Free The Alpine Quilt by Mary Daheim Page B

guess,” Milo allowed. “I’ve never seen her so upset.”
    “Did Mrs. Blatt date the quilt, as well?” I inquired, recalling some of my paternal grandmother’s handsome quilts, three of which I still had at home.
    Milo grimaced. “I almost told her what the whole signature deal said. I’m glad I didn’t.”
    All at sea, I gazed up at Milo. “Why not?”
    “Because,” he said slowly, obviously trying to recall the inscription word for word, “it read ‘Begun February 10, 1974, by Genevieve Bayard,’ written in a different handwriting. Then it said, ‘Completed October 21, 1978, by Muriel May Blatt.’ I thought mentioning Gen’s name so soon after she died might upset Vida. I suppose they were friends.”
    Milo and I didn’t know it, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.
             
    Instead of the interview I’d scheduled with Gen, I asked Vida if she would talk to Buddy and Roseanna about the dead woman’s life.
    Vida refused. She was polite but insisted she had too much catching up to do. In a way, that was true: Our House & Home editor collected potential news items via her vast network of friends and relations. Being out of the loop for the past four days was tantamount to having the Associated Press wire go down.
    “Don’t forget,” she added, not quite looking me in the eye, “I have to prepare for my weekly radio show tomorrow night. I’ve already lined up Rosemary Bourgette to talk about her experiences as SkyCo’s prosecuting attorney.”
    After eight months, Vida should know that I no longer harbored any resentment for what I’d initially termed her defection to the radio station. Last February she’d sprung
Vida’s Cupboard
on me without warning. That wasn’t fair, but after a few weeks, I got over it. She never used items that should have appeared in the paper first, and her sponsors divided their advertising budget between KSKY and the
Advocate.
    Scott, whose main flaw was not making deadlines, already had plenty on his plate. I called Roseanna and told her what I needed as background—if she and Buddy didn’t mind.
    Buddy had kept the studio open despite the tragedy, but Roseanna had taken the day off to cope with whatever arrangements might be necessary for Gen’s funeral.
    “Come over to the house at two-thirty when the original appointment was set with Gen,” she said in a flat tone. “I’ll make coffee. Or maybe something stronger. I could use a good jolt about now.”
             
    The rain had started again when I climbed the winding stone steps that led up to the Bayards’ brick rambler on Pine Street near Icicle Creek. I felt as if I were going to interview a ghost: Same time, same place—but the subject was dead.
    Roseanna met me at the door. Her usual high color was drained, her fair hair drooped, and the sparkle was gone from her blue eyes.
    “Can you believe this?” she said in a tired voice. “The first time Gen comes to visit, she dies. Why do mothers-in-law have to be so contrary?”
    It dawned on me that maybe I wasn’t looking at grief in Roseanna’s eyes, but frustration. I didn’t know what to say. All I could come up with was, “It’s sad for everyone.”
    Roseanna indicated I should sit on the big brown leather sofa, while she flopped into a matching armchair. “Gen wasn’t your average mother or grandmother,” she declared. “Oh, I shouldn’t criticize, but in all the years our three kids were growing up, she never remembered a birthday. Christmas, yes, she could hardly miss that, but otherwise . . .” She waved a hand. “Our kids barely knew her. We hauled them over to Spokane when they were little, but after they got to be teenagers, we gave up coercing them into going with us. It’s a damned shame, really.”
    I seemed to have sunk at least six inches into the soft leather. “Not the maternal type, I guess.”
    She shook her head. “No wonder Buddy is an only child. I honestly don’t think she liked children. Of