Arlene Sachitano - The Quilt Before The Storm

“She didn’t sound very hopeful,” Lauren said.

The two women walked the rest of the way to the camp’s common area, each lost in her own thoughts. They found Joyce and Jorge laying a quilt from the plastic storage bin onto the table.

“Well, that’s weird,” Joyce said. “We’re missing a quilt. I was going to send one of the two extra we had left to Ronald at the church. Jorge said he would take it to him.”

“What happened to the one we gave him?” Lauren asked.

“I’m sure it’s in his tent, but I don’t feel like I should break in just to get a cover.”

“Break in?” Harriet asked.

“He has a little combination lock on the zipper. I know it isn’t much, but we all lock up what we can. It won’t stop a determined thief, but it does deter the casual one.”

“Did you look in any of the other areas? I understand you had some transient people who stayed here the first night of the storm.”

“They may have had extra people in the restrooms, but the people who were camping here went to the church shelter that afternoon.”

“Have you looked in Duane’s space?”

“No, I haven’t. That young woman from the police went back and looked around, but she didn’t bring anything out that I could see.”

“Do you mind if we look around a little?” Harriet asked.

Joyce nodded her agreement.

“Didn’t Duane have his quilt with him in the restroom stall?” Lauren asked.

“He did, but remember, he didn’t take one at first so we left the extras with Joyce, and I specifically gave her one for him. It was one of the quillows. But you know, now I think about it, the one that was covering him in the restroom didn’t have a pocket on it. At least, not that I could see.”

“Who knows what goes on when we aren’t here,” Lauren said. “Maybe they did something crazy, like trade their blankets. Perhaps the one you thought he was getting didn’t match his decor, so he traded it with one of the other inmates-I mean, residents.”

“Would you lower your voice?” Harriet muttered through clenched teeth as they walked farther into the woods.

Duane’s space looked much as it had when the Loose Threads had helped set it up several days earlier. His sleeping bag lay on the brush-pile bed covered by one of the tarps they’d made. There was no sign of a flannel quilt.

“Let’s take a peek at Ronald’s area,” Harriet said and led the way deeper into the forest.

“Not much to see here,” Lauren proclaimed when she came up beside her in front of the tent. As Joyce had told them, it was buttoned up tight, with a small luggage lock holding the two ends of the zipper system in its grip.

Harriet turned to go, but Lauren didn’t join her.

“You aren’t going to just walk away from this, are you?” she asked.

“I most certainly am,” Harriet answered. “Just because his home is outside doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be breaking and entering.”

“You’re no fun,” Lauren griped, but she backed away from the tent.

Brandy was nowhere to be seen as they walked back on the trail, so Harriet stopped at the entrance to her area and listened for the sounds of someone breathing.

“Is she in there?” Lauren whispered.

“I don’t think so,” she answered in the same tone. “Let’s check it out.”

They crept as quietly as they could into Brandy’s camping area.

“What have we here?” Lauren asked in a normal voice.

Piled on Brandy’s bed were three quilts, one with the distinct quillow pocket on its top.

Harriet picked up the quillow, and when she did, a cell phone fell out onto the bed. She dropped the quilt and picked up the phone.

“Jackpot,” Lauren said.

Harriet pushed the power button, but nothing happened.

“This probably ran out of juice a long time ago,” she said. “Let’s go back to Duane’s and see if he has the charger cord in his things. I’m not sure how it’s going to help us, unless it has a place for notes and he used it. But if he was doing something that got him killed, he probably didn’t spell it out for us.”

“Geez, don’t you ever go to the movies?” Lauren asked. “There’s always some cryptic clue left behind at a crime scene. Are you going to take it with us?”

“I probably should leave it and tell Detective Morse about it.”

“With Brandy on the loose, we might never see it again.” Lauren pointed out.

“You’re right. We need to protect the evidence.” Harriet tucked the phone in her jacket pocket, and they made their way back to Duane’s area. “We can give this to Morse when we pick her up.”

“Speaking of which,” Lauren said looking at her watch, “we need to go.”

“Hold on.” Harriet ruffled Duane’s bedding with her hands. Nothing there. She paced around the space, looking first down and then up into the tree branches. “Got it,” she said, and unwound the cord from a small limb that also held a damp washcloth and an equally damp towel. “We probably should leave the quilts and just tell Joyce where they are. She seems to know how best to deal with Brandy.”

Lauren led the way through the forest and back to the common area of the camp.

“We found the quilts,” Harriet told Joyce.

“Brandy has them,” Lauren added. “They’re on her bed.”

“Are you señoritas ready to go pick up the detective?” Jorge asked.

They said goodbye to Joyce and assured her they would check in again the following day.

“I don’t like those two women staying out here alone with a killer in the area.” Jorge said when they were on the way back to the parking lot.

“They aren’t alone,” Harriet reminded him. “Owen and Kate are here, too.”

“I didn’t see their truck,” Jorge said. “They may have decided to park in the church parking lot. There are a number of RVs there already.”

“Or maybe they went for a drive,” Lauren said, “because they could.”

“Did Joyce have anything to report?” Harriet asked as Jorge guided the truck out of Fogg Park and headed for the grade school.

“Nothing to help your investigation,” he said with a smile. “She’s worried about Brandy. I guess the girl wanders out into the forest for hours at a time, and Joyce doesn’t really know where she goes or what she does, and she doesn’t want to follow her to find out.”

“I think we can guess, based on the pile of bottles in her living space,” Lauren said.

“Which kind of makes you wonder where she gets her supply,” Harriet mused. “I can’t imagine she could be walking to town and back in the hours she’s not accounted for, but she has to be getting it somewhere.”

“It still boggles my mind that they all live out there without transportation of any sort except their own two feet.”

“Chiquitas, you are selling our fine community short. We have public transportation. The bus comes right to the park at least twice a day, maybe more.”

“Really?” Harriet asked. “I’ve seen them around town, but I didn’t realize they came out to the park. That adds a new dimension to our situation.”

She heard the whoop-whoop-whoop of the helicopter before she saw it, lowering to the playground pavement like a giant insect and coming to rest on a large white X that had been spray-painted onto the black surface. Jorge parked the truck a safe distance away, and the trio got out to wait for the passengers to disembark.

Harriet waved when Detective Morse climbed out the door, hunched over, one hand holding her hair away from her face, the other one gripping a large shoulder bag close to her side. She hurried out from under the rotor wash then walked to the truck.