praise for terri thayer’s quilting mystery series Wild Goose Chase “Cutting-edge drama deftly sliced to reveal the sass beneath the surface of the quilting business.” —Margaret Miller, author of AnglePlay Blocks “Put down your piecework, brew yourself a cup o’Joe, fill up a snack bowl, and laze around the yard this spring with this amusing quilt-themed mystery.” —Mark Lipinski’s Quilter’s Home magazine
Old Maid’s Puzzle “As much as this is a murder mystery, [Old Maid’s Puzzle] is also a story of women, their crafts, and their lives and loves.” —GumshoeReview.com “Enjoyable.”—Kirkus Reviews
Ocean Waves
other books by terri thayer Wild Goose Chase Old Maid’s Puzzle
a quilting mystery
Ocean Waves Terri Thayer
Midnight Ink
woodbury, minnesota
Ocean Waves: A Quilting Mystery © 2009 by Terri Thayer. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2009 Book design and format by Donna Burch Cover design by Lisa Novak Cover illustration © Cheryl Chalmers—The July Group Editing by Connie Hill Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Publications Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Thayer, Terri. Ocean waves : a quilting mystery / Terri Thayer. — 1st ed. p. cm. — (A quilting mystery ; no. 3) ISBN 978-0-7387-1217-8 1. Quilting—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Santa Clara Valley (Santa Clara County, Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title. PS3620.H393O37 2009 813’.6--dc22 2008049013 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Midnight Ink Llewellyn Publications 2143 Wooddale Drive, Dept. 978-0-7387-1217-8 Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 USA www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America
acknowledgments This is a work of fiction. The Asilomar in this book, while bearing a strong resemblance to the Refuge by the Sea, is a bit distorted. There are no hidden buildings, no secret walkways, except in my imagination. At least none that the state of California will cop to. Thanks to the California State Park Rangers, especially Ranger Jacobus, for their time and patience. The mistakes, and liberties taken, are mine and mine alone. To Jean Dunn, whose retelling of an apocryphal story about a missing woman at a quilting class got me thinking. To Linda Stemer, the Blueprint on Fabric lady, for her brainstorming. We had fun conjuring up images. Again thanks to Becky Levine and Beth Proudfoot. Their ability to read my rough drafts and tell me what I’m writing about is amazing. To all the women of Asilomar, past, present and future.
ocean waves Quilters have been making Ocean Waves quilts for over a hundred years. The block consists of small half-square triangles surrounding a plain block. The intriguing use of negative space is especially noticeable in two-color quilts, but scrappy versions work well, too.
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“I heard a woman scream,” I said, for the second time. It was just after three in the morning. Buster had picked up on the first ring, answered in his cop voice, but now was drifting away. I needed him to listen to me. “It wasn’t me, I’m seventy miles away,” Buster teased sleepily. My boyfriend delighted in getting me to make weird noises. I shivered in the night air. The only pay phone I’d seen had been on the outside wall of the social hall, a quarter-mile away from my room. I’d hightailed it over here, slipping on my UGG slippers, but not grabbing a sweatshirt. Thankfully, I’d dragged my old quilt along. I pulled it tighter around my shoulders. A cool breeze was blowing straight off the Pacific Ocean. I wasn’t close enough to see it, but I could hear the waves breaking. “A long, drawn-out scream,” I continued in my best I’m-notkidding-voice. “Even I’m not that good,” he said. He was, but I wasn’t on the phone to feed his ego.
“Funny, Buster. I’m serious. It sounded like it was coming from right outside my window.” “Don’t be scared. It was probably a raccoon.” I shuddered. He knew I hated the little bandit rats that raided my home garbage cans at will. A scraping noise outside in the darkness made my heart race. In the dim light cast by the pole lamp, I saw a squirrel run up a tree. I scrunched up my feet and moved closer to the building. The stone was little comfort. Putting the receiver back up to my ear, I heard Buster singing. “What are you doing?” I asked. “You’ve heard of ‘Muskrat Love,’ haven’t you?” Buster said. Now I recognized the Captain and Tennille song. “What you heard last night was raccoon love.” “Bus-ter!” I raised my voice, then thought better of it. Noise carried in the dark. I didn’t want to wake up my fellow quilters. Certainly not the seminar coordinator, Mercedes Madsen. I whisper-warned, “Buster.” “I thought you liked it when I serenaded you. What time is it anyway?” “Midnight,” I lied. I was wide-awake. Alone. And far from home. I didn’t want him to hang up. His voice was strong and reassuring. “Dewey, babe, you’re not in San Jose. Asilomar is a wildlife preserve. Animals make weird noises. That’s all you heard.” “You think?” I said, my fear diminishing. I hadn’t been sure what had woken me up, but I was sure he was the first person I wanted to tell.
I was attending the Sewing-by-the-Sea Symposium at Asilomar Conference Grounds in Pacific Grove, California. Five days of study with an internationally known quilt teacher. Five days to try to find ways to connect with my quilting customers the way my banished sister-in-law had. I’d bet the tuition, nearly fifteen hundred dollars, that this experience would fast track me to regaining ground I’d lost in my shop. I realized Buster wasn’t completely up to speed. I hadn’t spoken to him since registration yesterday. I had to clue him in. “I’m going to be out of pocket this week. I had to turn in my phone.” “What do you mean?” Buster said. I heard his sheets rustle and wished I was there, under them. “No cells allowed. We’re allowed to use the pay phone during the evening hours, but that’s it. Mercedes Madsen, the head honcho, collected them. Says they’re a distraction that interferes with the learning process. I’m not even supposed to be on the phone now.” “How does she feel about visitors?” “We’re not supposed to have them.” Buster wasn’t taking this too seriously. “Maybe this Mercury person has a conjugal room set up, like at the jail?” he teased. “Mercedes,” I corrected. “Don’t give her any ideas. She might have been a prison guard in another life. She’s a little too happy bossing people around.” I thought about my tiny sleeping room in the historic Stuck-up Inn. The bed, advertised as a double, took up most of the floor space. I tried to imagine Buster in there. At 6'4", he would have difficulty fitting on the mattress. Spreading Buster catty-cornered on the bed in my mind, I asked, “When are you coming down?”
“I’ll come down Wednesday night. I’m an expert at covert ops, you know. I majored in sneaking into dorm rooms in college.” It was Sunday, well, Monday morning. That meant nearly three full days with no Buster. My heart sunk. “Not before then?” I said, unable to hide the disappointment. “I need some diversion.” “You know how much I love to divert you,” Buster said huskily. I felt my cheeks flame. Even after a year of dating, the sound of his voice could set off sparkly sensations in my belly. I squirmed in the phone booth, pushing the phone closer to my head as though I could feel Buster’s breath on my ear. “Tell me more,” I said. “How exactly would you manage that?” “Well, first I’d light the fire in your room, making it warm and toasty so your clothes feel too restricting. Then I’d take off your …” “Stop!” A sharp voice cut into my reverie. I turned, tangling myself in the phone cord and nearly strangling myself. Under the light, Mercedes Madsen stood with her hands on her hips. Her lips were pursed dangerously. She was fully clothed, despite the lateness of the hour. She looked extremely awake. She reached past me and took the phone from me—along with a hunk of hair that was stuck in the cord. I jumped back, yelping in pain and outrage. “What the heck are you doing?” I said, rubbing my sore scalp. Mercedes spoke into the black receiver. “Ms. Pellicano will call you back this evening. Yes, she’s fine. Just in violation of the rules. Thank you,” she said in her clipped tones. With a perfectly manicured finger, she hung up the phone.