Tying the Knot (20 page)

A round-faced short woman with large eyes scurried across the path ahead of them.

“June Bug never slows down, does she?” asked Beatrice in amazement. “I'd have stopped her so we could talk, but I can tell she's bolting off to somewhere.”

“Her cakes are in high demand tonight,” said Wyatt, nodding. “And it's June Bug's rolling pin that we're using as decoration on the outside of the tent, so she's even pitched in with decorating, too. I don't think you'd have been able to stop her to talk. She asked me how many cakes she should supply for the sale, and I told her to bake only a couple. I didn't want her to wear herself out or spend too much money, since she'd be out of pocket, with the bake-sale proceeds going to a local charity. But she told me on the phone that she'd
have more cakes in her car, just in case. I'm guessing she's off to get them because hers have sold out.”

Miss Sissy said fiercely, “June Bug has good cakes.”

“She certainly does,” said Wyatt in a calming tone.

“Let's go to the bake-sale booth,” suggested Miss Sissy in a wheedling tone.

Beatrice felt her head start to throb.

“We will, Miss Sissy. But we don't want to be carrying a cake around with us while we're walking around the festival, right? Why don't we go there later?” said Wyatt.

“They'll all be gone!”

“I think June Bug brought plenty of cakes. But if they somehow
are
all gone, I can still get one for you later. June Bug is at the church, cooking for us, all the time,” said Wyatt.

“Maybe you could run and get her a snack,” suggested Beatrice. She looked desperately around her. What hadn't Miss Sissy eaten yet?

“There!” said Miss Sissy, pointing an arthritic finger at the deep-fried candy bar truck.

“Okay,” said Wyatt, looking relieved that there was no more talk of a cake. “Why don't y'all wait here, and I'll go get it? It looks as if there's quite a line.”

Wyatt headed off to the food truck, and Beatrice was startled as Miss Sissy abruptly sat down on the ground. “Miss Sissy?” she asked uncertainly.

“Legs tired,” she said with a sniff.

There weren't any benches nearby. But Beatrice didn't particularly feel like sitting on the ground in her nice outfit, so she stood next to her and bestowed reassuring smiles to passersby who gave the old woman concerned looks.

A moment later, she spotted Daniel. He was looking around him as if searching for someone, but then frowned as he saw Miss Sissy, and strode over. He was dressed, as usual, in suit pants and a button-down shirt with a tie. But at least he'd forgone the jacket. He peered at Miss Sissy solemnly through his black-framed eyeglasses.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, mostly to Beatrice. He didn't quite meet Beatrice's gaze, and Beatrice realized that he seemed to feel awkward around her—likely due to the fact that she knew the secret about his past.

“Oh, Miss Sissy decided to have a seat, that's all. There wasn't exactly a good spot for it, so she chose the ground,” said Beatrice.

Now Daniel's gaze met hers. And it was amused. “Maybe we should put caution tape around her. I'm afraid people won't see her and will trip over her and go flying.”

Miss Sissy was ignoring them completely.

“By the way,” Daniel said, frowning now, “I heard a terrible story from Meadow about you. I was so sorry to hear about it. She said that someone had stuck a gun in your back when you were trying to get inside your house recently.”

Beatrice froze. Because she certainly hadn't told Meadow about the gun; she'd known it would only make her more upset. And she'd expressly asked Ramsay not to say anything, and he'd been grimly convincing that he wouldn't. So how did Daniel know about it?

Her mouth suddenly dry, Beatrice swallowed hard and said, “I don't recall telling Meadow that there was a gun involved in the incident.” It sounded like more of a question when she said it.

Daniel's eyebrows pulled together as his brow creased. “Didn't you? Oh, I must have confused her story with one of the ones I heard about in court the other day—I was at the courthouse all day long, and incidents start running together. At any rate, I'm so sorry to hear about it, Beatrice. Are you all right?”

Beatrice repressed a shiver. “Yes, I'm fine, thanks. It was very scary at the time, but no harm done in the end.” Except now she was wondering if Wyatt's brother-in-law was her nighttime intruder.

“Harper told me about it all the next morning—I guess she must have talked with Wyatt on the phone. Terrifying. I suppose it was some druggie trying to force you inside to raid your medicine cabinet or something. That type of thing goes on, although I hadn't heard of anything like it in Dappled Hills. It could just as well have been me—I was out that evening, too. I'd been visiting Mother at Mountain Vistas, and then picked up some takeout so Harper wouldn't have to cook anything,” said Daniel.

Beatrice was wishing that it didn't sound to her ears as if Daniel were changing the motive of the intruder's visit and offering an alibi for himself all at the same time. She nodded at Daniel in response.

“Well, glad to hear you're all right, but hope that nothing like that happens again, Beatrice. I'd better run and find Harper.” He smiled at Beatrice, and then gave Miss Sissy a polite good-bye. Miss Sissy scowled at him.

Wyatt was quickly heading back their way with a deep-fried candy bar in his hand. Daniel spotted him
and hastily left. Maybe he was feeling uncomfortable that Wyatt surely knew his secret?

Wyatt wore a bemused look as he watched Daniel hurry away. “Everything all right with Daniel?” he asked. He leaned down and handed Miss Sissy the deep-fried candy bar. Beatrice had to admit that the thing, no matter how disgusting she'd thought it sounded, did smell amazingly enticing.

Miss Sissy, who always paid a lot more attention than anyone gave her credit for, abruptly said, “Poppycock!”

Beatrice looked at the old woman sharply. Was she spouting off nonsense as usual, or was she mistrustful of the convenient alibi that Daniel had given for the night of Beatrice's intruder?

Wyatt was looking quizzically at them both, so Beatrice quickly said, “Daniel was on his way to find Harper—that's all. He's doing fine.”

Wyatt stooped down and held out a hand to Miss Sissy, who was still camped out on the ground. “Did you have a good rest?” he asked.

Miss Sissy decided to circumvent the question. “Let's go to the bake-sale booth,” she said. She wore a mulish expression on her face.

“But, remember: then we'll have to carry a cake around with us. And you've already got a deep-fried candy bar to eat, right?” said Wyatt in a reasonable tone. “We said we'd head to the bake-sale booth later.”

“It's later,” said Miss Sissy flatly, before taking a large bite of her candy bar.

“Oh, look. Horseshoes!” Beatrice said in an
unconvincingly surprised voice. She was ready to start focusing on something other than food. She was also beginning to wonder if it would ever be possible for she and Wyatt to have a date together with no one else butting in. Lately, it had all seemed to be retirement-home visits, casserole creation, and festivals . . . with a crowd.

June Bug, carrying a cake and with a flushed face, ran across their field of vision again.

Miss Sissy clapped her hands. “Horseshoes.”

Wyatt said with a warm smile, “Would you like to play horseshoes with me, Miss Sissy? Although I should warn you that I'm considered a pretty good horseshoe player.”

Miss Sissy
did
want to, and practically skipped over to the horseshoes.

“I hope she's a good sport,” muttered Beatrice to Wyatt. “I'm not sure I can deal with a cranky Miss Sissy for the rest of the evening.”

“I think they give everyone prizes, no matter what. They have candy for consolation gifts for the kids,” said Wyatt.

They gave the man running the game some tickets.

“You go first,” said Miss Sissy to Wyatt, gesturing impatiently at the horseshoes.

“You're sure? All right, then.” Wyatt stretched his arms to loosen up a bit. As he stretched, he said to the man taking tickets, “This is possibly the only sport I've ever been the slightest bit good at.”

He picked up one horseshoe and carefully made some practice pitching motions, lining up his arm with the stake in the ground. Then, sticking out his tongue in concentration, he pitched a shoe. Although it was
lined up well to the stake, it fell short by a few inches. Wyatt stared at the stake in surprise. “I'm rustier than I thought. I should have practiced at home.”

“You've got another toss, right?” asked Beatrice, trying to sound peppy.

“That's right. Okay, let me try again.” Wyatt frowned in concentration this time, swinging his arm back and forth in several practice motions before finally releasing it. This time the horseshoe was a ringer on the stake.

“Whew!” said Wyatt, laughing. “I was starting to worry that I'd lost my touch.” He turned to Miss Sissy who'd gotten distracted by the sight of an ice-cream stand. “Miss Sissy? Are you ready to give it a whirl?”

Miss Sissy narrowed her gaze, studying the horseshoes. These appeared, to Beatrice's eyes, to be actual former footwear from actual horses. They were a variety of different sizes. Beatrice realized they might be in trouble when Miss Sissy reached down to try the various sizes.

Wyatt, however, was blissfully unaware. “Miss Sissy, the way you want to pitch the horseshoes is with a sort of swinging underhanded toss.” He gestured helpfully.

Miss Sissy shot him a scornful look as she hefted a horseshoe, measured the distance carefully, drew back her hand, and then tossed a shoe at the stake. It was a ringer.

The old woman crowed and clapped her hands.

“Wow. That was really good, Miss Sissy.” Wyatt looked concerned. “All right. So, now you. . . .”

But the old woman was already picking up another horseshoe and squinting at the stake. She tossed it in front of her, and it flipped in the air before clanking onto the stake as another ringer.

Beatrice and Wyatt stared at Miss Sissy. Miss Sissy danced around, eyes gleeful.

“I think you may have played this game before, Miss Sissy,” said Wyatt, still with his cheerful voice.

The next fifteen minutes demonstrated that although Wyatt certainly had a talent for horseshoes, as he pitched ringers and near misses, it showed more strongly that either Miss Sissy had an innate gift for playing the game or she had spent many hours playing as a young woman. And Miss Sissy wasn't talking.

Wyatt looked relieved as the game finally drew to an end. The man in charge declared Miss Sissy the winner and asked her to pick out a prize. The prizes were assorted large stuffed animals. Miss Sissy weighed her options carefully. In fact, it took her longer to survey the prizes than it had for her to size up the stakes when she was pitching. Finally, she chose a tremendous lavender gorilla with a maniacal grin on its furry face.

Beatrice frowned. “Will you be able to carry that yourself, Miss Sissy?” She reached out to help her, and the old woman drew back, clutching the gorilla protectively. Beatrice shrugged, giving Wyatt a helpless look. “What now?”

“What now?” sang out a voice behind them. “What now is that y'all have fun, and I get to spend time with my favorite senior.”

Meadow bounced up, giving them both hugs and a reassuring wink. Beatrice decided that she'd never been happier to see Meadow.

Miss Sissy was staring suspiciously at Meadow and clutching the lavender gorilla closely.

“Miss Sissy,” asked Meadow, beaming at her and speaking with her most sweetly persuasive voice, “would you come explore the festival with me?”

Miss Sissy thought about this for a moment, and then nodded and started walking back toward the food vendors.

“Hope you've brought plenty of cash,” said Beatrice. “Miss Sissy has been very hungry.”

“I'm loaded,” said Meadow airily.

Wyatt said warmly, “Thanks
so
much, Meadow.”

Meadow gave a dismissive wave, “Oh, it's my pleasure!” Then she bolted off to catch up with Miss Sissy, who was walking swiftly toward a cotton-candy vendor.

Wyatt gave a relieved sigh, and Beatrice reached out to resume holding his hand, giving it a squeeze.

“What should we do now?” asked Wyatt. “We've eaten and visited the Patchwork Cottage booth and played a game. What's left?”

“We sit down and enjoy some music,” said Beatrice simply.

A bluegrass group took the stage, bowing low in acknowledgment of the audience before a bald man launched into an up-tempo harmonica solo. There was a stout man wearing a straw hat and a suit and enthusiastically picking on a banjo, alongside a solemn old man nimbly playing a fiddle. The group was rounded out by a man and a willowy woman, both strumming guitars. The spirited beat of the music had the audience stomping their feet.

Beatrice and Wyatt sipped tall lemonades and listened to bluegrass music under a tremendous tent, with no one to talk to but each other.

Wyatt said with a satisfied sigh, “I've always looked forward to this festival. It seems like it comes at the perfect time every year—right when I've been overwhelmed with work and ready for a break.”

Beatrice was glad to hear that maybe Wyatt was considering taking things a little slower . . . or that at least he recognized that things at the church had been especially busy lately. “Has the festival been around for a while?”

Wyatt nodded. “One of my earliest memories is of sitting on the Ferris wheel with my father and seeing the whole festival laid out below me. All the dozens of people, all the other rides, all the booths, and the mountains rolling around us.”

“You must have loved that as a small child,” said
Beatrice. She took a sip from her lemonade, enjoying the refreshing coolness of the drink.

“I was terrified,” admitted Wyatt with a laugh. “My father had to get them to stop the ride to let me off. But, in my defense, I was very small, after all. How about you? Any frightening festival or state-fair memories lurking deep in your subconscious?”

Beatrice considered the question thoughtfully. “No, I don't think so. I don't think my parents were probably festival-going people. My early memories involve going to the Georgia coast. I remember playing on the beach at Sea Island, making sand castles and drawing pictures in the sand with sticks. My father taking me out in the ocean and help me catch waves on a raft.”

“But nothing that scared you silly? I'm going to regret sharing my timid nature,” said Wyatt, eyes twinkling.

“The sand flies were scary,” said Beatrice with a laugh. “I'd yelp when they'd sting me and jump half a mile. And the Georgia heat was pretty frightening, if there was no breeze from the water.”

Wyatt looked at her thoughtfully. “I think you must have been a very brave and self-composed girl. And nothing has changed.” He reached out and held her hand, and they watched a young singer walk on the stage. For the next little bit, they sat together in comfortable silence.

After nearly an hour, they were joined by Meadow, June Bug, and Posy. “It's time!” said Meadow excitedly. “The judges are going to announce the quilting winners.”

Posy beamed at June Bug, who sat upright in her
seat, an alarmed expression on her face. “June Bug, your quilt was absolutely lovely. I have a good feeling about the results tonight.”

Meadow gave June Bug a sideways glance. “Breathe, June Bug!”

June Bug, who did indeed seem to be turning blue, gave an obedient nod and a gasping breath while maintaining the look of alarm.

The quilting judge, a good-natured-looking middle-aged woman who was very stylishly dressed, walked onto the stage and tapped the microphone to get the audience's attention. “And now I have the results for the quilt show,” she said.

The woman put on her reading glasses and peered at her notes. “First of all, let me say that it was both an honor and a very difficult task to judge such wonderful-quality quilts. I do a good deal of judging all over the Southeast, and I've not seen finer quilting anywhere than I've seen in this mountain community. So congratulations to all of you—on your skill and your creativity.”

There was a round of applause, and Beatrice muttered, “Enough stalling. Get on with it!” Beatrice was worried that June Bug was going to start holding her breath again.

“Third place is Posy Beck, with her lovely hand-quilted
Spring Flowers
,” said the judge.

Meadow squealed, and the quilters took turns giving Posy hugs. Posy's eyes shone as she rose to accept her ribbon from the judge.

When Posy returned to her seat, Beatrice said, “That's honestly one of my favorites of your quilts. I just love
the bright, cheerful squares with the flowers, watering cans, and rubber boots. It's so whimsical and fun. It puts a smile on my face, just like you do.”

Posy blew her an airy kiss.

“Breathe, June Bug,” muttered Meadow again.

“Second place goes to . . .” The judge squinted at her notes. “Well, somehow I can't read the last name. Or maybe she doesn't have a last name. At any rate, the second place ribbon goes to . . . Miss Sissy for her riotous
Sun Spots
.”

“
Riotous
is right,” murmured Beatrice. She'd seen the quilt the old woman had submitted. It was certainly amazing, with spiraling ridges of yellow, orange, and red cloth over a chaotic blue, black, purple, and green background of tiny patches. It wasn't at all traditional and it shouldn't have worked, but it did . . . very well. Beatrice couldn't tell if it was a sign of genius or a sign of a diseased mind. “Where
is
Miss Sissy?”

“I palmed her off on Ramsay,” said Meadow. “He's probably having to feed her again. We'll pick up her ribbon afterward.”

“And finally, our best in show,” said the judge with a smile for the audience. “What an amazing quilt it is, too, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, our best in show goes to . . .” She paused, perhaps enjoying the audience's anticipation or perhaps enjoying its rapt attention.

“For heaven's sake,” said Beatrice irritably.

“Air, June Bug. Remember? Breathe,” said Meadow.

“To Annabelle Frost!” said the judge.

“Who?” said Meadow in astonishment. “Annabelle Frost?”

June Bug let out the jagged, pent-up breath. “Me! It's my real name.” Her eyes were wide with shock.

Beatrice gave her a quick hug as the quilters cried out with excitement. “Well, go up there, June Bug! Claim your prize.”

June Bug said, “Can you give me a push? My legs don't want to work.”

Beatrice stood up and gently pulled her by the arm, propelling her toward the stage. The quilters gave June Bug a standing ovation as she shyly took the ribbon from the beaming judge.

*   *   *

As the festival started wrapping up and the band under the tent made its good-bye, Wyatt looked apologetically at Beatrice. “I'm afraid that's my signal to go help take down the bake sale. Do you mind? I'll call you tomorrow, and we'll set up a time to have lunch together.”

“How about if I help out for a few minutes?” asked Beatrice. “With everyone leaving at once, it will be crazy trying to get out of the parking lot, anyway.”

So they both headed over to the bake-sale tent, where the church members excitedly told Wyatt that they had raised five hundred dollars for the local children's charity. Beatrice helped remove the unsold cakes and load them back into the church van. She also put several folding chairs into the back of the van. She was looking around for more to do when Wyatt said, “Thanks so much, Beatrice, but I think we've got the rest. I really appreciate the help.”

“All right. I'll listen for your call tomorrow, then,” said Beatrice. It was now dark outside, and the parking lot was a fairly good walk. She set out on it.

She was close to the Patchwork Cottage booth when she saw June Bug zipping by again, carrying tote bags on both arms. This time, though, June Bug paused when she saw Beatrice and gave her a bright smile.

“June Bug, it sounds like your cakes were all a huge success. I heard that the church made five hundred dollars for the sale,” said Beatrice. “And not only that, you got a best-in-show ribbon for one of your quilts. That's a really big night!”

June Bug beamed at Beatrice, lit-up round eyes in her round face. “I'm going to hang the ribbon in my house,” she shyly confided to Beatrice.

June Bug shifted the weight of the tote bags, and Beatrice automatically reached for one to help her.

“You should hang your ribbon in a place of honor. And you deserved an award. Your quilts are amazing,” said Beatrice. “I loved
Sunset over the Mountains
. The smoky blues and grays and the reds you chose were so vibrant. And piecing it together from so many tiny bits of fabric?” Beatrice shook her head. “It was truly magnificent. How do you create that type of look?”

June Bug tilted her head to one side, as if she'd never really thought about what went into it. Then she said, “I place the pieces where I want them. Sometimes they're a slightly layered on each other. Then I pin them until I can sew them together. Posy's shop has so many colors and so many fabrics! I love it there.”

“Well, I can't wait to see what else you'll come up with. It's all very exciting,” said Beatrice. June Bug was self-taught, which boggled Beatrice's mind. She'd run into artists like that in Atlanta when she curated folk art, but those types of artists were few and far between.

June Bug's eyes shone. “Lyla was one of the judges, you know. It was nice of her to choose me for a ribbon.”

“Well, I don't think being nice had anything to do with it—the quilt was very deserving,” said Beatrice.

“But Lyla
is
really nice, though,” said June Bug. “I remember at the wedding reception, she helped me clean up even though she wasn't part of the catering team, like I was. And she's cleaning up now for Posy.” June Bug gestured at the tent beside them that they were walking behind. “I was trying to clean up fast at the reception, and Lyla was going even faster than I was!”

Beatrice said slowly, “So Lyla was cleaning at the reception? I didn't even notice that. I'd noticed her coming and going, but didn't pay attention to what she was doing.”

June Bug was happily prattling on while Beatrice nodded automatically but kept thinking about Lyla. Could Lyla have been clearing away evidence of some kind at the reception? Why else would she have been helping out the caterers?

June Bug abruptly stopped talking and squinted across the fairground. “Oh! There's Posy with my quilt from the show. Got to go.” And she hurried off.

Beatrice was all the way to the now-deserted gravel parking lot when she realized that she still had June Bug's tote bag hanging on her arm. She sighed, peering inside. It held a cake tray and the rolling pin that Beatrice remembered hanging as decoration on the outside of the booth's tent.

Should she try to go ahead and get it back to her, or would it be all right to return it to her the next time she
saw June Bug? Beatrice was rapidly feeling very tired from all the walking, despite the vigorous walks she'd endured recently with Boris and Meadow. It was tempting to just take the bag home with her. But then the thought of the little woman searching in confusion for the bag or needing the rolling pin for cakes the next day made her groan in acquiescence and turn around.

And as she turned, she spun right into Lyla Wales, who was standing very close behind her.

Beatrice gave a startled laugh. “Lyla, you and I have got to stop this habit of running into one another in parking lots. Let's have coffee sometime instead.”

Lyla's red mouth bent in a smile, but her eyes were hard. “Yes, we'll have to do that sometime,” she said rather unconvincingly.

Beatrice tried again to think of some form of conversation starter, because she wasn't sure what Lyla's intentions were, so she didn't want to accuse her of anything outright. And her car was certainly nearby . . . very close to Beatrice's, actually. She remembered Posy's tip about Lyla's secret weapon to keep her sewing machine's foot pedal from sliding away. Beatrice cleared her throat and said in a carefully neutral and casual tone, “By the way, I know your secret.”

Lyla's eyes narrowed. “That's not exactly the smartest thing to admit, is it, Beatrice? And here I was, thinking how clever you were.” She put her hand inside her loose-fitting jacket and pulled out a gun.

Beatrice's heart started beating in her chest so loudly that she was sure that Lyla could hear it. “As a matter of fact, Lyla, the secret I was referring to had to do with using a pot holder to keep your foot pedal still. But,
clearly, you have other secrets that I don't know anything about.”

Lyla's eyes flickered with annoyance. “Whatever. It was time for your nosiness to be over, anyway. I heard June Bug talking to you when I was clearing out the Patchwork Cottage booth. I knew you weren't going to be like June Bug and assume that I was cleaning up at the reception out of the goodness of my heart.”

“No. You're right about that. That was the only way to get rid of evidence, wasn't it? You were being very helpful . . . too helpful. Nobody helps a professional caterer clean up. You'd finally had enough of Trevor Garber, hadn't you? He wouldn't leave you alone. He was following you to work and badgering you at home. You felt like it was only a matter of time before everyone in town was going to know. Maybe you'd get fired for having your personal life interfere with your business. Plus, you were desperate for your husband to stay in the dark, weren't you?” asked Beatrice, fighting to keep her voice steady.