Arlene Sachitano - The Quilt Before The Storm

“If he goes too overboard he’s going to blow it for us. They aren’t going to talk to us if he goes in like some sort of beggar from The Threepenny Opera .”

“You can try to talk to him if you want, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.” Mavis returned to reading the week-old newspaper that lay on the table.

“I’m sure Lauren wouldn’t mind if you used her wind-up radio to hear something a little more current.”

“It’s not the same,” Mavis said and readjusted her glasses before returning to her reading.

“Okay, fine,” Harriet muttered to herself.

She was about to get her jacket and go outside when the phone rang. She dashed for the dining room and managed to pick up the receiver before it quit.

It turned out to be Carla.

“It sounds like she’s trying to talk him into going back to Africa,” she reported. “She told him that going far away was the only real way he could start over. I don’t get it. Why does he need to start over? He’s barely gotten settled here.”

“Think about it,” Harriet said. “If he goes back to Africa on a permanent basis, he won’t need his big house and cars.”

Carla gasped. If Aiden didn’t live in his big house, he wouldn’t need a housekeeper.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, but I’m thinking this is Michelle taking another run at getting her hands on Aiden’s money.”

“Can’t he see what she’s doing?” Carla asked.

“Ordinarily, yes, but she’s obviously found something to scare or intimidate him with. That’s what we need to figure out. What does she have on him?”

“She doesn’t give up easy, does she?” Carla said. “He’s turned down her calls for money a lot just since I’ve been working there.”

“She’s determined, I’ll give her that.”

“Why doesn’t she just work?” Carla wondered. “Isn’t she some kind of attorney?”

“Yes, and she works at it, but Aiden said it’s simple-she spends more than she and her husband make. He said she was like that as a kid, too. She was always trying to con him and his brother out of their allowance.”

“But she’s older than him,” Carla protested.

“You got it. He was in grade school, and she was in high school, talking him out of his lunch money, according to my aunt.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yes, it is. That’s why I’m sure she’s running some sort of scam on him, using his goodness and loyalty to get him to leave town and hand over his money. Your mission is to listen more and see if you can figure out what her angle is this time.”

Carla agreed to do to her best and rang off.

Harriet again turned, intending to get her jacket and go outside to start assessing the cleanup that would be needed, when the phone rang again.

“Oh, good, you do have a working land line,” Tom Bainbridge said in place of a greeting.

“Hello to you, too. What’s up?”

“I’m going a little stir-crazy here and was wondering if you wanted to take another ride out to the homeless camp with me.”

“There’s a lot of that going around,” Harriet said. “I’d love to go. Jorge and the rest of my crew here are planning on taking a hot lunch of bean-and-rice burritos to the homeless folks in just a while.”

“Do you need to go with them?”

“Not at all. In fact, I think a little space would help us all. I’m ready whenever you want to leave.”

“In that case, I’ll be there in less than thirty minutes. I’ll be driving my host’s pickup this time, so we’ll be a little more comfortable.”

True to his word, Tom arrived a half-hour later. Harriet met him in the driveway, a dog leash in each hand, Curly and Pamela circling and scratching in the leaves under one of the trees that lined the drive.

“Looks like you have your hands full there,” Tom said as he got out of the red pickup. The cargo bed had several cases of water and canned goods and more plastic-wrapped plates of homemade cookies.

“Wow,” Harriet said. “Is there no end to your host’s stockpile?”

“Doesn’t seem like it, does it?” Tom said. “They’re good people, but they like to be prepared for any eventuality, up to and including nuclear holocaust. And, yes, they do have full chemical/gas protective suits, complete with tanks of oxygen.”

“Wow,” Harriet repeated.

“They really are nice people, apart from the disaster preparation thing. And you sort of forget about it once you get used to them.”

“If you say so,” she said with a smile.

“So, what’s the plan?”

“Jorge and Lauren and Aunt Beth are driving to the camp to deliver the burritos, and we all thought we’d see if we could help with cleanup. I already put some rakes and trimmers and stuff like that in the back of Jorge’s truck.”

“Good, I could use the exercise. Mr. and Mrs. Renfro have been playing cards endlessly. Judging by the running score of five thousand, six hundred forty-five to four thousand, nine hundred seventy-seven, I’m pretty sure they do this even when there’s power. They’re so competitive, I find myself watching for hours on end when I’m supposed to be sketching buildings or something.”

Harriet filled him in on the Loose Threads’ alleged assignment from Detective Morse.

“Sounds like you’ve got all the necessary roles cast, but if I can help, count me in.”

“Let me take these two back inside,” Harriet said indicating the dogs. “Mavis is going to stay home with all the critters and to keep the home fires blazing. Literally.”

“Connie’s going to meet us at the camp,” Aunt Beth said when Harriet came inside. “Her hubby is working with a group of volunteers removing downed trees from streets and driveways.”

“I’m going on over to the park with Tom,” Harriet told her. “He’s got some water and other supplies for the campers.”

“I’ll be another few minutes more with the burritos,” Jorge said. He was systematically rolling them then wrapping the finished product in foil. “But you go on ahead.” He gave her a quick wink.

“Okay,” she said as she got into Tom’s borrowed truck, “we’re free to go. Jorge said they’ll be along in a few minutes.”

“So, we’re free till then?”

Harriet studied him for a long moment.

“Ye-e-es,” she said slowly. “May I ask why that matters?”

“Oh, we’re just taking a small detour.”

Harriet raised her left eyebrow.

“Relax, I’m not kidnapping you or anything. We can’t leave Foggy Point, remember?”

He guided the truck to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, taking numerous detours around downed trees and small slides before pulling into a wayside viewpoint, parking and getting out. Harriet followed him to a small stone enclosure. A brushed-steel sign was mounted flat to the back of the space and described the seabirds that frequented this point. A roughhewn bench spanned the covered space.

“Wait here,” Tom said and, when Harriet sat, jogged back to the truck then returned with one hand held behind his back.

“What’s going on?” Harriet started to stand.

“Relax,” he said, and she sank back onto the bench as he swept his hidden hand into view, presenting her with a bunch of flowers. At least, it resembled a bunch of flowers.

“What is this?” she asked as she took the cellophane-wrapped bouquet of holly that was brightened with what turned out to be carefully crafted origami flowers.