Finally I’m posting another episode of our 1920’s serial. These three things come from the most “crafty” lady I know — Joye in Albuquerque.
Since I didn’t do a mid-week post, you might need to refresh your memory of the serial. You can read all the episodes at the Three Things Serial page.
Pip finds interesting things before the group even gets to the gate of the big shindig. Read on as the mystery deepens…
Tattered Quilt, Memory Squares, Quilting Bee
Flavio bent closer to inspect the bullet hole, which was in the crease where the fender met the body of the car. “I’m amazed that you spotted it,” he told me.
Frankie looked around uneasily. One of the chauffeurs stopped his idle polishing of the limousine he drove and looked our way. “We should get going,” the fireman said, with a significant nod in the guy’s direction.
He took my arm, but I pulled back. What was that inside the car? I sighed. That chauffer was still looking at us. “Mona, be a doll and distract that mug for a minute, will ya? Ask him for something for Pear to eat.”
The movie star wriggled over to the first driver, and within seconds the other two were clustered around Mona and the tin lunch pail that housed the little hedgehog. Flavio looked on with a hint of a green monster lighting his eyes. I barely controlled the urge to tease him about being jealous. The chauffeurs seemed to have completely forgotten about the rest of us.
I stealthily opened the car door and pulled out a piece of fabric. I had to give it a good yank, as it was caught on some metal under the seat. Then I eased the door closed again. “What is it?” the Fabro cousins asked in unison.
“A tattered quilt,” I began. “Or rather a torn off piece of one. I think this is part of a memory square.”
Cotton batting clung to the bit of fabric. I turned it over and saw part of an embroidered word was cut off at the tear. It must have been a name. I looked past the swirly print design and at the white muslin below it. Frankie touched the print. “Hey! It’s Paisley, like you,” he kidded me about my given name.
I turned the bit of quilt this way and that to make out the stitched word. “B-o-r… could that be part of the letter ‘I’ maybe?” I wondered aloud. “Holy Hannah! Boris!”
A reddish brown stain marred the white muslin, covered more embroidery. The spot was caked and stiff. Holding it close to my nose I detected a coppery odor. Blood.
Frankie bent closer to have a look. “That ain’t from the average quilting bee.”