2 Knot What It Seams (8 page)

Also as predicted, Karen
wasn’t
there. Most of Dappled Hills was in attendance . . . including Mayor Grayson. It was a beautiful day with puffy white clouds chasing each other across a deeply blue sky and a light breeze cooling off anyone who grew too warm in the bright sun. There was no good reason not to be there, and the entire town had known the mail carrier.

The cemetery itself was almost discordant in its cheeriness. The cheery sun illuminated the graves and all the, mainly fake, flowers propped up on the headstones. The funeral-goers appeared fairly cheerful, too. It was the oddest funeral she’d ever attended.

The funeral home seated Jo’s husband, Glen, in the first row under the funeral home tent, and there appeared to be a collection of older men and women near him that must have been either Jo’s more-distant relatives (since Meadow had informed her that there was no immediate family besides Glen) or Glen’s family. None of them were local residents and none looked particularly sad about Jo’s unexpected death.

Except for Jo’s husband, Glen. His face was ashen and from time to time he bit his lower lip as if to discourage any strong emotion. He certainly had every appearance of a grieving husband dealing with a sudden and unexpected tragedy.

Beatrice watched Booth cynically. He had an air of detachment as he listened to Wyatt talk about Jo. Like Opal, he clearly had no reason to mourn today, but he was being less honest about that fact. He sat there under the tent, hands folded, the perfect picture of a local official paying his respects.

Once Wyatt wrapped up the simple graveside service, everyone stood in small groups among the graves, talking to each other in muted voices. Meadow walked up to Beatrice and nodded to some headstones a few yards away. “That’s the Downey plot, right there. See that blank spot near the big marker? That’s my final resting place.” She puffed up with pride at what was apparently a choice spot in the cemetery.

Beatrice wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to Meadow’s comment. “It’s a lovely location, Meadow. On the hill there and everything.” Her voice trailed away at the end.

“We were right, weren’t we?” asked Meadow, quickly changing course. “About the funeral and who was here. Now, who was it that you wanted to talk to? I know you’re wanting to do a little sleuthing.”

“I’m sure this isn’t really the time to—”

“Who don’t you see on a regular basis? Jo’s husband, Glen, for sure. You don’t run into Glen often, do you?” Meadow pursed her lips doubtfully. “Unless your car has needed a lot of repairs. He’s a mechanic. At least, he
was
. The garage laid him off a few months ago. Poor guy. He was doing some repair work on the side, but now I don’t think he’s doing even that anymore.”

“No, I don’t know Glen. Although I do need some work done on my new sedan, I think. The alarm is always going off. But I can’t see that this is really the right time—”

“But you know, we don’t really need to talk to him here. We’ll be bringing him the food later. You
do
have your pimento cheese sandwiches ready, don’t you?” asked Meadow.

Beatrice nodded. “The consistency was a little off, though. I don’t know if I didn’t put enough mayonnaise in this time, or if I put too much cheese in—”

“So we can see Glen when we drop off the meals. We’ll try to pick a time when no one else is over there so you can investigate while we’re being thoughtful. How about Booth Grayson? Your paths might cross more frequently, I suppose. You’re both such serious, studious types. You probably see him at the library when you’re reading up on some really obscure Depression-era Southern pottery made with a particular type of clay only found on the banks of certain Georgia creeks,” said Meadow.

Beatrice shot Meadow a look.

“Okay, so you don’t see him that much. Maybe the mayor isn’t as studious as he appears. I thought he’d be in the library reading up on the tax code and trying to figure out ingenious new ways to assess taxes on quilt guilds. Let’s go talk to him!”

Meadow pulled Beatrice over to Booth, who’d finished shaking the hands of most of the funeral-goers. He folded his arms, discomfited at seeing them. “Ladies,” he greeted them cautiously.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Mayor?” Meadow cheerfully asked. “It couldn’t
be
any nicer.”

“Perhaps if there wasn’t a funeral to attend,” noted Booth duly.

Meadow blithely ignored his comment. “You’ve decided against assessing sales taxes and requiring permits for our quilting guilds, haven’t you? I always said you were a reasonable man. Didn’t I, Ramsay?” Ramsay, who’d been watching the attendees with some interest, briefly wandered up. Hearing the topic of conversation, he gave Booth a pitying stare, shook his head at Meadow, and quickly walked away again.

Meadow watched him go and said, “Interesting thing about Ramsay—he hates funerals. Absolutely despises them! He’s such a sensitive soul that he can’t stand to be around folks who are in distress. He’s here today,” she added, peering at Booth, “because Jo was murdered.”

Beatrice sighed. Surely Ramsay wasn’t ready for this information to be released.

Before she could deflect Meadow at all, she’d continued. “And Beatrice is the one who convinced him Jo’s death wasn’t an accident! She likes to do some investigating, you know. Beatrice is a frustrated detective.”

Beatrice jumped in. “It’s not exactly like that, Meadow.”

“Beatrice will get to the bottom of this mess, if anyone can. Oh, my sweet Ramsay
could
get to the bottom of it. If he were only motivated! Bless him, though, he’s just not. Beatrice, on the other hand, is just so
discerning
. And smart! She’s the very smartest person I believe I’ve ever met. I’m no young woman, either!”

Booth gave Beatrice a serious and analytical appraisal. Then Beatrice noticed his gaze was diverted by a young woman in a short dress. Men.

“Ramsay told me that Beatrice gave him a list of all the people Jo had been arguing with,” said Meadow. Then she glanced over at Booth Grayson and blushed, remembering that he was on the list.

Booth said wryly, “Obviously, I was one of the people you mentioned, Beatrice. Although you wouldn’t have had to say anything, since Ramsay was at the town meeting, too. Of course you realize that Jo was fabricating things that night—trying to gain some leverage that didn’t exist. She was a woman who clearly cared very deeply about quilting.”

“As do most of the ladies here,” said Beatrice smoothly. “I’m one of them. And I’m certainly hoping you’re planning to reconsider your approach to the Dappled Hills guilds.”

“So smart!” murmured Meadow, admiringly.

“If you’re interested in protesting the proposed measures,” said Booth in a steady voice, “I do have a suggestion for approaching it.”

If his droning voice could be bottled, it would do wonders for insomnia sufferers. “Wonderful! What’s your suggested approach?”

“If you go online—because we’re trying to do as much online now as we can—then you can click on a link to download a PDF of a form . . . let’s see. I believe it’s form 21-DRV. Once you download that form, you print it out, fill it out, mail it in, and then I’ll have an official record of your concerns and can appropriately address them.”

“I think I might have a better approach,” said Beatrice smoothly. “We’ll publicly make our opinion known at the next town hall meeting. Directness is key in these issues, don’t you think?”

Booth looked as if he had a mild case of indigestion.

Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice saw that the minister was walking up with Miss Sissy to join them. Ordinarily, she’d have loved having Wyatt as part of their conversation, but she had a feeling this was going to derail any questioning. Booth was gazing longingly toward a group of older women whom he must have missed politicking with earlier.

“How does Ramsay think the murder happened?” asked Booth smoothly. “It seemed to me that it was an open-and-shut case—a treacherous mountain road and a bad storm. An accident.” Wyatt and Miss Sissy stood next to him, and Miss Sissy’s face, deeply creviced with wrinkles, grew even more wrinkly as she stared at Booth. She’d apparently taken a strong dislike to the man. Beatrice was beginning to feel sorry for him.

Beatrice cleared her throat. “Someone cut the brake lines. Just enough to ensure that at some point during Jo’s route, she was going to lose control of her brakes.” Wyatt’s eyebrows went up in surprise, and Miss Sissy grunted and leaned in closer to them, cupping her hand over her ear to hear better.

“It sounds like something that was done that morning,” said Booth. “If the brake lines had been cut the night before, the fluid would probably have leaked out before she even got into the car. In which case you can remove me from your list of suspects. I was at home, getting ready for the quilt show. I took a phone call from a commissioner about next month’s art festival. Then I got ready to go to the show. Your friend Posy was my ride out there, since you’ll remember my saying that I wasn’t sure exactly where the event was.”

He frowned at the wizened Miss Sissy and added, “And—uh—Miss Sissy was in the car, too. It sounds to me as if you should be searching for a car mechanic. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He hurried to catch up with a small group of Dappled Hills residents whom he hadn’t yet spoken with.

They watched him go. Wyatt said in a low voice, “So it’s definitely murder? Everyone was so convinced it was an accident.”

Meadow said in that loud, boisterous voice, “And Ramsay was, too, until Beatrice here persuaded him to investigate.” Meadow, Beatrice firmly believed, would someday get her murdered. Fortunately, it was a minister she was talking to now.

And, of course, Miss Sissy. Who wouldn’t be forgotten. “Lies! All lies!” Her lips pulled back in a leer. She ran her hands through her hair in agitation, forgetting, apparently, that she was wearing a bun. Now even more strands of wiry hair stuck out.

Wyatt Thompson had the patience of a saint. Or of a Presbyterian minister, anyway. “What lies, Miss Sissy? That Jo’s death was murder?”

Miss Sissy hissed, “He wasn’t home! He wasn’t home! Lies!” She lifted her gnarled fists and shook them at Booth’s back as he walked into the parking lot with the older ladies.

Beatrice said, “When wasn’t he home, Miss Sissy?”

“Before the quilt show. He wasn’t there!”

Miss Sissy was sputtering out now and was distracted by the removal of the quilt that Jo’s husband, Glen, had laid on Jo’s coffin during the graveside service. Apparently, he was planning to take it back home with him in commemoration of the day.

“I think,” said Wyatt slowly, “that today has tired Miss Sissy out a bit. I’m going to go ahead and drive her back home so that she can put her feet up for a while.”

“Lies,” muttered Miss Sissy.

As they walked away, Beatrice said, “But Booth Grayson
was
at the show. He came in with Posy and Miss Sissy. I remember laughing about it at the time, because I knew Miss Sissy must have been sitting up in the front seat and supervising Posy’s driving. It would have been a wild ride for Booth in the backseat with a madwoman muttering in the front. He was there, so at some point he must have been home for them to have picked him up.”

Meadow gave a good-natured shrug. “Who knows what Miss Sissy was fussing about? She’s forever making these dire, cryptic proclamations. We’ll have to catch up with Posy later and see if she can give us any insight. Miss Sissy might be talking about something that happened a month ago, for all we know.”

She guessed so. But still, it made you wonder. She’d have to remember to tell Ramsay about it.

Chapter 6

Meadow dropped Beatrice back home for a few hours before they set out for Glen’s house with Beatrice’s sandwiches and Meadow’s frozen chicken casserole. Meadow had apparently had a nap over the afternoon and was in a very perky mood. This perkiness would have been unbearable if she hadn’t been offering some information, too. “Ramsay said that the state police found no other evidence of murder. So Jo hadn’t been attacked or poisoned or strangled, or drowned, or . . .”

“Got it,” said Beatrice drily.

“But Ramsay said the reasonable conclusion drawn from the Jeep’s being tampered with is that Jo was the one targeted. It wasn’t Glen’s vehicle and Glen wasn’t known to drive it. He always drives his truck. So it wasn’t as if someone sneaked under the Jeep that morning and thought that Glen was going to be the one to die.”

“I only really saw Glen for a few minutes at the quilt show and then a minute at the funeral. What’s he like?” asked Beatrice.

“Well, for one thing, he’s very well educated,” said Meadow. “Ramsay used to hang out with him at the auto repair shop and they’d discuss literature.”

Beatrice said, “Really? That’s a little unusual for a mechanic, isn’t it?”

“Both of his parents were teachers, so he was exposed to a lot of culture through them. He went to college, too. But his parents had always encouraged him to go into whatever interested him—and he was interested in cars. The only bad thing is that when he lost his job as a mechanic, he really didn’t have the experience to do anything else. He had the
education
, but not the experience. And, at his age, when he’s knocking on the door of middle age, experience is really what matters for an office job.”

Studying Glen at his house a few minutes later, Beatrice knew that he was the most likely candidate to be Jo’s murderer. The police usually considered the victim’s spouse to be the primary suspect. But Beatrice found it hard to imagine that he had anything to do with his wife’s death. He was tall, but slightly hunched over as if always bending down to hear what you had to say. He had deep smile lines around his mouth and little ones around his eyes and a generally amiable disposition. He quickly took the dishes out of their hands, then gave them a hug. His eyes were sad.

“Thanks so much for bringing the food over, ladies. It’s nice to not have to worry about what I’m going to eat for the next week or so,” he said, walking in and putting the food over on the counter.

Meadow said briskly, “Now, if you really pay attention, Glen, this food will last a lot longer than one week. I know you had a bunch of ladies out here right after the funeral with covered dishes.
My
casserole is frozen, so you can stick it in the freezer and then defrost it next week. I’ve taped instructions on the front.”