Quilt Trip: A Southern Quilting Mystery (2 page)

There wasn’t nearly as much natural light inside the library as there should have been, Beatrice thought. After all, it was still daytime. But the heavy cloud cover outside meant that there wasn’t much sunlight to be had.

Added to the darkness, it was a little unsettling to have Miss Sissy, her mouth still full of snacks, shrieking, “Murder! Murder!” and shaking her arthritic fists.

Beatrice tried peering out the bay window but couldn’t see anything, so she hurried out to the front door. Several other quilters and Colton Bradshaw followed.

A tremendous tree had lost a huge limb, which was now completely blocking the driveway.

“Thank goodness it didn’t hit our cars,” gasped Meadow, always one to look on the bright side.

“Except now we’re trapped,” said Beatrice. “Our cars aren’t much good if we can’t get past that limb.”

Meadow squinted at the limb. “We can move it, Beatrice.”

“Speak for yourself! I’m pretty sure I don’t have the strength to move it. I’m over sixty years old.” Beatrice glanced over at the lawyer standing next to her. She was fairly sure he wouldn’t have the strength, either. He was evidently even older than she was.

“Odd. It appears the limb didn’t fall on the power lines,” said Colton, frowning. “But they’re down as well.”

“They snapped,” said Beatrice, pointing at the lines. “When ice builds up on a power line, the weight of the ice brings them down.”

Meadow said, “I still say we can heave that branch out of the way.”

Nature’s response to this statement was to split an entire tree farther down the mountain, causing it to fall at another point of the driveway.

“Never mind,” Meadow said with a laugh.

One of the younger quilters, who appeared to be about fifty, said hesitantly, “We could walk down the driveway and find help.”

“I think you’ll find that’s quite impossible,” Colton said. “The driveway will soon be a sheet of ice, if it isn’t already. Even if you reached the bottom, the nearest house is two miles down the mountain. Very treacherous.”

Beatrice sighed. “There is such an invention as the telephone. Let’s go inside and call the power company to report the outage. Then we can phone someone to come as close as they safely can and we can meet them at that point.”

Meadow winked at her. “Will you be calling Wyatt, Beatrice?” She fluttered her lashes at Beatrice.

Wyatt was a local minister with whom Beatrice had a warm friendship. At this point, it hadn’t yet blossomed into anything else. Not that Meadow believed it.

“Or Ramsay,” Beatrice replied. Ramsay was Meadow’s husband and chief of police.

Meadow shook her head. “Ramsay’s off on his hunting and fishing trip out West with his college buddy. Remember? I told you about it in the car on the way over.”

It must have been one of those moments when Beatrice had desperately tuned out the babble.

Muriel Starnes spoke from behind them. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter whom you’d contact, because the phone lines are down. I’ve checked.”

Now they were standing there in the freezing rain, gawking in dismay at Muriel.

“Stuck here?” asked Meadow. “With no toothbrush?”

“We do have cell phones,” Beatrice said. “I’ll just run in and grab mine from my purse.”

“I think you’ll find,” Muriel said steadily, “that there will be no cell phone reception here. The nearest tower is quite some distance away and this entire area banded together to block the carrier from clear-cutting trees to build a tower on this mountain.”

Beatrice was already walking inside to check her phone, but heard the quilters who had their phones on them muttering over the lack of reception.

She pulled her phone from her pocketbook. Nothing. No signal at all. Beatrice dropped her phone back in her bag and sank into a chair in the dark library. The ominous feeling from earlier grew stronger. Something was wrong here . . . something besides the storm.

Posy joined her. “No reception?” she asked, an anxious frown on her features.

Beatrice shook her head. “I’m afraid not. And Piper is in California visiting Meadow’s son. I don’t have anyone who’ll even notice that I’m missing right now—and neither does Meadow, since Ramsay is away. What about your husband, Posy?”

“Oh, Cork will notice I’m gone,” she said. “He’ll be wondering where his supper is when he gets home from work.”

Beatrice relaxed a little. “Well, thank goodness for that. Maybe he can bring a small team of people up here to help get us out.”

Posy knit her brows. “But, Beatrice, he didn’t know I was coming here. Cork doesn’t take much interest in the guild meetings and all. I didn’t even write it on our wall calendar in the kitchen. It was sort of a last-minute thing. Meadow called the shop yesterday and asked if I could come here with her. She thought I might be able to host special community outreach programs and that we could convince Muriel that the Village Quilters would be the right guild to help her with her foundation. So . . . Cork knows nothing about this.”

“Murder!” offered Miss Sissy, who had followed Posy back into the library and was scraping together the crumbs that were all that remained of the crackers.

“I’m afraid we’re stuck,” said Posy with a sigh. “I guess at some point they’ll either figure out where we are or else the phone company will repair the line and we’ll be able to call out.”

“Or the ice will melt,” said Meadow. She was still remarkably upbeat, which irritated Beatrice.

“Being stuck in a decaying mansion isn’t exactly my idea of fun,” said Beatrice. Then she groaned. “I took Noo-noo to the groomers today to get her nails trimmed and have her undercoat brushed out. They’re going to think I deserted her!”

Now Meadow was serious. “And my Boris is alone. With a self-feeding dog bowl, though.”

Beatrice put her hand over her mouth. “Your house! It’s going to be a doggy restroom. Oh—no, you’ve got a dog door, don’t you?”

Meadow nodded.

Posy said, “I’m sure Cork will figure out soon that I’m with the two of you. He’d have checked with one of you first to see if you knew where I was. Once he realizes we’re all gone, he’ll be sure to see after the dogs. He’s as much of an animal lover as I am.”

Beatrice said, “I’m still going to keep trying to get a signal to call out with my cell phone. Maybe after it stops raining I can walk outside and see if I can get reception somewhere.”

The other quilters joined them in the library. A fiftyish quilter with an aquiline nose and black hair with several streaks of white said, “No one has cell phone service. We’ve all checked. And some of us use different carriers.”

“It’s just the way it is,” said Muriel Starnes with a shrug. She dropped into her armchair, exhausted.

“That’s fine for you, Mother,” snapped the black-haired woman furiously. “You don’t have anything to do but sit around up here on top of your mountain. Some of us have other plans.”

Mother? Meadow and Beatrice blinked at each other.

Muriel noticed their surprise. She sighed. “Since it appears as though we’re going to be spending time together, I suppose that introductions are in order. As you’ve already gathered, this is my daughter, Alexandra Starnes.”

Alexandra gave them a condescending smile that didn’t reach her cool blue eyes.

Muriel waved a thin hand at the red-haired quilt- er, who seemed to be fifty, although her freckles and sweet expression made her appear younger. “This is Holly Weaver. Librarian by day, quilter by night.” Holly’s eyes crinkled in a smile and her dimples flashed.

“This,” said Muriel, gesturing to a woman in her seventies with sharp features and reading glasses hanging from a silver chain around her neck, “is Winnie Tyson. She’s a friend of mine who quilts and teaches school.”

“Former friend,” said Winnie in harsh voice.

Muriel ignored the correction and nodded toward the last of the quilters, a hefty woman wearing a T-shirt with an American flag on it. “And this is Dot Giles. A fine quilter.”

Dot grinned. “A compliment? From you, Muriel? I may have to take to my bed.”

The introductions appeared to be taking a lot out of Muriel. “Could the rest of you introduce yourselves? I’m not even exactly sure who you all are.” Muriel frowned at Miss Sissy, who glared back at her.

Posy hastily said, “I’m Posy Beck and I own the Patchwork Cottage shop in Dappled Hills. Miss Sissy here . . . well, she spends a lot of time at the shop. She didn’t really have anything to do today, so I brought her along.” She nervously fingered the buttons on her fluffy cardigan.

Meadow launched into what sounded more like an introduction at a personal motivation conference. “I’m Meadow Downey and I’m here to tell everyone how wonderful my guild, the Village Quilters, is! I’m planning to explain how the Village Quilters can play a part in building the future of quilting.”

Beatrice was pleased that she was able to keep from wincing at Meadow’s little speech. “I’m Beatrice Coleman. I’m a former art museum curator and new resident in Dappled Hills. I’m interested in the artistic side of quilting and the historical element of it, as well. I’m in the Village Quilters guild and Meadow persuaded me to come along today.” She smiled through gritted teeth.

The library became quiet—a loud sort of quiet that drew attention to itself. Finally, Muriel broke it. “As I was mentioning before the power went off, I haven’t been entirely honest with you all. Yes, I’m creating a special foundation to promote the longevity of the craft I love. Husbands, friends, and family have come and gone in my life, but quilting has always been here. I’d like to do my part in making sure the next generation picks up the art.”

She leaned forward. “But that’s not the only reason I brought you here today. I’m personally connected to everyone in this room. Well, nearly everyone. The people who I’m connected to are angry with me. Angry because I’ve let them down in some respect.” She took out an old embroidered handkerchief and blotted her face with it. She was beginning to look even more tired.

She took a sip of water, then continued. “As you can see, I’m having health difficulties. Unfortunately, the doctors have determined that I’m in the advanced stages of cancer and am not expected to live more than the next few weeks.”

There was a murmur in the room. Beatrice was struck, however, that the only people who were remotely concerned or sympathetic were the Village Quilters group, and perhaps the younger quilter, Holly Weaver. Muriel’s daughter’s eyes were hard as flint, although she said, “Poor Mother,” rather unconvincingly.

“What I’m trying to accomplish today, in addition to ensuring the future of the quilting craft in our area, is to make amends. I’ve hurt people in my time and I want to formally apologize and set things right with them before I meet my Maker.” A fleeting expression of fear flashed through her eyes, surprising Beatrice. Muriel Starnes genuinely seemed afraid of entering the hereafter. What could she have done to make her so worried about the status of her soul?

Muriel leaned back in her armchair again, slumping. “I knew that some of you wouldn’t bother coming if I issued an invitation merely asking for a visit. That’s another reason why I created this foundation. If this was about quilting, I knew you’d come.” Her gaze circled the room, resting on each of the quilters in turn.

She appeared to have completely run out of steam. “So, to all of you,” she said, not singling out individual names, “I wanted to express my deep apologies and regrets for any wrongs I may have done you in the past. It was thoughtless of me and I truly hope you’ll offer me your forgiveness.”

Her words sounded sincere. Beatrice thought they sounded practiced, too. It was interesting how she gazed at a spot in the air behind them all. And how extraordinary of her to bring this up now, with regular quilters in attendance as well as people she didn’t even know. And why choose to make this impersonal, blanket apology? Why not try to speak to everyone in private, later on?

The other quilters stared at her. Muriel’s daughter, Alexandra, had a cynical expression on her face and looked as if she might be trying not to say something cutting. Holly Weaver just seemed confused. Winnie and Dot had calculating looks on their faces, as if trying to gauge what Muriel’s speech really meant to them.

“And now that that’s done, I’d like to hear you all pitch why your guild would be best to serve in an advisory position for the foundation. I can’t have you all do it—too many cooks spoil the stew, you know. We’ll go around the room. I’ve gotten the gist of Meadow Downey’s thoughts on the matter.” She gave Meadow a squelching frown, and Meadow sighed. She’d be biting her tongue while everyone else spoke.

Everyone briefly talked about their guild, the history of it, its connection to the community, and its ideas about outreach. Sometimes Muriel appeared to be dozing, but Beatrice had the feeling that she was wide awake and listening intently. This was the kind of woman who would want to give the impression that she was less alert than she really was, simply to gain an advantage.

When the quilters had finished speaking, she nodded. Then Muriel said, “Unfortunately, it appears as if everyone is marooned here, at least for tonight. I was unprepared for this, of course, but I’ll do my best to make you all comfortable. It may be a challenge.”