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the dark brown velvet backdrop. The quilt had been bordered by sepia photographs of sober-looking pioneers who settled the West.
    Katsy stood in front of the exhibit, her hand on Jazz’s shoulder. Jazz’s cheeks were glossy with tears. Next to Jazz stood a thin young man with a peeling, sunburned nose. He was not much taller than her—maybe five six or so. His clothes were typical North County rancher—pigskin-tight Wranglers stacked in denim wrinkles over his dusty roper boots, a black T-shirt advertising last year’s National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas and a sweat-stained straw cowboy hat with a braided leather hatband. His arms were as wiry and hard as old rake handles, which told me he was probably an actual working cowboy. He looked like any number of young men prowling the fair, jeans slung low on their hips, drinking beer out of plastic Budweiser cups and paying five bucks to take their chances riding the mechanical bull.
    “Hey, Benni,” Katsy said, nodding at me.
    Though the family resemblance was obvious, she was a few inches shorter than Maggie and six years older. Her eyes were hazel, a jewel-like silvery green with dark flecks. Her shoulders were wider than her younger sister’s, her face rounder, but with the same sharp, dignified cheekbones as Maggie. She wore black denim jeans with silver stitching and a lacy red tank top. Her shiny boots were needle-toed and high-heeled, a fashionable contrast to Maggie’s practical ropers, not surprising since Stylin’, the clothing store she managed in San Celina, was popular with all the affluent Cal Poly girls.
    “Hey,” I replied. “I just heard about the quilt. That stinks.” Katsy’s major in college had been African American history, and this exhibit, as well as the two at the folk art museum, had been special to her.
    “Who would do something like that?” Jazz asked. “We worked so hard on that quilt.”
    “When did you notice it was missing?” I asked Maggie.
    “Shawna, the building superintendant, noticed that the space was empty when she opened up this morning. But she also knew that we’d been working on it off and on last night, taking it down and putting it back up. She assumed one of us had it. When Katsy came by a half hour ago, she realized it was stolen.”
    “Maybe it’s a prank,” Hud said, studying the blank space on the velvet wall.
    “It’s not a prank,” Katsy said. “But I’m not entirely surprised. After Levi told me about those letters . . .”
    Jazz stepped back from Katsy. “What letters?”
    Hud looked equally surprised.
    Katsy held out her hand. “Look, honey, I’m talking out of school here. I shouldn’t be the one . . .”
    Jazz scowled at her. “Just tell me, okay?”
    Katsy glanced uneasily at her younger sister. Maggie nodded. “Jazz is right. Levi shouldn’t hide things like that.”
    I could tell Katsy was uncomfortable by her conflicted expression. She and Levi had been dating for a little over a year. It didn’t surprise me that Levi confided in her about something that sounded serious, though doing so without telling his daughter also might not help her and Jazz’s new relationship.
    A small crowd started milling around us, staring at the place where the quilt once hung. Maggie gestured at us to follow her. Once we were away from the gawkers, she said in a low voice, “Katsy, tell them about the letters. There’s a Log Cabin quilt I can use to fill the spot. That was a popular pattern during the settling of the west. I’ll write up a quick display card. It’ll have to do until the quilt shows up.” She fiddled nervously with one silver hoop earring. “ If it shows up.”
    Hud, Jazz, the silent young man and I followed Katsy to the relatively quiet walkway between the home arts and agriculture buildings.
    “What’s going on?” Jazz said, crossing her bare arms over her chest. Her young friend moved protectively closer.
    Katsy stuck her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “In the