Four-Patch of Trouble Read Online Free

might not be anything more important for officers to respond to.
    "Move," Tremain shouted and was ignored once again.
    "You can't do this to me." He stomped one foot, and his face turned red, like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum in a short but massive fifty-year-old body.
    I caught Emma's attention and gestured for her to move back slightly with Dee. They did, taking the other protestors with them far enough that Tremain was able to open the door and invite me inside with an exaggeratedly polite flourish of his pudgy hand.
    Once we were both inside, he turned a key in the deadlock on the glass front door to keep out the protestors, although it did little to muffle the sound of their shouts.
    "I'm Keely Fairchild. I believe you're expecting me and the leaders of the local quilt guild."
    "The woman who called to set up the meeting didn't say anything about a picket line," Tremain said in a whiney tone. At least the redness of his face was fading. "I thought we were going to have a nice, civil conversation among people who share a common interest in quilts."
    "There does seem to have been a bit of a miscommunication. If you'll give me a minute with Dee and Emma, I think I can straighten everything out. While I do that, perhaps you'd like to let the police know the situation is under control. You wouldn't want to waste their time and have them ignore you when you really need help."
    "No one ignores Randall J. Tremain." He turned the key to unlock the front door. "But I'm a reasonable man. I'll call off the cops if you'll call off the protestors."
    I nodded, and Tremain headed toward the back of the shop, presumably to make good on his promise. I pushed the front door open and called for Dee and Emma to join me inside. While I waited for them to untangle themselves from their posse, I took a peek at the shop's merchandise.
    As the name suggested, the offerings were limited to items that could be monogrammed. Most were textiles of some sort: towels, pillowcases, bathrobes, and finally my area of expertise—quilts. In addition, there were some lovely handcrafted wooden and glass display cases filled with pieces of antique silver. Neatly printed cards described the history of silver mining in the Pacific Northwest and its importance in the days of the Spokane Stock Exchange.
    Most of the quilts were draped over the backs of chairs or stacked in open cupboards, but there was one hanging on the back wall in a dimly lit corner. The poor lighting wasn't good for drawing in customers, but as an appraiser who'd seen the damage sunlight could do to a quilt, I had to respect the decision to keep what looked like a potentially valuable quilt out of direct sunshine.
    I didn't have time to take a close look at it now, but I wanted to check it out after the meeting. At least at first glance it had a great deal in common with the description of the quilt the museum wanted me to appraise: a simple four-patch design, old, and in remarkably good condition.
    At the sound of the door closing behind me, I turned to face Dee and Emma.
    "Sorry we took so long," Emma said. "Janiece Jordan didn't want to leave, and you know how stubborn she can be."
    I didn't, of course. Most of the residents of Danger Cove had lived here all their lives, so they couldn't fathom that anyone might not know all their friends. I knew an Alex Jordan, who'd done the renovation work on my home, and I knew she had a grandmother named Janiece, since it had been impressed on me that I should never call her Janice , but I'd never had the opportunity to call her anything or to observe her level of stubbornness, since we'd never met.
    I didn't bother to explain, though, because I had a more pressing concern. Dee and Emma had brought another person inside with them. I'd seen him earlier, on the outskirts of the picket line, not quite a part of the group but observing it. He was over six feet tall, maybe five years younger than I was, with shaggy dark hair and a face that was