The Hen of the Baskervilles Read Online Free PDF Page A

her side kept a tight hold.
    I glanced around. Rosalie’s slot was in the back corner of the barn. The rear entrance was hidden behind the last set of quilt frames, but it was there, and her quilt was about as close to the back door as you could get. Our sneak thief and vandal definitely had a pattern.
    â€œWhat kind of quilt was it?” I asked Mother.
    â€œA Baltimore Album, as Rosalie said.” Mother seemed to think that explained everything. Maybe it did to a quilter. And fortunately, one of the women hovering around her recognized my look of puzzlement and enlightened me.
    â€œNot a quilter, I take it,” she said. “Baltimore Album is a particular style of quilt, usually done with a white background and a design, often quite elaborate, appliquéd on. I can show you an example.”
    She led me a little farther down the aisle and pointed to a quilt. It was beautiful, intricate, and to my untutored eye, looked like a great deal more work than the average quilt.
    â€œOf course Rosalie’s was larger—full size, I think—and much, much more complicated. She’s won national ribbons.”
    â€œIt had a pink dogwood theme,” Rosalie sobbed from her place near the empty frame.
    â€œI think I remember it,” I said. “From my inspection last night.”
    In fact, I didn’t just remember it, I remembered coveting it.
    I pulled out my phone and clicked through the pictures on it until I came to several I’d taken last night. One was of the whole quilt, with branches and pink dogwood blossoms twining in a complex pattern, and the other was a close-up that showed how detailed and intricate each of the hundreds of appliquéd blossoms was.
    â€œIs this it?” I asked.
    Rosalie glanced up, nodded, and then burst into tears. Okay, apparently our thief shared my taste in quilts.
    Vern arrived, bringing with him Aida Butler, the deputy with EMT training. Someone bustled up with a folding wooden chair and sat Rosalie down in it. Aida took Rosalie’s pulse while Vern squatted down and took over the hand-patting where Mother had left off.
    Mother gripped Rosalie’s shoulder and murmured something in her ear. I could see Rosalie sit up straighter and raise her chin, as if to show a brave face to the world.
    Mother glided over to join me and the other volunteer.
    â€œI doubt if this would make Rosalie feel any better,” I said. “But she’s not the only victim.” I explained about the chickens and the pumpkins.
    â€œShocking.” Mother shook her head sadly.
    The volunteer murmured her agreement. Seeing Mother’s tightly pursed lips and narrowed eyes, I indulged in a brief fantasy of finding the thief and turning him over to Mother. Mother and the assembled quilting ladies.
    â€œOne thing,” I asked. “How much is Rosalie’s quilt worth?”
    â€œI have no idea,” the volunteer said.
    â€œIt’s not for sale,” Mother added.
    â€œBut if she were to sell it, what would the market price be?” I asked. “In the hundreds?”
    â€œIn the thousands, I should think,” the volunteer said.
    â€œNo question,” Mother agreed.
    â€œThen when they catch the thief, they can charge him with grand larceny,” I said. “Which in Virginia is anything over two hundred dollars. I wasn’t sure the chickens and the pumpkin qualified, but the quilt definitely does.”
    â€œIf you catch him,” the volunteer muttered.
    â€œI have a great deal of faith in Chief Burke and his men,” Mother said.
    â€œEspecially now that this is grand larceny and they can more easily justify the expense of the investigation,” I said.
    â€œAnd once they catch the thief they can really let him have it,” the volunteer muttered. From her tone, I suspected she’d approve of making quilt theft a hanging crime.
    â€œThere’s also the fact that Rosalie’s quilt is one of a