Free Four-Patch of Trouble by Gin Jones Page B

scandal from affecting the museum. The board will see that."
    "I'd like to think so," Gil said. "But I'm new here, so I don't have any goodwill to leverage. The quilt acquisition program was going to be my chance to show them what I can do, and now it could be in jeopardy. They're understandably anxious about adding to our quilt collection in the middle of a scandal over a local dealer passing off reproductions as antiques. No one cared about the fakes before, but it's different now that they're linked to his murder."
    "Which means the first appraisal I do for you may be my last. The board will always associate me with Tremain's murder and the related scandal, and they won't want anything more to do with me."
    "If it makes you feel any better," Gil said, "if you're out of a job, I probably will be too. I serve at the pleasure of the directors for the next six months. I don't think they're pleased with me at all right now."
     
    *   *   *
     
    On the way to Stefan's gallery, I experimented with a few different approaches for my upcoming speech to the quilters, but none of them felt right. It shouldn't have been this difficult to write. I'd never had this much trouble planning an argument to a jury where far more was at stake than impressing a few potential clients.
    Just thinking about it was enough to cause the nausea lurking in the corners of my stomach to stir. I pushed thoughts of the speech to the back of my mind and concentrated on the appraisal I was about to do. The work was challenging, but I found it relaxing. I could admire the artistry and skills of the quiltmaker and then get lost in the puzzle of when and where it had been made. With a little luck, the appraisal would be just the distraction I needed to clear my mind before settling down to write the speech.
    The reporter, Matt Viera, was waiting on the sidewalk outside the gallery, talking to someone on his phone. As I approached, he ended the call and dropped the phone into one of the multitude of pockets in his tan cargo pants. Today's sport shirt was a lighter but still unflattering shade of yellow.
    We were both early, and the gallery had a Closed sign hanging on the door. There were no lights visible through the gallery's front display windows, but that could have been just because of the thick, dark curtains hanging between the glass and the interior of the shop.
    "Morning," Matt said. "Have you heard anything new on the murder investigation?"
    "As a reporter, you must have better sources than I do." I tried the gallery door, just in case, but I wasn't surprised to find it locked.
    "Arts reporters don't really have sources that know anything about murder," Matt said with a shrug. "I thought maybe your prosecutor friend might have told you something."
    "We're hardly friends. I only met him yesterday."
    "So the preferential treatment was just a case of lawyers sticking together? Like a school of sharks?"
    "I wasn't exactly encouraging Wolfe to treat me differently from the rest of the witnesses." He had, though, and had been obvious about it. One of these days, his biases were going to get him into trouble. "I was just being practical. I needed to stay on his good side to keep him from doing anything rash. If it were up to him, Dee and Emma would be in police custody right now."
    "I guess I should have kept my mouth shut around him then." Matt didn't look particularly apologetic. In fact, I was pretty sure there was a hint of glee in his eyes. "Isn't that what lawyers always tell their clients?"
    Apparently, no one had gotten the memo that I wasn't practicing law any longer. "You're not my client. Neither are Dee and Emma. I was only at the meeting yesterday as a concerned friend of the family."
    "I did some reading on you last night," he said casually. "You were a really successful trial lawyer until a year ago. Why'd you quit?"
    He might be a small-town arts reporter, but he had a knack for uncovering sore spots. Just one more reason not to get too