1 Forget Me Knot by Mary Marks Read Free Book Online

the cat. He slowly closed his eyes and regally disavowed any responsibility for the mess.
    I found some cat food and filled one bowl with kibble and one with water. The cat made up for lost time while I cleaned the litter box and poured in some fresh sand. Then I went back to the hallway and picked up the debris on the floor where Claire’s body had lain.
    Spots of blood were smeared on the wall, probably when they were swabbed for evidence. A gray, powdery film appeared in smudges here and there. Dusting for prints?
    I put the debris and used cat litter in the trash barrel outside, came back inside and washed my hands. “Okay, kitty, time to look at quilts.” The cat was too busy crunching little star-shaped pellets to care.
    I went back to the living room and over to the quilt hanging from a wooden board with clips behind Claire’s sofa. I remembered seeing this work of art on the cover of Pieces quilting magazine a couple of years ago.
    The flowers, herbs, and birds resembled a painting of a garden. When I got close enough, the subtle layering of different fabrics created the illusion of brushstrokes. The light tan background was heavily dotted with Claire’s trademark French knots in dark brown embroidery thread. They reminded me of a pointillist painting. Not wild and generous like van Gogh. More controlled—like Seurat.
    I took off my shoes and stood on the sofa, sinking unsteadily into the soft cushion. Reaching up to the wooden quilt hanger, I pulled the wall hanging out of the clips and sat down, sinking again into the downy cushion. The quilt was about three feet by four feet. The label on the back read, Secret Garden.
    Secret Garden won a first-place ribbon two years ago and appeared shortly afterward in the magazine. What a privilege it was to be holding this exquisite piece of art in my lap.
    I rubbed the quilt between my fingers, searching for a note Claire might have sewn inside. Cotton fabric was soft and pliable. A piece of paper inside the layers would feel stiff to the touch. Maybe I could even hear it crinkle. I started methodically in the top left corner, feeling through the layers inch by inch.
    I closed my eyes in concentration as my fingers explored. There was something very sensual and comforting about a finished quilt. Sewing through the three layers of the top, batting, and lining produced a bumpy texture—a real testimony to the hundreds of hours spent sewing. A quilter left her very essence in the texture of her quilts.
    I reached the bottom right corner without detecting anything. If there was a message to be found, it wasn’t on paper. I decided to look for the other quilts Siobhan had said were in the house. If there weren’t actual notes sewn inside, maybe I could decipher some sort of hidden relationship between the different designs or maybe there’d be a clue in the names of the quilts.
    Once again I approached the spot in the hallway where Claire’s body had been found. I looked at the space where she’d fallen. What a terrible waste of a young life and a fine artistic talent. A picture of my daughter flashed in my head, and I shuddered. Even though Quincy was grown and living on her own, I still worried about her every day. Eternal worry was a mother’s curse.
    A picture of my mother flashed by. She was the exception to that rule. My mother wasn’t very functional and needed to be taken care of herself. She was the reason we lived with my uncle Isaac and my bubbie, my grandmother. They told me my mother was devastated by the death of my father. Had she always been that way—remote and dreamy and disconnected from life? Every time I asked, they changed the subject.
    Walking down Claire’s hallway, I passed two bedrooms with an adjoining bath. A quick search revealed no quilts in either room. A third door was shut, and at the end of the hallway was the master suite. I opened the third door to find a well-appointed sewing studio.
    The wall facing the backyard was all windows,