2 Knot What It Seams (11 page)

“Can you help . . . no! Certainly not. But thanks for asking, Wyatt.” Meadow beamed at him. Wyatt thanked her for supper and found his keys. Karen quickly thanked Meadow, as well, and picked up her pocketbook so that she could walk out with Wyatt.

But Beatrice didn’t move toward the door, instead saying wryly, “I had a feeling you wanted to talk about the evening for a few minutes.”

“Yes! An analysis of the events. And I have to say,” said Meadow, vigorously scrubbing a baking dish, “that Karen behaved horribly with Wyatt. Very, very tacky of her. Doesn’t she know about you and Wyatt?”

Beatrice gave a strangled laugh. “Meadow, there
is
no Wyatt and me. We’re merely friends who enjoy each other’s company.” She ignored the little voice inside her that said there was more to it than that. On her end, at least.

“Whatever,” said Meadow with a roll of her eyes. “Anyway, she was obviously hanging all over him. And she’s nowhere close to his age. A strumpet!”

“I have to wonder about her interest in Wyatt,” admitted Beatrice. She added quickly, “He’s very intelligent, spiritual, and attractive—but that age difference made me wonder.”

“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t worry about the two of them, Beatrice. Wyatt clearly looks at Karen as a daughter,” said Meadow.

Beatrice wouldn’t go quite that far.

“I’m sure this unhealthy interest of Karen’s goes back to the loss of her father when she was just a college student. I believe she’s been searching for a father figure ever since. Even so, it’s all most irritating. Karen finally won me back with her ideas for better quilt displaying. So that really puts me on the fence. I’m undecided about asking her to be a member of the Village Quilters. How about you?”

Beatrice said, “I’m still undecided whether she’s a murderer or not.”

Meadow made a
pish
sound. “Beatrice, just because a woman’s a flirt doesn’t mean she’s a killer. But point taken. We’ll reserve judgment and keep exploring our options. I’ll sleep on it. Besides, we probably shouldn’t replace Jo this week, anyway. It might make us appear insensitive.”

* * *

The next morning, Beatrice got up, dressed, and resolutely headed to the closet for Noo-noo’s leash and collar. Meadow’s dinner had been delicious, but now it was time to walk all those fabulous-tasting calories off.

The sun was barely rising in the sky. She loved getting up in time to see the vibrant pinks and oranges of the sunrise light up the horizon. It was cooler in the early morning, too, and the whole day seemed full of promise.

Noo-noo automatically tried steering them in the direction of their usual walks—toward the park in the middle of downtown Dappled Hills. But Beatrice mindlessly moved in the opposite direction. Without taking note of what she was doing, she’d somehow ended up back at Jo’s house. Although she should be thinking of it as Glen’s house now. Maybe she’d been thinking so much about the murder that her feet automatically moved her in that direction.

Beatrice frowned. Glen’s truck wasn’t parked in the carport the way it usually was. Surely it was too early in the morning for an unemployed man to be out of the house. It wasn’t as if the grocery store was even open yet. Even if it was, Glen couldn’t possibly need any food—his kitchen was fairly groaning under the weight of all the casseroles that the good people of Dappled Hills had brought in. Where could he be, then?

She sighed. Now she was turning into the stereotypical nosy Dappled Hills resident. Next she’d be peering through windows and making wild guesses about her neighbors’ activities.

Noo-noo suddenly grew alert and turned as if hearing a noise approaching them. Beatrice later wondered what instinct had made her quickly pull the corgi behind her into a cluster of bushes.

A slow-moving Mercedes passed right by them and pulled into the driveway. A moment later, Booth Grayson got out, glancing around him surreptitiously. Beatrice held her breath, but his gaze never rested on them.

Booth strode to the house, peering through the picture window next to the door. Apparently satisfied, he moved to the front door and turned the knob. He wore gloves. Gloves on such a warm morning? An interesting fashion choice for the mayor.

Booth apparently found the door unlocked and darted inside the house. Beatrice released her still-pent-up breath and reached down to give a reassuring pat to the corgi, who was probably wondering what they were doing in the bushes. “Let’s stay,” she whispered to Noo-noo. She wanted to see how long Booth Grayson was in Glen and Jo’s house and what he might leave with.

It was maybe seven or eight minutes before Booth walked out. He was sweaty and rumpled, with none of his usual composure. He clutched something in his gloved hand, which he shoved into a large pocket. She squinted but couldn’t make out exactly what the object was. A small camera? A camcorder? It looked like some kind of electronic equipment.

Booth glanced around him as he hurried to his car. Seeing no one, he quickly jumped in and drove off.

Beatrice waited until she could no longer hear his car’s engine before she slowly left her hiding place. Booth must have known or guessed that Glen wasn’t at his house. He was clearly searching for something and trying not to be seen. At the town meeting Jo had acted as if she’d known something incriminating about Booth. Had he just removed evidence of what she’d known?

* * *

Later that morning, Beatrice drove into downtown Dappled Hills to the Patchwork Cottage. After finishing the flower appliqué, she wanted to start working on a new quilt. She hoped that Posy could help her find some new fabrics.

The Patchwork Cottage was fairly busy. Posy gave Beatrice a warm smile but couldn’t greet her since she was tied up talking to several women who appeared to be asking her a lot of questions. At least business was doing well.

Posy had gotten some lovely new fabric in. Beatrice was thinking about doing a pinwheel quilt, and there was a bundle of fat quarters of vibrant blue, green, and yellow Woosley prints. And a bundle of fat quarters with red and pink stripes, a delicate floral, a twirly dots pattern . . . it was going to be hard to make up her mind. Or should she look at the yardage and do something that was more uniform? She was at the point where she could
design
something more sophisticated than she could actually create.

Since Posy was still tied up, Beatrice decided to wait for her in the shop’s sitting area. There she found Miss Sissy, sleeping on Posy’s overstuffed sofa and snoring ferociously. Beatrice sat in the chair across from her and picked up a quilting magazine off the end table.

A few minutes later, she got the feeling that she was being watched. Beatrice glanced up to see Miss Sissy scowling at her with brows fiercely knitted. Beatrice felt the need to explain her presence there. “I’m waiting for Posy,” she said with a shrug. “I couldn’t decide which fat quarter bundle I should get.”

“Posy’s talking to the new quilters,” barked Miss Sissy. She studied Beatrice for a moment. “You should get the garden one.” Miss Sissy was muttering so low that Beatrice had to strain to hear.

“I’m sorry?” asked Beatrice.

Miss Sissy glared at her. “The gardening one! With the flowers and pots and gloves and watering cans on it.”

Beatrice wondered if she was going to roll her eyes like a teenager. “But, Miss Sissy. I don’t garden.” And remembering Miss Sissy’s jungle of poison ivy that surrounded her house like something out of
Sleeping Beauty
, Beatrice thought neither did she. Beatrice only replaced plants that she killed. She hardly called that gardening.

“Hmph!” Miss Sissy’s expression told her she should start. And immediately.

They sat in silence for a moment. It wasn’t a particularly companionable one, so Beatrice cleared her throat and said, “It was good to see you at Meadow’s last night.”

Miss Sissy said, “I never saw you at Meadow’s last night!”

Apparently, some things were getting lost in the black hole that was Miss Sissy’s mind. But the thing was, you could never tell what she might
know
, either. She could be a worthwhile source of information. It was simply a matter of getting her to talk about something that pertained to the topic at hand. And possibly to sort out the truth from the fabrication or, perhaps, the madness.

Beatrice used a coaxing voice. “You spend a lot of time here in the Patchwork Cottage, don’t you, Miss Sissy?”

The old woman appeared pacified. And she was listening. Catching Miss Sissy’s attention was half the battle.

“I bet you know a lot about the ladies who come here and the different things going on around town,” said Beatrice. “You certainly seem observant.”

Miss Sissy smiled smugly, in an omniscient manner.

“When I was in here the other day, I saw some things going on that I didn’t totally understand. Karen Taylor was having a real argument with Jo . . . over fabric. It got pretty heated and I couldn’t believe that someone’s fabric choice could turn into such an argument.”

Miss Sissy narrowed her eyes. “Those two love to hate each other. It’s wrong to hate.
The wages of sin is death
.”

Now the task was to keep Miss Sissy from getting distracted by her favorite topic—sinning. “It is. Very wrong! So why did they hate each other?”

“Envy! Wretched envy! Wickedness!”

Beatrice gazed thoughtfully at the old woman. She might have something there. Envy was a very strong emotion, and both those women could have been afflicted by it. Jo would likely be sour at any rising star in the quilting world and determined to shut Karen down from racking up successes too quickly. Karen, on the other hand, sounded very ambitious and determined to obtain both quilting awards and recognition. Her pleasure in quilting didn’t seem inherent in the activity itself—she also wanted to
win
. She’d have been jealous of all of Jo’s ribbons and her status in the quilting community. And she’d have wanted to confront anyone who stood in the way of her having similar successes.

Miss Sissy was mulling over Karen and Jo, too. “A wicked woman,” she hissed, almost to herself.

“Who? Jo?”

“No,” she said scornfully. “Karen. Flirting. Wicked.” Her face was dark with memory.

Oh. She’d forgotten that Miss Sissy also had a thing for the good minister. He was always kind to her . . . going by her house for visits, bringing her the treats she loved. And Karen
had
been hanging on Wyatt during the dinner party. Beatrice had better move this conversation along before it got completely sidetracked.

“Something else about that day in the shop and then later when I picked up the cake,” she said, “was that Opal Woosley was making all these digs at Jo. But I didn’t know the story behind it.”

If she’d thought that Miss Sissy was animated before, she hadn’t seen anything yet. “She killed him!” she said, eyes wild, leaning forward on the sofa, bony elbows jutting out. As if unsure that the import of this statement was getting through, she stressed, “On purpose!”

“Who? Who killed him?”

“Jo!” she bellowed.

“Killed who?”

“Skippy!”

It must have been getting very loud in their corner of the store because several customers were now staring at them. Beatrice smiled at them in what she hoped was a reassuring way. One of them took her smile as encouragement to chat. She asked her opinion on two different fabrics and which she liked better. Beatrice pointed to the one she liked and they talked for a minute. By the time Beatrice had turned back to Miss Sissy, the old woman had fallen asleep again and had resumed her emphatic snoring.

Posy finally finished up with her customers and smiled at Beatrice, her blue eyes holding a friendly greeting. She said, “Sorry about that—there were some novice quilters in from Lenoir to pick up supplies.” She glanced over at the sofa. “I’d whisper except I know Miss Sissy won’t wake up even if we shouted at each other.”

Beatrice gazed at the thin figure on the sofa. “Only babies and innocents sleep that soundly,” she said, a little sourly to her ears. She hadn’t slept particularly well since moving to Dappled Hills. It was so quiet there—she’d gotten used to the sounds of the city when she lived in Atlanta.

“Posy,” she said, “I did have a nonquilting question for you. Who is Skippy?”

Posy gave a vague frown. “I’m sorry?”

“Skippy. Miss Sissy and I were talking about Opal and she said something about Jo killing someone named Skippy.”

“Oh, I see. Skippy is a dog. Well, he
was
a dog. But he wasn’t just a dog to Opal. Her whole life revolved around him. She’d dress him up in different outfits and talk about the cute things he’d done. And she’d carry pictures of him the few times that she didn’t have him with her in her purse. Actually, she’d carry pictures of him even when she did have Skippy with her,” said Posy.

“So let me see if I’ve got this right,” said Beatrice slowly. “Opal Woosley cared about her dog as if he were her child. And Jo somehow killed him?”

Posy sighed. “It was an accident, of course. Jo said she never saw the little dog when she was delivering Opal’s mail. Apparently, Opal had a package that day and so Jo had to pull into her driveway and walk it up to the house since it wouldn’t fit in the mailbox. Jo said the dog was barking and snapping at her ankles. Skippy had never taken a liking to Jo for some reason, you know.”

“Not an uncommon problem for mail carriers, I’d imagine.”

“Exactly,” said Posy. “The dogs just see the constant trespassing on their property. Apparently, Skippy was out that morning, and Jo accidentally ran over him. At least, Jo swore it was an accident. But Opal took it quite seriously and acted as if Jo had intentionally murdered Skippy. She claimed that she had a vision that showed Jo had planned it all.”

Posy didn’t realize that she’d used the word
murder
in connection with Skippy’s death. She continued. “Poor Opal took to her bed. We didn’t see her for a couple of weeks, at least. We all brought her food—casseroles, breakfasts, sandwiches. She didn’t have the will to keep on going. She really loved that little dog. And she held Jo responsible for his death.”