Free The Alpine Quilt by Mary Daheim Page A

Upper Crust?”
    “We did that in the story about the renovation,” Vida reminded me.
    “Oh. Right.” I ruminated some more. “The wind blew down some branches on Third Street last night, and probably elsewhere in town.”
    “That’s a brief story,” Vida asserted. “You or Scott should check to see if there was any serious damage.”
    I made a face. “I already did. There wasn’t any.” My mind seemed to be turning to mush. I felt fragmented by the weekend’s events, both happy and sad.
    “You’re a total loss,” Vida chided. “Here’s the sheriff. Perhaps he can help. Good morning, Milo. You’ve spilled something on your trousers. I can use that for ‘Scene.’ What is it?”
    In surprise, Milo glanced at his pants legs. “Damn. Coffee, I expect.”
    If so, I thought, it was a wonder it hadn’t eaten through the fabric. “What’s up?” I inquired, after Vida told him not to curse. “Don’t tell me you have news.”
    “Not yet,” he replied, still studying the stain. “We sent Gen’s body to Everett last night, but I don’t expect to hear anything until late today.”
    “How late?”
    Milo shrugged. “Five, six o’clock. Then again, maybe not until tomorrow.”
    “Milo,” I said calmly and slowly, “we have a deadline today. Do you think it might be possible to see if you can goose the Everett MEs into hurrying just a little bit? After all, they owe you. Didn’t you apprehend a bank robber for them last month?”
    “Oh—right,” Milo said, finally looking up. “The guy who ran off the road by Deception Falls. No big deal. He wasn’t going anywhere. He had a broken pelvis.”
    “That’s not the point. You caught him.” I put on my most pitiful expression. “Please, Milo? Just for the sake of your hometown newspaper?”
    “The SnoCo MEs don’t care if I apprehended a perp,” Milo noted. “But I’ll see what I can do.” He strolled over to the table that held the coffeemaker and what was left of the morning’s pastries. “No doughnuts? No cinnamon rolls? What’s this?” He picked up a knish.
    I explained. “That one is filled with cheese. The Upper Crust is introducing a few ethnic pastries. We do, after all, have some diversity on the college campus.”
    Milo bit into the soft dough. “Not bad,” he remarked, licking his lips.
    “A ‘Scene’ item for certain,” Vida murmured, scribbling on a piece of paper.
    Milo poured himself half a mug of coffee. “By the way, this might be of interest to you, Vida. When Sam checked out the Pike house this morning, somebody had set a small fire in the backyard. The rain was down to a drizzle by then, so the fire didn’t do much damage. It’s kind of crazy, though. The parts that didn’t get completely burned were some papers that looked like a kind of pattern. There was also a corner of an old quilt. What caught Sam’s eye was that somebody had written on it. It was your mother’s name, Muriel Blatt.”
    Vida turned white.

SIX
    “It’s just the shock,” Vida assured me after I’d quickly brought her a glass of water. “My mother. Her quilts. She was so clever with her fingers. Goodness.” Vida dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Goodness,” she repeated.
    Milo was leaning over Vida’s desk, his face filled with concern. “Would you like . . . what’s left of the quilt?”
    Vida vehemently shook her head and blew her nose at the same time. “No. No, not if it’s half-burned.”
    “It’s pretty much gone,” Milo conceded. He stood up and framed a foot-wide triangle with his hands. “The only part is the border where her name is, and some red, white, and blue cloth.”
    Vida nodded and blew her nose again, sounding much like a herald using his trumpet to proclaim a big event. “Yes, Mother always signed her quilts. Most quilters do. Excuse me,” she said, getting up from her chair. “I must go to the restroom.”
    “Poor Vida,” I said when she’d disappeared. “She’s had a rough few days.”
    “I