"That's the last one for now,” she said.

"Let me know if you two need anything,” Harriet said. She finished adding up the figures on their list, wrote them in a small notebook and dropped the book into her bag. “You ready?” she asked Mavis, and when the older woman nodded, they left.

"Do you need to stop at the store or anything while we're in town?” Harriet asked.

Mavis declined, and Harriet pointed her car toward Mavis’ cottage on the wooded shores of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

Foggy Point is a peninsula on the northwest edge of Washington State. It resembles the head and small front claw of a tyrannosaurus, jutting into the inland waters that form the border between the United States and Canada. In earlier times, the jagged outline of the peninsula made a perfect hiding place for pirates and their sailing ships between forays. Eventually, one of the more successful among them, Cornelius Fogg, had settled down and founded the town of Foggy Point.

The downtown area of Foggy Point was situated on what would be the back of the T-rex's neck and spanned an area of six square blocks, with most of the activity centered within two blocks on either side of Main Street.

Harriet drove down the lane leading to the little house in the woods Mavis called home. Wild roses covered the fence that protected the yard of the fairytale-like cottage.

"Can you come in for a cup of tea?"

"Sure,” Harriet replied. “Here, let me carry your bag.” She got out of the car and grabbed Mavis’ canvas quilting bag from the back seat.

Mavis led the way to the arbored gate and held it for her.

"Did you leave your door open?"

"No, I haven't left it unlocked since Bertie came calling.” Mavis referred to an incident earlier that year when Avanell Jalbert had been murdered by her own brother Bertie, who had then come after Harriet, who was staying with Mavis at the time.

"I don't mean unlocked. It's standing open.” Harriet started backing up, pulling her cell phone from her pocket as she went. “I don't have a signal."

"Let's not jump to conclusions. My boys all have keys to the house and some of their kids do, too."

"They all have keys? I don't even know where my parents live, much less have a key."

"You have weird parents,” Mavis replied, being all too familiar with Harriet's history.

"Would your kids leave the door standing open?” Harriet asked.

"Not on purpose, but they might have forgotten you have to lift the knob when you shut the door or it doesn't catch."

Mavis brushed past her and went up to the porch. “We didn't see any cars along the road or in my driveway. I'm telling you, it was one of my boys.” She pushed the door open. “Hello,” she called as she went inside.

Harriet grabbed at her to slow her down but Mavis wasn't having it, so she followed her. The house was small; it only took a few moments to check the two bedrooms, bathroom, living room and kitchen. No one was there.

"There's no note, but that's not unusual.” Mavis picked up her teakettle from the stove and added water before setting it back on its burner and turning on the power. “Sit down and put your feet up for a few minutes,” she said and pointed to the living room. “Your aunt Beth told me you've been working late trying to finish the Civil War quilts as quickly as you can. You know that's why her shoulder went bad, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am,” Harriet said, even though she was pretty sure her aunt had damaged her shoulder long before she'd taken up long-arm quilting. Granted, running the quilting machine for hours on end hadn't helped.

"Have I shown you the new grandmother's flower garden quilt I'm working on?” Mavis was an old-school quilter who sewed the pieces of her quilt top together by hand. She quilted most of her projects by hand, too, although in the interest of time she'd let Harriet machine-quilt one of her Civil War offerings.

"No, but I'd love to see it."

"Katrina's pregnant again, and they just found out it's a girl.” Mavis went into the spare bedroom that doubled as her sewing room. “I'm using…"

"Mavis?” Harriet called when her friend remained silent. Receiving no response, she jumped up and hurried down the short hallway that led to the bedroom.

Mavis stood clutching a worn quilt Harriet had never seen before. Tears streamed down her face.

"Mavis, what's wrong?" Harriet asked as she eased her normally unshakable friend into a seat on the bed. She grabbed several tissues from a box on the fabric cutting table and handed them to her.

After a few moments, Mavis regained her composure. She stood up and, with a final swipe of her tissue, went into the kitchen, turned the kettle off and started making their tea. She gave one cup to Harriet then picked up the old quilt from the chair back she'd set it on and headed into the living room.

"Come, sit. I owe you an explanation.” She spread the worn lap-sized quilt on the sofa between them. “I haven't seen this quilt in almost twenty years,” she began. “I made this for my husband Gerald. The predominant plaid fabric is from one of his flannel shirts. He wore a brand-new shirt out in the garage to sharpen the blade on the lawn mower, and he caught the sleeve on a nail and tore it from elbow to cuff. Instead of trying to repair such a big tear, I cut the whole shirt up and used it in this quilt."

Harriet studied the plaid pattern, giving her friend time. Green, brown and blue shirtings had been used, giving the quilt its scrappy look.

"Gerald traveled some with his job, but after I made this, he never went on a trip without it. He said it made him feel like he had a little bit of home with him. He died on a trip to Malaysia, but when they returned his personal effects this wasn't with them. I thought it had been lost."

Harriet put her hand on Mavis's arm. “I'm so sorry."

Mavis just shook her head. She leaned back and stared into space as she silently sipped her tea.

Harriet wished Aunt Beth hadn't driven to Seattle for the day. She would know the right thing to say to her oldest friend.

"Do you want me to call the police?” she finally asked, knowing it probably wasn't the comfort Mavis needed, but she couldn't think of anything else.

"What for?” Mavis asked, a little more sharply than usual. “What am I supposed to say-'Oh, officer, a crime's been committed. Someone broke into my house to return a lost quilt to me?’ I'm sure they'd rush right over to solve that one."

Harriet laughed softly, “I guess that's probably not a crime we need to dial nine-one-one over. But someone did come in here uninvited."

"We don't know that. Maybe Gerald left it with one of the boys, and they just now realized what they had. Things were pretty chaotic when Gerald died, him being overseas and all."

"It just seems like your sons would have left a note or called you or something."

"You'd think so, but the two unmarried ones are a little more scattered than the other three. Harry or Ben would have intended to leave a note, but I can easily imagine either one of them going out the door without doing it."

"Maybe we could call Darcy,” Harriet suggested. Darcy Lewis was a quilter and sometimes Loose Thread, but she was also a criminalist based at the Jefferson County Sheriff's Office.

"You know better than anyone she can't do anything unless the sheriff's office or the Foggy Point Police Department sends her, and I'm not involving them."

Harriet heaved a weary sigh and finished her now cold tea in two large gulps.

"I better hit the road,” she said. “I've got quilts waiting on me.” She carried her cup to the kitchen sink, rinsing it before she set it on the counter. “Call me tomorrow if you want a ride back to the car dealer,” she called before slipping out the front door.