8

The squares, triangles, and octagons swam before Ginny’s eyes, mocking her with their vivid paisleys and ginghams. Mentally, she planned the update in her brown notebook. Points for Cal, one for getting her off the case, one for worming his way into her house, twenty-five hundred for sticking her with this horrendous sewing project. She didn’t sew; she baked. And quilt? Why cut up fabric into smaller pieces just to sew them back together in larger pieces?

Stabbing a pin into a slithering bit of gingham, she opened her mouth. “Why don’t we just make a crazy quilt?”

Mrs. Clinton’s voice rose above the noise of clacking scissors made by the throng of women crowded around her dining room table. “These are orphans who have not had proper training or instruction. We will not corrupt their minds further with non-regular quilt patterns.”

Miss Lilac adjusted her spectacles. “I had an aunt once who sewed crazy quilts. Hers were lovely, and my mother used to display them”

“No one cares what your aunt did. These are orphans we’re talking about.” Mrs. Clinton stared severely at the woman, who pulled down her spectacles further on her nose and clacked her scissors.

The schoolmarm’s mother dumped another pile of quilting pieces on the table in front of Ginny. She stared hopelessly at the field of color covering the mahogany table. There were hours left until noon and she already had a headache. With one finger, she pushed a paisley square toward a red octagon. Did these pieces even fit together?

Her gaze shifted to the front door, an over-polished red affair with silver-painted trim. When she said she’d investigate the Clintons’ house, this had not been what she had in mind. Why wasn’t she in the sheriff’s office working on the gang case?

“The squares must lie flat, Ginny.” Mrs. Clinton announced the words as if speaking to a large parade. “Here is the list of hymns for the Sunday after the Fourth of July. I chose four, just like every worship service should have. Once, the day my first son turned ten, they played five hymns instead. It might not have been sacrilegious, but it was close.”

Piano. Ginny’s heart sank. She had almost erased the disastrous memory of Cal volunteering her for piano duty before the woman brought it up again. How did she tell Mrs. Clinton that she’d completely wasted two years’ worth of piano lesson money? Mrs. Clinton could have been helping some orphan, letting the sallow-cheeked, linsey-woolsey-clothed thing revel in the joy of music rather than wasting her money on such an ungrateful wretch as Ginny Thompson.

“Hey Ginny, you need some help?” Cherry scooted up to her elbow and began rearranging scraps of cloth. In seconds, a perfect patchwork square emerged.

Ginny’s jaw dropped. “How did you do that?”

“Auntie Lilac taught me after Mother died.”

Ginny shook her head in amazement. “You don’t know how to play the piano, do you?”

“Why sure I do. You don’t think Auntie would miss teaching me that, do you?” Cherry giggled. “Oh, and we need a can lid or something to trace the curves for the appliqués.”

With effort, Ginny suppressed the violently disturbing image of sewing appliqués as well as quilt squares and focused on the task at hand. “Would you…I mean, if you don’t mind, would you teach me…” She felt her tongue going dry as she struggled to end the sentence.

“Help you polish up for that piano playing in church? Of course.” Cherry patted Ginny’s shoulder. “I thought it was awful brave of you to agree to it all the sudden like that. I fainted the first time I did a public performance, right there in the middle of the schoolhouse when I was just seven years old, remember? But I lived it down fine afterward. So don’t you worry a bit. I’ll get you all practiced up and in no time, you’ll be pounding out those hymns like an expert.”

Ginny felt like embracing the girl. “If you really don’t mind…”

“Mind? Of course not. What are friends for? Now, you do have a piano, right? Because I can just run over to your house after quilting today. Maybe two-thirty?”

Mouth frozen in wordless awe, Ginny nodded.

Laying down the quilt pieces, Cherry swung open the door of a massive china cupboard behind her. “Maybe there are lids in here. Is Cal still staying at your place, by the way?”

“Yes.” Thanks to Uncle Zak’s persistence and the personal vendetta that fate had against her.

“He’s done with work at about five thirty, right?”

Ginny nodded skeptically.

“Not to worry. This afternoon is about you and piano practice. I’ll probably toddle off home at four thirty to help Auntie with the Tuesday baking. She’s still spry, but she leaves the oven fire burning after she’s done. Quite dangerous, you know.”

Still blinking, Ginny watched as Cherry rummaged fearlessly through the glasses and cans in Mrs. Clinton’s china cabinet while stringing sentences together like Christmas popcorn.

“Anyway, don’t want you thinking I’m just helping you with piano to see Cal. You’re a good friend, and a man should never get between girlfriends, right?” Cherry almost dropped an empty canning jar but managed to catch it in her left hand.

“Uh…yeah,” Ginny said, mouth hanging open.

A woman wearing a black dress, her head topped by the brown hair of middle-age, sidled up beside her. “You know this Cal Westwood well?” Widow Sullivan asked.

Ginny groaned. “Too well.”

“You say too well. Why?”

Ginny slid a raspberry triangle next to an orange one and wonder of wonders, they actually fit.

“No, horrible color combination.” Cherry scooted the triangles out of her hand.

Obviously useless in this endeavor, Ginny sank back against a heavily wallpapered panel and turned her full attention to Widow Sullivan. “Because he’s ruining my casework.”

“Ruining?” The widow raised her carefully plucked eyebrows.

“I’m here today, aren’t I?” Ginny lifted her shoulders in a frustrated movement. “I should be at the office solving cases.”

Widow Sullivan, who seemed to be doing considerably less cutting or sewing than anyone else in the room, leaned closer. “You feel like he doesn’t want you to catch criminals?”

Ginny narrowed her eyes in a piercing stare. Never talk about sheriff business with civilians. That was the cardinal rule of law enforcement work. “Yes, I do.” She used a tone of finality to make the widow disappear in a cloud of dust, and then she turned to Cherry. Studying how Cherry’s white fingers flew, she tried to arrange the pieces into matching rows.

“Will Mrs. Clinton mind if I use this?” Cherry held a jelly lid up toward the still-present Widow Sullivan.

The woman took a sharp step back. “How would I know?”

Placing the lid down, Cherry straightened her curls. “Um, because she invited you to live with her.”

Ginny’s eyebrows went up. How had she missed that important fact?

Sending three quilting pieces flying onto the immaculately swept hardwood floor, Mrs. Clinton elbowed her way in. “Why, that’s much better. Good work, girls.”

Unfortunately, no thanks to herself. Ginny sighed. “Is Mr. Clinton feeling better?”

“Better?” Mrs. Clinton moved her chin.

“The black eye?”

“Oh yes, nasty bruise. Got it falling off a horse, he said. Now, I’ve known my mister since he was wearing knickers and never yet saw a horse that could throw him. I told him to go shoot that horse straight off because if the beast could give my man a black eye, the monster’s probably off killing other people in his spare time.”

Ginny drew the corners of her mouth in. Falling off a horse? A likely story. She needed to do some investigating. But first things first. She had a quilt to make, and a piano to play, because no way this side of the Missouri was she letting Cal Westwood get the satisfaction of seeing her fail.

~*~

Humming a cattle-rustling tune, Cal walked over to the general store to pick up a sandwich. This morning Ginny had thrust a tin pail of lunch into his hands, and he could not deny her toasted fish and wheat rolls smelled delicious. But one couldn’t always smell the toxins in food. A sandwich was safer. Besides, he needed to talk to Peter Foote since he was just about the only posse volunteer in the town of Gilman.

“Cal!” Cherry bounced out of an aisle.

He should have picked a different store. Did the saloon sell sandwiches? Then again, he’d have to deal with Mrs. Clinton if he entered the saloon. Cherry versus Mrs. Clinton—tough choice.

“I found just the shirt for you to wear to the Fourth of July picnic.” Cherry held up a lavender monstrosity with silver cuff links. “And only seven dollars.”

Seven dollars! He hadn’t even known they made men’s shirts in lavender. “I will not wear that.”

“But, Cal, you promised.” She dragged out “promised” in her most wheedling tone.

Maybe the men who’d ended up engaged to Cherry against their wills weren’t plain stupid. Maybe it was that girl.

She thrust the silky fabric into his hands. “You can go buy it right now. I think Peter might even be running a sale.”

“Look, Cherry. I really don’t think I can go with you.”

Her face drooped. “You mean you’re going with Ginny after all?”

He wanted to kick himself and almost did. He’d given his word, to Cherry, and more importantly to the sheriff, that he’d go with Ginny if he didn’t go with Cherry. Well…words could be broken.

“You promised if you didn’t take Ginny you’d take me. Now if you take Ginny, I accept that as a prior commitment. But if you refuse me just for the sake of refusing me, then you’ll have broken my heart for pleasure, and I’ll tell Mrs. Clinton that you’re a no-good scoundrel.”

Not Mrs. Clinton again. He took a deep breath. Flirt with death by poison or get engaged against his will. Death by poison and he’d end up in heaven. Engaged to Cherry and he’d end up in a house with that woman and ten children who all giggled like her for the rest of his life.

He’d go with Ginny.

“Well, are you?” Cherry repeated.

Gritting his teeth, he made his mouth speak the words. “Yes, I’m going with Ginny.”

~*~

An afternoon with Cherry. A first. Ginny knit her fingers together. For the chance to get piano help and avoid the embarrassment of playing chopsticks in church, spending time with Cherry had to be worth it. Right?

There was a rap on the door. Ginny moved to answer it.

“How are you?” Cherry skimmed through the doorway, pink dress flaring out around her legs. “First things first. Where’s that piano you were telling me about?”

Ginny led the way to the mahogany piece of finery.

“I brought a hymn book.” Cherry fished in her puffy handbag and plopped a blue book on the piano stand. “Try this one.”

Pages flipped with the ominous sound of creasing, and Cherry pointed to number one hundred and forty-four, “In the Sweet Bye and Bye.”

Was that first note a C or a G? Better question, where was the C key on the piano? Or the G? This seemed like a rather depressing song, all about the glories of heaven while here she was stuck on earth and saddled with the inglorious task of leading an entire congregation in “Chopsticks” for church worship.

Cherry scooted next to her on the bench. “Start here. Then the bottom hand does this.” Fingers scooting up and down the ivory keys, she pointed out notes in rapid succession.

Ginny’s jaw gaped. “How do you do that?”

“Not hard. Come on, you can do it.”

Fingers faltering, Ginny tried her best. Within the hour, the song sounded a little like the one in the hymn book.

Abandoning orchestra director duties, Cherry settled back on the davenport by the piano and leaned her chin on her hand. “Ginny.”

“Uh-huh.” She peered at the music in front of her and tried an F chord. No, that didn’t sound right.

“Do people in this town like me?”

Staring at the notes on the page, Ginny tried to make her fingers slide into the positions indicated. “What kind of people?”

“Men people.”

Abandoning the hymnbook, Ginny dropped her gaze to the floor. She gulped. “Well…”

“Go ahead. Say it.”

Taking another gulp of air, Ginny swiveled slowly on the bench. “They do see you as somewhat of a…flirt.”

Cherry scrunched her mouth up. “Because I talk to them?”

Head down, Ginny stared at the tips of her fingernails. “And sort of, well…push yourself on them.”

Cherry shrugged. “Men want to be in control all the time. Have you noticed that? When they like a girl, then anything is fair. They’ll knock on her door twenty times a day, no matter how she feels about them. But if a girl likes them, then they want her to stay quiet and not bother them. If a man can pester a girl to death, why shouldn’t she be allowed the same privilege?”

Ginny stopped studying her fingernails and squirmed back on the bench. “I guess it is a somewhat lopsided system.”

“Somewhat? Have you ever noted the progression of a relationship? First, the man asks the girl out. Then, the man tells the girl he loves her. Next, the man asks the girl’s parents for permission to marry her. And then the man proposes. Do you see something wrong with this picture?”

The dining room clock ticked its pendulum back and forth, offering no way out of this conversation. Ginny rubbed her hand across her forehead where sweat gathered. Cherry had a point. Why, she’d liked Peter Foote for at least a year now, and what had she done about it? One big, fat nothing.

Slowly, Ginny ran her tongue across her lips. “I guess I never thought about it that way.”

“Exactly. Nobody does. And the only way we womenfolk can take back any power in the equation is by flirting. Don’t you see? It’s the culturally acceptable way to right the system.”

“I don’t really flirt.”

“Don’t or won’t? It’s quite simple, really. The first thing to remember is that men are irresistibly drawn to women. Now, some may deny it, but when it comes right down to it, men need women and they know it. Their strategy is to deny it and try to make women desperate enough for a man so they’ll put up with courtship rituals for the slight chance of getting one. But the truth is, if every woman in the world refused every man right now, the men would get desperate before the women.”

Ginny thought of batting her eyelashes at Cal Westwood and begging to be back on the gang case. A large knot formed in her stomach. “If Colorado passed women’s suffrage like Wyoming did, that would solve the problem.” And be a heap of a lot easier.

“Solve the problem?” Cherry cleared her throat with a touch of scorn. “Hardly. Fighting for the vote would merely alert men we’re aware of the power imbalance. Give me a man, and with a few flirtatious gestures, I’ll have him in line before you can even call a vote. Subterfuge is the way to get what you want.”

Ginny thought of the ice box. “Do you want a piece of pie?”

“Sure. Just remember, the key thing in flirting is to remind men of their need for us.”

Ginny’s boots clicked as she walked toward the kitchen. Halfway there, she stopped and turned back to Cherry. If she could remind Cal Westwood how much he needed a native guide on this gang case, maybe he’d stop corrupting Uncle Zak’s mind against her. “How?”

“Feminine wiles, beautiful dresses, secret rendezvous, passionate kisses, the list continues.”

“Rendezvous? That sounds so…scandalous.” Ginny frowned. She’d been thinking more along the lines of a round of target practice. Perhaps thrashing Cal soundly in his own territory would show him what an excellent asset she was.

“Scandalous is exactly what you want. I met a man behind the jams and jellies aisle in Peter Foote’s store one day. The strawberry smell lent a certain risqué atmosphere to the morning.”

Jams and jellies, Ginny sighed. Some peace officer she was. She hadn’t even solved the preserves case yet, let alone rounded up and shot the gang. “Didn’t notice anyone stealing plum preserves when you were there, did you?”

Cherry drummed the arms of the davenport. “The preserve jars at Peter’s, hmm. Didn’t he recently start stocking ones with a funny crown shape on the top?”

“Uh…” Ginny tried to picture a preserve jar lid. Even the ones in her own pantry didn’t readily come to mind.

“I think I saw the same kind of lid in Mrs. Clinton’s china cupboard this morning.”

Ginny clutched the doorframe molding. “I always suspected her.” Her hand slipped back down, as she slumped her shoulders. “Maybe she bought it.”

“You know Mrs. Clinton. She’s had a boycott on Peter’s store ever since he first started shelving alcohol there nine months ago.”

“She does? What does she do for fabric…or food?”

“I think she buys from the mine store up by Mr. Clinton’s office.” Cherry straightened one of her curls. “Anyway, she wouldn’t have bought that jar lid.”

Wind flapped through the cotton window draperies as Ginny drummed the molding. “But would she have stolen it? A boycott doesn’t exactly outlaw stealing, I guess.”

“Naw.” Cherry dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “Mrs. Clinton is much too pompous to steal. What about Widow Sullivan? She had a strange reaction when I showed her that lid, and she’s been living at the Clintons’ house.”

Widow Sullivan? Now why hadn’t she thought of that? She definitely had some investigating to do. Striking her most intimidating pose, Ginny looked down at Cherry. “Don’t tell anyone about our conversation today. This is official sheriff business.”

Cherry primped another black curl. “Oh, of course not. Go and catch the crooks. And let me know if you need any more help. I’d really best be going now.”

On Cherry’s way out, Ginny pressed a cherry pie into her hand. “Thank you for the piano help.”

“Certainly, I’ll be back tomorrow.” Pulling her lace gloves back on, Cherry took the pie. “I really should hate you, though. Not only do you have that impressive sheriff secretary job, Cal’s interested in you. And you went and agreed to go with him to the Fourth of July picnic even when you knew I wanted him.”

“Cal is not interested in–” Ginny jerked back. “Wait! Fourth of July picnic? I’ll never go with him.”

“Now don’t get flustered.” Cherry patted Ginny’s shoulder with her lace glove. “I’ll find someone else. It is kind of cute, the sheriff’s niece sparking with the next sheriff of Gilman. You’d make a really sweet pair, you know.”

“We are not—”

“If you need any tips for catching a man, I’m more than happy to help.” Cherry tucked the pie under her arm.

“I do not want to catch Cal Westwood.” Well, maybe in a large net barbed with poisoned darts. Or in a jail cell. If he’d lied about his hometown, who knew what other illegal activity he’d lied about?

“Sure you do. Have a great day, dear.” With a flutter of her gloved hand, Cherry sailed out the door.

~*~

Five thirty on the dot and Cal walked into the Thompson home. He’d had a long week at work, but he still hadn’t made any progress on the gang case. Maybe tonight he’d think of something.

A delightful aroma wafted through the doorway to his right. He sniffed. Fresh bread. And was that sausage? He stepped inside.

Clamping an iron frying pan down on the stove, Ginny rattled dishes throughout the kitchen. “You told Cherry that you were going to the Fourth of July dance with me.”

After a moment of thought, he reached over her for the bread basket. With the direction this conversation headed, it didn’t seem likely he’d be invited to partake of dinner.

“You told her that I’d go with you.”

“Only because you poisoned me, and while I was staggering down the street, severely lacking in brain function, I got into a situation. So you better pay up. Not that going with a back-stabber like you is much better than going with Cherry.” This bread tasted really good.

Unfortunately, a moment later, she snatched the particularly crusty and succulent loaf out of his hands. “I’m absolutely not going with you.”

Her beautifully curved waist was about hand level. Not that he’d slide his hand around it. Even though her red lips pursed and her brown hair, damp from the sweat of the kitchen range, frizzed adorably around her moist forehead, he’d never consider pressing his lips to hers.

“You need to untell Cherry immediately, before half the town thinks we’re sparking.” Ginny’s voice jarred his thoughts.

“You promised to do something with me.”

“I did not.” A pot on the stove began to bubble, jiggling its lid. Ginny grabbed for it.

Her back was turned, so he returned to the bread basket. The soft, buttery rolls melted between his fingers. “Remember that discussion a couple weeks back about showing me around the town.”

Her chin went up. Abandoning the pot, which now bubbled so furiously it looked like it might fly off the stove at any moment, she brought her arms across her chest. “Fine. I shall perform my promise, but not on the Fourth of July.”

He bit into the buttery roll and his stomach growled for something more substantial. Perhaps he’d save this argument for after dinner.