"Is Lauren Sawyer here?” asked the police officer Mavis found on the front step of the Tree House when she answered the door the next morning. He was a stout, dark-haired man with florid cheeks and a yellow-plastic-handled gun.
Mavis glanced at her watch. “It's a quarter before seven, young man. She's either in bed or taking her shower."
"I need to speak to her. May I come in?"
Connie came up behind Mavis.
"Is there a problem?"
"This officer wants to speak to Lauren."
"Dios mio!” Connie put her left hand to her mouth. The officer looked exasperated.
"I guess you better come in, then,” Mavis said and stepped back.
"I'll go get Lauren.” Connie headed up the staircase.
"I don't care who it is,” Lauren could be heard saying from the second-floor landing a moment later. “I'm drying my hair."
Connie returned. “Lauren will be down when she finishes drying her hair."
"Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Mavis offered.
The officer accepted, and was sitting at the dining table with the two older women when Lauren finally came downstairs almost twenty minutes later.
"Lauren Sawyer? I'm Officer Weber. I need to ask you some questions, and I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me to the police station."
"Are you arresting me?” she demanded.
"We can play it however you want to,” Weber answered, his voice no longer that of Officer Friendly. “I'd like you to come with me voluntarily to answer some questions. If you don't want to do that, I can arrest you and then you can answer our questions. It's your choice."
"Whatever,” Lauren said. “Can I at least get my purse and coat?"
"Yeah, but don't try anything cute,” Weber said.
Lauren glared at him and went back upstairs, returning moments later wearing a denim jacket and with a leather messenger bag slung crosswise on her body.
"Would you mind opening your bag so I can have a quick look?"
"What's going on?” Harriet said as she came down the stairs and joined the group now standing by the front door.
"What's it look like? Officer Weber here is hauling me to jail."
Weber looked at Harriet. “I'm taking Ms. Sawyer to the station to ask her a few questions, that's all."
"Harriet, come with me,” Lauren said in a tone that was somewhere between a plea and a command.
Harriet looked an inquiry at the cop. He looked at Lauren.
"If it means you'll come quietly, sure,” he told her
"Take notes in class,” Harriet said to Carla, who had now joined the party. She grabbed her coat and wallet and was out the door before Carla could respond.
Weber opened the passenger doors of his Jeep Cherokee, and both women got in. Lauren had climbed into the back seat, so Harriet had no choice but to ride shotgun.
"Can you catch me up, here, Officer Weber? Why are you taking Lauren in for questioning? What is she supposed to have done?"
"She'll be informed when we get to the station."
"Can you at least give us a ball park here? Did she run a red light? Forget to pay her taxes?"
Weber gave Harriet a “you've got to be kidding” look. “She's being questioned by the homicide detectives."
Lauren was so quiet, Harriet had to turn in her seat to look and see if she was okay. Her face was as white as alabaster, and for once she was dead silent.
The threesome rode the rest of the way with no further conversation. Officer Weber pulled to a stop in front of a low brick building then ushered them into a beige-painted lobby trimmed with orange circles inside brown triangles that screamed 1970.
"You can wait here,” he said to Harriet, and indicated a row of orange vinyl chairs. Before she could take a full step toward them, Lauren snaked out a cold hand and gripped her arm like a vise.
"I'm not talking to anyone unless Harriet comes along."
Ordinarily, Harriet would welcome the chance to avoid spending time with Lauren, but her curiosity overrode her aversion this time.
"Instead of me,” she said, and looked Officer Weber in the eye, “I think I should get Lauren's lawyer to meet us here."
"That won't be necessary. Just let me ask the detective. Wait here."
"Lauren, I wasn't kidding,” Harriet said as soon as Weber had gone through a door to the inner office. “You should call a lawyer right now. You don't have to answer any questions without a lawyer present."
"I don't need a lawyer, Harriet.” The edge had returned to Lauren's voice. She was nothing if not adaptable. “I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't done anything anyone needs to ask questions about. I'm the victim here. That crone at the school stole my design, and then one of her cohorts stole my quilt. I'm sure that's what they want to ask about."
"They don't use a homicide detective to ask questions about a stolen quilt. Besides, have you even reported it missing? Even if you have, the police don't spend time and money investigating petty theft. When my bike got stolen in Oakland, all I did was file a report."
"He just said that to scare me, and I'll admit, for a minute there, it worked. Do you think they have a homicide department in this backwater town? They probably only have one detective."
"You're wrong there, ma'am,” a well-built Hispanic man in a navy suit and red tie said. “Ms. Sawyer, I presume.” He held his hand out, but Lauren ignored it. “And you must be her friend Harriet.” Harriet took the proffered hand. “I'm Detective Ruiz."
"Lauren and I are in the same quilt group back in Foggy Point. We're staying in the same lodging at the Folk Art School. She asked me to come with her."
Lauren rolled her eyes skyward.
Harriet wasn't sure why the detective made her so nervous, besides the fact he was incredibly good-looking. She wasn't the one who was being questioned.
"Since this is an informal interview, I don't see any reason you can't join us. Why don't you two follow me back here."
He led them down a short hallway into a windowless beige room with a linoleum-topped steel table that had two chairs on each side of it.
"Have a seat.” He pointed to the ones on the far side of the table. “Can I get you some coffee or water?"
They declined, so he sat down opposite them.
"If you don't mind, I'll record our discussion.” He pulled a small recorder from his pocket and clicked it on. Harriet was pretty sure it wouldn't have mattered if they had minded.
Ruiz spoke a well-practiced identification into the recorder, noting who was present and what the date and time were.
"Ms. Sawyer-may I call you Lauren?” She nodded once, and he continued. “How long have you known Selestina Bainbridge?"
"Uh…” She stopped and cleared her throat. “I've been taking classes at the center for about a year."
Ruiz made a note on a pad he'd pulled from his pocket.
"Umm.” Lauren cleared her throat again. “Selestina became my advisor two months ago. Before that, I was taking prerequisites with other people. She gave the introductory talk before each class session, but I didn't speak to her then."
You're talking too much, Harriet thought. She stared at Lauren, but the other woman had her eyes firmly locked on the tabletop as she babbled on.
"It seems you've been quite vocal about Selestina Bainbridge recently,” Detective Ruiz commented.
Lauren blushed. Harriet shifted in her seat and kicked her under the table, hoping Ruiz didn't notice. Lauren scowled at her but, for once, she kept her mouth shut. Her compliance could only be an indication of how worried she was.
Detective Ruiz slipped a pair of black plastic-rimmed half-glasses out of his pocket and perched them on his ample nose. He looked over the lenses at Lauren.
"Selestina was my advisor,” she went on, “so of course I talked about her to my classmates. We all compared notes about our teachers."
"According to the other students, it was quite a bit more contentious than that."
"We may have expressed our creative differences in front of other people, but that's all there was to it.” Lauren looked so sincere Harriet almost believed her.
"Tom Bainbridge has reported to us that someone has been in his mother's office without permission and that many of her files are missing. Can you tell me anything about that?"
Lauren shook her head.
"Perhaps you would like to explain, then, how your fingerprints came to be all over the office of Selestina Bainbridge."
A young blond woman with a mouth full of metal braces opened the door and gestured to Detective Ruiz. He clicked the recorder off and pocketed it before following her out the door.
"Did you take the files from Selestina's office?” Harriet demanded as soon as the door was firmly shut.
"Technically, no.” Harriet glared at her. “I wasn't in her office when they were taken. That's the truth-I've only been in her office once, and that was when I first signed up for classes. You have to be interviewed by Selestina when you sign up for the two-year program. I had both hands firmly on my notebook the whole two hours while that windbag rattled on."
Harriet pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. “I'm calling Mavis.” She dialed the folk art school office and was transferred to the Tree House. “Mavis, thank heaven you're there,” she said when the older woman picked up. “Lauren needs an attorney.” She glared at Lauren. “They claim they found her fingerprints in Selestina's office, and that there are files missing… Lauren says it's impossible."
Mavis said for her to hold on a minute while she got Robin. She was gone before Harriet could ask why.
"Harriet?” Robin said when she picked up the phone. “I'm coming right over. Tell Lauren to keep her mouth shut. And I mean shut. You can tell them she's retained an attorney and that's all."
Robin was known in the Loose Threads for her talent at hand quilting, and anyone who talked to her for more than five minutes knew of her fervent belief that yoga was the answer to most problems one encountered in life. Clearly, she'd had another career before she'd become a yoga teacher and stay-at-home mom.
Harriet wondered briefly what other talents lay hidden within the Loose Threads.
Detective Ruiz returned some time later and sat down again. “Now, Lauren, I believe you were about to explain how your fingerprints ended up in Selestina's office."
"Lauren has been advised by her attorney that she should not answer any more questions at this time."
"What attorney? Are you telling me that all of a sudden you're an attorney?” He glared at Harriet. “Are you trying to pull a fast one? I only let you come in here because Miss Sawyer seemed upset. If this is how you thank me, you can go back out to the waiting room."
"I'm her friend, just like I said. We talked to her attorney, and she said not to say anything else and that she'd be here shortly."
"You do realize this is just an informal chat we're having here. Miss Sawyer isn't under arrest or anything.” His voice softened. “We could clear things up and have you out of here before lunch if you could just explain a few things.” He looked at Lauren. “I'm sure it's a simple misunderstanding."
The door to the small room opened without warning and Robin charged in.
"Are you arresting my client?” she asked Ruiz.
Harriet held her breath as he remained silent, pondering his options. The muscle in his jaw twitched, but finally, he shook his head.
"Come on, Lauren,” Robin said, and almost pulled Lauren out of her chair in her haste to hustle her new client out of the interrogation room. “Here's my card,” she said as she pulled an ivory card from her purse and handed it to Detective Ruiz.
"You better give me a dollar,” Robin said when they were out of the building. “Call it a retainer. If you do get arrested you can decide then who you want to represent you, but in the meantime, that will make you my client and prevent the police from being able to question me."
"You're an attorney?” Harriet asked, her amazement clear in her voice.
"Yeah, well, we all have our tawdry little secrets. I haven't really practiced since before my first baby was born, but I've kept my license and stayed current on law, just in case…” She looked at Lauren. “…my friends need something.” She looked at the black plastic sports watch on her wrist. “It's quarter to ten. If we hustle, we can get back to class before coffee break is over."
"Actually, if you don't mind, could you drop me off on Eighth Street?"
Robin pulled to the curb but put her hand on Harriet's arm, stopping her from getting out. She looked at Lauren while she spoke.
"Both of you listen carefully. I only want to say this once.” This new Robin was nothing like her carefree, yoga-teaching alter ego, but Harriet found her strangely fascinating. “Number one, this is not over. Until they have someone convicted and on their way to prison, it will not be over. Number two, because of number one, keep your mouth shut. Don't complain about anyone or anything. Lauren, I know that means a major personality transplant, but you have no choice. This is a small town. If they can't find the real person who killed Selestina, they could very well make you the scapegoat. People have gone to prison based on less evidence.” She looked at Harriet. “And number three, leave this to the professionals. No snooping, no sneaking around, no confronting people. Nothing. This is strictly a defensive game. Let the police catch the killer.” She looked at Lauren again. “And let your legal counsel protect you. Understood?"
Lauren grumbled a yes, and Harriet nodded as she opened the car door.
"Okay, I'm going back to class. Call if you want me to pick you up at lunch break."
Robin pulled away from the curb and out into traffic. Since traffic in Angel Harbor consisted of one car and a mail truck, Harriet waited until the car had disappeared down the block before she walked the rest of the way to Helen's House. There was no real reason for her to conceal her destination, but after Robin's warning, she was feeling paranoid.
"Hey,” Aiden said, opening the door before Harriet could knock. He pulled her into a crushing embrace. “I cried myself to sleep last night, I missed you so much."
She pushed him away, but not until his hug softened and he'd kissed her. “You're a liar,” she said. “I happen to know Helen planned on waking you every two hours all night just to be sure you were okay. She told me before I left last night."
"She was a regular Florence Nightingale.” Aiden stretched his left arm in a circle, his right hand on his left shoulder. “My head hurt so much last night, I didn't even notice my shoulder."
"Let me see.” She pulled the sleeve of his T-shirt up. “You have a nasty bruise at the top of it. It probably hit the window when your truck rolled."
"A lesser person would be in the hospital, but I think I'll make it. Did you have a chance to check out that thing I asked you about?"
"If you mean the Explorer-"
He put his hand over her mouth.
"Don't say it,” he said. “Until we know what's going on, we have to be careful. Don't use names."
"Oookay. I checked out that… thing… and I did find… something, but I'm not sure it tells us much.” She didn't plan on mentioning Tom's name until she knew more. The last thing she needed was a wounded Aiden confronting a Tom who had not only run him off the road but quite possibly was a murderer.
"By the way,” Aiden said, and grabbed her hand, pulling her to him again. “Why is it that when my mother was killed I was the number-one suspect on everybody's list, but this woman's son you go to the pottery show and dinner with?"
Harriet coughed to conceal the small gasp that had escaped her lips. Had he read her mind?
"If you'll recall,” she said, “I went to dinner with Tom before his mother died. And furthermore, if you remember, I went to dinner with you, buddy boy-and more than once-while you were a suspect."
"Well, I don't like the idea of you dating a potential axe murderer.” He put his finger under her chin and turned her face to his. “I'm not kidding. Until we know what's going on here, you need to be careful. I can't keep my eye on you all the time, so you need to be cautious. Stay away from Tom Bainbridge and all the other crazies at that school. Stick with Mavis and the Threads."
"Hey, Aiden, you ready to go?” said a slender sandy-haired man dressed in khakis and a blue Angel Harbor Spay and Neuter Clinic T-shirt. He had entered the hall from the staircase, pulling on a navy-blue fleece jacket as he came.
Aiden turned to Harriet. “Jim and I are going to the hospital to check on Cammi and see if we can do anything for Dr. Johnson.” He turned back to the other man. “Hang on while I get my coat."
"I'm Jim Park,” the sandy-haired man said, extending his hand.
"Harriet Truman,” she said, meeting it with her own. His hand was warm and his grip firm but not unpleasantly so.
"That must have been tough growing up,” he said. “Are your parents politicians?"
"No, we're relatives. To the former president,” she added.
She hated having to explain her parent's naming choice. Her parents were international scientists, currently residing in the Far East, if the latest news magazines were accurate. She'd spent her youth bouncing between boarding schools across Europe and Aunt Beth's house in Foggy Point. Her dad had explained to her when she was six that her name was intended to inspire her to greatness.
"Aiden was really lucky,” Jim said, interrupting her journey through self pity. “Or maybe I should say Cammi was unlucky. That was a big rock outcrop the truck hit as it rolled down the embankment. It was her bad luck the passenger side was down when they hit bedrock. If they'd made it a few more yards down the road before they skidded off, they would have missed the outcrop completely."
"Do you really think he could have slid off the road? It was raining pretty hard yesterday."
"I doubt it. It wasn't that wet at the time. Besides, Aiden told the police someone had sideswiped him. I drove over to the hospital when I heard about the accident, and they were questioning him. When Aiden pushed them, they did say there wasn't anything that would contradict his version of the event. They just didn't think it was the kind of thing that would occur in daylight on a relatively busy road.” He shook his head. “It's just hard to say, one way or the other. The police are right that people often don't remember events clearly that happened right before they hit their heads. We'll probably never know."
I know, Harriet thought. And Tom's car had the scrape to prove it.
Aiden came back downstairs, and the two men left. They offered her a ride back to the Folk Art Center, but she declined. She needed to think. Maybe the walk back would help her clear her head. Thankfully, it wasn't raining.
Eighth Street was paved, but Helen's block was the last one with sidewalks. Harriet had to focus her attention on her feet as she walked along the gravel road edge until she reached a pedestrian path that skirted the woods on her right and was a safe thirty feet from the traffic on her left. She picked up her pace, going over the events of the last few days in her mind as she went.
She started with Lauren's situation, trying to list what she knew for sure. She realized quickly that if she questioned everything Lauren had said all she knew for sure was that Lauren's quilt was no longer on display and Lauren had been questioned about the death of Selestina Bainbridge, her advisor and the owner of the Angel Harbor Folk Art School. She had also learned that Lauren's brother was a janitor at the school, and she had seen Lauren going into her brother's apartment building at night. Her brother had been carrying an armload of papers, which may have come from Selestina's office. Harriet wasn't sure if the search of her own room was related or not. She hoped it hadn't been Lauren, but she couldn't be sure.
If she included information she thought was true, she could add the fact that Selestina seemed to have made a quilt that was a copy of Lauren's and then hung that quilt at a show in England.
With regard to facts related to Selestina, Harriet knew the woman was dead; everything else was speculation. It appeared Selestina's son was preparing to sell at least part of the Angel Harbor Folk Art School property. What Harriet didn't know is if he was doing that for Selestina or in spite of her. As for enemies, it seemed that to know Selestina was to hate her; the field was wide open. DeAnn had publicly stood up to Selestina, and Carla had cowered under her wrath, and that was just among the Loose Threads. Most of the students Harriet had spoken to during coffee breaks and meals had similar stories about Selestina.
Added to the list of unknowns was Aiden's accident. He clearly believed one of the black Ford Explorers from the school had run him off the road. The damage to the vehicle that sported the “TomTom” vanity plate seemed to support his theory, but why would Tom want to harm Aiden? Could Cammi have been the intended target? Tom hadn't seemed to recognize Cammi at the pottery exhibition. It made no sense.
She looked up, and was surprised to realize she was nearing the drive to the school. She looked at her watch. Good, it was lunch-time.