The Hen of the Baskervilles(8)

In the last side aisle, on the right, I saw a small knot of people, including Mother, gathered around a gaunt, angular woman in faded jeans and a bright turquoise t-shirt. The woman looked ashen, and a couple of tears were slowly making their way down her cheeks. Two of the women were hugging her, one from each side, while Mother was holding both of her hands and patting them as if to soothe her.

“Courage, Rosalie,” Mother said. “Here’s Meg now. We’ll see what can be done about this.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked. I was glancing around to see if any of the nearby quilts had been damaged. They all looked fine. But we were standing near a big, empty space. Not the only empty space in the room—quilters weren’t required to have their entries hung until this afternoon. Still, not a good sign.

“Someone took it.” Rosalie’s voice was thin and quavering. “My beautiful Baltimore Album quilt.”

I pulled out my cell phone and called Vern.

“Vern, we need someone over here ASAP,” I said. “Someone has stolen a quilt from the arts and crafts building.”

“Dammit,” Vern said. “Not another one. I’ll be right over. And yes, I’ll send Horace when he’s finished with everything else.”

“And Dad,” I added. “We might need Dad.”

I saw Mother nodding approvingly.

“He took the Baskervilles down to the hospital,” Vern said.

“Baskervilles? That’s the chicken people, then?” The name didn’t sound right to me.

“Mr. and Mrs. B,” Vern said. “Whatever their name is. But Aida’s got EMT training. I’ll ask her to come over to check out the quilt lady.”

“The police are on their way,” I told Rosalie, in my softest voice. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I came in to make sure it was hanging properly,” she said. “And to make sure they fixed the lights so it would show well. And it was gone.”

She closed her eyes and seemed to shrink slightly, as if she wanted to curl up in a fetal position. The women at her side kept a tight hold.

I glanced around. Rosalie’s slot was in the back corner of the barn. The rear entrance was hidden behind the last set of quilt frames, but it was there, and her quilt was about as close to the back door as you could get. Our sneak thief and vandal definitely had a pattern.

“What kind of quilt was it?” I asked Mother.

“A Baltimore Album, as Rosalie said.” Mother seemed to think that explained everything. Maybe it did to a quilter. And fortunately, one of the women hovering around her recognized my look of puzzlement and enlightened me.

“Not a quilter, I take it,” she said. “Baltimore Album is a particular style of quilt, usually done with a white background and a design, often quite elaborate, appliquéd on. I can show you an example.”

She led me a little farther down the aisle and pointed to a quilt. It was beautiful, intricate, and to my untutored eye, looked like a great deal more work than the average quilt.

“Of course Rosalie’s was larger—full size, I think—and much, much more complicated. She’s won national ribbons.”

“It had a pink dogwood theme,” Rosalie sobbed from her place near the empty frame.

“I think I remember it,” I said. “From my inspection last night.”

In fact, I didn’t just remember it, I remembered coveting it.

I pulled out my phone and clicked through the pictures on it until I came to several I’d taken last night. One was of the whole quilt, with branches and pink dogwood blossoms twining in a complex pattern, and the other was a close-up that showed how detailed and intricate each of the hundreds of appliquéd blossoms was.

“Is this it?” I asked.

Rosalie glanced up, nodded, and then burst into tears. Okay, apparently our thief shared my taste in quilts.

Vern arrived, bringing with him Aida Butler, the deputy with EMT training. Someone bustled up with a folding wooden chair and sat Rosalie down in it. Aida took Rosalie’s pulse while Vern squatted down and took over the hand-patting where Mother had left off.

Mother gripped Rosalie’s shoulder and murmured something in her ear. I could see Rosalie sit up straighter and raise her chin, as if to show a brave face to the world.

Mother glided over to join me and the other volunteer.

“I doubt if this would make Rosalie feel any better,” I said. “But she’s not the only victim.” I explained about the chickens and the pumpkins.

“Shocking.” Mother shook her head sadly.

The volunteer murmured her agreement. Seeing Mother’s tightly pursed lips and narrowed eyes, I indulged in a brief fantasy of finding the thief and turning him over to Mother. Mother and the assembled quilting ladies.