Quilt Trip: A Southern Quilting Mystery

PRAISE FOR THE SOUTHERN QUILTING MYSTERIES

Knot What It Seams

“Craig laces this puzzler with a plausible plot, a wealth of quirky characters, and rich local color as Beatrice and her friends try to restore peace for the piecers.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“Elizabeth Craig has created a charming world of quilting, friendship, and intrigue with this series, and
Knot What It Seams
is a fun, fast-paced, and intriguing tale.”

—Sharon’s Garden of Book Reviews

“[Will] entice any quilt lover to put down their needle and sit a spell and read.”

—The Mystery Reader

“Interesting and intriguing.”

—Fresh Fiction

Quilt or Innocence

“A delightful new series as warm and cozy as a favorite quilt. Elizabeth Craig captures Southern life at its best, and her characters are as vibrant and colorful as the quilts they sew.”

—Krista Davis, national bestselling author of the Domestic Diva Mysteries

“Sparkles with Craig’s cleverness and plenty of Carolina charm.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

“A warm and welcoming new series,
Quilt or Innocence
is full of eccentric and engaging characters. The women Beatrice meets are unique and quirky, but in a down-to-earth, believable way, not a silly, comic way that such characters are often portrayed.”

—The Mystery Reader

“
Quilt or Innocence
is a delightful regional amateur sleuth due to the eccentric quilters. . . . Readers will enjoy touring Dappled Hills guided by colorful locals.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

Also by Elizabeth Craig

Quilt or Innocence

Knot What It Seams

QUILT TRIP

A SOUTHERN QUILTING MYSTERY

Elizabeth Craig

OBSIDIAN

Published by the Penguin Group

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A Penguin Random House Company

First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © Elizabeth Craig, 2013

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ISBN 978-1-101-62046-5

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

    The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

For Mama and Daddy, with thanks and love.

ACKNO
WLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my family for all the ways they support me. Thanks to Mary Spann Peterson, Henry Spann, and Beth Spann for being thoughtful beta readers. Thanks to Sandra Harding for her skillful editing and always-sound story vision. Thanks to my agent, Ellen Pepus. Many thanks to my friends for their encouragement and for the writing community in general. And thanks to the mystery writers who have written before me for the inspiration they’ve provided me.

Beatrice Coleman looked in horror at her neighbor Meadow Downey. “You mean we’re not even invited? We’re gate-crashing?”

They were in Meadow’s aging green van and Meadow was speedily driving them to a home just slightly outside their town of Dappled Hills, North Carolina. Beatrice felt a bit dizzy as they wound up the curving road and sped through wooded hills. She hoped the van was up for the trip—the high-pitched whirring of the engine hardly inspired confidence. Beatrice always felt slightly self-conscious when riding in her friend’s van—she must have stuck at least fifteen bumper stickers on it, all espousing a variety of unusual philosophies.

Meadow chortled. “Gate-crashing?” she said. “You can’t gate-crash a Special Quilt Guild Meeting, Beatrice. It’s completely impossible. Gate-crashing is for parties. What we’re doing is dropping in without calling first.”

“What we’re really doing,” said Beatrice gloomily, “is trying to persuade a sick, elderly woman that we’re the best candidates to chair a quilting scholarship committee.” She peered again out the van window as the scenery flew by. “Meadow, I think it’s going to snow. The sky is that odd mottled gray. I’m getting a really bad feeling about all of this. We should turn around now and go back home.”

Meadow glanced away from the road to give Beatrice a reassuring grin, although the result was anything but. Meadow had that fervent expression that she had whenever she was all geared up for quilting. Her eyes behind her red glasses were full of fire. She’d tried to tame her long gray hair into its customary braid, but must have been distracted because it escaped in wisps. The overall effect was rather maniacal, Beatrice decided.

“We can’t go back, Beatrice. This is the perfect opportunity for the Village Quilters. If old Mrs. Starnes wants to create a foundation and award scholarships to ensure the longevity of the quilting craft, I can’t think of a better guild than ours to distribute them. I already have a recipient in mind. Apparently, Mrs. Starnes is even going to delegate funds for the guild that administers the scholarship—to get them out in the surrounding communities and schools to demonstrate the craft and encourage it. The Village Quilters are perfect!”

“But, Meadow—the weather. Can’t we just send Mrs. Starnes or whoever she is an e-mail in which we express our qualifications?” asked Beatrice.

Meadow vehemently shook her head. “No. Mrs. Starnes doesn’t have electronics in her house. She’s an old, eccentric woman, Beatrice.”

Beatrice bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that there was an old, eccentric woman sitting right next to her.

“Besides, I’m sure she would have invited us if she’d remembered. She probably simply forgot about getting a representative from the Village Quilters guild. We’re helping her out,” Meadow said in a righteous voice.

“We’re foisting ourselves on her under the guise of being helpful,” muttered Beatrice. “Look— It’s sleeting.”

“Pooh. Who cares about a little sleet?”

Clearly not Meadow. Actually, it looked like a combination of sleet and freezing rain. And as Meadow pulled the van into the driveway, the ominous sky gave Beatrice the feeling they were embarking on an adventure.

Dappled Hills was a small, picturesque mountain town full of steep hills, and Beatrice was accustomed to rather treacherous driveways. But the driveway Meadow was currently scaling put all the rest to shame.

“Where are the switchbacks?” Beatrice asked. “We’re going straight up. Shouldn’t there be switchbacks to keep us at a safe, gradual ascent?”

“This house and driveway are so old that there probably weren’t a lot of people using switchbacks back when it was built,” said Meadow airily. “We’ll be fine.”

The driveway was a narrow, potholed dirt road stretching through dense trees straight up the side of a mountain. At the crest sat a dilapidated old Victorian house complete with a turret, cupola, dormer windows, a wraparound porch, and a steep roof. Its white paint was peeling off and its gingerbread trim had a bad case of rot.

“Southern gothic,” Beatrice said under her breath.

Several other cars were parked at the top of the driveway. “See?” said Meadow. “It’s not as if we’re interrupting a huge party or anything. There are probably five or six other people here. Besides, I come bearing food and quilts! Who’s going to turn that down?”

Beatrice had a feeling that old Muriel Starnes likely had gobs of quilts in her eroding Victorian mansion. But she’d agree with Meadow on the food. Meadow was a fantastic cook and Beatrice had been enjoying the aroma of whatever wonderful food she’d cooked all the way from home. She couldn’t wait to dig into it. “What did you bring?”

“Hot bacon and artichoke dip. Doesn’t it smell delicious? Could you help me with these quilts, Beatrice?”

Beatrice clucked over the way Meadow had flung the quilts into the back of her messy van. “Meadow, these quilts are getting wrinkled and dirty! You didn’t bring hangers for them, or a garment bag or something?”

Meadow waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, no. Quilts are made to be used, Beatrice. Who cares if they have a little bit of dirt on them? That’s life! Quilts aren’t merely an art form, although I know that’s usually how you view them.”

Beatrice was a retired art curator who’d moved from Atlanta to the tiny town of Dappled Hills to spend more time with her grown daughter. Meadow was right—Beatrice saw quilts through the eyes of a curator. She always saw the artistic merit—or lack of it—in them first, then thought of ways to best display and preserve the quilts.

Meadow trotted brazenly up the warped wooden steps onto the wraparound porch. The front door had apparently originally been black, but now most of its paint was peeled off. She lifted the heavy brass door knocker and rapped authoritatively.

A breeze blew up and Beatrice shivered from the chill, pulling her full-length black wool coat around her.

A dour, bald older man wearing an immaculate suit and a frown opened the door. He raised his eyebrows at Meadow’s wildly colorful appearance. Meadow was solidly constructed and tall, but had never shied away from wearing large prints and bright colors. Her long gray braid hung to her waist and the twinkling eyes behind her red glasses were mischievous. The man seemed somewhat more comforted when he studied Beatrice in her no-nonsense coat, black ribbed turtleneck, khaki pants, and silvery blond hair. “Are we expecting you?” he asked doubtfully.

“Mrs. Starnes
should
be expecting us,” said Meadow breezily—meaning, of course, that Mrs. Starnes should have invited them but hadn’t. Beatrice’s head started pounding.

“I brought hot dip and chips,” said Meadow with a big smile, as if that would guarantee her entry.

The man opened his mouth to inquire further, but snapped it shut again and frowned as he squinted at the dirt driveway.

Another car was approaching. As the man crossed his arms as if planning to offer a roadblock to anybody trying to enter the house, the car came into view.

“It’s Posy!” said Meadow delightedly. She explained to the grim man, “It’s Posy Beck, owner of the Patchwork Cottage shop in Dappled Hills. She’s in our quilting guild.”

Beatrice groaned softly. “Look who’s with her.”

“It’s Miss Sissy!” crowed Meadow, who didn’t appear to understand that a crazy old woman wasn’t going to make it any easier for them to get into this gathering. The sleet mixed with freezing rain fell harder.

“Meadow, I’m thinking we need to leave,” Beatrice said. “We’re clearly not being encouraged to come inside, and the weather is getting worse. How will we get out of here if the ice starts accumulating? We’re on top of a mountain with a steep driveway.”

There was a cough behind them and an old woman hunched over a walker gazed steadily at them from hooded eyes. The man exclaimed with concern and reached to assist her, but she waved him off with irritation. “I’m fine,” she grated. “Let these women in, Colton. It’s pouring down rain—or something—out here.”

Colton still seemed reluctant. “Do you know them, Muriel?”

“I know they’re quilters because they’re holding quilts,” she said dryly. “It seems as though that other car holds more quilters. They’re all welcome here.”

Colton tightened his lips, trying to keep himself from arguing, then stepped aside to let Meadow and Beatrice in.

“I have hot dip!” Meadow said brightly to Muriel Starnes.

Muriel gave a close-lipped smile and hobbled in with them. “We’re all sitting in the library,” she said.

Meadow was unfortunately, and as usual, in a very chatty mood. She’d made any number of inane statements before reaching the library and, once there, didn’t seem affected whatsoever by the general atmosphere in the room.

But Beatrice was. The library was a large room, and a cold one. In fact, the entire house was cold. Beatrice shivered and decided to leave her coat on. A stone fireplace held several shards of wood that were quickly burning out. The sight of books usually had a cheering effect on Beatrice, but these books had a depressing never-read look about them. The room was full of dusty, heavy furniture in dark-colored woods. Actually, the entire house was full of dust, and her nose tickled as she saw some floating in an anemic sunbeam from the library window. Beatrice sniffed delicately. There was definitely a scent of decay and mold in the room. The only inviting spot was the bay window seat.

The gathering of quilters was fairly subdued. In fact, they were completely mute. They nodded a greeting in response to Meadow’s over-the-top hello, then took to gazing around the room or staring at their quilts or their hands. The women were of various ages. No one else had brought anything to eat or drink and Muriel Starnes didn’t appear inclined to offer anything. Everyone appeared to be waiting for a speech or an official welcome of some kind.

Colton came in with Posy and Miss Sissy. His expression was one of disdain. Posy, fluffy as usual in a pastel cardigan and beagle brooch, beamed at everyone and was completely innocuous, so Beatrice had to assume that it was Miss Sissy who was responsible for Colton’s dismay. She was looking even wilder than Meadow—most of her hair had pulled out of her bun and she wore a long floral dress that had seen better days.

“Wickedness!” proclaimed Miss Sissy, hissing the word as she glared suspiciously around the room.

Posy and Beatrice exchanged glances. Apparently, this wasn’t one of Miss Sissy’s good days.

Muriel Starnes walked over to a large leather armchair and carefully sat down, keeping her walker in front of her. “Thanks to everyone for coming,” she said in a voice that was weak but still had remnants of authority in it. “It’s certainly a tribute to the quilting craft that I have had such a good turnout. Perhaps even”—she studied Meadow, Beatrice, and Miss Sissy—“more of a turnout than I anticipated.”

Beatrice felt herself blush. Meadow seemed unconcerned.

“I’m going to let my lawyer, Colton Bradshaw, explain the general setup of the foundation I’m creating and give you more information about it,” said Muriel, leaning back wearily in her chair.

“Lawyer?” said Meadow, chortling. “I thought he was your butler!”

Colton gave her an icy glare and stood up stiffly, holding several papers that he appeared to be planning to read from. Beatrice sighed. Judging from that script of his, they might be trapped here for hours.

“Thanks to Muriel Starnes’s generosity, the assembled are gathered here today to offer insight and input on finding and vetting qualified and worthy recipients for the quilting scholarships,” he intoned.

Beatrice sighed again. His delivery wasn’t very good, either. She decided to tune out Colton and spend her time watching the other women in the room. It was an odd group. Most of the women were watching Colton seriously. One or two of them appeared almost suspicious, and another looked anxious. Meadow, on the other hand, was like a wriggling puppy. She could barely stand to wait for Colton to finish so she could enthusiastically give her thoughts on the scholarships.

Two of the older quilters had unreadable expressions on their faces. One of the women looked fairly sour and the other was blankly watching Colton read his prepared statement. It seemed that everyone should have been as enthusiastic and excited as Meadow was. Weren’t they supposed to be selling themselves as good candidates to administer the scholarships?

Muriel didn’t appear to be listening to a word Colton was saying, but then, she’d surely already been familiar with his little speech. Her hooded eyes watched the other women closely. Sometimes the quilters caught her staring and glanced away.

Miss Sissy was ravenously gobbling down all the crackers, having apparently decided that she didn’t care for a component of the bacon and artichoke dip.

Colton finally concluded his speech. Or maybe he was only pausing to catch his breath. Meadow jumped in while she had the chance. “I’ll speak for all of us, I’m sure, when I say that I’m absolutely thrilled that you’re helping ensure the longevity of the quilting craft through your foundation. And I want to explain how the Village Quilters guild is perfect for administering this scholarship. You see, our guild’s amazing history—”

“Thank you, Colton,” Muriel Starnes interrupted as seamlessly as if Meadow hadn’t said a word. “And now I have a confession to make. I haven’t been completely honest with you about the reason you’re all here.”

There was suddenly a great, snapping
Pow!
outside the window and the lights went out.