Quilt City: Proving a Negative: Hadley Carroll Mysteries, #4

By Bruce Leonard

Hadley Carroll's big weekend plans include visiting the National Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky, with her friends and newfound family, watching an action scene being shot downtown for a Hollywood adventure film, celebrating a birthday, and quilting in Paducah Quilters Quorum.

But Hadley, a journalist and the mayor of Paducah, receives bad news from Ashley, the eighteen-year-old who lives with her, and from Dakota, Hadley's best friend.

Then, when the movie stunt goes terribly wrong and the crimes that follow threaten to tear the city apart, Hadley and her usual entourage set out to catch the criminals.

But the stakes grow higher and the stresses become personal when someone close to her goes missing, and Hadley finds herself in unfamiliar terrain when the system breaks down.

She solicits assistance from private-eye Garrett Hunt and from her boyfriend, Detective Brandon Green, but this time justice may elude them all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce Leonard
• Release date: Mar 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798986823584

Book preview

ONE

QUIET ON SET

Aunt Hadley, come check out this quilt, Nova MacGregor said in the National Quilt Museum. It’s fierce.

Nova, the older of the two nieces I didn’t know I had until a month earlier, was correct: Tiger, Tiger, the gorgeous, intricate quilt created by Kris Vierra, is masterful.

As a teenager, I would’ve described items that intrigued me or positive developments as awesome. Because slang changes, I surmised that fierce had a similar meaning.

Nova and her sister, Nell, had accompanied their mother, Nadine—my newly discovered older sister—from their home in Sainte Genevieve, Missouri, to the museum in Paducah, Kentucky. Dakota, my best friend, and I had greeted them at the entrance that Saturday morning in February. Ashley Pope, the eighteen-year-old who lived in my house, was supposed to join us but hadn’t arrived.

I didn’t know if Nadine had instructed her daughters to call me Aunt Hadley, and I didn’t know if Nova, fourteen, and Nell, twelve, felt awkward about conferring that familial title on a woman they’d hung out with only once. But I loved being called Aunt Hadley. I preferred that appellation to Madame Mayor or Mayor Carroll, and Aunt Hadley was infinitely better than the spray-painted names and insults I frequently had to paint over on the side of the Paducah Pulse building, where my staff and I put out a free weekly newspaper.

Paducah features abundant attractions, particularly in the arts, but it also contains friends and relatives of Nick Stoddard, the felonious lecher of a cesspool who lost to me in the mayoral campaign. Then there are the residents who don’t think highly of women, especially me, if their hastily scrawled messages are accurate reflections of their beliefs:

Stoddard got robbed. (Of his morals?)

Women good for only one thing. (Running the country?)

Ain’t my mayor, you women. (Nor was I your teacher.)

These are only some of the graffiti I can print. Calling me a whorespondent took creativity, but Hate You was uninspired.

These insults could have been written by anyone who disagreed with the editorials I wrote, didn’t think mayors should be female, or hated the fact I was dating Paducah Police Department detective Brandon Green. Regardless of who they were, the perpetrators succeeded in causing me to keep painting supplies near the back door.

"Yes, Tiger, Tiger is among my all-time favorites, I said. I’m glad you like it, Nova."

She likes it, Nell said from behind me, but not as much as Johnny Hoenig likes her. She wore jeans, sneakers, and a Sainte Genevieve T-shirt.

Hush, Nova said.

Who’s Johnny Hoenig? I asked.

A boy at school who says he’s gonna marry her, Nell said.

I looked at Nova, who wore jeans, sneakers, and a Taylor Swift T-shirt. She shook her head slowly and said, He’s a potato. He teases me, plays pranks, calls me Mrs. Hoenig even though I told him not to fourteen times. I counted.

Means he likes you, dummy, Nell said.

No, I said, and looked over my shoulder to see where Nadine was. Although I was their aunt, I didn’t know them well, so it wasn’t my place to give them advice. Nadine and Nathan MacGregor appeared to be doing a wonderful job as parents. Nadine stood behind me. She nodded.

A boy who likes you will be kind to you, I said. Never confuse attention, which can become obsession and abuse, with love, or even affection. I turned to Nadine and raised my eyebrows.

Perfect, she said. Girls, Aunt Hadley’s wise and knowledgeable. I suggest you pay attention to her.

I will, they said simultaneously.

Jinx, buy me a Coke, Nova said a split-second before Nell did.

Ha, now you owe me three, Nova said.

Momma, do I really?

Yes, if that’s the arrangement you’ve made, Nadine said. MacGregors honor our commitments. But I’d rather you wager something else. You don’t need all that sugar. How ’bout doing a chore for the winner whenever you jinx?

Okay, Nova said.

No, I’m not picking up her stinky socks, Nell said.

Stop being so slow, then.

Enough, you two, Nadine said. Let’s look in here, she said, leading the girls into the next gallery.

The three of them studied a large abstract quilt as Dakota walked out of that gallery toward me.

How’s it going? she asked.

Swimmingly. Nova and Nell are lovely. I caught myself wondering if they really are as well-adjusted and happy as they appear. The MacGregors remind me of your family—a cross between a Norman Rockwell cover and a Hallmark movie.

That’s a bit much, Hads. Cathy struggles daily, and all of us Crowleys have our issues. Mine have caused real problems.

That was glib. I’m sorry. But the contrast between y’all’s families and the Carrolls is jarring. Speaking of which, Jenny called me this morning.

How’s she doing?

Says rehab is much more difficult than she thought it would be, and she thought it would be, and I quote, ‘harder than calculus.’ Not that she took calculus. But she’s trying to remain upbeat. Says a guy in the group meetings is cute. I told her to keep sobriety in mind, not companionship.

Of course, but don’t you think she drank and used because she’s not in a loving relationship? Her last guy’s in prison, right? My bet is he wasn’t loving her unconditionally. I’m not inclined to overindulge, thank heavens, but I understand her loneliness.

I know you do, D. But being distracted by yet another man isn’t what she needs now. When she’s put a stretch of sobriety behind her, then she can have her heart broken again.

That’s my girl. Mayor Positivity. And this from the woman in a wonderful relationship. How’s Brandon?

Doing well. Visiting his mother to fix a plumbing problem. Nothing major, or that’s what she told him.

You doubt Lottie’s being forthright?

I doubt everything this morning. Today’s visit has ratcheted up my stress beyond my usual stratospheric levels. I finally have a family, even if they’re basically strangers, and I don’t want to mess this weekend up. I’m probably trying too hard. Slap me if I start to cut Nell’s food.

Sure, even though I believe in non-violence.

Thanks. I’m worn to a nub from the movie-shoot. Thought I was supposed to observe the production from afar, not ride in on a white horse.

That bad?

"My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I’d gotten myself up to speed with the macros and micros of the production, even suggesting a few tweaks to the script to allow Paducah to shine. I facilitated umpteen permits, orchestrated the closing of streets, told residents that the car chases and gunshots they would hear wouldn’t be real, and two dozen additional tasks that people should’ve delegated to others, rather than expecting the mayor to perform them.

"But when I dare to believe I’ve put out that day’s fires, Tammy Molitor and Stephen Frese, the producers, call to say they need to change the shooting schedule. Members of the Carpenters Union threaten to strike because, well, the actors and writers succeeded with their strikes, so why not take their shot? The movie’s star, Hollywood legend Sean Emerson, doesn’t like Limoncello LaCroix, but Sam’s Club sells a combination package that includes more of that flavor than the other two, so craft-services wants me to rectify that travesty.

"The director has rewritten the script, so now I need to import a herd of purebred unicorns to juggle Faberge eggs, but the unicorns have been delayed in transit from outer Narnia. So, now I have to cut the overtime I promised to the police department, which further stresses my already fraught relationship with PPD.

"So, what do I do in the middle of this lunacy—other than cursing Richard Lewy for approving this fiasco during his administration? I invite my long-lost family to spend time with me. That’s like a drowning woman trying to do her taxes between gurgles.

And yet voters elected me in a landslide. Go figure. I haven’t had sessions recently with Dr. Bourget because I wanted to save her from having to find another phrase for ‘unhinged moron.’ In other words, sleep and I are currently enemies.

I’m sorry. You’ve taken on too much again, but at least you have your sense of humor. That’s a good sign. If you want me to, I can take them to lunch and to watch the action scene while you nap.

Thank you, but I can’t duck out after I invited them. However, to make sure they don’t flee, never to return, I’d like not to have to pretend to be sane. I know better than to ask you for acting lessons, but maybe I can get Sean Emerson to give me a crash course.

You’re going to crash hard soon. How much coffee did you drink?

Cups or pots?

She laughed and shook her head.

I looked at my watch. Ashley was forty-three minutes late. I didn’t want to be a mother hen, but I couldn’t help myself, despite Ashley being an adult whose nineteenth birthday would be the next day. Not long before, she’d lost the grandmother who’d raised her, Janet Loy. In January, she’d lost her drug-addicted mother, and Ashley couldn’t remember having met her father. She and a Chihuahua named Chica that she’d inherited upon Janet’s death had moved into my large ramshackle house in Lower Town after she’d sold the house that she’d lived in with Grammie J—her nickname for Janet, a former member of Paducah Quilters Quorum.

Ashley was supposed to meet us at the museum before we all went to lunch at Kirchhoff’s Bakery and Deli a couple blocks away. We would then watch the big escape scene that would be shot for True Tomorrow, the $18 million independent heist film that had been shooting throughout Paducah for the previous two weeks. We would attend a movie that night in Maiden Alley Cinema, before having a sleepover at my house—a sleepover that would, of course, include pizzas from Mellow Mushroom.

Then we’d celebrate Ashley’s birthday on Sunday, before my visitors joined my fellow quilters at Dakota’s house for our PQQ session at 2 o’clock. The weekend was jam-packed—probably too ambitious. But I’d felt so welcomed and appreciated in January in the MacGregors’s home that I wanted to express my gratitude, show off Paducah, and deepen our family bonds.

However, what may have appeared to be kindness and generosity on my part probably involved less-noble traits and feelings: a longing for a loving upbringing I never had—and a need to belong. I’m not naturally a joiner, except for PQQ. I’d rather have six good friends in whom I can confide or to whom I can provide aid or counsel than have ninety-four friends who know little more about me than what I choose to post on Facebook.

Of course, as someone who’s lived in Paducah for most of my life, and as the mayor when the events I’m describing took place, I had more than a nodding acquaintance with hundreds of Paducahans and other residents of McCracken County. But that didn’t mean my social calendar was filled with book clubs, church groups, pickle-ball sessions, painting classes, parent-teacher conferences, band practices, game nights, and chess competitions. I considered myself lucky if I had enough energy and brain power left to read three chapters before I began tossing and turning each night.

I didn’t believe my life to be less rich because I didn’t join those clubs or participate in those activities. I already juggled too much. However, throughout my life I’d felt deprived and envious when I saw parents lovingly interacting with their children, guiding them, teaching them, and trying to set them up for success.

On more than a few occasions, I’d wondered what I would’ve been like as a mother. Although that speculation would likely remain theoretical, I was now able to be an aunt, and I wanted to be an amazing one.

If that made me needy and pathetic, I could live with that. What I couldn’t live with was finally to find out where I came from, to meet my flesh and blood, but to be indifferent toward my newfound relatives. I’m almost never wishy-washy and go full tilt whenever I decide to do something. Therefore, when I decided to be an amazing aunt, I wanted everything to be perfect for Nadine, Nova, and Nell during their visit.

But that’s like asking yourself not to age. Some aspects of our lives can be perfect—but never all of them. I gave myself credit for recognizing my control issues—a prevalent trait of children raised in alcoholic homes. I modified my expectations and commended myself for doing so.

Before I’d bundled up against the chill and walked to the museum that morning, I’d prayed for a successful two days and an enjoyable visit, one devoid of acrimony, an ER visit, police-involvement, or worse.

My prayers went unanswered.

TWO

ROLL SOUND

When Ashley arrived an hour after she’d said she would, she was put-together in a way I’d never seen on her: Long blond hair in a ponytail, a silk scarf tied around her neck, a subtle application of makeup, a figure-flattering blue dress, and flats that weren’t the tattered indoor slippers that she’d worn nearly everywhere for the last few months. Among the presents I would give her on her birthday were new slippers that I hoped she’d keep away from my dog, Trapunto, unlike her current pair. For reasons known only to him, he reserved his deepest bites and most violent shakes for her left one.

That day, Ashley had made the effort to present herself as someone who wasn’t in the deepest throes of depression, so I took that as a good sign. But after she’d greeted everyone, she stepped close to me and whispered, Can we talk a sec?

In the lobby, she said, My podcast went great. Well, better than the rest. I’m nowhere near good at it, but I wasn’t as lousy as last week.

She had surprised me a month earlier when, during dinner, she’d said, I have an idea, and I think it will be good for me, even if I also think it’s impossible and I’ll fail big time.

Great, I’d said. We never know our limits until we test them. What’s the idea?

"I want to host a podcast called Boundless Grief. I’m qualified to talk about the subject, obviously, and there are tons of people out there who’ve lost loved ones, so there’ll be plenty of listeners and guests. Well, I hope."

What an excellent goal, Ash. I’ll help however I can. What do you need?

A lot of equipment that Amazon will deliver tomorrow. I probably should’ve run it by you, but Dr. Bourget got all excited by the idea in our session, so I’m calling it therapy. She half smiled. It probably wasn’t the best way I could spend my money, but …

I’m over the moon for you. Because I don’t shop well for others, what do you think about me paying for the equipment and calling it your birthday present? You’ll lose the excitement of opening a gift box, but⁠—

It’s more than a thousand dollars. That’s way too much.

"Because I have some fame and/or notoriety, and perhaps because I’m the mayor, the demand for Paducah Pulse has skyrocketed. I’ve more than tripled our circulation in the last few months, so I’ve been able to raise the ad rates proportionally. In other words, please give me a total, and I’ll write you a check, or Venmo you. Let me be the first to say, nearly a month early, happy nineteenth birthday, Ashley."

You’re the greatest, and I love you.

I love you, too. Now go practice your diction, enunciation, and declension.

I don’t know what the last one is.

I think it has to do with not gritting one’s teeth.

In the museum, she looked around as though she was afraid someone would eavesdrop. We were alone except for the attendant at the front desk, who was out of earshot.

I have a problem, Ashley said. "There’s something I haven’t told you. You’ve had so much going on—taking care of me, and Donna, and Jenny, and being mayor, running Pulse, all of it—the hate mail and stuff. And the movie in town. It’s a lot, so I didn’t want to burden you with the problems my friend from Tilghman and Murray State, Jill Rondell, is having. She’s a great athlete—or was. She was a star volleyball player in high school and was gonna be the best player at Murray, but she started getting sick a while ago. Not too bad at first, but she just kept getting worse."

She gestured toward the nearby chairs, and we sat.

"She’s seen probably six doctors. Paducah, Murray, Nashville. They knew her liver was damaged, but they didn’t know why. Still don’t. She dropped out because she’s so weak, and she’s kinda yellow now. I can barely look at her without crying.

She called just before I left. I cried for twenty minutes, then tried to calm down by showering and sprucing up. She wants me to come see her today. Wants to say goodbye in person. Nineteen years old, and she’s about to die.

We cried together.

I wondered whether she could recover from another loss after having lost her grandmother, her friend Baahir Ali, and her mother in short succession. Would she live her days as a shadow person, devoid of aspirations, never daring to put stock in anyone again for fear of losing them? I vowed to make her mental health my most significant priority.

She and I had similar childhoods, filled with difficulties and hardships that most kids don’t experience. I’d worked for decades to try to overcome the traumas I’d endured. Whatever successes I’ve managed to achieve I owe to my resilience, determination, and willingness to change. Ashley possessed the same grit and adaptable nature that I did, so I hoped she would find her way, and I would help her however I could.

I hugged her and suggested she could distract herself from her misery for a few minutes by hanging out with Nadine, Nova, and Nell among world-class quilts. She said, I’d like to, but I have to see Jill now. You’ve helped me. Thanks for listening, but I should go. Unlike the others, at least with her I’ll get to say goodbye.

Her tears flowed faster. She turned and walked away, stifling her sobs. Her shoulders shuddered as she left the museum.

Dakota soon entered the lobby with a stunned look on her face.

What is it, D?

I’ve been hacked or doxed or whatever it’s called when someone posts fake naked photos of you online. Photos and videos.

Oh, no. How’d that happen?

Must be A.I.-generated because it’s my head and face but not my body.

Were they sent to you, or did someone let you know they exist?

Emailed from what is certainly a fake account and probably bombarding the internet. I feel sick. I had to put my hands on my knees to steady myself. I don’t know what to do.

No idea who did it, I’m guessing.

Could be anyone—someone who didn’t like the representation I gave them, or one of the many bad dates I couldn’t see myself with. I’m not saying I know how to do it, but masking an identity online by using a proxy server isn’t supposed to be difficult. Most sixteen-year-olds probably know how to do it. This could ruin me, professionally and personally.

You’re justifiably upset. I’d be furious. But everyone who knows you even slightly knows you’ve been hacked. The pics aren’t you. It would take a special kind of unhinged exhibitionist to flood the internet with naked photos of herself.

"Not necessarily. Going au naturel has launched more than one actress into the celebrity realm."

True, but that’s an odd move for a defense attorney. What’s the name of the last guy you interacted with on the dating site, or went on a date with?

Stanford Cady. She pulled out her phone and scrolled for a few seconds. Darn. His profile’s down. It was a week ago. Maybe it was a fake name.

Or he could’ve figured that if he can’t have you, he should beat a retreat from dating sites and become a monk.

Or be a vindictive snake and try to ruin me.

There’s that. Did he at least give you a good body?

"Better than mine? No. One adorned with a tattoo on her right arm that says, I’m Your Huckleberry? Yes."

I’ll bring in Garrett. He’s a technical wizard with warlock tendencies. He’ll track this guy down.

A few minutes later, I called Garrett Hunt, the private investigator who’d helped to solve various crises in Paducah, and a man I gratefully called my friend.

Hadley. Been meaning to call you.

Same here. I’d love to catch up, particularly about how Donna and you are doing. But, if you don’t mind, can we do that another time?

Of course. What’s wrong?

I told him about the online photos and videos of Dakota that a guy calling himself Stanford Cady might have posted.

Awful. I’m guessing you don’t want him dead.

I wouldn’t be heartbroken if he died, but, no, I’m not hiring you to kill him.

What if you don’t hire me? I do pro bono work, you know.

I’ve missed you, Garrett. Really. We have to hang out more. But for now, please find this guy and get him to remove the posts. If you could make sure he is prosecuted for whichever crimes he’s committed, I’d appreciate that, too.

"I got this, but you’d be surprised what’s legal in regard to this stuff. It’s the wild west out there, but the internet is worldwide. If this guy pulled anything similar with Rachelle, he’d wish both sets of his grandparents had never been born, just so there’d be no chance he ever was.

By the way, I didn’t tell you the good news about Rachelle. She dumped that steaming pile of flaws, ol’ Nicky-boy. With his obsession to control things, he can’t be taking it well, and that doesn’t make me cry myself to sleep. She’s dating someone. She won’t tell me who, but I promised not to poke around. Ask me if leaving information undiscovered is killing me.

Is it killing you?

"The old me would already be dead. Guess he is, when I think about it. But the new me, the sober, slimmed-down, in-love version—let’s call