Arlene Sachitano - Quilt As Desired

"Vet clinic?” Harriet said, and then screamed. “Fred!"

Aiden clamped his hands onto her shoulders. The policeman looked at him, but he had no clue as to who Fred was either.

"My cat,” Harriet explained and started to cry.

"Your cat is fine,” the female officer said as she walked over to the group. “He's a little freaked, but he's on the top shelf of the bookcase upstairs. He looked totally okay, and I don't think he's going anywhere. We'll make sure the crime scene people keep the doors shut."

The criminalists arrived and got out of their car. Harriet was relieved Darcy Lewis was one of them. Darcy was a drop-in member of Loose Threads, a petite, thirty-year-old single mother. Her brown hair was cut in a short shag style that made her look like Peter Pan.

"Aren't you the quilt depot for the Tacoma show?” she asked.

Harriet nodded silently, the misery apparent on her face.

"I'll start in your studio, and then we can let you in while we do the rest,” Darcy said and joined her partner, an older man who carried two boxes of equipment into Harriet's workspace.

Foggy Point wasn't big enough to employ one criminalist full time, let alone the three they had, so they contracted their services to small communities all over western Washington. That meant Darcy got to do what she had always wanted to do without having to move to a big city, but in return she was on the road a lot. It was not unusual for her to get called out at night, which allowed her to use comp time and attend Loose Threads every now and then.

"You should be able to go into your studio in about an hour, give or take,” she said. “Quilts can be repaired. Just be glad you weren't here when these clowns showed up."

Harriet walked into the studio and flicked the overhead light on. She and Aiden had gone to his apartment, where she'd helped him clean up the cut on his head and then applied butterfly strips. He assured her he was a quick healer and that in a few days no one would even know he'd been beaten with a sprinkler.

The workroom was a riot of color as they entered; but instead of a complementary arrangement of pattern and shape, the scene was harsh and discordant. Pastels fought with crayon colors and muddy browns and grays. Quilts were strewn everywhere, their bindings hanging like Spanish moss from the edges. The shelf cubicles were empty. The box of show quilts had been upended, and the remains were all over the floor. Carry bags of all types littered the space.

She went to the show quilts first. She picked up Connie's bright sherbet-colored one and held it up. It had picked up a few thread clippings from the floor, but it seemed otherwise intact. She folded it and laid it on the seat of the wing chair. Jenny's purple quilt just needed its binding reapplied on one side. It, too, got folded and placed on the chair.

DeAnn's hadn't fared as well. She had done a simple eight-pointed star block called Peaceful Hours . It had a second set of smaller points that surrounded a center octagon. Both sets of points were densely stitched, which allowed the octagon to puff up. Several of the octagons had been cut open. DeAnn could repair the tears and applique a motif in the octagons, but sewing small shaped fabric pieces over a background fabric with stitches that were essentially invisible was slow, painstaking work under ideal conditions. Performing the technique as a method of covering damaged fabric would be difficult, and it was unlikely it could be accomplished in time for the show.

Two seams had been split open on Robin McLeod's log cabin quilt, but again, it was damage that could be repaired.

There didn't seem to be a rhyme or reason to the carnage. Some quilts were shredded beyond recognition while others were barely touched, as if the attacker had tired of ripping them up partway through.

"I need to call the Loose Threads,” she said with grim determination.

"You know it's almost eleven o'clock, right?” Aiden pointed out.

"Trust me, they won't care. I'm supposed to take their quilts to the show tomorrow. They're going to want all the time available to fix the damage, if that's even possible."

She looked around the floor, found the phone and then the phone book. She dialed Mavis Willis first. Mavis hadn't lost anything in the carnage, but besides Avanell she was the only group member Harriet had known for more than a couple of weeks. She was sure Mavis would know who should be called tonight and how to break the news of what had happened. Besides, with the contents of her desk in the mix on the floor, she'd need Mavis to fill in some last names and phone numbers.

"Honey, you just hang on while I throw on some clothes and grab my stitching bag. I'll be right over,” Mavis said as soon as she heard the news.

"She's on her way,” she told Aiden and hung up.

"I tried to call my mom again while you were on the phone,” Aiden said and flipped his cell phone shut. “It's weird. She's not answering anywhere."

"Maybe she's working late,” Harriet said. “The reason she didn't go to the Chamber dinner tonight was so she could work. Maybe she's still there."

"I guess. She must be out in the factory and can't hear the phone. It's just weird. Mom has to look behind the shower curtain to make sure no one is in the house after dark when she's home alone. It's hard to imagine her in the factory by herself. And it's not like her to be out of touch."

"Maybe she's not alone.” Harriet didn't want to point out that his mother might have found a boyfriend in the three years he was out of the country.

Darcy came through the door from the kitchen to the studio.

"We'll need to get fingerprint samples from you both for exclusionary purposes,” she said. “It'd be good if we could get prints from your aunt, too."

"I think she had to be fingerprinted when she signed up to teach quilting at the middle school,” Harriet said.

"I'll check when we get back to the lab, but that would help if she did."

"How does the rest of the house look?"

"Not too bad, actually. The studio was clearly the focus of the attack. A few drawers and closets were dumped, but it looks like they didn't do much more than pass through most of the rooms. I tried to wipe the print powder up as we went but watch for it. We don't need that on the quilts on top of everything else."

"Oh, my God,” Mavis said from the outside door. She picked up the brass bells that lay silent on the floor and hung them in their customary place on the doorknob. She crossed the room and pulled Harriet into a warm hug. “Oh, honey, I'm so sorry."

Harriet felt stiff in her arms. She wondered what she was supposed to do-stand like a sack of flower and let the air be squeezed out of her? Or was she supposed to squeeze back? How did one accomplish that when their arms were being pinned to their sides?

Mavis released her. “Jenny should be here any minute. Connie is babysitting her granddaughter while her daughter works the night shift at the Best Western in Port Angeles. She'll come as soon as her daughter picks up the little one. I left a message for Robin, and talked to DeAnn, who will be along soon, also.” She turned back to survey the room and seemed to notice Aiden for the first time. “What happened to you?” she asked.

Aiden had changed his bloody shirt and washed his face, but he still had an impressive-looking gash on his forehead.

"She hit me,” he said, and pointed at Harriet.

"Well, you must have needed it,” she said. She turned to survey the room again. She picked up a shoebox-sized plastic bin and handed it to him. “Here, pick up spools of thread and put them in this box.” She moved to the cutting table. “Let's take a good look at each quilt and then sort them by what type of repair they need. We can separate the show quilts from the rest, too."