I trailed after Matt, wondering what kind of trouble the unimposing Stefan could possibly offer. He wasn't much taller than Dee and looked just as frail, despite appearing in his thirties. He wore baggy clothes that were even less fashionable than Matt's, if less faded and worn out. The cuffs of his pale-blue shirt were buttoned but still managed to float down near his fingertips, and the hems of his navy slacks dragged on the sidewalk. Add in a little red bow tie, and it was hard to see him as a troublemaker.
Stefan eluded Matt's attempts to divert him and scurried over to air-kiss Dee. "It's so good to see you, Darling Dee. Have you finally convinced the police to shut down Monograms?"
"Not yet," Dee said. "But we will. One way or another."
Emma opened her mouth, presumably to tell the little man I was an avenging angel cum lawyer, when Dee silenced her with a pat on the arm. "Keely, this is Stefan Anderson. He owns the folk art gallery across the street. His quilts are legit."
I recognized the last name. Stefan was the dealer whose quilt I would be appraising for the museum.
"Of course my quilts are legitimate. I have scruples." Stefan peered at Matt. "And good taste. You, sir, are a disgrace, squandering all your potential."
Matt shrugged. "All in the eye of the beholder."
"Some eyes are more skilled than others," Stefan said. "As a connoisseur of all things beautiful, I have the credentials to tell you you're a mess today. Just like the last dozen times I've seen you."
"Credentials are easy to come by," Matt said. "Your buddy Tremain claims to be an expert too."
"He's hardly my buddy." Stefan raised his hands to waist level and shook them so the cuffs fell back to his wrists. "He prefers to hang around with people who have no soul. Politicians and businessmen. He gets his so-called credentials with their influence, not from actual knowledge and experience."
The two men continued to bicker as Matt maneuvered Stefan to one side, allowing Dee and Emma to send the picketers home. I might have intervened, except I was curious why Stefan was so critical of Matt, and my asking would give the impression that I cared about the answer more than I was prepared to admit. Besides, the bickering didn't have any real heat to it, as if it was more a habit than anything else. Or maybe a game. Matt did seem mildly amused, while Stefan was getting more and more incensed about the purported evils of Tremain and his associates.
If Tremain really did have influential friends, it would explain why the ambitious prosecutor, Frank Wolfe, was reportedly not much interested in responding to Dee's allegations. No one, least of all someone with political aspirations, liked to go up against people with political connections.
Dee and Emma said some final farewells while Matt herded Stefan back to his own shop across the street and jogged back to stand beside me.
I tapped Emma on the shoulder to get her and Dee to follow me into the shop.
Matt patted down his pockets and pulled out a camera. "Wait." He turned the camera on us. "I want to document this."
Just then, the front door to Monograms swung open, forming a barrier between me and Matt's camera. I caught only a glimpse of a short woman barging out the door with a light-colored raincoat draped over her head like a criminal defendant trying to retain her privacy while walking past photographers on the way into court. She breezed past Matt and his camera without acknowledging him or anyone in the quilting group.
Matt caught the door and held it for the others to go inside. He caught sight of Tremain waiting for us near a cupboard packed with quilts, and said, "Who was the woman who just left? I didn't get a good look at her, but she seemed familiar."
"She's a valued client," Tremain said smugly. "One who knows you and your coconspirators are just spouting lies about me. She values her privacy, and I'm sure she isn't interested in talking to muckrakers."
"That's unusual," Matt said. "Most people like talking to us muckrakers."
I forced myself not to smile. That would have been the last straw for Tremain. As it was, I thought he was going to turn red and stomp his feet again, but he simply gave a huff of irritation. "Let's get this meeting over with. I'm due in Seattle this evening to meet with…let's just say they're friends of mine. Close, influential friends."
I could feel Matt preparing to deflate Tremain again, something I would have dearly enjoyed watching, but it would only make the meeting more confrontational. I resorted to the age-old trick for subtly managing a client: I stomped on Matt's foot. As I passed him to go into the shop, I lowered my voice to whisper, "Do not make my job any more difficult than it has to be. I reached my recommended daily allowance for irritation hours ago."
Matt swallowed whatever he was going to say and started to follow me through the doorway, but he was cut off by a beefy man wearing a carpenter's tool belt.
"Coming through, coming through." The man pulled a handcart behind him, overloaded with a toolbox and assorted lengths and diameters of PVC piping. He continued across the shop to a propped-open door halfway down the left side wall and then disappeared through the opening into a hallway with stairs and the sign for a restroom.
"That's my landlord." Tremain ushered everyone past the back wall where the interesting four-patch quilt was displayed, down a short corridor, and into a small conference room. "It's taken me months to convince him to fix the second-floor apartment's plumbing. I don't have to tell you ladies what a disaster it would be if there was a leak that dripped on my textiles. He was supposed to use the entrance from the alley, instead of traipsing through my shop, but at least he's finally shown up."
His partner, Alyse, was already in the conference room, tapping her ornately monogrammed silver cigarette case on the table in front of her. The room was tiny, and the conference table barely left enough room for the six chairs. The cheap table seemed oddly out of place in a shop for vintage and antique items, even if it was hidden away from shoppers. A hand-stitched tumbling-blocks quilt hanging on the wall only served to emphasize the cheap, mass-produced nature of the table.
Tremain took the seat at what he apparently considered the head of the table at the far end of the room. The habit was too ingrained from years of negotiation sessions for me to sit anywhere other than at the other head of the table, opposite him and nearest the door, so we were both in positions of power. Alyse perched on the edge of the chair to Tremain's right, and Matt slouched into the seat on his left. Dee sat between me and Matt, with Emma across from her.
"Is this everyone you could find with complaints against me?" Tremain asked Dee with a forced smile. "From the way you've been talking, I thought we'd need an auditorium to fit them all."
I intervened before anyone rose to the bait. "Dee and Emma are representing the local quilting community. They believe you and your merchandise present a risk to the quilt show's reputation. I'd like to hear your side of the story."
"Your friends"—he stabbed a pudgy finger first in Dee's direction and then in Emma's—"are jealous of my success. That's why they want to keep me out of their quilt show. It has nothing to do with my merchandise."
I'd once been so used to the irritation and stress of negotiations I hadn't even noticed it. Now I had to be more careful so I could disengage before I passed out. I kept my voice calm, even as my pulse sped up. "So it's not true you've been misrepresenting the age, and therefore the value, of the quilts you sell? I'm willing to believe mistakes might have happened, without any blame being assigned, but we need to take steps to prevent future issues."
"There's nothing to prevent," he said. "I haven't made any mistakes. It's defamation to suggest otherwise. I'm going to sue everyone in the guild for everything they've got unless I get an apology right this minute."
I hated it when people played lawyer without having the license to back them up, but I just took a calming breath and fought the urge to explain all the technical ways he was wrong about defamation law.
Tremain didn't have any such limits on his irritation. He pointed at Matt. "And I expect this so-called reporter to retract everything he's ever said about me."
"I once called you a successful businessman," Matt said. "I'd be glad to retract that statement."
Tremain glared at me. "Why did you bring him anyway? He's not part of the quilt guild."
I hadn't brought him, but I was starting to be glad he was here. His gleeful provocation of Tremain was just the dose of humor I needed to keep the light-headedness I was starting to feel from getting any worse. "Mr. Viera is here now, and we'll all have to make the most of it. Unless, of course, there's something you don't want the public to know."
"He's a lying freak." Tremain's face flushed, and he somehow managed to find the space under the table to stamp his foot. "I shouldn't have to put up with people like him."
"You mean, people who tell you the truth?" Matt said.
Tremain looked like he was going to have a heart attack on the spot. He kept making gasping sounds while his lips moved as if he were testing out snarky comebacks. I couldn't decide whether to slap him or call 9-1-1.
I glanced at Alyse to see what she made of her partner's behavior. She was absently tapping her cigarette case on the table in what appeared to be boredom rather than embarrassment or concern. She must have seen his tantrums dozens of times before to be so blasé about this one.
Tremain finally found his words, if not his coherence, and began to rant unintelligibly about biased reporters until his anger petered out and his skin faded to a more normal pinkish tone.
Apparently it was just a matter of waiting him out, like any child having a tantrum. I asked, "Are you finished?"
He poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher in front of him. "For now."
"Then perhaps you can address the real issue of whether you've been misrepresenting your quilts. If you have some paperwork, the provenance for them, producing it might be more useful than shouting."
"I've got provenance for all my quilts." Tremain was completely calm now, his face a normal pink color, as if his tantrum had never happened. "The files are in my office. All anyone has to do is ask to see them."
"Why don't we take a fifteen minute break while you get the documentation for some of the quilts out front," I suggested. "I'd particularly like to see the paperwork on the four-patch hanging on the back wall."
"I'd be glad to." He pushed himself to his feet.
Dee was gearing up to say something I just knew wouldn't be helpful, and I wasn't going to make it through another tantrum. Nausea joined the light-headedness, warning me I was on borrowed time.
Dee was too fragile to risk stomping on her foot, so I took her hand and squeezed it gently. She sighed but got the message and refrained from provoking Tremain.
"Excellent." I stood more quickly than I should have, and the light-headedness caused me to sway. I knew what would come next if I didn't get somewhere calm for a few minutes. A trip to the ladies' room to splash some cool water on my face might help, especially if it was followed by a few minutes viewing the four-patch quilt on the back wall. "We'll see you back here in fifteen minutes."
Alyse was the first to leave, rushing outside for her smoke by way of a side door that led to a hallway where the landlord had disappeared earlier.
Matt offered his arms to the two elderly quilters. "I'd be honored to escort you all to the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery. Chocolate fudge cupcakes for everyone."
It was more tempting than it should have been. There was something about his face… No. I needed to have a moment to myself. "I'm going to stay here and check on a few quilts in the shop."
As soon as they were out the front door, I headed for the side exit where I'd glimpsed a ladies' room sign earlier when the landlord had gone out there. Once inside the single-occupancy ladies' room, I shut the door and leaned against it, giving in to the light-headedness. All I needed was a moment of calm, I thought, and then I'd be fine.
I slid down the door, losing consciousness on the way.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the floor, my face resting on the hexagonal tiles that, thank goodness, looked remarkably clean. I rolled onto my back to see if even that simple movement would send my head spinning again. So far, so good.
How long had I been out? I raised my arm to check the time. Only a minute or two had passed.
I sat up cautiously, prepared to lie down again if necessary. The nausea was gone, along with the light-headedness, but my head hurt. I got to my feet and peered into the mirror. A spot of blood was congealing on my temple, surrounded by the faint imprint of hexagonal floor tiles. I must have hit my head when I passed out.
My doctor would have told me to cancel the rest of the meeting, but Tremain would never agree to a postponement. I'd never left a client in the lurch, and I wouldn't start now. I'd been through this sort of syncope episode before, and there wasn't much that could be done about it after the fact. Just avoid stress. Which was exactly what I'd been trying to do before Lindsay had dragged me into this mess.
It wasn't really Lindsay's fault, and I knew it. Part of me had been thrilled by the opportunity to get back into the fray one more time. Subconsciously, I must have been thinking that if I could get through today's negotiation session with nothing more than a hint of nausea, or at least without passing out, then maybe I could go back to my old career, at least part time. That was just a pipe dream, and it was time to accept reality.
Tremain was only mildly irritating, and I still hadn't been able to manage the stress. It made me wonder if I'd be able to handle my speech at the quilt show this Friday. If not, I might not get to say more than, "Good afternoon, quilters," before I landed on the floor with a thud.
I just had to hope that the flooring there would be softer than the tiles in here.
A damp paper towel took care of the smudge of blood on my forehead, and the imprint of the tiles was already fading. I tugged at my shoulder-length hair, grateful that it was thick and a dark enough brown to cover the worst of the laceration, and straightened my suit jacket.
After a final deep breath to confirm the nausea was truly gone, I headed back to the conference room. I was the first to arrive, with Dee, Emma, and Matt appearing a couple of minutes later, carrying travel mugs emblazoned with the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery's logo.
I must have missed something when putting myself back to rights, because Emma greeted me with, "Are you all right, dear?"
"I'm fine."
"Emma's being polite instead of direct," Dee said, pointing to the side of my neck. "You've got blood on your shirt."
I reached up to touch the sore spot on my temple. The blood must have dripped from there. "It's nothing. Just an old scratch that must have reopened while I was washing up."
"Sorry to be late." Alyse hurried into the conference room, having changed into pants. "I burned a hole in my skirt while I was outside." She took her previous seat. "Where's Randall?"
"Still in his office, I presume," I said.
Alyse glanced at the vintage silver watch on her wrist. "It's been twenty minutes. Randall is a brilliant man, but he can never keep track of time. I'd better go get him."
A few moments later, Alyse screamed.
Matt was the first to react, dashing out of the conference room. I was right behind him when he skidded to a stop in the doorway of Tremain's office.
I peered past him, catching sight of an open-eyed Tremain on the floor, with blood pooled around his head.
Alyse was still screaming, hugging the corner of a faded quilt to her chest, with the rest of it draped over her obviously dead partner.
Matt found his smartphone in the third pocket he checked. While he called 9-1-1, I went to intercept Dee and Emma so they wouldn't have to see the corpse.
"What happened?" Dee tried to peer past me and down the corridor. "I hate being treated like a helpless little old lady."
"I know the feeling," I said. "I'm sorry, but Tremain is dead."
"I'm not sorry," Dee said.
"Dee!" Emma said. "You don't mean that."
Dee sighed. "You're right. As usual. He just made me so angry."
Emma tugged Dee back to the table. "I'll keep her here. Did he have a heart attack?"
"It didn't look like natural causes, but we probably shouldn't talk about it until the police get here. Matt called 9-1-1, so they should be here any minute. I'm going out front to let them know what happened."
I'd barely emerged from the corridor into the shop when a young blond man in a blazer and khakis came through the front door. I hadn't heard any sirens, and it was too soon for the police to have arrived, so he had to be a customer.
Dee spoke from somewhere behind me. "What's the twit from the prosecutor's office doing here?"
I turned around to see Dee peeking out of the conference room and Emma trying unsuccessfully to tug her back out of sight without hurting her.
"I'll take care of him," I said. "Just stay in the conference room with Emma. It's the biggest help you can be right now."
I pointedly kept my back to the prosecutor until Dee disappeared from view.
Finally, I turned around and called out, "We're back here."
The prosecutor favored his left knee slightly as he came toward me. He was too young to have gone into the military between college and law school, so it was probably a sports injury, consistent with his football-player build.
"I'm Keely Fairchild, and I'm told you're a prosecutor." I didn't like to use my legal credentials, but they did expedite matters when dealing with other lawyers. "I'm an attorney too. Retired though."
"Frank Wolfe. Nice to meet you."
"You got here awfully fast."
"I only just got the message half an hour ago," he said. "Where's Tremain?"
That wasn't possible. Half an hour ago, Tremain hadn't been a crime victim, and his shop hadn't been a crime scene to be visited by a representative of the prosecutor's office. "What message?"
"The one from my boss, telling me to come make nice with one Randall J. Tremain, owner of Monograms and best buddies with half of the state legislature."
"There's been a bit of a development since then." Too bad the prosecutor hadn't taken the initiative to talk to Tremain earlier, at Dee's request, instead of waiting for his boss to intervene. I wouldn't have had to get involved, and Tremain might still be alive. "Tremain is dead. The police are on the way."
"Seriously?" Wolfe looked eager, rather than shocked. Dee was right. He was a twit.
"Seriously. Follow me."
Dee was still standing in the conference room doorway, swatting Emma away. I made a backing-up motion with my hands, and Emma tugged Dee over to one of the chairs. I doubted they would stay put for long, but the police would be here any minute, and securing the scene would be their problem.
Wolfe and I continued to the back office. Matt had pried the edge of the quilt from Alyse's shocked fingers, and once we arrived, he escorted her back to the conference room.
Wolfe stared at the body. I caught only a glimpse of Tremain's bashed-in skull and his open-eyed face before looking away. The quilt, especially the portion tangled around his torso, was drenched in blood.
"You know," Wolfe said. "I thought it would be worse. I've never seen a dead body outside of a funeral parlor before."
"It's bad enough." I hadn't ever seen a fresh corpse either. Pictures presented as evidence, sure, but not the real thing, not someone I'd known, however briefly.
"The blanket makes it seem like he's just napping."
"On the floor?" Quilts did usually appear cozy, but not when they were draped over a corpse. "What about the pool of blood?"
"Well, yeah, that kinda ruins the picture." Wolfe turned away from his inspection of the crime scene. "Still, this is great."
Twit. "Not for Tremain."
"Yeah, yeah," Wolfe said, clearly unconcerned about the human tragedy. "My boss will have to assign the case to me. My first big murder trial. I've got firsthand knowledge of the scene. Plus, I was already assigned to the fraud complaints against the victim, so I've got the inside scoop on the likely suspects. Maybe I should go talk to them now, since you've got them so conveniently waiting for me in the conference room."
It figured. Now he was interested in Dee and Emma.
"Having met Tremain, I can tell you he undoubtedly had plenty of other enemies for you to check out. And a business partner. She's the one who found him."
"Trying to create reasonable doubt for your little old ladies?"
"Hush. They can probably hear you." I turned toward the front of the shop. "The cops should be here any second now. I'm going out front to wait for them."
The first officer to arrive was someone I knew from a stress support group we both attended. Fred Fields entered the shop in a slightly crouched position, as if prepared for someone to jump out at him. He was in his thirties, average height, and I couldn't help noticing it was time for him to start ordering his uniform in a larger size. He took crime personally, as if it were his fault for not preventing it, and he relied a little too heavily on food as a coping tool for his stress.
As soon as he saw me, he straightened. "What are you doing here?"
"It's a long story. For now, all that matters is that Randall Tremain is dead, and I don't know who did it. The body's in his office." I held up my hand to stop Fred from rushing off unprepared. "One more thing. There's a prosecutor here already."
"That was fast. I was just around the corner when the call came in."
"He was following up on a related case. The name's Frank Wolfe."
"I've heard of him," Fred said. "A local guy, came back to Danger Cove when he passed the bar. A little too gung-ho for some of us. Thanks for the warning."
I went with him to introduce him to the prosecutor. When that was done, I headed back to the conference room. Behind me, I heard Wolfe demanding that Fred sequester the witnesses to avoid the opportunity to compare notes.
"Take it up with the detective, Bud Ohlsen," Fred said. "I'm just supposed to secure the scene."
I wanted to say we were all too much in shock to be conspiring anyway, but it would have been a lie. I definitely wanted to compare notes. We might be able to identify some better suspects than Dee and Emma before Wolfe's theory could gain any traction.
At the moment, all I knew was that I hadn't killed Tremain. Unfortunately, I couldn't even prove to the police that I'd been unconscious at the time of the murder. A syncope event didn't leave any distinctive marks or biological evidence behind, unlike a stroke or heart attack. If asked for an alibi, I'd have to either refuse to answer without my attorney present, which never boded well, or admit to having been in the building, alone, at the time of the murder.
Did everyone else in our group have alibis? Dee and Emma and Matt had been together when Tremain was killed, so they should be able to vouch for each other. Alyse had gone outside to smoke and might have an alibi too if she'd been seen out there. If the killer wasn't one of the people at the meeting, who could it be?
A hint of dizziness reminded me that finding Tremain's killer wasn't my problem.
I waved at Fred. "I'll be in the conference room with the others if you need me."
Wolfe turned to Fred, who was unrolling yellow police tape. "I'm betting I can get a confession before we leave today."
Fred looked over his shoulder at me with an expression that clearly said Wolfe was an idiot. I nodded my agreement and turned toward the conference room. As I approached it, two paramedics, one male and one female, came through the front door. I pointed them toward Tremain's office, even though there was nothing they could do for him.
I followed them back to the office and waited until I heard them conclude Tremain was beyond their help. "Excuse me. Perhaps you could look at the woman who found him. She might be in shock."
The female paramedic seemed to be in charge. She nodded for her partner to take his supplies and go find their other patient.
I led him back to the conference room and pointed to Alyse. Not that there was any doubt about who the prospective patient was. She was in the chair she'd been sitting in before, hugging her ribs and rocking forward and back. Emma was patting her on the shoulder, making soothing sounds. Matt was in what was my seat before, chatting quietly with Dee about the upcoming quilt show.
Emma let the paramedic take over the care of Alyse and returned to her seat across from Dee.
Before I could confirm they all had alibis, Wolfe breezed into the conference room. "Could I speak with you for a minute, Counselor Fairchild?"
It was tempting to refuse. I hated it when people called me "counselor" outside of the courtroom. The ostentatious politeness, needed to maintain at least a semblance of decorum inside the courtroom, felt artificial and pretentious in the real world. Wolfe obviously didn't realize there was a difference between the two settings. He'd learn eventually but not from me. I could be as formal as he was, if that was what it took to keep everything from going south.
"Is it absolutely necessary, Prosecutor Wolfe?"
His triumphant expression told me he thought he knew something I didn't, something that gave him an edge. "I thought you'd want to know who killed Tremain."