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CHAPTER ONE

 

The Christmas season always brought out the perfectionist in me.

In the past, my need to make everything perfect had made me an effective and highly sought-after trial attorney. Even after my forced retirement, it came in useful in my detail-oriented work as a quilt appraiser. But it had its down side too, contributing to my syncope, a medical condition that caused me to pass out in stressful situations.

With practice, I'd learned to not sweat the little things, but there were times when my old habits threatened to get the better of me. Like today. I was on my way to the Danger Cove Historical Museum, where I would be part of an ornament-making workshop. It was the kickoff for the entire holiday season at the museum, and today's success—I refused to consider any other possibility—would set the tone for the rest of the month. The museum was the biggest client for my fledgling appraisal business, and its director was a friend, so I had both professional and personal reasons for wanting today's event to go well.

The weather was cooperating, at least. The sky was clear and bright. The storefronts were decorated with a variety of winter holiday displays, and the sidewalks were filled with happy tourists searching the trendy little downtown shop windows for just the right gifts or getting themselves a treat at The Clip and Sip, where the beauty salon's clientele got a free drink with each service. Even the Main Street trolley was festive, sporting a wreath at each end of the car and tiny red-and-white LED lights outlining the windows.

I contributed in a small way to the holiday decor, with my dark-green jeans, lightweight green tweed sweater, and a red ribbon that tied back my shoulder-length hair. Over my shoulder, I carried a quilted messenger bag filled to overflowing. I'd packed, unpacked, and repacked it at least a dozen times last night to make sure I didn't forget any of my paperwork or reference books. The new owner of the local bookstore had even managed to get me a pristine copy of Marsha McCloskey's Christmas Quilts, which had pictures of a wide variety of holiday quilts to help with identifying designs. I checked once again, confirming that it was in my bag. It would have been a shame to forget it after all of Meri Sinclair's effort to get it for me in time for today's event.

I was determined that there wouldn't be any hitches today, no matter how minor. I used to be good in a crisis, but my career as a civil trial lawyer had apparently used up all of my allotted ability to withstand stress by the time I reached the age of thirty-six. That was two years ago, when I'd been diagnosed with syncope and quit my job to seek a quieter life as Keely Fairchild, quilt appraiser.

At least, that had been the plan. I'd almost been killed shortly after moving to Danger Cove, while looking into the murder of a shady quilt dealer. Everyone had been so kind and supportive afterward that I'd never given a single serious thought to leaving Danger Cove. The last three months had been every bit as peaceful and relaxing as I'd hoped for, and my new business was growing steadily.

At the museum's entrance, I glanced up at the sign high on the brick facade. Yesterday, while everyone else in town had been indulging in Black Friday shopping, the museum's director, Gil Torres, had joined a coalition of Main Street merchants who thought Danger Cove was a little off-putting for the holiday tourists, and she had overseen the installation of a temporary sign that read Christmas Cove Historical Museum. It looked as official as the real sign, which wasn't surprising. Gil was as much of a perfectionist as I was, and the museum was her entire life, much like my legal practice had once been mine.

Upstairs in the museum's boardroom, which was sometimes used for community events, another transformation had taken place. The only permanent furniture in the high-ceilinged, warehouse-like space—a huge conference table that seated eighteen people—had been shoved against the wall across from the entrance, beneath the large windows overlooking Main Street, and the chairs had been lined up along the opposite wall. The rest of the 30-foot by 50-foot room had then been filled with what amounted to an assembly line for making quilted ornaments. Closest to the heavy, oversized double doors was a ten-foot-long banquet table topped with cutting mats, acrylic rulers, rotary cutters, and sunshine-yellow-handled scissors. Beyond the table was a white board and then a square table in the corner. In the middle of the room, four more banquet tables held three sewing machines each, with yellow-handled scissors placed to the right of each machine. Ironing boards were scattered throughout the room. Volunteers—mostly women, but I counted two men and one Labradoodle wearing a service vest—scurried around, unpacking boxes of red-and-green fabric and notions and distributing them to the appropriate tables. Danger Cove's most famous resident, mystery author Elizabeth Ashby, wandered around the room. She carried a notebook with a seasonally appropriate red-and-green plaid cover and stopped occasionally to jot down her observations of the event. That should have been the job of the local arts reporter, Matt Viera, but he'd been missing in action for a while.

No one paid me any attention, and I didn't know where I was supposed to set up my appraisal station. I'm tall, but the museum's director is a good three inches beyond my five foot nine inches, so even in the bustling activity, it was easy to spot Gil Torres. She was near the conference table under the windows, talking to a woman I didn't recognize.

The stranger appeared to be around sixty, with platinum blonde hair and wearing a Santa hat and a red-and-white pinafore-style apron. From time to time, Gil couldn't resist singing along with the James Taylor holiday CD playing in the background. She took the Natalie Cole part, lamenting how cold it was outside, even though the coast was actually experiencing typical mild Pacific Northwest weather for late November, which definitely didn't present any risk of hypothermia or frostbite.

In keeping with the holiday season, Gil wore a forest-green blouse with a hand-knit burgundy shawlette that was perfect with her dark skin. Even from a distance, I could tell that she was bubbling over with enthusiasm for being inside the bright, warm museum with about twenty of her very best friends and with the anticipation of another ten or twenty such close friends stopping by before the end of the day.

This was Gil's first Christmas as the director of the museum, and she was going all out. She'd recently acquired an anonymous major donor for the museum, so she had some cash to establish a few new and ambitious holiday traditions. One of them was the acquisition of a massive evergreen to be installed in the lobby and covered with dozens of little wooden lighthouses painted red and white like the one overlooking Danger Cove, and an equal number of miniature red-and-white quilts, each just three or four inches square, that were being made today.

All we needed now was enough volunteers to make the ornaments. That was why I was here, offering an informal appraisal of a holiday quilt in return for a nominal donation to the museum, which would be waived for anyone who made an ornament. Fortunately, the success of the event wasn't entirely on my shoulders. Gil had also hired a nationally recognized quilting teacher for the day to motivate both quilting novices and the more experienced members of the Danger Cove Quilt Guild to come and make ornaments.

The Santa-hatted woman said something to Gil and then dashed across the room and past me, out the double doors I had just come through.

Gil approached me at a more normal pace, singing along with the sound system. She gave me a quick hug, and when the music ended, said, "You can use the board secretary's desk in the back corner to do appraisals. It's been cleared off, and you'll be out of the way there, so you won't be distracted by all the activity of the quilters."

I looked at the spot where she was pointing. The top of the heavy wood desk was cleared of everything except for a swing-arm lamp that lit the otherwise gloomy corner, too far away from the windows to take advantage of the bright sunshine. Beside the desk was an easel with a sign proclaiming that one Keely Fairchild, certified quilt appraiser, would be there from 10 a.m. to noon today. I wasn't scheduled to start for another fifteen minutes—showing up early for appointments was another leftover habit from my days of practicing law—but there was already a line of five people seated in the chairs near the back table, with red-and-green quilts on their laps.

"Do I need to remind people that only holiday quilts are eligible for appraisal today? Or make sure they've paid by making an ornament or donating to the museum?"

"Oh, no," Gil said. "It's all taken care of. One of the women from the quilt guild is in charge of that. She'll give everyone who qualifies for an appraisal a ticket to give to you as proof of eligibility."

"You did warn them that I'm just giving a superficial overview, right?"

"Of course," Gil said. "If you think the quilt is valuable enough to need insurance, you can always encourage them to hire you to do a full appraisal later. I'm just hoping we can find some more works eligible for the museum's registry of locally made quilts. Do you have the documentation sheets for that?"

"I do." I patted my bulging messenger bag. Another person joined the line waiting for me. "I'd better get to work, or I won't be able to do even a cursory examination of all the quilts before the end of my session."

"I hope you'll stay for a while afterwards and make some ornaments with us."

"Oh, no," I said. "Dee has been trying to get me to learn to quilt, but I know my limits. No way I'm ever getting behind the controls of a sewing machine. I haven't trusted anything with sharp edges and fast-moving parts since my first year of law school. Reading the product liability cases in a torts class textbook completely changes how you look at household appliances. Ignorance truly is bliss when it comes to knowing about all the accidents that can happen with seemingly harmless products like toasters, vacuum cleaners, and sewing machines."

"I think I'll stay ignorant then." Gil hummed along with the next song playing in the background. "Just let me know if you need anything else for your appraisals."

The Santa-hatted woman who'd dashed out of the room returned and gathered most of the volunteers, including Gil, together near the white board at the front of the room. Only two women stayed where they were in the back of the room. One was the frail, eighty-three-year-old president of the Danger Cove Quilt Guild, Dee Madison, who was seated at a sewing machine in the last row of tables. The other was Dee's decade-younger and much sturdier friend, Emma Quinn, hovering at Dee's shoulder to do her bidding.

I couldn't put names to any of the volunteers at the white board, although I'd probably met most of them in passing at the local quilt show this past summer. Not the male quilter with the service dog though. I'd have remembered them, since both men and dogs were underrepresented in the quilting world.

The Santa-hatted woman had to be the quilting instructor, Meg McLaughlin. It looked like she was making sure everyone understood the plan for the day. The white board had little drawings of the miniature quilt blocks they'd be making today, along with the dimensions for cutting the pieces for each block. I knew a great deal more about the value of finished quilts than about how they were made, and, in other circumstances, I'd have been interested in hearing what Meg had to say. But even as I considered listening in for a couple of minutes, another person with a quilt to be appraised joined the line waiting for me.

I hurried over to unload the reference books and the paperwork from my quilted messenger bag. As I set up, the group at the white board dispersed, and one of the only other people I knew by name, Stefan Anderson, scurried over to claim the ironing board closest to me. He was a slight man in his early thirties, wearing Benjamin Franklin-style glasses. His bow tie was a festive red-and-green plaid, and for once the overlong sleeves of his pale, buttoned-down shirt had been folded up to his elbows instead of being allowed to slide past his wrists to cover his knuckles. Some things never changed though, and the hems of his khaki pants dragged on the wood floor.

Stefan must have closed his folk-art gallery for the morning. That wasn't as much of a sacrifice as it might seem, since he did most of his business in the summer, and his major deals, the ones that netted most of his profit, were by appointment only. As far as I knew, Stefan wasn't a quilter, but he was always welcome at the museum, both for his successful brokering of some recent additions to the museum's quilt collection and for his extensive knowledge of the museum's collection of folk art. He sometimes led tours at the museum and enjoyed sharing his extensive knowledge in excruciating detail with anyone who didn't run away from him.

I didn't recognize the stocky, black-haired woman at his side, who appeared to be lecturing Stefan, forcing him to do the listening for a change. Her smooth round face made it difficult to pinpoint her age, but if I had to guess, I'd have said she was at least five years older than Stefan, maybe more. She wore jeans and a red turtleneck covered with a handmade green smock decorated with what Dee and Emma would have called "cheater cloth." The fabric was printed with scaled reproductions of miniature quilts, which could then be cut apart and appliquéd like the woman in the smock had done, or simply layered and finished to make a quilt without having to actually piece together all the little bits of fabric.

Just as I was about to call over the first person for her appraisal, a tall, willowy blonde in her early twenties, and wearing a pink twinset and heathery purple jeans, came trotting over from the white board. "I'm Trudy Kline," she said. "Emma sent me over to help you."

I handed her the appraisal forms and pencils so she could distribute them to the women seated in the line of chairs along the wall. While they waited, they could fill out the top portion of the forms with their names and addresses and any other background information they had about their quilts.

I called the first client over to the desk and soon lost myself in the work. The first quilt was a faded green-and-white version of a traditional appliqué design known as Oak Leaf. It wasn't terribly old, maybe fifty years, but the workmanship was excellent, as close to perfection as any human being could get, so I quickly checked the box to suggest that the owner get a full appraisal and insurance. The quilt's owner left with one of my business cards, promising to call for an appointment.

Over the next hour, Trudy kept the line supplied with forms and pencils, while a wide variety of holiday quilts passed through my cotton-gloved hands. They ranged from contemporary quilts using fabrics printed with obvious holiday motifs, to vintage quilts that, like the first Oak Leaf, were red and green but didn't otherwise have any holiday references in either the fabrics or the patterns. There were simple nine-patches, more complicated star designs, and even a vintage Sunbonnet Sue variation in which Santa and his elves all wore sunbonnets.

It had been easy enough to identify the various quilt patterns this morning, but there were other challenges with a holiday quilt, especially the ones that weren't brand new. They were likely to have become something more than an object and instead were a symbol of family memories, including lost loved ones who could no longer join in holiday festivities. Oftentimes these sentimental quilts were unremarkable from any objective viewpoint, so while it was simple enough to come up with a dollar amount, it was far more difficult to explain to the owner why the number was so low. Anything less than an astronomical price tag was often considered a slur against the memories that the quilt represented.

I hadn't encountered that type of reaction so far this morning, but it was probably just a matter of time before the pleasant perfection of the morning turned a little rocky. I just hoped that when the inevitable emotional scene arose, I'd be able to handle it without passing out. The local ambulances might be red and white, but they definitely lacked the Christmas spirit.

 

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As my latest client prepared to leave, I looked up to see who was next in line. It was a man in his early twenties, dressed in a light T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals.

Trudy glanced at him, her eyes narrowing in obvious recognition. She froze for a moment before blocking him from approaching the desk, keeping her back to him. "Emma said you need to take a break now."

I'd been too wrapped up in the appraisals to notice until then that my stomach was growling. Ever since I'd been diagnosed with syncope, I'd tried to pay better attention to my body's various warning signs. The general medical consensus was that stress was the major culprit in the condition, but no one knew the exact cause. To be on the safe side, I'd been warned not to risk dehydration or hunger, either of which might trigger a stress response and then the loss of consciousness.

I could definitely use a break, but I could also feel trouble brewing, and I was the most likely candidate to diffuse it. Behind Trudy and the appraisal client, the male quilter I hadn't been introduced to yet was closing in on our corner of the room. He was an inch or two over six feet tall, solidly built, with faded brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard that was equal parts gray and brown. Tiny snippets of red-and-green threads clung to his denim work shirt and jeans, giving them a festive appearance at odds with his facial expression, which promised the complete opposite of goodwill toward men. Close behind him was the rust-colored Labradoodle, wearing a blue vest that identified it as a Diabetes Alert Dog. He had a matching blue collar, and hanging from it was a stuffed blue nylon tube the size of a chew toy.

The newcomer walked up to the young man behind Trudy, invading his space and glaring down at him. "What are you doing here?"

"It's a free country," the younger man said sulkily and then sniffled. "You've got no authority here. No authority anywhere anymore. So butt out, or I'll call the cops on you. That'd be pretty funny, actually. Don't you think?"

"Not really." The older man pulled back a few inches, just to the very edge of an appropriate conversational distance. "I'll be watching you. Don't touch anything that doesn't belong to you. I've still got friends on the force."

"Whatever." The young man peered at me over Trudy's shoulder.

The older man retreated a few feet to lean against the end of the nearest sewing table, where Dee and Emma were seated. He made an I'm watching you gesture at the younger man, adjusted the water bottle clipped to his belt, and settled in for what he obviously considered to be a one-man stakeout.