The Rose Quilt Read online

  He spent the time before supper in the club car going over his notes. A scanty meal of Dover sole, steamed carrots, and creamed potatoes in the dining car was eaten alone. As he once more reviewed what he knew of the murder, his sinking feeling that it was going to be ugly was reinforced. Too many tentacles of the political world were wrapped around it. When a local jurisdiction gives up control, it is usually because of politics, and Mrs. Chandler had been a power in the state. Give him a clean, quiet gangland murder anytime. For all his skill with politicians, Bob Crowder was feeling trapped. He was looking for a scapegoat before he took on that role himself. Steve knew that Bob would sacrifice him to save his own skin—regretfully, of course. Friendship went only so far with Bob. He had a wife and three kids, so Steve knew he would not fall on his sword for anyone. Bob was more practical than noble.

  The rhythm of the iron wheels over the joins of the rails lulled him into a state between sleep and wakefulness. His mind drifted to Julie. He saw her as the young woman he had first met as a cub reporter. Her blond hair had swung in a loose mane around her fresh-scrubbed face. He had just finished a long and difficult case with a nasty, killing band of bootleggers. The Volstead Act had just been passed, and the competition for bootlegging territory had been fierce and sudden. An Irish gang and their Italian counterparts had engaged in several shoot-outs, and innocent bystanders had been hit. The press was howling for blood, and the case had gotten a high profile. Steve had led a dedicated team of officers from the Connecticut State Police and stopped the war.

  Julie had taken it upon herself to write the story in order to get out of another assignment she had been given, a column on cooking, in which she was providing recipes and advice for the paper’s readers. Her print persona was that of a fifty-year-old grandmotherly woman. Even then she had a driving urge to get into the meat of reporting: exposés, murders, and other high-profile pieces. She had faced Steve down with enough gumption and intelligent questions to impress him. Instead of his usual snarl and silence in response to the press, he had accepted her invitation to dinner and a story. It had not hurt that she had the rangy build and blue eyes that had always stirred something in him.

  Her story had gotten ripped to shreds, figuratively, by Calvin, who sat her down and told her two things: to do the job she was assigned and to get the schoolgirl journalism out of her system before she tried something serious. Calvin had ripped her copy in half, literally, and told her that when she could tell the same story with half the words, he might possibly read another piece she wrote. The dressing down was brutal, but Steve knew his friend was impressed with her potential. She had kept her job.

  With the pain of losing Susan just starting to fade, he had taken Julie out a couple of times, just to drop a few hints into her shell-like ears, of course, about where the news was. Over the next few years Julie had gotten serious, but Steve was still gun-shy. All along, he tried to convince himself that he was bachelor material and he would play the field, even though he was seeing Julie exclusively. He liked her a lot but felt the situation was getting too close to serious, and he had tried to lower the temperature. Steve hoped she understood his views and would handle the situation professionally. The fact that he did not understand his views meant that he could not communicate them to her. Maybe he should rethink his feelings about marriage.

  He sat up quickly enough to startle the attendant behind the refreshment counter, where he was polishing clean glasses. Steve rubbed his eyes and slammed the door on his thoughts. He did not need to be wandering down those roads. His fun-time, girl-in-every-town bachelor’s life was not going to be altered by maudlin thoughts. That is, when he found the time to start assembling this harem. He was not looking for a wife and kids and a white picket fence in the country. He came close to convincing himself of that.

  The train pulled into the Chandler station in a cloud of steam and screeching brakes. Steve exited and assisted a lady in mink. Her smile gave him a spark of hope, until he realized it was for a tall, wealthy-looking man whose suit probably cost more than his monthly salary. “Your day still hasn’t improved any, Steve,” he muttered as he retrieved his suitcase.

  The almost palatial station, built of dressed stone under a slate roof, stood proudly across the platform. Freshly painted window and doorframes gleamed white in the slanting evening sun. Neatly stacked baggage and freight waited. Uniformed attendants assisted debarking passengers with their baggage, while the stationmaster quickly and efficiently unloaded the freight. The foyer of the station opened into a well-lit room with a grilled counter and a waiting room with padded benches rather than the splintery specimens that Steve was used to. The notices were neatly arranged and, at first glance, appeared more artistic than utilitarian. The arrival/departure slate markings were almost calligraphically drawn. Steve was impressed.

  From the station doorway, Steve saw a short, blocky man in an impeccably tailored dark green uniform standing by the exit door across the waiting room. A blank face was topped by short, dark hair. Steve observed a slab of nose, slightly off-center from a poorly set break, between deep, shaggy brows and a neatly clipped mustache. One ear was misshapen, and the man’s large hands were scarred. Steve realized that he was looking at a former pugilist. His compressed lips were almost invisible and his posture rigid. An aura of disapproval radiated off the statue-like figure.

  The patch on his shoulder identified the Chandler Constabulary, and a silver shield shone on his left breast. A black patent-leather belt held a pistol in a holster with the flap down, pouches for ammunition, and a pair of handcuffs. He held a flat-brimmed, campaign-style hat modeled on the military cover issued during the Great War. His shoes shone in the bright illumination of the train station.

  He stepped up and introduced himself as William “Buck” Daniels, captain of the Chandler Constabulary, in a flat, unfriendly voice. “I have a car outside,” he said after a brief handshake and a stiff exchange of pleasantries. They went through the station, and Steve put his bag in the back seat of the 1919 Pilot sedan, which had a logo on its front doors matching the design on the captain’s shoulder patch. They climbed into the vehicle and settled into the seats.

  “Where to?” asked the captain.

  Steve sighed. He had gotten up early to finish the reports, been running around all day, and was tired. “Has the crime scene been locked down?”

  “Yes,” the other replied, staring straight ahead through the windshield. “As soon as I got there. Then I called the county sheriff, and he said not to touch anything. Technically, he has jurisdiction over this because Chandler is unincorporated. It’s a little confusing to an outsider. Basically, the Chandlers run the county as their own fiefdom. What they decide is rubber-stamped by the County Council. They wanted the town and officers as independent as possible. The Chandler Constabulary is considered an auxiliary force to the sheriff’s department. Our town council doesn’t pass anything unless it is reviewed by the county attorney. Like I say, probably confusing to an outsider.

  “Anyway, the sheriff said he would get someone from the State Office down as soon as possible.” His voice carried an edge of irritation.

  “So, the sheriff didn’t want anything to do with this either,” observed Steve. “Looks like it’s more of a hot potato than I figured. Well, you did the right thing. Too bad you aren’t incorporated and don’t have a full organization here. We could have kept the whole investigation local. Oh, well, did the county handle the preliminary investigation before calling us in?”

  “Yes. They took photos and dusted for prints. The body was removed to the county morgue, and their coroner should have performed the autopsy by now. Sheriff Duggan told me that the reports would be forwarded to the state.”

  Steve snorted. “Then they called us in to do the investigation here in Chandler. Duggan must be not only nervous but running scared. I hate politics in an investigation.” He glanced at Buck. “You and I have to get those reports before they get lost in the maze in Hartford. We
’ll use your boys for local scut work, if you don’t mind. I don’t want any of the sheriff’s people around if they are thinking more about avoiding bad press than solving this thing.”

  He paused for a second. “There probably isn’t anything in the reports, though. Thinking about it, if evidence was there that pointed to a killer or if the autopsy had any surprises, the sheriff would have stepped in to nab someone and grab the glory. Right now, I will assume that no one is identified and the cause of death was the stabbing. We do want to get the lab and autopsy reports, though, just to be sure.”

  “Inspector Walsh, we may ... ”

  “Steve. Call me Steve, ’cause I have a feeling that we are going to be working together for a while. Damn that Bob,” he finished in a mutter.

  “Okay, Steve.” Buck sounded a little more relaxed and turned toward his passenger. “Now, we are a small department. There are only twelve of us, and two are night watchmen at the mills. We usually only handle drunks on Saturday night, vandalism, and truants. Murder is out of our league, and I really do appreciate you coming down. And your attitude. Whenever there was a need to bring in the county, for bootleggers or hijackings or what not, we were pretty much treated as idiot children.”

  Steve twisted around in his seat, fished out a cigarette, and lit it with a match he flicked alight with his thumbnail. He opened the window and flipped the burnt match out. “Let’s clear the air, shall we? You are here on the ground. You know the players and the terrain. The worst thing I could do would be to twist your tail and end up having to cover a lot of territory I shouldn’t have to with you sitting like a grumpy bear in the background. I will be running the show; don’t have any doubts about that. You have trouble with local or state yahoos; I will take care of it. You and I are going to work on this together, if you’re willing. Otherwise, stay out of my way or I will hammer you like a tenpenny nail for hampering my investigation.” He took a drag and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth toward the half-open window while locking eyes with Buck.

  For the first time, Buck showed an expression other than that of an Easter Island statue. With a grin he held out his hand again. “Inspector Walsh, you have a team. Now, where to?”

  “If the crime scene is secure, I could do with a decent feed, a drink, and a bed. Train fare is a little sparse for my tastes. I am supposed to have a room booked at the Chandler Hotel. Does it have a restaurant, or is there a decent one nearby?”

  Buck started the car and drove through well-ordered streets lined with elms, surrounded by freshly painted black ironwork dotting the sidewalks. The houses were all in a light brown color that closely imitated the tint of the station. Windows, doorways, and porch rails gleamed white. The homes were of different layouts to fit different-sized families. There was not the feel of a typical company town. Steve saw an air of pride in the village that attested to the goodwill of the contented residents. Children’s toys were scattered in many of the yards, and trees with tire swings shaded the homes. The business district consisted of buildings of quarried stone—the material used at the station—well-lit streets, and stone planters with flowers and wrought-iron benches at intervals. There was a hardware store, several churches, a variety store, a shoe store, and a haberdashery, among other businesses. The retail spaces generally had office or living space above.

  The city hall sat in the center of the plaza, facing south, its cupola topped by a statue of Josiah Chandler, as Buck informed him. The library, with its gardens, faced the government building. A large grocery covered a long block to the east. Along the north side of the plaza was a six-story building with “Chandler Hotel” on the marquee. It seemed surprisingly large for a town the size of Chandler. The final side of the plaza was taken up by the Chandler Constabulary building. It shared the block with a theater/auditorium displaying colorful posters advertising Douglas Fairbanks’s Robin Hood and When Knighthood Was in Flower. A line of customers was queued up at the brightly lit ticket booth, where a young woman was dispensing tickets. There were uniformed doormen stationed at the entrance. Buck drove slowly around the city hall to give Steve a good view.

  “Pretty fancy for a small-town theater,” observed Steve, rubbernecking.

  “The Chandlers believe that their employees are human, unlike a lot of mill owners. Grandpa Chandler saw a lot of company towns that were little better than shacks and saw how much trouble there was from Reds and agitators and dissatisfied employees and decided to try something else,” Buck said with pride.

  “The family uses the rents to keep things nice. The mayor and city council run the town, and they always got together with Mrs. Chandler to plan new projects or repairs,” Buck said earnestly.

  Steve glanced over to find that his companion was sincere and, moreover, appeared to believe in this theory himself. Not just a run-of-the-mill company thug, he thought. Good.

  Buck parked in front of a “No Parking” sign. At Steve’s raised eyebrows, Buck grinned and said, “Perks of the office.” Steve exited into the summer night, cooled by the Connecticut River that reflected the shimmering sunset of gold, red, and orange. The uniformed hotel doorman greeted them, passed Steve’s bag to a bellhop, and ushered them through the outside door. Buck led the way to the front desk on the right, across a wide lobby. On the left, Steve noticed the opening to the restaurant and a three-seat shoeshine stand. A cigar counter and a newsstand flanked the elevator cage opposite the revolving front door.

  “Hi, Pete,” Buck said to the clerk. “Got a customer for you. This is Inspector Steve Walsh from the State Police. You have a reservation for him.”

  The scrawny man behind the desk stuttered, “Y-y-yeah. We-we’ve got a room s-s-saved for h-h-him. S-s-sign here, s-s-sir.”

  Steve added his name to the register and gave the bellhop his key and a two-bit tip. He then followed the captain through the lobby to the restaurant. They were given a table in the corner, led there by a tuxedo-clad maître d’ who handed them menus and left with a polite smile. Steve looked around and saw a real restaurant: muted lighting, crisp tablecloths on the well-spaced tables, and full table settings. Not like the hotel coffee shops of his experience. The dark walls and tasteful furnishings showed that a professional eye had been used in selecting the decor. The Chandlers were definitely not typical, he thought.

  Steve decided on his choice and turned to Buck. “Let’s clear the underbrush out, shall we? Do you have any suspects in mind? I understand that there were a half-dozen people from the show committee. Several servants. The three kids. Those were in the house. What about others? Unhappy workers from the mills? Any agitation from the Reds or radical union people? Any strangers in town? How many people can really be listed as suspects?” He took out a notebook and pencil from an inside pocket of his jacket.

  Buck shook his head. “I would bet that none of the Chandler people here in town could be guilty. Unless there is a secret reason that someone hated the old lady. I’m sure it would have gotten around.”

  The waitress approached, and Steve ordered a steak, baked potato, and vegetables. “Just coffee, black, May. Thanks,” said the captain.

  He turned back to Steve. “There are a lot of strangers in town. Mostly for the flower show and the Regional Agricultural Fair. Mostly, at this point, those are vendors or carny people. A week from now, there will be a lot of fairgoers swarming the town. But Mrs. Chandler had a wall built around Chandler Hill, where the house stands. There is broken glass cemented on top, and it is pretty hard to get in. There are gates through each side, but all were locked. I checked. I can’t see why any stranger would want to kill Mrs. Chandler anyway. She still had her jewelry and nothing was missing from the room or body. No easy getaways and the main road is on the other side of town. There is an old farm road, but the dust from a car would linger, and it is a long way to walk from where it hits the main road.

  “Same thing with the workers. A long time ago, Mr. Chandler said he would pay the going wage of any other cotton mill in the state.
There was no reason to resent the company. They never had to strike to get any demands met.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Chandler kept the town nice. The rents and profits from the different businesses, whether the company owned them or they were rented out, were reasonable, and they went back into keeping the town. There is a council and mayor who make decisions, and they are all elected by the citizens—women too, now that the Nineteenth Amendment was passed. Some places, the workers are kept in virtual slavery, always owing the company store, but here that isn’t the case. Most of the fruit, vegetables, and meat are produced on the farms on company land.”

  “They own farms?” queried Steve, feigning ignorance of Calvin’s information. He was willing to hear things he already knew rather than have his informant skip something that might later turn out to be important.

  “They own several thousand acres. Mr. Chandler’s grandfather bought it years ago with profits from his shipping company. Mr. Chandler expanded in a new direction. They already had the farms, quarry, and timber operations. Cotton was cheap after the Civil War, and he built the mill.

  “Then there is the pin. It seemed to point to someone in the house,” Buck finished.

  May brought his meal, and Steve liberally salted his steak and vegetables. He added slabs of butter to his baked potato, but before he took a bite, he paused. “Tell me about the pin,” he said.

  “When she was found, she was lying under the quilt wall. She had reached up and shoved a pin into the quilt. Probably from the pincushion on her wrist. The pin was in the backing cloth, which had flowers and writing in Latin printed on it. It was called something like ‘Giardino Latino,’ according to Mrs. Black, head of the committee.”

  “What’s this ‘quilt wall’ thing?” Steve asked.