Chapter Thirteen
Harriet fell silent. Mavis pulled out a small bag of hand-stitching from the pocket of her coat and busied herself sewing small pre-cut pink squares to green fabric triangles.
She broke the silence when she finished the block. “Did you have a chance to look at the other entries?"
"No, I didn't. By the time we got everything repaired and cleaned up, there wasn't time to do anything but put them in their carry bags and pack them in boxes."
"Your aunt and I usually hang the Loose Thread quilts once they check them in. They have people available, but they don't mind having the help. One year your aunt's quilt was hung upside down, and Betty Swearingen's ended up with a permanent hole in the corner another time. We just took to hanging them ourselves. We should be in the back by the concession stand this year. This show has a popular vote award along with the judged categories, so, to be fair, they try to rotate who gets the front spot among the group entries."
Quilt shows could vary quite a bit. Some were held in actual exhibit halls that had some level of accommodation for the display of goods. Others were held in churches, libraries, granges and other less than ideal locales. Bigger shows had business entities that managed all aspects of the event, from judging to food service. The Tacoma show, like most regional shows, was run by the local guild, which meant the administration and the judging panel varied from year to year, making it a much debated event both before and after the ribbons were awarded.
Harriet followed the hand-drawn map Aunt Beth had left her to the X that marked the exhibit hall. It was a large cement block building painted pale green. She pulled into a spot by a side door marked “deliveries only."
Mavis pulled a collapsed wire cart from the back of the car and popped its sides into the open and locked position. Harriet loaded the first group of quilts and wheeled them into the exhibit hall. Mavis brought the paperwork.
A tall blond woman in a blue denim jumper over a pale yellow T-shirt greeted them. An embroidered name patch claimed her name was Jeri, and Harriet had no reason to doubt it.
Jeri looked at the entry forms Mavis handed her.
"Okay, let me see.” She ran her finger down a list of names on the clipboard she was holding. “You have eight entries in The Loose Threads group exhibit and four in the individual category."
"Wait a minute,” Harriet said. “That should be nine in the group and three individual entries."
"No, one of your group called this morning and asked to have her quilt hung at the front of the hall. I told her we couldn't shuffle the group entry positions. She told me her entry was going to be a contender for best of show and asked what she had to do to get it hung at the front entrance, and I told her that if she entered it in the individual category she could have the spot at the side of the front entry. She asked to have that change made.” She shrugged. “She seemed pretty determined."
"Let me guess who,” Harriet said.
"Lauren Sawyer?” Mavis suggested.
"I believe that's right,” Jeri said, and found the name on her list. “Yes, Lauren Sawyer.” She handed Mavis a printed list with the locations for each of the individual entries and the area for the group exhibit.
"Let's put the group quilts up first. Then we can deal with the award winner,” Mavis said.
Harriet agreed, and they spent the next two hours arranging the Loose Threads exhibit so that each person's work complemented the one next to it. Avanell's distinctive piece was at the center of the display.
"Why don't we put up these last four and then come back to the group display and see if we still like it?” Harriet said.
"Good idea.” Mavis picked up two of the bagged quilts and handed her the other two. “Let's do Lauren's last."
The first three displays were straightforward, and finally, they had only Lauren's left. Mavis pulled it out of its pillowcase and handed two corners to Harriet. She took the other two corners, and they opened the quilt.
"Oh, my gosh,” Harriet said. “Is she delusional?"
The quilt top featured cats in various poses. The problem was, other than color, they bore the distinctive look of Kathy the Kurious Kitty. Kathy was the signature character in a children's book series by Su Kim.
"Does she really think changing the color makes the design hers?"
"Apparently,” Mavis said. “We tried to tell her, but all she did was change the eye shape slightly. I'm surprised her publisher is willing to print them."
"Kathy the Kurious Kitty isn't as well known as Mickey Mouse or Snoopy, but jeez, she's in, like, fourteen books. That's got to count for something."
"Even if the cats were her original design, I have a hard time believing the judges would choose this quilt for best in show or, for that matter, would make it a winner in any category. It's sort of like how the Oscars never go to a comedy or children's movie.” Mavis shook her head. “She just doesn't get it. Are you up for some lunch before we go back?"
"That sounds good,” Harriet said. “I heard two women from the Seattle Stitchers talking about a place called The Tea Leaf. They seemed to think it has the best Chinese food in Tacoma."
"Well, let's go find it."
It was after three when Harriet pulled into the parking lot of the Vitamin Factory. Yellow crime scene tape flapped in the late-afternoon breeze. A lone Foggy Point police car sat in the visitor's parking lot.
"You go home, curl up with a good book and a cup of tea,” Mavis said. “And try not to think about this."
Harriet waited until Mavis was in her own car and had started it before pulling out of the parking lot.
Fred was waiting in the kitchen when she came into the house and put her keys and purse on the counter.
"Anyone call while I was gone?” she asked him.
He walked to his dish and sat. She picked up the phone and dialed in the retrieval code then cradled the handset between her ear and shoulder so she could fill his food dish as she listened.
There were two messages that began, “This is not a solicitation.” Anything that began with that disclaimer was sure to be a sales call. Harriet double-clicked the three button to skip to the end then erased them, unheard.
The third message was Aunt Beth.
"Just wanted to let you know I made it to England and spent two glorious days with your cousin Heather, and now she is about to drive me to the ship to begin the cruise. I know things are going well for you. I'll call again when we are under way. Love you, baby."
Why did Aunt Beth have to be so far away? Harriet wanted to scream into the phone. Things weren't going well at all. She'd let someone break into the studio, and then found Aunt Beth's best friend dead.
She was still thinking about Aunt Beth and was halfway through a message from Marjory Swain before she realized it. She replayed the message. According to Marjory, a group of women met at Pins and Needles once a month to stitch quilts for charity. Fabric suppliers donated bolts of fabric for local women to make into baby quilts that were then distributed to several agencies that worked with teen mothers. Over time, the project had evolved into a quilting group for unwed mothers. Apparently, Aunt Beth did the machine stitching for the young women and, in fact, had a collection of their work that was supposed to have been delivered to Marjory for tonight's meeting.
"I know you've had a rough time, what with the break-in and Avanell and all,” she said, “but these girls are coming tonight to bind their baby blankets, and they are all so fragile. I hate to postpone it."
Harriet groaned. Last night everyone was concentrating on getting the show pieces ready for delivery. No attempt was made to sort out the rest.
"Come on, Fred,” she said. “We've got work to do."