The Rose Quilt Read online

  “Part of one wall is covered with cork. Apparently, they pin the pieces of the quilt—squares, I think they’re called—there so they can see what it would look like before they sew it together. Last week they put it together. This week, they were doing the finish work for the show next week. Then there is a big unveiling at the Chandler mansion, where all the swells get together to ooh and aah and have something to eat. Then the quilt is taken to the flower pavilion, when the show starts, to be put on display until the awards are given.”

  Steve nodded and took a drink of water, grimacing. “Are you sure there isn’t a speakeasy around here?”

  Buck laughed. “Not in this town. You had better bring it yourself if you’re thirsty.”

  “Barbarians!” he muttered. He regretted emptying his small flask on the trip down. “All right. This dying clue. Does it point to anyone in particular?”

  “It points to everybody, in a way. The main color of the backing cloth was black. Mrs. Black is the executive secretary of the flower show. Latin points to Professor Poltovski, who teaches ancient languages at the college. And the rose part points to Miss Carlyle, who is in charge of setting up the floral displays at the show and is a botanist, and to Mrs. Flowers, the treasurer. The translation of the name, Latin Garden, points to Mr. and Mrs. Jones, who own the local nursery and provide all the plants for the displays, though that is a stretch. Oh, and the pin was shoved through a printed tea rose, and all the children were named after tea roses, Mr. Chandler’s favorite.”

  “That would make me want to kill my mom,” muttered Steve, taking another bite.

  Buck took a refill from May and continued, “Do you want to go up to the house, then?”

  “Nah, I’m beat. If you have the place bottled up, I’ll look it over tomorrow. Are the kids there? I may as well start with them.”

  “Francis and Silene are there, but Catherine is here in the hotel. With her husband.” The way he said it made Steve look up and arch an eyebrow. “Catherine ended up marrying her manager,” Buck continued. “The one Mrs. Chandler transferred from here to run things and make sure that Catherine didn’t tangle things up. Mrs. Chandler didn’t have too much respect for the girl’s judgment, and, the rumor is, there was some trouble that the family bottled up. They came up here to tell the old lady about the marriage, and she didn’t take it well. Threatened to cut her out of the will and fire the girl and Paul Sullivan. For all her generosity, Mrs. Chandler liked to have control over things, including her children’s lives.”

  “I don’t suppose she has another alibi besides her husband?”

  “No. They had room service, and the waiter didn’t see her either coming or going,” replied the captain.

  “Tomorrow, can you pick me up in the morning at eight o’clock? I want to go over the place.” Steve took the last bite of steak and pushed his plate away.

  After his meal he took his leave of Buck. Steve retrieved his key from the desk, asked for a wake-up call at seven o’clock in the morning, and took the elevator to the top floor. He stopped for a second when he saw the bright brass plaque next to the entry, which read: “Presidential Suite.” He opened the door and stared around in surprise.

  Steve was used to small, dark, cheap rooms when he traveled for an investigation. Water-stained walls and broken-down furniture were more the norm than the comfortable, airy environment of the room in which he stood. The suite was as big as his flat, maybe bigger. This one had marble floors, two rooms, and a bottle of champagne in a sweating ice bucket. A fruit basket and a gaily wrapped bottle of Canadian whiskey sat on the large round table in the center of the living room. A card read “Welcome” and was signed “Julie” in a familiar masculine hand with six hearts and a single arrow piercing all of them. When he turned the card over, he saw, in the same scrawl, “Really, it’s me. Calvin. Remember my scoop. Ha ha.”

  He snorted at the sick humor and used some of the ice from the bucket to fix himself a drink. He downed it before putting on his pajamas and going to bed. As he drifted off, he wondered when Calvin had managed to get the bottle and note delivered.

  Chapter 4

  The wake-up knock came too early for Steve. He communicated with monosyllables until he had had his first cup of coffee in the hotel restaurant. While he nursed it and waited for his toast, bacon, and eggs, Buck walked in looking neat and cheerful. Steve gave him a good morning grunt as he sat down.

  “You look like you had a rough night,” Buck said with a laugh in his voice.

  “Mornings should start at noon,” Steve muttered.

  “Well, we have a full day. Mrs. Black left a message with my wife. She wants to talk to you right away. Actually, she insists—no, demands—that she talk to you immediately.”

  “Okay. Did she give you any idea what she wanted?”

  “No. I am only a lowly constable. You are a lofty state inspector and are in charge, so she wants to talk with you and you alone. I told her to come to the house at nine this morning, but she will be there at eight thirty, I’m sure.”

  Once Steve’s breakfast arrived, he directed all his attention to his plate. Buck ordered coffee and chatted with the locals at adjacent tables. By the time Steve had wiped up the last of the egg with a scrap of toast and finished his third cup of coffee, he was finally feeling human. He signed for his meal and dropped off his key at the front desk. The two men left the hotel and walked down the street to the constabulary building in the morning sun, a light breeze tugging at Steve’s coat. They drove off in Buck’s official vehicle, directed to the Chandler house.

  The mansion, Chandler House, stood at the top of a low hill overlooking the town, farms, and mills. It reminded Steve of the country Georgian homes he had visited in England. It was unadorned, a rectangle with a steep roof and jutting dormers. The stone was the same local material evident in other buildings in Chandler. Sunlight sparkled off rows of windows, and Steve thought it looked ready for the members of a hunt club to come pouring around the corner, following a pack of dogs encouraged with horns. The lawn was elegantly manicured, with tastefully placed trees and brilliant patches of flowers. A white gazebo stood on a wide expanse of grass. The manor and grounds were surrounded by an impressive stone wall, and there was a guard hut of the same material next to the main gate. Behind the hut was a small cottage. An old man, hoeing in the diminutive vegetable garden, waved a salute to the captain when they motored past.

  As they drove up the long, curving drive, Steve observed, “They must have been afraid of something if they needed this huge wall. Reminds me of some of the castles I saw in England.”

  Buck explained with a slight trace of amusement in his voice: “During the ’20–’21 recession, Mrs. Chandler took the workers who would have been laid off and set them to constructing the wall. Mr. Chandler was always joking about adding a wall and moat. She had some working at the quarry she reopened; some she had haul the stone on company trucks. She made sure no one was laid off. Even if the Harding administration hadn’t cleaned up the mess so rapidly, I think she would have kept it up with projects until the depression had ended or she went broke. The old guy is Huskins, the retired head gardener. Mrs. Chandler installed him here at the gatehouse when he couldn’t handle his job anymore. Like the other workers who have been pensioned off. There is a string of cottages down near the farms, and Mrs. Chandler gives the farmers a little to keep an eye on them. A boarding house in town provides rooms for others. I think there are around 20, 22 pensioners now.”

  “You mean the Chandlers pay the upkeep on these people?” asked Steve.

  “Yup. As long as they want to stay, and they will pay for the plots when they pass. A. J. Chandler had a sign in his office that read: ‘People are not a disposable commodity.’”

  Buck went on, passionately, “During the influenza epidemic, Mrs. Chandler had one of the lines at the mill produce muslin for masks, which were issued to all workers and their families. During one period, the Chandler Hotel was turned into a hospital, an
d she spent twelve to fourteen hours a day as a volunteer nurse.”

  “Wow,” was all that Steve could think of to say. It was a rare employer who would take care of workers who were past their time or sick. He was convinced that Buck was a member of the choir. “Okay. I understand. The Chandlers aren’t your typical robber barons.”

  Buck drove around the sparkling fountain in the center of the graveled turnaround and parked. The fountain had a square stone base two feet tall. The center featured a series of three tiers, topped by a stone mermaid holding a shell from which the water flowed. Lily pads floated on the water, with small orange and white fish darting among the roots of the plants.

  The officers were met at the door by the uniformed butler. “Welcome, gentlemen. My name is Jeremy, Inspector Walsh,” he informed Steve in a clipped British accent, with a slight bow. He took their hats after welcoming them in that upper-crust tone Steve had become familiar with during the Great War.

  Steve stopped and took a minute to stare. He was standing before a large mahogany table with intricate carving around its edge. A beautiful round lace cloth with a Georgian silver bowl containing a flower arrangement stood in its center. The large marble-floored foyer spread out around him, its green and white squares gleaming with the care showered on it. Directly opposite the front door were two wide, sweeping staircases leading to the second floor. The banisters were an open invitation for any child. A wide landing connected the staircases at the midway point, from which they continued on in opposite directions. On the ground floor, halls extended to the left and right. Their front walls were lined with wide windows harboring stone benches between them. The opposite wall of each hall contained antique furniture, and a suit of armor stood guard halfway down. Sunlight streamed through the windows, raising highlights on the wood and steel. There were two doors leading off each hall, and both halls ended at double doors opening onto the terrace. Directly ahead, another wide corridor led between the staircases to another set of doors onto the terrace. More doors lined each side of the main hall.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” said the captain with a grin. “I always like to see the first reaction. At least your mouth didn’t flap open.”

  “Probably would have if I hadn’t seen some of those English country homes. This is small potatoes compared to the ones that house the Duke of This and the Earl of That,” answered Steve.

  The captain led the way to the first door on the left, where a constable sat in an ornate chair next to the door, presumably stationed there to ensure that no one entered. She was dressed in the same uniform as Buck, and Steve looked at her in surprise.

  “So, not all of your constables are veterans, then?” he asked.

  Buck gave him an amused look. “Steve, meet Constable Ruth Beckstrom. She served overseas in the United States Army during the war.” Ruth stood and snapped a smart military salute. “Ruth Beckstrom, Signal Corps, Female Telephone Operators Unit, United States Army, sir.” She dropped her hand and held it out to him. “I served in Southampton, England, and Chaumont, France. I trained under Grace Banker in Camp Franklin, Maryland, before being deployed with the American Expeditionary Force. I am one of the Hello Girls. After the war, we were treated as redheaded stepchildren, but I consider myself a veteran.”

  Steve extended his hand, and she gave it a short, sharp shake. “Captain Steve Walsh, United States Military Intelligence Liaison. Stationed in London.” He grinned and continued, “Didn’t have much in the way of training. Got shanghaied by an old law school friend who needed someone to hold his hand.”

  Ruth gave him an appraising look and said with a teasing smile, “You can hold my hand any time.” Her cherubic face and friendly eyes caused Steve to take another look at the whole package. She was five feet and a little, and the uniform hid what he guessed to be a tidy figure. Her heart-shaped face broke into a full grin, and the dimples showed on her full cheeks. Pale blue eyes sparkled and seemed to draw him in.

  Buck’s laugh was almost a roar. “Careful, there. Her fiancé is a Golden Gloves champion and tougher than wet leather.”

  Steve snapped back to reality and colored. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, and I look forward to working with you.” He shot a glance at Buck. “At a comfortable distance,” he added.

  Ruth gave a little laugh. “Oh, Gino wouldn’t hurt a fly. You know that, Buck.” She turned to Steve. “He’s a flyer with the Gates Flying Circus. He’s in the Midwest, performing for the next three weeks.” She blushed at the implication that her statement indicated an invitation.

  Buck stepped in to cover her embarrassment. “All right, back to business. I have had someone here since I got the call about the murder and sealed the room to everyone except for the sheriff’s men.”

  Buck pulled a knife from his pocket and pushed the button to flick open the six-inch blade. He slit the large square of paper attached to the door and jamb and depressed the lever.

  Steve stood in the opening and turned around to face the hall. He studied right and left and then gazed out the window in front of him for a few seconds. Anyone in the drive would be able to see the door, especially with the hall lights on. He turned and entered the room. It was large, with a fireplace on the right wall flanked by floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases. Directly ahead, pictures, plaques, and knickknack shelves covered the walls. Below them were a reading area, a dower chest, and a record console. On the left side, a cork wall held the quilt. A long table stood back from the wall, chairs lining the near side. Overstuffed armchairs and sofas were scattered around the center of the room in a conversational arrangement.

  Steve studied the quilt. His familiarity with quilts consisted of the spreads covering the beds that his mother, his grandmother Mimi, and their friends had created on winter nights. As a child he would listen to the conversation of the women who gathered to sew fair entries and birth and wedding gifts. Usually, the quilts consisted of square blocks made of pieces of old cloth. On occasion, they would experiment with other styles—Log Cabin, map, stars, and other patterns. Steve smiled as he remembered the women sitting in a circle chatting, their needles flashing in the firelight. He was ever ready to run errands: fill coffee cups, replenish the cookie plate, gather scraps. His smile faded when he recalled his father’s silent disapproval of his participation in what he considered women’s work.

  He shook the memories out of his mind and admired the flowers on the wall. It looked more like a picture than a quilt.

  The surfaces were filmed with fingerprint dust, left by the sheriff’s office investigators. A piece of torn notepaper lay on the floor next to a splash of blood three feet from the door. A sturdy table stood next to the door. It contained a silver tray with thimbles scattered on it. There was another tray with scissors laid out neatly according to size. A space showed at the end of the graduated row, the large end. Lastly, there was a large thread box, decorated with the words “Chandler Fine Thread” in gold, containing three glass-fronted drawers and another narrower drawer at the top. When Steve opened several of the larger drawers, he saw they contained spools of thread organized like a rainbow. The top narrow drawer held packets of needles of various sizes.

  Another table along the quilt wall held precut swatches of cloth. Obviously, these were ready to be used for the quilt, though it looked to Steve like the quilt was finished. An ornate low-sided box held two rows of pincushions that could be worn on the wrist, attached with an elastic band.

  Several more ragged pieces of paper led to the foot of the quilt wall, each marking a dark stain. Buck stated, “She was stabbed here, by the door. We figured that the killer panicked and got out, fast. He or she probably thought this was like in the stories or moving pictures—one stab and the victim was dead. In this case, Mrs. Chandler managed to crawl the ten feet to the quilt and take a pin from her wrist pincushion and jam it in the quilt before she died.”

  They crossed the room as he outlined his theory. Steve took a closer look at the quilt fastened vertically on the wa
ll. A lower corner had been folded up to expose the backing cloth, on which another paper scrap had been tacked. This had a hole torn in the center and was marked with the word “pin.” There were six oblongs of cloth stuck along the top and next to the folded-over section. They matched either the olive and magenta border or the pale swatches of the background. He lay down on the polished wooden floor and reached up. “How long were her arms?” he asked.

  “Well, we estimate the pin was about at her farthest reach if she was raised on her elbow,” Buck answered.

  The inspector got to his feet and dusted off his hands and carefully brushed his suit with his pocket-handkerchief. He shot his cuffs and turned to Buck. “She knew her killer,” he mused.

  “Yeah. That’s what we think. If she didn’t know him or her, Mrs. Chandler would have ushered them in and the killer would have been in front of her. But she must have led them, because there was no reason for her to move further into the room and then step back or to turn her back to the room and face the door. Also, try to pick up another pair of scissors from the tray without making a sound. We had three men and a woman try several times and none of them could do it. From that, we determined that the murderer hadn’t snuck in on her.

  “Now, I can only go by my experiences with my mom, but when she was angry and wanted to end the conversation, she turned her back on me and concentrated on something else. That would give the murderer his, or her, chance to stab Mrs. Chandler. I figure that the killer said something and used the sound to cover when he grabbed the shears.”

  Steve picked up a pair and put them back. “Good thinking.” He looked around the room again, his glance touching on the door. “Wouldn’t the rest of this committee have heard the voices?”

  “Probably not,” answered Buck. “They were mostly out back on the terrace or in the dining room talking. I had to shout before the constables I stationed out there heard me, when I tested that theory.”

  Steve pointed to the chairs scattered in front of the table. “Were those chairs like that when you got here?”