1 Forget Me Knot by Mary Marks

providing dappled shade in the summer. Their roots had broken the sidewalks, raising the concrete like so many playing cards. Our street was on the list for sidewalk repair, but in this economy, work wasn’t scheduled to begin for another fifty years.
    I pulled into my driveway and a wave of fatigue washed over me. I took the quilts into the house and dumped them on the ivory chenille sofa in my living room. Beyond the living room was an open plan kitchen and dining area that made the house feel more spacious. I plopped down on the sofa and closed my eyes. It was only seven o’clock, but felt like midnight, and my emotional fuse was about to blow.
    I opened my eyes. The living area soothed me with its neutral colors ranging from cream to taupe. I loved the way the white gauzy curtains dressed the windows. Watercolor paintings of blue and orange beach scenes added spots of color, as did the blue and orange pillows and area rug. This was a cozy space where a person could put up her feet—totally the opposite of Siobhan Terry’s vast and formal living room.
    I hadn’t lied to Siobhan. Claire really had looked like she’d just fallen asleep on the floor. You’d think a murder scene would look a lot messier. Then there was the matter of the blood on her hands. How could someone who was drugged end up with blood on her hands?
    I touched a pillowcase, curious to see the other quilts, but decided to wait until after I ate something. I nuked some macaroni and cheese and sliced some Persian cucumbers and sprinkled them with rice vinegar, salt, and pepper. Just five hours ago I’d eaten cucumber sandwiches with Claire Terry’s mother.
    I ran my hand appreciatively over the new apricot-colored marble counters. They looked as pristine as the day they were installed a year ago, and the stainless steel oven was still shiny inside. Only the microwave seemed to get a daily workout. I really needed to get my act together and cook healthier meals. I used to be a fabulous cook for my daughter and husband. That was then. Now, cooking for one hardly seemed worth the effort.
    As I ate, I was intrigued by the idea of hidden messages. The thought of the thief coming after the quilts, however, was scary. Especially if the thief was Claire’s murderer.
    Cleaning up after this meal meant putting a few utensils in the dishwasher and the plastic container in the recycle bin. I dried my hands on a towel and the phone rang.
    “Miss Rose?” The voice was urbane and male. “This is Will Terry, Claire’s father. I want to thank you for visiting my wife today. I’m sorry I wasn’t at home to greet you.”
    “Oh, Mr. Terry, I’m so sorry about your daughter. Her death is a real tragedy.”
    “Yes. A parent should never outlive a child.” He cleared his throat. “I understand my wife has involved you in a wild goose chase.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Siobhan believes our daughter left some mysterious messages in her quilts. My wife is desperately trying to make some sense out of Claire’s death. When she finds out there are no messages in the quilts, she might go off the deep end. She’s already hinting about organizing a séance.”
    “Well, I’m not so sure, Mr. Terry. Your wife may be right about those messages.”
    “I doubt it. You see, my wife is so fragile now, I’m afraid if you can’t come up with what she wants, she might have a complete breakdown.”
    “What if there are messages, Mr. Terry? Wouldn’t you want to know?”
    “Of course I would. What we have here is a double-edged sword, Miss Rose. As long as you have the quilts—and they are in your possession?”
    “Yes.”
    “As long as you have them, my wife is going to harbor great expectations. On the other hand, the higher her hopes, the harder she’ll fall in the end if you find nothing. I’ve already lost my only child. I don’t want to lose my wife, too.”
    “Yes, I see what you mean. Nevertheless, she seems to really be counting on me, and I’d like