Quilt or Innocence (18 page)

“I’ll say hi to Meadow out back and walk around the house to the driveway before I go,” said Georgia, standing. “Thanks for the breakfast, Beatrice. Hope you’re feeling better soon.”

Ramsay picked up his car keys, his reading glasses and a notebook, then noticed Boris licking his lips. “Oh, and Beatrice? Boris isn’t allowed to eat table scraps. You probably give them to Noo-noo and didn’t know better. Just an FYI. I know you thought you were being nice,” he said quickly, raising his hand as Beatrice started sputtering a protest, “but those are the house rules.”

Ramsay and Georgia left, Ramsay in his cruiser and Georgia on her bike. Boris grinned toothily at Beatrice from across the room. Instead of her mantra, Beatrice indulged in a little profanity instead.

Meadow came back into the kitchen, her plaid apron full of tomatoes. “Can you believe it? What a haul!” she crowed. “And I only went outside to weed, not to pick. We’ll have tomato sandwiches for lunch. And
maybe
even tomato sandwiches for supper, too! Heck, we could have tomatoes in our eggs for breakfast tomorrow!”

Time to set some boundaries. “Meadow, I really appreciate you and Ramsay letting me stay here last night. And for the big breakfast . . .” Beatrice waved a hand at the huge amount of food still on the counter. “But . . .”

“Did you enjoy it?” asked Meadow eagerly. “Weren’t those grits lip-smacking good? There’s a booth at the farmer’s market where I buy stone-ground grits, and they’re
so
scrumptious. I even stirred in some cream cheese. And a little cream, too.”

Beatrice was going to have to get out of there just from a weight standpoint. She might be lanky now, but after a few all-dairy Meadow Downey meals, she’d have a lot more meat on her bones. “It was wonderful. Really, really good, Meadow. But now it’s time for Noo-noo and me to go back home. I feel fine—I really do,” she said quickly as Meadow opened her mouth to interrupt. “I had a touch of a headache, but that’s pretty good, considering how much worse everything could be. So I’ll go home and touch base with Piper.”

Meadow’s face fell comically. “Oh, that’s a shame. I was hoping we could have a nice lunch together. Well, I’ll send you home with the tomatoes—that’ll work. Did Georgia have some breakfast, then?” She looked at the plate, which still had a bit left. “It looks like she barely had anything at all! I tell you, I worry about those girls. All that biking and not much eating.”

They were hardly girls. But Meadow was an Earth Mother, so maybe she mothered everyone.

“I suppose Ramsay didn’t end up eating his breakfast?” asked Meadow with a long-suffering sigh, looking at the full plate Ramsay had laid back down in the kitchen. “I’ve about given up on him. You’d think that if he were faced with a delicious breakfast year after year, he’d have given in by now. Instead it’s black coffee every day. He’ll end up with an ulcer—that’s what I tell him.” She sorrowfully started scraping pots into the garbage while Boris drooled nearby.

“Did you and Georgia have a nice conversation? What did you two find to talk about?” asked Meadow, valiantly moving on from her despair over Ramsay’s eating habits.

“Oh . . . you know,” said Beatrice. “This and that.” Did Meadow know anything about Savannah’s kleptomania? Beatrice felt like she’d been given information in confidence and didn’t want to reveal too much. After some hesitation, she said, “It seems to me that Georgia worries a lot over her sister. I thought at first that Savannah was the one taking care of Georgia, but it seems more like it’s the other way around.”

Meadow turned around from her pot scrubbing, and Beatrice smiled at the sight of her red-framed glasses fogged up from the hot-water steam. “Yes, Beatrice! You’ve got it. That’s exactly what their relationship is like. Savannah seemed like the one who had her act together and took in poor Georgia with the failed marriage. Instead, though, Georgia is the one who has to keep her eye on her sister. And she worries like the dickens over her.”

Beatrice said casually, “Why do you think she’s so worried?”

“Oh,” said Meadow in just as casual of a voice, “because Savannah steals things. Not big things, and she doesn’t really mean to. But she does—believe me. I’ve lived in Dappled Hills for a million years and I know almost everything there is to know about it.”

Beatrice blinked at this offhand revelation. “Do you think Judith knew about Savannah, too?”

“Well, now, no one would have told
her
about poor Savannah. Not like I just told
you
. And that’s because Judith was nasty. But I think she somehow must have found out—maybe she was in one of the shops in her building one day, meeting with a tenant, and
saw
Savannah nab something. I could tell at the quilting bee that she was making these veiled hints about her.” Meadow’s voice rose in indignation.

“Do you think Judith was blackmailing Georgia or Savannah, the way she tried to blackmail you?” asked Beatrice. “After all, she had to know that Georgia would do anything to cover up for Savannah. And Savannah might want to do some covering up, too.”

“I’d be shocked if the harridan hadn’t tried it. Nasty thing.” Meadow looked as if she’d tasted something sour. “Savannah and Georgia didn’t even have two pennies to rub together, either. They depend on the little income they get from Georgia’s dog and cat boutique and Savannah’s part-time accounting. If Savannah had lost her job because of Judith spreading rumors, it would have had a real impact on their standard of living. Georgia doesn’t make enough money to keep a parakeet alive.”

It sounded like there were lots of reasons for Savannah and Georgia to want to get rid of Judith. A financial motive was another one to add to the list. Georgia was also worried about being left on her own or having Savannah taken away from her for some kind of treatment. And Georgia had clearly been desperate enough to write warning notes to try to scare Beatrice off from discovering the truth. Or . . . what if Georgia had killed Judith for all those reasons and
Savannah
had been the one to attack Miss Sissy and her? While Beatrice couldn’t picture the gentle Georgia hitting old ladies over the head, she sure wouldn’t put it past the calculating, enigmatic Savannah.

“I’m a little surprised to hear you talk so vehemently about Judith,” said Beatrice. “I thought you’d gotten along fairly well.”

Meadow raised her eyebrows in surprise, and Beatrice said, “Someone was telling me that you’d even given Judith some friendly advice about dyeing her hair—that she should become a redhead.”

“Certainly not! I avoided conversation with Judith as much as humanly possible. I certainly wouldn’t have been giving her advice on her hairstyles.” Meadow put the last pan on the drying board and wiped her damp hands dry with the dish towel. “I’m furious with her for stirring all this up. For throwing suspicion on
my friends
!”

“Meadow, Judith didn’t
plan
on being murdered,” said Beatrice.

“Well, she certainly
should
have! Blackmailing people and cheating people out of their money and being nasty about rent! She
should
have!”

* * *

After returning home, Beatrice realized she was a lot more tired than she’d thought. She spent the rest of the day with her feet up. The next morning, Beatrice realized with annoyance that she felt jumpy inside her home. It didn’t help that the cottage was at least fifty years old and had its little idiosyncrasies. The house groaned and shifted from time to time like an old lady with aching feet. Beatrice had barely even noticed the settling sounds before, but now every time the cottage made noises, her heart pounded harder in her chest.

Beatrice puttered around. Ordinarily she wasn’t much of a putterer, but in her present shape, she was moving slower than usual. She put the few dishes from the day before away, tidied up inside, and settled down into her cushy sofa. She took her reading glasses out of their case, put them on, and picked up
Whispers of Summer.
She’d have a nice little read with her feet up before she did anything else. Reading had always been a relaxing activity.

But
Whispers of Summer
had reached a bit of a boring part. There was some big flashback with one of the characters and a whole lot of description about a beach house. Beatrice sighed and put the book down. She used to have a longer attention span than this. Now it seemed like all she could do was think about this murder. And wonder if she might be the next victim.

Annoyed, she collected her pocketbook and keys. She’d go to the Patchwork Cottage for a while. There were some books and magazines that might be helpful if she was going to try to guide the guild into new directions for juried shows. Besides, Posy was going to put out some new jelly rolls. Maybe she could take a fresh stab at that quilt she was trying to practice with.

Beatrice was out in the driveway, fiddling with the key to lock up the cottage, when the sound of a curt voice behind her made shriek. Turning, she saw Savannah, the high collar of her dress up around her neck in self-defense. “Beatrice!” she scolded. “What on earth were you thinking, screaming like that? You took ten years off my life.”

Beatrice took a deep breath. “You have to put your sudden appearance in context, Savannah. You see, I was attacked the day before yesterday in much the same way Miss Sissy was, but with less serious results. So people creeping up behind me when I’m not aware of it is probably not the best approach.”

Savannah looked piqued instead of scandalized. “Yes, yes,” she said briskly. “I know all about that. Georgia told me about it when she got back home from Meadow’s house yesterday. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, getting attacked like this. You must have done something to provoke it all.”

Beatrice’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out.

“But enough of that. We all make mistakes,” said Savannah, ignoring the spluttering sounds Beatrice was starting to make. “And the best thing to do is learn from them and move on. I’ve brought you some salve,” she said with a stiff bob of her head as she dug a small container out of her backpack. “Made from healing herbs that I grew in our garden. You’ll want to put it on twice a day. It will,” she said fiercely, “work wonders.”

At least the salve appeared completely homemade. Otherwise, she might be worried that it was some of Savannah’s booty from downtown Dappled Hills.

“Thank you, Savannah,” said Beatrice. Savannah was definitely not a very affectionate person—the gift was probably the closest thing to a hug that Savannah would give. “I did have a question for you,” she said quickly as Savannah moved to get on her bike. “I was talking to someone the other day and heard that you and Judith had been having an argument not long before her death.”

Savannah pressed her thin lips together and nodded. “Is that someone saying I killed Judith?”

“I think we’re all racking our brains to figure out the case—that’s all. And gathering any information that might help solve it.”

“Well, Judith and I did have an argument. She’s always gotten under my skin, and that particular day she was doing an even better job at it than usual. Criticizing my quilting and saying I was the reason that the Village Quilters weren’t winning at shows!” Savannah’s tone was affronted.

Beatrice said soothingly, “I’ve seen your work and it always looks perfect to me. Your appliqué stitches are small and even; your edges are crisp. Your work is beautiful.”

Savannah seemed only slightly mollified. “Apparently, Judith thought that people like you—artsy people—wanted to see more art quilts.”

“Quilts that almost look like canvases with paintings on them?” said Beatrice. “I’ve come across them before, yes. But surely that would be only one category of quilt at a show. There would also be many others—traditional quilts, whole cloth, pictorial—”

“Sometimes that’s true,” Savannah cut in. “Sometimes it’s not. Some shows have really basic categories like small, medium, large, and miniature. So in those kinds of quilt shows, all the quilts would be lumped in with all the others in terms of size. Those art quilts might stand out in a group.” She looked up at Beatrice uncertainly.

Could it be possible that this supremely confident quilter was having a little self-doubt?

“But I heard you were very upset with Judith for being so critical.”

“Maybe,” said Savannah grimly, “that’s because I thought there might be some truth to it. But I’ve been making my traditional quilts with their geometric patterns for years. I’m not really the most creative person in town . . . I’m just a precise stitcher. Besides, she was complaining about Georgia’s quilting, too, which was most irritating.”

Beatrice was trying to think what to say to that when Savannah continued. “None of this matters, anyway. I didn’t kill Judith. I didn’t kill Judith because she insulted my quilt making. I didn’t kill Judith because she taunted and bullied Georgia and me. I didn’t do it. Besides, I wasn’t the only quilter that Judith butted heads with. She and Daisy never saw eye to eye on the guild’s direction. And they were always jealous of each other and bragged about which one had won more awards.”

Savannah put her backpack back on and climbed onto her bicycle, giving Beatrice a nod and saying, “Hope the salve helps,” before pedaling busily off. Perched on her bicycle, sitting stiffly in the seat, she bore an eerie resemblance to Miss Gulch, who turned into the witch in
The Wizard of Oz
film. Beatrice wondered how on earth that long dress didn’t get caught up in the various bike parts.

Peace, calm, kindness.

At the Patchwork Cottage, Meadow sat on one of Posy’s overstuffed floral sofas, thumbing through a book of blocks and putting sticky notes where her favorites were. Posy had brought doughnuts into the shop. The jelly-filled kind were Beatrice’s favorite. The doughnuts made for a nice late-morning snack. “Beatrice! How are you doing now? No headaches? Pains? Wrenching anxiety, perhaps?”

Beatrice ground her teeth a bit and shook her head.

Posy walked around the counter to give Beatrice a big hug. “Meadow was telling me about your ordeal! I’m so, so sorry you had such a scare. I declare, I don’t know what is happening to Dappled Hills. It’s an absolutely delightful town. It really is.”

“Posy, I don’t think I’ve seen your block for the group quilt yet. Have you started it?”

Posy smiled. “Oh, I’ve actually finished it. Thanks for the reminder. I can give it to Meadow, since she’s here. I’ve got so many hours here at the shop, you know. Most of the time it’s busy . . . except when it’s not. That’s when I’m glad I’ve got such a time-consuming hobby.”

Posy’s block was stunning. It featured a vibrantly colored, bright-eyed male hummingbird taking a drink from a delicate flower. In the background was a cheerfully painted birdfeeder on a post. “It’s beautiful,” said Beatrice in a sincere voice.

“Well, honey, I own a quilt shop! So I have gobs of time to practice and think about design and fabrics, you know. I’m here staring at them all day! But thanks so much—I’m glad you like it. You know that gardening and bird watching are just about as important to me as quilting is.”

The shop bell rang, and Meadow said in a clearly audible voice she apparently thought of as a whisper, “For heaven’s sake! It’s Felicity. And doesn’t she look like something the cat dragged in?”

She did. In fact, she looked nearly as bad as she had the day Beatrice, Savannah and Georgia had visited her right after Judith’s death. Her makeup was completely AWOL—surprising, since she’d once sold cosmetics. And had she slept in those clothes? It certainly looked like it.

“Y’all, distract me,” said Felicity in a faint rendition of her usually commanding voice. “Being home alone is just making me worry about everything. I had to get out.”

Posy scurried over to Felicity. “Here, honey. Why don’t you have a seat over here? And I’ve got the comfiest quilt for cuddling up in—it makes me feel better whenever I touch it. It’s a baby quilt, which is why it’s so soft and sweet . . .” Posy went on prattling and covered the shivering Felicity with a beautiful baby quilt scattered with whimsical storks and dimpled babies.

“Whatever is the matter, Felicity?” breathed Meadow, her large face crinkling in worry. “Has something awful happened? It’s not Amber, is it? She’s my protégée, you know.”

Felicity looked at Meadow with sad eyes before breaking down in tears. Posy enveloped her in a hug and rocked her back and forth, cooing something comforting. Beatrice, not able to think of anything else that might help, hurried to find a Coca-Cola, and Meadow, seemingly unconcerned about anything but her protégée, continued urgently asking questions about Amber’s well-being.

Finally, Felicity seemed cried out enough to talk for a while. “Meadow, no, Amber’s fine. At least physically she’s fine. I guess. But, y’all, she killed Judith.”

“What!” A collective exclamation came from the women.

“That’s right. She killed Judith in cold blood. You just don’t know how furious she was the night of the bee. It was like all the anger against Judith that had been bottled up was coming out in this awful tirade. She was livid that Judith had tried to cheat me out of a fair price for the quilt. And she was devastated that Judith has been blocking the way for a real estate developer to buy both our properties and develop them. It’s the money—she knows I don’t have much, and it’ll make a huge difference whether I get to move to Hampstead Columns or not. And I’ve had my heart set on Hampstead Columns for ages. But I can’t move there unless I have enough extra money, in case the rent there goes up. Selling my property and getting some money from that quilt would really help a lot. And she knows I’m stubborn—I don’t want to give up on moving there.”

Meadow said in a huffy voice, “Well, we’ve known this all along, Felicity. Yes, Amber had a motive. So did a lot of other people. Judith wasn’t exactly on the Dappled Hills’ Most Popular People list.”

Felicity sat stiffly with her hands folded in her lap. “I
called
Amber that night—and, yes, I know she was with you for a little while, Meadow,” she added quickly as Meadow’s mouth popped open. “But I also
drove
over to see Amber. I was that worried about her because I had never seen her that upset. And her car wasn’t there. It
wasn’t there
.”

Posy and Beatrice shared a look. Maybe that’s where Felicity was going when Posy saw her drive by the night of Judith’s murder.

Meadow blustered, “That doesn’t mean a thing, Felicity! Why, Amber could have been . . . well, she could have been going to the drugstore. Or she could have suddenly wanted to have a burger or something.” But Meadow looked worried now, too.

“Amber
could
have been doing something completely innocent. But you’re doubtful too, Meadow. Aren’t you? You remember how she was in her teens and early twenties. She still has that really willful streak—it hasn’t gone anywhere,” said Felicity. “She got suspended from school a few times, started hanging out with the wrong friends, wrong men. It was a disaster. She just made all the wrong choices.”

“There was a reason for her behavior, though. When her dad died, she was just a little lost. That’s all behind her now. I just don’t see Amber driving to the park and murdering Judith,” said Meadow in a strident tone.

To be completely honest, Amber did sound like the perfect candidate to have killed Judith. She was furious with the woman and
did
have a financial motive: with Judith out of the way, the path would have been cleared to sell her mother’s land. Not only would Felicity go to the retirement home she’d dreamed of, but there would likely even be a little left over to help Amber out, too. Or maybe Amber had thought that Daisy was Judith? After all, Daisy had mentioned at the bee that she also planned on walking in the park. Amber might have been riled up enough by the whole Judith episode that she took it out on Daisy, who would have looked quite a bit like Judith in the dark. Felicity looked very much in danger of crying again, and now it appeared that Meadow was going to start howling alongside her. Beatrice said briskly, “I know a good way to get to the bottom of this, ladies. We’ll call Amber. Here we all are accusing her of something horrible, and she doesn’t have the chance to defend herself.”

She pulled out her cell phone, and Felicity gave her Amber’s number. Beatrice dialed it, and Felicity’s pocketbook started ringing. “What a coincidence!” said Felicity. “Maybe that’s Amber calling me now.” She pulled out her phone and her brow wrinkled. “No, it’s
you
, Beatrice! Your name is coming up on my phone.” Then she put a hand to her forehead. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Of
course
your name is coming up. I misplaced my phone, and when I mentioned it to Amber, she insisted on giving me hers. Said it wasn’t safe to have me tottering around everywhere with no way to call for help in an emergency.”

Meadow said, “What a thoughtful daughter you have.”

“She is. She’s very thoughtful and she’s been good to take care of me. She couldn’t have had anything to do with this, could she?” Felicity’s blue eyes pleaded with Meadow.

“Absolutely
not
,” said Meadow.

As Posy and Meadow hurried to reassure Felicity, the door to the shop flew open, the bell jangling loudly. Miss Sissy stopped her loud snoring, waking with a start and blowing her whistle as hard as she could. They all put their hands over their ears and rolled their eyes at each other. Dogs barked in the distance.

Piper rushed through the door, wearing a mixture of concern and exasperation on her face.

“Mother!” she said, forgoing her usual, fond
mama
, “I just heard about your attack from
Ash
! You didn’t call me? Why didn’t you call me?” Her voice throbbed with outrage.

Beatrice swallowed. “I did call you yesterday when I got home, but you were out and I didn’t want to leave a message about something like that. Piper, there was nothing you could do. I knew you were probably out with Ash, and I was
fine
. I stayed with Meadow and Ramsay as a precaution—that’s all. There was absolutely no reason to spoil your day.”

“You didn’t think I’d want to know something like that?” scolded Piper.

Felicity frowned. “What’s all this? Has something else happened?”

Beatrice said in a rush, “It’s nothing. I was messing around in Miss Sissy’s house before locking the door and surprised a burglar or something. She struck me over the head with something hard. But I’m
fine
, as I was just telling Piper. The swelling is down, and Savannah gave me some kind of herbal salve to help with the cut that she claims works miracles.”

“You could have stayed over at my house that night, Mama,” said Piper, still sounding upset. “I could have kept an eye on you, too.”

“Piper, no offense, but your duplex is the size of a Cracker Jack box.”

“I could have stayed with
you
, then!”

“And I would have messed up your whole evening. Believe me, sweetie, I would call you if I needed you for anything. I love having you so close. Everything worked out fine. Noo-noo even enjoyed her sleepover at Boris’s house.”

“Surely Amber wouldn’t have beat up on
Beatrice
,” said Felicity, almost to herself.

“Wickedness! Pure evil!” Miss Sissy wagged her finger inexplicably toward the ceiling.

Beatrice realized suddenly that she felt very tired again. And she really had some reading to do at home. And perhaps a short nap to take.

* * *

The nap apparently took longer than Beatrice had originally intended. The sun was starting to dip down in the sky when there was a hesitant knock on the front door, jolting Beatrice from her sleep. Heart pounding, she looked apprehensively at the door as Noo-noo barked a warning. Silly. Attackers don’t come knocking. She peered out the curtain and saw a hesitant Posy and a ferocious Miss Sissy. She fumbled with the bolts and opened the door.

Miss Sissy had an old-fashioned, scruffy suitcase that closed with a plastic snap. There were several garments peeking out from different spots of the suitcase. She hoisted up the bag, heaved it inside, and deposited it in Beatrice’s little den.

Posy seemed reluctant to speak in front of the old lady. “I’m sorry, Beatrice. I hope you weren’t still taking your nap. Miss Sissy, why don’t you . . .?” Miss Sissy never waited for the rest of the sentence, instead marching directly out to the backyard, climbing nimbly into Beatrice’s hammock and promptly falling asleep. Noo-noo inexplicably had followed her and stretched out on the grass beside the hammock for his own nap.

“Beatrice, I am so sorry!” said Posy with wide eyes. “Cork thought . . . well, he thought that it might be a good opportunity for Miss Sissy to make a new friend. And she does seem really fascinated by you, Beatrice,” Posy ended weakly.

It was that darned whistle. She couldn’t really blame Cork, though—all the wine in his wine shop wasn’t enough to make that shrill whistle go away.

“
Does
she like me? The only thing I’ve heard her say to me is ‘road hog.’” With friends like those . . .

“I think so. It’s enough, you know. She really
doesn’t
like Cork, and it’s made his life with her very difficult.” They both looked out the back window in time to see a wary squirrel creep up to Beatrice’s backyard feeder. As it slunk by the corgi, he woke up with a yelp. Miss Sissy jumped in the hammock, reaching for the whistle and blowing it emphatically. Noo-noo barked louder, and the rest of the dogs in the town appeared to join in as Miss Sissy swung her head from side to side, peering suspiciously at the bushes.

“You’re welcome to drop her by the Patchwork Cottage as soon as we open,” said Posy in a hurry. “She mostly naps there all day in the chair, you know. Then you’ll just have to pick her up at closing time. She’s actually a wonderful cook—if you butter her up a little, she’ll cook these fantastic meals.”

Stiff upper lip, Beatrice reminded herself. This would be a good opportunity to practice Piper’s mantra. Peace, calm, kindness.

* * *

Daytime wasn’t the problem. It was definitely evening that presented more of a challenge. All the buttering up in the world hadn’t budged Miss Sissy toward the kitchen or persuaded her to cook. Grumbling under her breath, Beatrice had decided to make them omelets. She still had some of the tomatoes and eggs that Meadow had brought her, a couple of green onions, and that lovely bacon from Bub’s. Unfortunately, the pan had apparently gotten too hot and she’d forgotten to spray it before she put the eggs in. The underside of the omelet scorched.

Maybe Miss Sissy isn’t very picky, mused Beatrice. She took some extra bits of the tomato and bacon filling and scooped it on the top, covering up some of the scorch marks. Miss Sissy crossed her arms as Beatrice set the plate in front of her. “Isn’t edible!”

“Maybe not, but it’s supper,” said Beatrice, feeling cross. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Miss Sissy clicked her tongue at her, finally motivated to cook. Beatrice had to admit that she’d never eaten a fluffier omelet. “How did you get the eggs so fluffy?” she grudgingly asked.

“You have to whip air into the eggs with a whisk.” She ate a healthy amount. No old-lady appetite for her.

Posy hadn’t seen fit to fill Beatrice in on the fact that Miss Sissy prowled the house at night. Beatrice lay in bed and sighed as she heard the old woman moving around the kitchen, fixing herself something to drink, then turning the television to a very high volume and cackling loudly at whatever she was watching. Beatrice pulled her pillow over her head and dozed for a little while.

She woke up again about an hour later and knew she wouldn’t be able to roll over and fall back asleep again. She pulled on her navy blue robe, cinching the belt tightly around her waist. Girding my loins, she thought with a sigh. Time to face the indomitable Miss Sissy, which was never a pleasant concept, and even less so at three o’clock in the morning.