Free Stitches in Time by Barbara Michaels Page B

“And I certainly wouldn’t keep something as good as this in mothballs, I’d have it cleaned and on the shelf as soon as possible. Are the others as fine?”
    â€œEven better. Show her the album quilt, Rachel.”
    Rachel realized that she was standing in front of the chair, blocking the view of the quilt—almost as if she were standing guard over it. Slowly she stepped back.
    â€œJust look at the quilting,” Cheryl urged. “And the designs. It’s unique, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
    â€œI’ll take your word for it.” Kara studied the quilt from a safe distance, her nose crinkling. “It’s filthy. Much dirtier than the others. And it stinks.”
    â€œMothballs,” Cheryl said.
    â€œMothballs and…something else.”
    â€œRachel thinks she can clean it.”
    â€œRather her than me,” Kara said decisively. She moved away. “The white work is stunning. I’ll bet we could get twelve thousand—”
    â€œThey’re at it again,” Tony shouted, his face reddening. “Look, girls, you don’t own this stuff.”
    Mark burst out laughing. “Don’t bother, buddy. This is another case of what Pat would call miscommunication between the sexes.”
    â€œBut they’re acting as if this was a fashion show! The condition of the merchandise is irrelevant and immaterial. What I want to know is where it came from.”
    â€œSomebody’s attic,” Cheryl said calmly. “Some little old lady, who has kept her family heirlooms all these years.”
    â€œThat is an unsubstantiated theory,” Tony insisted. “And you’d better hope it’s false. We’ll never catch this guy if—”
    â€œWashing-up time,” Mark said. “Come on, Tony. I’ll clear, you stick the dishes in the dishwasher.”
    â€œNot the Haviland,” Cheryl exclaimed. She followed them out of the room, expostulating.
    â€œLeave them,” Kara said, as Rachel started to fold the album quilt. “They’ll be all right here tonight, and they could certainly do with an airing.” She went after the others.
    Pat, who obviously had no intention of participating in menial chores, was slow to follow them. “Was I right or was I right?” he demanded of Rachel, the only audience left. “I’ll bet granny doesn’t even know she’s been ripped off. We never discussed the most interesting aspect of this business. If the theft hasn’t been reported, or even noticed, why is this guy so desperate to get the things back?”

three
    The setting moon shone straight into her eyes, its light undimmed by leafless branches and thin lace curtains. For the tenth time Rachel shifted position. She couldn’t sleep. Overfatigue, too much to eat and drink…and the question Pat MacDougal had tossed off so nonchalantly.
    The question must have occurred to Tony. Asking questions like that was part of his job. He hadn’t mentioned it to her because he hadn’t wanted to worry her, for there was only one logical answer.
    Why was the man so anxious to retrieve the quilts? Because they were evidence of a crime more serious than theft.
    Her weary brain went over the same path it had traced a dozen times before. She and Tony could identify the Alleged, but they had not actually seen him with the trash bag in his hands, so evidence even of theft would be circumstantial. If he could retrieve it there would be no physical proof to connect him with a case of…aggravated assault? Rape?
    The other crime, the one that carried the heaviest penalty, was one she shrank from naming even in thought.
    So serious a case would surely have been reported. But Pat—damn him for having such a logical mind!—had accounted for that too. The theft of the quilts might not have been discovered. Even the owner might not realize something was missing from a seldom-visited storage