The cords in Lauren's neck tightened, and Harriet could see her chest rise in preparation for an outburst. She held her hand up, and Mavis put a hand on Lauren's arm.
"Let her finish,” she urged in a hushed tone.
"What I'm saying is, as a student of Selestina's it wouldn't be unheard-of for Lauren's work to look like her teacher's. The real question is why Selestina would copy Lauren's work. Think about it. She's an acknowledged expert in her field. She's been making art quilts for years. She makes class samples; she's won awards.” She looked at Lauren. “I'm not saying your quilt isn't great. It is. But why would an established artist copy the work of a second-year student?"
Lauren's mouth moved, but no words came out. Her anger deflated like a balloon.
"Come on, let's sit and have another cup of tea and think about that,” Connie suggested.
"If I drink anymore tea I'm going to be up all night,” Mavis announced. “But we do need to talk about this."
Lauren sat down on the couch. She opened her quilted shoulder bag and pulled out a foil-wrapped package.
"Here,” she said, and began opening the foil. “My brother made us some brownies."
"Now you're talking,” Mavis said. “Bring that pot back, Connie. Maybe I could choke down another dribble of tea with my brownie."
The women sat in near-silence, the only sound the munching of possibly the best brownies ever created.
"These are incredible,” Harriet said, and reached for another one. “He's hit just the right balance of chewiness and cakeness."
"Yeah, well, he fancies himself a chef,” Lauren said. “I keep telling him he's never going to get anywhere if he won't leave this backwater place. But he says he's learning a lot from that witch in the dining hall."
Carla and Robin rejoined the group, and the quilters brought them up to date on their discovery about Lauren's fingerprint. They all discussed the situation, but no matter how they looked at it, it just didn't make sense. Lauren's piece was nice, but her work still lacked the maturity of a trained artist, so why would a woman whose work sold for thousands of dollars copy it?
Eventually, one by one, they drifted upstairs to their rooms, the problem unsolved.
Chapter Seventeen
"Is Lauren Sawyer here?” asked the police officer Mavis found on the front step of the Tree House when she answered the door the next morning. He was a stout, dark-haired man with florid cheeks and a yellow-plastic-handled gun.
Mavis glanced at her watch. “It's a quarter before seven, young man. She's either in bed or taking her shower."
"I need to speak to her. May I come in?"
Connie came up behind Mavis.
"Is there a problem?"
"This officer wants to speak to Lauren."
"Dios mio!” Connie put her left hand to her mouth. The officer looked exasperated.
"I guess you better come in, then,” Mavis said and stepped back.
"I'll go get Lauren.” Connie headed up the staircase.
"I don't care who it is,” Lauren could be heard saying from the second-floor landing a moment later. “I'm drying my hair."
Connie returned. “Lauren will be down when she finishes drying her hair."
"Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Mavis offered.
The officer accepted, and was sitting at the dining table with the two older women when Lauren finally came downstairs almost twenty minutes later.
"Lauren Sawyer? I'm Officer Weber. I need to ask you some questions, and I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me to the police station."
"Are you arresting me?” she demanded.
"We can play it however you want to,” Weber answered, his voice no longer that of Officer Friendly. “I'd like you to come with me voluntarily to answer some questions. If you don't want to do that, I can arrest you and then you can answer our questions. It's your choice."
"Whatever,” Lauren said. “Can I at least get my purse and coat?"
"Yeah, but don't try anything cute,” Weber said.
Lauren glared at him and went back upstairs, returning moments later wearing a denim jacket and with a leather messenger bag slung crosswise on her body.
"Would you mind opening your bag so I can have a quick look?"
"What's going on?” Harriet said as she came down the stairs and joined the group now standing by the front door.
"What's it look like? Officer Weber here is hauling me to jail."
Weber looked at Harriet. “I'm taking Ms. Sawyer to the station to ask her a few questions, that's all."
"Harriet, come with me,” Lauren said in a tone that was somewhere between a plea and a command.
Harriet looked an inquiry at the cop. He looked at Lauren.
"If it means you'll come quietly, sure,” he told her
"Take notes in class,” Harriet said to Carla, who had now joined the party. She grabbed her coat and wallet and was out the door before Carla could respond.
Weber opened the passenger doors of his Jeep Cherokee, and both women got in. Lauren had climbed into the back seat, so Harriet had no choice but to ride shotgun.
"Can you catch me up, here, Officer Weber? Why are you taking Lauren in for questioning? What is she supposed to have done?"
"She'll be informed when we get to the station."
"Can you at least give us a ball park here? Did she run a red light? Forget to pay her taxes?"
Weber gave Harriet a “you've got to be kidding” look. “She's being questioned by the homicide detectives."
Lauren was so quiet, Harriet had to turn in her seat to look and see if she was okay. Her face was as white as alabaster, and for once she was dead silent.
The threesome rode the rest of the way with no further conversation. Officer Weber pulled to a stop in front of a low brick building then ushered them into a beige-painted lobby trimmed with orange circles inside brown triangles that screamed 1970.
"You can wait here,” he said to Harriet, and indicated a row of orange vinyl chairs. Before she could take a full step toward them, Lauren snaked out a cold hand and gripped her arm like a vise.
"I'm not talking to anyone unless Harriet comes along."
Ordinarily, Harriet would welcome the chance to avoid spending time with Lauren, but her curiosity overrode her aversion this time.
"Instead of me,” she said, and looked Officer Weber in the eye, “I think I should get Lauren's lawyer to meet us here."
"That won't be necessary. Just let me ask the detective. Wait here."
"Lauren, I wasn't kidding,” Harriet said as soon as Weber had gone through a door to the inner office. “You should call a lawyer right now. You don't have to answer any questions without a lawyer present."
"I don't need a lawyer, Harriet.” The edge had returned to Lauren's voice. She was nothing if not adaptable. “I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't done anything anyone needs to ask questions about. I'm the victim here. That crone at the school stole my design, and then one of her cohorts stole my quilt. I'm sure that's what they want to ask about."
"They don't use a homicide detective to ask questions about a stolen quilt. Besides, have you even reported it missing? Even if you have, the police don't spend time and money investigating petty theft. When my bike got stolen in Oakland, all I did was file a report."
"He just said that to scare me, and I'll admit, for a minute there, it worked. Do you think they have a homicide department in this backwater town? They probably only have one detective."
"You're wrong there, ma'am,” a well-built Hispanic man in a navy suit and red tie said. “Ms. Sawyer, I presume.” He held his hand out, but Lauren ignored it. “And you must be her friend Harriet.” Harriet took the proffered hand. “I'm Detective Ruiz."
"Lauren and I are in the same quilt group back in Foggy Point. We're staying in the same lodging at the Folk Art School. She asked me to come with her."