Make Quilts Not War - By Arlene Sachitano Page 0,38
not sure. Tom and I came out of the movie at eight-thirty. Jenny was at her car with its shredded tires.”
“Bobby didn’t do it.”
“But we don’t know when it happened,” Harriet said. “Most of the parking lot emptied at five when the exhibit hall closed. He could have slashed the tires any time after that.”
“Wasn’t Bobby,” Lauren insisted.
“How can you be so sure?” Aunt Beth asked.
“My guys had so much fun tracking him down they went into overdrive. They decided to follow him and see if they could find out where he’s staying locally. Before you say anything, they didn’t tell me until he went to ground. They’ve had eyes on him all night.
“He hung around Annie’s after we left, hitchhiked to the Catholic church, where they were serving dinner for the hungry or homeless and then he got a ride to Fogg Park, presumably to stay in the homeless camp. He was last seen walking into the woods in that direction. My watcher drove around the perimeter then took up a post just beyond the access road into the park. He hasn’t moved.”
“Then who slashed Jenny’s tires?” Beth asked.
“Don’t ask me,” Lauren replied. “All I know is, it wasn’t Bobby.”
“Detective Morse said it wasn’t likely a sniper would also be a tire-slasher. She said the shooter would likely have taken a second chance to shoot.”
“Sounds logical, but clearly, Bobby didn’t slash her tires, so who did?” Lauren asked.
“That’s the question,” Aunt Beth said thoughtfully. “Jenny made a good case for why it should be her brother. I guess it’s within his character.”
“I just wonder if Jenny is telling us the whole story yet,” Harriet said.
“Well, we aren’t going to solve this tonight,” Aunt Beth said. “And if Jenny is holding something back, I’m sure she has a good reason.
“You ladies going to the prom tomorrow night?” Lauren asked.
“No,” Harriet said at the same time her aunt said, “Yes.”
“Really?” Harriet asked, turning to look at Aunt Beth.
“Don’t sound so surprised. Jorge asked me, and I said yes.”
“I’d have guessed you’d be going with one of your many beaux,” Lauren said to Harriet.
“Aiden and I had planned on going, but after the other night, that’s not going to happen. Tom would probably go if I wanted, but my outfit matches Aiden’s, and somehow that doesn’t seem right, so I’m going to sit this one out.”
“What about you?” Aunt Beth asked Lauren.
“I’m going to be leading an antiwar protest at the entrance. Before you get on my case—the festival committee asked me to organize it. They thought it would add authenticity to the event. I don’t know if I’m insulted or flattered that they assumed I wouldn’t be going to the prom, but as a concession, they’re letting us protest inside the entrance so we don’t freeze to death, so I figured, what the hey, I wasn’t going to go, and this way I get to see everyone’s costumes.”
“This could be useful,” Harriet said and leaned back in her chair.
“What? You want to join our protest?”
“I believe I do. I think it will be the perfect excuse to keep an eye on things.”
“Need I remind you that Foggy Point has a police force, and you’re not on it?” Aunt Beth said.
“You’re starting to sound like Detective Morse,” Harriet chided. “Besides, I’m not going to do anything but keep my eyes open.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” Aunt Beth said and drained the last of the chocolate from her cup. She stood up. “I’m going to need my beauty rest if I’m going to be ready for the big dance.
“Let me know if you hear anything interesting from your surveillance team,” Harriet said as she also stood up and zipped her coat.
“Will do, chief,” Lauren said with a mock salute.
“Do you know who else is going to the prom?” Harriet asked as she and her aunt walked to the car.
Aunt Beth filled Harriet in on the Loose Threads prom plans on the ride to her cottage on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. A chill wind swept in from the water as she got out of the car and hurried to her door. Everyone talked about the “Summer of Love” when they were discussing the nineteen-sixties, Harriet mused as she drove away, but there must have been winters, too, weren’t there?
Harriet’s headlights illuminated a dark figure sitting on the steps to her studio as she drove up her driveway, past the studio, and into her garage. She got out, dropping her purse and coat