Quilt or Innocence
Read Quilt or Innocence Online
Authors: Elizabeth Craig
A WALK IN THE PARK
“Beatrice?” said Posy with a smile. “It’s such a pleasure discovering other early-morning walkers. Maybe we can make this a regular date!” She reached down to stroke Noo-noo’s head, and the corgi eagerly flopped over for a tummy rub.
The two women chatted as they strolled into the park. Posy’s beagle soon interrupted their small talk, though, lunging against her leash and giving an insistent, baying bark. Noo-noo joined in, figuring something must have been wrong even if she couldn’t suss out what it was.
Posy frowned as the dog persistently pulled at the leash. She knelt down next to the dog and put a comforting hand on her. “Duchess! What’s going on, girl?”
Now the beagle whimpered. Noo-noo’s fur stood up on her back and she growled, as if suddenly realizing the source of the beagle’s concern.
“Beatrice, there’s something lying on the ground over there. Near that group of trees,” Posy said in a quiet voice.
Beatrice handed Posy Noo-noo’s leash and walked cautiously up to the object, forcing her suddenly weak limbs to move forward. She saw Judith, splayed unnaturally on her back, blood pooling behind her head and eyes staring blindly into the trees.
Quilt or Innocence
A SOUTHERN QUILTING MYSTERY
Elizabeth Craig
OBSIDIAN
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, June 2012
Copyright © Elizabeth Craig, 2012
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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.
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For Riley, Elizabeth Ruth, and Coleman
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to my editor, Sandra Harding, for her expertise and encouragement. To my agent, Ellen Pepus, for her support and advice. To Debby Stone, with thanks for her insights into the wonderful world of quilting. (Any inaccuracies here are my own.) My mother, Beth Spann, for being a talented first reader. My family for their support. And to Coleman, Riley, and Elizabeth Ruth for making life and writing fun.
“I’ve come to rescue you,” said the wild-looking woman at Beatrice’s front door.
Beatrice, a recently retired art museum curator, gaped at the woman, completely flabbergasted. She certainly didn’t need rescuing. In fact, she’d just brewed a relaxing cup of herbal tea to celebrate the fact that there were only ten more moving boxes to unpack in her new cottage.
Besides, who’d want to be rescued by this woman, even if rescuing were in order? She looked like she needed rescuing herself . . . with her brightly colored, mismatched clothes and disorganized gray braid hanging to her waist. Beatrice made up her mind to briskly and firmly shut the door and try out the new bolts and chains and the alarm system . . . but then the woman held out her hand.
“I’m Meadow. Your next-door neighbor. Welcome to Dappled Hills!”
Beatrice managed a smile and a handshake. She’d wondered who lived in the odd converted barn next to her country cottage. Beatrice’s daughter, Piper, who lived right down the street, had warned her that her neighbor was a little
different
, and she saw exactly what Piper meant.
Now Meadow clutched her arm and pulled her outside. “Come on, Beatrice. You’ll miss it!”
Beatrice pulled back. Wasn’t this how kidnappings happened? How could she possibly be abducted in tiny Dappled Hills, North Carolina, when she’d been safe for so many years in Atlanta?
“I’m sorry, Meadow,” she said with dignity. (She would
not
be a victim!) “But I’m going to have to insist that I stay at home. I just brewed some chamomile tea and need to put my feet up after all the rigorous unpacking I’ve accomplished . . .”
But her words were completely wasted on Meadow, and Beatrice found herself being propelled with surprising strength toward the bright red barn on the spacious property next door. And Meadow wasn’t letting her slide a word in edgewise.
“We’re all practically here,” she said inexplicably. “The unpacking is exactly what I’m rescuing you from. And everything is set out. I have tea, too, but it’s sweet.”
With great relief, Beatrice saw a police car pulling into Meadow’s driveway. Well, at least Dappled Hills had a very responsive police unit. She waved her free arm in what she hoped was an alarmed, help-seeking fashion.
A short, balding man climbed out of the patrol car. He had a tired stoop to his shoulders and a stomach that had seen its share of heavy Southern cooking. “Is there a problem here, ma’am?”
Beatrice blinked as Meadow leaned over and gave the policeman a peck on the lips. “No problem, Ramsay. Except remember that I told you the guild is meeting here this afternoon. So don’t devour our snacks, please. I put some pretzels in a Baggie for you.”
He shook his head wearily. “I was asking if the
other
lady had a problem. Ma’am? Everything all right? Meadow, for pity’s sake! Could you let her go for a minute? You’ve scared her half to death. Is this our new neighbor?”
Beatrice nodded, and the policeman held out his hand. “Ramsay Downey. I’m Dappled Hills’ police chief. Welcome to town. My job is to keep the citizens safe . . . from people like my wife, Meadow.” He gave Meadow a dour look.
Meadow was so singularly focused on propelling Beatrice inside her house—or barn—that she overlooked his jab. “There’s also a sandwich in the fridge for you, Ramsay, besides the pretzels. And I picked some berries today and sugared them—they’re in the fridge, too.” And again she hurried toward the barn, turning around and gesturing at Beatrice. “Come on!”
Beatrice looked helplessly at the policeman. “It’s no use resisting,” he said in a resigned voice. “It’s how we ended up marrying all those years ago. You might as well just follow her. She’s not quite as crazy as she looks,” he added kindly. “And you’ll learn a lot about quilting.”
Beatrice realized she must have seemed completely baffled when he chuckled and said, “She didn’t mention the quilting? She’s even more scattered than usual, then! The quilting guild is meeting this afternoon and she probably wants to introduce you to everyone—that’s all. And maybe give you a kit to complete a block, too, knowing her.”
With growing trepidation, Beatrice approached the barn. There was nothing like having your peaceful afternoon hijacked by a quilting nut. And she had no intention of doing any quilting. She knew a lot about the artistic
merits
of quilts, she could appraise one, and she could tell some of the likely history that went into a particular quilt, but she was happily ignorant of the precise methods of constructing them.
And then all her thoughts left her as she entered the light-filled space of the converted barn. She’d thought it would be dark inside, but skylights scattered through the top of the roof and sides of the barn cheerily illuminated the space. What must have previously been a hayloft now looked like a sleeping loft and sitting area. And the high ceiling—Beatrice stopped and tilted her head back. It soared up like a cathedral, with impressive exposed rafters and posts. There were vibrant-colored quilts, mostly with asymmetrical designs, hanging on the walls and the backs of chairs and any other available surface.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
Meadow’s face creased in a smile. “I love it, too.” She then shoved a tall glass of what looked like iced tea into Beatrice’s hands and continued urging her along. Ramsay had pulled his lunch from the fridge and found his little Baggie of pretzels and disappeared. Now Beatrice saw that there were two women across the big, open room. The kitchen, dining room, and living room were all one big area—but it looked like there was a door that might lead to an attached master suite.
On closer inspection, Beatrice realized the women were twins, although they looked a bit like a before-and-after photo. They were probably in their early thirties, but one of the sisters seemed a lot older. She had a beaky nose and stiff militarylike comportment, and wore a long-sleeved floral dress, her thin hair drawn up in a bun. The other sister wore a pretty floral dress and had a much softer look. Fabric and scissors surrounded them, and baskets beside them were filled with quilting supplies and tools.
The softer one spoke to her, beaming. “It’s an amazing house, isn’t it? Except it’s a barn!”
Her sister frowned. “But with no animals,” she said, in the tone of one who demands perfect accuracy.
Meadow put her hands on her generous hips with mock indignation. “No animals, Savannah? What’s Boris, then—chopped liver?”
At the sound of his name, a massive creature bounded up from behind the kitchen counter and bolted across the room. It galloped up and Beatrice flinched as it charged right at them. The quilters nonchalantly continued sewing their blocks. The dog jumped onto Meadow, putting its tremendous paws on both her shoulders. Meadow hugged it, crooning to it softly, then gently pushed him back down.
“What breed
is
Boris, exactly?” asked Beatrice.
Meadow said in a considering voice, “Well, Ramsay and I think he might be part Great Dane, part Newfoundland, and part corgi.”
The minuscule part that was a corgi, thought corgi-owner Beatrice, was clearly cowed by the other genetic components.
Beatrice started as Meadow gave her an impulsive hug. “We’re
thrilled
you could quilt with us this afternoon. More tea?” Meadow automatically refilled Beatrice’s glass without waiting for a reply. Although, thought Beatrice with some irritation, she hadn’t even taken a sip yet.
Meadow’s eyes twinkled at Beatrice from behind her red-framed glasses. “Savannah and I were just saying the other day—Savannah, you remember my saying this, don’t you?—that we really needed another member in the Village Quilters guild.”
Savannah gave a jerking nod as she expertly stitched an appliqué with darting movements.
“And the very next thing I know, you’ve moved in next door, Beatrice! It’s divine intervention.” Meadow beamed at her again as she absently continued filling the others’ glasses with tea . . . even though, thought Beatrice as she squinted across the room, it appeared they’d been drinking water. The other two women didn’t make a peep to stop her.
Beatrice cleared her throat. Really, it was too much. Meeting new people in a new town, being expected to suddenly take up quilting . . . it was all a tremendous adjustment. But she had to admit that the people of Dappled Hills were nothing if not friendly.
Meadow chuckled. “Mercy, but you do look confused. Introductions are in order! Good thing we only have a few members here today. Fewer to boggle your brain with. Although it looks like your brain might not be the boggling type. Of course, you already know me—I’m Meadow Downey, your next-door neighbor and new best friend.” She bowed at Beatrice, eyes glittering.
The plain woman with the stiff comportment gestured a needle at the pretty woman beside her. “We’re the Potter sisters. I’m Savannah and she’s Georgia.” Savannah continued steadily stitching beautiful needlework with her bony fingers.
“Savannah, Georgia,” murmured Beatrice weakly.
“Our mama just adored the city,” said Georgia. “It was all moonlight and magnolias to her.”
“Mama,” repeated Savannah gruffly, and both women’s eyes grew misty.
Meadow, apparently accustomed to these emotional displays, pulled tissues from a nearby box and dropped them neatly in the sisters’ laps as the doorbell rang. “This’ll be Posy Beck,” she said. “And she’s the final quilter I’m expecting today.”
The door opened to reveal a tiny, bespectacled, older woman with wide blue eyes and a gentle smile who greeted the other ladies warmly. She settled on the sofa next to Georgia and pulled strips of cloth from her tote bag. “You’re Piper’s mama?” she asked with a smile as she pulled on a fluffy cardigan, despite the warmth of the room. Beatrice nodded, and Posy said, “I absolutely love your daughter. She didn’t mention you were a quilter. I own Posy’s Patchwork Cottage right in the middle of town. I’d love for you to pop by to visit.”
Beatrice shifted uneasily. “No, actually. I’m really
not
a quilter, Posy. That is, I worked on a group quilt once about twenty years ago.” She winced at memories of stabbing herself with the needle, her crooked stitches, and the huge knots she’d left on the back of the quilt. “I’ve
researched
quilts. I’ve set up quilt
exhibits
. I’ve even appraised some quilts. But actual quilting?” She shook her head.
Meadow snapped her fingers. “That’s right! Piper told me you were a museum curator in Atlanta. We’ve got a Southern folk art expert right here in our midst, ladies! And don’t worry. It won’t take you
any
time to get into quilting again. It’s just like riding a horse. Or a bike,” she said with an absentminded frown, as if she knew she was mixing that up somehow. She poured a tall glass of tea for Posy, who smiled fondly at her.
“What I’m actually a
lot
more interested in is what you’re all working on,” she said.
Georgia beamed at her. “Savannah and I are making a quilt together since we’ve already finished our blocks for the bee tomorrow. What do you think?”
Beatrice moved closer. The rich, earthy colors of fall made up the quilt—and she saw it was actually autumn themed . . . with a medallion of apples and pumpkins and black cats appliquéd onto the center of the vibrant plaid background. “Beautiful,” she proclaimed, softly. “Absolutely beautiful. It looks like a quilt to curl up in on a cold night. With a mug of hot chocolate.”
Savannah’s sharp features turned a mottled red at her praise. She continued briskly stitching. “We do work well together. Don’t we, Georgia?” she said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Although I usually favor geometric patterns, Georgia had her heart set on doing this one as soon as she saw the pattern. And it was her turn to pick.”
Georgia tittered. “We do work well together, despite our different approaches. Poor Savannah is struggling to adjust to living with me—still. And it’s been almost a year now since I’ve invaded her kingdom.”
“Georgia is divorced,” said Meadow in a stage whisper that Beatrice supposed Meadow thought quiet.
Georgia continued, “Savannah is ultraorganized and I’m an organizational disaster, so our living together has been like
The Odd Couple
. She’s got a thread organizer with thread divided by color. Then she has this huge plastic wall unit with drawers of fabric organized by manufacturer or season. And my stuff is pretty much a ragbag of fabrics and threads. I’ve got blocks and tops and fabrics scattered everywhere. But when we make a quilt, we’re in perfect harmony.”
“I can tell,” said Beatrice, still studying the quilt. Then she glimpsed a notebook at Savannah’s feet.
Savannah saw Beatrice looking at the notebook and said, “I’ll admit that organization has its advantages. I put together this quilting bag and everyone has copied it. Except for Georgia, of course. She takes a more loosey-goosey approach to quilting supplies.” She bobbed her head at Beatrice to pick up (and, Beatrice guessed, admire) the notebook. It
is
very cleverly arranged, thought Beatrice as she flipped through the plastic sleeves. A spot for notions of every kind. Each plastic pouch was attached to the notebook by Velcro so you could just carry the tools you needed. Ingenious. “What are these?” asked Beatrice, holding up a pouch of what looked like pizza cutters.
“A most marvelous invention for quilters: rotary cutters. I don’t think I can even remember life without them—I’ve blocked it all out! It’s revolutionized cutting fabric,” said Posy. “Beatrice, you just put your ruler where you want to cut and then the rotary cutter slices right through it.”
The women settled into small talk about their families and neighbors. There was an air of camaraderie in the room that felt very genuine. This feeling of
belonging
wasn’t something that Beatrice had come across very often, aside from her work at the museum. Even there she’d frequently worked alone, just her and the art. She hid a smile as Savannah suddenly dispelled the harmony by hissing, “Georgia! Watch your stitches!”
Georgia frowned ferociously at her appliqué as if to scold it into submission.
Beatrice said, “Posy, your quilt is gorgeous. Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less from a quilt-shop owner.” Her quilt was a celestial riot of whimsical suns and moons and stars scattered on an inky background.
