CHAPTER THREE

 

I was far more relieved than offended that Herb didn't want to hire me. If a prospective client was going to be more trouble to work with than he was worth, it was always best to find out before the contract was signed. Especially now that stress wasn't a distant concept, something that I knew in theory was bad for me but could ignore for the most part.

I followed Herb out of the house instead of lingering in Miriam's work room. Normally, I would have been intrigued by the opportunity to take a closer look at her unusual quilt collection but not if it meant working with a difficult client.

Fortunately, I had plenty of paid work to do for a much more pleasant client. A local pair of elderly sisters had offered to donate some of their quilts to the Danger Cove Historical Museum, and I'd been asked to see which of them might fit in best with the rest of the museum's collection. I'd narrowed the possibilities down to five, and I needed to do some research in the museum's archives before making a final recommendation.

The walk to the museum would be good for me, relieving what little irritation remained from my experience with Herb. Besides, we'd had a colder and longer winter than usual, with pleasant spring weather arriving only now, the last week of April. Today's sunny weather was perfect for walking.

Leaving the cul-de-sac, I turned left as if I were returning to where the quilt guild met. The sight of the building reminded me that I needed to call Jack Condor's office. Blocking out the sound of the kids playing across the street in Pacific Heights Park, I managed to schedule an appointment to talk to the guild's landlord for the next day.

By then, I'd reached Some Enchanted Florist. My doctor was always telling me to slow down, to stop and smell the roses, so I paused to look in the window and admire the sample arrangements. The bunnies and eggs of Easter had been packed away, and now the shop was promoting tulips with arrangements that turned even the simplest, traditional variety into something spectacular. The owner, George Fontaine, wasn't just a dashing man of mystery—I'd heard quite a few rumors, and no concrete answers, about his adventurous life before moving to Danger Cove and purchasing the florist shop—he was also as much of an artist with his medium as the quilters were with theirs.

Unfortunately, even though my fledgling appraisal business was doing better than expected, my budget was too tight to indulge in a floral arrangement today when I didn't have any particular reason to celebrate other than successfully avoiding getting dragged into yet another homicide investigation. Depending on who was investigating Miriam's death, the mere fact that I had been invited to the victim's house would either get me condescended to—that would be Detective Lester Marshall—or sternly warned to leave the investigating to the professionals—that would be Detective Bud Ohlsen.

I continued to Main Street and then across to where the aromas emanating from Cinnamon Sugar Bakery reminded me that my budget did extend to a mid-afternoon snack.

After a quick stop for a lemon poppy-seed cupcake, I arrived at the museum. I called out a greeting to Liz—she'd never told me her last name—the elderly woman who sold tickets at the front desk. She lowered her e-reader from where she held it about three inches from her eyes and waved me toward the central stairs before returning to her book. As a frequent visitor, I had a permanent pass to the museum and an electronic key to the archives.

At the top of the stairs, I'd intended to turn down the corridor toward the archives, but I happened to catch sight of Gil—short for Gillian, but pronounced with a hard G—Torres coming out of her suite at the opposite end of the corridor.

It would have been impossible not to notice her. I'm tall, but Gil, at a hair under six feet, was three inches taller than me in flats, and today she was wearing high-heeled sandals in keeping with the belated arrival of warm spring weather. Her overall look was always professional, but with a flair that I would never achieve. My navy cardigan, light-blue knit shirt and skinny jeans were more casual than my previous wardrobe of jury-trial-appropriate suits, but they would never turn heads like Gil's intricately quilted red jacket and stark black trousers would.

She called out my name. "I'm so glad you're here." Gil sang a bit of Three Dog Night's "Joy to the World" as she headed in my direction. "If you've got a minute, I need to talk to you about a major project that just fell into my lap."

"I've always got time for you." I turned toward her office. "How can I help?"

"I have to warn you, it could be time-consuming."

The museum was my biggest single client, and a new project would go a long way toward distracting me from thoughts of what I'd missed by not getting a more thorough look at Miriam's quilt collection. "As long as it doesn't involve me going to court or doing anything stressful, I'll find the time."

Gil unlocked her inner office and went around the desk. "We're already working with an attorney, and it just involves inventorying a quilt collection. Some people might find that stressful, but not you."

"Sounds like fun." I settled into one of the guest chairs. "What's the scope of the project?"

"I'm not entirely sure yet," Gil said. "We just got a call from Aaron Pohoke. I don't know if you've met him yet, but he's an attorney here in town, and he was just appointed the personal representative of the estate of a quilter. Apparently, she had an extensive collection of quilts, and they were bequeathed to the museum."

"Let me guess," I said. "Miriam Stafford."

Gil nodded. "The quilters' grapevine is even better than I thought."

"Just a fluke this time. Miriam's cousin was thinking of hiring me to appraise the quilts, so I was just at her house to discuss his options with him. As it turned out, he didn't like anything I had to offer." Now I was even more relieved that I hadn't agreed to work for him. If the museum hired me, I could enjoy viewing Miriam's quilts without having to deal with Herb's unreasonable expectations. "Are you absolutely sure the will names the museum? Her cousin seems to think he's the sole heir."

"I should have known it was too good to be true," Gil said, drawing out the last five words in a bluesy wail. "I've heard what can happen if there's a will contest. Even if the museum wins and doesn't spend more on legal fees than the inheritance is worth, there's always some negative PR with the loser claiming that the museum is stealing their family memories."

"The publicity is likely to be particularly persistent in this case," I said. "Miriam didn't die of natural causes, and they haven't identified the killer."

Gil groaned. "The museum doesn't need to be associated with any more sordid events."

"I'm afraid there's nothing much you can do about it now. Until the homicide case is closed, the story, complete with references to the museum's inheritance, will keep popping back up in the news every time you think people have forgotten about it."

"I'll have to talk to Aaron again," Gil said. "He told me the woman died three weeks ago, but he didn't say anything about murder. He just apologized for taking so long to let us know about the will. He'd been tied up in a trial for a week after Miriam died, and he didn't hear about it until a few days ago. He said I'd get an official notice in a few days along with a copy of the will, but for now he just wanted to let me know that the museum will be getting a bunch of quilts. Aaron's also been trying to get in touch with the other heir, Miriam's cousin, but he didn't have a phone number for him."

"I do." I scrolled through the contacts on my phone and then read out the number to Gil. "If that doesn't work, Herb mentioned he was staying at the Ocean View B&B, so the attorney could leave a message there. I'm sure Bree Milford would make sure Herb got it."

"I'll let Aaron know." Gil keyed a note into her laptop. "I'm probably going to regret asking this because it would probably be better if I didn't get too excited about the inheritance before I'm sure it will happen, but did you see Miriam's collection? I'm told it's unique."

"It is," I said. "But not necessarily in a valuable way. It's just a guess, but I'd say there are at least a hundred fifty quilts in her house, and most of them are modern cheddar quilts. Orange isn't a terribly popular color today, which might negatively affect the value, but I'm sure there are some collectors who might be interested in buying them. There was also one antique Robbing Peter to Pay Paul, but it was just a fragment. I'd need to take a closer look and do some research to give you any more details on it."

"Regardless of the value, we'll need to get an accurate count and make some decisions about which ones are worth keeping and which should be sold," Gil said. "Aaron said he'd leave that up to us, since he certainly doesn't have the expertise to do it. Assuming he's confident that the will is valid and that it's worth going forward, do you have time to do an inventory of the quilts?"

"I'll put together a proposal for the work and have it to you tonight," I said. "I'm almost done with the work on the Bergman sisters' quilts, so I should be able to focus on this project next."

"The sooner, the better," Gil said. "The museum's board meeting is a week from tomorrow, and I'd like to have at least preliminary information on the quilts to share with them."

"In that case, I'd better get home to write the proposal." I stood, slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder. "Before I go, there is something else I wanted to talk to you about. I don't know if you've heard yet, but the quilt guild is being evicted from their meeting space, and they're looking for a new one. I know they do some of their special events here in the boardroom. Is there a reason why they don't have their regular meetings there too?"

"We've never really talked about it. As far as I knew, they were happy in their current location. I'll ask the board if they'll consider offering the guild a permanent reservation, but in the past they've resisted doing that for anyone. They even turned down the Save the Lighthouse committee, which really annoyed me. The boardroom is supposed to be available for community events, after all. I'd be happy to see it get more use, but I don't have the authority to do long-term bookings. I can only authorize the use of the room for a single month without board approval. Then the guild would have to reapply, and if some other group happened to get the paperwork in before them, I can't play favorites, so I'd have to turn down the guild."

"The quilters need more stability than you can offer," I said. "If you could set aside the next few Tuesdays and Saturdays for the guild though, that would buy us some time to look for a more permanent location."

"Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure it's not available the next few Saturdays. A writers group has booked one for a workshop with Elizabeth Ashby and the Farmers' Market's manager has two others to meet with the vendors. Normally, Tuesdays are less busy, but the Garden Club might have claimed at least one of them. I'll check and let you know. And in the meantime, I'll talk to the board again about a longer arrangement, if you want. The news about the quilts we're inheriting—assuming that goes smoothly—might make them more receptive to the idea of the guild meeting here."

"I'd appreciate it." I adjusted the strap on my messenger bag. "Dee thinks I'm going to convince Jack Condor to let them stay in their current space, and I'll do my best, but I'd feel a lot better if I knew there was a backup plan."

"Just don't count on the board agreeing to the long-term commitment," Gil said. "I always have the best plans going into a board meeting, but afterwards it seems like I never get to say, 'I love it when a plan comes together.'"

 

*   *   *

 

It took much less time than I'd expected to find exactly what I needed in the archives. I could finish my report on the Bergman sisters' quilts in the evening, a couple of days ahead of schedule. Then I'd be free to start in on Miriam's collection.

On my way out, I saw my favorite reporter, Matt Viera, in the lobby, chatting with the ticket-taker at her desk. Liz was close to ninety years old, white-haired, practically deaf and blind, despite her hearing aids and glasses, and yet she was every bit as susceptible to Matt's charm as every other woman who'd ever caught a glimpse of him. Including me.

Matt was tall and lean with dark hair and the sort of sharply defined facial features that made him extremely photogenic. He didn't pay much attention to his appearance though, so his hair was always a bit past due for a trim, and he dressed casually in cargo pants he'd acquired during his previous career as a fashion model. They had about twice as many pockets as standard, and he usually wore them with a sport shirt, also probably left over from a photo shoot. Today's shirt was a faded purple, too dark to be pastel, but too muddy to be called "grape." It reminded me of some of the truly ugly fabrics that I'd seen quilters swoon over. Apparently they were prized for use in scrap quilts since they provided a contrast to the prettier prints and a place for the eye to rest amidst the chaos of the many other exciting fabrics. Even so, I thought the color of Matt's shirt would have been a challenge for quilters to use, even if it were cut into the tiniest of pieces.

And yet somehow, he made it look trendy.

Matt must have heard my footsteps because he patted Liz's hand in farewell and turned to face me. "Well, if it isn't my favorite lawyer-turned-quilter."

"I wouldn't say I'm a quilter," I said. "I'm making a pillow. Maybe."

Matt shrugged. "It's like any addiction. You start with just a taste, and then it turns into an irresistible craving."

"Dee and Emma don't exactly fit the image of drug pushers."

"Sure they do," Matt said. "They're persistent, and they make it hard to say no to them."

He had a point. Dee didn't hear the word "no," and Emma simply steam-rolled over it.

A mother and three preteen kids came in the front door and headed over to get her tickets, reminding me that Matt and I weren't alone. It probably wouldn't be good for the museum's reputation if visitors overheard a conversation about addiction. Gil was having enough trouble reassuring potential visitors that the murder that had happened in the back parking lot shortly before Christmas was just a fluke and not an indication that the place was unsafe.

"We should probably go somewhere private to continue our conversation."

Matt waggled his eyebrows. "I thought you'd never ask. How about your vault?"

When I'd had the bank building renovated into my residence, I'd left the vault in place, since the cost to remove it would have been exorbitant. Matt had been asking to see it ever since I first met him, but initially I hadn't trusted him, and then once I'd gotten to know him better, we'd had conflicting schedules.

The last couple of months, the conflicts had been more of my own devising than real. I kept waffling over how much I wanted him to know about me. I'd always had to be careful about what people knew about me personally, because image and reputation were critical to my career as a trial lawyer. It was different now, but old habits died hard.

The way I'd converted the vault wasn't as personal as, for instance, my syncope diagnosis, which I'd only shared with my very closest friends. Still, the interior of the vault would reveal things about me that I wouldn't have wanted my fellow attorneys to know back when I was still practicing, because it would have negatively affected their image of me. I no longer cared about what they thought, but I was starting to care about how Matt would react to seeing the real me. His response to the contents of the vault would be a useful indicator of whether it was safe to tell him about my health issues. I'd seen how badly some of my friends had taken the diagnosis, and I wasn't looking forward to seeing Matt look at me with that sad, pitying expression.

I'd promised to show him the vault, and I would, but at the moment, the timing was wrong. I had too much work to do between inventorying Miriam's quilt collection and finding a new meeting space for the guild. I couldn't risk any increased demands on my nervous system right now.

"The vault's a mess at the moment," I said. "Do you mind waiting until after I get a chance to do some spring cleaning?"

Matt held my gaze for what seemed like forever, and I was pretty sure he knew I was just procrastinating.

Eventually he shrugged and headed across the lobby to the main door. "I've waited this long—a little more time won't kill me. But you need to make it up to me. I need a favor from you. I was just on my way to see Gil about the museum's inheritance from Miriam Stafford. It would make a great story, and it's been a while since there's been anything happening right here in Danger Cove that was both arts-related and worth writing about."

"Word really does get around fast," I said as I walked with him.

He gave me a wounded look. "Hey, I am a reporter."

"Arts and entertainment reporter," I corrected. "I wouldn't expect you to be hanging out at the court, reading the filings there."

"I don't." Matt held the front door for me. "One of my colleagues, Duncan Pickles, was keeping an eye out for the filing of Miriam's will as part of his coverage of her death. It's been about three weeks now, and as far as anyone knows, the police don't have any solid leads. Duncan read the will and tipped me off to the museum's inheritance. I tried to talk to Aaron Pohoke—he's the attorney for the estate—but he isn't returning my calls."

"I haven't met Pohoke yet, so I can't tell you if that's intentional or if he's got bad office management skills." I followed Matt down the alley to the parking lot where presumably he'd left his battered pick-up truck. "The failure to return calls is generally the number one complaint that clients have about their attorneys. Of course, you're not a client, and he probably knows you're a journalist, so it's entirely possible he doesn't see any benefit in talking to the press about a client's estate."

"What else do you know about it? Have you seen the will?"

I shook my head. "I only heard about it from Gil a few minutes ago."

"And now you're going to appraise the quilts for the museum."

I didn't think Gil would mind Matt knowing I'd been retained, but the ethics rules relating to client confidentiality were too deeply ingrained for me to identify a client without her permission. "You'd have to ask her about that."

"I will," Matt said as we reached his truck. "And if she agrees, will you let me tag along when you go to view the quilts? I'd never thought much about what happens to an artist's work after she dies. I'm starting to look into it, and Miriam's estate could provide some interesting real-life examples. The story might even get some attention from bigger publications than the Cove Chronicles. I've been trying to get some more exposure on the national scene."

During his previous career, he'd already had more exposure than anyone but a Hollywood A-list celebrity. That wasn't really what he wanted. He wanted respect, something to counter the impression that many people had, assuming he was nothing more than a pretty face. I'd been guilty of that initially, so I tried to make up for it by never acknowledging just how physically attractive I found him.

"You're getting ahead of yourself," I said. "You still need to get Gil's permission before I can share any information with you."

"Sometimes reporters—everyone really, even lawyers, I bet—have to take some chances and not worry too much about the consequences." With a look that told me he wasn't just talking about the story he wanted to write about Miriam's estate, he added, "Both professionally and personally."