2 Knot What It Seams (16 page)

“She did. She said she wanted time to leisurely browse through the fabrics while no one else was there. The fabrics helped inspire her, she said. Opal strolled around the shop while I made the tea and unpacked the boxes so I could put out the merchandise. Then I realized that I’d left another box at home. I called Cork, but he’d already left for the wine shop, so I asked Opal if she minded holding down the fort while I dashed home and got the box,” said Posy. “She was already settled into the sofa at that point with her eyes closed. I assumed she was asleep.”

Ramsay said slowly, “So Opal’s car was parked outside the shop, you’d left, and the Patchwork Cottage hadn’t even actually opened for the day.”

Posy nodded. “That’s right. Well, it was right before it opened.”

Beatrice breathed, “Someone could have either driven by or walked up and seen an opportunity to confront Opal . . . or kill her. Maybe our murderer could even have run by the store legitimately to do some early shopping and then seen her opportunity to do away with Opal.”

“What I can’t understand, though,” said Ramsay, “is why she didn’t fight back. Opal was an older woman and on the frail side, but if she’d been in a fight for her life, I’d think she would have been able to stop being smothered.”

Posy said quietly, “But what if Opal
was
asleep?”

Ramsay said, “It certainly would have been a lot easier for the murderer. She might not even have awakened but for a split second.”

“Let’s hope that was the case,” said Posy fervently.

“Did she say
why
she was so tired?” asked Beatrice. “It’s early in the day to be so exhausted that you’d fall asleep in a store.”

Posy said, “She said something about not having slept at all last night—that she’d had something on her mind. I’m afraid I was so busy trying to get the store ready to open up . . .” She broke off. “But I did pause to ask her. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to talk about something with me or if she was simply mentioning that as a fact. I asked her what she’d been thinking about.”

“What did she say?” asked Ramsay.

“She didn’t say much. Only that she’d been mulling over the murder and something about it was bothering her. She was evasive, so I didn’t push her. I told her that Jo’s murder had been keeping me awake, too, and I hoped that they caught the murderer soon.” Posy shrugged helplessly. “Then she closed her eyes. With determination, I think. Like she wanted to avoid the subject. That’s when I started scrambling to get the store ready.”

“What happened when you came back to the store after picking up the box?” asked Ramsay.

“I walked over to thank Opal for watching the store. It looked like she was sound asleep, though, so I didn’t bother her. Then customers started arriving. The next time I was over in that part of the store, Miss Sissy had joined Opal and they both appeared to be napping. Then the shop really got swamped,” ended Posy in a sad voice. “The next thing I knew, Beatrice was telling me that Opal wasn’t asleep at all.”

Ramsay glanced over at the Patchwork Cottage. “I think it’s time for me to head back over there.” He took a last sip from his coffee before tossing it in a nearby trash can. “Posy, you may as well go back home. I think the police are going to be here awhile, and you definitely won’t be able to reopen the shop today.”

Posy said, “Thanks, Ramsay. And the police are welcome to keep the shop closed as long as they need to. It would be disrespectful to open today, anyway. If it’s all the same to you, though, I think I’ll get some more coffee and just sit here for a bit. I feel bad leaving the shop and I know that my shoppers will be worried when they walk up to the store and see the crime scene tape and police cars. It would be better for me to be able to explain it all to them.”

“I should make a phone call to Wyatt,” Beatrice told Posy as Ramsay joined the state police. “I told him I’d call if I saw Opal. He’ll want to know.”

Posy said, “I’m going in to get another cup of coffee so that I’m not sitting at the café’s table and not spending any money. Want anything?”

“No, thanks, Posy. After I make this call, I’m going to head back home for a while. I’m sure Noo-noo is ready to be let out, and I didn’t really put my groceries away from earlier—only the refrigerated things.”

“I’m so sorry you weren’t able to buy what you needed today at the Patchwork Cottage,” said Posy, her blue eyes sad. “A new quilting book, wasn’t it? And I think you wanted my advice on a good one. What a terrible day.”

“I did spend a lot of time reading through them, though, and I found a few that I liked. I’m in no hurry—I’ll buy them the next time I’m at the shop. And, Posy, please call me if there’s anything you need. This must have been a huge shock for you.”

Beatrice’s attempt at kindness made Posy tear up again, and she fumbled in her pocketbook for a tissue. At that moment, Posy’s husband, Cork, hurried up and engulfed Posy in a hug that made her start crying in earnest.

Wyatt, as minister, was accustomed to hearing somber news . . . or even delivering it. He listened intently as Beatrice outlined the situation to him, asked Beatrice a few questions, then said, “Poor Opal. What awful news.”

“Ramsay will probably be calling you soon. I explained to him that I tried to wake Opal up because she’d missed an appointment with you. Do you have any idea what she was planning on talking with you about? Was Opal someone who usually asked for visits or spiritual guidance?” asked Beatrice.

“She wasn’t, actually. And I don’t think she was looking for spiritual guidance this time, either. Opal mentioned wanting my opinion about something—something that she was concerned about.” He sighed. “I wish I’d asked more questions yesterday when she called me, but it sounded like she wanted to discuss her problem in person instead of on the phone. I don’t have the slightest idea what she wanted to talk about.”

Later, finally putting her groceries away, Beatrice kept thinking about Opal. Why had she wanted to talk to Wyatt? Had she seen something or known something about Jo’s murder that was weighing on her mind? If Booth had seen
her
, had
she
seen Booth? And had he been doing what he said he’d been?

* * *

That afternoon, Beatrice tried to pick back up with her regularly scheduled day. The only problem was that her regularly scheduled day was a little on the dull side. This was supposed to be her quiet day to lie in her hammock, read, listen to Noo-noo snore, and perhaps mull over the facts of the case.

This was such a quiet plan that there was no mulling or reading or listening when she climbed into her backyard hammock. There was only napping.

She slept a lot harder than she’d have thought possible. When shadows started streaking across the yard, Beatrice finally jerked awake. Her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in many hours, and she reluctantly walked to the kitchen to poke around for something edible for supper.

The chicken was, naturally, frozen. She didn’t really feel like beef. What had she gotten at the store, again? Ah. Well, she could always have cereal. She’d successfully picked up all the things on her grocery list—the problem was that the list didn’t have any actual components of a meal on it.

She opened the refrigerator door again and was thoughtfully considering the eggs when there was a knock at her door. Beatrice looked out the window beside the door and sighed as she saw Meadow Downey standing there in a large red caftan that matched her red glasses. But—miracle of miracles—she was holding
food
. Meadow could be kooky, long-winded, irritating, and bossy . . . but she was a marvelous cook.

Beatrice opened the door with unusual alacrity. “Meadow! Come in! Why, what’s this? You’ve cooked something for me? How very sweet!”

Meadow bustled in and was already taking over Beatrice’s small kitchen, talking all the while. “Can you believe that I only
just
heard about poor Opal! In
this
town? Usually I hear about things here in Dappled Hills before they’ve even fully happened!”

Beatrice frowned. “You’ve been into town and didn’t hear about Opal?”

“Well, no. No, I had a little gardening to do. Then I realized that there were some vegetables that needed harvesting. Once I picked the vegetables, I decided to go ahead and do some cooking while everything was fresh and I was inspired.”

An inspired dish from Meadow. This
would
be good.

“I thought the vegetables would look gorgeous on a kabob. So then I fired up the grill. I threw the squash and zucchini and tomatoes on there . . . well, you know. I also had some shrimp from Bub’s. And some wonderful wild rice that I’d picked up from the farmers’ market.” She beamed at Beatrice. “I think you’ll really enjoy it.”

Meadow had clearly gotten distracted. “But Ramsay didn’t tell you the news?” asked Beatrice, to redirect her.

“He certainly didn’t! I’m completely appalled by him. I didn’t think a thing of it that he didn’t come home for lunch—I figured that he was busy working on Jo’s murder. Then, when he finally came home a little while ago, he disappeared into the bedroom to read Thoreau. Can you believe it?”

She could. The peace and refuge of Walden Pond would be very appealing after a day like today.

“Finally, I brought a plate to him, since he was in no hurry to come out of our room. I asked him how his day was and he sort of grunted and rolled his eyes. ‘Murder.’ That’s what he told me! That his day was murder.” Meadow’s face was flushed as she took out one of Beatrice’s plates and started attractively arranging the skewers and rice on it.

“He probably thought you already knew about Opal,” said Beatrice mildly, keeping her eyes on the food.

“That’s what he said a few minutes ago when he started asking me questions about Opal. I mean, really. I was wondering why on earth he suddenly cared about poor Opal when he couldn’t be bothered to be at the house when she was giving her quilting presentation!” said Meadow huffily.

“To be perfectly fair,” said Beatrice in a reasonable tone, “he wouldn’t have been expected to attend a guild meeting. Or, probably, even particularly welcomed there.”

This Meadow thoughtfully considered. “I suppose. Anyway, once I found out what had happened at the Patchwork Cottage today, I told Ramsay my theory about the murders. It makes perfect sense and it links the two murders together!”

Beatrice said, “What’s your theory, Meadow?”

“That someone is killing off potential members of the Village Quilters!” Meadow thrust her hands on her hips and looked fierce.

Beatrice tried hard not to roll her eyes. “But, Meadow, why on earth would someone target the Village Quilters? And how would they know that Jo and Opal were potential members?” Although the way Meadow talked, most of Dappled Hills probably knew.

“Because they don’t want the Village Quilters to rule the world!” Meadow waved one of her hands in the air excitedly. “They know that if we end up with another master quilter in our group, we’ll be getting blue ribbons all over the place!”

Beatrice gazed longingly at the kebobs on the plate. “Meadow, I can’t imagine the ladies in the Cut-Ups guild killing Opal in cold blood.”

Meadow exhaled loudly. “Ramsay said the same thing. Y’all have a crippling lack of vision. I told him that he better keep his eye on Karen. She’ll be the next target—you’ll see that I’m right! She’s the only one left!”

When Meadow was worked up like this, there was really only one thing to do. Distract her. Especially since she clearly didn’t have any actual helpful information. Before Beatrice could figure out how best to deflect her, Meadow was already charging ahead with her line of thought.

“You were practically heroic today, though, Beatrice,” said Meadow, beaming admiringly at her. “So calm and collected at the moment of crisis. Not shrieking or creating a panic or upsetting anyone in the shop. But how horrible it must have been for you.”

Beatrice shivered. She’d never really forget that moment she realized Opal wasn’t simply sleeping. “I wasn’t really heroic; I simply didn’t want to create a huge fuss and scare everyone to death,” she said briskly. “I only wish I’d seen what was going on earlier. Poor Posy. I hope she won’t lose any business from this tragedy.”

“Well, of course she will! Who wants to go into a shop where you’re murdered if you sit down for a moment?”

“Still,” said Beatrice, “I hope people will forget. After all, things had already started settling down after Jo’s death. People were still talking about it, but they’d picked up with their usual activities. They were moving on.”

“I’ll say they were,” said Meadow. “Do you know what I saw yesterday? Glen with Penny Harris. Do you know Penny?”

“Ah . . . that’s the woman who does all the volunteering, right? Organizes food drives for the county and whatnot? I don’t really know her, but Glen has mentioned her a couple of times.”

Meadow nodded eagerly, leaning back against Beatrice’s counter as if she was in no hurry to leave. “Yes. He’s been helping Penny out for a while now—distributing flyers, helping at the secondhand clothing warehouse, working at the food bank. But this is different, Beatrice. I saw Glen
hugging
Penny.” Her eyes opened wide. “Don’t you think it’s awfully early for Glen to be embarking on a romantic relationship?”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a friendly hug? Maybe Penny was just trying to comfort him, considering Glen’s wife just died.”

Meadow scoffed, “Of course I’m sure it wasn’t just friendly. I might be an old married lady, but I know what romance looks like when I’m seeing it.” She sighed. “It makes me wonder if they were involved even before Jo died. Shocking!”

It would be shocking—if it were true. And it would certainly provide Glen with a motive for murdering his wife. But was it true? Beatrice had gotten the impression that Glen really cared for Jo . . . as unlikely as that seemed. Now she had another mystery to uncover.

Chapter 11

The next morning, Beatrice rose early, breakfasted, took a quick walk with the eager Noo-noo, then put on gardening gloves to tackle an area of her front yard. She had an ungainly flower bed right in the front of her cottage. Admittedly, she hadn’t done anything really
with
the yard since she’d moved into the cottage a few months ago. She’d been lucky—it had almost tended itself. The azaleas bloomed on cue—the gardenias were just finishing their delicious-smelling blooming. The knockout roses were lovely and she hadn’t done more than dead-head them. Ordinarily she killed things on sight, but her yard had been thriving . . . besides this one ailing flower bed.