“Thank you, ranch girl. You are my savior.”

  “Nope, Jesus is your savior, but you definitely owe me one, Inspector Clouseau.”

  “And I won’t forget it.”

  Suddenly the amusement in his face turned to concern. I turned around to see Maggie walking quickly toward us, her mouth tight with anger.

  “Benni, you aren’t going to believe this,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Someone’s stolen the Harriet Powers quilt.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “WHAT?” I SAID.

  “When?” Hud said a nano-second later.

  “No one knows.” Maggie frowned at Hud. “Aren’t deputies supposed to be patrolling the fairgrounds?” She blinked her eyes quickly, fighting for control.

  Hud lifted an eyebrow and glanced at me, his mouth twitching. I shook my head slightly, willing him not to react. Maggie was just letting off steam. She worked with law enforcement and knew that they couldn’t be everywhere.

  “Jazz and Katsy are in the home arts building,” Maggie said.

  We followed her out of the agriculture building’s front door to the home arts building next door. It was a long, flat-roofed structure with shiplap siding painted a glossy sunflower yellow. Hundreds of multicolored pansies, gerbera daisies and marigolds were planted in the brick-lined beds surrounding the building. No doubt it would be a favorite spot for people taking family photos.

  The African American quilt exhibit sat directly inside the front door.

  It was obvious where the replica of the famous Harriet Powers quilt once hung. There was a conspicuous blank spot in the middle of 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 last few weeks, Levi has received a few repulsive letters about him being appointed fair manager.”

  Hud murmured, “Shades of the sixties.”

  Jazz’s young face looked puzzled.

  “Has he reported it to law enforcement?” I asked.

  Katsy nodded. “The Paso police are aware of it, but I don’t know about the sheriff’s department.”

  Hud’s scowl informed us they weren’t. His Texas accent was cool. “Y’all might remember that the sheriff’s department has legal responsibility for the fair. We should have been informed.”

  Katsy gave him a long look. “It didn’t occur to us that they wouldn’t tell you. Seems to me that would be an issue between you and the Paso police.”

  I’d observed conflicts like this more than once since marrying Gabe. Like most people, Katsy wasn’t aware that often there was a rivalry—sometimes good-natured, more often acrimonious—between many police agencies. Because of Gabe’s position as chief of police, I was often privy to the carping that went on between various city police departments and the county sheriff. The fair would be a particularly touchy situation, Gabe told me. The actual fairgrounds were state-owned property, which, in some convoluted way, put them under the jurisdiction of the county sheriff, but the fairgrounds were technically located inside the Paso Robles city limits, which made the city police feel proprietary.

  When no one responded to his comment, Hud waved an impatient hand. “Tell me about the letters.”

  Katsy looked irritated. “First one came through the regular mail to the office two weeks ago. Another to his house a few days later. The third one was dropped in the suggestion box outside the administration office the day the fair opened.”

  “What did they say?” Jazz demanded.

  Katsy studied the pavement. “No direct threats, just innuendos about whether he’d gotten his job fairly. One said that he might have bitten off more than he can chew.” She looked back up. “Levi didn’t want the media to hear about the threats so he asked that the police keep a low profile and they have. He is determined not to let anything overshadow the fair and ruin it for people.”

  “Do the Paso police have any ideas who it could be?” I asked.

  “No,” Katsy said. “The Paso detective told Levi that there was a good chance it was just some nutty individual who was reacting to the stories the Tribune ran last month about Levi being the first African American fair manager in San Celina’s history.”

  “There are a few white extremist groups on the Central Coast,” Hud said. “We keep a pretty close eye on them. Mostly it’s just dirtbags who have nothing better to do than get together and whine about how life has crapped on them. So far we haven’t caught them doing anything illegal.”

  Jazz put her hands on her hips. “I’m so mad that Dad didn’t tell me.”

  “Cut him some slack,” Katsy said. “He was trying to protect you.”

  “I’m not six years old!” The young man inched closer to Jazz, but he didn’t touch her.

  Katsy reached over and patted Jazz’s shoulder. “That’s between you and your daddy. But let’s not overreact. That’s exactly what people like that are counting on.”

  “I’m not overreacting. C’mon, Cal,” Jazz said to the young man. “We’re going to talk to my dad right now.”

  Hud, Katsy and I watched the teenagers walk toward the fair’s administration buildings.

  “That poor girl,” Katsy said, shaking her head. “If she ever leaves the Central Coast she’s going to get a rude awakening.”

  Though Katsy had lived all of her life here on the Central Coast, unlike Maggie, she’d gone away to college, a full scholarship to Emory University in Atlanta.

  “Who’s the kid with Jazz?” I asked.

  “Her latest boyfriend,” Katsy said. “Calvin Jones. Goes by Cal. Nice young man. He’s done some work at our ranch. Works part time in Paso at the Mobil gas station over by Walmart. Don’t know much about him except that he’s a hard worker and doesn’t seem to have any family. They just started dating about a month ago. Not a real go-getter, but he’s miles better than her last boyfriend.”

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Dodge Burnside,” Katsy said.

  “You’re right. Anyone’s an improvement over him.”

  Dodge was one of many young men who hung around the ranch with my stepson, Sam. Usually I liked his friends, but I’d taken a dislike to Dodge after an incident at our roundup last year. My neighbor, Love Johnson, and I had walked into the barn to let the young men gathered there know that the food was ready. Dodge had been in the middle of telling a crude joke about women using language that would have caused Dove to smack him with a broom. Red-faced, Love had cleared her throat to let him know there were women present. He looked directly at us and kept going until Sam hit him with his hat and told him to shut up.

  “Why’s that?” Hud asked.

  “You fill in the deputy,” Katsy said. “I’ll see if I can help Maggie fix the display.”

  I nodded. “Since I’m technically in charge of the exhibit, I’ll make the police report. Let Maggie know I’m taking care of that.”

  “Thanks. By the way, Levi knows about the theft.”

  “Got it.”

  On the walk over to the fair’s administrative offices where the sheriff’s department had set up a command post, I told Hud about Dodge Burnside.

  “He’s a local boy. He hangs out with Gabe’s son, Sam, though I wouldn’t mind if Sam found a little more high-class company.”

  “What’s the kid’s problem?”

  “Smart-ass, disrespectful to women, always looks like he’s hiding something not quite legal. Gets away with it because he’s way too good looking. We’re talking soap opera star handsome.”

  He grinned. “Hey, that’s a hard row to hoe. You have no idea how difficult it is.”

  I ignored his remark. I didn’t feel like going into the story about walking in on Dodge telling the crude joke. “His dad, Lloyd, has a real successful house and fence painting business in Atascadero. He does a lot of work for local business and ranches. He’s belonged to the Cattle-men’s Association for as long as I can remember. Dodge worked for him for a while, but from what I heard, even his dad got fed up with his attitude. I think Sam said that Dodge got kicked out of college and that he works for Milt Piebald now. You know, the guy that owns those used car lots with the cheesy commercials?”

  “Piebald’s Awesome Autos,” Hud said. “I love those commercials. Especially the one where he wears that yellow cowboy suit with the cabbage-sized roses on the lapels.”

  “That’s an original Nudie suit,” I said. “Supposedly worth thousands. He claims he bought it from Porter Waggoner. Anyway, Justin, Milt’s son, also hangs out with Sam. Justin’s a San Celina cop. Gabe says he’s a good officer.”

  I wiped the back of my hand across my sweating forehead. The heat was starting to become unbearable. “I can’t believe Jazz ever looked twice at Dodge Burnside. He doesn’t seem her type. Then again, I suppose at some time every girl falls for a bad boy just for his looks. Even smart girls like Jazz.”

  “Sometimes they even marry them,” Hud said, shooting me with a finger pistol.

  “And if I were a bad girl,” I replied, “you’d be getting a certain one-finger salute.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Please, please, be bad, ranch girl. Just for a minute. You’ll like it, I promise.”

  “Seriously, this particular quilt being stolen has a lot of bad connotations. I hate to think about what it might stir up.” I chewed the inside of my cheek.

  “No worries. We’ll catch the big bad quilt thief. You have my word.”

  While we walked to the administrative building where the sheriff’s department had a command post, Hud told me that this year he was in charge of security at the fair. It explained why he was particularly annoyed that Levi or the Paso police hadn’t told him about the letters. Hud normally worked cold cases so his commanding officer thought they could spare him rather than any other detectives working current crimes. We entered the building and walked down the long hallway past Levi’s closed door. I wondered how Levi would handle the media once the quilt theft was public knowledge. Chances were that some people knew about it already, so he couldn’t keep it quiet like he had the threatening letters.

  The sheriff’s department had been given an empty back room for their command post. Hud sat down behind a battered gray metal desk and pulled an official-looking form from a side drawer.

  “Pull up a chair and rest your weary boots,” he said, taking a gold Cross pen from his shirt pocket.

  “I really want to believe the theft isn’t about race,” I said, sitting in one of the plastic visitor’s chairs. On the desk there was a black phone, a metal filing tray and a yellow legal-sized tablet. Behind him were a small beige filing cabinet and a plastic trash can. A metal-framed bulletin board and a fair poster from last year decorated the tan walls. Two folded notes were thumbtacked on the cork board with “Bob” written in felt pen.

  Hud started filling out the report. “Wish away, but though we’d like to believe all of that is in the past, it isn’t.” He looked up from the report. “Let’s look on positive side. Maybe it’s a jealous quilter.”

  “Quilters aren’t like that,” I said, nibbling on my ragged thumb nail.

  “Yeah, right,” he said, his brown eyes mocking.

  “Frankly, it would be a lot less frightening if it was just some whacked-out quilter who was envious of the quilt.”

  “Whatever.” He went back to writing.

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Give me a description of this quilt.”

  I leaned back in my chair, causing it to emit an ominous creak. “It’s a copy of Harriet Powers’s first story quilt. It’s an appliquéd quilt.”

  He looked up at me, his face blank.

  “Appliqué is a technique. You take small pieces of fabric and sew them onto a larger piece of background fabric. Harriet Powers’s quilts show biblical stories like Adam and Eve naming the animals and Cain going to the land of Nod in search of a wife. Harriet Powers is probably the most famous black quilter in history. The quilt that the Ebony Sisters copied was Harriet Powers’s first known story quilt. The original is at the Smithsonian.”

  “The Ebony Sisters? That some kind of singing group?”

  “It’s the quilt guild that Maggie and Katsy belong to. They formed a smaller quilting group out of our bigger San Celina Quilt Guild. I mean, anyone can join them, but they like having, you know, their own . . .” I let my voice trail off. It was often hard to explain why the Ebony Sisters wanted to have their own group.

  “I get it,” Hud said. “Is there a photo of the quilt? That would make it easier.”

  “I can find you a photo. The quilt is double bed size. There are eleven panels. I could describe each panel, but a photo would probably be better.”

  He nodded and continued filling in blanks.

  “So, what now?” I asked.

  He signed the bottom of the form with a flourish. Then he opened a drawer in the desk, took out a manila file folder and, his eyes not leaving my face, dramatically slipped it inside, and then placed the folder in the vertical metal file holding a few similar folders.

  “Not funny. This quilt really is special. One of the contributors died a few months ago so they’ll never be able to duplicate it exactly.”

  The Ebony Sisters Quilt Guild had started this quilt over a year ago in preparation for the museum exhibit. Hundreds of hours of work had gone into its making.

  He leaned back in the old office chair, locking his fingers behind his head. “I’m just messin’ with you, Benni. I do understand how important this quilt is and I wish I could say you have a tinker’s chance in Hades of getting it back. But if it was one of these hate groups, believe me, you might not want it back. If it’s just a person who wanted the quilt, chances are it has already gone to wherever stolen quilts go. The quilter’s pawnshop?” He laughed at his own joke.

  I sighed and stood up. In terms of being a significant crime against humanity, this wasn’t even close. Still, it was important to some of us. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

  “Find me that photo and then I suggest you make up some posters, offer a reward. If it was some carnie taking it on a lark, you might actually get it back.”

  “That’s not a half-bad idea. I’ll tell Maggie and the others.”

  Back outside, the fairgrounds were elbow to elbow with people and the temperature pushing 100 degrees. That actually wasn’t too bad for an August afternoon in Paso Robles. I could recall Mid-State Fairs where the temperatures soared to 115 degrees, though the heat had seemed easier to take when I was younger. A thin stream of perspiration trickled down the side of my neck as I walked back to the home arts building.