The phone rang, and Aunt Beth answered, speaking in low tones to her caller. When she'd finished, she turned to Harriet.
"That was Phyl. I told her I'd finished her quilt, and I hope I didn't speak out of turn, but I said that if she'd bring her binding over and machine stitch it to her quilt, you wouldn't mind doing the hand-stitching part, since you have to sit in your chair with your foot up while we go hang quilts."
"That's fine with me,” Harriet said. “At least then I'll feel like I'm contributing something, even if it is for the other team."
"Now, honey,” Mavis said. “You know all the quilts go for the same good cause. It doesn't matter who makes the raffle quilt as long as it brings in a lot of money for the shelter."
"Yeah, and if you believe that, I've got a bridge I'd like to sell you,” Lauren said.
"You ladies can go on ahead to the community center whenever you're ready,” Aunt Beth said. “I'm going to wait for Phyl to get here, in case she needs help setting up to sew her binding on."
Everyone knew Phyl could thread any sewing machine with her eyes closed and one hand tied behind her back. They also knew Beth wasn't ready to leave Harriet alone, even if Joseph was in custody.
"We'll see you over there,” Jenny said as she buttoned her cardigan and picked up her quilt bag and purse. The rest of the group followed, in twos and threes, until only Aunt Beth and Harriet remained.
"You know, you can't make guarding me your life's work,” Harriet said.
"I don't plan on it. But it doesn't hurt to be careful.” Aunt Beth put on her purple hip-length jacket and picked up her bags but didn't make a move toward the door.
"We both know Phyllis doesn't need help getting set up to sew the binding on her quilt. You already threaded the machine and turned it on. What?” Harriet said when her aunt still didn't leave.
"I might as well tell you-Jorge will be bringing you lunch in an hour or so.” She gave Harriet a half-smile and scooted out the door before her niece could react.
Phyllis Johnson came in through the studio door moments later.
"I hope you don't mind my not knocking,” she said. “I didn't want you to have to get up."
"No problem,” Harriet said. “No one seems to knock these days."
"How's your ankle doing?” Phyllis patted a stray curl back into the cotton candy fluff that was her hair.
"It's better. Have you had any word about Joseph?"
"No, but then, there's no reason I would. I know I'm his employer, and he is like a son to me, but in the eyes of the law, I have no claim on him.
"I called the police station, of course, but they were tightlipped. I used to have friends on the force,” she said with a sigh. “Everyone's retired now, and these young folks are so serious. They don't seem to understand how things work in a small town."
"I have a question for you,” Harriet said. “Do you know a woman named Mary Ann Martin?"
Phyllis bit her lower lip.
"I don't believe I do. Should I?"
Aunt Beth had left two sewing machines in the studio when she gave it to Harriet. They were sturdy workhorse models, strong enough to stitch through the multiple layers of fabric and batting one had to deal with when they were sewing a binding on a quilt. In addition, Harriet had brought her own embroidery sewing machine as well as her smaller travel unit when she'd moved in. Phyl sat down at the studio machine Aunt Beth had set up for her and began sewing on her binding.
"Mary Ann and her husband are foster parents in Foggy Point. I thought they might have taken one of your classes."
"Honey, in thirty years, a lot of people have taken my classes."
"Did you do an adoption for an African girl named Nancy Lou Freeman?"
Phyllis deftly turned the corner on her quilt binding.
"Not that I recall. Why?"
"I just found out Nancy Lou was Neelie Obote's name when she was adopted in Foggy Point. This would have been, maybe, twenty years ago."
"Neelie Obote? The girl that was killed at Aiden's? Are you thinking I knew who that woman was and didn't tell the police?” She shifted the bulk of the quilt as she completed the second corner.
"No, I just thought it was a little strange that Neelie had been adopted here and then was involved in adoption abuse and put back into foster care but that you hadn't at least heard about it."
"I keep trying to tell you-I've processed hundreds of adoptions over the years. I'd like to think I could remember them all, but the fact is, without a file in front of me, I simply can't."
Phyllis turned the third corner on the quilt binding.
"I suppose my aunt told you about DeAnn's little girl."
"Everyone has told me about the problems they're having, and I keep trying to tell all of you that Joseph handled that match. We do our best to match children with adoptive families, but sometimes, in spite of all our hard work, the relationship is incompatible."
Harriet was silent for a minute, thinking. Phyllis rounded the fourth corner of her quilt and approached the point where she'd started. She clipped the thread then cut the excess binding fabric, leaving two tails Harriet would stitch together by hand, closing the gap between the start and finish.
"Did you hear the latest?” she asked carefully, watching Phyllis for her reaction. “It appears DeAnn's child isn't from Africa at all. She's from American Samoa. Or at least, that's the language she speaks."
"I told you, I don't know what Joseph was or wasn't doing on his cases.” Phyllis stood up. “I have a spool of thread that matches the binding here somewhere,” she said, and dug in her bag.
Harriet kept watching her.
"Phyllis, I have to tell you, I'm having a little trouble believing you didn't know what Joseph was doing. I mean, we saw you grabbing files and stepping in for your other employee when she was covering for Joseph. I've tried real hard to figure out how, in an office with four employees, Joseph could have run an elaborate adoption scam without raising any red flags with you or Jennifer or your secretary. I mean, he had to have been arranging passports, and airfare, and I don't know what else, and they would all be for places that didn't match the country the child was supposed to have come from."
"Are you accusing me of something?” Phyllis stepped closer to Harriet's chair in a sudden move.
"I'm not accusing anyone of anything,” Harriet said, her eyes on Phyllis's hands, which were concealed under the quilt, which was draped over her arm. “I'm just trying to figure out what's going on.
"I mean, on one hand, two people are dead. One of those two was adopted in Foggy Point. On the other hand, we have a child who is not from Africa like she was supposed to be, and in fact seems to have a family in American Samoa who are trying real hard to find her. Can you see the connection here?"
"I don't know what you're talking about.” Color was creeping up Phyl's neck and into her face.
"I'm thinking both of these situations are connected by adoption-international adoption, at that. And we both know there is only one adoption agency doing international work in Foggy Point-Little Lamb."
Phyllis sighed and sank onto the ottoman. Her hands were still out of view.
"You aren't going to let this go, are you?"
"No, I'm not,” Harriet said defiantly. “Not until I find out who killed Neelie and who took Iloai from her family. Since DeAnn has already contacted the people looking for her, that should become clear any time now."
Phyl's shoulders slumped. “Your aunt always did brag about how smart you were. Too smart for your own good, I'm thinking."
She pulled her hands out from under her quilt. One was holding a slender syringe Harriet recognized as the kind used for insulin. She flipped her quilt across Harriet's legs, pinning them to the ottoman.
The older woman was surprisingly strong. Harriet squirmed as Phyllis bore down toward her with the needle. She wished she hadn't taken her air cast off when she'd sat down.