came into my arms and let me stroke his lush hair. He’d been out all night again. I felt how weary he was as he sagged against me. “When are we going to get our life back?” I asked. 33

Buster shook his head. He pulled away, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He looked so tired and vulnerable, I forgave him everything, even drinking from the milk carton. “HQ’s not telling me anything,” he said. He fought off a yawn. “I’m going to go home and sleep.” “You’re working again tonight?” I asked. Ugh. More hours in front of HGTV. I was even tiring of Josh Temple. He grabbed his leather jacket. “Yup. Going in at seven.” “I’ll come home early and make dinner,” I said. That would be our only time together. “Thanks,” he said. His eyes were getting heavy. He started down the hall to QP’s back door. “Okay if I invite Freddy?” I called after him. He didn’t turn around, just flipped me off without looking back.