Quilt or Innocence (14 page)

A flash of irritation crossed Meadow’s broad face. She tilted the bowl too much and the water was once again spilling out onto the floor. “It’s a story about a woman. She’s trying to . . . you know . . . discover herself. She’s middle-aged and her marriage broke up and she discovers God and her artistic talents. And food.” Meadow stopped and looked hopefully through her lashes at Beatrice.

Clever. That was the plot for at least a dozen different books. But then the water bowl, Meadow’s own personal lie detector, slipped completely out of her hands and fell with a metal clanging onto the wooden floor. Meadow reached over and pulled handfuls of paper towels off the holder as the unconcerned Boris lapped the water right off the floor.

Meadow sighed. “It’s no use. I never could fib, even to save my own soul. You might as well have a seat. I haven’t even offered you any coffee! Where are my manners?” Beatrice opened her mouth to remind her that she’d already had a huge mug, but then realized resistance was probably futile. More coffee? Beatrice not only envisioned herself in the restroom very soon, but she also had visions of hot coffee in Meadow’s shaky hands, splashing all over her, and Meadow quickly added, “Without spilling it, I promise. I’m putting my sins behind me!”

A few minutes later, Beatrice perched on Meadow’s sofa, drinking some very black coffee. Meadow looked sheepish. “You won’t say anything, Beatrice, will you? Because I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”

“But, Meadow, what about Ramsay? Have you told
him
what you were doing that night?”

“It’s just that Amber came by that night. After the quilting bee. She was riled up and wanted to fuss about Judith. She felt like Judith was robbing Felicity of money she could have made from the quilt. Felicity hasn’t had a whole lot of extra cash on hand lately, so she’s reached the point in her life where she wants to make things
simple
. But
simple
can still be
expensive
. She needed that money, and Amber took Judith’s trick personally.”

“Well, the money from that quilt wouldn’t be enough to be able to put Felicity in a top-notch retirement home. It wasn’t
that
valuable.”

Meadow hesitated, drinking some of her coffee, then made a face. “Too strong. Would you rather have some iced tea?” Beatrice shook her head and waited. Meadow sighed. “It wasn’t just that the money from the quilt would help with expenses. That was merely the final straw. A developer approached Felicity and Judith about their properties. He wanted to buy both their lots for an office building. But he needed
both
of them to agree to sell the property to make it worth anything. He couldn’t do anything with just one of the properties; the space would be too small.”

“Judith wasn’t interested?” asked Beatrice.

“She wouldn’t
budge
. Wouldn’t even
talk
to the developer about it. If Felicity had gotten that money, then she’d have been able to move into any retirement community that she chose.”

This put things in a more serious light. So Amber had several grievances against Judith. No wonder she’d been furious about Judith’s attempt to swindle her mother.

“Amber wanted to talk. That’s
all
,” said Meadow. She lifted her cup to sip her coffee and spilled some on her lap. She looked sadly at the telltale spill. “Okay. Well, maybe she was interested in drinking a bottle of my Chardonnay, too. But that was only to take the edge off.”

“
Did
it take the edge off?”

Meadow shook her head. “It sure didn’t. Nothing I said seemed to help, actually. Amber left just as upset as she was when she came. Maybe even more upset.”

“I know you’ve mentioned that Amber used to be a real hothead. But she doesn’t seem that way anymore.”

“She’s usually not. But she’s really protective of Felicity.”

Beatrice asked, “How did you and Amber end up being such great friends?”

“I’m her confidant and mentor. We’ve been friends since she was a teenager.” Meadow looked pleased with herself.

The idea of Meadow being anyone’s mentor made Beatrice smile. “So, you decided to cover up the fact that she’d been over to visit you.”

“Well, not originally. But after I found out about the murder, I decided not to say anything about it. After all, it’s not like Amber could
murder
anyone.” Meadow gave a halfhearted laugh. “I’d practically be derailing Ramsay’s investigation if I mentioned Amber’s visit. It’d take him off on the wrong tangent. Better to have him investigating true leads and finding out who the real killer is.”

“But you were out in your yard later? That’s when Piper said that she saw you looking or acting odd,” said Beatrice.

Meadow looked guilty, but then looked away. “I was out looking for Boris. He’d gotten out at some point and I couldn’t find him. Before Posy returned him I walked a little ways down the street; then I came back in. But then you’d understand that, since you’ve just brought him back to me.” She bent over and covered the Great Dane with kisses. He grinned with delight, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

Meadow set her mug down on the coffee table with great determination and focus. There was now no indicator for her truthfulness, but Beatrice still couldn’t believe what Meadow was saying. “Who do you think would want to murder Judith, then, if not Amber?”

Meadow raised her eyebrows. “Everybody in this town, girlfriend. Nobody liked her. She was a major busybody, which doesn’t win friends or influence people when you live in a small town. Plus the fact, of course, that she blackmailed people.”

“
Blackmailed
people? I thought Judith had plenty of money. She owned her own shop, and it seems like she’d sell her property to the developer if she needed money.”

“She had plenty of money. She just enjoyed being mean,” said Meadow. “I had an old high school friend here for a visit a few months ago. We were having a good time reminiscing over a bottle of wine. Judith came by out of the blue.” Meadow looked irritated. “She was always really nosy.”

Coming from Meadow, that was really saying something.

Meadow said, “She was probably out driving around, looking for trouble, and spotted my friend’s car in the driveway. She popped by for a visit and to see who was with me.”

Beatrice asked, “Did she even give a reason for being there?”

“She said she’d dropped by to pay me back for some fabric I picked up at Posy’s for everyone in the guild. But she didn’t have to pay me back that
minute
. The guild was meeting in a couple of days, anyway. Judith was being nosy. Like I said.”

“So your friend was sloshed and started spilling secrets?” asked Beatrice.

“She was laughing and cutting up and blabbing all our youthful indiscretions to Judith. Judith, of all people! Telling her that she and I had smoked pot in college.” Meadow rolled her eyes. “I tried to cut her off, but she was bound and determined to tell some funny story about something silly we’d done.”

“And I bet,” said Beatrice drily, “that Judith was a really attentive audience for your friend.”

“I’m sure Sally must have been flattered to bits having Judith hanging on her every word like that. Of course, she didn’t know Judith was going to try blackmailing me over it.”

“What did Judith do?”

“She was so smug,” said Meadow, making a face. “She automatically assumed that I’d be happy to pay her to keep her from telling all of Dappled Hills that the town police chief’s wife used to smoke pot.”

“How much money did she want?”

“Believe it or not, considering how greedy she is, she didn’t actually want any money. No, Miss Judith wanted to be president of the Village Quilters.”

“What?” Beatrice frowned. “Was the presidency something you could arrange for her?”

“Not really. It would be bending the rules. The guild votes on the president. Judith wanted me to step down with some kind of excuse about being busy and appoint her as president in my place. I kind of doubted that the others were going to go for it, though. They’d have thought I’d flipped my wig.”

Beatrice tapped her finger against her coffee cup. “Why on earth would Judith care so much about being president of the Village Quilters?”

“Judith wanted the position because she knew she’d never get it through our guild elections. And she took it very personally whenever someone else was voted as president. Nobody liked her, and that was reflected every year at elections. If she’d ended up as the guild president, she could have really rubbed it in everyone’s faces.”

Beatrice sighed. “None of it makes sense to me. I can understand somebody trying to get rid of Judith, especially if she was trying to blackmail them or reveal a secret they had. But who on earth would try to kill Miss Sissy? She seems harmless enough. Well, not exactly
harmless
, and she’s clearly crazy as a coot, but . . .”

“What?”

Beatrice blinked. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I completely forgot to mention what happened yesterday in all the bother with Boris and thinking about Judith’s murder. Besides, I’m surprised Ramsay didn’t tell you. Miss Sissy was attacked in her home yesterday and left for dead. She was unconscious when I discovered her yesterday morning.”

Beatrice had the distinct pleasure of seeing Meadow struck speechless for the first time since she’d met her.

Beatrice continued. “It must be the same person responsible for killing Judith. I find it hard to believe such a tiny town would have
two
murderers running around in it. But what could her attacker have been trying to accomplish?”

Meadow found her tongue finally. “Could she have known something or seen something? Miss Sissy honestly doesn’t even seem like she knows what’s going on half the time.”

But Beatrice wondered. She sometimes glimpsed a cunning look in Miss Sissy’s eyes that made her think that the old woman knew more than she let on. “A couple of days ago, I was at the Patchwork Cottage while Miss Sissy was there. She was rambling about greed and acting smug.”

Meadow snorted. “Miss Sissy’s pet peeve is greed. She’s totally obsessed with it. She’s even called
me
greedy before, and I live in a barn and am married to a cop. It’s her personal mania. But who knows? Maybe she did know something. Good luck getting anything out of her that makes sense, though. Honestly, I’m going to kill that Ramsay for not telling me about this yesterday.” Meadow reached down and absently rubbed Boris’s head. Boris half closed his eyes, and Beatrice wondered for a moment if the Great Dane was going to start purring.

“You know what you could do?” said Meadow. “You could take Miss Sissy her favorite treat. I think food is definitely the way to her heart. She’ll probably spill whatever’s on her mind right away.”

“What’s her favorite treat?” asked Beatrice.

“Peanut brittle. The homemade kind.”

“Peanut brittle? Miss Sissy doesn’t have any teeth!”

“She certainly does! Maybe they’re not over at Posy’s, though. No, I’m sure Posy would have packed them. And Miss Sissy would definitely pop them in if she had peanut brittle handed to her.” Meadow snapped her fingers. “And I just thought of something. This attack on Miss Sissy should prove that Amber had nothing to do with Judith’s murder. Can you picture Amber hitting Miss Sissy over the head?”

Beatrice couldn’t. But, then, she couldn’t actually picture
anyone
doing it. She did wonder, though, how Meadow knew Miss Sissy had been hit over the head during the attack. Was it just because that was how Judith had been killed? Or did Meadow know more than she was letting on?

Peanut brittle, thought Beatrice. She was still trying to find her way around her tiny kitchen and remember where the plates and cups were. And her recipe box. She was pretty sure that her mother’s peanut brittle recipe was in her battered recipe box somewhere.

Beatrice fin
ally found the box tucked in the same cupboard as her pots and pans. Really, she had to wonder sometimes where her brain was. She’d been a curator at an art museum, for heaven’s sake. She was great at arranging things so they made perfect sense. Ordinarily.

There was a knock at the door, so Beatrice scrambled off the floor where she’d perched in front of the pots and pans. She peered out to see Daisy there, holding a tremendous planter with a collection of different flowers and green plants in it. “A welcome-to–Dappled Hills gift,” she said with a smile as she walked through Beatrice’s tiny living room and put the planter by the backdoor.

Beatrice wished she had thought to put on something nicer that morning. Here she was in a disreputable pair of old jeans and a T-shirt that never made it out of the house (for good reason). Daisy was wearing a pair of dark slacks and a crisp, lilac-colored blouse . . . with too many buttons unbuttoned. Daisy came back into the living room and seemed to be waiting for something. Beatrice quickly said, “Oh, Daisy. Please . . . have a seat.”

Daisy sat down on Beatrice’s gingham sofa, and Beatrice said, “Can I get you a coffee or a snack or anything?”

“I’m fine, Beatrice, but thanks.”

“Well, thanks so much for the plants. They’re lovely, and, really, you’ve done enough, anyway—the dinner party was such a treat.” How long was she going to be able to keep those poor plants alive? She hadn’t been blessed with any gardening genes.

“It’s my pleasure, Beatrice! It’s such a pity we had this terrible tragedy right after you moved to town. And to think that we’ve got some sort of deranged killer in our midst! It hardly seems safe to go outside right now.”

It was actually hard to picture a more benign place than Dappled Hills. For the town residents, though, it must seem a lot more alarming to have a murder in such a pastoral place. Beatrice said, “I’m sure Ramsay will figure out who did it; then everything will return to normal. I’m curious to see what normal is like here, since I haven’t really experienced it yet.”

Daisy gave a small shrug. “It’s usually a little slow. I try to liven things up by having different parties. And I travel around a lot with the quilting.”

“Oh, right—your quilting competitions.”

“They’re really like juried shows,” said Daisy mildly. “My family is from Charleston, South Carolina, and I try to make it down there fairly often, too. The entire family are patrons, so we’ll visit museums and galleries when I’m there. It’s very refreshing.”

There wasn’t art in Dappled Hills? “There are galleries here, too, aren’t there? I’m sure I saw them downtown.”

“There are . . . Well, there
is
. There’s one gallery. I’d like to see a lot more, of course, but I don’t know if this area can support more than one.” She glanced around thoughtfully at Beatrice’s bare walls. “Funny, because somehow I thought with your background as a curator, you’d have more artwork on your walls.”

Beatrice felt an annoying flush crawl up her neck. “I do, actually, have a nice collection of Southern folk art. I haven’t unpacked everything, though. I did downsize a lot when I came here, realizing that I was moving into a smaller place. Which is funny—I was only in a condo in Atlanta, but this cottage is still smaller.” She hated feeling defensive.

“Soon you’ll have your own art up on the walls.” Beatrice blinked at her, and she continued. “Your quilts, of course!”

“Oh. Of course. Quilts everywhere.”

“Did you start on your group block for Meadow?”

“No. No, I decided to start out with a quilt of my own first. That way I could practice and make mistakes and not mess up a group quilt for my first project.”

Daisy pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s one way of doing it. Although I’m sure you wouldn’t mess anything up, Beatrice.” She peered innocently at the shelf under the coffee table. “What’s this?”

“It’s my practice quilt,” said Beatrice. Her voice sounded stiff to her ears.

“It’s really lovely, Beatrice. It really, really is.” The number of
really
s seemed to increase with the level of insincerity in Daisy’s voice. Beatrice hadn’t realized the quilt was
that
bad.

“Were you . . . well, were you just being ingenious here?” Daisy pointed a red-lacquered nail at one block.

“Ingenious?”

“Where you put the patch on upside down. Sometimes there are quilters who sort of
wink
with their patches. An inside joke between them and their audience.”

“Oh. No, that would be a plain old error. I didn’t plan any winks in the quilt.” Darn it. And
audience
? As if quilting was in the entertainment realm?

“We all do things like that, Beatrice. It’s easily fixed.” Daisy’s voice seemed to indicate that she was perhaps telling a little white lie to make Beatrice feel better.

After seeing Daisy off a few minutes later, Beatrice sat back down on the gingham sofa and looked grimly at both the potted plants and her quilting mistake. There was nothing like a setback, especially when you thought you might be getting the hang of something.

* * *

Daisy’s visit had knocked her completely off course. She finally remembered that she’d been planning on making Miss Sissy some peanut brittle. Noo-noo watched with great interest as she pulled out the recipe box to find the recipe. The box was more packed than she’d remembered. There were scraps of yellowed newspaper peeping out, ancient index cards with smudges on them, and pages ripped from old magazines.

Finally she found her mother’s peanut brittle recipe. The card was so old that it looked like it had been written on parchment paper. She popped the card in her pocketbook and looked out the window. It looked nice enough to walk to Bub’s, and the recipe didn’t call for many ingredients. Noo-noo looked hopefully at Beatrice. “Not this time, Noo-noo. You wouldn’t be able to go inside the store. But I’ll bring you back some treats.”

* * *

Beatrice was halfway to the store when she saw a tremendous old-model Lincoln shuddering down the road toward her. She quickly hopped out of the way. Miss Sissy, behind the wheel already? Hearing a cheerful toot-toot of the horn, she noticed the car was actually within the parameters of the road and that Posy was behind the wheel with a bandaged Miss Sissy sitting ferociously beside her in the passenger’s seat. As the car passed, Miss Sissy brandished a cane at her through the back window. Since Beatrice was such a road hog, walking in the grass.

Beatrice set a meandering pace, taking in the sights of the little town along the way. It was really almost
too
picturesque. But it was all completely genuine, she knew—there were no tourists here until the fall leaves changed. There was the old-timey grocery store with three old men in rocking chairs cutting up in front. There was a
full-service
gasoline station with another coterie of old boys (this time in gas-station uniform). The little art gallery, bookstores, and toy stores dotted the main road. And then there was the Patchwork Cottage . . . very cottagey indeed with gingham curtains hanging in the window. Nothing at all like Atlanta. Beatrice felt a little stirring of sadness for the big city she’d left as she looked at the bucolic scene ahead of her. There had been real excitement in the city. Then Beatrice frowned and squinted a little bit. Off on the side road there. It was Amber, sitting in her car with the engine off. She acted like she was waiting for something. Or someone. Maybe it was the fact that Felicity had mentioned Amber’s rebellious past, but Beatrice couldn’t help but get the feeling that Amber looked furtive. Could it be that some of her past behavior was resurfacing?

Beatrice saw Amber suddenly lift a phone to her ear as if she’d gotten a call. She started the motor and drove away. What was Amber up to? Just looking for some excitement in the small town? Or was there something more troubling going on?

Suddenly the little town of Dappled Hills didn’t seem quite so sleepy.

* * *

After the peanut brittle had cooled and Beatrice had put it in a container, she called Posy’s house. It was past five, so surely Posy and Miss Sissy were back at the house by now. Sure enough, Posy’s cheerful voice answered the phone and she urged her to come on by. “Miss Sissy will be so thrilled!” said Posy. “And it’s so thoughtful of you to do something nice for her.”

It made Beatrice feel a little bit guilty about her motives. But, after all, it
was
important to solve this case. It wasn’t healthy for such a small community to be looking over their shoulders for very long . . . wondering which neighbor was a killer.

* * *

Miss Sissy
was
thrilled by the peanut brittle, actually. She crowed loudly and clapped her withered hands as soon as she saw the treat. The next thing Beatrice knew, she’d snatched the container out of her hands and disappeared into the back of the house, presumably to reunite with her teeth.

Posy’s husband, Cork, shook his head as he watched the cronelike figure scamper away. “When did you say that it was your turn to host Miss Sissy, Beatrice?”

“Now, Cork! It’s our pleasure to have Miss Sissy here with us. You know she gives back a lot . . . in her own way.”

Cork put the heels of his hands over his eyes and pushed as if to relieve the pressure there. Beatrice said, “Well, whenever you do need a break from Miss Sissy’s giving, give me a call.”

Cork growled, “I’m still not convinced that there’s some murderer after her, anyway. Maybe it was a burglary gone wrong. Somebody could have broken into Miss Sissy’s house looking for money, she surprised them, and they conked her on the head. Could’ve been as simple as that.”

Beatrice sighed. “Ordinarily I’d agree with you, Cork. But, really. If you were a burglar, would you pick
Miss Sissy’s
house to break into? The place is in shambles. You can barely even
get
to the front door with all the vines and thorns surrounding the house. It’s the last place I’d choose if I were looking for money.”

Cork waved his hand irritably. “Looking for prescription drugs, then. She’s an old woman. Probably got tons of prescription drugs in there. You know what drug users are like these days. All trying to get ahold of those prescription drugs.” He pushed his chair back abruptly. “Got a great red wine today from the store . . . It’s been decanting. Want a glass, Beatrice? I sure as heck need one.”

“I’d love one. Thanks.”

Cork disappeared into the kitchen, and Posy sighed. “Cork sometimes isn’t quite as patient with Miss Sissy as I’d like.”

Cork was apparently still within earshot, because he stuck his head back through the doorway. He had a couple of empty wineglasses in his hands. “Miss Sissy isn’t patient with
me
, Posy. She hisses at me.”

“Only when you’re not friendly, Cork!”

Grumbling, Cork disappeared again.

“Don’t let Miss Sissy come between you,” Beatrice said quickly. “If her visit becomes too much of a strain, just let me know and she can stay with me for a while. I do think it’s important to keep an eye on her, though. There’s no way anyone would have imagined that she had designer prescription drugs in her house. I’m sure she was targeted because she knew something. How is Miss Sissy doing, by the way?”

“You know, Beatrice, she’s not really doing so well. That’s why it was especially nice of you to bring over a special treat for her.
Physically
she’s doing all right, but
mentally
it’s another story. It’s really so sad—she jumps at the slightest little thing. That feistiness isn’t there. I actually called Wyatt to see if he had any suggestions. She seems to respond so well to him. It was all a really traumatic experience for her.”

“Well, if anyone has a solution to Miss Sissy’s fears, it would be the minister. He does have a very calming influence on her,” said Beatrice. “Most of the rest of us seem guilty of riling her up.”

The kitchen door opened again, and Cork arrived with a tray bearing the wine decanter and three glasses of wine. Unfortunately for Cork, Miss Sissy reappeared simultaneously. She had some very obvious peanut brittle crumbs on her mouth and dress. And, apparently, she’d overheard some of the conversation. Or, maybe, just the word
guilty.
“Posy isn’t guilty,” she bellowed, shooting Beatrice a vicious look. “But the guilty know their transgressions.
Wickedness
.”

Cork gave a long-suffering sigh, put the tray firmly down on the coffee table and took a glass and the rest of the decanter with him as he disappeared into the back of the house.

Posy said, “Now, Miss Sissy, you’re getting yourself all excited again! You know the doctor said that wasn’t good for your blood pressure. What are you talking about—wickedness?”

“It was wickedness that killed Judith,” spat Miss Sissy.

Beatrice resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Miss Sissy wasn’t exactly trotting out a new idea, after all. She didn’t want to lose the footing she’d gained with her, though. “Do you know something about the killer, Miss Sissy? Did you see or hear something?”

She looked at Beatrice balefully with bloodshot eyes. “I saw them kissing.”

“Saw
who
kissing?” asked Beatrice.

But Miss Sissy wasn’t ready to spill what, if anything, she knew. She gave Beatrice a cunning look. “Their evildoing will bring contagion! Contagion on Dappled Hills!”

Miss Sissy looked on the verge of foaming at the mouth, and Beatrice had to give Posy points for her enormous patience as she gently squeezed Miss Sissy’s crippled hand. “It’s all right, dear. Don’t worry about it now. Would you like a glass of milk to go with your peanut brittle?”

Surely someone with the patience of a saint couldn’t have acted out of spontaneous anger against Judith.

There was a gentle knock at the front door, and Miss Sissy went pale. “Bolt the door!” she said, scampering into the kitchen and peering around the door into the living room. As Posy trotted to the door, Miss Sissy hissed, “Don’t open it!”