Quilt or Innocence (13 page)

Beatrice continued. “I never knew how completely inadequate I could feel. There are folks here in Dappled Hills who grow their own food, whip up minor gourmet masterpieces, and make fabulous art in their spare time. It’s pretty stressful.”

“That’s because you’re taking it all too seriously,” said Piper coolly. “You don’t have to be a blue-ribbon quilter, and you don’t need to know how to keep a garden alive and you don’t need to be able to cook gourmet cuisine.”

“So why do I feel that I
do
need to?”

“Because you like to do a good job. When you were working at the museum, you wanted to be the best curator you could be. That was the best-run museum in the Southeast. And now that you’re retired and living in the country, you think you’ve got to be the best retired mountain resident you can be.”

“All I know,” said Beatrice, patting her book sadly, “is that I want some time to read
Whispers
of Summer
.”

“Dappled Hills is the complete opposite of Atlanta, Mama. You’re the one who’s putting all the pressure on yourself. You need to learn how to relax. You know what’s really helped me to de-stress? It’s meditation.”

Beatrice indulged in an eye roll.

“Now, don’t look at me like that, Mama. Meditation is a great way to loosen up. I like to use mantras.”

Beatrice’s head started to hurt.

“My favorite one is ‘Peace, calm, kindness.’ You should try it sometime. It’s very basic and calming. I was using it today because thinking about the murder was making me tense. I felt my tension melt away the more I said it.”

Beatrice managed a smile. “Thanks for sharing it with me, Piper. It’s nice of you to be worried about me.”

“I want you to
try
it. Promise me that you’ll give it a try the next time you think you’re not measuring up or when you’re stressed out.”

“I
promise.
” Beatrice was ready to move on to another subject. “But enough about me. I’d rather talk about you and how happy you are with Ash. He sounds like a really special man.”

A shadow passed over Piper’s face. “I
am
happy, Mama. But there is one thing that’s been on my mind. The night Judith was killed, I had a really hard time sleeping. So I decided to peek out the door and see if I saw any of your lights on. I thought I’d pop by for a quick visit if they were. Maybe share a glass of milk with you.”

Piper’s visits did seem to happen at some unusual times.

“Anyway, I opened the door and stepped outside, and there was Meadow. She didn’t see me because my porch was in the shadows. But she was acting sneaky.” Piper looked miserable.

“Sneaky?”

“She was peering out toward the street. Then she went inside real quick, then hurried back outside and rushed off down the street at a pretty fast clip. Later on, I was still awake and heard her car driving off. I can recognize that Jeep’s engine every time.” Piper shrugged. “She might have had trouble sleeping, too, I guess.”

It sure didn’t sound likely, though.

Did she feel a certain satisfaction or trepidation about Piper’s revelation about Meadow? She
had
longed a little for the excitement of Atlanta in comparison to Dappled Hills. Everyone seemed so
nice
in Dappled Hills. It was all almost too pat—the quilting, the cheerful residents, the daily life centered around the church’s activities, the gardening.

In some ways, it was a relief to find that the little town was every bit as quirky and exciting as the big city had been.

In other ways, though, Beatrice couldn’t help but worry. Piper was getting emotionally close to Meadow’s son. Ash seemed like a nice man and Ramsay was the chief of police, so Ash was probably raised right. But what about Meadow? Was she as open and honest as she seemed? Or was it all a sham to cover up a quick temper . . . and murder? It was very deflating to think that her usual strong instinct for first impressions might have gone so wrong.

Daisy was someone else who was hard to figure out. Judith herself had said that Daisy wasn’t everything she seemed to be. She seemed generous with her time and eager to make Beatrice feel at home and settle into the little town. But Beatrice couldn’t help but feel like she was hiding something. Judith’s taunts the night of the bee had really seemed to affect Daisy. Daisy seemed to put a lot of stock into her quilting and winning quilt shows. What if she wanted to be the best quilter from Dappled Hills? Getting rid of Judith would have been a great way to accomplish that. Or did Judith have some damaging gossip about Daisy? She’d said something about Daisy being dethroned and ending her days of social climbing.

Beatrice hadn’t moved far from her front door since Piper had left, which was why she could hear the rustling sound from the bushes near her porch. She froze. Even if Piper were coming back inside to tell her something, she wouldn’t be coming back by way of the bushes. Beatrice reached over and turned off the front porch lights and decided to wait. She’d had enough anonymous notes to last a lifetime. She stood to the side of her window and found that she could see at an angle across the porch. Her line of sight included the area right in front of her door, which was where the other notes had been. Noo-noo sat next to Beatrice, head cocked to the side and looking puzzled.

After about ten minutes, Beatrice’s waiting was rewarded when she heard a squeaking floorboard and some quiet footsteps on the front porch. Noo-noo gave a low growl, which Beatrice quelled with a warning look at the corgi. Beatrice crept closer to the window and peered slowly around the curtains . . . and saw Georgia gently setting down a glass Nehi bottle with a note sticking out of the top.

As Georgia quickly slipped away, Beatrice released the pent-up breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Georgia? Why was Georgia behind these notes? Beatrice had thought that they were becoming friends. But, really, how well did she know Georgia? She’d apparently had a very rough divorce after she’d found out her husband had been cheating on her. Her life hadn’t been very stable, and she was still obviously adjusting to rooming with her sister and doing things Savannah’s way—and Savannah seemed very bossy about having things done
her
way.

Satisfied that Georgia had left, Beatrice opened the front door and brought in the bottle.
Stay out of it!
said the note. Stay out of what? Investigating Judith’s murder? Why would Georgia care about Beatrice looking into the truth . . . unless maybe Georgia was the one who murdered Judith? Or she was worried that Savannah had. Or
knew
that she had.

* * *

Beatrice’s sleep that night was spotted with nightmares of a menacing Meadow lurking in her azalea bushes while Georgia peered around the corner of her house, holding a bag of glass bottles containing pithy warnings written in blood.

Beatrice nearly jumped out of her skin when she woke up to scratching at her front door and an odd, moaning cry. Noo-noo barked a sharp warning in the living room.

Trembling, Beatrice clutched her nightgown together at the neck and hurried to the door, her blood pounding in her ears. When she peered anxiously out the side window, she didn’t see anyone; then she jerked back when the scratching started again with increased desperation and vigor. This time she could tell the moaning was coming from a dog. Noo-noo looked at her with worry in her brown eyes.

Beatrice unlocked the bolt and opened the door, and in bounded Meadow’s huge beast, Boris. The Great Dane/Newfoundland/corgi mix whined like a baby and looked at her pitifully, as if to say, “I shouldn’t be here. Can you take me home?”

Beatrice sank onto her sofa in relief that there hadn’t been some crazed killer scratching at her door. Noo-noo took one look at the size of the dog and scampered off to hide under Beatrice’s bed. Beatrice glared resentfully at Boris and he wagged his tail sympathetically, agreeing that his predawn visit was a little over the top.

“What I don’t understand,” said Beatrice with her hands on her hips, “is what you’re doing here at all! You couldn’t possibly be lost—your house . . . barn . . . whatever . . . is in plain sight. Why aren’t you scratching on your own door?”

Boris looked innocently at her, then loped into Beatrice’s tiny kitchen and proceeded to poke around.

“Now, where,” said Beatrice under her breath, “did I put Meadow’s phone number?” Did Meadow write it down on the Village Quilters’ info she’d handed to her? And how was it possible that she’d
just
moved into this cottage and she already was losing things?

It was while she rummaged through her bedside-table drawers that she first heard the unusual noise. Beatrice frowned. What was that? It sounded like . . . chewing.

She hurried back into the kitchen and was greeted by the sight of Boris finishing off a loaf of bread he’d snagged from the counter. As she watched in horror, he reached out a huge paw and batted the sugar canister off the counter . . . and quickly gobbled up the contents.

“Bad Boris! No!” Beatrice put her arms around Boris’s neck and pulled him back away from the sugar. Noo-noo peered around the door, watching the proceedings with interest. It must have been the corgi blood Meadow claimed Boris had that was making him scavenge like this. Corgis were tummies with feet. Noo-noo was probably calculating her risk factor for dodging the huge dog and digging her snout into the pile of sugar on the floor.

For all she knew, sugar was poisonous for dogs . . . At the very least, it would certainly lead to diabetes and dental problems. She pulled hard at Boris, who was stubbornly determined to dive into that pile of sugar and broken ceramic. Finally, he gave up and stopped lunging for it. Beatrice, panting from her struggle with the huge animal, backed onto a kitchen stool to catch her breath.

“We’ll forget the phone call and just walk there,” said Beatrice grimly, pushing a strand of hair from her eyes. She gripped Boris by his collar and yanked him into her bedroom so she could quickly change clothes. Then she took Noo-noo’s leash off the nail by the door while the corgi watched her dejectedly. She could tell that
she
wasn’t the one who was going on a walk.

* * *

Boris joyfully pulled Beatrice behind him as he galloped to the barn, which was visible through the foggy mist of the dawn. She finally resigned herself to a brisk jog behind the dog, and they made quick time.

Ramsay was climbing into his police car when he stopped short at the sight of Boris bounding toward him. Beatrice gave up trying to hold the leash and the dog leaped up, putting his arms around Ramsay’s neck and leaning his massive chest against the policeman’s.

“Off! Boris, off!” And Beatrice watched in amazement as the dog obediently dropped down and sat on its haunches, grinning at his master.

Ramsay said, “Early-morning visitor, Beatrice? I’m sorry. I didn’t even know he’d gotten out. That dog is too smart for his own good.”

Beatrice was feeling a wee bit sour. Ramsay was a nice enough man and definitely a more stable neighbor than his flighty wife (although he did live in a barn, apparently without protest), but still. Dealing with other people’s gigantic beasts before breakfast—or even coffee—was above and beyond the call of duty. “I’m not sure he’s so smart, Ramsay. I believe he’s done something that might make him feel sick later on today. I was trying to find y’all’s phone number, and before I knew it, he’d scarfed down a loaf of bread and half the contents of my sugar canister.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Boris blinked at her as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“That rascal. My profuse apologies, Beatrice”—she noticed he didn’t
give
them, though—“but I’ve got to get in to the station. Let me holler at Meadow and she’ll pick up on the apologizing for me. Ash is still sound asleep, of course.” He opened the door to the barn and bellowed, “Meadow! It’s Boris and Beatrice.” Apparently thinking that was explanation enough (and not at all worried about waking up the allegedly sleeping Ash), he pulled the door shut, gave Beatrice a kind but distracted smile and hurried off to his police cruiser.

Beatrice’s eyes widened as Meadow approached. She had on a pair of navy blue pajamas with large, neon peace symbols covering the fabric. Her eyes danced behind her red pair of glasses. “Boris!” she cried delightedly, and the dog jumped up and licked her face ecstatically, knocking the glasses askew.

Meadow beamed at Beatrice, apparently not noticing the sour look on Beatrice’s face. Meadow pushed her glasses back into place and said, “Aren’t you smart! Finding Boris when we didn’t even know he was out loose!”

“Really, it was a matter of Boris finding me. And, Meadow, I was thinking maybe we should call the vet. Or maybe even Poison Control—they’d be able to tell us if large quantities of sugar are dangerous for dogs. He consumed most of my sugar canister. And a loaf of bread on top of that.” And she’d been planning to have that new jar of blackberry jam on toast this morning. Darn it. Another trip to Bub’s.

Meadow wandered to the kitchen, looking either absentminded or sleepy—Beatrice couldn’t decide which. “So he’s hungry? Let’s see. Maybe I should put some peanut butter in his kibbles. Peanut butter always sticks to my ribs—that would probably fill him up.”

“For heaven’s sake, Meadow! The dog ate several cups of sugar! Don’t you think we should find out if that’s a problem?”

Meadow narrowed her eyes. “Was it
sugar
or was it artificial sweetener?”

“Sugar.”

“Well, that’s all right, then. I mean, I wouldn’t want to feed a dog sugar on a
daily
basis, since it’ll be a problem for them just like it’s a problem for us . . . cavities and obesity and all. But I don’t blame you, Beatrice, for giving him a treat. That was nice of you, even if it wasn’t the best
choice
of treat available.”

Beatrice ground her teeth.

Meadow, happily unaware of the consternation she was causing, cheerfully mixed up some peanut butter in Boris’s dog food for his unnecessary second breakfast, then beamed as the dog devoured his breakfast in a matter of three or four gulps. She then put a tremendous mug of coffee in front of Beatrice and pushed a large sugar bowl down the counter to her.

“I’m reading a book about choices,” said Meadow. “I started reading it last night, and at two o’clock I was shocked at the time and had to turn off my light. It’s really good, Beatrice. I’ll lend it to you when I’m through with it. It talks about
everything
being a choice . . . that really, we make hundreds of choices in a day. Hundreds! I used to think that a choice was something like,
Where do I go for vacation this year?
But no—we make deliberate choices every day when we decide what we’re having for breakfast or whether we have that second cup of coffee before or after we read our paper. We need to
realize
we’re making choices and live more
deliberately . . .”

Beatrice tuned out at this point as Meadow continued her earnest rambles. Actually, mused Beatrice, this seems like an excellent opportunity to bring up Meadow’s choice to act odd on the night of Judith’s murder. “I wanted to ask you about something,” she interjected into Meadow’s increasingly beatnik-leaning monologue.

“Hmm?” Meadow picked up the milk carton and poured at least half a cup into Beatrice’s coffee mug. Really! Had she already forgotten Beatrice was drinking coffee?

“About the night that Judith was murdered. I remembered your saying that you were inside the whole night. And you’ve already said that you didn’t see or hear anything except when Posy dropped off Boris, and that Ash was sound asleep. But when I was talking to Piper, she mentioned that she’d seen you outside. She thought that you looked . . . well, a little odd.”

Piper, of course, had said that Meadow looked suspicious, not odd. Meadow, thought Beatrice as she looked at the other woman’s pj’s, was
always
odd.

Meadow’s round face grew pink. “Why ever would Piper say something like that? She must have gotten her nights confused. I was in the bed that night. Reading!” She spun around, bending to pick up Boris’s water bowl and refill it.

“Reading about choices?”

“Yes! I was totally absorbed,” said Meadow in a blustering voice.

“But you said that you’d started reading your book on choices
last
night.” Beatrice tried not to be smug about the fact that she’d actually listened to some of Meadow’s blathering. “Besides, Piper seemed certain that it was the night of Judith’s murder that she saw you.”

“Oh. That’s right. It was my other book.”

“Which book was it? I could use another book right now.” Especially since
Whispers of Summer
didn’t seem to be holding her interest.

Meadow spilled some of Boris’s water on the floor and cursed at it. “Well, the book is— Well, what do you know? I can’t remember the title.”

“Or the author?”

“I
never
remember the author, Beatrice. My memory isn’t that great.” Meadow sounded dignified about her shortcoming.

“I’m sure I can figure out what the book is,” said Beatrice. “Just tell me what it’s about. Maybe then the title will come to you.”