Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case (5 page)

“Nixy, sit there at the foot so we can all see you,” Sherry said as she pointed to the chair closest to the foyer.

With Fred on my left, Eleanor on my right, I took my seat, and after Aster gave thanks for the bounty, we dug in. Saucers piled with homemade bread, big bowls with the cold meat salads and crisp, evenly browned fried okra, and small bowls with condiments made the lap around the table. I opted for sweet tea and accepted a splash of dandelion wine.

I expected dinner chatter about the festival, but the Silver Six ate in silence so profound, they’d give vow-silent monks competition. And, okay, I shoveled down fried okra so divine, my taste buds had a religious experience.

But I needed answers, and at this moment, I had a captive audience.

“Aunt Sherry, I mentioned that I have to leave Tuesday, right?”

“It’s not the least bit inconvenient to have you longer.”

“Thank you, but the point is I have only a few days to help out. And first, I need to know what’s going on with the explosions and kitchen fires.”

“Detective Shoar’s been tattling on us?” Her tone went for playful. I didn’t buy it.

“He’s concerned about your safety and the safety of your neighbors.”

Fred harrumphed, and Maise cleared her throat.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I have a lovely recipe for bananas flambé, but it always goes flambooey. Same when I try it with peaches and berries. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“No offense, Maise, but coming from someone who can fry okra this perfect, that story sounds like a lot of baloney.” I set my fork on the plate, sat ramrod straight, and gave each of the Six a hard stare. “Time to come clean, ladies and gentlemen. What’s really going on?”

SILENCE HUNG OVER THE TABLE AS THE SIX
exchanged glances. Then Aster shot out of her chair and grabbed a blue bowl from the sideboard.

“Let’s enjoy a little calming lavender,” she said as she sprinkled tiny purple buds down the center of the table, deftly avoiding the food.

Fred growled and slapped his thick ham salad sandwich on his plate.

“I do believe Fred is immune, Aster,” Eleanor said.

“Bet my last nuts and bolts, I’m immune. I’m mad and I’m stayin’ that way. Who’s she to be askin’ questions when she don’t know nothin’ about—”

“Fred!” cried the women.

He crossed his arms. “I’m just saying she’s awful nosy for a niece who hardly pays attention to her aunt.”

“Fred, please don’t,” Sherry cautioned.

“Well, she is, dadgumit.” Fred shifted his gaze from Sherry to me. “We’re the ones who’ve been with Sherry through thick ’n thin these past years, and she with us. Me after my accident, Dab after his Melba died, Aster and Maise when their house burned, and Eleanor when—”

“That’s quite enough, Fred.” Aster spoke with steel in her tone and smacked the bowl of lavender on the table.

“Point is,” Fred went on, “we’ve been knowin’ each other long before we started sharin’ this house. You don’t know diddly squat about us, and you shouldn’t be stickin’ your nose in our business.”

I took a measured breath.

“You’re right, Fred. I don’t know nearly enough about any of you, and I haven’t been the best of nieces to Sherry Mae. But I want to be a better niece, and I want y’all to be safe. To do that I need information. So educate me. Please. Let’s start by talking about the explosions.”

“That’s my fault,” Dab said, “but it’s a boom, not an explosion. I distill Aster’s herbs in the basement, you see, and every time the old furnace down there rumbles, the vibration messes with the pressure valves on my stills.”

“When we have, uh, a boom,” Aster added, “we have a system. Maise sets off a smoke bomb in the kitchen window, and I crank up the garden fans to blow away the smoke.”

Eleanor sniffed. “And blow off whatever that noxious smell coming from the basement is.”

I narrowed my eyes at Dab. “Why don’t you tell Detective Shoar the truth?”

“’Cause Dab thinks Shoar will arrest him for moonshinin’,” Fred grumped. “Old Dab’s family was bootleggers back in the day, and he stores some of the old hooch down there.”

“It’s just some jugs of vintage home brew his family made,” Sherry added. “It’s not much different from having a wine cellar.”

“I see. Are you making anything illegal, Dab?”

He puffed up. “Now listen here, I am a chemical engineer with years of experience. I would move out before I’d put any of us at risk.”

“Okay, then let’s talk about Hellspawn. From what I heard, she wants an option on your land, Sherry. Is that like an oil lease?” Yes, my Texas roots showed, plus I’d dated a geologist who worked for an oil and gas company.

Sherry folded her hands on the table, and I saw they trembled slightly. “No, child, she wants an option to purchase the entire property. We looked up the term on the Internet. Eleanor, you explain it.”

Eleanor folded her hands in her lap. “A developer draws up a contract to buy your house or land. You agree on a set purchase price, and the developer then pays the landowner a fee for signing the contract.”

“How much of a fee?”

“According to the article we read, it’s five to ten percent of the purchase price. There’s a time limit in the contract, but the selling price remains the same, even if property values go up.”

“Ms. Elsman told us most of our neighbors have signed her contract,” Sherry added.

“Bullies lie, Aunt Sherry. Have you talked to the neighbors to check out her story?”

Sherry looked shocked. “Heavens, no. One doesn’t talk about religion, politics, or money with people one doesn’t know extremely well, Nixy.”

“Perhaps not even then,” Maise said. “We’re not nosy parkers.”

“I know your mother taught you the same rules,” Sherry added.

“She did, but, Sherry, you’re being threatened. If asking questions gives you facts, it’s time to be a little nosy.” I paused and glanced around the table. “Does anyone know what she’s planning to build?”

“No,” Dab chimed in, “but Eleanor tried looking her up on the Net. Nothing came up except an Elsman obituary. Oliver James Elsman owned OJE Development Company out of Little Rock.”

“Is that a land development company?” I asked, and Eleanor nodded. “Then unless there are a lot of Elsmans in Arkansas, I’ll bet the company and Hellspawn are connected. Did she leave you a business card?”

“Yes, but it only lists her name and phone number,” Eleanor said.

“Then maybe she’s not legit. Have you called the OJE office to ask if they’ve heard of her?”

Sherry looked sheepish. “We haven’t had time, what with getting ready for the festival.”

I nodded and put calling OJE on my to-do list.

“I heard Hellspawn say you’d be sorry for not selling to her, but has she made specific threats?”

“She has. She’s visited for thirteen days now, and every time she made threats. At first they were verbal, like telling the city powers that be that I’m unlawfully running a boardinghouse.”

“At first?” I echoed, feeling the okra suddenly churn in my gut.

Another of those looks passed around the table, then Sherry sighed.

“We can’t be sure Elsman is behind these incidents, but just Tuesday morning we found a dead bird on the porch steps. Its little neck was broken. Wednesday morning, we discovered a break-in at the barn.”

“What was taken?” I asked, willing myself to remain calm even while remembering the tidy barn and art supplies.

“The barn was a mess with things tossed all over, so it took a while to pin down that anything at all was missing. Eventually, I discovered some of my basket weaving supplies were gone. Some blue gingham fabric strips, some hemp rope, and my old white cotton gloves. Well, they weren’t white anymore. I use them when I crochet with jute twine, sometimes with hemp twine, too, so I don’t tear up my hands.”

“And we wear cotton gloves after we treat our hands with lanolin,” Eleanor added. “Although I do believe I’ve come to like my gardening gloves more for whittling. The rubberized ones give me a better grip.”

“We also discovered,” Dab said, “that a crow bar and an old hand drill were gone. A few other things, too. Nothing worth much, but the drill was my dad’s.”

“That weren’t the worst mischief, though,” Fred growled. “Tell her, Sherry.”

“Someone put a cherry bomb or some such thing in the mailbox. I found the damage Thursday morning.”

“A bomb?” I said, managing not to screech.

“Back panel landed in the front yard,” Fred said, “and the mailbox door blowed clean across the road. Dab and me put a new mailbox in right quick and fixed the enclosure. And we’re keepin’ the doors on the barn and t’other outbuildings padlocked.”

“Oh. My. God.”

My hands clenched the chair arms while every muscle vibrated with anger. This went beyond bullying into terrorism. A deep breath then another four calmed me enough to speak again.

“Does Shoar know about all these incidents? Surely he’s investigating the mailbox bomb.”

“Naturally,” Sherry said. “Why, even Mayor Paulson and Chief Randall came by with our county deputy prosecuting attorney, Bryan Hardy. You met the mayor and Bryan today. They assured us they’d find the culprits.”

“Does the detective have suspects?” I asked tightly.

“He thinks it’s kids pulling pranks,” Dab said.

Sherry nodded. “I’ve known Eric Shoar since he was a boy, and he’s been very attentive and helpful. He’s doing his best, what with our other detective out for surgery. I’m only surprised he didn’t tell you all this when he took you aside this morning.”

“So am I,” I muttered with visions of retribution next time I had Shoar in my sights.

“I ain’t surprised a’tall,” Fred grumped. “To tell it true, we think Shoar believes we’re losin’ it, and that’s why you showed up. Shoar wants you to take us in hand, get us to go to an old folks’ home.”

I collapsed against the chair back on a whoosh of breath. No wonder they’d all been so leery of me at the festival. Why they were huddled together afterward. Why they kept exchanging speculative glances.

Why Fred blew up at me.

“You’re wrong,” I said firmly. “In the first place, I wouldn’t dream of making you move, even if I had that authority. Second, within the limits of his job, Detective Shoar has been protecting y’all. It’s true he gave me an ultimatum to come check on Aunt Sherry Mae, but he doesn’t want you in a seniors’ home.”

“He told you that?” Sherry asked.

“He told me Lilyvale takes care of their own, but the explosions—”

“Booms,” Dab corrected.

“—have to stop. No more smoke bombs either.”

Dab heaved a defeated sigh. “I’ll dismantle the stills tomorrow. Now that the festival is over, Aster won’t need me to distill herbs for a month or so.”

“Hotcakes on the griddle!” Fred crowed. “That’ll give Eleanor a chance to redesign the stills and me to build ’em.”

“Eleanor designs stills?” I asked.

“Not in the general way of things, but she is a mechanical engineer.”

I said, “Oh,” but thought
wow
.

“Now, wait a minute,” Dab sputtered. “I want to reassemble at least one of those stills in the barn.”

“Why, Dab?” Eleanor asked.

“Because I’m working on my own project and never you mind what it is. I just need one still to be operational.”

I held up a hand. “Dab, as long as it’s legal, and there are no booms, and no fire dangers, have at it. That will take care of one issue, but, Sherry, you have to talk to your neighbors. You need to find out if Hellspawn is lying about those option contracts. Tomorrow’s Sunday, so most of them should be home by the afternoon, right?”

Sherry’s worried expression transformed into a beaming smile. “Even better, Nixy. Most of them will be at services tomorrow morning.”

“Not only that,” Aster broke in with a grin, “it’s also Break Bread Breakfast Sunday at nearly every church in town.”

“It’s what?”

“The church ladies of various denominations serve a buffet before the first service,” Eleanor said.

“It’s designed to build community,” Aster added with a twinkle in her eyes, “but it’s also the best time to pick up gossip.”

“Not that we gossip,” Eleanor said primly.

Dab and Fred snorted a laugh.

“Then are you in for some snooping?” I asked. “All of you?”

Heads nodded, and Maise rapped the table with the heel of her knife. “It’s unanimous. At oh-eight-hundred tomorrow, we commence Operation Sink Hellspawn.”

•   •   •

LATER I PITCHED IN TO CLEAN THE DINNER DISHES
—policing the kitchen, Maise called it— and listened to Sherry and crew strategize which of them would visit which churches the following morning. From their discussion, I learned none of them were strangers to any church in Lilyvale. That, Sherry said, should make asking questions less offensive. Maise declared they’d operate at maximum efficiency if she went to the Baptist breakfast, Eleanor and Aster hit the Methodist church, and Sherry, Dab, and I attended St. Mark’s Episcopal.

Fred decided he’d stay home and on guard in case Elsman and her assistant tried to pull any shenanigans. When Maise pushed him, he promised he’d guard without shoving his prized Colt .45 in an overall pocket.

I kept my mouth firmly shut during that exchange but shuddered at the image of Fred with a gun in hand. Or tucked into his walker tool belt.

When Maise pronounced the kitchen shipshape, the Six gathered in the dining room again, this time to add up their festival receipts. Pointed looks from Eleanor and Aster made it clear they wanted privacy. Part of the
don’t discuss finances
rule, I supposed, so I said good night to a chorus of “Sleep tight,” and headed to Sherry’s bedroom to unpack my meager wardrobe and figure out what to wear to church.

I hadn’t seen the need to bring a dress. Definitely
not
one of my gussy-up-for-the-gallery suits, and my work clothes from Friday wouldn’t do either. I had, however, packed a decent pair of navy slacks and black loafers. With a white, modestly scoop-necked T-shirt and my throw-it-over-anything navy jacket, I should pass even Maise’s inspection. I should be perfectly comfortable, too, because my weather app showed average highs in the midseventies all week, lows in the fifties. No rain predicted until Saturday, by which time I’d be home.

Sherry’s claw-foot tub beckoned, so I hung my church outfit on the shower rod to steam out the minor wrinkles and ran a hot bath with a sprinkle of lavender bath salts carrying the Aster’s Aromatics label. Sinking into the fragrant heat relaxed my stiff muscles and general tension, but it didn’t ease all my concerns.

I didn’t know quite what I’d expected to feel being with Sherry Mae again, but something was off. Though she’d been grieving for my mom, too, the Sherry of eighteen months ago had been rock solid. She’d kept me organized and on task whether the job at hand was making lists for the mountain of thank-you notes to be written, or sorting items to keep or donate.