Patchwork Quilt Murder

Book 30: Lucy Stone Mystery

by Leslie Meier

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

During a heatwave in Tinker’s Cove, Maine, part-time reporter Lucy Stone becomes unseasonably entangled in handmade quilts—and a twisted case of murder . . .  

When a community center opens in town, many embrace it as a space where locals of all ages can gather and create. Others view it as a waste of taxpayer dollars. The director, Darleen Busby-Platt, is no less controversial. Intense and showy, Darleen has huge plans for her new role. But Lucy believes the woman isn’t exactly as warm hearted—or qualified—as she seems. That hunch deepens when Darleen and a young employee vanish . . . and dismembered remains appear!

With lots of clues and few concrete answers, Lucy rushes to connect loose ends. First there’s the disappearance of Tim Stillings, a troubled twenty-something who endured harsh treatment on the job. Next there’s Darleen herself, who made fast enemies as the highest-paid resident in Tinker’s Cove. Finally, there’s Darleen’s rich ancestry and ties to heirlooms worth either a fortune or nothing at all.

The closer Lucy gets to the facts, the more she realizes that solving this murder depends on the lies. Because the truth rests somewhere between wild rumors, a trusted friend’s emotional new sewing project, and the authenticity of a mysterious three-hundred-year-old patchwork quilt. And Lucy must piece together the big picture—before she becomes part of crafty killer’s deadly design . . .

Release date: April 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“How is Tim doing?”

The question hung in the heavy air as a ruby-throated hummingbird zeroed in on a pot of red nasturtiums perched on Rachel Goodman’s porch railing. Wings a blur, the tiny bird hovered momentarily above the flowers, sampled a few, and then zoomed away.

“They’re miraculous, aren’t they?” observed Lucy Stone, who was enjoying a morning off from her job as reporter and feature writer for the weekly Courier newspaper in Tinker’s Cove, Maine.

“Where do they get the energy?” wondered Sue Finch, who was reclining on a brightly cushioned wicker chaise, her trim ankles neatly crossed. Sue adored everything French and was wearing a black-and-white-striped fisherman’s jersey, Nantucket red shorts, and black espadrilles.

“Especially in this heat,” offered Pam Stillings, fanning herself with today’s issue of the Courier, the weekly paper that she owned with her husband Ted, who was editor, publisher, chief reporter, and Lucy’s boss. Pam had been a cheerleader in high school and had retained her ponytail and her high spirits into adulthood, but lately she’d been worried about her adult son Tim, who had given her a terrible scare when he’d nearly died in what appeared to be a failed suicide attempt.

The four friends had gathered on Rachel’s porch in lieu of their usual gathering spot, Jake’s Donut Shack. The Shack, as it was known in Tinker’s Cove, was not air-conditioned, so the friends had eagerly accepted Rachel’s offer of iced coffee and blueberry muffins on her shady porch, which was filled with cushioned wicker furniture. Not that the shade really offered much relief from this August heat wave that had settled on the entire Northeast.

“Not even a sea breeze,” complained Sue.

“We’re getting off the track here,” complained Rachel, who had majored in psychology and never got over it. “I want to know how Tim’s recovery is going.”

The four friends had been gathering for breakfast on Thursday mornings for years, ever since they realized how much they missed meeting each other at school and sporting events after their kids had all flown their nests. But now one of the fledglings had returned home. Pam’s son, Tim, had seemed, like the other kids, to have a bright future when he graduated from Tinker’s Cove High School. He majored in art history at the University of Maine, moved on to Yale for his master’s, and snagged a great job as a junior curator at the Farnsworth Museum in Rockland, Maine. He was soon promoted to curator of special exhibits and seemed to be embarking on a brilliant career. And Rockland was a great little city for a young man starting out, with a vibrant arts scene, great shops and restaurants, and a bustling seaport.

But something had gone very wrong for Tim, who was found floating, unconscious and near death, off Rockland’s big stone jetty on a cool June night. At first, it was thought he had slipped into the chilly water accidentally, but he later admitted to first responders that he had been deeply depressed and had attempted to drown himself. His parents, Pam and Ted, were notified and rushed to Rockland, where they discovered that mental-health facilities were sorely lacking. Tim was given medications to control his depression, but the hospital psychiatrist warned his parents that he should not be left alone. So Tim took a leave from his job at the museum and returned to Tinker’s Cove, under the care of his parents. Pam spent days on the phone looking for treatment options but only managed to arrange weekly sessions with a therapist-led support group.

Tim had now been back home for almost two months, during which he had been a constant source of anxiety to his parents and their friends. So Rachel’s question hung in the air as all three mothers waited to learn how Tim was doing.

Pam smiled. “I think we’re finally making some progress,” she said. “He’s got a job.”

“That’s great!” enthused Lucy. Sue chimed right in, exclaiming, “Fabulous!” Even Rachel approved, saying, “That’s a real sign of progress.”

“It’s not a great job,” continued Pam. “It’s part-time, at the new community center.”

“Is he the new director?” asked Lucy, who covered the various committees that governed Tinker’s Cove under the watchful eyes of the citizens. She knew the Personnel Committee had concluded their search and were about to announce their choice at tonight’s meeting.

“He’s not going to be the director,” said Pam, shaking her head. “He’s going to be the janitor.”

There was a pause, as the women considered this unexpected turn of events, finally broken by Sue. “What happened to his job at the Farnsworth?” she asked.

“They said they couldn’t hold it any longer,” said Pam. “And he didn’t want it anymore, didn’t want to go back. Didn’t think he could handle it.”

“Baby steps,” said Lucy, in an encouraging tone. “He needs to go slow, feel his way. This is probably a good job for him now.”

“Right,” added Rachel. “It’s an important step in his recovery. He’ll gain confidence; he’ll be working with other people; he’ll even earn some money and become more independent.”

Pam was having none of it. “He has a master’s degree from Yale; he was a curator at a top museum; and now he’s mopping floors and emptying the trash.” She picked at her muffin. “I don’t know, it’s as if he thinks he doesn’t deserve a better job, like he’s punishing himself for . . .” She abandoned the muffin and waved her hand in a gesture of surrender. “I don’t know what’s going on in that head of his. I know he’s suffering, and I don’t know why.” She raised her head. “But I do know that my son is too talented, too smart, to be a janitor.”

Rachel reached out and patted her hand. “I think you have to let him decide what he needs.”

“There’s no shame in an honest job,” said Sue, surprising them all. Sue, who only wore designer labels and treasured her status handbags, was all of a sudden defending the proletariat. “A job is what you make it, and I bet Tim will be a terrific, top-notch janitor!”

“Somehow I’m not finding that thought encouraging,” said Pam. “Not at all.”

A few days later, Lucy went to the brand-new community center to interview the woman who had got the job of director and to gather information so she could write a preview of the upcoming grand opening. The heat wave had continued unabated, and the spindly new baby trees didn’t offer any shade in the oversized parking lot that surrounded the new building, a modernistic creation of steel and glass that glittered in the sun. The humidity was oppressive as she forged her way across the hot asphalt parking lot, and she felt like a steamed dumpling when she stepped inside, where she was greeted with a surge of refreshing cool air.

Feeling slightly guilty, aware that the air-conditioning, which offered relief from climbing temperatures, was actually contributing to global warming, she nevertheless enjoyed the cooling sensation. She could practically feel the perspiration evaporating from her skin as she took in the gleaming lobby, where a colorful mosaic mural greeted all who entered with the word WELCOME in various languages. A sign with extra-large, ADA-approved letters gave directions to the various facilities, which she knew included a gym, meeting rooms, and offices for the town’s Council on Aging and its Recreation Department. There was no sign of Tim, but she was greeted enthusiastically by the director, Darleen Busby-Pratt, who had clearly been on the lookout for her arrival and came bustling into the lobby.

“Welcome! Welcome to our beautiful new community center!” exclaimed Darleen, who was a very tall and slightly plump middle-aged woman with rather obviously dyed hair and a carefully powdered face. She’d used lip liner with her lipstick, and it gave her mouth a rather harsh appearance, in line with the stenciled arches that served as her eyebrows. Lucy found her perfume a bit overwhelming but noted she had adopted the coastal-casual look favored in Tinker’s Cove and was wearing blue-and-white-checked pedal pushers, tan boat shoes, and a light blue polo shirt. Plenty of heavy gold jewelry in the form of chains and bangles was a somewhat unusual addition, not quite appropriate to the sporty outfit. “You must be Lucy, from the paper! I’ve been expecting you!”

“Thanks for meeting with me,” said Lucy, which was how she usually began interviews. “How are you finding Tinker’s Cove?” she asked, opening her notebook. “Are you settling in?”

“Oh, it’s a homecoming for me,” said Darleen, with a big smile that revealed rather too perfect teeth. Implants or dentures? wondered Lucy. “I grew up here, you know. In fact, I applied for this job so I could be closer to my mother. She doesn’t really need a great deal of care, not yet, but she’s not getting any younger and . . .”

“Do I know her?” interrupted Lucy, raising her pen.

“Millicent Busby. She’s in the old homestead over on Aunt Lydia’s Path.”

“Oh, yes. I think she’s friends with Miss Tilley?”

“Ah, yes.” Darleen was beaming. “They’re quite close. My mother is actually allowed to call her by her first name.”

Lucy was impressed. She knew that Miss Julia Ward Howe Tilley only allowed her nearest and dearest to use her first name. Lucy had enjoyed a long friendship with Miss Tilley and suspected she might be among that group but wasn’t about to test the theory. She’d noticed that, even though Darleen had an impeccable pedigree as the daughter of a local notable, she hadn’t claimed that special relationship with Miss Tilley. Somewhat ashamed that she found that thought comforting, Lucy suggested a tour of the new building, which she knew had been quite controversial. While the center had its supporters, not everyone in town saw the need for a community center, especially not one that cost millions of taxpayer dollars.

“Of course,” agreed Darleen. “This is a building the community can be very proud of. It serves the needs of all age groups, from moms and babies’ playgroups all the way on up to the lunch program for seniors.”

“And it’s air-conditioned,” offered Lucy, “which is quite a relief considering this heat wave we’re having.”

“Exactly,” agreed Darleen, leading the way down the hall to the gym. “I believe the Council on Aging is planning to open a cooling center so seniors can get some relief. It’s a well-known fact that, as we age, our ability to regulate our temperature declines. Heat stroke is a real danger for seniors. But first,” she pulled open one of a pair of heavy doors, “this is our gym!”

Lucy stepped inside and discovered that gyms hadn’t changed much since her college days, being composed of cinder-block walls, wood floors, and retractable bleachers. “And what sort of activities will take place here?”

“Quite a variety. Basketball, yoga, Jazzercise, to mention a few. And the space can also be used for community events like art exhibits and antiques sales—all kinds of things. Community organizations only have to ask and we’ll find space on the calendar, which is already filling up, I might add. In fact”—Darleen paused for emphasis—“we’re going to have a quilt show in this very space as part of the grand opening.”

“A quilt show . . .” Lucy was busily scribbling this down. “Sewn by local crafters?”

“Indeed. And it will feature a rare Civil War quilt actually sewn by Tinker’s Cove women as part of a national effort to provide comfort for wounded Union soldiers. Imagine that! It’s over a hundred and fifty years old!”

In spite of herself, Lucy was impressed. Darleen seemed to be starting off with a bang, and she was eager to hear what she had planned for the rest of the center. Apparently able to read her mind, Darleen led the way to the door. “But there’s lots more to see,” she said, continuing the tour.

Lucy followed along, viewing meeting rooms intended for various community groups, such as scouts and social clubs; a large multipurpose room set up with tables for the senior lunch program; the well-equipped commercial-grade kitchen that would serve the lunch program as well as fundraisers like Saturday night frank-and-bean dinners; and offices for town departments squeezed out of the crowded town hall. “This is my office,” said Darleen, indicating an open door. Peeking inside, Lucy saw standard-issue office furniture, but no personal touches except a rather sad African violet on the windowsill.

Lucy gave her a knowing smile. “I see you have an open-door policy?”

“Absolutely!” declared Darleen. “You can write that in capital letters. I know this center is a big investment for the town, and I want everyone to know that they are welcome here. I hope everyone will come to the grand opening, and that they will continue to come and enjoy all the amazing programs our wonderful community center has to offer.” She leaned forward. “Did you get all that down?”

Lucy chuckled. “I did. And I must say, I think you’re off to a great start.”

Darleen exhaled and spoke in a low voice. “I hope so. I know there’s been controversy; not everyone is on board, but I’m going to do my best to win them over. This center is a good thing for Tinker’s Cove.”

“Well, thanks for your time,” said Lucy, checking her watch and discovering she was late for a planning committee meeting. “I’ve got to run . . . is there a restroom I can use?”

“Of course. Just down the hall.”

“Thanks again,” said Lucy, wasting no time to deal with what had become a matter of urgency.

Accustomed as she was to the cramped and makeshift facilities in most town buildings—rust-stained sinks and toilets with handwritten signs that instructed users to jiggle the handle—Lucy was dazzled by the modern ladies’ room. The light turned on automatically as she entered; she was greeted with a generous row of stalls, including one designated as handicapped, and was startled when she rose from the commode and it flushed automatically. The sinks on the opposing wall, arrayed beneath a huge mirror, all had soap dispensers and faucets that turned on with a wave of the hand, as did the paper-towel dispenser. She knew such restrooms existed, of course she did, but this was definitely a first for a municipal building in Tinker’s Cove, and she couldn’t help being impressed. As far as she was concerned, the restroom alone was well worth the million-dollar-plus price tag.

Enjoying the air-conditioning and reluctant to leave, she took a moment to pause at the glass doors, where she studied the heat waves shimmering above the asphalt in the parking lot. She decided she really needed to get a move on, and as she was pushing the exit bar on the door, a familiar voice caught her attention. It was Darleen, but her tone had definitely changed. Now she was speaking in a strident tone, scolding someone.

Lucy turned and was shocked to see that someone was Tim Stillings, dressed in a navy-blue uniform and equipped with a rolling bucket and a mop. She was about to greet him, but Darleen spoke first, waggling a finger in Tim’s face.

“About time you showed up! You’re late!”

“I wasn’t late,” mumbled Tim, taking a step backward. “I was on time, but I saw some litter in the parking lot and picked it up.”

Darleen was waving a cardboard time card. “According to the time card, you’re not here at all. You haven’t even punched in.”

Tim was studying the floor, which didn’t seem in need of mopping. “Like I said, I picked up the papers and stuff in the parking lot.”

“Well, you’re not going to get paid for that, because you haven’t clocked in.”

Tim shrugged. “That’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. First thing, when you get here, you clock in. That’s how you get paid. Haven’t you ever had a job?”

“Not one where I had to clock in,” admitted Tim. “This is only my second day. I’ll try to remember.”

“You do that. And I expect to see this floor polished to a shine. We’ve got a grand opening coming up this weekend, you know.”

“Uh, where exactly is this time clock punch-in thing?”

Exasperated, Darleen shook her head. “Didn’t they show you when they hired you?”

Tim brushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes. “Nope.”

“Well, follow me,” she ordered, stomping off.

“Sieg heil,” muttered Tim, which did not go unnoticed by Darleen. She whirled about, her face bright red, and screamed at him.

“You better watch your mouth! You can’t talk to me like that! I’m in charge here, and I expect an apology!”

“Uh, sorry,” said Tim, once again staring at the floor. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“You better watch your step, young man, or you won’t be doing any stepping around here!” Darleen turned on her heel and marched off in the direction of her office, leaving Tim standing in the lobby. Noticing Lucy, he smiled at her. “Hi, Mrs. Stone.”

“Hi, Tim. Everything okay?”

He shrugged. “I guess so. I still don’t know where that time-clock thing is.”

“Is there a break room or a locker room?”

He brightened. “Yeah.”

“I bet it’s there,” said Lucy, who knew only too well she was running late herself. “I gotta go; I’m supposed to be covering a meeting.” She gave him a smile. “Have a nice day.”

“Sure,” he said, ambling off. But as she watched him make his leisurely way across the lobby, she wondered if this job was going to work out. And he wasn’t the only employee who didn’t seem fit for the job. Darleen, it seemed, wasn’t quite the polished professional her résumé indicated, nor the sensitive administrator the community center required if it was going to be a success.

When the weekend rolled around, Lucy found herself joining the throng of townsfolk who had eagerly anticipated the grand opening of the community center. There was a happy buzz as arriving folks enjoyed the air-conditioning, which offered welcome relief from the continuing heat wave that was breaking records throughout the Northeast. They were met in the lobby by Darleen herself, smiling and encouraging everyone to fill out a name tag and take an information packet that included a diagram of the center and a calendar of upcoming events.

“Ah, Lucy,” she cooed, “thank you for coming. And thank you for the terrific article in the paper.” In honor of the occasion, she’d added more heavy gold jewelry, albeit of a nautical design featuring anchors, compass roses, and sailor’s knots, to the white jeans and navy tee she’d topped with a sheer, flowing blue-and-white duster sort of garment.

“Just doing my job,” said Lucy, looking around for Tim but failing to find him.

“Don’t be modest,” instructed Darleen, jangling those golden bangles. “I think you are largely responsible for this amazing turnout.”

“I think you’ll find that folks in Tinker’s Cove are very interested in how their tax dollars are spent,” said Lucy, who knew only too well that a small but vocal group of townsfolk were staunchly opposed to anything that would increase taxes, including the community center.

“Well, I plan to give them good value,” promised Darleen. “Don’t miss the quilt show.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Lucy, spotting the sign pointing down the hall to the gym, where the exhibit was displayed. It was an impressive show, she realized, when she stepped inside and discovered a maze of temporary screens hung with a dazzling array of colorful quilts of all sizes. She was studying the first and oldest specimen, a red cotton coverlet worked entirely in tiny stitches that created a design of leaves and flowers. “It was made in 1725,” said Pam, joining her. “It’s amazing! It isn’t even faded!”

“It’s beautiful,” said Lucy, awestruck by the complexity of the design and the thousands, maybe millions of stitches it contained. “Who made it? How ever did she find the time? And how did they keep it in such good condition for over three hundred years?”

“Doesn’t say, just that it was passed down in the Hunsaker family, probably made by Felicity Warren Hunsaker,” offered Pam, who was studying the label. “It’s been dated and authenticated by the Smithsonian, however.”

“Just look around at all these gorgeous works of art,” urged Lucy, who was dazzled by the number and variety of quilts on display. “I can’t even be bothered to replace a button,” she admitted, guiltily.

Pam laughed. “We’re not all needlewomen, that’s for sure. Though I have done a bit of sewing in my time. I made clothes for my dolls when I was a kid, and I made a crib quilt for Tim when I was pregnant.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Maybe,” said Pam, with a shrug and a toss of her ponytail. “It’s probably tucked away somewhere, saved for a possible grandchild.” Her voice dropped. “Though that seems less likely now.”

Lucy took her hand. “This is a hard time, I know, but someday you’ll be looking back, and it will seem like a blip on the screen. A little hiccup.”

“I hope you’re right, Lucy,” said Pam. “But right now it’s”—she paused and blinked back tears—“it’s really awfully hard.”

Lucy gave Pam’s shoulders a squeeze. “C’mon, let’s find this famous Civil War quilt Darleen’s been bragging about.”

They continued past a number of quilts in various designs—traditional ones like log cabin, flying geese, and flower basket, as well as modern designs featuring large blocks of color, including a bold Gee’s Bend quilt—then turned a corner and saw a rather drab and tired-looking specimen that most viewers were simply glancing at before moving on. But Lucy r. . .