Read 1 Forget Me Knot for Free Online Page A

going to tell Claire’s mother about the vomit around Claire’s mouth and in her hair, or the blood on her hands.
    “So you don’t think she suffered?”
    “She didn’t look that way to me,” I lied.
    “You know”—I hoped to deflect further questions—“Claire was widely admired. She was the best quilter in the guild. My friends and I were so pleased she invited us to quilt with her.”
    “I was upset when they told me yesterday a thief stole her quilt.”
    “I know how you feel. My quilt and my friend Birdie’s quilt were also stolen.”
    “Yes, Detective Beavers told me. Claire had no children, so her quilts are all I have left of her. I think this last one is the best she’d ever done. I’d very much like to get it back.”
    “Yes, but I don’t think the police are very optimistic about our chances. They’re more interested in . . .” I stopped myself.
    “In who killed her?”
    “I’m sorry. Yes. In who killed her.”
    The older woman looked somewhere over my shoulder. The blue in her eyes turned to ice and her face hardened. Parchment skin stretched over the white bones of her knuckles as she clenched her fists. “Whoever killed her will pay.”
    I didn’t know what to say in the face of her grief and anger. I decided this was one of those times when it was better to just say nothing.
    After a minute, Siobhan relaxed a little and looked at me. “How did you get involved in quilting?”
    “Well, my grandmother was a quilter. I have fond memories of her cutting out pieces of colorful old clothing and sewing them together to make beautiful patterns. I made my first quilt for my daughter’s crib. That was thirty years and over one hundred quilts ago.”
    “I’m afraid I would never have the patience required to sit and sew like that.”
    “That’s a common assumption people make. Quilting has nothing to do with patience. Working with your hands can be a form of meditation. It can bring great peace.” I looked at the other woman’s well-manicured hands and doubted they’d ever done a day of work.
    “Would you say you know a lot about quilts after thirty years?”
    “Actually, yes. I’ve studied technique, textiles, and quilt history extensively.”
    “In that case, you may be just the person I’m looking for. Claire once told me her quilts were her journals. When I asked her what she meant, she said they each have a story to tell about her life. Because you know so much about quilts, maybe you can figure out what those stories were.”
    “Well, there is such a thing as a Story Quilt. Those depict everyday scenes from the life of the quilt maker. Each block is appliquéd or embroidered to make a scene of some significant event in the quilter’s life. The pictures are usually quite obvious and simple, like planting corn or sweeping the house. The overall effect is primitive but quite charming. Did Claire ever make one of those?”
    “No, but I keep thinking maybe she left some kind of message in her quilts.”
    “You mean like a note sewn inside each one?”
    Siobhan looked up earnestly. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m hoping you can figure out.”
    “Why don’t you tell all this to the police?”
    “I tried talking to that young detective, but I don’t think he took me seriously.”
    “Detective Kaplan, Beavers’s partner?”
    “Yes, I think that’s the one.” Siobhan fixed me with a pleading look. “Martha, I want you to look at her quilts. Most are privately owned now, but a few are at Claire’s. Go back to her place. There’s a key on the side of the house. You can let yourself in.”
    I remembered Claire’s neighbor, Ingrid, reaching around the corner of Claire’s house to get the key. “Her neighbor took the key to open the door last Tuesday, when we were there.”
    “I know. She called. I asked her to put it back. Take the key and keep it for now. See what you can find, and please hurry.”
    We stood.
    Siobhan appeared diminutive and breakable, but her