handed her a red plastic cube to put in a shape sorter box. I was fascinated when the girl felt the shape of the holes with her tiny fingers, found a square one, and pushed the cube inside the box. She smiled triumphantly. “More.”
The woman handed her a triangular block. “Good job.”
A minute later a large-boned, horsey woman in her forties came striding out of a doorway extending her arm like a backhoe. She pumped my hand vigorously. “Ms. Rose? My name is Dixie Barcelona. Won’t you step into my office?”
We walked into a small room filled with mismatched furniture and bulging file cabinets. A Dell laptop sat open on the desk. I dodged stacks of folders to find an uncovered chair to sit on.
I immediately liked the earnest Dixie Barcelona. She squinted behind thick glasses that made her eyes appear very small. Her navy blue jacket was straight out of the L.L. Bean catalogue, conservative, somewhat shapeless, and wrinkle proof.
Dixie was clearly overworked, so I got right to the point. “I’d like to examine and photograph Claire Terry’s quilt before it gets sold.”
“Yes. I just got a call from Dr. Godwin. He asked me to make it available to you. All the donated items are in a room down the hall.”
Dixie rummaged through the mess on top of her desk until she found a manila folder. Then she led me out of her office and down a hallway with classrooms on both sides.
“Claire’s death must have come as quite a shock to you.”
Dixie’s words came out in a tumble as she pushed open a door at the end of the hall. “It’s just awful. Claire was more than just a fund-raiser. We were personal friends. Claire was also a longtime volunteer. Worked with the children for years. She loved these kids as much as I did. She even taught some of them how to do a little sewing. Can you imagine? Teaching blind kids how to sew? She was a talented teacher with a great deal of compassion. We will really miss her.”
We stepped into a small room with about fifty large gift baskets sitting on tables and the floor. Each basket was tagged with a number and filled with donated items. Dixie opened the folder and pulled out several pieces of paper with a list typed in large print. She brought the paper close to her face and ran her finger down the list. “Here. The quilt is in basket number twenty-three.”
We went through the baskets one by one checking the numbered tags on each one. Basket number twenty-three was under a table in the far corner.
Dixie bent over with a grunt. “Wouldn’t you know it, the one you’re looking for is always the last one you find.” She pulled out the basket and set it up on the table.
It was empty.
We looked at each other for a long moment. Dixie’s lips were opening and closing like the koi in the pond downstairs, but no words came out. Beads of sweat began to collect on her upper lip. “There must be some mistake. Probably got into one of the other baskets.”
Her arms flailed as she started randomly going through donations.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Let’s do this methodically. Let’s use the list and go through these one by one.”
A half hour later, Dixie’s jacket was rumpled, her hair was plastered against her forehead, and beads of sweat ran down the sides of her reddened face. We’d searched all the baskets, but the quilt was gone. “I don’t know what to say, Ms. Rose.”
“Call me Martha. In a way, I’m not surprised. The thief stole a list of Claire’s quilts from her house, so he must have known about this one. You need to call the police.”
Dixie took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her face. She looked at me with pleading eyes. “Do we have to? The publicity will be awful. If our donors think we’re careless with our resources, we might lose their support. I can’t help but think of the blind children who will be affected if we’re forced to close our doors.”
“We can ask the police to be discreet, Dixie, but this is probably
The woman handed her a triangular block. “Good job.”
A minute later a large-boned, horsey woman in her forties came striding out of a doorway extending her arm like a backhoe. She pumped my hand vigorously. “Ms. Rose? My name is Dixie Barcelona. Won’t you step into my office?”
We walked into a small room filled with mismatched furniture and bulging file cabinets. A Dell laptop sat open on the desk. I dodged stacks of folders to find an uncovered chair to sit on.
I immediately liked the earnest Dixie Barcelona. She squinted behind thick glasses that made her eyes appear very small. Her navy blue jacket was straight out of the L.L. Bean catalogue, conservative, somewhat shapeless, and wrinkle proof.
Dixie was clearly overworked, so I got right to the point. “I’d like to examine and photograph Claire Terry’s quilt before it gets sold.”
“Yes. I just got a call from Dr. Godwin. He asked me to make it available to you. All the donated items are in a room down the hall.”
Dixie rummaged through the mess on top of her desk until she found a manila folder. Then she led me out of her office and down a hallway with classrooms on both sides.
“Claire’s death must have come as quite a shock to you.”
Dixie’s words came out in a tumble as she pushed open a door at the end of the hall. “It’s just awful. Claire was more than just a fund-raiser. We were personal friends. Claire was also a longtime volunteer. Worked with the children for years. She loved these kids as much as I did. She even taught some of them how to do a little sewing. Can you imagine? Teaching blind kids how to sew? She was a talented teacher with a great deal of compassion. We will really miss her.”
We stepped into a small room with about fifty large gift baskets sitting on tables and the floor. Each basket was tagged with a number and filled with donated items. Dixie opened the folder and pulled out several pieces of paper with a list typed in large print. She brought the paper close to her face and ran her finger down the list. “Here. The quilt is in basket number twenty-three.”
We went through the baskets one by one checking the numbered tags on each one. Basket number twenty-three was under a table in the far corner.
Dixie bent over with a grunt. “Wouldn’t you know it, the one you’re looking for is always the last one you find.” She pulled out the basket and set it up on the table.
It was empty.
We looked at each other for a long moment. Dixie’s lips were opening and closing like the koi in the pond downstairs, but no words came out. Beads of sweat began to collect on her upper lip. “There must be some mistake. Probably got into one of the other baskets.”
Her arms flailed as she started randomly going through donations.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Let’s do this methodically. Let’s use the list and go through these one by one.”
A half hour later, Dixie’s jacket was rumpled, her hair was plastered against her forehead, and beads of sweat ran down the sides of her reddened face. We’d searched all the baskets, but the quilt was gone. “I don’t know what to say, Ms. Rose.”
“Call me Martha. In a way, I’m not surprised. The thief stole a list of Claire’s quilts from her house, so he must have known about this one. You need to call the police.”
Dixie took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her face. She looked at me with pleading eyes. “Do we have to? The publicity will be awful. If our donors think we’re careless with our resources, we might lose their support. I can’t help but think of the blind children who will be affected if we’re forced to close our doors.”
“We can ask the police to be discreet, Dixie, but this is probably
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