CHAPTER TWO

 

Lindsay texted to let me know she'd arranged a meeting with Randall Tremain at his shop, Monograms, for 1:30 that afternoon. If it went well, I'd have plenty of time afterward to go see the quilt the museum wanted me to appraise. A new-to-me quilt would be just the right antidote to whatever stress built up during the meeting with Tremain.

A little after 1:15—yes, I was early again, and it was a good thing this time—I approached Tremain's shop, a short walk from my home. Monograms was on Main Street, in the section of Danger Cove that catered to tourists, just a short walk from the Danger Cove Historical Museum. In fact, it was this area of the town that had convinced me to move here as part of my doctor-prescribed lifestyle changes. Other towns I'd considered had shops that looked charming from the outside, but they might as well have been big box stores since their offerings were nothing but mass-produced tchotchkes with the town name pasted on as an afterthought.

Danger Cove's Main Street was different. No franchises here, just an organically grown group of eclectic small businesses—shops that didn't need to ask their patrons to shop locally, since their specific products and services couldn't be reproduced anywhere else. Or at least it felt like no other haircut, cinnamon bun, or floral arrangement could possibly be as good as the ones found here.

I'd happened on the town while on the way to a weekend retreat with a friend who was trying to convince me that yoga and meditation would solve all my worries. We'd pulled off the highway to grab some lunch at the Smugglers' Tavern that another friend had raved about. I'd known this was where I wanted to live the minute I'd ridden down Main Street. Contrary to my natural instincts reinforced by my legal training, which usually made me research every little detail before I made any decision, I'd immediately called my broker and instructed her to start looking for a house for me in Danger Cove.

This section of Main Street had been renovated in the last few years to make it more tourist friendly. The sidewalks were wide, neatly maintained, and handicapped accessible. Even during the most popular events when tourists descended on the town, the pedestrians could wander freely without any pushing or shoving.

Which was why I was so surprised to see people clogging the sidewalk now, with a few even spilling into the street. I was somewhat less surprised to realize they were congregated in front of my destination, Monograms. Everyone in the crowd was female and wore handmade patchwork vests or jackets despite the warm summer temperatures. About a quarter of them were carrying professionally printed signs warning against shopping there.

I caught a glimpse of Emma at the front of the colorful group, near the entrance to the antiques store. I couldn't see the shorter Dee, but if Emma was mingling with the protestors, then Dee couldn't be far away. Probably egging them all on. At least it kept her too busy to hire an assassin.

I had to remind myself that it wasn't any of my business. No one had asked me about the picket lines, and I wasn't in the business of giving legal advice—paid or unpaid—any longer. I leaned against a corner of the brick building to watch the spectacle until it was time to go inside.

After a minute or two, a tall woman with the bored, emaciated look of a fashion model peered out from the alley just around the building's corner from me to check on the crowd. The half-smoked cigarette in her hand suggested she'd been there for several minutes already. She wore an expensive white blouse with a navy pencil skirt.

"What's happening?" I nodded in the direction of the crowd.

"A bunch of crazy old women are picketing the store." She blew out a long stream of smoke. "You aren't one of them, are you?"

"The last I checked, I wasn't crazy or old."

"Sorry." The woman squinted at me through the smoke. "I should have known. You're not dressed for the event. If you're not part of the picketers, what are you doing here?"

Apparently she hadn't noticed the quilted messenger bag I carried everywhere, much like I used to carry a briefcase. She was right about my clothes though. My suit was a few years old and definitely less flamboyant than the protestors' attire. I really ought to do something about my wardrobe—most of it left over from when my job required me to appear professional and understated—before the quilt show so I'd fit in better. As long as I was on Main Street already, surrounded by some of the best shops on the West Coast, I ought to get something a little more colorful to add to the suit I'd planned to wear for my speech on Friday.

Shopping would have to wait until after business though. "I'm here to see Randall Tremain."

"I can take you through the back entrance." The woman used her cigarette to gesture over her shoulder, down the tiny alley that ran beside the building. "I need to wait until the police get here though."

"Police?" The almost complete lack of noisy sirens was one of the things I particularly liked about Danger Cove after living in a big city. "Is that really necessary?"

The woman took another puff on her cigarette. "We called 9-1-1 right before I came out for my smoke. The women are blocking the entrance to the store, and they might scare away customers."

"It's your shop then?"

"Half of it. I'm Alyse Laurens." She was too occupied with her cigarette to shake hands. "Randall Tremain is my partner."

"Did he leave you to deal with this alone?"

"He's in the thick of it." Alyse pointed to a short, extremely obese man in a dark three-piece suit, standing with his back to the shop's main entrance and looking like the famous profile caricature of Alfred Hitchcock. Tremain didn't appear to be saying anything—he just stood there like an overdressed bouncer. His arms hugged his chest, his hands not quite touching, as if he were trying to cross his arms but couldn't quite reach across the pinstriped expanse.

Dee and Emma were directly in front of him now. Dee whispered something to Emma, who shouted, "Mic check!"

The members of the crowd abandoned their own slogans and immediately responded, "Mic check!"

Emma shouted, "We're here…"

The crowd responded, "We're here…"

Emma continued to lead them. "To protest…"

"To protest…"

"Fake quilts."

"Fake quilts." The crowd shook their signs and shouted a hubbub of slogans: "Down with fraud!" "Validate the vintage!" "No sham shams!"

I felt sorry for whichever police officers responded to the 9-1-1 call. Perhaps I could calm the protest down a little before things got out of hand. It was also the fastest way to get this meeting with Tremain over with. He wasn't likely to do any negotiating while being held hostage by the picketers, and Dee couldn't present her case to Tremain if she and Emma were loaded into the back of a police car.

"If you'll excuse me, Alyse, I see someone I know in the crowd. I'd like to have a word with her." I didn't wait for her acknowledgment but made my way along the sidewalk, losing sight of Tremain as I was surrounded by the protestors and a few disgruntled lunchtime pedestrians who were just trying to get past Monograms. I had to struggle not to get caught up in the flow, fighting the tide until I emerged next to Tremain, facing Dee and Emma.

Tremain turned to open the door for me, apparently mistaking me for a customer, but he was unable to maneuver in the tight space. "Move back, ladies. You're trespassing."

None of the protestors moved except to shake their signs even harder. Apparently everyone had chosen her own individual slogan, and now they were all trying to out-shout each other. They couldn't hear Tremain, probably wouldn't even hear the police siren when the cruiser arrived. If it arrived. I had to hope the dispatcher would make it a low priority, but there weren't many high-priority calls in Danger Cove, so there might not be anything more important for officers to respond to.

"Move," Tremain shouted and was ignored once again.

"You can't do this to me." He stomped one foot, and his face turned red, like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum in a short but massive fifty-year-old body.

I caught Emma's attention and gestured for her to move back slightly with Dee. They did, taking the other protestors with them far enough that Tremain was able to open the door and invite me inside with an exaggeratedly polite flourish of his pudgy hand.

Once we were both inside, he turned a key in the deadlock on the glass front door to keep out the protestors, although it did little to muffle the sound of their shouts.

"I'm Keely Fairchild. I believe you're expecting me and the leaders of the local quilt guild."

"The woman who called to set up the meeting didn't say anything about a picket line," Tremain said in a whiney tone. At least the redness of his face was fading. "I thought we were going to have a nice, civil conversation among people who share a common interest in quilts."

"There does seem to have been a bit of a miscommunication. If you'll give me a minute with Dee and Emma, I think I can straighten everything out. While I do that, perhaps you'd like to let the police know the situation is under control. You wouldn't want to waste their time and have them ignore you when you really need help."

"No one ignores Randall J. Tremain." He turned the key to unlock the front door. "But I'm a reasonable man. I'll call off the cops if you'll call off the protestors."

I nodded, and Tremain headed toward the back of the shop, presumably to make good on his promise. I pushed the front door open and called for Dee and Emma to join me inside. While I waited for them to untangle themselves from their posse, I took a peek at the shop's merchandise.

As the name suggested, the offerings were limited to items that could be monogrammed. Most were textiles of some sort: towels, pillowcases, bathrobes, and finally my area of expertise—quilts. In addition, there were some lovely handcrafted wooden and glass display cases filled with pieces of antique silver. Neatly printed cards described the history of silver mining in the Pacific Northwest and its importance in the days of the Spokane Stock Exchange.

Most of the quilts were draped over the backs of chairs or stacked in open cupboards, but there was one hanging on the back wall in a dimly lit corner. The poor lighting wasn't good for drawing in customers, but as an appraiser who'd seen the damage sunlight could do to a quilt, I had to respect the decision to keep what looked like a potentially valuable quilt out of direct sunshine.

I didn't have time to take a close look at it now, but I wanted to check it out after the meeting. At least at first glance it had a great deal in common with the description of the quilt the museum wanted me to appraise: a simple four-patch design, old, and in remarkably good condition.

At the sound of the door closing behind me, I turned to face Dee and Emma.

"Sorry we took so long," Emma said. "Janiece Jordan didn't want to leave, and you know how stubborn she can be."

I didn't, of course. Most of the residents of Danger Cove had lived here all their lives, so they couldn't fathom that anyone might not know all their friends. I knew an Alex Jordan, who'd done the renovation work on my home, and I knew she had a grandmother named Janiece, since it had been impressed on me that I should never call her Janice, but I'd never had the opportunity to call her anything or to observe her level of stubbornness, since we'd never met.

I didn't bother to explain, though, because I had a more pressing concern. Dee and Emma had brought another person inside with them. I'd seen him earlier, on the outskirts of the picket line, not quite a part of the group but observing it. He was over six feet tall, maybe five years younger than I was, with shaggy dark hair and a face that was hard to look away from, even for me, and I'd never been impressed by good looks. He didn't seem to care about his appearance either. I had no aspirations whatsoever to becoming a fashionista, but even I knew his sport shirt's shade of yellow was not a flattering color for anyone, and there were about twice the usual number of pockets on his cargo pants, almost as if in parody of the style, and both pieces had been worn dozens if not hundreds of times. And yet, despite everything wrong with the outfit, he looked surprisingly good in it. Some people really could wear anything and make it look like high fashion. I could wear high fashion, but despite my long legs, I made it look like the cheapest rags.

Dee said, "This is Matt Viera," as if she were introducing a major celebrity whose name I should have recognized immediately.

"A friend of yours?"

"Freelance reporter," Emma explained. "Mostly writes about the arts scene."

I resisted the "no comment" that was my automatic response to meeting a reporter. Things were different now. I didn't have clients' secrets to protect, and I needed the publicity for my new business.

"You're going to love Matt."

There was no chance of that. I didn't trust reporters, so the best I could ever feel for him was a bit of tolerance and maybe respect for his journalistic skills.

Dee turned to him and said, "This is our new friend Keely Fairchild."

"Trying to set me up with a quilter again?" he said.

"You're too finicky," Dee said. "I've given up on finding you a girlfriend. Although you wouldn't have to worry about Keely scattering pins and needles around your home. She's not a quilter."

I knew what was going to come next, and I preferred not to advertise my legal degree now. It tended to elicit bad lawyer jokes, requests for free legal advice, or uncomfortable silence. "I'm a quilt appraiser, and I used to work with Dee's granddaughter Lindsay."

Matt said, "I met her once, I think. She works at a law firm, right?"

"Keely's a lawyer," Emma explained, clearly trying to be helpful. "She's going to get Monograms shut down for us."

"Really?" Matt patted the various pockets in his pants, every single one of which did, in fact, contain at least some little thing, until he found what he was looking for: a notepad and the stub of a pencil, rather than the smartphone every other reporter I'd dealt with carried. "I'd like to help, but so far I haven't been able to interest anyone in the story. Maybe if they knew there was a lawyer involved, it would be different."

"I'm just here as an appraiser. Nothing official."

"Too bad." Matt searched his pockets again until he found a crumpled business card. He scribbled a phone number on it and handed it to me. "I'm still interested in the story if you uncover anything I can use."

The only printed text on the card was an e-mail address. No name, no address, no job title. Just "matteo" at a popular online mail service address. Not that it mattered. I wasn't going to be contacting him. Reporters and lawyers, even retired lawyers, didn't mix.

"If I find out anything, I'll pass it along to the local prosecutor. This is really more his expertise than mine."

"You mean Frank Wolfe?" Matt returned his pad and pencil to separate pockets. "I've already talked to him. He won't do anything unless it'll get his name in the Cove Chronicles or, even better, a major news outlet. He's planning to launch a political career from the platform of his criminal prosecution victories."

"I know the type, and I'd rather not give him a chance to use the quilters as a stepping stone in his career." I might not trust any reporter, but some were better than others. It sounded like Matt was at least competent at his job. For the moment, we could be allies. With clear boundaries between us. I turned to Dee to say, "We need to disband the protest, at least until after we've asked Tremain nicely if he'll withdraw from the quilt show."

Dee shook her head. "Emma has the protestors organized in shifts so we can camp out here 24/7 until the quilt show starts. After that, we'll need to take more drastic steps. I'd rather see the show canceled than have Tremain in it. I'd hate to do that though. We've had a show here in Danger Cove for thirty-two years now, without missing a single year."

Dee and Emma and most of the other quilters were of a generation that made an arrest for civil disobedience more of an honor than a humiliation. Still, I doubted the older women would appreciate the realities of handcuffs, mug shots, and holding cells. "Getting arrested isn't going to help your case."

"Keely may be right," Matt said. "From what I know of Tremain, he isn't the sort to give in to pressure, but you might be able to blindside him if you let him win a small skirmish. He'll think you're weak, and you can get some concessions from him before he realizes his mistake."

"That sounds reasonable." Emma looked to Dee for the final decision.

"I hate being reasonable," Dee said irritably before turning to Keely. "Do you think we have any chance of getting Tremain to do the right thing?"

"Not as long as the protestors are outside. Matt's right that a good-faith gesture can open up communication."

"All right," Dee said. "Everyone's probably getting anxious to go pick up their kids or grandkids from school anyway."

Emma opened the door for Dee to go out and dismiss her protestors. Matt pointed past them at a slight-bodied man in the crosswalk at the end the end of the block, near the alley where I'd met Alyse. "Here comes more trouble," he said. "I'll take care of Stefan while the protestors are disbanding."